Blonde. Maybe early thirties. Wearing a simple blue dress that looked expensive but somehow wrong on her—like she was playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes. She sat away from the table, observing, as if on show.
“That’s Signe Kincaid. Posing as an American aid worker, she went missing a year or so ago in Ukraine,” Crowley said, all matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather. “She has a daughter, not his but born here, and a little boy that’s Pavel’s son.”
Alan studied the woman through his binoculars. Something about the way she held herself—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes that didn’t quite meet anyone else’s—almost felt like she wasn’t supposed to be in the room.
“Why haven’t we evacked her?”
“Because Signe is useful to him. Proof that he’s civilized, diplomatic. And she’s learned to play the part well enough to keep her children alive.”
“She’s CIA.”
“Yes.”
The handshakes were cordial. Professional. Jackson smiled as Tsarnaev welcomed her.
By the time they moved into the building, Signe had been removed to a different building.Interesting.
They moved inside. Alan lowered his rifle.
“The NOC list?”
“My guess is that the hand-off will happen during tea.”
Twenty minutes later, Pavel and Jackson and their entourage emerged onto a terrace overlooking the mountains. Servants brought tea in traditional glasses, small plates of pastries. Jackson was animated, gesturing as she spoke—probablyexplaining her vision for peace in the region, her hope for diplomatic solutions to ancient problems.
Alan focused his scope on Tsarnaev’s hands.
There.
Casual movement as Tsarnaev reached for his tea glass. His left hand brushed against Jackson’s briefcase. Lingered for just a moment.
“Got it,” Alan murmured.
The thumb drive was no bigger than a fingernail, nearly invisible as it disappeared into a hidden pocket in the briefcase’s lining. Jackson didn’t even blink, as if she didn’t notice.
And thus it started.
“She really thinks she’s building bridges.”
“She is. C’mon. That’s our cue.”
The sun was setting behind the mountains when he and Crowley arrived for dinner. Alan had changed into civilian clothes—expensive suit, diplomatic credentials that identified him as cultural attaché James Morrison. Crowley wore the uniform of an America military observer, complete with ribbons and rank insignia that looked completely authentic.
The dining room was a study in contrasts. Crystal chandeliers hung from rough-hewn wooden beams. Fine china sat on a table made from what looked like a single massive tree trunk. Traditional Chechen rugs covered floors polished to mirror brightness.
“The Americans are fortunate to have such dedicated public servants.” Tsarnaev raised his wineglass toward Senator Jackson. “Your commitment to peace in our region is... inspiring.”
Jackson beamed. “We believe dialogue is always preferable to conflict. There’s been too much bloodshed here already. When I first came to this region a few years ago, touring therefugee camps, seeing the human cost—I knew we had to find better ways forward.”
“Indeed.” Tsarnaev’s smile was warm. Fatherly. “Though I fear some in your country prefer the old ways. Military solutions to political problems.”
“Not anymore. We’ve learned from our mistakes.” Jackson took a sip of wine, relaxed in a way that made Alan’s skin crawl. “The days of American imperialism are over. We’re building partnerships now, not empires.”
“And your Senator White? He shares this philosophy?”
Jackson’s expression flickered—just for a moment, so briefly Alan almost missed it. “Isaac has his strengths. But he’ll never be president. Too much baggage from his committee work.”
The comment hung in the air. Seemingly casual. Alan filed it away for later analysis.