by Seeley James
“The way you bolted out of here at three in the morning, I figured you’d need an alibi.” She stuffed a wad of clothes in a grocery bag. “Bianca’s picking me up in five. Can I get a cup to go?”
“You’re wearing my shirt.” I grabbed a paper cup from the stash I keep for scrambling out on missions.
She winked. “Jealousy sex is the best kind.”
“No way,” I pleaded. “You are not putting me in the middle of your … indecision.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you were a perfect gentleman—but not until after.” She took the coffee and gave me a peck on my stunned cheek. “Ciao.”
She swished her way to the front door and out into the warm sun. I slammed and locked the door behind her.
Mercury blocked my return trip to the kitchen. Vulcan and Mars are laying ten to one odds the Russians come in and slit your throat tonight. My money’s on Bianca killing you first. Let me see now. He tapped his chin and looked at the ceiling. How would a math genius, tech-geek go about it? Reprogram your car and drive you off a bridge? That’d be fun to watch.
I moved left. He swayed to block me.
I said, Anyone ever tell you, you look just like Will Smith?
Don’t be talking smack. Will Smith looks like me because I fashioned him from clay. I taught him how to rap. I gave him his big break. And what did that ingrate do? Turned to Scientology. Scientology! They don’t even have a god. Holy Vesta, Earthlings are going to drive me to drink.
Kasey Earl, my favorite rapist, called. I slid around Mercury and answered.
“I got something solid, Jacob.” He giggled. “I got something you don’t even know you need to know.”
“What did you find?”
“No way, dude. I meet Pia Sabel face to face. I tell her. Not you.”
“Not happening. She’s a busy woman. If you want a meeting, you give me a reason why.”
I could hear the squirrel that powers Kasey’s brain running on his squeaky little wheel. “It’s about Roche Security payroll from way back. I’m not looking for a job no more. With this information, she’s going to pay me loads of cash.”
He clicked off the call. The weasel had grown a pair in the last few weeks. Maybe he really did have something.
I packed a duffel, grabbed a dog dish and a bag of dog food and tossed everything in the car. On the drive, I couldn’t get Emily out of my head. I’d been searching for a life-partner and soul-mate for years and, so far, had come up empty. She has the perfect soulmate descend from heaven, ask for her hand in marriage—and she freaks out. Do we ever recognize happiness when we see it?
Mercury appeared in the front seat. See? Now that’s what I’m talking about, right there, homie. All y’all humans don’t appreciate shit. We give you this, and we give you that—and when do we hear from you? When your kid gets cancer. Not a minute sooner. It’s always ‘Why do the gods do bad things to good people?’ Well y’know what? Y’all ain’t no kind of ‘good people’. We keep them on a different planet.
I said, You mean, we’re living in hell?
Mercury said, For every dollar you spend on the military—to kill each other—you spend fourteen cents on making your children smarter. If that isn’t hell, what is?
I said, I quit my second year of college to go kill people.
Mercury said, I rest my case. But as long as they’re the people who need killing, I’m down with you, bro.
A few minutes later, Miguel stood in his doorway and looked us over like we had Ebola. “You declare war on Russia and want to make your last stand at my place?”
“What are friends for?” I ducked under the big guy’s arm and put Anoshni’s dish on the kitchen floor. “Hey, if I asked you to marry me, would you get all weird about it?”
Wow. Sometimes thoughts sound different when you say them out loud.
“Maybe you should stay over at Dhanpal’s.” Miguel’s nose curled. “Wait, is this about Bianca and Emily?”
“How did you know about them?”
“She slid over here last night.” He leaned against the kitchen island.
Mercury mimicked his posture. Ouch, homes. She took her questioning-my-sexuality to the big Indian first? That’s gotta hurt.
I said, Doesn’t matter. He didn’t take advantage of her.
Mercury said, How do you know?
I did a double-take at Miguel.
“What?” He gave me a skeptical glance. “No. Of course not. Bianca would kill me.”
My phone rang. When I answered, Viktor Popov’s accent assaulted my ear. “Maybe little policemans believe you. But my men find you.”
CHAPTER 11
Yuri looked up and down the concrete hallway of the crusty, sparse building in Kaliningrad to make sure they were alone. He tried Strangelove’s office door. Locked. Pulling a set of picks from his jacket, he steadied his hands and took a knee. After a brief look, he began feeling his way inside the old-fashioned tumblers.
“Are you crazy?” Vasili whispered, his head swiveling left and right. “Strangelove will kill you.”
“We need to know. That outweighs the risks.” Yuri stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Think about it. We killed 365 Americans. They will stop at nothing to find us. Worse, what evidence do we have that he gave the order? Our lives are at stake here, Vasili. Knowledge is the best protection.”
“We are soldiers. They owe us no explanation.”
In Vasili’s reticence, Yuri could see the downside to Russian Avos’: a superstitious resignation in the face of enormous problems. “Igor raised a perfectly good question: what have we done? We will have to answer for it sooner or later.”
“This is a bad idea.”
Yuri ignored him. He felt the third tumbler click. One more. Why did it always look so easy in the movies? The last one clicked over. He opened the door. “Take watch. Go to the toilet and back. Text me if he shows up. Remember, he’ll kill you too.”
Yuri slipped around the door and closed it quietly behind him. He waited, knowing Vasili could agonize about things for hours. When he finally heard the lieutenant march away, he relaxed and began his search. On the desk were a few papers and a photograph of an old woman who could be the poster lady for babushkas from the Baltic to the Bering Strait.
He flipped the keyboard over and removed the backing. The small proximity keystroke logger came out easily. He plugged it into his laptop and retrieved Strangelove’s password: 0503Stalin53. The day, month, and year Stalin died and, coincidentally, Strangelove’s birthday. Classic. Yuri could’ve guessed it if he thought about it long enough.
He logged on.
Strangelove’s email was empty. Nothing in the inbox. Nothing in the sent file. Nothing in the trash. Nothing in junk or spam or anywhere else. That wasn’t right. Was the old man that concerned about security that he wiped everything when he went to lunch? Yuri logged off quickly and wiped his fingerprints from the board. There had to be some explanation. He had received almost daily emails and texts from Strangelove.
He rose and stepped to the window. For all the ugliness of Soviet architecture, they knew where to place a window. Across the muddy river flowing below him, the fourteenth-century Königsberg Cathedral rose in red-brick glory. The Prussian masterpiece stood for six hundred years until one night in World War II—when a hundred children sought refuge in it—British bombers demolished their church and their souls. Strangelove had made a point of that story on their first meeting.
The old general was always telling stories. The old man reminded Yuri of his uncle—closing in on retirement, passing on the wisdom of his years. The endless prattle of the washed-up and soon-to-be-forgotten. Strangelove’s time was over. He should step aside.
Vasili texted, “Strangelove coming.”
Yuri scurried from the office and closed the door behind him. He took the bench opposite and opened an ereader on his phone. The pounding of the old man’s weight echoed down the hall. Yuri rose to attention and saluted.
St
rangelove gave him his typical stern glance, waved off the formality, and unlocked his door. He stopped, one hand on the knob. “Where is that lieutenant of yours?”
“Toilet.”
The general glanced down the hall and shrugged. He went in, gesturing for Yuri to follow. He sat at his desk and scratched the scar that ran down his neck. He gestured for Yuri to sit in front of him.
“You are to be congratulated.” Strangelove leaned back. “Your banda did quite well with #HuntersFail. Have your men gotten over their concerns?”
Yuri looked over his shoulder at the door, then back to Strangelove, then leaned forward. “For the most part. But I’m concerned there are lingering doubts they are not voicing in front of me. What is your advice?”
Strangelove nodded slowly while thinking. He crossed his arms and stroked his chin. “I suppose Alexi was a self-appointed saint and that his fate was not as random as it would seem.”
Yuri shrugged.
“And yet others are concerned?” Strangelove asked.
“There was a great loss of life. The Americans were outraged and have been searching for our tools. We covered our tracks well, nonetheless …”
“What are the signs?”
“My men read American news sites. Follow the investigations with alerts and popups.”
“Remorse is a serious problem.” Strangelove rose and paced to the windows. “Soldiers cannot allow it. You will talk to them. Get it out in the open—American style. Listen to them, agree with them, argue with them, then turn them toward the future.”
“Very good, General. ‘American style.’ I like it. They will like it.” Yuri paused and stroked his beard in thought. “‘American style’ to them means understanding the bigger picture. What should I tell them? What is the value of this mission to the Motherland?”
Strangelove shrugged. “Someone wants to play a part in the American election.”
“Why? How would that affect us?”
Vasili opened the door a crack, poked his head in, and knocked.
Strangelove waved him in and returned his gaze to the cathedral. “Your major wants to know why the Kremlin wants to mess with the Americans. You tell him, Vasili.”
Vasili looked to Yuri, who shrugged.
Vasili cleared his throat. “I would not be so bold as to guess the motives of my superiors.”
The general turned slowly with a wry smile and shook his finger at Vasili. “You are Trotsky’s New Soviet Man. You know that? Selfless, learned, healthy, and enthusiastic. Not like Nietzsche’s romantic fatalists who lay down to die. You will go far.” He turned back to the window. “Ah, we would still be Soviets united in the collective struggle if more men thought like you.”
Gray clouds rolled across the sky. Yuri and Vasili shared a glance. No one spoke for an awkwardly long time.
Strangelove inhaled a long, tired breath. “An old problem from the past has arisen. I need trustworthy men to rid me of this problem. New Soviet men like you and Vasili.”
Yuri glanced at Vasili before answering. “You can count on us, sir.”
“I count on my ’89 Lada. I drive it every day even though I must rebuild every moving part each year.” Strangelove faced them, his face warm with romantic nostalgia. “It gets me to work, and sometimes it gets me home.”
They chuckled respectfully.
“My car was still new when I first met Alan Sabel. I thought we were through with him many years ago. This month, calls have come in from contacts in Cyprus, Barcelona, and Luxembourg. He is digging into things. Old things he should leave alone. He is meddling in our efforts to aid the American election. These things are none of his concern.” He leaned against the window casing and faced them. “Twenty years ago, I could read Alan Sabel’s emails. He discovered our hacks and changed his system. Since then, nothing. Every day we try to get in, nothing. He left us alone. We left him alone. Years went by.
“Now he’s attacking us. One of his men shot our cultural attaché in Washington. Sabel has become aggressive and dangerous. He could testify against our favorite candidate in court, which would be his word against the word of others. But if he finds any proof, we would be in great jeopardy. We believe one of our people gave him that proof. He could sink years of work. We need to eliminate him.”
“We will take care of him, sir,” Yuri said.
Strangelove laughed in his face. “You know the old proverb: do not praise yourself going into battle; only coming out.”
Vasili said, “He meant we will do our best, sir.”
“Come here, Yuri. I want to show you something.” The old man raised an encircling arm.
Yuri stepped under it and felt a patriarchal embrace as the arm tightened around his shoulder.
“You see that cathedral? You know what happened there. But those children were far from Berlin or Moscow. They had nothing to do with the war. Ah, so sad. The children put their faith in those ancient bricks only to be sacrificed at the whim of political powers far away. Be careful where you put your faith, Yuri.”
Yuri heard the distinct snick of a switchblade opening. He felt the oddly-painless incision between his ribs followed by the sound of air escaping his lung. An instant later the pain arrived at his brain. He faced the old man but couldn’t summon a breath to question, why?
Strangelove’s cold, remorseless eyes watched him as he gasped for air.
The general held up a proximity keystroke logger identical to Yuri’s. He turned to Vasili. “Unless you want to be sacrificed at the whim of political powers far away, get him to a doctor. If you want to live another month, make sure Sabel does not. Three weeks. Plenty of time.”
CHAPTER 12
“You g-g-guys know how to flee in style.” Tania slurped her vodka lemonade as the Sabel jet roared west, high above Helsinki.
Alan sipped his drink and smiled.
“I had the meeting under control, Dad.” Pia tilted her glass toward her father for a refill. “You didn’t need to show up and ‘save’ me.”
“Bianca called me.” He poured vodka into her glass and topped it with lemonade. “She had a team monitor mobile phone traffic in St. Petersburg. Her team believes the FSB was in the process of detaining your driver, filling the limo with remotely detonated explosives, and putting an ISIL captive at the wheel.”
“She warned me, too.” Pia looked at her glass. “That’s why we kidnapped the cop and rode with him instead.”
“Clever. But the trip was ill-advised.” He sipped his drink. “What did you hope to accomplish?”
“Expanding into Moscow with a zero-interest loan for operations.” Pia waved off the objection before Dad could get the words out. “I wanted to follow some of the clues Pozdeeva gave us. It surprised me how shamelessly they talked about money laundering.”
He shrugged as if it was normal.
Pia looked him over. “You knew I could handle this trip. Why did you come?”
“I had the Major drop me off because we need to disappear for a while.”
Pia’s eyes opened wide. Dad wasn’t given to dramatic statements. “What happened?”
“We have a Russian issue.”
“I thought Chuck Roche was your issue.”
“Chuck Roche is either a well-intentioned amateur or a saboteur working for a foreign power, depending on your views. Either way, he’s a threat to the country. But, at the moment, the key to stopping him is in Russia.”
Pia sipped her drink. “What’s wrong with an amateur? Professional politicians have done a pretty terrible job.”
“Have they?” Alan’s voice boomed. “Those politicians produced the largest, most productive economy in the history of civilization. Why would anyone vote for a guy who wants to disrupt it? Roche’s campaigning to destroy NAFTA despite fourteen million American jobs depending on it. He claims he’s going to bring back manufacturing when even China’s moving to robotics. We went to robotics years ago.”
Tania raised her finger to inject a point. “Where is he g-g-go
ing to build that wall he’s talking a-a-about? Half the border i-i-is the Rio Grande. The M-Mexican’s aren’t going to build it o-o-on their side. You can’t build it in the m-m-middle. What’s he going t-to do, build it on our s-s-side and give Mexico the whole r-river? The best he can do is b-b-build half a wall.”
Alan nodded and pointed to at her in agreement.
“What does that have to do with me in Russia?” Pia asked.
“Viktor Popov showed up at Jacob’s house.” Alan gave her a serious stare.
“Jacob figured it out. We found a boatload of microdots hidden in the USB drive.”
“He opened up Pandora’s box.” Alan sat back and finished his drink. “But that’s a long story. What was in the microdots?”
“More questions. We think there’s some key to piecing it all together. Bianca’s team has found a few obvious items.” She pulled out her phone and showed him the note about Badger and #HuntersFail.
Dad stared at it for a long time, horror coloring his face. His finger dabbed at the image as tried to find words. “That’s Strangelove’s handwriting.”
He reminded her that Strangelove had bailed out Roche’s failing refineries and that Pozdeeva had once worked for the general.
“Where does Popov fit in?” Pia asked.
“He holds Strangelove’s leash.”
Pia thought about it for a minute. “Meaning, Strangelove might still hold something over Roche’s head. If Roche wins the election, there’s a good chance Popov can pull Roche’s strings.”
“Bingo. And if you’ve seen the polls, he’s pulling ahead of President Hunter. We can’t let that happen.”
“How did Pozdeeva get this?” She asked.
“He had access because he was the liaison between Strangelove’s GRU bandas and Popov at the SVR. The CIA and NSA have been trying to find Strangelove since the Cold War.” He poured himself another drink. “We have to find him and take him out.”
Alan Sabel rarely spoke in absolutes. His ice-cold stare and his tight face caught by surprise.
“How do you know all this?” she asked.
