Rules of Vengeance

77

It was late September and a chill wind swept down from the Arctic Circle, blanketing Moscow and sending temperatures plummeting into the thirties. Everywhere people do

“You have left us in an embarrassing position, Sergei,” said the Russian president. “The evidence is compelling, and that is without taking into account your capture in Paris.”

Shvets sat at the bare wooden table, his head held high. “I expect it is,” he said. “After all, they planted it.”

“Ridiculous,” said Igor Ivanov. “Next you’ll be claiming that the Americans pla

“That was my own idea,” said Shvets defiantly.

The three men sat in a small, dank room two floors belowground. There were no windows. Walls, ceiling, and floor were of the most rudimentary concrete and without adornment. A stuttering fluorescent bulb provided the sole light.

An immaculate leather dossier bearing MI5’s seal sat in the center of the table. With ceremony, the president untied it and examined the documents one by one. “A hospital bill for twenty-five thousand euros paid on behalf of one of your agents and traced back to an FSB shell company.

Five kilos of Semtex identical to that used in the London car bombing found in a Paris apartment loaned to the FSB by our Iranian allies. And the pièce de résistance, a laptop containing confidential files indicating ties to the same agent, as well as a step-by-step breakdown of the operation. It goes on and on.” The president replaced the documents and meticulously retied the dossier. Clasping his hands, he said, “You leave our government no choice but to admit to it all.”

Ivanov leveled his darkest glare at Shvets. “We’ll be kissing the Brits’ asses for a decade because of this.”

“You’re their man,” said Shvets, holding Ivanov’s eyes. “The whole thing was a plan to eliminate me. A setup. Ask her. She’ll tell you.”

“We have. Many times,” said the president. “I for one am convinced that Larissa Alexandrovna Antonova is telling the truth, and that she is a selfless, brave citizen. Viewing the circumstances of her recruitment, she had no choice but to show her loyalty to you. We have forgiven her and hope to make use of her many talents in the future.”

Shvets lowered his head. “My God,” he said. “They’ve done it.”

“That will be enough,” said the president. “Rise. We will accompany you back to your cell.”

Shvets stood, his knees strong, his posture that of the soldier he had once been. He left the table and opened the door to the corridor. As he walked, he kept his head held high.

He did not feel the barrel of the pistol touch the nape of his neck or the bullet crash into his skull. He saw a brief flash of light, and then there was nothing.

The president lowered the gun. “I told him that if I discovered that a Russian had tried to have you killed, I would personally execute him.”

Ivanov looked at the corpse. “Good riddance.”

The president suddenly cocked his head, eyeing Ivanov with suspicion. “You aren’t, are you?”

“What?” asked Ivanov.

“An American agent.”

Ivanov looked at the president. A smile broke on his lips and he began to laugh. A moment later the president joined him, and for a long time the laughter echoed off the cold stone walls.

“You know,” said the president, catching his breath, “it occurs to me that there is a sudden opening that requires filling. Would you have an interest in assuming the directorship of the FSB?”

Igor Ivanov swallowed. “It would be an honor.”

78

The call came at 6 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Alone in his bed, Frank Co

“It’s me,” responded Igor Ivanov. “I’m in.”

Epilogue

Lashkar Gah, Helmand Province

Afghanistan

It was close to sunset when the battered pickup arrived. Before the dust could settle, a half-dozen children ran from mud huts and sturdy stone dwellings and surrounded the truck. Massoud, the village’s three-legged mongrel, led the charge, barking madly and baring his teeth. Once Massoud had belonged to the United States Army, but the soldiers left him behind after a grenade claimed his leg and the valley was no longer friendly.

None of the twenty or so men seated around the communal fire made a move toward the truck. They continued to chew on naswar, the sticky brown powder blended from tobacco and opium, while keeping their eyes glued to the goat slow-roasting over the flames. It was their first meat in a week, and a good meal took precedence over a visit. No one of importance arrived at dusk and without prior warning.

Only Khan, the village elder, rose to greet the tall stranger who jumped from the rear of the truck. The visitor was dressed in native clothing, with the region’s white scarf bound around his head. A coarse black beard flecked with gray covered much of his face, yet even in the failing light one could not help but notice his dark, searching eyes. Over his shoulder, he carried a leather bag, and he approached with respect.

“Who are you?” asked Khan in Pashto, one Afghan to another.

“A doctor.”

Khan recognized the accent at once, but hid his surprise. It had been more than a year since the crusaders dared venture so far south. It would take only a word to have the man executed. Yet, there was something in his regard that begged attention. “What is your name, my friend?”

“Jonathan.”

Khan shook the visitor’s hand and held it in his grasp long enough to know that the man was good and to be trusted.

“My granddaughter is ill, Dr. Jonathan,” said Khan. “Can you help?”

Jonathan Ransom looked at the mud huts and the open fire and the faces of the children raised to him in expectation. High on the mountain, the sun’s dying rays cast a calming purple light over the rugged landscape. He was home.

“I will try.”