by Seeley James
Pia opened her tablet and found a snapshot of handwritten notes in what appeared to be Cyrillic on a yellow pad. A translation came with it:
Meeting with Badger, Barcelona:
Talking point – FAA falling apart because Hunter
Midair collision 3-4 weeks later
More coordinated talking points to come
Bring Sabel in by Oct or terminate
Next comm 3 weeks
In her email, Bianca pointed out that the notes were unattributed, but it was dated the day before Pozdeeva came to the US.
Pia returned her attention to the phone call. “The fact that Pozdeeva had access to this person’s notes the day before he came to see me tells me this was the catalyst for him to act. He knew what they were planning.”
“That’s a plausible theory,” Bianca said. “But it’s too early to know that for sure. He might have been stuffing everything in this drive right up until he left. We don’t know that he read this. But what about the ‘terminate’ order?”
“Nice to know someone’s going to let me breathe for another month.” Pia sighed. “Do we know who or what the code name Badger means?”
“Someone who w-w-went to the University of Wisconsin?” Tania offered.
“The Badgers,” Bianca said. “Could be. But most codenames are pulled out of a hat.”
Pia felt sick. “Roche has been complaining about the FAA ever since these notes were taken. And the midair collision happened exactly as these notes predicted. To the voters, he looks clairvoyant.”
“Yo-yo-your dad’s right, we g-g-gotta take down Roche before anyone votes for him.”
“Is this what Medevtin did?” Pia looked at Tania. “The apartment bombing? An American wouldn’t do something like that. Right?”
“Let’s s-s-shoot him.” Tania’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Just to be sure.”
“Whoa,” Bianca said. “These notes have no origin and no reference point. We can’t jump to conclusions. It doesn’t look good, but let’s not look to murder as a solution.”
Tania scowled and crossed her arms.
“Did they do this on purpose?” Pia asked. “Is there a way to cause two passenger jets to crash?”
“The investigation might tell us. But these notes indicate someone thought so.”
“How would it work?”
“I’ll have to ask our experts for theories.” Bianca thought for a moment. “Flight navigation is a simple, aging technology, point-A-to-point-B math. It’s connected to the internet because they rely on input from a variety of sources for local weather, microbursts, temporary conditions, that kind of thing. They feed the flight path into a simulator and subroutines figure out the mile-by-mile route. They automatically upload any changes needed to the airplane’s autopilot.”
“They would keep something that critical hack-proof.” Pia kept staring at the note.
“There’s no such thing as hack-proof. But, tampering with that system would leave a trail of some kind. You could do it, but you could only do it once.”
“Ilya Pozdeeva wanted us to know about this.” Pia pushed her mug away. “If only he’d lived long enough to explain it. We might’ve saved those people.”
“Y-yo-you can’t think like that,” Tania said. “It’ll d-d-drive you nuts.”
“That brings up a different question,” Bianca said. “Why did Popov wait so long to get the drive back?”
“He didn’t know about the microdots.” Pia thought through the implications. “They knew which emails Pozdeeva took in electronic form on the USB drive and didn’t worry because they were ambiguous. That’s why we never figured them out—they were there to obscure the real secrets. But later someone told them about the microdots. Which means Pozdeeva had an accomplice. And the Russians figured out who it is and caught him. If we can find him and free him, maybe he can help us—if he’s still alive.”
Tania pointed out the window. The man in the gray coat shook hands with a new man in a gray coat. “Changing of the g-g-guard.”
They ended the call.
The first man walked away. The second man, short and wiry, looked at their window, pulled out a newspaper, and occupied the park bench.
“We have to go,” Pia said. “The limo’s not coming.”
“Which i-i-is a very bad sign for your s-s-safety.” Tania shrugged. “But I’m n-n-never going to talk you o-ou-out of walking, am I?”
They shouldered their bags with a flourish meant to be seen from outside despite the late afternoon glare. Exiting the front door, they took a left and marched down the side street. Halfway down the block, they found an open gate leading to a parking area.
Tania backed to one side of the gate where she would be obscured when it opened. Pia waited until she heard their shadow’s clicking footsteps on the cobblestone sidewalk. When he slowed to peer into the gate, she walked away, her back to him, and slipped around a corner at the far end.
He followed her at a quicker pace, closing fast.
Pia turned into a dead-end walkway and waited for him. When he came around the corner, she threw her forearm under his chin, slamming him against the wall. Surprised, he wrenched himself free, only to find Tania scowling over her pistol sights. He raised his hands.
Pia relieved him of a GSh-18 handgun, hunting knife, passport, keys, and wallet. The wallet had a few rubles and a license in Cyrillic. She dropped the items on the ground and rifled through more of his pockets. She patted him down and found a pocket pistol, brass knuckles, and a phone in hidden pockets. Using it to dial a Sabel Technology phone number, she uploaded a copy of the man’s phone to their central system. While it sent data upstream, she picked up the passport.
She stepped into his personal space, towering over him. “Mr. Ivanov, what do you want?”
She handed over his passport.
He gave her an ice-cold stare and said nothing.
“If you don’t answer,” Pia said, “I have to assume your assignment is to kill me. Since I’m not in the mood to lose my life, I’ll kill you first. So, last chance: what do you want?”
Ivanov said nothing.
Pia aimed his own gun at his groin. “Who sent you? What did they ask you to do?”
He covered his genitals. “I am to report if you call a taxi.”
“From the pub?”
He nodded.
She held his keys up and jingled them. “You give us a lift to the airport, and I’ll let you report.”
He reached for the keys.
Pia snatched them back. “Tania drives. You ride in back with me and answer some questions.”
A quick walk took them to his parked car.
Inside and underway, Pia held the muzzle to his kneecap. “What happened to the limo driver we hired?”
“Arrested.”
“Who ordered you to follow me?”
Ivanov chewed the inside of his cheek and stared at the passenger-side headrest.
She moved the barrel an inch, just under his knee, and fired. Exhaust gasses burned his pants and probably his skin. He gritted his teeth and breathed deeply.
“You’re a tough guy.” She ejected a round for effect. “I get that. But talk now, and you can explain the broken nose as the result of a sudden stop. But how will you explain shooting yourself in the knee with your own gun—twice?”
Ivanov gritted his teeth and pursed his lips, anticipating the pain.
“One last chance.” She raised the weapon to his kneecap. “Who ordered you to follow me?”
He exhaled. “FSB. You will be detained.”
Tania cranked the wheel and drifted into a side street. She downshifted, floored the little car, and made the next right, tires squealing.
Pia yanked Ivanov to the floor and bent over him, keeping both of them below the seatbacks. Tania kept up her aggressive turns, racing forward.
“You’re a local cop?” she asked.
He grunted, too compressed for regular speech.
“This d-d-dork was supposed
to detain us until the FSB arrives?” Tania asked. The car slid sideways again, on a longer trajectory this time. “You c-c-can dump him now.”
Pia opened the door as Tania slowed to school-zone speed. She shoved Ivanov onto the airport tarmac and let him roll. Tania sped up again and skidded to a stop in front of the Sabel jet. They bounded up the airstair and closed the door behind them.
The jet began taxiing.
Pia and Tania panted their adrenaline and high-fived each other in the galley.
“Good evening, Pia.” Dad’s voice brought her head up.
Alan Sabel sat in a chair at the forward table. A glass pitcher of lemonade and bottle of vodka sat on the table in front of him. Three glasses filled with ice waited.
Pia slid into the chair opposite him, Tania next to her.
As the wheels lifted off, he raised the bottle. Two fingers of Stolichnaya Elit Himalayan Edition tumbled into each glass. “Made with Himalayan water and Russian winter wheat. No one comes close to the Russian’s expertise in alcohol. Combined with Meyer lemons for the lemonade, you have the finest refreshing end-of-summer cocktail.”
She took her glass and held it up for a toast. Tania raised hers.
Alan lifted his and said, “Here’s to making Finnish airspace before the Russians shoot us down.”
CHAPTER 10
Outside my front door, a voice shouted something about police. I staggered forward in my robe, still exhausted from my nocturnal wanderings. Anoshni barked like a demon. I told him to sit. He obeyed.
Mercury stood in front of the door with his hands up. For the record, bro, I did not advise you to invade the diplomatic enclave of a nuclear power. I told you Viktor gave you a clue on the microdots. The rest was you tripping.
I pushed him aside and pulled the door open. A flash of midday sunshine hit me like a brick in the face. A round-faced man in a suit held an ID in my face. After a squint, I made out that he was a DC detective named Eddie Harris. Behind him stood my old frenemy, Montgomery County Detective Czajkowski.
“Any relation to Eddie Harris, the king of soul-jazz saxophone?” I asked.
He frowned. Not only no relation, the man had no idea what his namesake had done for improvisational jazz in the sixties. He reorganized himself and opened his mouth to speak.
CJ jumped him. “Harris is investigating an embassy invasion.”
Harris glared over his shoulder at his local counterpart.
“Just letting him know,” CJ said. “In case he’s wondering who’s going to be arresting him.”
“Do you have any evidence to warrant an arrest?” Harris asked. When CJ looked away, he continued, “Let’s not be escalating things here.”
CJ nodded.
Harris turned to me. “May we come in? I’d like to ask your professional opinion on something.”
He held up a laptop and handed over my newspaper.
I checked the Post’s headlines. “Holy shit, #HuntersFail? 365 dead? Worst air disaster since Tenerife and—”
“Been all over the news, Stearne,” CJ snarled. “Where you been?”
Harris tossed another hairy eyeball at him, then gestured inside.
I ushered them into the kitchen and seated them at my breakfast table. “Coffee?”
“Kind of late for that, isn’t it?” CJ asked.
“I’d love me some.” Harris smiled a little gratitude.
I put the kettle on and joined them at the table.
Harris set up his laptop and started a video. A black-clad figure flitted between buildings, an assault rifle slung over body armor, a pistol in his hand.
“Do you recognize this man?” Harris asked.
“Do you have any close-ups of this person’s face?” I asked.
“He’s about your height.”
“So that’s a ‘no’ on the face?”
“He’s wearing what looks like body armor.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say. And to me, it looks like Sabel body armor.”
I reached over his wrist and paused it on a full-frame view of the intruder and pointed at the screen. “Sabel armor doesn’t have a Nike swoosh on it.”
Both detectives looked at the swoosh as if seeing it for the first time.
Mercury stood between them pumping a fist in the air. Hey homie, who’s an awesome god now, huh? Who told you to slip a Nike shirt over your armor? C’mon, bro—props!
The kettle whistle started building up. I got up, folded a cone filter into my Chemex coffee maker, ground some beans, and put them in. I called over the growing whistle, “Do you have a head shot?”
“He wore a balaclava,” Harris said.
I poured in steaming water. “Let’s see.”
Coffee pot in hand, I filled the filter and let it drip. I rejoined them at the table. Harris teed up a clip, paused it, zoomed in, and pointed.
“Quite a chin on that guy,” I said.
Both detectives snapped their eyes to the screen as if seeing the significant chin for the first time.
CJ looked up at me, then at the picture, then at me. He reached over and clicked fast forward to a different camera angle. My eyes were shielded by night vision glasses styled by Oakley. Standard-issue for Sabel agents, but indistinguishable from common Oakley safety glasses. CJ compared the still frame to my face. After three takes, he pushed the laptop away and let out a sigh.
I pulled the Chemex filter and put it in the trash, returning with two coffee mugs. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”
“This guy—” Harris pointed at the screen while nodding thanks and taking his cup “—broke into the Russian Embassy last night and shot Viktor Popov in the leg. Popov claims you’re the man. Are you?”
I looked surprised. “Someone shot the guy who broke into my house last night and stole my dog?”
Both detectives nodded then glanced at Anoshni. My puppy did his accomplice-look: you can trust us.
“You mean someone did exactly what you told me to do?” I looked at CJ.
Harris gave CJ the once over. “Say what?”
“Oh. Hey, look, that was a joke. It was late, he called my cell.” CJ’s eyes bounced back and forth between us. “Wait a second. He’s avoiding the question.”
Harris turned his questioning gaze back to me.
“So, karma is a real thing then, eh?” I poured myself a cup, took a sip, and leaned back. “That must be terribly embarrassing for a country calling itself a superpower to have a break-in and assault like that.” I shook my head in dismay. “Think they’re grasping at straws?”
“The reason for our visit,” Harris said, “is to get your professional opinion as former special ops, Commando, Delta Force, whatever you were. Who could pull this off and how do we find him?”
I gave them my full soldier-stare. It’s the stare that comes from facing certain death for days on end and leaving behind nothing but vanquished enemies and all remorse.
After they flinched, I said, “It looks to me like your perpetrator stuffed his balaclava with toilet paper to throw off facial mapping software. You know the difference between toilet paper and regular tissues? Toilet paper dissolves in water. When you flush it, it’s gone. After that, I imagine, he would’ve ditched his outer layer, one piece at a time, in various public trash cans that are on the morning pickup route. And—again, just guessing—he would’ve re-bored his pistol to change the ballistics profile.”
Harris looked at CJ and CJ looked at him. Harris leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Jacob, do you own the tools needed to alter the bore of a pistol?”
“I do. Lots of gun enthusiasts and many veterans have them. A lot of guys make a little extra cash doing it for others. They’re available on the open market. I can refer you to some of the better tool makers if you’re looking to open a side business.”
Harris nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You saying there would be no way to trace the perpetrator?”
“I don’t know much about police work, detective. I’m j
ust saying the evidence trail might be thin. You make judgment calls every day about which crimes need to be solved and which don’t. Thin evidence trails or thick trails—which one looks better on your record? If I were you, I’d punt this case. Besides, isn’t a diplomatic mission some kind of sovereign territory? Was any crime committed in your jurisdiction?”
“Embassy grounds are outside my territory. But we try to help when assistance is requested.” Harris looked at Anoshni again. The puppy cocked his head and gave him the look. Harris closed the laptop and stood up. “Glad to see your dog found his way home. Thanks for the coffee.”
CJ pursed his lips and gave me the meanest glare he’d given me to date. He rose and stuck his index finger in my face.
Harris grabbed CJ’s finger before he could say anything.
“International incidents are a sticky business.” Harris handed me a business card. “Strange things happen between foreign diplomats and US citizens. Maybe they’re lashing out like you said. But it’s not a case I’m going to drop. I’ll find the evidence I need, and I’ll put this guy in jail.”
He gave me his professional detective stare. It was pretty good. He’s stared down more than a few criminals in his day. Maybe even a killer or two. But it’s not the same as facing down hundreds of men who believe—from deep in their marrow—that they’re doing God’s work.
Harris blinked first.
He yanked CJ and they let themselves out. I waved goodbye and shut the door.
Mercury said, You might have fooled Harris and CJ, but reality check: you declared war on a great humanitarian who has plenty of covert operators at his command. You ready for this?
I said, Bring it.
“You shot Viktor Popov?” Emily’s voice came from behind me.
Spitting my coffee, I spun around. “That does not get into print.”
One of my dress shirts covered what I suspected was a naked body. I spun away. “Whoa. You spent the night?”
