State Of The Union

Karganov couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Stavropol was insane, he was sure of it.

“So, what will it be, Anatoly?” asked Stavropol. “Will you join us? Or will you go the way of Valentin and Uri?”

The look on Karganov’s face was answer enough.

“As you wish,” responded Stavropol and then fired a single round into Karganov’s head.

Upon hearing the gunshots, a second man, bundled in heavy winter clothing exited Stavropol ’s car and calmly strode inside to assist his employer. “With these men dead, we will have much more work now,” he said as he helped Stavropol drag the three bodies out the back door.

Stavropol smiled. “Our list of assets in America is quite long. Over the years, we have lost an Aldrich Ames here, a Robert Hanssen there, but there are many more still in place. Everything will continue as planned and you, my friend, will have to clear space on your old uniform. I am sure Russia will create a brand-new medal for what we are about to accomplish.”

The two men then worked in silence, digging shallow graves and burying the bodies behind the secluded lodge. They were not alone. Perched high above, on one of the area’s heavily wooded trails, someone was watching.

Chapter 2

EASTON, MARYLAND

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS-10 DAYS

Frank Leighton was scared. In fact if the truth were told, the man was absolutely terrified.

The call had come in the middle of the night, the voice more machine than human. It sounded tinny, canned somehow, as if it was coming from far away. But it wasn’t the sound of the voice that had shaken him. It was the message.

It took Leighton several moments to clear the cobwebs from his head-his sleep had been that deep. And why not? He was retired after all. Sleeping with one eye open while guarding against the cold knife blade that could be slipped between his ribs by a supposed ally, or listening for the telltale whisper of an anonymous assassin’s bullet fired from a silenced weapon, were all part of his past. Or so he had thought.

Twenty-five pounds overweight and fifteen years out of the game, Frank Leighton took a quick shower, shaved, and then combed his head of thick, gray hair. The years hadn’t been kind to him. When he looked in the mirror and said to himself, “I am way too old for this,” he was telling the God’s honest truth.

The initial spurt of adrenaline that had come with the phone call had long since passed, so Leighton decided to brew a pot of coffee while he considered his options. It was a short period of reflection, as he had no options. That was exactly the way the protocol had been designed.

When the coffee was ready, Leighton filled his mug to within two-and-a-half inches of the rim, then grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet above the refrigerator and filled the mug the rest of the way. “The breakfast of champions,” he thought to himself as he took the mug and headed past a butler’s pantry into the laundry and storage room that doubled as his home office.

While he waited for his computer to boot up, he gazed at a picture of his sister, Barbara, and her two kids. Maybe he should call her. Warn her. She still had the cabin in Wyoming. They would be safe there. He wouldn’t have to tell her why. She would trust him. She would do what he asked. It was important for them to be safe, at least until he could complete his assignment.How in the world, he wondered,had things come to this? And after all these years.

The opening of his web browser interrupted Leighton’s pondering. He went to the American Airlines website and ran through all of the international flights leaving from Washington that morning. When he found the flight he wanted, he began the process of booking the ticket. He had no idea if the old Capstone Corporation credit card still worked. It was the only way to reserve and pay for the flight, as he no longer kept large stores of cash in the house. That was something he had left behind in his old career, his old life.

If the card still was still active, the little-known bank in Manassas, Virginia, would accept any expiration date he entered into the computer. Leighton had no need to fish the card, or the false passport that matched the name on the card, from its hiding place within the old lobsterman’s buoy stored in a corner of the boathouse behind his home. When one’s life has hung by a delicate thread for years upon end, certain things are never forgotten. He entered the credit card number by heart and waited while the American Airlines site processed his request. Moments later, a confirmation number and seat assignment appeared on the screen.

Leighton knew that a same-day ticket purchase was going to raise a lot of red flags, so transporting a weapon was out of the question. He would have to wait until he got there. Once he arrived, he would have access to more than enough firepower, and money-if everything had been left in place.