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“Here is what we propose,” Zhikin said as he refilled his glass. “Our nations may never be friends, but we needn’t be active combatants. Let us return to the old way of doing things.”
“Moscow Rules?” Hurley said.
Zhikin nodded. “Our intelligence services will look for ways to work together when we can. When we cannot, we will behave as adversaries, not enemies. Intelligence officers will do what intelligence officers must, but families and civilians will remain off-limits. Agreed?”
Hurley stood. “You’re right—this was a good vintage. Enjoy.”
“Do we have an understanding?”
The question came out harsher than Zhikin had intended.
Not desperate perhaps, but certainly urgent. Barannikov had agreed to let Zhikin handle negotiations with Hurley on the premise that the two men would be able to engage in the type of candid conversation that often eluded the directors of rival intelligence services. But he’d also made clear that more than just Zhikin’s future depended on the outcome of this unofficial summit. Zhikin might have convinced Barannikov that he hadn’t been privy to Petrov’s plans, but as the lieutenant general’s deputy, he hadn’t completely escaped the stain of his predecessor’s actions either.
“No,” Hurley said, “we don’t have an understanding. Thomas Stansfield had the same bullshit heart-to-heart talk with the SVR director awhile back. As you can see, it got us nowhere. Besides, this Moscow Rules horseshit has always been too one-sided for my liking. You heard of the Chicago Way?”
Zhikin shook his head.
“Don’t you people have movies in Russia? Fine, I’ll summarize the terms of our new rules of engagement this way: You don’t fuck with my guys, and I won’t fuck with yours. But if your guys start with the rough shit again, my response will be exponential not incremental. Capisce?”
Zhikin did not capisce, but he still nodded.
“Good,” Hurley said, shrugging into his overcoat. “Oh, and one more thing, this arrangement doesn’t apply to those Vympel fucks who worked off-the-books for Petrov. I won’t actively hunt them, but if I catch one of those sons of bitches in a dark alley, I will stick a knife in their brainpan and stir. Make sure you pass that along. Have a great evening.”
Hurley strode out of the bar without waiting for a reply.
For that Zhikin was grateful, because he didn’t have one.
CHAPTER 74
WASHINGTON, DC
CONGRATULATIONSon the new office, sir.”
Thomas Stansfield gave his visitor a wan smile. Irene Kennedy knew him better than anyone outside his immediate family, but it wasn’t just her familiarity that encouraged Stansfield to drop his professional demeanor even if only for an instant. Kennedy truly understood his motivation for assuming the position of DCI.
She understood because she shared it.
“Thank you, Irene. It does have a nice view from this side of the desk.”
Stansfield had been an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency since its inception, and he’d held the role of deputy director of operations for years. As a member of the intelligence organization’s executive leadership team, he’d been in this office more times than he could count, but he’d never sat behind the director’s desk. Even when he’d been serving as acting DCI, he’d let the office sit empty rather than move in before his confirmation. While not a military organization, the CIA was rife with traditions and customs. Stansfield respected the agency’sheritage and his predecessors’ accomplishments too much to occupy the director’s office as a squatter.
“I’m very glad the confirmation vote went your way, sir. For what it’s worth, I think my father would have enjoyed seeing you in that chair.”
This time, Stansfield didn’t smile.
It wasn’t because his protégée’s words hadn’t touched him. They had. Though they’d both been intelligence professionals, Stansfield considered Irene’s father more brother than coworker. The day Stansfield had received news of his tragic death was the second hardest of his life.
The first had been telling Irene’s mother.
Now, a decade later, his dearest friend’s daughter had taken up the family business and the risks that came with it. Though she’d no doubt tried to dampen its effect with makeup, the bruising around Irene’s right eye still stood in stark contrast to her fair skin. In a break from the norm, she had resisted her near-constant urge to tuck her auburn hair behind her ears in favor of allowing it to hang freely around her face. Stansfield suspected this was not an attempt to hide her youth so much as it was to obscure the finger-sized, livid blue splotches along her cheek and temple. Most days, he caught glimpses of her father’s face when he looked at Irene.
Today, he saw his friend’s broken body in his daughter’s bruises.
“Stop staring. I’m fine.”
Stansfield raised an eyebrow at his visitor’s sudden change in tone. “Most officers treat their boss with a bit more respect.”
“I’m not most officers.”
