Second photo. The same man—now identified in the attached document as Viktor Petrov—entering a restaurant in Prague. The date was two days before the bombing of his boat. The one that killed Timea.
Third photo, a receipt of a bank transfer. Seven figures. From an account registered to White’s campaign fund to a shell company in the Cayman Islands.
“This is . . .” Alan started. “What is this?”
“Keep reading.” Damien sipped his wine.
Alan flipped through more documents. Email chains. Meeting schedules. Financial records that painted a picture so clear, so terrible, that it made his vision blur around the edges.
“Senator Isaac White needed you eliminated,” Damien continued, voice barely above a whisper. “You were getting too close to some very sensitive operations he was running with Petrov’s organization. He couldn’t have a former CIA operative poking around his Russian connections.”
“What connections?”
Damien cocked his head. Smiled.
“You?”
“Among others.”
Alan didn’t have a clue about the others, but the pieces clicked together in Alan’s mind with sickening clarity. “He ordered the hit.”
“Precisely. What better way than to make it look like Russian terrorists acting on their own? One dead CIA operative, and all suspicion dies with you.” Damien gathered some of the papers, arranging them in a neat stack. “White paid for the hit that killed your wife.”
“But the intelligence committee . . . his reputation . . .”
“A perfect cover. The senator investigating Russian threats while secretly funding them. He didn’t count on you surviving. Didn’t count on Timea being there.”
“You’re lying.”
“You forget... I was there when those meetings occurred. Senator White is on the campaign trail right now, working hard on his reelection while your wife’s blood is on his hands.” Damien gathered the papers with efficient movements. “The man who murdered Timea and your unborn child is preparing for a long term in the senate.”
Alan couldn’t breathe. Eighteen months of careful peace, of telling himself he could start over, crumbling to dust in his hands.
“He used his position on the intelligence committee to feed information to Petrov. Used his campaign funds to pay for operations. Used you and Timea as collateral damage when you wanted to leave and take his secrets with you.”
And maybe he shouldn’t care, but—“What about York?”
“York Newgate is very much alive. In fact, he’s been quite busy since Moscow.”
“Doing what?”
“That’s not my story to tell.” Damien finished his wine, set the glass down. “But let’s just say he hasn’t forgotten who he saw that day on the train.”
Alan’s throat tightened.
Damien’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “There’s someone who’d like to meet you. Someone who might have answers to questions you didn’t even know you should be asking.”
“I’m not interested in your recruitment pitch.”
“It’s not recruitment,” Damien said. “It’s an opportunity. For answers. For closure. For justice.” His voice fell. “It’s time for vengeance, Alan.”
Francesca appeared at his elbow, refilling his water glass. Her dark eyes flickered between them with growing concern.
“Everything okay, Alfonzo?”
Alan looked up at her and his chest burned. This woman who’d shown him nothing but kindness, who’d only asked for his presence at her family’s dinner table.
She deserved better than the wreckage he carried.