“In a .45-70 with a shoulder strap. Hopefully, the wrong time of year for a bear.” Kevin deflected the comment.
“Lucky bear. What else?”
* * * *
Moncrief’s silver pickup pulled out of Hougen’s and headed north on the Alaska Highway. He looked at the map and calculated that he could spend the night at Beaver Creek and then hike the miles it took to get to Snag. With no airplanes or anything to trace him by, he would disappear into the backcountry and leave little or no trail.
He hadn’t seen Dr. Stewart in some time. He smiled at the surprise that would cross her face when this stranger came out of the woods.
What he really needed, though, was a computer terminal.
Will would be trying to reach him via the deep web from Moscow. Even if anyone read their communications, it would still stump them—even the FSB—because Moncrief and Will could opt to write in Ndee or Apache. It was the one speech that Moncrief had to teach his friend. But it also was one of the most difficult languages to learn. Marines in the South Pacific in World War II learned quickly that it was the one dialect that the Japanese could never break.
His cell phone rang just as he pulled out on the highway heading north. It was from a number that he didn’t recognize and on a cell phone that Kevin rarely gave out.
“Yep?”
“Gunnery Sergeant?”
No one used that as an introduction, and no one used the full pronunciation of the rank unless he was a stranger and, likely, not a Marine. A Marine would have said “Gunny.”
“Who is this?”
“My name’s Frank Caldwell. I’m trying to reach your man.”
Chapter 31
The Yukon
So, you’ve gotten popular all of a sudden, Moncrief emailed Parker through the deep web from a computer in the back of a gas station just off of the highway in Koidern, a few miles south of Beaver Creek. The clerk had no idea that the funny man in the back with the brand-new parka was talking to a man in Moscow. It took a hundred-dollar bill for Moncrief to have access to the computer, download the Tor browser, and open up communication with Will.
You want the guy’s number? He knows you aren’t in Alaska.
Yes.
Both men knew the call confirmed that Coyote Six was being followed.
Moncrief took a sip from a hot cup of coffee as he sat in the plastic chair. His bulky clothes made it a tight fit.
So, they know you’re in Alaska. The two assumed that the call from Caldwell to Moncrief had been traced, revealing the gunny’s location.
Moncrief looked outside at the gloomy weather; another snowstorm seemed to be coming in.
Roger that.
This also meant that Karen Stewart was at higher risk. If they knew Moncrief was in the Yukon and near Snag, they probably knew that she was nearby.
I need for you to do something, Will wrote. Let the CO of 1st Raiders Battalion know that the body found in Mexico was that of a Marine. And that the other Marine, one of his, is likely being kept somewhere on the east side of the Baja Peninsula.
Got it.
And tell him it isn’t a case of AWOL.
Moncrief nodded to himself, knowing where Will was going with this. The 1st Raiders Battalion had been doing a lot of joint training with the Mexican Marines. The Infantería de Marina’s special force, known as FES, was well-trained, well-equipped, and capable of reaching out to any place in the Baja with great speed. Between the US Marines and the FES, if there was anyone else left alive, it was the only chance they had. It had to be a bolt of lightning. And it couldn’t be the normal police. Any police officer in that part of the Baja would likely make a second call as soon as he received the first. Only the FES could be trusted. The Mexican Marines had gained the reputation of taking down cartels and drawing the unwanted attention of the drug lords. On more than one occasion, the cartel had kidnapped a Mexican Marine, killed him on videotape, and then killed his family. Such attacks only made the FES stronger and more determined.
The problem with rescuing Todd Newton, if he still lived, was that the US Marines couldn’t make an incursion into Baja California without someone from Mexico being involved. And the only ones who could be trusted would be the Mexican Marines. But too early a call had too high a risk of a leak.
“Tell him that as soon as I know more, I’ll let him know. Get me his cell number.”
Chapter 32
FinCEN Headquarters
Virginia Peoples hadn’t slept since the FinCEN project on the Cayman Islands bank had been quashed. Consequently, she had been coming to work even earlier than usual. As always, the building was dark when she went through security. Once again, she was the one who turned on the lights in the offices.
At her desk, she played with some research. She didn’t use the flash drive for fear that it would be caught up in the scan that her computers were most likely to be under. She did do some open-ended research. The Cayman Islands bank had subsidiaries in the Isle of Man as well as the UAE. It bragged on its website about leading the industry in anti-laundering processes. She laughed at the comment.
Virginia crossed over to some independent research with the Egmont Group. Created in 1995, the organization had taken on the role of the international monitor of the movement of money. Her working group had a contact there whom she had relied upon often in the past.
She lifted her fingers from her keyboard. An email wouldn’t be smart, given that she’d been ordered to drop the investigation. She looked at the clock. It was too early to call Egmont.
She sighed, pushing her keyboard away. As little as she liked it, she would wait, and then call.
* * * *
At one minute past seven, Virginia was knocking on Darrel Byrd’s door. It was open a crack already; inside, she saw that he hadn’t even had a chance to open his computer.
“Hey,” she said. “I was just checking in with you on the Caymans.”
“I thought we were dropping that.”
“Do you know who Alexander Paul is?”
“Wasn’t he DIA?”
She nodded.
“Virginia, you do good work,” he said in his most patronizing tone. She hated it when he did that. If she didn’t interrupt, he’d go on to say that the project had been closed down and she needed to move on.
“I bet he’s in that bank. Maybe it’s to follow the trail of money going through there…but maybe something else is going on.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“You mean that the CIA and DIA own a bank in the Caymans?”
“I didn’t say that. All I am saying is that we’ve been ordered to leave it alone.”
“Let me ask this: What if someone used that as an opportunity to steal? Who would catch him?”
“Not sure, but presently, it’s not our problem.” His voice rose. “I’ll say it one more time: Leave it alone.”
She nodded, turned, and left his office, stunned but more determined than ever. The Cayman Islands bank had been given a get-out-of-jail-free card unlike any other.
* * * *
When Virginia left work that night, her Volvo with the University of Pennsylvania Wharton School window decal was not difficult for someone to follow.
As she fought traffic, Virginia checked the time. It had been a long day at work. Or rather, she’d made it a long day.
I need to learn to let things go. She heard her mother’s voice in her head, like a passenger who wasn’t there. Virginia also knew what Mom would say next. That particular admonition was always followed by, Or else you’ll never find a husband.
Virginia was tired and decided to stop at her small grocery store just around the corner from her apartment. They had premade salads that were unusually good. When the kitchen was bare, the store provided an easy fix. They had a north Indian–style rice salad that ranked high as
a favorite.
“Hello, Mr. Patel.” She had come in there often enough that she knew him and he knew the young professionals by their dress when they worked for the government. Those who worked with the computer contractors who had government contracts wore just about anything. And those who worked with the government had a professional look that would work in a courtroom.
“Fresh tuna today,” he said cheerily from behind the counter.
“Thank you.” She sorted through the trays of premade salad, picked one, checked its date, and turned down the aisle to the counter. As she looked up, she saw the man holding his pistol at Mr. Patel, just before bright red blood sprayed the rack of cigarettes that was just behind the counter. She didn’t hear a gunshot. The suppressor silenced the .22 caliber bullet to virtually nothing. The man had a black mask, black gloves, and a gray hoodie that covered much of the upper part of his body.
“Oh,” was her last word.
Like the professional he was, the killer needed only one shot to drop her. As she turned to retreat, the bullet went through the back of her skull at an angle. The salad fell from her hands and slid across the floor.
Chapter 33
Moscow
The phone rang in Will Parker’s room at the Arbat Six. The room was so small that he had to turn sideways to get around the bed. The ringer was loud and the sound seemed to echo off of the walls. The room had the smell of one too many cigarettes. Russia cared little with the health issues that worried much of America. More than a third of Russians smoked.
“Hello.” He made a point of answering in English.
“Yes, I am here to meet you.” She had a young voice and seemed to be struggling with her English.
“Oh, I’ll be there. “ He started to leave, but stopped as he was closing the door. He went back into the room and grabbed a small, black backpack that he had purchased in Sheremetyevo at a RegStaer duty-free shop.
Downstairs, the woman’s striking blond hair under her fur hat had clearly caught the eye of the now-smiling desk clerk. She had nearly perfect features, with a cream-colored complexion and a ruby red shade of lipstick that only made her facial features more striking.
She approached Will, standing only chest-high in her heavy parka and thick wool gloves. She took off her gloves, stood up on tiptoes, and kissed his cheek.
“It is so nice to meet you.” Her English seemed to have improved since the call upstairs. There was only the hint of an accent.
“Alina, I have been looking forward to this for some time.” Will gave her a long hug.
“Would you like to get some coffee?” She put her gloves back on. “Perhaps for us to get to know each other a little better.”
“Yes, good idea.”
Will pulled up his parka and they headed out the door.
The snow had stopped and it was a bright day with an azure-blue sky. The Lada had not moved from its spot across the street. Will noticed some movement inside the auto as they turned and walked in the opposite direction. Both the car’s roof and hood were deep in snow. The passengers might have moved, but the Lada had remained in the same place for some time.
“It is a walk, but let’s take the Arbatsko number three.” She had on tall black boots, but cut across the street as if she had a pair of running shoes on. The metro was some distance away.
“Who did you talk to?”
“Your Moncrief.” She said it over her shoulder without stopping.
“What did he say?”
“He told me he was an American Indian? Is that true? Like your movies?”
Certain he was with the correct person now, Will switched to fluent Russian.
“So, you are to be my bride?”
“Nice, huh? Perhaps you take me back with you.” She laughed at the thought.
They cut through a back alley, walked through a market, and kept moving at the same pace.
“Why?” He asked the obvious question. It wasn’t why as in Why would you go back with me? but Why are you helping?
“Why would I help an American?” She didn’t even look back. “You are not supposed to ask that question.”
“You don’t need to answer it.”
“I support Navalny.” A dissident following the only man who’d had the guts to run against Putin in recent years.
They reached an entrance with a large red sign that read Mockobcknn Metpononnteh or Moscow Metro. Will was familiar with the system. She took a long stairway down to the subway, bought tickets for both of them, and took the next train to the east. They were crammed in tightly against each other and, as the train went into the dark, she exchanged her backpack with him. The backpack he gave her was light. It contained only a few items, of which the most important one was the number of a Swiss bank account. The pack she gave Will contained the supplies he needed that would never have made it through customs.
“They’ll want to search it when you get back, so you need to leave it in a locker at the last stop. It’s a train station and they have storage.”
He knew the plan. And he knew cameras would be everywhere. It all was about risk. They took another train to another station and then went to a coffee shop.
“Do you know this stop?”
He looked at the sign. It had significance.
“This is Leningradsky?”
“Yes.”
Leningradsky was the oldest train station in Moscow. It also was the train station to Tver, a small town just outside of the city. The tracks were mainline, meaning that the fast-international trains would pass through Leningradsky, with some going to St. Petersburg and others to the border and Helsinki.
“We will go back to your room and make love.”
Will looked at her.
“You think the FSB would believe otherwise?”
He knew she was right. Their little game required that all the chips be on the table.
“Plus, you will be my first American.” She laughed again.
Afterward, she would be heard making a date for Saturday morning with her future husband. He would talk about changing his flight so that they could visit the American Embassy when it opened on Monday. When the FSB came, she would be in tears, cursing the cruel American who’d gotten her hopes up.
As she left his room that night, she whispered in Will’s ear: “Like I said before, do you think the FSB would have believed us otherwise?”
Chapter 34
Parker’s Hotel on the East Side of Moscow
The phone rang just as Will returned from seeing Alina out of the hotel. He felt his pulse go up. He looked out the window while listening on the phone. The Lada was gone. Perhaps another shift of guards would take over.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“You will be picked up today at ten.” The agent from FSB was the coordinator for his upcoming visit with Michael Ridges. His flat voice had little inflection.
“Okay.”
Will went downstairs and had a coffee with sugar and cream. He sat near the window and watched as the two agents returned in their car. They walked around the vehicle, stretching as if they were back on watch after a long, cold night, watching the entrance to the hotel.
At least they’d been busy at one point. He assumed that Alina had done a good job losing them.
Will looked at his cell phone and went back to his room. There, he used one of the burn phones to call Air France and move up his reservation a day. He also bought a second ticket under an alias of a male name.
He used the second phone to call the Russian rail service to inquire about two seats on the Tolstoy train to Helsinki. He didn’t buy any tickets. That would be done later.
The FSB agent was waiting outside of the hotel at 9:30.
Will walked out, with his Russian coat on and the hood pulled up around his head, and walked directly to the car. He had his
computer bag over his shoulder.
The ride took less than thirty minutes. During the last fifteen, he was required to wear a blindfold. The computer, however, had a program buried deep inside of it that tracked the journey via GPS.
Will closed his eyes, even under the blindfold, to feel every mile of the journey, constructing in his mind the exact path of the vehicle. It had made three turns from the highway. One road was smoother than the next, indicating a snowplowed highway. After another turn, the Lada started to hit bump after bump. Potholes. The third road curved back and forth several times as if it were winding along a watercourse. He held his hand out the window while blindfolded, feeling the shift of the wind and the warmth of the sun. He could tell when the vehicle passed through thick woods because the sunlight vanished and his hand turned cold. When the car came to a stop, Will’s memory had recorded every move, stop, and turn.
When they removed his hood, Parker saw that they had come to a small cabin overlooking a frozen lake covered in snow. His car had been pulled up to a front porch that guarded a dark, thick oak door. He looked over his shoulder and saw a small white guardhouse through the trees. A man dressed in all-white with an AK-47 stood guard.
“Hello,” Will greeted a guard who opened the door. He was in winter whites with a white fur cap marked by a metal red and gold star in the center of his hat.
The guard frisked him and looked at the computer in the bag.
“We will take this.” The FSB guard spoke clear English. It made sense that someone assigned to guard an American would be able to hear and understand anything that was said.
“Sure. At some point, I would like it back so I can take notes for the interview,” Will protested, but only mildly.
Will Parker walked into the main room of the small cabin. A fire was burning and a short-statured, pale man with glasses stood up. He looked like a college student, perhaps one working on his master’s, dressed in a red-and-black–striped flannel shirt, baggy blue jeans, and Clarks boots. He wore a small, cheap watch and his fingernails were short, as if the wear of the last few years had taken a toll on his nerves.
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