Collateral (Tier One #6)
: Part 3 – Chapter 46

Vice President’s Ceremonial Office Complex

Eisenhower Executive Office Building

Next to the West Wing on the White House Premises

Washington, DC

Jarvis paced back and forth alone in the small SCIF that most Vice Presidents rarely, if ever, used. But that changed the moment Warner strong-armed him into assuming the role while retaining sole oversight authority of Ember. He had elected not to read the new DNI, Reggie Buckingham, in on the Ember program. With war in Ukraine all but inevitable, and the rest of the IC to manage, Reggie had enough on his plate without the live wire that was America’s most secret and deadly task force.

For now, at least.

The hard truth was, Jarvis didn’t want to give up control of Ember—not now, not ever. It wasn’t hubris, but he doubted anyone, other than perhaps Petra, could deploy the team as they were meant to be deployed. Okay, maybe it was hubris . . . but he didn’t care. Ember was his creation. His baby. Perhaps, after this brief stint in politics, he would relieve Casey and step back into the role as Ember Director. He smiled at the thought of a return to simpler days, but then quickly pushed the idea from his mind. It wasn’t something he’d likely have control of. His professional fate would be determined like it always had: He would serve where he was needed and at the pleasure of the next Commander in Chief.

He stared in frustration at the snowy static on all three workstation monitors—and then at the static satellite image of Odessa International Airport on the screen on the wall. He resisted the urge to lean over and key the mike on the boom extending from the desktop stand and demand to know what in the hell was going on. He resisted because he had no reservations about the man he had put in charge of Ember. Casey had a brilliant strategic mind, and that was precisely what Ember needed right now.

He let out a long sigh and took a swig of water from his stainless steel tumbler. Then he began to pace.

Whatever the hell is going on, Dempsey will replace a way around it, he told himself. That’s why I recruited him. That’s why he’s the best in the world at what he does.

A knock on the door made him turn to look over his shoulder.

Who in the holy hell . . .

A beep sounded and the magnetic lock released. Petra walked in, and her expression immediately concerned him.

“Everything okay?” It was a rhetorical greeting—if everything were okay, she wouldn’t be standing in the doorway to the SCIF.

“I know the timing is terrible, Kelso,” she said. “But something has come up.”

He glanced back at the screens. “Now?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Vice President,” she said, the formal title not a reaction to his expression of doubt, he knew, but meant to convey the gravity of this new development.

He waved her in. “What’s going on?”

She let the door click shut behind her, sealing them in the soundproof room.

“A woman showed up at EEOB,” she began, “asking for a private audience with you.”

Jarvis rolled his eyes. “Another nut job?”

“Well, that’s what the staff thought, but her credentials checked out, so they contacted me to see how to best handle it.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name’s Samantha Bryant. She’s a midlevel staffer for Congressman Bacon.”

Jarvis shook his head. “Never met Bacon, never heard of her.”

“Me neither, but something she said made the hair on my neck stand up. You need to talk to her.”

Petra wore the same eldritch look on her face now as the night she’d killed Catherine Morgan.

“Tell me,” he said, meeting her gaze.

“She says she has a message for you from Arkady Zhukov that she’ll only deliver in person.”

A shiver snaked down Jarvis’s spine, the words having the same effect they’d had on Petra. “Has she been questioned by anyone?”

“No. I shut that down,” Petra said. “She’s in cuffs, just in case. Been through the body scanner and two pat downs.”

“So, she’s not here to kill me?” Jarvis said with a smirk.

Petra smiled. “She’d have to get past me first.”

He glanced anxiously at the monitors behind him, which were still streaming static. “Okay, I’ll give her three minutes.”

Petra nodded, keyed the door open, and disappeared. When she returned, she had an attractive young woman, perhaps mid- to late twenties, in plasti-cuffs with her.

“Have a seat,” Jarvis said, gesturing to the small round table in the center of the room. “I understand you have a message for me?”

“Yes,” the woman said, sitting down, her hands in her lap and her knees pulled together. “I was approached a few hours ago by a man—”

“We’ll have time for backstory later, young lady,” he said, cutting her off. “Right now, all I have time for is the message from . . .” He snapped his fingers, as if trying to remember an unfamiliar word he’d just learned, and looked over at Petra. “What was the name you said?”

“Zhukov, Mr. Vice President,” Petra said, playing her role perfectly.

“Arkady Zhukov,” the woman echoed, her voice a tight string.

“Right, Zhukov,” Jarvis said, then, keeping his expression perfectly neutral, added, “I don’t know this man. Who is he?”

The question flustered her for a heartbeat, just long enough for him to see a wave of uncertainty flitter across her face.

Gotcha . . .

“I . . . I don’t know who he is,” she stammered. “But the man who gave me the message told me to tell you: ‘Black and white are in mutual zugzwang. But there is a way out.’”

Jarvis stared at her, waiting for more. When she didn’t continue, he said, “That’s it? That’s the message?”

“Yes,” the woman said.

He looked at Petra, his eyes asking the question: What the hell is a zugzwang?

Petra pulled out her mobile phone, queried the dictionary, and showed him the screen:

Zugzwang: From the German meaning “compulsion to move.” A situation in chess where a player is compelled to move to his own disadvantage. A common development in the endgame, especially in matches where only kings and pawns remain.

Jarvis laughed—unable to help himself—as both women stared at him.

“Mutual zugzwang indeed,” he murmured. “Well, if there’s nothing more, Miss Bryant, I think some of my colleagues probably have questions for you.”

“Wait,” she said, her cheeks blanching. “There’s one more thing. He made me memorize it.”

“Go on,” he said and listened as she rattled off an eleven-digit number beginning with seven. He looked at Petra. “That’s a Russian phone number.”

She nodded as her pencil finished scribing the last number. She then repeated the number back to the woman, confirming each digit.

“Who else did you tell this to?” Jarvis asked.

“No one,” she said, a soft sob now in her voice. “I was told to tell only you. He said they would be watching me and that I would be killed if—”

“Okay, okay,” Jarvis said. “Who do you have out there with her?” he asked Petra.

“Two members of your Secret Service detail.”

His mind was racing at Mach 2, the options—and their consequences—flashing through his head like mathematical algorithms on a Cray supercomputer. “Have them turn her over to ODNI. She’s Reggie’s problem now. He can interrogate her, then make a trade with Moscow. Maybe we can get Ben Farris back for her.”

Jarvis returned his attention to the workstations. For a hopeful second, the screens began to flicker, but then the snowy static returned.

“Moscow?” the woman said, her voice panicked. “What? Why . . . ? I told you, a man approached me—”

“So you said. I hope you enjoyed your time in the United States, Miss Bryant, because you won’t be returning.” He glanced at Petra. “Get her out of here.”

Once Petra had turned over the Zeta spy to the Secret Service agents and they were alone again with the door shut, she said, “So, you think that was real?”

“‘Black and white are in mutual zugzwang,’” he said, shaking his head at the beauty of the message. “Oh yes, it’s him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He thrust a finger at the screen. “Kings and pawns . . . he’s talking about Ukraine, Petra. Warner and Petrov are playing the world’s most dangerous chess match. We’re nearing the endgame, and both sides are compelled to move to their mutual disadvantage.”

“But there is a way out,” she said. “That was the second part of the message.”

“Yes, and I think he’s talking about Ember and Zeta and what’s happening in Odessa right now.”

She nodded. “Are you going to call him?”

He turned to face her. In times of crisis, she was so beautiful . . .

“Do I really have a choice?” he said.

“No,” she said and turned the scrap of paper with Zhukov’s phone number so he could read it. “You don’t.”

He took a deep breath, picked up the encrypted, untraceable desk phone, and dialed.