by Seeley James
I pictured the three of them in Roche’s library. Chuck Roche looked like an old lunch sack taped together with willpower. He wasn’t a guy to mess with, though; people who knew him claimed he’d blow up your life if you crossed him. President Hunter reminded me of a Roman statue, her broken and weathered marble held together with foundation and lipstick. Her yearbook probably had her tagged as, “most likely to start a war just to get reelected.” David Watson was a short, angry man with a grey crew cut and a colossal Napoleon complex who blamed the failure of his FBI career on everyone around him.
I backed up the recordings of the co-conspirators and caught up with where I left off. The audio had a gap before Bianca switched everything to the cloud. In that break, something major had happened between the three schemers. Their voices strained just short of yelling.
Hunter was in the middle of a sentence. “…sell all your refineries, investments, everything.”
Roche said, “I won’t have to sell anything after I’m elected. What’re they going to do, un-elect me? So what if I take investment capital from companies like Santalum? No one’s ever heard of it, much less who owns it.”
“You’re dreaming if you think you can take over the Republican Party two weeks before the convention, Chuck.” Hunter sounded confused. “Teddy VII has the nomination wrapped up.”
She was talking about Teddy Roosevelt VII, a guy who believed in family dynasties.
“I’ve got that handled.”
“You’ll get your ass kicked by the press,” Hunter said. “You’ll look like a fool in the debates. Why endure the humiliation?”
“Someone has to clean up the country, and you’re not getting the job done.” Roche’s volume nearly blew out the mic. He brought it down a notch. “I’ll bring sound business principles to the table. I’ll clean up all these damned treaties and sanctions and regulations. I could run this country with my eyes closed. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. My word is good.”
Hunter sounded angry. “I don’t want the Supreme Court.”
“Yeah. I know what you want.” Roche scoffed. “Forget it.”
Watson chimed in quickly. “You’re forgetting Sabel.”
“The hell I am.” Roche didn’t tone it down for his lackey. “We need her. We’ll get her onboard. I’ll promise her funding for foster care—whatever stupid charity she’s crying about this week.”
“You want to bring her onboard?” Hunter was screeching now. “What does Pia Sabel have that you need?”
Roche blasted back. “She has a hundred million bucks to spend.”
“Hey,” Hunter said. “She’s giving that to my campaign.”
“Wrong,” Roche shouted. “She was going to give it to Maddox, not you. Good thing those terrorists took him out. Saved the country from holding hands and singing campfire songs for four years—like a bunch of losers. You’ve got nothing to offer her. I can make her the Secretary of Education or something. Hell, why not? No one cares about that shit.”
Hunter said, “The Senate will never confirm someone without a career—”
“That’s why you’re a failure,” Roche barked. “You don’t know how to make deals.”
“Bad idea, boss.” Watson sounded like he was cowering in a corner. “Sabel’s a time bomb. She finds out what we did and she’ll—”
“She won’t do anything to a candidate or a president. She’d never do anything that would hurt her precious little country. As long as we win, we’re safe.” Roche dropped his voice to a whisper I could barely hear. “If she doesn’t get onboard, you’ll be inside her organization. You take care of it for us. You have more reason than the rest of us to kill her.”
“Uh.”
“How did the interview go?” Roche asked.
“She liked me.” Watson backed off. “I think. She offered me the job anyway.”
“Well,” Hunter snapped. “Whatever happens, I insist you do nothing to harm Pia.”
“I would never hurt her.” Roche lied like the salesman who sold me my last car. “That’s just our last resort. Don’t get hung up on her. She’s young and naïve. I’ll convince her. Easy.”
“OK, then.” Hunter sounded satisfied.
There was some crosstalk I couldn’t decipher. Then Watson broke out in a panic.
“You guys are underestimating her.” Watson’s voice rose. “She’ll never stop coming after us. Our only option is to infiltrate Sabel Security and kill her—now.”
Roche blew a gasket. The windows rattled with his bellowing. “How many times do I have to tell you two? I’m bringing her inside the campaign. She’ll come around. But, just in case, you need to be close to her.”
There was a long silence in the recording. I checked my phone twice to make sure it hadn’t disconnected.
The voices picked up again with President Hunter, her voice low. “What if I win?”
Roche: “Have you seen your approval ratings? Not a chance.”
Hunter started to object, but Roche and Watson laughed over her. The noises in the room indicated they were moving toward the exit. Pleasantries were extended in muffled voices. Social-laughter followed a few attempts at humor. Ha ha heh.
The last thing audible was Roche: “Work your way into her inner circle. Don’t make me regret picking you, Watson.”
Back in the real world, three teenage girls were oohing over Anoshni. He was eating it up with his nose in the air as they stroked his back. Not bad work if you can get it.
I texted Ms. Sabel. “Do not hire David Watson under any circumstances.”
A second later, she texted back. “He starts Monday.”
CHAPTER 2
Major Yuri Belenov bowed his head and averted his eyes in the general’s office in Kaliningrad. He didn’t need to look at the old man’s vodka-reddened face to know what was coming.
“You’re not happy with my orders?” The general, known by his codename, Strangelove, rose to his feet. “Your little banda is nothing but criminals. The others are full of soldiers. Real soldiers. Men who know how to follow orders and do what they’re told without having therapy every five minutes.”
Yuri interjected as Strangelove kept ranting. “I always respect and obey your orders, sir.”
“I warned you that bunch would never do anything important, and now you come to me begging for bigger assignments.”
Yuri longed to push his earbuds in and crank up the jazz on his phone, tune the old man out. “Respectfully, sir, my banda has proven itself. That is all I meant to say.”
“There are words we say, and there are messages within our words.” Strangelove shook a meaty finger at Yuri. “I know what you’re trying to say.”
Yuri bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from speaking. Long past retirement, the general was shaped like a pear with a ring of white hair around a shiny bald spot. He gave the impression there was little fire left in him.
“You are nothing, Yuri.” The old man waddled out from behind his desk. “There are many ambitious young men in the GRU. Men who work hard and ask nothing. You are not so special.”
“I understand, sir.” Yuri dipped his head.
“These message boards, they are a waste of time for time wasters.”
“Social media is not the same as message boards, sir.” When the general didn’t object, Yuri took a deep breath and charged ahead. “We kept Sweden out of NATO. We played an important role in Brexit.”
“So you say.” Strangelove pushed past him and crossed to the window. “Where are the hard facts? How many died? Who suffered? Does anyone live in fear of you?”
The old man clasped his hands behind his back and looked out of his top floor window in the Informatsionny Tsentr. The general reminded Yuri of a garage mechanic who never learned fuel injection, a man out of synch with his era.
“Minds have been swayed.” Yuri kept his cool. “Voters have gone to the polls. There are no numbers, but the results—”
“Your reports are empty, and you ask fo
r more work?”
“I ask only how we can best serve our country.” Leaning to the side, Yuri tried to glimpse the old man’s face.
The boss kept staring out at Kaliningrad’s skyline without a reply.
Finally, Strangelove said, “What is it you think you deserve, Yuri? My job?”
Yuri fought the urge to say yes.
“There are powerful people close to the Kremlin who like your little project.” The general shrugged. “If it were up to me, I would shut it down, give your work to the other bandas. Why spend so much time and effort on these stupid little posts?”
“It is more powerful to control a mind than to kill it, sir.”
“Hate controls people. Fear controls people. We made them hate and fear Muslims by blowing up apartment buildings.” The old man turned and waved off Yuri’s objection. “Can you do the hard things? When your country calls on you, can you do whatever is necessary for the Motherland?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Even if it hurts your beloved America?”
“I only studied there,” Yuri said. “On the orders of my commander at the time. I gathered intelligence and—”
“You eat their greasy hamburgers. You listen to their jungle music. You’ve given up Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky.”
Yuri bowed. It was true; American jazz called to him when he first set foot on Columbia’s campus. He never touched his oboe or listened to Russian composers again. When he returned to his military career, no one—except Strangelove—noticed the change. Isolated in Norway as he and his banda evaded detection from cybersecurity experts, he had become even more Westernized. Most of the men in his banda were the same, often leading him to forget the fierce pride and nationalism of his fellow Russians.
“I may have an assignment that will further your career.” The old man stepped close. “Something that might suit your hackers.”
Yuri could barely contain his swelling pride. Strangelove had always been a difficult commanding officer. There were no privileges, no favored officers, no easy assignments in his operation. Any failure could end a career. Being considered for a high-profile assignment was the closest Yuri had come to a nod of approval from the aging general.
“These will be difficult tasks.” Strangelove glared. “Risky, dangerous missions for bold men, not cowards. Does that bother you? Are you afraid?”
“Not with your guidance, sir.”
“Your English skills will help you.” The general sighed. “You know the USA fairly well.”
“Thank you, sir.” Yuri nodded and kept his gaze on the floor.
“When you get them, you will memorize my orders—then destroy them. No traces.” The old man looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Some Americans might die. That is my problem, not yours.” He turned and grabbed Yuri’s shoulders like a father. “My mother had a proverb: you need a sharp ax for a tough bough. You are my ax, Yuri. Are you sharp enough?”
Yuri’s mother also had a proverb: a fly will not get into a closed mouth. He nodded.
Strangelove stepped back to his chair. The spring creaked and the cushion whooshed and he turned to his computer screen. He glanced at Yuri once more before scanning his email. He leaned forward to read one and typed. “Something bothers you. What is it?”
“When angered, the Americans stop at nothing to destroy their enemies.” Yuri shrugged. “My team understands Georgia. We understand Sweden and Scotland, Europe and the Middle East. But why antagonize America?”
“Why do you think my orders will antagonize America?”
“You said some people might—”
“Your banda makes up these little—” Strangelove waved his hand in the air “—conspiracy theories. People have noticed your proficiency at getting Americans to believe them. The orders to keep generating those ridiculous ‘memes’ remain in place.” The old man paused for effect. “We have a new opportunity in American politics. We are going to help our friends there. Your new orders will come from Director Popov.”
Yuri tried and failed to contain his surprise. Victor Popov, Strangelove’s boss, was just the man Yuri wanted to impress. He noticed Strangelove’s knowing smirk.
“I will endeavor to achieve the greatest results.” Yuri saluted.
“I’m sure you will.” Strangelove batted away his words with intentional cynicism. “Popov is my kind of leader. We prefer the old ways: blow up bridges, shoot down airplanes, make accidents in factories. These bullshit social media campaigns are the ideas of strutting young peacocks like Yeschenko, Gazinski, and Shishkin.”
Yuri noted the name of the oligarch Yeschenko among the Kremlin’s SVR generals. He said, “Americans perceive deaths of their citizens as an attack on their country.”
“Americans.” Strangelove tsked. “They are so stupid they have to write ‘open here’ on their milk cartons.” Strangelove finished another email. He faced Yuri and scratched the nasty scar that ran from his ear to his collar.
“You’re worried they will destroy us like Iraq?” He laughed. “They do descend like the Baba Yaga.” He turned back to his screen. “Then you must work like the Viet Cong or the Mujahideen. Don’t let them find you.”
“You can count on me, sir.”
“This will be a highly sensitive assignment.” Strangelove did not look up. “You will be tested as the defenders of Stalingrad were tested in the Great Patriotic War. You will be responsible for making sure your banda does not get cold feet. No one will speak about the mission. Not even to their girlfriends. It takes only one man to destroy an important mission. Eliminate the weak before they infect the others. Now get back to your office, wherever it is, and play with your virals.”
CHAPTER 3
Pia Sabel watched players practicing on a summer afternoon in Washington, DC. Her phone buzzed in her hand. She sent the call to voicemail without a glance.
She felt the longing she so often fought. She wanted to be back on the grass, chasing a ball, pushing past defenders to send in a cross to her forward. At twenty-six, she could easily play for another ten years. Life had been simpler when she played for her country in the Olympics and World Cup. The rules were clear; the skills were practiced, the players civil. At least, some players.
Pia smiled and let her mind wander back to the first foul language that ever assaulted her young ears. Playing for her future high school while still in sixth grade, she’d tried to weave around the other team’s sweeper, who was a slower but massive senior. A hip check from the girl sent Pia sliding across the grass on her butt. “Don’t come back,” the defender yelled. “Ya fuckin’ punk.”
Pia came right back—only to be knocked on her ass again. Then a third time. And a fourth. On the fifth, she nutmegged the senior, leapt the girl’s outstretched leg and launched the ball over the keeper’s reaching glove and into the upper corner.
That was the language she preferred: actions over words.
The executive office she’d left an hour earlier was a foreign land to her. It was all words: analyses, reports, synergies, metrics, excuses, results—words, words, words. Business is a game of lies and secrets and half-truths and circumstances. Soccer is a game of actions: attempts, successes, and failures.
Her adopted father, Alan Sabel, had built an international conglomerate that ranged from technology and satellites to security and finance. Money poured out of the company coffers and into her hands like an overflowing fountain. She had no idea what to do with it. All it meant to her was the chance to improve a few lives. Today was one of those chances. She intended to block out the business world and relive her passion for just a few minutes. On the field before her, the inner-city team she sponsored played a practice game. Her heart ran with them.
Charnay, center mid, struggled to get ahead of the competition. Tired and angry, she committed foul after foul.
Pia kicked off her business flats and ran onto the grass in her pantsuit. She pulled up to Charnay’s shoulder. “Stop trying to score. They know you’re the power
on the field. They’re double-teaming you. Keep the ball, draw the defenders, and pass when your teammates are open. Play only for name on the front of your jersey, not the back.”
The ball came to Charnay. Pia grabbed her shoulder as the high school senior began to run.
“Don’t look at the goal—look at your options.” Pia pointed left and right where the opposing team’s players ran. “Who’s open?” Then in a whisper. “Fake, and when she lunges, fake a second time, so her backup also lunges. Look left, then pass to the right.”
Charnay did precisely what the retired star of the national team told her. She turned upfield, dribbling into a row of defenders who crowded around her. Just before they closed her down, she passed to her wide-open midfielder.
Pia admired her work for a moment as the action moved to the other end of the pitch. It made her wonder if her boyfriend’s children—since he’d suddenly acquired a family—would play soccer. But then, what did she know about toddlers? Or, more to the point, was Stefan still her boyfriend?
Pia sighed at the question and jogged back to the sidelines.
Agent Miguel waited for her with a stern look. The tall Navajo handed her a phone.
Halfway into the first syllable of Pia’s greeting, Bianca Dominguez interrupted her. “A man named Pozdeeva has been frantic to get hold of you, flaca. Something just came up, and I think you should meet him. Our people who monitor passport control for the NSA picked up Pozdeeva’s arrival in DC. He’s a Russian national. Several FSB officers on that same flight turned around and immediately flew back to Moscow.”
Pia watched as Charnay repeated her lesson. Again, she drew three defenders and crossed to her forward. “Sounds like spy stuff. Why would I be involved?”
“I don’t know.” Bianca lowered her voice to scolding-mode. “But your assistant says you’ve been ignoring calls from Director Shikowitz all afternoon.”
Ignoring the FBI director was not a good thing. Especially since he had been a lifetime friend of her father.
