Last Snow - Eric van Lustbader [81]
“To ensure our success,” he said now, putting stress on every word, “I’ve put out an immediate sanction on Annika Dementieva.” He expected a response, possibly an irate one, from Batchuk, but his words were met only by silence. “I’m convinced she’s causing this hiccup, as you call it. A cure is needed, even for a hiccup.”
“I would find it difficult to disagree with you,” Batchuk said. “Who has been given the assignment?”
“Harry Martin. He’s the assassin-in-place.”
“Where is he at the moment? At Zhulyany, I assume.”
“If he was at the Kiev airport,” the General said, growing annoyed at the note of condescension in Batchuk’s voice, “I’m sure he would have told me.”
“Hmm, interesting.”
Now the General really was annoyed. “How so?”
“Rhon Fyodovich Kirilenko, the FSB officer your man Martin is supposed to be shadowing—”
“I know who the hell Kirilenko is,” the General said, beginning to lose his temper despite himself.
“Kirilenko’s name has just shown up on a flight manifest departing Zhulyany in forty-three minutes, bound for Simferopol North Airport in the Crimea.” Batchuk cleared his throat, the better to emphasize what he said next: “Either your man Martin is an incompetent or he’s decided to play both ends against the middle.”
“I know Harry,” the General said, “and he’s neither.”
“Then figure out your own explanation,” Batchuk said.
The General immediately phoned Martin and informed him of Kirilenko’s whereabouts. The moment he heard the surprise in Martin’s voice he resolved to put another man in the field ASAP. This he did the moment his call to Martin was over.
He shifted from one leg to another, his body creaky and diminished inside the perfectly pressed uniform with its splendid show of medals and commendations.
“General, it’s time.”
The president’s voice, strong and firm as always, caused him to return down the aisle at his usual crisp pace to where Carson was now standing, waiting for the door to open while the contingent of Secret Service operatives buzzed around him like horseflies.
“You look gray-faced, Archie,” the president said under his breath. “Is there anything wrong, anything I need to know?”
“No, sir,” Brandt said, struggling to regain his composure, “of course not.”
“Because we’re on the firing line now, about to go into battle and, to paraphrase Sonny Corleone, I don’t want to come out of this aircraft with only my dick in my hand.”
The General nodded. “Understood, sir. I have your back, your guns are loaded, and all your ammunition is dry and awaiting your orders.”
“That’s the spirit,” Carson said with a tight smile.
The flight attendant spun the door wheel and it opened inward. The first of the president’s agents took command of the rolling stairs, then others checked out the immediate vicinity. For a moment, they spoke with their opposite numbers in the Russian secret service, then one of them turned, gave a brief, reassuring nod to his commander in chief.
“Okay, General,” the president said. “Here we go.”
THESE DAYS Dennis Paull never slept; he never stayed in one place for very long, either. It was as if he needed to keep one step ahead of the banshee that was on his trail. That banshee—or demon or ghost, whatever you wanted to call it—had a name: Nina, the woman he’d had an affair with who had almost killed Edward Carson at his inauguration. Only Jack McClure’s timely intervention had saved the president. For that Paull would be eternally grateful. If only Jack could exorcize the demon or ghost or banshee that haunted Paull’s waking life, but Jack was just a man, not a sorcerer.
Paull, who had set up a