Extraction Page 5

  An empty bathroom.

  “You Scottish bastard,” she muttered, unable to contain a smile that spread across her face. By the time she climbed into the tub, Jayne was laughing. It was going to be a long, hot bath, to be sure, but not nearly as exciting alone.

  Jayne lowered herself into the water, sighing in bliss as the heat soaked into her weary muscles and aching joints. She lazily lifted one petite foot out of the water and turned the water off, wishing MacTavish was there to attend to her.

  Jayne ducked her head under the water, laughing despite herself, and came up sputtering and more relaxed by the second. He may not be there now, but in time, he would. Jayne smiled again.

  She loved a good hunt.

  7

  Deep Fake

  Washington, D.C.

  The White House

  President Harris jerked awake, the side of his mouth slick with drool. He sat up in his chair and cursed as the muscles of his shoulder cramped. He blinked owlishly and looked around the room. Admiral Bennett still sat ramrod straight in his chair, eyes locked on the screen. Vale Klaussman, his Chief of Staff, leaned against the doorway, drinking a soda. His eyes were bloodshot, but open.

  “Dammit, why didn't you wake me?” the president muttered.

  Klaussman cocked an eyebrow. “With all due respect, sir, why? You’ve been awake for almost 27 hours straight. You won't convince anyone to join our side without sleep. Even if it was only three hours.”

  “Three hours!” the president blurted. “Christ…” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Did they find her yet?”

  Bennett shook his nearly bald head, the overhead light reflecting off his skin. “Negative, sir. In fact, they haven’t found anyone.”

  Harris cocked an eyebrow. “What about the pilots, the crew? How many were on that plane besides her?”

  “Three, sir,” Bennett replied, eyes still glued to the image relayed from Alston’s helmet camera. The Rangers had made it down to the shore and Alston currently stood at the water’s edge, looking back at the tail fin sticking out of the hill, barking orders for a cordon to spread out and shove back curious locals. Local cops in dayglow yellow jackets slipped among the camo’d Rangers, most carrying clipboards or evidence bags, some talking on phones or radios. Interspersed between the locals and the Rangers moved a few individuals sporting windbreakers emblazoned with NTSB on the back in bright yellow.

  “When did our investigators get there?”

  “We maintain a small support staff in London for incidents in UK airspace involving planes with American registries. We’ve only got a handful of people there, and the bare minimum of equipment, but reinforcements are on the way.”

  “How soon?”

  “Noon, our time, sir. Five o’clock local,” replied Bennett.

  The president rubbed his eyes. “I need something to drink…what time is it?”

  “Here you go, sir,” Klaussman said, handing over a water bottle. “It’s almost 4 AM. Nine o’clock local.”

  Harris sipped the cold water. “And they haven’t found anything?”

  “Negative, sir. Current theory is they ditched over the ocean.”

  The president regarded Bennett. “Does NSA or CIA have any satellite data to back that up? What about the navy?”

  “CIA’s got nothing. The Navy doesn’t have any answers either, unfortunately. Other than to confirm the aircraft wasn’t equipped for ocean landing. And at the speed and altitude indicated by the last telemetry we received, there’s no way anyone survived.”

  “This is Jayne fucking Renolds we’re talking about, Roger.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bennett replied, straight faced. He inclined his head toward the screen. “That’s why we’re still there. The Irish are fit to be tied that we’re keeping them at arm’s length on this, but it’s a military transport, not a civilian airliner.”

  The president got to his feet. “I can’t believe it…she got away again.” He paced the room, ignoring the looks from his advisors. “God damn it! How is this even possible?”

  “I’d say it’s not, sir,” Bennett said, standing as well.

  Klaussman stepped forward and handed over a secure tablet. “Here’s where we lost the signal, Mr. President,” he said, indicating a map of the Irish Sea, with a red dotted line slicing the waters between Edinburgh, passing just north of the Isle of Man. It stopped abruptly off the Irish coast.

  “Is it possible she parachuted and made it to dry land, and we’re just too late to catch her?”

  Bennett shook his head. “Alston found part of the plane’s onboard water rescue equipment—it was never deployed. If they bailed over the ocean, they didn’t use the life raft aboard that aircraft,” he said, pointing at the wreckage on the screen. The muted screen panned out to the ocean as Alston looked east then whipped back to a soldier waving an arm and pointing at something on the beach.

  “What’s that? What’s he found?” asked the president. “Turn it up…”

  “…Command, you read me? I may have something here.”

  “Go ahead, Broadsword Actual, we’re all ears,” replied the voice of the mission controller, somewhere on the vast military comms network.

  Alston looked down at a mangled piece of metal about the size of a small toaster oven. The charred paint revealed nothing of its origin, but as he cleared sand away from the lower end, Bennett grunted.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked the president.

  Bennett grunted. “He’s found the black box.”

  “Thank God! Maybe we’ll get some answers out of it,” the president replied.

  “Maybe, sir…I’d caution you to not be overly optimistic. It’ll take time—we may know by tomorrow, depending on the shape that thing’s in.”

  “You may as well head to bed and get some decent sleep before the first meeting, sir,” suggested Klaussman. “You’ve got Senator Thatch on deck at eight.”

  The president rubbed his face again. “No, I’m awake now, dammit. I’ll go shave and get ready to start the day—maybe get a head start on the afternoon call to Moscow.”

  “The Russians aren’t going to budge, sir. They’ll stand with China.”

  “I know, Roger, I know…but I’ve got to try.”

  “Yes, sir.” The admiral didn’t sound convinced of the utility of that gesture at all.

  “Let me know if anything changes, Roger.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Can I get you something to eat, Mr. President?” asked a servant in the hallway.

  “Gus. Thank you,” the president, putting a hand on the desk. “Uh, a glass of orange juice and one of those toasted egg and cheese sandwiches I had the other day would be great. You know the one I’m talking about? With that crusty bread and the avocado? It was delicious.”

  “I do indeed, sir. I’ll bring one to you right away.”

  “Thank you, Gus,” the president said, smiling. “You’re a lifesaver—oh, and Gus?”

  “Yes, sir?” asked the middle-aged servant, turning with one eyebrow arched.

  “Bring coffee. Lots of coffee. It’s going to be another long day.”

  Gus smiled. “They always are, Mr. President. I’ll be right back, sir.”

  The president watched the servant retreat down the hall at a quick, if dignified pace. It’s going to be a long damn day.

  A thought struck President Harris. “Roger, if we can’t find a body…”

  “We have to assume she’s still alive, sir.”

  “Anyone who knows her will think so, too,” added Klaussman.

  The president nodded. “But what if we could convince the world that she was dead?”

  Bennett’s brow creased in thought. He glanced away from the president to the screen and watched the commotion over the black box for a moment. “You’re talking a deep fake.”

  “I’m sorry, a deep what?” asked Klaussman, stepping over from the doorway to stand near the president. “Did you say ‘fake’? As in, pretend sh
e’s dead?”

  Bennett turned to look at the president. “Sir, we can do it—we can have NSA doctor the radio signals, come up with photos…a crash like this,” he said, waving at the screen, “no one will think twice if we show generic, mangled bodies. A DNA report can be fudged…”

  “But will it work?” asked the president.

  “Sir…I have to advise against this…if it backfires…” warned Klaussman.

  “Then people realize she’s still alive and we’re back to where we are right now,” replied Bennett. “But if it works, if the remnants of the Council believe her to be dead…it could weaken her position significantly and reduce her ability to cause further trouble. Until we hunt her down.”

  President Harris nodded. “Do it. Carte Blanche, Roger—get it done.”

  “Sir!” protested Klaussman. “At least let us take a look at this—we need to be very careful how we proceed here.”

  “There’s no time for careful, Vale,” the president said, laying a hand on his chief of staff’s shoulder. “It’s time to act.” He looked back at the screen as Bennett stepped out of the room to start the operation. “One way or another, Jayne Renolds will die.”

  8

  House Call

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Spaso House

  US Ambassador’s Residence

  Cooper stepped out of the cab and checked his watch. Almost 9 o'clock local time. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't had dinner. He’d taken some Dexedrine at his hotel room to counteract jet lag and knew the cost he’d have to pay when it wore off, but he’d done it plenty of times in the Teams—a lot of guys to Go Pills when it was mission critical—and he couldn’t afford to slow down now.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his taxi pull away from the curb and into the light flow of traffic. He adjusted his coat and strolled down the street, turning at the next corner. The houses along the street in the foreign diplomat section of Moscow were all well-made and ornate. Heavy stonework and decorative doorstops stood in stark contrast to the drab, Soviet-era apartment complexes that he’d seen earlier on his recon.

  His stomach rumbled again, but he ignored it. The time he’d taken in his hotel room to review Oakrock’s had confirmed that this mission was more than time critical. Any moment now, the FSB could show up and whisk the ambassador away, diplomatic immunity or no. Cooper grimaced. Russia always played by its own rules, only following international custom when the situation was advantageous to the Kremlin.

  If that happened, it could be the trigger that started World War III.

  Cooper picked up his pace. Not on my watch.

  He found the address, and noticed nothing looked disturbed, no windows broken, and the porch light was on. He took that as a good sign.

  Cooper took a quick glance up and down the street. Only one car was visible, way down at the end of the block, parked facing the other way. Most of the nearby houses were dark, only a few had lights on. Something didn't seem right. Not a single person or car moved—which was expected after the millions of deaths during the bioweapon attack the previous year…but still. It was too quiet.

  Internal alarm bells ringing, Cooper took his time walking up the wide stone steps to the ornately carved door of Spaso House, the official residence of the US Ambassador. It was only 9 o'clock at night, but no lights were on in any other rooms at the front of the house.

  And where the hell were the guards? This was akin to the US Embassy—at a minimum he’d expected to see the State Department Diplomatic Security Service…or maybe even a Marine in battle rattle.

  Cooper narrowed his eyes as the hair on the back of his neck raised. What kind of shit did I just step into?

  His hand itched to hold a pistol. If he'd had the time to set up a drop shipment before the mission, he might be walking around armed to the teeth right now instead of feeling naked and unarmed. Atkins had insisted there’d been no time and had apologized profusely for sending Cooper in naked.

  Cooper frowned. Right. Shoving aside his irritation with Atkins, he pushed the doorbell, and heard the chime echo on the other side of the door. He turned and looked around the street once more as casual as possible. Squinting in the darkness, he still saw no movement. The street remained completely deserted.

  Moscow was known in Europe as a city that never slept—someone should either be out walking a dog, driving a car, or…something. It was only 9 o'clock, not midnight.

  He tried the doorbell again and again was stymied. Instinctively, his hand reached for his waistband, groping for a pistol that wasn’t there. Cursing under his breath, Cooper instead rapped his knuckles on the door. No answer.

  This is so not good.

  On a whim, he tried the knob, and blinked in surprise when the door opened. Cooper stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The mission was on, and something was already rotten. If things were time critical before, they’d just been bumped up a notch.

  "Ambassador Marquadt?” Cooper called out. His voice echoed through the empty hallways. The entire house was pitch black.

  Cursing under his breath again, Cooper fumbled around the dark until he slapped the light switch. A wide, marble tiled foyer emerged in front of him, lit from above by a massive, gilt chandelier. The decorating style immediately set Cooper on edge.

  Broken picture frames peppered the floor, and a side table lay upside down, a shattered vase and flowers scattered in front of it. Scuff marks lined the wall, and a tray of food decorated the carpeted stairs some 20 feet away.

  "Hello?" Cooper called out. "Mrs. Marquadt? Anyone?”

  Cooper peered into the adjoining rooms, a dining room on the left, and a formal parlor, if on the small side, to his right. The floral print furniture and wallpaper looked like something from the 1980s, but he supposed with this being a temporary housing for the diplomatic service, the Russians didn't care to spend too many rubles on decorating.

  Probably the same shit that’s been here since Stalin.

  Cooper stepped into the parlor and turned on another light switch, noticing immediately a small bookcase had been toppled. He bent and scooped up a glossy finance magazine, quickly rolling it as tight as he could. If nothing else, he had a solid baton with which to defend himself. It was time to search the house.

  He moved efficiently through each room on the ground floor, circling the main level of the house through the kitchen, a small powder room, a breakfast area, and the laundry room. Cooper charged up the stairs and quickly searched the rest of the house. He found several bedrooms upstairs and an office that had been thoroughly ransacked. A laptop lay in pieces on the desk, it's hard drive missing, and the other walls that once contained bookcases were stripped bare. Piles of books and papers and an upturned file cabinet filled the middle of the office. Even the chair had been savagely slashed open, and its stuffing ripped out in a search for…what?

  "Hello!" Cooper shouted. Where the hell is everyone?

  He moved down the hall into the master bedroom and cursed. The bed, tumbled as if someone had been dragged out of it, was speckled with blood. Clothes and purses bad been tossed across the room, and the contents of the two closets ripped out and left on the floor.

  Stepping into the disaster-area of a bathroom, he found a bloody hand print next to the sink. Water filling the sink had turned pink. The faucet wasn't quite off and dripped steadily.

  Cooper moved across the wet floor and turned the faucet off with a squeak of the handle. He looked around for clues as to where the ambassador and his wife might've gone, or who had taken them, and found nothing. Toiletries and pills lay scattered on the floor where he imagined the struggle had taken place. Drops of blood splattered the counter and marked the white marble floor.

  He turned in a slow circle, taking in the carnage and could almost see the ambassador stumbling backward into the bathroom with an attacker's hands on his throat. He looked at the discarded toiletries on the floor. The two of them spinning and thrashing against each othe
r, likely collided with the counter and spilled things from the counter before collapsing to the floor.

  Cooper stepped back into the bedroom. He didn't want to think about why there was blood splattered across the bed or why a collection of lacy bras had been left on the sheets. He glanced down at one pink, frilly brassiere and frowned. Foreign service personnel were used to personal threats, but Cooper always took threatening someone’s family a little more seriously.

  He was about to exit the bedroom and retrace his steps—Cooper didn't want to be in the house if the local police arrived—when he heard a footstep downstairs. He froze, pressing himself against the wall next to the bedroom door, and listened.

  Muffled voices echoed up the stairs from below. Someone had just entered the house and stood in the foyer, talking with at least one other person.

  “…lights were off when we left. Someone has come through here since then,” a man said in Russian.

  "You two, upstairs. We'll check downstairs. He might have already left."

  Cooper grimaced. He might've already left? Are you fuckers looking for me?

  He cast about the room, desperate for a better weapon. A rolled-up magazine wasn't going to be very effective against a firearm—which he had to assume the strangers carried—but he didn't see anything else he could employ, other than a pile of bras. Cooper frowned, but used his free hand to grab several bits of Mrs. Marquadt’s lingerie and crouched, waiting.

  He didn't have to wait long. Footsteps echoed down the hall, with one man heading toward the master bedroom, the other toward the office.

  A heavyset, tattooed Russian squeezed into the master bedroom wearing a misshapen overcoat. His shaved head swiveled left and right on a thick neck as he surveyed the wreckage. He walked so quickly into the room, he didn't see Cooper behind him against the wall. Instead, he moved immediately to the bathroom, muttering something about antacids. In his right hand he carried a Makarov pistol.