A dejected look appeared on his face. He glanced around the table.

“Get Brubaker on the line,” said Krug. “Hector too. They’re through the strait. They have open water to the U.S. East Coast.”

22

CIA

SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP

BRIEFING COMMAND CENTER

LANGLEY

Calibrisi, Polk, and a half dozen other senior-level intelligence officials stepped into what looked like a small movie theater, with luxurious, reclining leather chairs arrayed in three ascending rows before a 140-inch screen.

Already seated were six members of CIA paramilitary, the six men selected to go to Russia.

Three wore tactical gear. These were the commandos who would lead Phase Line One: John Dowling, Dave Tosatti, and Benoit Fitzgerald. The other three men were dressed in casual clothing. This was the Phase Line Two team, and included Dewey, Bond, and Joe Oliveri.

“Gentlemen, beginning approximately one week ago, signals intelligence indicated a dramatic increase in chatter across the terrorist complex concerning an impending high-target strike on the United States,” said Polk. “They have a name for it: they’re calling it ‘nine/twelve.’”

The lights dimmed as the screen abruptly lit up with the only known images of Cloud they had: the Malnikov sketch, the nightclub photo, and two photos showing him with Katya Basaeyev.

“His name is Cloud,” said Polk, pointing at the screen. “It’s an alias. He’s a computer hacker. Up to a week ago, he acquired a medium-sized Soviet-era nuclear bomb, capable of wiping out an area the size of downtown Boston. We believe he placed the device on a ship at the port of Sevastopol on the coast of Ukraine, and that the ship is now headed for the United States.”

The screen flashed a photo of a modern glass-and-steel building set on a green lawn.

“Early this morning, based on intelligence from NSA, we captured a scumbag and known Cloud associate named Al-Medi. Under interrogation, he coughed up where Cloud will be tomorrow evening. This is a dacha outside Moscow where he will be attending a dinner party. That’s why you’re here. Your job is to infiltrate the Russian theater and capture Cloud—alive.”

Calibrisi turned and glanced at the photo of Cloud.

“As of right now, Cloud is the only person who knows where that ship is going. We need to find him.”

Calibrisi was silent for a few moments, scanning the six commandos with his eyes.

“I like to think all CIA missions are important, and they are. But this one is quite obviously different. This was why you joined the military. This was why, forty years ago, I joined the military. It sounds like a cliché, but it happens to be true. Your country needs you right now. You’re the difference between the peace and stability, the silence, the calm, that Americans have come to know, and a catastrophe of untold horror, a catastrophe that will destroy families, neighborhoods, a catastrophe that will scar America for generations to come.”

Calibrisi turned to Polk.

“Mission architecture is still being designed,” said Polk. “We need to get you guys moving. Dowling, Tosatti, Fitzgerald: there’s a Black Hawk on the helipad. Wheels up in five. You’ll receive instructions on your way to Frankfurt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bond, Oliveri, you two are to go to CMG and get wardrobed. Then you’ll fly to Saint Petersburg.”

Polk glanced at Bond, then Dewey.

“Dewey, Hector and I need to see you in the director’s office.”

23

DIRECTOR’S OFFICE

LANGLEY

“Go ahead in, Dewey,” said Lindsay, Hector Calibrisi’s assistant. “They’re expecting you.”

He pushed in the thick glass door. He stepped inside the CIA director’s expansive corner office, which looked out over a neatly manicured lawn and, behind it, a dense forest of sugar maples and birch trees rustling in the morning breeze. It was a bright, sunny summer day.

Calibrisi was standing behind a rectangular glass-and-steel desk, sleeves rolled up, top button unbuttoned, leaning forward, scanning a document.

Seated in front of Calibrisi’s desk was a bald man in a suit, with horn-rimmed glasses: Bill Polk.

“What do you need?” asked Dewey.

Dewey was dressed in an orange T-shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops.

“We want to talk to you,” said Polk.

“Sit down,” said Calibrisi.

Dewey remained standing just inside the door.

“It’s about Saint Petersburg,” said Polk.

“Bill wants to take you off Saint Petersburg,” said Calibrisi. “I’m on the fence.”

Dewey nodded.

“What happened in Mexico?” asked Polk, shooting Dewey a cold stare.

Dewey stared back at Polk, in silence. His eyes moved over and met Calibrisi’s.

Behind Calibrisi, on the credenza, was a silver-framed photograph of Jessica.

“I froze up,” said Dewey. “It won’t happen again.”

From behind his tortoiseshell glasses, Polk’s eyes darted to Calibrisi, who remained silent.

“If something goes wrong in Moscow,” said Polk, “we’re relying on this man to perform at a level that right now he’s just not capable of.”

“I’ll be fine, Bill,” said Dewey.

“He’s on a team with one of our best agents,” added Calibrisi. “Pete asked for him.”

Polk shook his head, then turned to Dewey.

“You’re a talented operator. But right now, you’re damaged. You need to get your head back on straight, and a mission that could get very messy, very quickly, inside a dead zone, is not the place for mental therapy.”

Dewey stared back at Polk, in silence, dumbfounded.

“You know what the Russians do when they capture a NOC?” asked Polk.

Polk looked back at Calibrisi. Calibrisi remained silent.

“Fine, I’ll tell him. If Russia captures you downrange, inside their country, in the middle of an operation, you’ll never step foot outside Russia for the rest of your life. Never. We will be unable to retrieve you. They’ll wrench what information they can out of you. That’ll take about a month, then you’ll be shipped off to a gulag in the middle of Siberia, maybe Krasnokamensk, or even worse, one of the countless prisons that doesn’t have a name, a territory somewhere with a number on it.”

Dewey stared down at the rug.

“It gets better,” continued Polk. “They’ll put you to work in a uranium mine or they’ll use you for drug trials. If they determine you’re a flight risk, they’ll just kill you.”

Dewey’s eyes found Calibrisi’s. He was like a father to Dewey. He could see it in his eyes. Dewey watched as, almost unconsciously, Calibrisi’s eyes moved away from him to the photo of Jessica.

“I’m taking you off the operation,” said Calibrisi, breathing deeply. “I think Bill is right. I think you need a little more time.”

Dewey felt a sharp kick to his stomach. He tried not to show any emotion. Only his hand betrayed him; it reached back and clutched the door handle, which he gripped tightly, trying to control his anger, frustration and, most of all, self-loathing. He knew they were right. He had only himself to blame.

“I understand,” said Dewey. He turned to leave.

“One more thing,” said Polk. “I’m placing you on a six-month internal administrative drop. You’ll be paid. We’ll call it a director’s project. I want you to go out to the clinic in Sedona. I’m not going to send you back into the field until you pass a psychological evaluation from Dr. Goldston.”

“You’re not actually serious?” Dewey asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, I’m serious,” said Polk. “I want you back, but you’re not ready. You need some help to deal with this.”

“You call this bringing me back into the fold?” asked Dewey, looking at Calibrisi. “Protecting me? Is this what you had planned all along?”

“No,” said Calibrisi.

“I don’t need a fucking doctor. I need a gun and a mission.”

Calibrisi bit his lip.

“Go out to Andrews and get a jet,” said Polk. “I’ll have Mary make sure one of the Gulfstreams is ready when you get there.”