Page 17 of Edge of Honor

Composed of veterans of Russia’s most dangerous clandestine operations, its goal was to destabilize the West via a series of shadowy attacks, including sabotage, assassinations, cyberattacks, and bomb plots, as well as political influence operations involving blackmail, disinformation, and cultural subversion.

It was housed under the auspices of Russia’s military intelligence agency known as the GRU, and had absorbed key elements of the FSB, Russia’s largest intelligence agency, as well as completely consuming Unit 29155, a deadly black ops group.

One of the SSD’s first and most audacious plans had been namedChernaya Liniya. Operation Black Line.

It was a plan to tip America into chaos; to rupture the social fabric, pitting citizen against citizen, and collapsing the country from within.

According to Vissarionvich, a tidal wave of violence and terror was to be unleashed, making every American feel unsafe. Then the media outlets sympathetic to the party in power would be used to turn members against each other, creating factions that would further do battle among themselves.

The concept was akin to the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. Russian intelligence was convinced that America was already so partisan and so divided, that with a push here and a little nudge there, it would—much like the ancient symbol of the ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail—devour itself.

What had prompted Gallo to summon Carolan, however, was a very specific tactic outlined in the plot—high-impact, mass-casualty attacks on highly visible political protests. Exactly like what had happened last night.

Wondering if perhaps Vissarionvich had seen news of the attacks on TV and fabricated the Russian plot to leverage a better deal, Carolan put the question directly to his boss.

Gallo’s response had chilled him to the bone—the interview was eight days old.

“Eight days?” Carolan had responded angrily. “Why the hell weren’t we read in?”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he knew what the answer was going to be. First and foremost, they had to tread lightly. It could have all been bullshit.

There was always the possibility that Vissarionvich had allowed himself to be captured just so he could spin falsehoods and get the FBI and CIA chasing their own tails.

Without any corroborating evidence, anything the Russian gave up had to be treated as highly suspect. There had been no reason to disseminate any of it until now.

The attack on the protesters outside the Vice President’s Residence might have been an amazingly unfortunate coincidence. Any intelligence operative worth their salt, however, was taught to never believe in coincidence. That was why Gallo had put Carolan and Fields on the case.

Because there could be a Russian link, the assignment was a political hot potato, which was why the assistant director wanted them hidden in the basement and reporting only to him.

Their job was to find out if the Russians were behind the attack and, if there really was an Operation Black Line, to smash it. Gallo would make sure they had anything they needed to get the job done.

Carolan had lingered in his boss’s office, watching the rest of the debrief, gathering as much information as he could. One of the most disturbing revelations, if it could be believed, was that the Russians had unnamed American politicians under their control in both political parties. Had President Mitchell lost the election, the SSD had another plan, Operation Red Line, ready to target a new administration under his opponent.

If this was true, it was a massive breach of the United States government. What’s more, given the current political climate, Carolan had no idea how the hell the FBI would ever be able to smoke these people out. Under President Mitchell’s orders, the Department of Justice had already shut down its FBI-run election integrity unit, which focused on keeping America’s enemies, especially Russia, from tampering with U.S. elections. If a single word leaked that the FBI was looking into the potential Russian subversion of any American politicians, much less from Mitchell’s own party, heads would be on pikes outside the White House by lunch.

Making matters worse was the fact that Vissarionvich’s knowledge of the Black and Red Line operations wasn’t firsthand. As a deep-cover operative in the United States, his assignments had been adjacent to the SSD, but he’d never had direct access to the new organization.

Unless the Russian spy was holding out a name or something elsereally big to trade, these broad brushstrokes were likely all that Carolan was going to get. If there was any “there” there, he was going to have to make it work. Hence his dragging Fields to the literal scene of the crime.

As they signed in, a voice from behind them said, “Would you look at this. The office overachievers have arrived.”

Carolan didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. He recognized the man from his voice.

Agent Matthew Kennedy had been in the FBI almost as long as Carolan. He was a South Boston guy, born and raised. And despite having spent decades living in the D.C. area, he had never fully lost his Southie accent nor his caustic sense of humor.

He looked like a Hollywood version of a G-man straight out of central casting. He was tall, trim, and had a jaw like an anvil. The only thing shorter than his nails was his hair, which bordered on a crew cut.

His dark blue suit was perfectly pressed, and despite the rising heat and humidity, there wasn’t a bead of perspiration on him. His shoes were so highly polished that you could shave in them. Capping it all off was a tie bar—a piece of personal flair and a relic from a bygone age. Carolan, who was certain the man carried stainless-steel toothpicks and wore a pinky ring off duty, hated the guy’s guts.

“Hello, Matt,” he said, clicking into diplomacy mode. “It’s good to see you.”

“What the hell is CROS doing here?” Agent Kennedy asked. “I don’t see any Russians around here.”

“Well, part of the crime scene includes the Norwegian ambassador’s residence and Norway shares a border with Russia so—”

“You need to work on your geography,” the man said, interrupting him. “Norway shares a border with Sweden.”

Fields, who had absolutely no time for this guy, rolled her eyes and walked away. She didn’t want to say something she’d regret.

---