E-mail: Anne - annemcalgofree.indigo.ie
Kathleen -
MAHC –
Summary: The full measure of the enemy is finally learned but there is no victory as yet, and it transpires that not all the shadows to be fought are external ones. This is the follow up story to "Blood and State", and a continuation of the story arc that began in "A Frightened Peace", and subsequently progressed in "Farther off from Heaven", "Falls the Shadow" and "Blood and State".
Spoilers: This story takes place a few days after the events of "Blood and State", which means that it's floating around in the gap between 'Posse Comitatus' and '20 Hours in America', before the re-election campaign really begins. We should emphasize that this is very much a continuing story, so those who are unfamiliar with "Peace", "Heaven" "Shadow" and "State" may need to check those out first. All four stories can be found at , (author name - nitehowler) and here at The National Library - , collected together under, apparently, the series title "Powers That Be". I'd honestly forgotten they'd asked us for a series title. Also at Nomad's site, Code Blue - , which we heartily recommend you check out because it has some fantastic genfic stories by some great authors archived there.
Characters: Jed, Leo, Abbey, Ron Butterfield, Donna, Charlie and a littering of others you'll recognize from the show, and from the earlier stories in this series.
Category: Drama, angst.
Rating: R this time, for some language, including one use of the 'F' word, a few adult/political issues, but mainly because of a desire on the part of one of us to experiment at least once with the kind of scene you won't normally associate with our writing.
Feedback: Always appreciated. Plus, we'd like to apologize to those of you who probably thought we'd forgotten about this series. We know it's been well over a year, and we're sorry. We never intended it. A lot happened in that year, including major computer crashes for both of us, equally major health issues for one, and a really chronic case of writer's block for the other. We hope this story will be worth your while.
Thanks to: Mahc, for kindly taking us up on our request and writing Jed's opening speech in this story. We appreciated it a lot. We love Mahc's stories, and anyone who's read them, particularly the titular speech from "Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons", knows just what good speeches she does write. A deep sense of indebtedness, as ever, to SheilaVR for being the best beta reader anyone could ask for - and a wonderfully entertaining writer to boot.
Disclaimer: This show and its characters are sadly not ours. They are currently under the stewardship of John Wells Productions. To Aaron Sorkin, we want to thank you for creating and breathing life into this show and these characters.
Staring into the AbyssBy
Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
With
MAHCAnd what thou fearst, alike destroyes all hope
Of refuge, and concludes thee miserable
Beyond all past example and future,
To Satan onely like both crime and doom.
O Conscience, into what Abyss of fears
And horrors hast thou driv'n me; out of which
I find no way, from deep to deeper plung'd!
From Paradise Lost
John Milton: 1608 - 1674
The White House, Washington D.C.: Friday Afternoon
The world watched, and the world listened.
As a general rule, when the President of the United States addressed his nation, his words and his image were transmitted instantaneously around the globe. What he said, what he did, affected far more than his own people and country.
This President, known to be a master of words and eloquent delivery, commanded a much greater audience and attention than those in the recent past. Given current events, not much older personal revelations and physical wounds hidden perhaps by lighting or makeup, what he would say was colored by expectation and morbid, if thoroughly human, curiosity.
Some eagerly watched as he ascended the podium that had been erected on the broad South Lawn of the White House, searching for a sign of weakness. There was an election coming and any chink in his armor would be used. Finding no such weakness in his sure and steady step, the firm set of his jaw and the confident, dignified fire in his eyes, they settled back in thwarted political frustration to listen. This wasn't their moment, but it was his. For now they would be gracious.
Some regarded him with pride, sharing in his strength of purpose and what they knew he was about to begin. It was the birth of a hope for the world that had received its first tenuous conception in Helsinki; the child of two leaders prepared to put aside decades of suspicion and nuclear paranoia in favour of the best interests of the world community. This was their leader, by choice and by conviction, and they would follow him without hesitation, through fire and to the ends of the earth.
Certain of them were also painfully aware of the other, secret war - of what this man had been forced to begin.
Sharing that conviction and knowledge, one other regarded him with the same pride and felt a stirring of hope where for so long there had been none. This man might not be his leader by birth or by country, but certainly by choice, and one to be followed wherever able.
Another leader, no less burdened by his office and the weight it carried, watched with that same hope. Hope that mistakes made would not cost him a future. Hope that maybe, just maybe, this President would truly be able to see beyond the last vestiges of a Cold War long gone and join in a new one.
Another, too, felt hope. It was made all the fiercer by love and the determination to protect. There was grief as well, for trials already faced, either together or separately, and what she knew was still to come.
Some few, one man in particular, felt that same pride of place, conviction and hope. His grief for what had happened, what still might happen, was clouded by guilt. Choices had brought them all to this place, and choices still to be made would see them through a murky future.
Far away, one whose only goal was justice also watched, stunned, as his world shifted abruptly and his job suddenly became that much more difficult. His thin smile was tinged with anticipation, though. Difficult, maybe. But not impossible. There was finally hope for something better.
And lastly, one soul watched and raged.
Colored by all these perceptions, the world waited with anticipation to hear what Josiah Bartlet was about to say. All throughout those perceptions, no matter the viewpoint or the motivation, was the final conviction that now, here at this moment, the new millennium was about to begin in earnest.
The world listened, holding its collective breath, as a President began to speak.
"In 'The Secret Pilgrim', John le Carre' tells us that 'it was man who ended the Cold War.' It wasn't weaponry, or technology, or armies, or campaigns. It was just man - who went into the streets, faced the bullets - and said, 'We've had enough.'
"Before that act of courage, we worked against each other, built weapons upon weapons, trained spies upon spies, festered hate upon hate. But we realized, after all the suspicions, after all the propaganda, after all the wasted energy, that we are all just men and women; human, and nothing more.
"Where once we spoke of them, and us, now we see a new us. Thoreau describes 'one vast centipede of a man, good for all sorts of pulling down: and why not then for some kinds of building up? If men could combine thus earnestly and patiently and harmoniously to some really worthy end, what might they not accomplish?' Indeed, what might we not accomplish as the representatives of humanity?
"But even as we form a new us, we are faced with a new them; a them that has no love for country - or even for humankind. A them that holds no value on life. A them that feeds off fears, that manipulates trust and goodness. A them that hides behind our own established order, dealing in terror and masking it with twisted cries of patriotism and nationalism. This them will strike at the very soul of humanity, to rend us in two, to drive their stakes of evil deep within the heart of all that is good. It is a real and imminent danger, and we must act."
Unconsciously, perhaps, the President's brow furrowed and he paused. A deep breath and then he swept his audience with a stern, level gaze, challenging them to question. Nobody dared.
To those who watched, the tensing of his jaw betrayed something else. Not fear. Instead, his blue eyes began to darken with a deep, affronted anger that took them all by surprise. It was then that many, the world over, realized that danger had become a relative thing, that the act about to be played out would change all their lives.
As one, the world once again held its breath and sat forward, eager now to see how their lives and the future were about to be changed.
When he spoke again, that future began to take form...
"Therefore, I am asking Congress for immediate funding for an unprecedented treaty of cooperation among the Russian Law Enforcement, the Kremlin, the CIS countries and their military. I am asking Congress and the world to stand firm, to join forces in a strengthening of weapons inspections, in the strangling of black market rings and of the Russian Mafia before they can steal military hardware and even warheads from silos that are no longer adequately guarded to stop this attack on our very civilized existence.
"We will muster the forces of humanity to fight for its preservation. Terrorists, drug lords, criminals; they are all the same, determined to take what we are not willing to give. There is a beast in view, and it is time to bring it down. It is time to say, 'We've had enough.' This is our world. It is our legacy, and we will not relinquish it to those betrayers of humanity. Not now. Not again. Not ever again."
His eyes, as cold and furious as any of them had even seen, rested on key members of the audience before they burned into the camera, a straight, sure line of passionate determination that shot from television screens all over the world to impale the listeners with his declaration. No one who heard him could doubt the surety of his words. No one could question the reality of his resolution. He had drawn a new line - a clear, undeniable line.
The question now was - would they dare to cross it?
ooOoo
Moscow, Russia: (Time Zone Shift) Thursday Evening
He should not be here.
The street was called Petrowka; and the gray, imposing edifice dominating the other side, like a similar building in the city of London, took its name from that street. Petrowka; home of the Moscow Police and the fourteen divisions of the Criminal Investigation Department.
He really shouldn't be here.
But he was here, so it was time to do what he came here to do, and damn the consequences.
Flipping up the collar of his woolen coat against the cold, Ron Butterfield, Senior Agent in Charge of White House Security and the man personally responsible for the life of the President of the United States, scowled darkly and stepped out on to the street. Only a few cars bothered to slow down and swerve, most making the obligatory honk and the singular universal gesture of extreme displeasure. He ignored them.
Mounting the opposite curb, he paused, staring up at the building's worn facade and the Cyrillic sign over the double doors. The questions started all over again. What was he doing here? 'A leave of absence.' He snorted with self-directed disgust at that thought. That was one hell of an excuse; one he was going to catch just as much hell for when he returned home.
If he still had a job when he returned home. That thought worried him, more than he cared to admit. If Dale Carlyle was doing his job, the President - not the Secretary of the Treasury - had been given any number of options on that point. Failure and honor had demanded the man be given the decision. Stubborn pride had fueled those submissions as well. Resignation on more than one level. At least here, he was doing something; his chosen profession demanded no less. Whether or not it was constructive remained to be seen.
This whole exercise was a long shot at best, a waste of time at worst.
He'd made the decision to come in anger, the need to do something concrete and proactive. Beat the prey to his home ground, beat him to the punch. Go to the source, find the answers there. Set up the ambush and wait...
Butterfield's scowl deepened. Like it would be that easy.
Avoiding direct eye contact, a few pedestrians gave the tall, glowering man a wide berth. Memories in this country, and this city in particular, were long. Mysterious, dark-clad men with unreadable faces were not to be trifled with. Better to be safe than sorry.
Ignoring them with the same indifference as he had the oncoming cars, Butterfield pushed open the doors and went inside.
Russia being one of the few countries where cigarettes were still a national pastime, the hazy, nicotine-stained interior was still strangely familiar. Wandering down the hallway, searching for his goal, Butterfield wasn't surprised at all that the flurry of activity around him struck a cord. The harried faces, shouting voices and curses sounded and looked the same as any police bullpen in the U.S. Cops remained cops the world over, only the language was different; but considering the inflection of said cussing, the meaning remained the same. He didn't need to understand the language to grasp the import.
Butterfield did understand the language, fluently. "Only what I need," he'd told Carlyle. However cryptic an answer that had been, the ability was serving him well.
The guns holstered in shoulder harnesses and on belts made him once again acutely aware that he was unarmed. His hand strayed to the empty space where his shoulder harness and holster should be. It was a naked feeling he didn't at all enjoy.
Understandably, nobody was paying the least bit of attention to him. Putting himself in the path of one charging, paperwork-laden uniformed officer, Butterfield exercised his Russian and inquired evenly, "Excuse me?"
Startled, and scrambling to maintain his hold on the escaping files, the young man flashed his assailant a clearly irritated frown. Categorizing the man as a civilian nuisance, he tilted his head in the appropriate direction and growled curtly, "Front desk."
Satisfied that he'd done his job, and directions given, he managed two more steps before his arm was grabbed and held in a firm, insistent grip that stopped just short of being painful.
"Lieutenant Colonel Vasil'ev Kievich Chichagov," Butterfield demanded softly.
It was the voice that did it. Somehow the young Russian was certain that this man rarely had to deal with the word no, or people who dared use it to his face. Reevaluating the situation, he eyed the tall, mustached stranger for a tense moment. The hand on his arm tightened, probably in warning. Taking the easy way out, and quite probably the safer one, he bellowed over his shoulder, "Colonel!"
"You sure, Di'ak?" a laughing voice called back. "He's in a mood, on the hunt for victims."
"So what else is new?" another voice added.
"It's Friday tomorrow," someone offered helpfully. "Wife's going to visit her mother in Kiev."
The groans he heard at that declaration gave Butterfield a pretty good idea what kind of weekend these people were going to be dealing with. A knowing smile quirked one corner of his mouth. Indeed, some things were the same the world over.
Butterfield's victim sighed heavily with put-upon resignation, and then said, "He's got a visitor." At that, the stranger's hand let go his arm. The relief the young man felt was totally out of proportion to the act.
"And that's going to help?" another voice asked plaintively.
"Better him than us..."
On that optimistic note, a chorus of voices passed on the request, sending the shouts of "Colonel!" deeper into the smoke shrouded bowels of the building.
"WHAT?!" The roar of a disturbed dragon would have seemed quieter by comparison. Somewhere, a door crashed open. More than a few people jumped. A few others hunkered down over the paperwork on their desks, seeking whatever poor shelter they could find.
"He is displeased," somebody observed dryly.
"Give that detective a promotion."
"I'd rather have a raise."
The snorts that accompanied that plaintive response were a clear indication as to how likely a possibility that was.
Gathering up his files, the instigator of the search chose the better part of valor and escaped, throwing an accusing glare at Butterfield over his shoulder as he scurried away to find a hiding place of his own.
Butterfield didn't have long to wait before the sea of milling bodies parted and Lieutenant Colonel Chichagov made his appearance. The woken dragon had become an angry Russian bear. Judging from the hairy forearms revealed by rolled-up shirtsleeves, a man only slightly less hirsute and burly than his ursine Siberian cousins.
"This had better be good!" He roared like a bear, too.
Still, Butterfield had no doubts that it wouldbe good. As a matter of courtesy, he stepped forward and inquired politely, "Colonel Chichagov?"
"I am," he answered with a snap and an impersonal nod. Unimpressed with his visitor, Chichagov made no effort to hide his annoyance as he eyed the tall, mustached stranger up and down dismissively. "Your Russian is too good to be any foreign reporter. So that makes you either a diplomat or a well-heeled tourist. Either one is a waste of my time."
More than a few mocking laughs accompanied that observation.
Butterfield smiled thinly. "I'm looking for someone."
"Then you want the Operative Search Division. This is Homicide/Burglary. Murder? Dead bodies, messy crime scenes, questionable motives or simple human greed and idiocy? You are wasting my time." He glared at his crew. More than a few averted their eyes. "Who let this man in here?"
"Di'ak went that way," someone offered, thereby relieving himself and his comrades of any remaining guilt or punishment.
Chichagov swore.
"You are who I want to speak with." Butterfield had never been accused of giving up easily.
Sensing this, but not giving any ground, Chichagov asked sarcastically, "Is this person dead? Otherwise you continue to waste my time."
"Dead?" Butterfield's eyes narrowed. "Not yet."
"Interesting semantic choice." Despite himself, the Russian was becoming interested. Crossing his arms, eyes sparking with wry amusement, he asked dryly, "Does he have a name?"
"Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov."
Silence fell across the bullpen, and all eyes riveted on the two men.
Pretty sure he'd just heard a pin drop, Butterfield waited patiently. Their collective reaction to the name had already told him volumes. Their boss's reaction told him even more.
Head to one side, Chichagov reached up and absently scratched the side of his nose. Giving the stranger the benefit of the doubt, he demanded in an exasperated tone of voice, "What has that rabid little prick of a wolf done this time?"
Taking a few steps forward, Butterfield leaned in and spoke softly, pitching his voice so only Chichagov could hear. "On three known occasions he has attempted to assassinate the President of the United States."
To his credit, the Russian didn't flinch; neither at the man's flat, dangerous tone of voice nor the equally dangerous invasion of his own personal space. Dark brows slanted into a deep frown. His broad shoulders stiffening, Chichagov indicated with a quick jerk of his head that he should be followed.
Satisfied that he'd made his intended point, Butterfield accepted the invitation.
Once again, the officers and detectives parted, this time with a great deal more curiosity in their gazes. Only after Chichagov had reached his office, let the stranger in and slammed the door did anyone dare move. Someone coughed, breaking the spell. Then the muttering began. The general consensus was that it was going to be one hell of a weekend.
As the door closed behind him, Butterfield gave the hard-copy files piled nearly to the small office's ceiling a cursory glance. Behind a desk nearly buried under similar piles, he spied a corkboard on the wall. Professional curiosity drew his attention to the crime scene photos of mutilated women's bodies that covered it. Dispassionately, he counted seven victims and it only took him a moment to instinctively note that the same, brutal hand had killed all of them.
One brow rose. The Moscow C.I.D. had a serial killer on their hands. No wonder the man was in a mood.
Without conscious thought, the markers went through his mind...
- Stranger killing, bodies dumped without regard to location, affection or familiarity.
- Ambush killing, the victims had no chance to defend themselves. A coward, emotionally and sexually insecure.
- Defaced, made into objects without humanity.
All the victims bore the same marks, the same total disregard for their humanity and individuality. Except one. Butterfield studied that photo as he heard Chichagov move up behind him.
"Who are you?" the Chief of the Moscow Division of Burglary/Homicide demanded. There was no welcome in his voice.
Never taking his eyes off that last photo, Butterfield reached into his jacket and removed his ID and passport. Sandwiched between both went the small leather case holding his Treasury Badge. Absently reaching back, he handed all three to the Russian. He noted that the last woman's face had been covered. A dirty, carefully placed square of linen hid her ravaged features from the world. He knew full well that the crime scene investigators hadn't put it there.
One brow rose. Interesting...
"United States Treasury." Handing the ID, badge and passport back to Butterfield, Chichagov negotiated a stack of files and made his way to the small sanctuary behind his desk. He didn't sit down. "You're a long way from home, Special Agent Butterfield."
Slipping the documents back into his jacket, Butterfield merely shrugged and made no comment.
Accepting that as an answer, Chichagov asked sarcastically, "May I make the assumption, bad habit though that is, that you are not a mere functionary?"
"Senior Agent in Charge of White House Security."
"You are the President's man." A statement, not a question.
"I am."
Chichagov let his breath out in a huff, almost a growl. "You really should not be here."
Butterfield laughed shortly, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from that last photo and giving Chichagov his full attention. "Tell me something I don't already know."
"That, my tall friend, is my line. Obviously, you're here for information." Chichagov spread his arms, a gesture of profound displeasure and frustration. "If you think the GRU or the FSB have let me know what goes on in the wider world, then think again. Why is the American President's senior body guard in my office?"
"You've seen the news?"
A United States Secret Service agent in his office? Why? Chichagov wasn't an idiot or a fool. Having already been given that familiar name and the reasons, the conclusion was fairly obvious. "Only the explosion in the... what do you call it? The -," he paused, searching for the English equivalent, "- Oval Office?" Keeping his expression under stern restraint, he weighed his visitor critically, and then asked matter-of-factly, "Volkov did this?"
Butterfield's flat, unspeaking eyes prolonged the moment, then he nodded.
"That's one. The other two?"
"An explosive on the rotor housing of Marine One, bringing it down..."
"Not surprising that wasn't an accident." Waving a curt, dismissive hand, Chichagov interrupted anything Butterfield might have added. "Your military is no less diligent than ours when it comes to executive transport. This too, I already know - if not the full truth. The third?"
Butterfield's expression darkened. "A shooting at the President's private residence early last Sunday morning." He left it at that.
"It failed?"
"Obviously."
"No need to get touchy." Watching the American with a keenly observant eye, Chichagov asked again, more insistently, "Why are you here?"
That was a question Butterfield himself didn't know all the answers to. Why was he here? Hopefully, doing his job. Coldly, he began to explain, "The GRU, FSB, the Kremlin and God knows however many other alphabets involved in this have been no more open with information to my people than they have to you. They will barely admit that First Lieutenant Volkov was once a government employee."
Chichagov sneered. "He has other employers now."
"This we already know."
"Employers whom the powers that be in the Kremlin are just as equally reluctant to put a name to." Chichagov's short laugh was bitter. "Of course they won't. What did you expect? The Red Mafiya..." - he gave that last word a Slavic inflection - "... does not exist. Except where certain bank accounts are concerned, of course. Many bank accounts, as I'm sure you are already aware. So you come to me. You are certain Volkov is involved?"
"Yes. Once it clears channels, the FBI's top ten will confirm that."
"By the time it trickles down channels to me, it will be old news," Chichagov muttered. "Thank God for the Internet," he added, with no little cynicism. With a heavy sigh, he asked carefully, "How can you be sure it's him?"
Smiling thinly, Butterfield's only answer was, "I have my methods."
"Sherlock Holmes has his methods. It would do well for you to remember that I am not Watson. Vague, mysterious answers do not impress me, nor do they amuse me." Still, he didn't ask for any further elaboration. They were both professionals. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Chichagov muttered, "It has finally come to this."
Inclining his head, acknowledging the deduction, Butterfield said, "You understand?"
"The Mafiya are all over this city, my friend. This country. People talk. Rumor and where it leads is my stock in trade. Finding the truth in those rumors is never quite that easy, but this one is. Tempers are running hot. I saw the speech, his declaration. Even before that very public assertion, your President - what he intends and what he promises to do - has not made himself very popular with these people, or those they deal with."
Butterfield snorted derisively. "That is an extreme understatement."
"Not where their profit margins are concerned, it isn't." Eyeing Butterfield suspiciously, Chichagov asked carefully, "Given how that profit is spread throughout what is left of my country's bureaucracy, why come to me? How do you know my next stop won't be the local street boss? And don't - " he raised his hand, forestalling comment and added with a wry smile, "- tell me you have your methods. No doubt you've seen my files, my service records. You wouldn't be here otherwise. You know what I'm paid, what I have to deal with. What about my bank accounts?"
Butterfield's eyes went back to the corkboard, the victims lined up in death. "A Lieutenant Colonel after twenty-eight years in service, not a full division director. Arrest and conviction stats that would be the envy of any law enforcement agency, not the brush-off of a bought man." Again, his attention went to that last woman, her face covered.
Shrugging, Butterfield finished with simple conviction, "You're a cop."
Inclining his head, Chichagov accepted the compliment in the spirit it was given. Nothing else needed to be said. "So you want our mangy little wolf, Volkov?"
"Yes. And the people holding his leash."
"Volkov we may by some miracle be able to do, if he is here and hasn't gone too deep to ground. His handlers? Keep wishing. You're sure he's back in this country?"
"Or on his way. Success or failure -" Butterfield nearly faltered at that " - he wouldn't leave his escape route to chance. Not with his training. He's going to try."
"And you are leaving nothing to chance. Good." Chichagov huffed disgustedly. "The GRU are nothing if not thorough. They trained that boy well - too well."
"Exactly. With his face plastered on every U.S. police bulletin board within hours, not to mention internationally, he'd need to be off and moving before the boom was lowered." Butterfield smiled thinly. "Yes, you have to love the Internet."
"The boom?" It took Chichagov a moment to figure out the colloquialism, but when he did he chuckled dryly. "Yes, the boom. That's our Dmitrii, ever fast on his feet."
"You know him?"
"I know him. Surely your... methods told you this?" Opening a drawer, Chichagov began rummaging around inside. "The original profile given to the reporters, that was yours?" Cursing softly, he closed that drawer and opened another.
"The profile was mine," Butterfield admitted, watching him curiously. "Not one of my wiser decisions."
"Credit where credit is due, Special Agent. If it had been anyone other than Volkov, as a proactive technique, it would have worked."
Butterfield shook his head with self-imposed disgust. "Hind-sight gives me nothing."
"It is better than nothing. Still, it was not well done." Finding what he was looking for, Chichagov pulled out a small, holstered automatic. Checking the safety, he pulled the clip, noting that it was loaded. Shoving it home with a click, he continued, "Dmitrii Volkov is motivated by three main psychological triggers. Profit and challenge are two. I'll do you the credit and the compliment of assuming you have deduced this already."
Butterfield nodded curtly.
"The third trigger? That one is more complicated. He likes to hurt people. Oh, he enjoys the physical aspects of a good beating, but considers that a crude rough, something a true artist only resorts to as a last measure. Abuse on all levels; physical, mental and spiritual. That brings him a joy that borders on true ecstasy. Nothing else compares."
Making direct eye contact, Chichagov gave him the last. "Combine all that, whatever underlying motivations are in his twisted soul, with an ego that knows no bounds, and you've bought yourself a world of trouble. In his own mind, a peasant's mind I must emphasize, he is better than anyone else. No aristocrat could ever hope to compare, and he'll stop at nothing to prove it. That profile of yours..." The Russian shook his head grimly. Holding out the holstered weapon to Butterfield, he finished, "Not well done at all. You've challenged him, given him a motive and a potential victim that incorporates all of his prime triggers. His massive ego completes the equation and will allow nothing less than absolute conquest and victory."
"I have since revised my profile," Butterfield commented dryly. The Russian detective had, in only few short minutes, confirmed his decision to come here. The man understood; more so than he had dared hope.
Chichagov said nothing more, continuing to hold out the holstered weapon to the American.
Accepting the gun, a Makarov nine-millimeter automatic - standard issue for the Moscow police - Butterfield ran through the same checks Chichagov had just done. Then he looked up and asked cautiously, "Why?"
Shrugging into his coat, Chichagov smiled. "For the same reason you gave me. When all is said and done, we're the same thing. That's why you're here."
Butterfield slipped the holstered weapon onto his belt, setting it comfortably on his hip. With one raised brow, he waited for the Russian to finish his observation. He suspected what it was, and was no less touched when the words were honestly said.
"You're a cop, a professional." This time Chichagov's smile broadened. "If you're going to be at my back, in Volkov's playground, I want you armed. We'll find your answers, or at least the beginnings of a few." His expression clouded with sudden uncertainty. "You are unarmed, correct?"
Ron Butterfield bared his teeth in an equally broad though far more forbidding grin, letting that be his answer.
Giving a Slavic shrug, Chichagov rolled his eyes and opened the office door. "You're one of those, are you? This is going to be fun."
Butterfield had his doubts about the fun, but for the first time in months felt he was actually on the right track. Whatever might come of this, he had the certain conviction that he'd made the right decision. Pausing as the Russian held the door, he jerked his head towards the crime scene photos on the corkboard. "That woman, the last victim."
His expression suddenly stilled, giving Chichagov a colder air. "You are certain she is the last?"
"For now, perhaps. She knew her killer."
"Or he knew her."
"Amounts to the same thing. This was not a stranger killing. He covered her face."
"Giving her some dignity in death, if not her path from this sad life." Letting out a long, tired breath, the weight of the world suddenly on his shoulders, Chichagov said, "He may not have stopped himself from killing her, didn't want to stop, but he felt remorse afterwards. Covering her face, he hid from her and his actions. This one, he regrets."
"But she won't be the last."
"No, she won't. Like the sadistic worm you're hunting, this predator enjoys himself too much to stop. There is a difference between them, though."
Butterfield turned away from the photo. His observation and implied question had been the final test of this man, whether he was up to the chase. This last would be the confirmation.
"Volkov," Chichagov stated flatly and with certainty, "regrets nothing, except this: Failure, he will not accept. Do you understand this?"
"It's the one thing, however slight, we have in common." Butterfield's tone of voice left little doubt that failure for him was also not an option.
"Good. Then we also understand each other. We could both lose our jobs over this; end up on the other side of those bars reserved for the breakers of laws, not those who uphold them. Bureaucracy has little place for honor." Chichagov's easy smile disappeared; replaced with one many would have flinched at. Butterfield did not. Another point in the American's favor. "I do not intend to fail either. Shall we go?"