Duel of Assassins by Dan Pollock Read Free Book Online Page A

loved. Charlotte. Marcus. But the faces that lingered
were those of Luiza, Anatoly, and their boys, Vladik and Sashka—as he’d last
seen them five years ago on a wintry Moscow morning. How much had they
suffered, especially the boys, for his sake; how much had been denied them?
Luiza had told once him on the phone how terribly they were ostracized at
school, how they had been forced to write compositions denouncing him. What
diminished prospects remained for them in young manhood as nephews of a traitor
to the Motherland?
    Couldn’t he, for their sakes, compromise his self-image a
little, at least go through the motions of a morally repugnant assignment? Even
if it cost him his integrity as a man— dammit, even if it cost him his soul —wouldn’t
it be worth it?
    As his conjurings faded, Taras found himself looking,
through the trees of the sloping south grounds and the Ellipse, at the floodlit
spire of the Washington Monument on the Mall. A shining symbol of his new
homeland, like this oval room in which he stood. He turned around.
    “I accept, Mr. President.”
    Ackerman offered his hand, then placed the other on
Arensky’s shoulder. “I won’t ask you which argument prevailed.”
    “Thank you. When does all this start?”
    It was Buck Jones who answered: “There’s an Air Force jet at
Andrews gassed up and ready to leave for Moscow as soon as we can get you on
it. Your temporary reassignment is all cleared with Langley, but, for obvious
reasons, we ask that you not tell anyone what you’re doing or where you’re
going.”
    “Especially, you mean, don’t tell my fiancee?”
    “I’m sorry,” the President said.
    Taras shrugged. That was to be expected, considering the
nature of the assignment. But even confronting the Kremlin bosses in Moscow was
going to seem easy compared to the next part—facing Charlotte.
     

Five
    Taras was packing in the bedroom of the condo they shared in
Cleveland Park when he heard her enter the front door. He continued tossing
shirts, socks and underwear into the suitcase as her heels came clicking down
the hardwood hallway.
    “Taras, what’s going on?” her voice called ahead. Then the
footsteps stopped. “Oh, God, please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”
    He turned and saw her in the door frame, square-shouldered
in her festive six-hundred-dollar dinner suit. In her eyes naked appeal mingled
with deep sadness.
    “Charlie, I—“
    “Please tell me you weren’t really going to sneak out of
here in the middle of the night without… without…”
    “President Ackerman asked me to go somewhere, Charlie.” He
laid in a favorite cotton pullover, a birthday present from her. “Tonight.
Right away.”
    “Scotty asked you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Since when have you two been on speaking terms?”
    “Since an hour ago. Though I guess I do work for the man. I
told him no. But… he bent my arm—“
    “Twisted, not bent. He’s very good at it. That’s how he got
where he is.”
    “—until I said yes.”
    “Obviously. Is it dangerous?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “So, that’s all I get to know? Did Scotty swear you to
absolute secrecy, especially in regard to moi?” She came slowly forward,
dropped her purse on a side chair, took a flat-footed, cross-armed stance
regarding him. It was her “tough newswoman” pose, Taras knew, but her
vulnerability showed through in the distressed flickering of her eyes. “Were
you going to stick a note on the fridge, or was I to be left totally in the
dark?”
    “I was going to write a note, Charlie. If I could tell you
more, you know I would. We’ve been all through this.”
    “Yes, haven’t we?” Her voice was low-pitched, jagged with
barely controlled emotion. “I tell you everything I do, make a mockery of
journalistic ethics, and you tell me nothing. For God’s sake, do you think I’m
probing for a White House leak? I’ve got gobs of material for columns. I’m
asking as the woman you share your bed with,