Ghosts of War Read Free Page B

in Jamaica isn’t going to cause any angst. All that means is he gets another day of poolside fun.”
    â€œI was thinking about Pike. The active-duty guys can take care of themselves, but Pike and Jennifer deserve an answer with enough time to prepare. If the Oversight Council turns off the tap, everyone else can go back to where they came from. Pike and Jennifer are going to be hung out to dry.”
    The elevator doors opened and George said, “You going to tell him today?”
    â€œI hope to. He’s up here doing some sort of business development for his company. I asked if we could meet, but I don’t know if I’m going to make it now. Too much crap going on.”
    George keyed the access panel, then pressed the button for the third floor. He said, “I wouldn’t worry about Pike landing on his feet. He’ll figure something out—if it’s even necessary.”
    They rode in silence for a moment, then Kurt said, “You remember all that studying we both did on the Office of Strategic Services? Not wanting to repeat any mistakes they made when we stood up the Taskforce?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œDon’t you think it’s ironic that in the end, we’re going to end up just like them? Disbanded and thrown to the wolves because the threat is deemed not worthy?”
    The car came to a halt and the elevator doors opened. George exited and said, “We aren’t there yet. There’s a lot of time before the election, and something may happen to alter any calculations of our worth.”
    Kurt simply nodded, exiting the elevator. George caught his arm,made sure nobody else was in the hallway, then said, “You believe that, right?”
    â€œOf course I do. I just don’t know if it will matter in the end. Politics trumps security every time.”
    George let the doors close behind him and said, “Until security drives the politics. Remember, there are a lot of assholes out there who need killing, and only one organization designed to do that.”

4

    T he sun was still above the horizon, fighting to remain, but had started its inexorable dip, the Black Sea below the helicopter reflecting its light, lending a spectacular flare of orange and red hues to the imposing grandeur of the palace perched on the cliff above it.
    The helicopter went feet dry and swept inland, directly over the top of what could only be described as a work of architectural excess. A massive, ostentatious structure of granite and stone that sprawled over 160 acres, from the air it looked like something created from the botched memories of Marie Antoinette and the Mad Hatter. Or from a man who was fervently attempting to reconstruct the power of tsars of old. Springing out of the thick woods on the Russian coast, the building had an opulence that reflected an earlier time, when money and influence were meant to be displayed.
    The AugustaWestland AW139 crested the eastern facade, flew over the top of a courtyard large enough to host the World Cup, then zeroed in on four helipads five hundred meters away.
    Sitting in his leather seat, the chill fading from the untouched glass of vodka in his hand, Simon Migunov took one look at the mansion and realized whom they were going to meet.
    He had never been to the Black Sea Estate, but of course he’d heard about it. Everyone in Russia had, but only a select few were allowed to actually visit, and for good reason: It was where any decisions were made that fell outside of the official records of Russian history. Which was a misleading distinction, as the true history of modern Russia was precisely decided here, outside of any official organ, at a placethat not even the Russian press would admit existed, even though it could be seen from satellites as clearly as the Great Wall of China.
    Any sordid event that threatened to sully the rarefied air of the State Duma was discussed and decided here, under the canopy of a mansion that