The Brethren Read Free Page B

had a knot in his stomach. He’d dodged bullets, hidden under bridges, frozen in mountains, poisoned two Czech spies, shot a traitor in Bonn, learned seven languages, fought the cold war, tried to prevent the next one, had more adventures than any ten agents combined, yet looking at the innocent face of Congressman Aaron Lake he felt a knot.
    He—the CIA—was about to do something the agency had never done before.
    They’d started with a hundred senators, fifty governors, four hundred and thirty-five congressmen, all the likely suspects, and now there was only one. Representative Aaron Lake of Arizona.
    Teddy flicked a button and the wall went blank. His legs were covered with a quilt. He wore the same thing every day—a V-necked navy sweater, white shirt, subdued bow tie. He rolled his wheelchair to a spot near the door, and prepared to meet his candidate.
    During the eight minutes Lake was kept waiting, he was served coffee and offered a pastry, which he declined. He was six feet tall, weighed one-seventy, was fastidious about his appearance, and had he taken the pastry Teddy would’ve been surprised. As far as they could tell, Lake never ate sugar. Never.
    His coffee was strong, though, and as he sipped it he reviewed a little research of his own. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss the alarming flow of black market artillery into the Balkans. Lake had two memos, eighty pages of double-spaced data he’d crunched until two in the morning. He wasn’t sure why Mr. Maynard wanted him to appear at Langley to discuss such a matter, but he was determined to be prepared.
    A soft buzzer sounded, the door opened, and the Director of the CIA rolled out, wrapped in a quilt and looking every day of his seventy-four years. His handshake was firm, though, probably because of the strain of pushing himself around. Lake followed him back into the room, leaving the two college-educated pit bulls to guard the door.
    They sat opposite each other, across a very long table that ran to the end of the room where a large white wall served as a screen. After brief preliminaries, Teddy pushed a button and another face appeared. Another button, and the lights grew dim. Lake loved it—push little buttons, high-tech images flash instantly. No doubt the room was wired with enough electronic junk to monitor his pulse from thirty feet.
    “Recognize him?” Teddy asked.
    “Maybe. I think I’ve seen the face before.”
    “He’s Natli Chenkov. A former general. Now a member of what’s left of the Russian parliament.”
    “Also known as Natty,” Lake said proudly.
    “That’s him. Hard-line Communist, close ties to the military, brilliant mind, huge ego, very ambitious, ruthless, and right now the most dangerous man in the world.”
    “Didn’t know that.”
    A flick, another face, this one of stone under a gaudy military parade hat. “This is Yuri Goltsin, second in command of what’s left of the Russian army. Chenkov and Goltsin have big plans.” Another flick, a map of a section of Russia north of Moscow. “They’re stockpiling arms in this region,” Teddy said. “They’re actually stealing them from themselves, looting the Russian army, but, and more important, they’re buying them on the black market.”
    “Where’s their money coming from?”
    “Everywhere. They’re swapping oil for Israeli radar. They’re trafficking in drugs and buying Chinese tanks through Pakistan. Chenkov has close ties with some mobsters, one of whom recently bought a factory in Malaysia where they make nothing but assault rifles. It’s very elaborate. Chenkov has a brain, a very high IQ. He’s probably a genius.”
    Teddy Maynard was a genius, and if he bestowed that title on another, then Congressman Lake certainly believed it. “So who gets attacked?”
    Teddy dismissed the question because he wasn’t ready to answer it. “See the town of Vologda? It’s about five hundred miles east of Moscow. Last weekwe tracked sixty Vetrov to a