by Jack Arbor
Baxter cocked his head. “Kate Middleton?”
Max shook his head.
The MI6 director slapped Max on the shoulder. “She’s the Duchess of Cambridge. Wife of Prince William. You need to read your tabloids.”
“What are they really working on? I mean, besides filing reports on our progress.”
Baxter grinned. “Looking for Kate Shaw, of course.”
Max looked in the situation room again. “This is it? Two guys and some old computers? You said there were six people on the team.”
The two men glanced at Max and Baxter before resuming their attention on Cindy’s screen while Baxter sputtered. “Keep your voice down. The rest of the team is in London.”
Max’s Blackphone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket. The caller ID read Bluefish. What the heck? He took two steps away from Baxter. “Who is this?”
A series of clicks proceeded the feminine voice in the earpiece. “Max, its me.”
“Jesus, Goshawk. Why did you—”
“I know who it is.”
Max cupped his hand over his mouth and the phone. “What are you talking about?”
“Bluefish. I know Bluefish’s identity.”
Max’s mouth gaped open. “How—”
“Listen to this.” The background was filled with rapid typing.
While Max walked down the hall, Baxter joined Cindy and the two MI6 men. “Okay, go.”
The first voice that came over his earpiece was faint and scratchy but unmodified. “Ni hao?”
The voice sounded feminine. “Is that Chinese?” he asked.
Goshawk made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Yes. Hush.”
The next voice was metallic and robotic. “I believe you and I have a common query.”
The woman spoke in English. “Who the fuck is this?”
“You may call me Bluefish.” Static crackled. “I believe you are hunting for a woman named Kate Shaw. We can help each other.”
Max almost dropped his Blackphone.
More static. “I know a few other things. I know where Kate Shaw is.”
Was he about to learn Kate’s location?
“So, stop yammering and tell me so I can get on with it.”
“I need something in return.”
“Tell me.”
“Mikhail Asimov dead. You make that happen, I’ll give you Kate Shaw’s location.”
Max’s skin crawled at the computerized voice demanding his death.
The recording ended, and Goshawk came back on the line.
“What was her response?” Max asked.
“He told her to think about it and he’d get back to her.”
Max paced. “Who’s the woman?”
“Don’t know. I’m working on it.” Her voice was distant.
“When’s the big reveal of Bluefish’s identity?”
“I put it on a secure file server for you.” She once again sounded like her energetic self.
He memorized the server location she reeled off in his ear. “Were you able to intercept any other transmissions?”
“Negative. He’s using a variety of randomized transmission protocols, and he’s very careful. I’m not yet patched in to all his channels. It’s possible he already made the deal with this woman, whoever she is.”
“Or maybe not.” His mind went to the Chinese names on the consortium list. “Continue monitoring, and let me know what you dig up.”
“Of course, darling.”
Max was about to end the call when Goshawk said, “Hon?”
“What?”
“This is getting real. Please be careful.”
Max smiled into the phone. “Is this you caring about me?”
The line went dead, and he chuckled as he entered the situation room.
At the sound of his laugh, Cindy glanced up while Baxter hunched over one of the men’s laptops in deep conversation. Max accessed a secure browser on his phone before navigating to the server Goshawk specified. When he saw the man’s identity, he almost dropped his phone.
According to her intel, the man calling himself Bluefish was Lieutenant General Vincent Brown of the United States Marine Corps. The general was the deputy commander of an important-sounding group called the United States Cyber Command. If Brown knew where Kate was, he would not easily relinquish that information.
Max tapped Baxter on the shoulder. “I need to run an errand.”
Baxter kept his eyes glued to the computer monitor. “Harris can take you in the car.”
Max followed Harris from the situation room, up the elevator, and into the SUV. When they reached Franklin Square near 13th Street NW and K Street NW, Max stepped from the vehicle and turned to his driver. “Harris, you’re a good man, so I’ll make this easy on you. I’m going to walk across that park and disappear. You can try to find me or attempt to follow me, but you’ll fail. Instead of chasing me, go back to the embassy and tell Baxter I gave you the slip. Cool?”
Harris opened his mouth to protest as Max vanished down a path through leafless oaks and poplars.
Thirty-Six
Washington, DC
His first stop was a restaurant on Dupont Circle called the Russia House. Outside, a set of red-carpeted steps ran up a sweeping stone staircase to an entrance covered with a green awning. The white stone baroque-style building sat among taller apartments and offices near the corner of Florida and Connecticut Avenues. An American flag flew to the left of the doorway, and red banners with the restaurant’s name flapped in a breeze.
Inside was dark with more red carpet and mahogany trim, and despite the ban on cigarette smoke inside restaurants in the District, the stale odor of tobacco lingered. Red upholstered chairs and dark wood tables were filled with a variety of DC insiders enjoying cocktails and scanning menus. Max sidled past a pair of fresh-faced men wearing dark suits with red ties and found a seat at the end of a short bar. Glassware hung overhead, and a television with a sports news report was on in the opposite corner.
Catching the bartender’s eye, he spoke in Russian. “Vodka. Cold, no ice.”
The thin pale man with a black tie under a red apron perked up at the sound of his native language, so he made quick work of shaking the vodka over ice and pouring it into a tumbler. “Where you from, friend?”
Max surveyed the crowd using the mirror behind the bar. “Leningrad.”
The bartender beamed. By using the old Communist name for St. Petersburg, Max signaled that he wasn’t happy about the end of the Soviet Union and yearned for the old days of the party.
With a scrub of the bar using a dirty towel, the bartender smiled, showing a set of yellow teeth. “Born in Volgograd myself. Parents from Poland, just outside Kraków. Emigrated east when the Germans came. Shame what’s become of Poland.”
To Max’s right, an American spoke with a demure young lady dressed in a modern-cut suit. The man towered over her and gestured with an unlit cigar in a big fist, reminding him of his father. “Rodion around?”
The bartender bent to wash glasses in the sink under the bar. “Who’s asking?”
Max took a swig of the drink. “Andrei Asimov.”
The bartender pinched his eyebrows together. “Bullshit. You’re too young.”
Max leaned close enough so the bartender’s breath wafted in his face. “Tell Rodion that Andrei Asimov is here to see him. Do it before I come over that bar and strangle you with your fucking tie.”
Five minutes later, Max was ushered through the kitchen and up a set of back stairs where two gorilla-sized men frisked him and inspected his Blackphone. It took another threat and staring down one of the goons before he got his phone back. He was directed through a door into a cramped but luxurious office outfitted with shag carpet, a set of leather chairs, a massive desk, and a credenza housing an elaborate stereo system. Everything was red including the cherrywood desk.
Behind the desk stood a mountainous man dressed in a black shirt, black suit, and red tie. His skin was pale, and fat fol
ds filled the area where his neck should be. A young woman wearing barely enough to create a hint of mystery was perched on the edge of the desk. When Max strode through the door, the man’s face melted into a wide grin, and he raised two crane-sized arms while lumbering from behind the desk. “Look what the cat dragged in. Honey, get lost for a while.”
The girl touched Max’s arm as she slid by, leaving the lingering scent of cigarettes and an overpowering perfume.
The big man engulfed Max in a massive bear hug before holding him at arm’s length. “Let me look at you.”
With an effort, Max freed himself. “Rodion, I can’t believe you’re still alive.”
The obese man laughed so hard his jowls shook like Jell-O and the small room was filled with his guffaws. “I could say the same thing about you, friend. Except we’re plagued by different assailants. I’m under attack by sugar and oil and vodka, and you are chased by unseen assassins, no?”
Max grimaced. “How’s your diabetes these days?”
A groan from Rodion. “Don’t ask of such things.” Opening a desk drawer, he pulled out a cigar box. “An occasion such as this calls for the best.”
He offered the box to Max, who selected one and held it to his nose and inhaled the smoky aroma. “Cuban, no?”
“Of course. And my diabetes is fine. My little assistant there manages to shoot me up with the proper amounts of insulin. Now it’s my heart. A couple stents went in last month. Now the doctors say I need to become a vegan.” Rodion pronounced it vee-ghan. “Of all the fucking things.”
“You might like it.” Max snipped the end from the cigar and dug his lighter from his pocket and tossed it at Rodion, who examined it before using it to light his cigar.
Rodion blew a thick cloud of smoke at the ceiling and tossed the lighter back. “I like a big steak is what I like. I heard about your mother and father. A real shame. I’m sorry for your loss, Mikhail. Andrei was good to me. You Asimov’s are dying off by the truckload. I’m glad to see you standing in front of me.”
Max lit his own cigar and fell into one of the red-leather wing chairs opposite the desk as Rodion picked up a phone and barked an order in Russian. A minute later, a different partially clad girl appeared carrying a tray with an ice bucket, a bottle of Green Mark, and two tumblers. The woman lingered, casting long looks at Max, until Rodion ordered her from the room. “Petulant little minx.” Rodion poured two measures of the vodka. “None of that designer crap for an old friend.”
Max held his glass up. “Just good old-fashioned pure Russian water. From the motherland.”
They clinked glasses, and both men tossed back their drink.
The vodka went down Max’s throat with a toasty warmth. It felt good to speak his native tongue to someone he knew and trusted. Despite not holding an official KGB title, Rodion had a long history of helping agents in the field. He was a loyalist, someone trusted to assist with the more mundane matters of an operation. For a price, of course. He also ran one of the best restaurants in Washington, DC, favored by US presidents and senators.
The two men spoke of Max’s father and mother, and Max filled Rodion in on the events since the bombing in Minsk, glossing over details.
When the bottle was half empty, Rodion grunted. “What brings you to my little restaurant tonight? I’m guessing it’s not the borscht.”
Max walked to the credenza and flipped on the stereo. A Bill Evans riff made him sentimental for his old jazz club, La Caravelle. After turning up the volume, he stepped close to the desk so Rodion could hear his hushed voice. “I need two things.”
“Name it,” Rodion whispered. “I will do anything to avenge Andrei’s death.”
“My father left some things with you. For safe keeping.”
Rodion’s eyes lit up, and the rolls of fat around his neck shook as he nodded. “He did indeed.”
“I need those things.”
The big man spread his arms. “Of course. What else?”
As Max spoke, Rodion’s eyes went wide and he fell into his chair.
Max leaned on the desk with his knuckles. “Will you do it?”
The big restaurateur poured another round of vodka and dabbed at his eyes. “You know what Andrei did for my daughter?”
Max poured another round. “I do.”
Rodion banged his glass against Max’s and tossed the clear liquid into his mouth. “I owe him, Mikhail. She is alive and at the head of her class at Johns Hopkins medical school. She’s the apple of my eye, and I will do anything. You can count on me, my friend.”
The two men talked in hushed voices as they worked through the details, and by the time they were done, the bottle was gone and the restaurant had long closed for the night.
Thirty-Seven
Fort Meade, Maryland
“How does one capture and interrogate a Marine Corps three-star general?” Goshawk’s voice came through an earbud attached to his Blackphone.
“Very carefully.” Max sat in a rented silver sedan in the parking lot of the National Cryptologic Museum on the edge of Fort Meade, near the Baltimore-Washington Parkway.
“Funny,” she said. “What’s your plan?”
His eyes scanned the few cars in the lot. “The less you know, the better.”
“Fair enough. You get the dossier I sent you?”
Goshawk had assembled dozens of electronic files on USMC Lieutenant General Brown and stashed them on a secure server.
“Very thorough. Anything in there stick out at you?”
“You saw his 201 file?”
“I did.” The 201 file, also known as his personnel file, contained all of Brown’s promotion orders, mobilizations, decorations, evaluations, college transcripts from the general’s undergraduate studies at the Naval Academy, as well as long lists of certifications from various technical programs specific to cryptology, computer science, digital security, and the like. “What about it?”
“Nothing. It’s perfect. His record is unblemished.”
“Maybe too perfect.”
“Right. Did you read the details I sent on Bluefish’s cyber activities?”
“Yes.” Goshawk had also provided transcripts of various calls, posts, and other internet activity by Bluefish over the last six months, since Bluefish first appeared as an identity on the Dark Web. “It’s not a lot.”
“Right,” she said. The sound of the ocean was in the background. “I’m still digging. He’s good at covering his tracks.”
“From my read, he had an exemplary record over a dozen deployments, with many commendations, awards and decorations. His disciplinary file is spotless. He’s unmarried, with no children. Utterly devoted to the military his entire career. His parents died in a car crash before he entered the Naval Academy. No mention of siblings. So far, no skeletons or angles I can take to get to him. And the biggest mystery of all. Why did Brown adopt the Bluefish identity and risk a slam-dunk promotion to four stars?”
“It’s a good question,” Goshawk said. “I’m digging on that one. So far, not much.”
Max scanned the faces of the men and women as they walked to their cars burdened by large computer bags and briefcases. “What’s Brown’s motive? His history points to a straight shooter and a distinguished soldier. What does he have to gain by all this? Why is he helping the same people who are out to kill me? Why does he care about finding Kate? What role does he play in all this?”
“Did you see the sealed files?” Goshawk asked. “The top secret ones?”
Blue light from the parking lot’s vapor lamps glinted off cars as employees began their commute home from work. “The ones from his days in the Marine’s Special Operations Command? What is that group, anyway? Like the Russian Spetsnaz?”
“Yeah. Sort of the Marine Corps’ version of the Navy Seals. Elite squad of highly trained men. Most of his missions were in Afghanistan during the Russian occupation and again when the US fought against the Taliban, as well as numerous incursions into Iraq before, during, and after
Desert Storm. Did you see the file about the op in the Ukraine back in ’85 to sabotage the Urengoy–Pomary–Uzhgorod pipeline?”
He touched a rib and grimaced. It was still sore from the beating he took in Turkey. After digging in his pocket, he popped a painkiller and swallowed it dry. “Yes. That was only a couple years before the wall came down and just before Gorbachev took office.”
“Correct,” Goshawk said. “The op looked like it was meant to help cripple the Soviet economy, which was already struggling to keep up with the American’s military buildup. The US figured the more they did to hurt the Soviet economy, the more likely they were to end Chernenko’s hard line and help promote some kind of revolution in Russia that might lead to a democratically elected government. Question is, did that operation impact Brown in any way? What was his role?”
He toyed with a pack of cigarettes. “Captain. It was his show.” Max eyed the No Smoking sticker on the rental car’s dash as he fished a cigarette from the pack and fired it up. “Might be a connection there.”
“You know what I think?”
“Tell me.” He took a long drag.
“Why do people become traitors against their own government?”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Money or ideology.”
“Right. Or?”
Max shrugged. “No idea.”
“Ego. Remember the story of Aldrich Ames?” The CIA guy they busted in ’94 for spying for the Russians?”
“Vaguely.”
“He married this gal named María del Rosario who bled him dry with shoes and vacations, so the FBI assumed he did it for the money. But he never got any respect at work. In fact, he was such a bad CIA agent that when he offered to spy for the KGB, the Russians initially ignored him. They thought it was a trick. Turned out once he started spying for Russia, he became a better CIA agent. He had a purpose. His purpose was to make his employer look bad. The same people that gave him such poor performance reviews.”
