Free The 14th Colony: A Novel by Steve Berry Page B

the man a full loaf, but the veteran brushed him off, saying, “I am still proud.”
    As was he.
    So he moved east where he no longer had to witness failure.
    He rubbed his hands together for warmth and checked his watch.
    The American should be here by now.
    Twenty years he worked as an officer. Never were the KGB referred to as agents. Always either “officer” or “operative,” which he liked. It had been an honorable job. He’d fought for the motherland without bias or prejudice, preparing for the inevitable fight with the United States. During the 20th century 75 million Soviets died from revolution, conflict, famine, or terror. Not since the mid-19th century had war visited American soil. Russians had been continuously ravaged. He’d been taught that the only way to defeat an enemy was to bring war to its home, and that had been a big part of his mission. The new Russian Federation eventually created its own foreign intelligence arm, the SVR, but it was nothing like its predecessor. Commercial and industrial espionage replaced national security as top priorities. The SVR seemed to exist only to make mobsters rich. He wanted to serve the nation, not criminals, so he resigned. Many of his colleagues did, too, most going to work for the syndicates, which valued their skills. He’d been tempted, but resisted, and for the first time in his life he became unemployed.
    He was thrilled when, in 1999, Yeltsin finally resigned. He’d watched on television as the drunken fool had said, “I want to beg forgiveness for your dreams that never came true. And also I would like to beg forgiveness not to have justified your hopes . ”
    A little late by then.
    The damage was irreversible.
    To this day he still held a Russian passport and carried his Communist party and KGB pension card, though he never saw a ruble from retirement. Only a few understood how the USSR had truly been brought to its knees. He’d made a point to become one of those, reading everything he could. And Vadim Belchenko, waiting for him back at the dacha, knew every detail, too.
    He checked his watch again and wondered about Anya and her progress in Virginia. She carried a throwaway cell phone he’d purchased in Irkutsk. He carried one, too, and they’d agreed that contact would be made only when necessary. That type of portable technology did not exist in his day, but he’d stayed current, learning to use a computer and work the Internet.
    Twenty-seven years separated him and Anya. His first wife died of cancer, his only son before that from a drug overdose. Both deaths hit him hard. He’d been taught all of his life to operate off known facts and assumed realities. Be careful and be prepared. Self-possessed? Absolutely. At his core, though, was integrity, which forced him to always be honest with himself.
    Anya, too, was strong, full of lust and anger, two emotions that he understood with great clarity. She’d come into his life a few years ago when he desperately needed someone to share his passions. Thankfully, she was drawn to older men, especially those without pretenses. The day he finally explained his goal and desire her response had been immediate.
    “We shall do it together.”
    Which had pleased him.
    One more check of the watch.
    55 hours remained.
    He’d thought the American might actually show, but apparently that was not the case.
    Which was okay.
    Like any good officer, he’d anticipated deceit.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    Stephanie wanted to know more about Aleksandr Zorin, so she asked Nikolai Osin to explain.
    “He’s former KGB and GRU, and also headed a spetsnaz team.”
    Those she knew. Ruthless units of paramilitary specialists who once carried out assassinations, raids, and sabotage. They were created after World War II when the Soviet Union wanted to emulate the success of American commandos. Eventually the Red Army organized “troops of special purpose,” spetsialnoye nazranie, or spetsnaz for short. To lead one of those squads