by D. R. Bell
“Alex was his close friend who saved his life. He wouldn’t set him up like that.”
“And you said he was SpetsNaz? That certainly would be useful. How can you get in touch with him?”
“He’s going to call me. I have a pre-paid cell phone.”
“Good. What about the detectives? Did they seem to be competent? Trustworthy?”
“Yes, I think so. But they are primarily interested in finding Jim’s killers.”
“Most likely the same people that kidnapped Maggie. And we do have to find out more about the man wounded in the shoot-out. He might be our only connection to Thomas Mann. Do you want to contact the detectives?”
“All right,” David said.
James continued. “I e-mailed Maggie this morning because I heard back from the friend of mine who’d worked with Jonathan Schulmann, and he agreed to meet with us. I think we should try to arrange a meeting with everyone in our small group and do it as soon as possible.”
David protested. “Shouldn’t we try to find out more first? At least hear back from the kidnappers?”
“David, our adversaries move fast. You sent them a file this morning, and they came after you just a few hours later. We have to match them or we’ll always be a step behind. You do the e-mail thing, I’ll call my friend, and let’s go get some dinner.”
David fired off an e-mail to Megrano saying that they should talk. Then he and James walked to an Italian restaurant on San Vicente.
Sunday, 4/24/2022, 4:08 p.m. PDT
“I could live here,” thought Fai Hsu, while enjoying a panoramic view of the Pacific through the glass-covered west side of the living room. The house was perched above the beach on the west side of PCH. They did not call it “Pacific Coast Highway” for nothing. The road almost literally hugged the shore, except for a narrow strip of houses separating the asphalt from the sand and the waves. Hsu did not think this was the most practical place to live, with the waves crashing at one door and the cars flying by the other door. Still, the view was spectacular, especially in the early afternoon as the morning fog was burning off and retreating into the ocean. They probably would have gone to the more secluded Hidden Hills place, but both neighboring houses were empty at the moment and the ability to drive off the PCH into the garage and close the door gave them some privacy.
However, bad luck continued. They were supposed to nab Ferguson and hopefully reach some closure. Hsu’s people used the code provided to unlock the service gate and observed the house for a few minutes before going in. There was one man and one woman as they expected. Then it all went wrong. The man turned out not to be Ferguson but an armed guard, who decided to play hero and opened fire even when faced with five attackers. They shot him, but he badly wounded one of the agents who was now quietly moaning in the smaller upstairs bedroom. Following the shoot-out, there was no choice but to grab the woman and get out of there before police or private security services arrived.
The woman was also upstairs, locked in another bedroom. Two hours of non-physical interrogation yielded that she was Margarita Sappin, a graduate student at UCLA. They had already learned this earlier from checking the cell phone number that was last used by Ferguson. She claimed to have met Ferguson two days ago when he walked into a restaurant in Venice where she’d been waitressing to earn a living. Ferguson told her that some people were after him and had killed his friend Jim, but Ferguson did not know exactly why. He suspected it was over confidential information from a technical meeting in Seattle he’d attended. Yes, they’d met with police—what else were they supposed to do? Police showed them many pictures, including some man who was killed in the Seattle airport right when David was there. She thought the police may have suspected Ferguson of killing that man and making up a story to cover it up. She ran with Ferguson from the coffee shop; she was scared by the murder of Ferguson’s friend. She took him to her friend Andrei Chernov because she felt sorry for him; he was afraid to go home and did not know where else to go.
Fai Hsu was considering four scenarios:
- neither Sappin nor Ferguson know anything and this was a masterful setup by Julius
- both of them are in on the blackmail and she is a superb actress
- Ferguson is Julius’s associate, but Sappin is an innocent bystander being used by Ferguson
- last, but not least, they are both Julius’s associates but with different levels of trust, so she knows perhaps more than she let Fai know but not much.
Fai Hsu could not yet eliminate any of the scenarios, so he ranked them in the order of probabilities. He thought it unlikely that they both knew everything that had been going on. Even with this being LA, she could not be such a great actress. He also thought it unlikely that they both knew nothing. Too many convenient escapes for this to be just a blind luck. Plus the source of the information that took them to Chernov’s house—and whose identity he did not know because the information was coming from Beijing—thought that at least Ferguson may have been connected to Julius.
Of course, if Sappin was an innocent bystander and had nothing else to share with them, they had no use for her. No reason to keep around a useless witness. Fai was a firm believer in prevention. The best way of dealing with accidents was to avoid them in the first place. The optimal course of action then was to have Goa Chon conduct a less friendly interrogation, see where it leads. Then call the gangsters from Compton to get rid of the body. That was one thing they were good with.
Then Ferguson’s e-mail came. Fai spent the last twenty minutes looking at it. He did not like the tone; he did not like the threat. Ferguson was up to something.
Fai stared at the imaginary chessboard. He prided himself on anticipating his opponent’s move, but he could not do it here. This adversary continued to puzzle him. Ferguson must have another connection to MSS, and now he would probably go directly to Beijing and make it look like Fai Hsu’s screw-up led to a much higher price. The worst part about this was that the screw-up was in Seattle, but now they’d try to make Fai the fall guy. Those who changed Seattle’s operation were only looking to deflect the blame, and if there was one thing that these behind-the-desk bureaucrats in Beijing excelled at, it was pinning the fault elsewhere.
At least the e-mail proved Fai’s analysis was mostly correct. They were not innocent, and she did not know as much as Ferguson. But she must know something, otherwise why would Ferguson care? Until he figured out Ferguson’s game—what he had and whom he knew—Fai decided he’d have to play along. Handing her over to Goa Chon for more physical interrogation would have to wait.
The colonel sat at the computer and typed a short, carefully worded response: “Your colleague is safe. Need proof of the information. We have to meet.”
Now if the Internet reports were correct, someone survived the Green Lake shoot-out, but who? Judging by the available information, it probably was Julius’s associate. Fai Hsu needed to find out from Beijing. It was Monday morning there, so Hsu typed up a report and sent it out. And then his mind turned to a particularly unpleasant subject: the wounded agent. They had basic medical stuff with them, but not to the point of dealing with stomach wounds. And they couldn’t very well take him to the hospital. The colonel decided that for now they’d keep the poor guy sedated and see what happened.
Hsu turned to look through the glass side of the house. On the horizon the sun was approaching the greenish-gray water and the clouds were coloring in gold. “I could live here,” he thought again. He also thought of his family. Like most Chinese, he and his wife, Shu, had been hoping for a boy. When they’d had a girl, his father could not hide the disappointment. But when Fai saw the baby, he did not care. She was a part of him, she was precious. That’s what they called her: Zhen, “precious.”
Since both Fai and Shu were their parents’ only children, they were able to get permission to have a second child. Fai’s being in MSS helped, too. When they had the ultrasound and found out that the second child was going to be a girl as well, the
doctor asked if they want to have an abortion and try again. Fai and Shu did not sleep that night, and Shu’s eyes turned red from crying. In the morning they decided against the abortion. Fai’s father never understood, but as much as Fai honored his father he did not care. They named her Li, “beautiful.” Zhen was already in college, Li still in high school. It was not easy to be a father of two young girls, and he worried about the men they were seeing. He wondered how their weekend went and how soon he’d be able to see them again.
Sunday, 4/24/2022, 5:19 p.m. PDT
James took David to dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant called Branzini’s. San Vicente Boulevard used to be full of expensive restaurants. Some had survived, but many windows now had “For Rent” signs, and some were boarded. “At least there is no wait these days,” Bowen commented sadly.
Branzini’s scene was straight out of The Godfather: white-clothed tables, dark wood and red décor, dim lighting, Nino Rota’s music pouring from loudspeakers. A prim older waiter hurried over. “Mr. Bowen, how are you today?”
“Fine, Sergio, fine. Thank you for asking. Can you get us a quiet table in the back?”
Bowen ordered a bottle of Chianti and said to David, “I know their menu by heart. The osso buco is quite good, and so is the scaloppini. From pastas, mushroom risotto, beef ravioli, goat cheese gnocchi are my favorites. And may I say, being in a stressful situation, all the more reason to enjoy your food.”
Sergio poured wine and took their order. David opted for Caesar salad and ravioli. When the waiter left, he said, “So you are from Wales?”
“Yes, born in Cardiff in 1953 and lived there until 1965 when our family moved to Coventry. Studied history in Warwick University, then military service, a couple of years of boring work. I managed to get into London School of Economics and somehow sweated out a PhD from them.”
“What brought you to California?”
“A woman. Back in 1982 I’d met Julie at a party in London. She was American, and I couldn’t convince her to move to the UK, so I applied for a job at UCLA. Chased her until she agreed to marry me. She probably felt too guilty to say no after I moved all the way here. Hard to believe I’ve taught at UCLA for thirty-eight years now. I came to like it here, grew into my little act of an eccentric Brit. Julie died from cancer a year and a half ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Towards the end, she was more worried about leaving me all alone. It was right after the financial crisis and the Williams assassination. It felt like the world was ending.” James paused. “Let’s change the subject. Do you know how Margarita got her first name?”
David nodded. “She said it was after some Russian book.”
James laughed. “Some Russian book? Even by standards of Russian literature, The Master and Margarita stands apart. You should learn more about the story; it will help you gain insight into her and where she comes from.”
“Is it a love story?”
“Yes, it is. But not the usual sentimental kind. In The Master and Margarita you have mischievous Satan in Moscow and innocent Jesus in Jerusalem, talking cats and vampires, poets and communists, Judas and Pontius Pilate. The author, Mikhail Bulgakov, wrote it before World War II, but it was not published until much later.”
“Why?”
“Bulgakov knew this book was a death sentence for him and his family. He even burned a partially completed manuscript at one point.”
“You mean he wrote the book knowing that it couldn’t be published? That’s insane.”
“No, David, it’s not insane. He had to express himself. Perhaps he hoped that it’d be published at some point, when the evil that took over his country had been defeated.”
David’s phone rang. “Hello?” He turned to James. “It’s Oleg.”
“Ask him if he can come by at 7:30. That’s when I invited Frank.”
David spoke into the phone and hung up. “OK, 7:30. He knows the address.” As he was tucking the phone into his pocket, it rang again. “Hello?” He whispered to James, “It’s Detective Megrano.” The detective resisted his suggestion to come by at 7:30, but with newfound confidence David simply said, “It’s important.” And he dictated the address.
“I’ll give you the book, you should read it,” James said, continuing where they left off. “There is no point in me retelling it to you. Maggie told me her parents were related to Bulgakov, albeit distantly. You know, one of his best known quotes is “Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.” And Margarita of the novel leaves everything and becomes a witch in order to reunite with her love. The choice of the name probably tells you a bit about Maggie’s parents and about Maggie herself. I don’t know if it’s just the way she is or if she tried to live up to the character she was named after, but she does remind me of the book’s heroine. You might as well know, since you are trying to be her knight in shining armor: there is an edge to her, and it can be sharp.”
Knight in shining armor? What nonsense! David thought, although he felt flattered. “But why did she change it to Maggie?”
“She did not change it. But you know, in American fast culture nobody wants to pronounce ‘Margarita.’ They would shorten it to Rita or Marge. She went ahead and chose Maggie, but that was just a convenient short name.”
David and James finished their dinner, and James convinced him to split a tiramisu. David thought that James was right—a sense of danger seemed to have sharpened his taste buds, and he enjoyed his food more than usual.
Sunday, 4/24/2022, 7:17 p.m. PDT
When they got back from dinner, David rushed to the computer to check his e-mail. There was indeed a response from “acegik,” asking for more information. David read it to James out loud.
The professor said, “We’ll have to show them something to make them believe that we have what they are looking for.”
The doorbell rang. James went to answer it and came back with an elderly gentleman. “Frank Gorman, David Ferguson.” Blue veins delineated an intelligent face. Despite being clearly in his seventies, Gorman stood very straight, had most of his hair—although purely white—and shook David’s hand with vigor.
Before they had a chance to say anything else, the doorbell rang again. James hurried back and David heard him say, “Oleg, good to see you again. And you must be Detective Megrano? Please come in.”
James ushered everyone into the study where an extra chair had been pulled over to make room for five. “Please sit down. Can I offer everyone a drink before we make a round of introductions?”
Frank asked for cognac, Oleg and David chose scotch, Megrano said with an unhappy face, “Nothing for me, thank you.” He remained standing, leaning against the wall.
Bowen poured drinks in awkward silence. Then he said, “Let me begin. I am James Bowen, professor of economics at UCLA.” He turned left to Frank, who introduced himself.
“Frank Gorman. I recently retired, but before that I was an attorney at SEC. I believe that’s why I was asked to come here.”
They continued clockwise. “David Ferguson, computer engineer at Space Systems.”
“Oleg Khmelco, bodyguard.”
“Robert Megrano, SMPD detective.”
James looked pleased with himself. “I know this all looks very strange, but there is a reason you all are here. There is a rather unhappy story unfolding. A group of bad guys are after this young man here.” He nodded at David. “They already killed at least two people and kidnapped a woman. Some of you know parts of the story, some may know more than I know, but Frank here knows nothing. Both for his sake and because we may all benefit from going over the events, David, why don’t you tell the story from your point of view?”
David felt like he was in a strange dream. He’d had this feeling many times over the past two days, while being in the Navigator, running away with Maggie, etc. But at least this time the surreal sensation was not mixed with a stomach-clenching fear. Instead, he was almost euphoric, somewhat irrationally believing that they would coll
ectively figure this out, get Maggie back, and everything would return to the way it was. Maybe not great, but normal.
David resisted the temptation to pull on his ear and started with meeting Jeff on Friday morning in Seattle. He spent some extra time on his conversation with Thomas Mann, the US News magazine in a green manila folder, the exchange in the Navigator, his call to Jim and Jim’s subsequent murder, the call to Maggie’s phone, murders in Seattle, communication with “acegik,” their research into Schulmann, Maggie’s disappearance.
When he finished, Bowen jumped in again. “As I said, I believe you all may know something that may help. We have some clues but more questions than answers: who are these people after David and what do they want? Who is Thomas Mann and was theirs an accidental meeting or is there more to it? How did they find Andrei’s house?”
Oleg took his turn. “At about ten this morning Andrei said we were going to Il Tiramisu for lunch. We had reservations for five at noon. Maggie probably could have come, but she didn’t ask and Andrei did not offer. Perhaps she wanted to wait for you.” He nodded at David, which made him feel both guilty and glad. “Alex was a gentleman and asked to stay. I think he liked Maggie and was glad of a chance to be alone with her. We left at 11:40. At about twenty minutes past noon Andrei got an alarm from the security service. When we got back, Alex was dead, and Maggie was gone.”
Megrano by now lost some of his initial indifference. “Was the alarm set by break-in?”
“No. They walked in through the service gate. The gate is secure, but they must have had the code. The alarm was raised when people heard that shots were fired. The security service claimed that they got there in a few minutes, but whoever did it was gone, together with Maggie.”
Megrano said, “I knew about the shooting, but I didn’t realize it happened so quickly after you left. It looks like someone in the household was communicating with the kidnappers just this morning.”
