Death and Treason

by Seeley James

  “Virgin of Guadalupe?” I gave CJ a grin.

  “You a man of the Church, Stearne? Or, are you making fun?”

  “I was thinking about joining … you know, maybe.”

  He looked me over.

  I suck at bullshitting.

  “Looks more pagan if you ask me.”

  “Hey, guys, we drove for hours to get here.” One of the NYPD guys stepped forward. “Can you just help us out a little bit?”

  “You big city cops are smart, right?” I got in his face. “You looked at the building’s cloud drive for a backup of that video, right? Because you know my attorney is going to subpoena that, right? And you know the cloud system is going to have timestamps for when it was recorded and—if it gets erased—when it got erased, right?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” The two looked at each other and backed up a step. “We’ve got a request in. But, uh, red tape and paperwork. We thought you could help us out. That’s all.”

  Miguel gave his shovel a couple more practice swings.

  “We had a call.” They backed up another step, tossing nervous glances at Miguel. “Guy ID’d you by name. We had to check it out. You understand.”

  “Noted. I’m sure you’ve sent all the details about your tipster to my attorney.” I watched them glance at each other, preparing to point fingers and spread blame. “Hey, I’ll throw you a bone, guys: the shooter was left-handed. But you knew that from the splatter, right?”

  They squinted at each other again. They gave me their cards, then turned and started to walk away.

  CJ watched them for a minute. Then he stuck his finger in my face. “You’re going to slip up one of these days, Stearne. You’re going to make a mistake so big not even your whale-turned-lawyer can get you out of it.”

  He turned and trotted after the NYPD.

  Mercury leaned on my shoulder. Homie, you have my permission. Go ahead and put that dog out of his misery.

  I said, Cop-killing is frowned upon these days.

  Mercury said, The world’s going to Orcus in a handbasket, yo.

  Miguel and I worked on the temple for the rest of the morning. The Corinthian columns went up easily. But the entablature was heavy. We had one in our hands when Ms. Sabel walked up without her cane.

  She exchanged pleasantries then squinted at the shrine. “Is this for Mercury?”

  My mouth opened but I was too embarrassed to say anything. I closed it.

  “Yes,” Miguel said. He gave me a look that said, be honest about your faith.

  Easy for him. He grew up being a nonconformist in a Christian-dominated country. But he had friends and relatives who believed whatever it is that they believe out there in Monument Valley. I was a minority of one. Not counting a US Senator who turned to the Pharaohs for help.

  “It’s very nice.” She walked around it. “Kind of small considering all he’s done for you.”

  Mercury slapped me on the back. Yeah huh, homie? Pia-Caesar-Sabel can see how badly you treat me and the Dii Concentes. Step it up, brutha.

  “It’s a model.” I sighed and pointed vaguely around my small yard. “If this looks right, I’ll build a bigger one over there.”

  She surveyed the space. “When we get back, let’s look for a spot at the Gardens. It would make a nice counterpoint to my chapel.”

  Mercury jumped in the air, pumping his fists. I told you, dawg. Success is in the air. I knew she could see me. We are in! Hoo boy.

  I said, I think you missed the vital part of her statement.

  “When we get back from where?” I asked. Experience had taught me to be wary of her impulsive missions.

  “We’re running out of options.” She looked at the gray sky through the bare elms. “We thought the cipher was based on crosswords, but those aren’t panning out. Bianca’s team went through thousands.”

  “Where are we going before ‘we get back’?”

  “Without a keyword to break the code, it’s the only clue Pozdeeva left us.”

  “When we get back from …” I let the question hang.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Where did you even meet Pozdeeva, anyway?” I asked.

  “Leipzig. His daughter was a fan looking for an autograph. She was too shy, so he stepped in and introduced us. I didn’t have anything else to do, so we chatted for a while. Nice kid, nice dad. I don’t remember the conversation, but I’m sure it was about soccer.”

  “Is that when you bought that fancy Latin bible?”

  “Latin? The Gutenberg? Yeah.” She stared at me funny for a long time. It got awkward. Then her jaw dropped. “Love your neighbor! Jacob, you’re a genius.”

  She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a big hug. “Did you think of that or was it Mercury?”

  Before I could answer, she started texting Bianca and turned around.

  Mercury had the nicest looking toga I’d ever seen him in. Red trim with geometric patterns. Hoo doggie. Did you hear that? She recognized my work. We are in, brutha! IN!

  I said, The Gutenberg Bible thing? That was my idea. I thought that up on my own.

  Mercury said, Where do you think all your good ideas come from?

  I said, If that’s the case, where do all my bad ideas come from?

  Mercury said, Yeah. Well. It was still my idea. Least you could do is—

  I said, Then what did it mean?

  Mercury said, It, uh. Hey, I don’t have to explain everything to you if I don’t wanna. Mortal.

  She stopped thumbing and sent the text.

  “But where are we going?” I asked point-blank.

  “Latvia.”

  All my hopes that she would forget a small Latvian seaside resort called Jurmala faded. Sneaking into Popov’s dacha was a bad idea even if it wasn’t in a country that lives in fear of the neighboring behemoth with a bad habit of invading small republics. Not to mention what happened the last time she visited the Baltic.

  She watched my unenthusiastic reaction. “I have a plan.”

  Which would have been a tremendous relief—if we were going to take on the Latvian soccer team. There’s a big difference between strategists who spent a decade kicking a ball and strategists who spent a decade kicking Taliban ass. She told me her plan and my part in it. I didn’t feel any better. My stomach felt like a gravel pit filled with excavating equipment.

  “Instead of endangering others,” I asked, “what if you used a disguise?”

  “I hate crossdressing.” She clenched her fists. “And for my size, nothing else works. Have you ever dressed as a woman?”

  “Yes, an ill-advised Playboy Bunny Halloween costume. I’m never doing that again. Men are … grabby.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m never dressing as a man again.”

  “Guess we’re going with your plan then.”

  She play-punched my shoulder and left.

  Miguel stood still.

  I said, “Wonder what the whole Gutenberg deal was all about.”

  Miguel leaned on his shovel. “Before he died, Pozdeeva quoted a Bible passage, ‘You will love your neighbor as yourself.’ A ton of his files were in Renaissance Latin. That Bible verse—in Gutenberg’s Latin—is the cipher key.”

  “Yeah.” I ran my finger along one of the columns. “I knew that.”

  “Oh. You sounded like you were asking.”

  There were arrangements to be made. I pulled out my phone and dialed with less glee than if I were contemplating suicide.

  It rang, and Sylvia answered.

  “Hi, this is Jacob. Before you hang up, I have two things. First, I apologize. I spoke without thinking. I was angry—”

  “You’re forgiven.” Her voice was flat. “It’s the killing part that bothers me.”

  There isn’t much a guy who spent more than a decade in the wars can say about extinguishing our nation’s enemies. I didn’t respond.

  “But, is it true?” Her voice was quieter. “What Pia said when the reporter stuck a microphone in her car? That Russian guy really ki
lled a woman in front of her children?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when I joined her on the jet in Lyon—those were the kids? And the dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the second thing?”

  I took a deep breath. Ms. Sabel’s plan hinged on Sylvia agreeing to do something really, really stupid. “We’re in need of a few actors for an insanely dangerous mission.”

  There was a long silence. I checked we were still connected.

  “What’s the film?”

  “It’s not actually a film.” I paused. “Did you see the movie Argo?”

  CHAPTER 56

  Chuck Roche looked down at Central Park from his New York penthouse. A Secret Service agent announced Senator Jeff Sunderland. Roche kept his back to Sunderland, his attention fixed on the bundled people snaking every which way across the icy landscape far below.

  Sunderland said, “Good morning, sir. Thank you for seeing me.”

  Roche sipped his coffee.

  “I appreciate you considering me for Attorney General, sir.”

  Roche waved a few fingers at him. Sunderland approached and looked at the spectacular view.

  “Look at that one.” Roche laughed and pointed. “In the wheelchair. Ten bucks says he gets splashed by the garbage truck.”

  Sunderland looked at the President-Elect. “Excuse me?”

  “Damn. He turned the corner. That would’ve been fun to see, right?” Roche looked up at Sunderland. “Poor dumb bastards down there. If they weren’t so lazy, spending all their money on iPhones and avocado toast, they could save up, buy a hotel, and get out of the cold.”

  “Uh. I suppose that’s true, sir.”

  “They tell me you want to be a general.”

  “Attorney General, yes. I spent my early career in Justice. I saw firsthand the travesty brought on by the Civil Rights Act—”

  “Spare me the sales pitch, Senator.” Roche pointed his cane at a pair of chairs near the fireplace. “What I need to know is: are you loyal?”

  “Absolutely, sir.” Sunderland gave him a serious look.

  They took their seats. A silver coffee service waited on the table between them. A carafe, cups and saucers, sugars, milk, and spoons sparkled in the morning light. Roche watched Sunderland look at the coffee with a steely gaze.

  Roche said, “You’ll do what I need done?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Even if I need something … special?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happens if one of those congressmen asks you about the things I need done?”

  “At my age, sir,” Sunderland gave him a grave nod, “I have difficulty remembering everything.”

  “Good man.” Roche slapped Sunderland’s knee and sipped his coffee. “Can you make this ridiculous investigation into Watson go away?”

  Sunderland looked surprised. “I’d have to recuse myself. I had meetings—”

  “Spare me the legal mumbo-jumbo. Can you shut it down? There has to be a way.”

  “Uh. Well.” Sunderland smoothed the crease on his pants. “There are certain steps you could take. They would have repercussions, mind you. But, if Shikowitz won’t drop it, there are steps you could take.”

  “Shikowitz?” Roche felt confused.

  “FBI Director Shikowitz, sir.” Sunderland paused. “The investigation is done by the FBI. If they believe there is wrongdoing involved, they would recommend the AG’s office press charges. But you don’t want it getting that far because there are people—deep-state people—who would run off and tell the New York Times about it. So, you would take steps with Shikowitz.”

  “Steps? You mean, have him killed? Do your people handle that, or is that CIA?”

  “Uh.” Sunderland swallowed hard. “I meant, you could build up a reason to fire him.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That’s what I meant. Fire.” Roche sipped his coffee. “You can fire him?”

  “Or you can do it.”

  “I need to know, Jeff. If I make you a general, can I count on you?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Roche leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee.

  Sunderland said, “You know, I have some ideas about the Muslims and immigration—”

  “I don’t care about that shit. That’s just what I said to get elected. Do whatever you want with those miserable wretches.” Roche set his cup on the tray and poured coffee from the carafe. He savored the aroma, then picked up his cup. “Mmm. This is great coffee. Too bad you can’t have any.”

  “Well, actually, I’d love to have—”

  “What can you do about Pia Sabel?”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, sir. What about her?”

  “She’s pissing me off.” Roche’s voice rose. “She’s the one who should be investigated. She invaded Russia, for Christ’s sake. She hasn’t even been arrested.”

  “The Finns and Swedes confirmed her story—”

  “Goddamn it, man.” Roche smacked the table with his cane. “Why can’t anyone just get rid of her for me?”

  “That’s not within the bounds of the Attorney—”

  “Shut up.” Roche slumped back in his chair and gulped the rest of his coffee.

  He set the cup down and caught Sunderland’s gaze. “You were one of the Cook Brothers’ senators, right? They want me out of the way, don’t they? Don’t shake your head. I’m on to you. You want me to crash and burn. Then you can step in and take over.”

  “No, sir. As a point of order, if something happened to you, the Vice President would take over. Then the Speaker—”

  “All of them, in league with the Cook Brothers!” Roche stood and pounded his cane on the floor. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? Admit it, damn it. I know you’re just the kind of scum—”

  “No, sir. They funded my Senate campaigns. Sure. But that was then. I’m loyal to you, sir. No one else. I swear it. I’ll find a way to deal with Sabel. With a company that big, I’m sure she’s done something.”

  Roche took a deep breath and calmed himself. He sat back down and poured himself another cup. “You do that, Jeff. You get out there and find something. I have another angle I’m working on with her. But, just in case it doesn’t work out, you have something ready.”

  Yuri twisted between the workstations squeezed into the living room. Working round the clock, his men slept only when exhaustion forced them. They were filled with the spirit of revolutionaries. Pride inflated his lungs. He patted Oleg’s shoulder. Oleg was the most recent man to take the face-change challenge. His bandages were still clean and white, which reminded Yuri that he needed to change his own.

  “I have a general!” Igor shouted. “General Zhirkov fell for the OZON rebate and clicked on it.”

  It was one of a hundred phishing hacks they’d sent past spam filters to officials across the Federation. It was too easy. OZON was favored by many online shoppers in Russia, but, like Amazon, never sent rebates via email. Yuri smiled and ran to look over Igor’s shoulder. Could it be the win they needed?

  Everyone else joined him, crowding around Igor and holding their breath.

  “Who is he?” Yuri asked.

  “Second in command of the FPS.” The Russian Federal Protection Service, a group dedicated to protecting the Federation’s most critical politicians and institutions. “An important man in an important service and directly connected to the President of the Russian Federation.”

  Yuri asked, “Who is on his contacts list?”

  Igor looked over his shoulder with a smile. “Viktor Popov.”

  A cheer went up. The men bumped fists.

  “Who else do we have?” Yuri checked the others. “We get one shot at this. We must have a coordinated attack. It has to be right.”

  The men grabbed their laptops and crowded around Igor’s table. They shouted out names to check against General Zhirkov’s contact list. Petr kept the list of matches. When they had a list of twelve ranking officers, they began constructing e
mails to send.

  The first email from General Zhirkov was dated the day Yuri created SHaRC. It read, “I am happy to report that Major Belenov has begun the operation. Our first target was a Saudi bank. Gentlemen, you are now fifty-seven million rubles richer on paper. There are many hurdles to complete, but I have confidence in his group.”

  Igor sent it. Each man opened the hacked emails of an assigned recipient. They backdated the “receive” and “read” dates and filed the email in a new folder. Some made a reply-all, and others replied only to the general. In minutes, they’d created weeks of paper trails hidden from the hacked users.

  Another email was created. It was dated a few days later when Yuri was threatened in New York. “Gentlemen, our Major Belenov has increased our shares by over one hundred fifty million rubles. But I have bad news. A certain group within the GRU, under the codename Strangelove, threatens our operation. We must support Major Belenov covertly. Make every contact you can to find Strangelove. Keep me informed.”

  Again, the hacked emails made fictitious replies with some good, some not-so-good information. The emails were backdated and filed. New emails flew between the fake co-conspirators. Then, they fired off the smoking gun: an email from Zhirkov to Pia Sabel telling her where and how to find Strangelove. Capping it off, an email from a captain went to a long chain of email addresses, including the apparently accidental inclusion of Popov. When the spymaster saw it, he would kick off an investigation. Within days, the planted emails would be unearthed, and a power struggle between Popov and Zhirkov would ensue.

  Yuri amused himself weighing odds of who would win the fight between two powerful men. It didn’t matter. It was a disruption that would buy him time. His most valuable resource.

  Satisfied with a good day’s work, they closed their computers. Roman poured shots of vodka. With a bellowed toast, they downed their glasses.

  Yuri observed their smiling faces and compared them to that night in Stavanger when their revolution began. He should’ve refused the order to crash American aircraft. But he didn’t. They all paid the price. Now he owed them a future. For the first time in weeks, he felt capable of delivering on that debt. He felt good.

  Petr shouted for everyone’s attention, then raised his refilled glass and pointed at Yuri. “Tell me something. Since you are the head SHaRC, how do we kill Viktor Popov? What happens if he worms his way out of it or kills Zhirkov? We are not like you. We do not know how to kill. He has thousands of soldiers at his command.”