Fault Line

“Iranian bodies. A dead FSB Russian is a whole different kind of problem.”

“That still doesn't tell us how anyone could have pinpointed me for that guy.”

“Like I said, that's what we're trying to find out.”

“So who were those guys at the Four Seasons? They weren't FSB. They weren't that good.”

“They were Russian mafia, operating out of Brooklyn. They do contract work for the FSB.”

Ben thought about it. What Hort was saying wasn't impossible. But…

“Look,” Hort said, “I can make it so your brother gets left alone. I need your guarantee-and you will be held accountable for that guarantee-that there are no copies of Obsidian, that no one can use this thing, that your brother will forget any of this ever happened and never say a word to anyone. Guarantee me that, and I can call in some favors with the NSC and make sure your brother is off their radar for good.”

Ben considered. The truth was, this was just what he was hoping for. What, in fact, he was going to propose himself. It could solve everything. Give Hort the backup copy, tell Alex to keep his mouth shut. After all, it wasn't like Alex was an unknown quantity to them anymore. Alex's brother was an insider, a brother who could vouch for him.

He wondered for a moment what Sarah would make of that. She'd probably say something about how convenient it was not to be one of the little people, to have a relative in the party or on the politburo.

And what about Sarah? Were they still after her, too? Could Hort call them off?

“What about the girl?” he said. “Sarah Hosseini, the lawyer. Is she part of the op?”

“She worked on the patent, too,” Hort said. “Compared to your brother, she was tertiary, but yeah, now especially there's a real concern.”

“You can't get her off the hook?”

Hort laughed. “What do you think, I'm a magician? Sarah's not even her name. It's Shaghayegh. Shaghayegh Hosseini. You want me to go to the NSC and tell them not to worry about a woman named Shaghayegh Hosseini who knows all about Obsidian?”

“You mean, you're going to kill her because of her name?”

“She was a security risk, Ben.”

Ben felt something constrict inside his chest. “What do you mean, ‘was’?”

“We picked her up this morning outside her apartment.”

Ben looked at the table so Hort couldn't see his eyes. He tried to think. Picked her up. That meant she was still alive, right? If they'd dropped her, if she were already dead, Hort wouldn't have referred to the means. He would have just said, She's gone.

Christ, what were they doing to her to get her to talk, though? He could imagine. And he knew what they'd do when they were done.

Shards of fragmented thoughts sliced through his mind.

No, he's cool.

Okay, then. Later.

NO HE WAS NOT COOL AND YOU KNEW BETTER.

He put his fists to his temples. Think. Think.

But all he could think was that he'd come out here to help Alex, and instead he'd, he'd…

No. This wasn't going to happen again. He wouldn't let it happen again.

He looked at Hort. “What are you going to do with her?”

Hort waved a hand dismissively. “Forget about it.”

“I asked you a question,” Ben said, his voice as low as a dog's growl.

“And I answered it. The only way I can.”

“Where are you holding her?”

“Let it go, son. You're already on thin ice.”

Ben shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice rising. “No. No. No.”

“Ben, I trained you. We've bled in the same mud. We carry the same cost for the things we've done. Men like us-”

“Tell me where you're holding her, Hort. Tell me you're going to cut her loose.”

A long, silent moment spun out. “Last chance,” Hort said. “Will you vouch for your brother? Can I trust you?”

Ben flexed his hand. The knuckles popped. He'd never felt so boxed in. The feeling of pressure, of being squeezed, was almost physical.

He glanced left. A large man in sunglasses was leaning out from behind one of the pillars, his hand resting just inside a dark jacket, intent on Ben and Hort.

Shit. He glanced right. Another man had sidled up the sidewalk and was watching them with identical posture and focus.

There would be a third man inside the restaurant, or just outside the fire door. Obviously, he had badly underestimated Hort's manpower situation. And they'd moved on him, by either instinct or design, at the very moment he'd been most distracted by his own i

Part of him was enraged at his own naïveté. He should have seen this coming, but deep down, he'd trusted Hort. Stupid. Hort had always taught him the mission came before the man. Another part of him wanted to laugh. Five armed men a tendon twitch from a gunfight, and the yuppies around them were sipping their lattes and reflecting on the latest Pilates routines without the barest clue.

“How do you want to do this?” Hort said quietly.

Several scenarios played out in Ben's mind. None of them involved more than a ten percent chance of survival. He might have taken those odds if the only chips he was playing were his. But what would happen to Sarah? And to Alex?

“What are my options?” he said, still glancing left and right.

“You have two. You can come with me and we can work this out, or we can leave you here. I really didn't want it to be this way, Ben.”

Ben drummed his fingers along the table. Going with them was the same as going to a secondary crime scene. How many times had he sworn never to let that happen to him?

He knew he could drop Hort before anyone could stop him. But he'd be dead himself a second later.

We'll do those steps another time, he thought. When it's just you and me on the dance floor.

A part of him knew the thought was just bluster. But it was all he had at the moment, and it was enough to get him through.

“All right,” he said. “I'll come with you.”

32 HEAD-ON

Alex was in his car, driving aimlessly, trying to figure out what to do. He had finally broken down and tried Ben, but there was no answer. He knew he was supposed to stay away from the usual places, and he was okay with that, but he wanted his cell phone on because maybe Ben or Sarah might check in, and he figured that meant he should keep moving in case someone was tracking the signal. But God, he was tired. He wished he could go somewhere, a park bench, anywhere, and just close his eyes for a few minutes.

He wondered what it would be like with Osborne when this whole thing was sorted out. How could he even look at the guy again, after what he'd done?

He thought about what Ben had told him, how they'd taken incriminating photos or video of Osborne in Thailand. Ben seemed pretty confident that it was no more complicated than that, but… could they really have picked Osborne out of all the Sullivan, Greenwald lawyers and identified, and then exploited, his vulnerability? The more he thought about it, the more far-fetched it felt.

He thought of Osborne's ego case, the photos of all those Valley and Washington players. The guy was co