Can an American spy complete a mission he doesn't even know he's on after he's set up by the agency he works for? Will Kolya Petrov, a Russian Jewish immigrant, outwit an anti-Semitic descendant of Vlad the Impaler planning terrorist attacks or will he be forced to sacrifice himself and the woman he loves to save the lives of thousands of innocent people?
Can an American spy complete a mission he doesn't even know he's on after he's set up by the agency he works for? Will Kolya Petrov, a Russian Jewish immigrant, outwit an anti-Semitic descendant of Vlad the Impaler planning terrorist attacks or will he be forced to sacrifice himself and the woman he loves to save the lives of thousands of innocent people?
Gina Antonia slid off the bed and wrapped a silk shawl around her nude body. She glanced at the clock. One a.m. She wasnât scheduled to call in until eight. Mihai Cuza was curled on his side, breathing evenly. A handsome man. Dark hair, aristocratic features, attractive body. He appeared younger than his real age, which was somewhere in his late 40s. Funny how a sleeping man could look gentle, almost child-like. But it was only an illusion, and she knew it. He was about as gentle as a sleeping cobra.
She picked up his phone from the bed stand and tiptoed to the circular stairs, still wearing only the shawl, and descended slowly, carefully, to the darkened office area.
She seated herself on a chair in front of a desktop computer on the far side of the open expanse. She shifted; to keep her bare bottom from sticking to the leather, she slid part of the shawl under her. Cuza had hung her clothes in an antique wardrobe with doors that squeaked. Getting her clothes out would have been the riskier option. It also would have taken time.
It had taken two weeks of covertly watching, but she finally had the password to the iPhone, which in turn held the password to the computer.
She searched, found the series of numbers and letters and, turning to the keyboard, typed them in. A click, and she was in. She attached a thumb drive, downloading a program that would allow Kolya or the tech guys back at the office to access Cuzaâs files. While waiting for the program to load, she remained alert and nervous. No sound from the bedroom upstairs. Do it and get out, Kolya had told her. But what if the software didnât work? They might not get another crack at Cuzaâs computer. She was there; she could take another few minutes to get the information.
She went into documents and started searching.
The third document that she opened listed Cuzaâs plans for the next two months, to be coordinated through various European offices.
Bingo.
She skimmed the names of the towns, in America, in Europe, one in Asia. Fifteen in all. How many people lived in those cities? How many people lived in Buchanan, New York? How many people would die immediately if the nuclear power plants in their towns melted down? How many more would die slowly of radiation poisoning or cancer?
Not in the thousands. In the hundreds of thousands.
Sheâd slept with a man capable of killing this many people. It had been a necessary part of the job, the only way to get close to him, but sheâd done it, and sheâd enjoyed it. Sheâd enjoyed sex with a monster.
She took a deep breath. She only knew what she now knew because sheâd slept with him.
Her hands trembled with the weight of her new knowledge. Her fingers fumbled on the keyboard.
Steady. All she had to do was send an e-mail and run. She wouldnât even go upstairs for her clothes. Sheâd run through Soho naked if necessary.
Funny. Running naked through Soho was the sort of thing that she might have done for a laugh had circumstances been different. She liked to do things that were different. Like the time she dyed her hair pink. Sheâd only kept it pink for a day, but the expression on Jonathanâs face...
But there was nothing funny about this assignment and nothing funny about Cuza.
Do it and get the hell out.
Had she heard something moving? No, it was nothing.
She accessed one of her e-mail accounts and typed Kolyaâs e-mail address. She typed a quick message. Attaching Cuzaâs plans for fifteen towns, including Cernavoda, Romania. Oak Harbor, Ohio. Buchanan, New York. Ft. Pierce, Florida. Then she felt the touch on her shoulder.
âEnjoying yourself ?â a voice purred behind her. Cuzaâs voice. Before he pinned her arms, she hit send.
*****
Nikolai Ivanovich Petrov, known to his friends as Kolya, shook his blond head, scrolled down the screen, and pondered his options. If he sent Teo Lorenzo to Pennsylvania Station to watch for a mysterious woman in black, Kolyaâd catch hell from his boss Margaret Bradford, head of the ECA, an agency that few knew existedâwho would consider his sending a new agent a mile uptown to meet a non-existent informant to be an abuse of authority. Then, again, Kolya could simply send Teo out for a dozen bagels from the deli two blocks away. Not that Kolya wanted a bagel. He just wanted Teo, whose face peered with unrelenting enthusiasm over Kolyaâs shoulder, to go away.
Kolya didnât dislike Teo, but he hated this part of the jobâthe waiting while another agent was in danger. He preferred the active role, to be the one at risk, but right now, his role was providing back- up and technical support. Gina was scheduled to check in at eight. Just in case, Kolya had monitored the phones and the computer since midnight. On the other hand, Teo had slept until seven. Easy for Teoâwho hadnât lived through the other attempts to penetrate Cuzaâs network. Kolya vividly remembered Vasilyâwho had played violinâand whom Kolya had persuaded to spy on Cuza. Three days later, Vasily had been found with a stake through his body.
Normally the piano jazz emanating from his computer, Eugene Maslov, a fellow Russian emigrant from St. Petersburg, playing âThe Masquerade is Over,â would have a calming effect. Not now.
âYou know, you worry too much.â
Maybe heâd just shoot Teo.
They were holed up in a shabby two-bedroom apartment in the West Village, designated the New York office. The computers were state of the art, but the chairs and table were plastic, and the faded green carpet smelled of mold, dust, and something undefinedâ maybe cat urine. But the apartment didnât bother him particularly. Heâd lived in worse.
It was Alex. He hadnât seen her for two months, and he missed her: her sense of humor, her intelligence, and the warmth of her presence. He could almost hear her voice mocking him, âYou mean you miss the sex, right?â
As if his thought had prompted it, his phone buzzed. You up? He texted back. For hours. Court today?
A response came immediately. Case postponed. Drag. Talk?
Canât now. Later.
Call when you can. Love. Got to run.
He sent his love back, set the phone down, and returned his attention to the computer. Phone calls and texts were a poor substitution, under the best of times. It was one of the drawbacks of his line of work, the only reason heâd ever considered changing professions.
Still, he wasnât ready to give up the game.
Teo leaned over the computer and tried to tap a request onto the keyboard.
âDonât fuck with the computer, Teo.â Kolya decided to send Teo on an errand to the kitchen instead of on a tour of the wilds of Manhattan. âCould you check if thereâs any coffee left?â He picked up a New York Mets mug and thrust it without ceremony into Teoâs hand.
âTwo teaspoons sugar, right?â Teo asked.
âCorrect.â Kolya, like many Russian Jews, had a sweet tooth. He usually didnât indulge in desserts, keeping in shape was too important, but he did like to sweeten his coffee.
Teo disappeared.
Maslov ended, and Kolya switched to Bill Evans, on the keyboard, Eddie Gomez on bass, an interpretation of âAutumn Leaves.â Kolya had played a variation of the tune on Alexâs piano two nights before heâd left for New York. He missed the piano, but this was the Village after all. Heâd managed to find a bar where he could occasionally spend a few hours improvising on jazz standards.
A glance at the computer brought his mind back to the job. An e-mail from Gina? He clicked onto it and read her message: Cuzaâs plans for fifteen towns, including Cernavoda, Romania. Oak Harbor, Ohio. Buchanan, New York. St. Lucie, Florida. Flamanville, France. He clicked onto the attachment. But the attachment he opened was blank.
âEboyanna mat.â His favorite curse.
Teo reappeared, a cup of coffee in each hand. He handed over Kolyaâs cup and took a sip of his own. âWhat?â
âAttachment was booby trapped.â Kolya ran a check on his computer and cursed again, this time in English. Then he shut it down. âAnd there was a virus on it.â Cuza was smarter than theyâd anticipated. Kolya switched to a second computer and checked. If Gina had done her job of inserting the software, he should be able to access Cuzaâs computer remotely.
âAnything come through?âTeo was at his shoulder again.
âNo.â Which was troubling. He searched files. Nothing.
âBut if she sent the message, she got in.â
âWe canât access Cuzaâs computer unless itâs online. Apparently, itâs
not.â
âWe gonna wake Jonathan?â
âYouâre elected.â
The fact that Gina had been online long enough to send a message
but had not left the computer on long enough for them to access Cuzaâs files was not good.
Kolya pulled out his cell and called Gina. The phone rang five times, and her voice mail picked up. He didnât leave a message.
Kolya had been against the plan. Too risky. Gina was young and relatively new in the business. Asking her to screw Cuza was a little over the line of what he found acceptable, even in their line of work.
But Jonathan was the team leader, and Jonathan had made the decision. Cuza liked a certain kind of woman. Gina had been the closest match of the available ECA female agents. Well, nothing else had worked, and they needed to get into Cuzaâs computer. But if Gina were discovered, Cuza would take it as a personal affront.
So, he worried. He didnât know her well; this was the first time theyâd worked together, but heâd liked her sense of humorâand aura of rebellion. When theyâd discussed the operation in her office decorated with prints of Renaissance paintings and pictures of her mother, sister, and cat, her hair had been dyed pinkâto make a statement, sheâd said. Sheâd dyed it back before attempting the infiltration of Cuzaâs organization.
She was good. Sheâd be fine. She was just so young.
He sent a text:Â lunch?
No response.
Sheâd done her job and she should have left immediately. âEboyanna mat.â He repeated the Russian curse, involving mothers
and sex.
He thought about the message with the booby-trapped attachment.
Cernavoda, Romania; Oak Harbor, Ohio; Buchanan, New York; St. Lucie, Florida; Flamanville, France.
What would interest Cuza in Ohio? In Illinois?
âWhatâs up?â Jonathan Egan strode over to the computer, coffee cup in hand, bleary eyed, and positioned himself with a view of the monitor. Despite the fact that he had just woken up, Jonathan could have passed for a model: dressed in designer slacks and sweater, brown hair immaculate. He looked like what he was: the trust fund descendant of an industrialist, the privileged son of a former Senator who regarded Jonathanâs employment by an intelligence agency as an insult. Kolya also knew the reality beyond the appearance: Jonathan was a dedicated operative, a loving father, even if his marriage hadnât lasted, and a good friend. The only real friction: music. âTurn off the damn jazz. Canât you listen to something from the 21st century?â
Kolya ignored the insult.
âGina sent a message with an attachment that self-destructed. She should have gotten out immediately. Nothing else from her. No texts. No calls. No response when I tried to reach her.â
âYou think sheâs in trouble?â
âGood chance.â
âOK, then.â Jonathan nodded. âWe go in.â
Kolya turned off the computer, stood, slid his HK .40 caliber compact from its holster, ejected the magazine, and checked it. Twelve rounds. He slid the magazine back into the butt of the gun, reholstered, tugged his shirt down to cover the bulge, reached for his sweater on an adjacent chair, and pulled it over his head.
Jonathan didnât bother to check his gun; he simply shrugged into a jacket.
Kolya fished a set of keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Jonathan. âThe vanâs in the garage across the street.â
Kolya Petrov is a spy for the Executive Covert Agency (ECA) and he is good at what he does. But when Romanian terrorist Mihai Cuza keeps catching and brutally murdering any ECA agents who attempt to uncover Cuza's plans, Petrov and his team begin to suspect there's a mole in their midst.
The ECA head of tech has developed an idea which can both infiltrate Cuza's most dangerous plans and expose the mole, but it comes at the expense of giving up an unsuspecting Petrov like a lamb to the slaughter. With international security and millions of lives at stake, "by any means necessary" is the name of the game. Petrov is about to undergo the deadliest mission of his life. No one is safe, and no one can be trusted.
I have a tendency to be leery of espionage novels simply because I'm never sure how much time is going to be invested in throwing around numerous, complicated acronyms, or how convoluted the plot is going to become between the politics and layers and layers of subterfuge. In Trojan Horse, Manning masterfully allays all of those reservations without sacrificing the sophistication of the plot. Instead of being dry and boring, the complexity of the story drives the excitement and keeps the suspense at a maximum. The many characters at play within Trojan Horse are easily kept straight because Manning creates more than just secret agents, she creates flesh and blood human beings with personal lives and their own interests.
There are a few instances that draw some skepticism from me regarding the plausibility of certain events (that some things can be overlooked among people who are specially trained to be secretive and deceptive as well as to identify deception seems questionable), but the story as a whole does not suffer because of this.
Trojan Horse is an exhilarating read - it's hard-hitting without being melodramatic or cliché, it challenges the reader to think, and it never lets up. I would recommend this book to those who enjoy a thriller that is both intelligent and adrenaline-pumping.