Raven Strike

But Kimko didn’t. He hunched his shoulders together, physically pulling himself back under control.

“You’re a salesman,” said Nuri. “Why would you want to buy the UAV?”

“Who says that I am buying this thing?”

“Come on. You were prepared to deal. But how did you know what you were buying?”

“I was not going to deal. No buying.”

“Li Han isn’t a buyer. He’s a seller. And a worker bee for whatever slimeball will stick a few million dollars into his account. Right? I’m surprised you would deal with him,” added Nuri. “Considering that he helped the Chechens.”

Kimko raised his head.

“You didn’t know? You guys don’t know that?” said Nuri. This part was easy—he wasn’t lying.

“You’re a liar. You don’t know nothing. You’re a child.”

“In 2012—the bomb in the Moscow Star Theater. Used an explosive initiated from a cell phone. That’s common. There was wire in the bomb with lettering. You traced it to Hong Kong. Our friend was there a few weeks before the bomb was built. There’s other evidence,” added Nuri, who had gotten all the background from MY-PID and its search of the files and data on Li Han. “Maybe I’ll give it to you, if it will help. Of course, if your boss knew that you were dealing with someone who helped the Chechens—that probably wouldn’t be a good thing. I guess it would depend on how the information came out. Who shaped it. We call that a slant in America.”

“I had no deal,” said Kimko harshly. “I despise the man.”

“Feelings and business are two different things,” said Nuri. He rose, leaving the bottle and glasses on the table. “I’ll be right back.”

Kimko stared at the vodka.

He was beyond starved for a drink.

But if he reached for that bottle—where would it take him?

He knew nothing of value. His contacts among the Africans were probably well known by this Nuri. As for the UAV, he had already told him everything he knew.

Yet the American wanted more. Logically, that must mean they had not recovered it.

He couldn’t help them on that score either.

So really, as far as his duty was concerned, there was nothing preventing him from taking the bottle. There was nothing he could say that Moscow could object to.

But that was the rub—Moscow wouldn’t believe he’d said nothing now. And clearly this Nuri had some sort of evidence to ruin him. True or concocted, it wouldn’t matter.

He lowered his head to his hands.

One drink. One drink.

The smell of the vodka Nuri had poured in the glass permeated the tent. There was no way to resist.

He pulled the glass over. Before he knew that he had lifted it, he’d drained it. His lips burned, his throat.

He put the glass back on the table, defeated.

“You can have more,” Nuri told Kimko, standing behind the chair. He felt bad for the Russian; he looked as if he had collapsed.

“I can’t help you,” said Kimko, his voice subdued. “I had few arrangements. The Brothers have established supply lines with the Middle East, al Qaeda. We can’t compete. They’re friendly, of course, but they don’t buy. They get everything they need from bin Laden’s successors. I knew nothing about the Iranians. I assume it’s their Revolutionary Guard, but I know nothing.”

“Tell me who you saw in Duka.”

“First—I was supposed to call someone yesterday. I lost my phone. I need to call him. If I don’t, Moscow will know I’m missing.”

“Who?”

“He’s insignificant.”

Nuri reached down and picked up the bottle. He filled the glass.

“Come on,” said Nuri. “We have to help each other here.”

“He’s an expert in UAVs. He needed to inspect the aircraft. They were sending him to find me. I need to talk to him. Or they’ll think I defected.”

“We don’t want that,” said Nuri.

The entire conversation lasted no more than sixty seconds.

“There was fighting in the city,” Kimko said as soon as the other line was opened. “I’ve had to take shelter in Malan. The UAV must have been destroyed. I’m sorry that I didn’t meet you.”

“I heard of your troubles and made other arrangements,” said the voice on the other end, before hanging up.

A few seconds later MY-PID supplied the location of the other phone. It was in southeastern Sudan—the site of the Brothers of Sudan main camp, to be exact.

Chapter 14

Washington, D.C.

Christine Mary Todd took a last spoonful of soup and got up from the table.

“Working tonight?” said her husband. “I thought you had the evening off?”

She made a face at him.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

Todd sighed.

“I was thinking we could sneak over to the stadium tomorrow night,” said her husband. “We haven’t used the box all year.”

“Daniel, we were at a game two weeks ago.”

“Oh. But that doesn’t count—you brought the House Speaker with you. And you know what I think of him.”

“Your opinion is undoubtedly higher than mine,” said the President.

Her husband smiled. It was true.

“I don’t know,” she told him. “This thing with Ernst.”

“Oh, don’t let it bother you.” He reached out and touched her hand. “Take a little time off. We’ll have fun.”

“The Nats always lose when I’m there.”

“Because you don’t cheer enough.”

“Well, I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“No, you’ll try.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“All right.” She patted his shoulder. “I will try.”

“Video in bed?” he told her. “Saving Private Ryan?”

“I don’t know if you should wait up.”

“If I don’t fall asleep.”

“We’ve watched that video three times in the last two months.”

“Good movie.”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, all right,” he said, overstating his concession. “We’ll watch The Golden Heiress.”

She had been wanting to see that one for weeks. Obviously, he’d gotten the video already; he was just teasing her. She gave him a kiss.

“Thank you, Daniel. You know I love you.”

“And I love you,” he said, reaching up to kiss her back.

Her husband’s gentle teasing put her in a good mood, but it didn’t last as far as the West Wing, where she was holding an emergency meeting on the Raven situation. The CIA director’s refusal to hop immediately over to the Hill and sing for his supper had predictable results—there were all sorts of rumors now about what he might be hiding.

All of them wrong, fortunately.

The one thing everyone got right was the supposition that Edmund’s stonewalling was coming at the President’s behest. Which naturally directed all of the vitriol in her direction.

Todd spotted her chief of staff David Greenwich rocking back and forth on his feet as she approached the cabinet room. On good days he hummed a little song to himself while he waited. On bad days he hummed louder.

The walls were practically vibrating with his off-key rendition of “Dancing in the Streets.” She assumed the selection was purposely ironic.

“All present and accounted for,” said Greenwich, spotting her. Besides everyone who had been at the meeting the day before, Todd had added Secretary of State Alistair Newhaven. He had brought along the Undersecretary of State for Counter-Terrorism, Kevin McCloud, and a staff member who was an expert on the Sudan.

“Edmund looks like he’s wearing a bulletproof vest,” added Greenwich.

“I hope you’re joking.”

“I am. But he does look quite a bit worse for wear. The others, so-so.”

Todd let him open the door for her. She glanced at her Secret Service shadow, so unobtrusive she almost forgot he was there, then went in.