Treason Page 2

  Following the events at Ice Station Nautilus, Christine had buried herself in her work, staying late into the night and working every weekend. After she returned from Russia, however, the pattern had reversed. She left early when possible and no longer worked on weekends unless the matter was urgent. Her interactions with Hardison and the rest of the president’s staff had grown distant, and Christine had surprisingly agreed to several proposals Hardison was certain she’d vehemently oppose. Hardison took advantage of Christine’s unusual pliability this afternoon, circling back to a proposal she’d refused to endorse three years earlier: a reorganization of the nation’s numerous intelligence agencies.

  As much as Hardison relished his newfound success, he missed the old Christine. Without her infuriating opposition on almost every issue, coming to work each day had become less … fun. As he reviewed the document before him, he realized he’d scheduled this meeting for opposing purposes. If Christine’s new trend held, he’d obtain her endorsement for a key policy proposal—one the president would be sure to push forward with Christine on board. However, she’d made her position on the issue clear during previous meetings, practically throwing Hardison out of her office the last time he brought it up. He was certain Christine’s bona fides would surface this afternoon when he pressed the matter.

  “So,” Hardison said. “I take it you agree with the restructuring?”

  “I’ll consider it,” Christine replied, with no hint of the icy tone he expected.

  Hardison contemplated his next move as the aide typed notes into her laptop. He focused again on Christine, who was staring out one of the triple-paned, bomb-resistant windows in his office. The fresh scar across her cheek was faintly visible. His eyes went to her wrists; the cuts had likewise healed. Although Christine hadn’t shared the details, the CIA report had painted a clear enough picture: Christine handcuffed to a pipe above her head as she was tormented by Semyon Gorev, the director of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service. Hardison wondered what Christine had thought when Gorev slid his pistol barrel into her mouth. The emotions that must have flooded her body as he slowly squeezed the trigger.

  There had been no bullets in the pistol, part of Gorev’s sadistic torment. A few hours later, Christine had somehow reversed the roles, jamming a gun into Gorev’s mouth. Then she blew his brains out.

  The aide finished her notes and looked up. Christine was still staring out the window.

  Hardison turned to the aide. “Excuse us for a few minutes. I need to talk with Miss O’Connor privately.”

  The aide pushed back from the table and the movement caught Christine’s attention, interrupting her reverie.

  When they were alone, Hardison said, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “You haven’t been yourself the last few weeks.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m fine.” This time, her voice had an edge to it.

  “You’re not fine. It’s obvious you’re still dealing with what happened in Russia. It’s affecting your work.”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Christine’s eyes went to the aide’s empty seat. “Are we done?”

  “We’re not done. I know you don’t consider me a friend—”

  “Because you’re not.”

  “—but I do care about you a tiny bit. You need to take some time off. Clear your head.”

  Christine leaned forward, placing her hands on the edge of the table. “I don’t need your psychoanalysis. I’m doing just fine.”

  Hardison collected his thoughts. It was pointless to continue. There was too much animosity between them. Deservedly so, he had to admit.

  “You’re right,” Hardison said. “You’re doing just fine. That’s all I have for today.”

  Christine stood and grabbed her notepad, then left without a word.

  * * *

  Christine tossed her notepad on her desk, then settled into her chair. She stared at the dark computer display for a moment, reviewing her conversation with Hardison. She hadn’t realized it was so obvious. Her thoughts turned to what had occurred in Russia, then to Ice Station Nautilus. To what she’d done to her good friend Captain Steve Brackman, the president’s former senior military aide. Former, as in deceased. Thanks to Christine. She went back even further to her imprisonment in the bowels of China’s Great Hall of the People, then to her townhouse where she lay on the floor as a man tried to drive a knife through her neck.

  This wasn’t what she had signed up for. She was supposed to be a White House advisor whose confrontations were limited to those across a conference room table. Not those requiring a semiautomatic pistol, especially one shoved into her mouth or someone else’s. What had occurred in Russia, along with her pending trip to Moscow in two weeks—she was the primary U.S. nuclear arms negotiator—weighed heavily on her mind.

  She woke the computer, then selected her personal folder. Her hands hovered over the keyboard as she examined nine versions of an almost identical document, each one beginning with—Letter of Resignation. She opened the latest one, read it twice, then hit Print. She signed the letter and placed it in a folder. After a moment of indecision, she took a deep breath, then headed down the seventy-foot-long blue-carpeted hallway toward the Oval Office.

  The president’s secretary looked up when Christine entered her office. “Is the president available?” Christine asked.

  The secretary checked the president’s schedule. “He’s open for the next ten minutes. Will that be enough time?”

  Christine nodded. The secretary knocked on the president’s door and inquired. After his response, the secretary stepped aside and Christine entered the Oval Office.

  The president was at his desk, framed by towering colonnade windows providing a view of the Rose Garden and South Lawn. He put down the document he was reading.

  “Afternoon, Christine,” he said, gesturing toward the three chairs in front of his desk.

  Christine took one of the proffered seats, gripping the folder on her lap with both hands. There must have been something in her body language, because the president leaned back in his chair and pushed his glasses above his forehead, studying her carefully. He waited for her to begin.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” she said, unsure of how to broach the subject. After a quick reflection on the issue, she decided to start at the beginning.

  “I want to thank you for the opportunity you provided, choosing me as your national security advisor. I appreciate your faith in my ability and your willingness to look beyond my party affiliation. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working for you and I hope you’ll consider me again if another opportunity arises in the future.”

  There was no response from the president, so she continued. “In the last three years, I’ve ended up in situations that go far beyond what I expected. I’ve done things that violate my core principles. I’m not sure what I stand for anymore.”

  Her eyes went to the folder, then she handed it to him.

  After reading the letter, the president said, “I must admit that you’ve been forced to make difficult decisions. But I think you’re being too harsh on yourself. I can’t express how impressed I am with how well you’ve handled yourself in these challenging situations.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Let’s work on keeping you out of trouble from now on.”

  The president closed the folder and pushed it across the desk toward Christine. “I’d like you to reconsider.”

  Christine leaned forward, pushing the folder slowly back to the president.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  She wasn’t sure, but Hardison was right. She needed to step away for a while.

  “I am, Mr. President.”

  The president leaned back in his chair again and folded his hands across his waist. “You’ve provided a two-week notice. I have another idea. You’ve worked hard on the new nuclear arms reduction treaty with Russia, establishing important personal relationships
. I’d like you to continue as my national security advisor until the final details have been hammered out.”

  “That could take months,” Christine replied.

  “How about this: two months or when the agreement is final, whichever comes first?”

  Christine contemplated the offer. The rationale was sound, but the meetings alternated between the two countries. After what she’d done on the shore of the Black Sea, returning to Russia didn’t sound like a good idea.

  “Can we conduct all future meetings in the United States?”

  “That could be arranged,” the president replied, “but I think we can leave the venue unchanged. I don’t believe there’s anything to worry about if you meet in Russia. Diplomatic relations have returned to normal and Russia is currently on their best behavior. Plus, President Kalinin assured me there will be no retribution for what you did in Russia.”

  “I wasn’t aware of Kalinin’s assurance.”

  “I considered mentioning it, but since you’ve avoided the subject, I decided not to.”

  Christine appreciated the president’s thoughtfulness, but the issue had never been far from her mind.

  “Two months?” Christine asked.

  “Two months. And if you happen to change your mind in the meantime, you may withdraw your resignation.”

  “You’re just stringing me along, hoping I’ll change my mind.”

  “I am.” The president smiled.

  Christine stared at the folder on the president’s desk as she contemplated his offer. Two months. It gave the president plenty of time to hire a new NSA, plus it provided an opportunity to finish what she’d started—a new nuclear arms reduction treaty with Russia.

  “I agree,” she said. “Two months or a new treaty, whichever comes first.”

  “Excellent,” the president replied. “Now why don’t you spend some time annoying Hardison. You’ve been far too amenable lately.”

  It was Christine’s turn to smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  5

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  Russian President Yuri Kalinin took his seat at the head of the Kremlin conference table, populated by the same men who had joined him the previous day: Defense Minister Nechayev, Foreign Minister Lavrov, plus Chief of the General Staff Sergei Andropov and the commanders of the Russian Ground Forces, Aerospace Forces, and Navy.

  “What is the status?” Kalinin asked.

  Defense Minister Nechayev replied, “Alexander failed the test.”

  “What is the prognosis for correcting the issue?”

  Nechayev looked to Fleet Admiral Oleg Lipovsky, who answered defensively, “We are pushing the boundaries of both physics and technology. The challenges are significant and we’ve overcome most of them.”

  “I understand the issues,” Kalinin replied. “Will there be a solution anytime soon?”

  Lipovsky shook his head. “The next proposal will require dry-docking Alexander to retrofit some of the components. That will take several months.”

  General Andropov joined in. “We do not need the Alexander class. The Zolotov option is sufficient. We have the opportunity to demonstrate our capability in three weeks, and we must take advantage of it. We don’t know when the next opportunity will occur.”

  “I’m uncomfortable with the Zolotov option,” Kalinin replied. “We don’t know how the Americans will respond, and if the situation spirals out of control, the consequences would be dire.”

  “The Americans won’t respond,” Andropov insisted. “That’s the point of the Zolotov option. They will be paralyzed, providing an opportunity to reestablish our border security.”

  Kalinin replied, “Perhaps we should be content with our current border situation.”

  Disapproving looks formed on each man’s face. Kalinin contemplated the issue and the events that had shaped his advisors’ perspectives.

  The painful memories of World War II, referred to as the Great Patriotic War within Russia, weighed heavily on the Russian psyche, something the West seemed incapable of understanding. The United States, for example, extolled its Greatest Generation—those who fought in World War II—along with their enormous sacrifice: over 400,000 dead. A sacrifice that paled in comparison with the Soviet Union’s: seven million military personnel killed, along with twenty million civilians as the German Army exterminated ethnic groups during their occupation and razed entire cities to the ground as they retreated.

  Twenty-seven million.

  And those were the casualties from just the last invasion by a Western European power. First the Poles in the seventeenth century, followed by Napoleon’s army in the nineteenth century, with both armies sacking Moscow.

  Following World War II, the Soviet Union took precautions to ensure it would never again endure the genocide of its people or the destruction of its cities, establishing a buffer zone of friendly Eastern European governments. The next time the West invaded Russia, there’d be advance warning as troops moved through the Eastern European countries on Russia’s border. Next time, the war would be fought on another country’s soil. Unfortunately, the buffer zone had eroded since the fall of the Soviet Union.

  The Baltic States had joined NATO, and now Ukraine and Finland, also on Russia’s western border, were considering joining the Alliance. Numerous Russian experts were sounding the alarm. It was time Russia re-created a buffer zone of friendly provinces to the west, even if that meant employing its military. Two months ago, Kalinin had authorized a bold move, seizing portions of Lithuania and Ukraine, implementing a plot to keep NATO from intervening. The plan had succeeded at first, but America had reversed the table, forcing Russia to withdraw in humiliating fashion.

  “Doing nothing would be a mistake,” Andropov said. “NATO will continue to encroach on our borders and you will lose the election. Bold action is required to rectify both situations.”

  Kalinin considered the general’s words. Andropov wasn’t the first person to leverage the nation’s fears of a NATO invasion, as well as Kalinin’s election concern. Former Defense Minister Chernov had done so, convincing him to authorize the invasion of Ukraine and Lithuania. It hadn’t gone well. Andropov was insisting on a second round, implementing a different strategy to prevent the United States from intervening.

  The proposed plan was too risky. A cornered animal with no chance of escape would often lash out. That was something Russia—and the rest of the world—could not afford. Kalinin was convinced the West didn’t understand Russians, and after Russia’s attempt to blackmail the United States had backfired, it was clear that Russians didn’t understand Americans. There was simply no way to know how the American president would respond. Finally, Kalinin made his decision.

  “We will not proceed. The Zolotov option is too drastic, and without the Alexander class to provide additional insurance against an American response, the scenario is too volatile.”

  Kalinin pushed back from the table. “Thank you for your input.”

  6

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  It was after midnight when Christine pulled into her townhouse driveway, only a few miles from the White House. She’d been out later than planned. A quick call to share the news of her resignation with her best friend, Joan, had turned into an impromptu dinner and drinks. The evening had slipped by while they discussed Christine’s future, from both professional and personal perspectives. The topic of Jake Harrison eventually arose, and how she’d blown both opportunities to be with the only man she’d truly loved.

  Harrison had proposed twice, once during their senior year in high school and again after she graduated from college. She’d accepted his ring the first time, but returned it the next morning. She wasn’t ready for marriage, headed to college on a gymnastics scholarship the first time he proposed, and embarking on a life in Washington politics the second. She’d asked him to wait, but apparently ten years was too long. By the time Christine was ready, Jake had proposed to another woman.

  Harrison was a Navy
SEAL now and their paths had unexpectedly crossed during the last few years. The time they’d spent together had rekindled her feelings for him, but unfortunately it didn’t matter. During their last opportunity to talk privately, she’d asked if he was happily married. Looking into his eyes as he answered, she’d seen his love for Angie and realized he would never leave her. It was a bitter acknowledgment; Jake was no longer an option. The time off from work after resigning would provide an opportunity to reevaluate her life.

  Christine headed up the walkway and retrieved her mail, then entered her townhouse and stopped in the kitchen, placing her purse on the island countertop. As she opened her mail, her sixth sense tugged at her, drawing her eyes toward a kitchen drawer not fully closed. She examined her surroundings more closely. The pantry door was slightly ajar. Goose bumps formed on her arms. She put down the mail and checked the other rooms. In the living room, a couch pillow was askew. She stopped at the dining room entrance and flicked on the light. A man was seated at the table, staring at her.

  “Good evening, Miss O’Connor.”

  Christine froze, evaluating whether the man was a threat and whether to flee her townhouse. If it became a race to the front door, however, the man had a more direct route. She examined him more closely: medium height and weight, wearing a dark gray business suit and tie, with the jacket unbuttoned.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  Christine detected a faint accent, one she immediately recognized. An image of her mom flashed in her mind, sitting on her sofa alongside Jake Harrison’s mother as Christine and Jake played in the living room, the two women talking while they drank tea. Both women were from Russia, and although the man’s accent was barely discernible, it matched the women’s.