every location you initially
identified,” Abe said to Macy. “But your friend here and I both agree that
this house would have been the most likely place for the code to be hidden.” Abe
reached out and pressed his large hand on Macy’s shoulder, which she suddenly
imagined had grown very unsteady. “The operation between T-45 and the Arm just
became official. We have to find the code or millions of people could die.”
Chapter 8
“All the books have been searched,” Dante reported, tearing
off his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair. Time had run out.
Once again, he’d been forced to choose the good of the mission over a future
with Macy.
But this time, he’d find a way to control the outcome.
He had to.
Macy stepped to the center of the library, her gaze high as
she turned around in a tight series of circles, her eyes lowering at every
pass. Like a machine programmed to accurately assess the inner workings of
some electronic device, Macy focused her finder’s instincts on the library with
cool precision.
After consulting with Marshall, they’d decided against
bringing in more agents. The Arm had already completed thorough and
by-the-book searches. Only someone like Macy, an expert in pushing beyond the
limits of protocol and procedure and who had studied Bogdanov’s life would be
able to find the counter-code in time to avert a disaster.
She had, however, agreed to accept Dante’s help, just as
he’d agreed to allow a squad of T-45 operatives who’d trained in the Himalayas
to join the Arm special ops team in their quest to stop the terrorists at the
source. The cooperative nature of this mission would have made history, if
either agency ever allowed the pairing to go public, which they would not. T-45
subsisted on their reputation as a rogue operation. As soon as the mission was
complete, all proof that they’d ever worked alongside the Arm would be erased.
Except for his work with Macy. He’d move heaven and earth
to make sure their reunion was not forgotten.
“Not having to go through the books will save time,” Macy
said. “Besides, Bogdanov didn’t read any of these books,” she said. “They’re
all in English. They likely belonged to his wife.”
“None in Russian?”
The library easily housed over a thousand books. Surely a
man with Bogdanov’s national pride would have a few native novels on his
shelves, even if just an original copy of War and Peace.
“Bogdanov was proficient in French, German and Latin, but
while he could speak well enough, reading English was beyond him.”
Dante had read the reports, but such esoteric details tended
not to stick. He’d concentrated on the bottom line assessment that the code
was nowhere to be found.
“Couldn’t he have hidden code in an English text, to throw
off anyone who might be looking?”
She paced the room while she snapped on her special nylon
gloves. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Your agents checked the books for
signs of handling, and most of them hadn’t been touched in decades—as if they
were simply put here for show.”
“So we ignore the books.”
“For now. The books are almost too obvious. Besides, I
think Bogdanov would keep the code somewhere he could see it. Everyday,
possibly.”
“How did you draw that conclusion?”
Macy’s attention focused on a painting, an original by a Dutch
master of an austere, upper class couple. She answered without taking her eyes
off the portrait. “When Gorbachev knocked down the Berlin wall and communism
started to fail, Bogdanov feared that some mad countryman would launch an
attack against the United States. He created the counter-code so that he
personally could stop the destruction. He wanted to save his beloved country
from starting World War Three. That’s why he hid the code here in the United
States rather than in the Soviet Union. This property belonged to his American
wife and has been
identified,” Abe said to Macy. “But your friend here and I both agree that
this house would have been the most likely place for the code to be hidden.” Abe
reached out and pressed his large hand on Macy’s shoulder, which she suddenly
imagined had grown very unsteady. “The operation between T-45 and the Arm just
became official. We have to find the code or millions of people could die.”
Chapter 8
“All the books have been searched,” Dante reported, tearing
off his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair. Time had run out.
Once again, he’d been forced to choose the good of the mission over a future
with Macy.
But this time, he’d find a way to control the outcome.
He had to.
Macy stepped to the center of the library, her gaze high as
she turned around in a tight series of circles, her eyes lowering at every
pass. Like a machine programmed to accurately assess the inner workings of
some electronic device, Macy focused her finder’s instincts on the library with
cool precision.
After consulting with Marshall, they’d decided against
bringing in more agents. The Arm had already completed thorough and
by-the-book searches. Only someone like Macy, an expert in pushing beyond the
limits of protocol and procedure and who had studied Bogdanov’s life would be
able to find the counter-code in time to avert a disaster.
She had, however, agreed to accept Dante’s help, just as
he’d agreed to allow a squad of T-45 operatives who’d trained in the Himalayas
to join the Arm special ops team in their quest to stop the terrorists at the
source. The cooperative nature of this mission would have made history, if
either agency ever allowed the pairing to go public, which they would not. T-45
subsisted on their reputation as a rogue operation. As soon as the mission was
complete, all proof that they’d ever worked alongside the Arm would be erased.
Except for his work with Macy. He’d move heaven and earth
to make sure their reunion was not forgotten.
“Not having to go through the books will save time,” Macy
said. “Besides, Bogdanov didn’t read any of these books,” she said. “They’re
all in English. They likely belonged to his wife.”
“None in Russian?”
The library easily housed over a thousand books. Surely a
man with Bogdanov’s national pride would have a few native novels on his
shelves, even if just an original copy of War and Peace.
“Bogdanov was proficient in French, German and Latin, but
while he could speak well enough, reading English was beyond him.”
Dante had read the reports, but such esoteric details tended
not to stick. He’d concentrated on the bottom line assessment that the code
was nowhere to be found.
“Couldn’t he have hidden code in an English text, to throw
off anyone who might be looking?”
She paced the room while she snapped on her special nylon
gloves. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Your agents checked the books for
signs of handling, and most of them hadn’t been touched in decades—as if they
were simply put here for show.”
“So we ignore the books.”
“For now. The books are almost too obvious. Besides, I
think Bogdanov would keep the code somewhere he could see it. Everyday,
possibly.”
“How did you draw that conclusion?”
Macy’s attention focused on a painting, an original by a Dutch
master of an austere, upper class couple. She answered without taking her eyes
off the portrait. “When Gorbachev knocked down the Berlin wall and communism
started to fail, Bogdanov feared that some mad countryman would launch an
attack against the United States. He created the counter-code so that he
personally could stop the destruction. He wanted to save his beloved country
from starting World War Three. That’s why he hid the code here in the United
States rather than in the Soviet Union. This property belonged to his American
wife and has been
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