Devil's Move: A Thriller (Political Terrorism Technothriller)

by Leslie Wolfe

  At first, her confidence had been high, the full 100 percent everyone expected from an analyst of her seniority. However, after so many confidence-eroding phone calls and meetings, she wasn’t that sure anymore. Still, she knew not many people were able to spot patterns as she could. She had the ability to identify patterns from the fifth data point, in some cases even from the third. It didn’t matter what she was analyzing. People’s behavior, global events, communication, actions, legislation, she was able to pinpoint immediately what her data points had in common and project a trend based on her observations. Her ability to predict the evolution of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, infamously known to the world as ISIL, although she had never worked in the Middle East Analysis Group, had brought her the promotion to senior analyst. That, of course, had happened only after everyone stopped thinking she was crazy and started seeing her point. She wondered if the same people were thinking she was crazy this time too. She wondered how long it would last.

  “You can go in now.” Seiden’s assistant made eye contact for more than a second, making sure she went straight in.

  She took in a deep breath, straightened her back one more time, and walked through the door displaying as much confidence as she could.

  Director Seiden sat behind a monumental desk, reading from a report, most likely hers. Heavily built, wearing the frame of a former athlete or weightlifter, Director Seiden looked intimidating in his charcoal suit, white shirt, and loosened silver tie. In his sixties, the director had a receding hairline showing a tall forehead and permanent frown lines. His role, most likely one of the most stressful leadership roles in the US government, must have given him plenty of reasons to frown throughout the years, carving those deep lines in permanent testimony of who knows what crises he had dealt with.

  Bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows shaded his eyes. He focused intently on his reading material, while his right hand absently touched his teacup, probably considering another taste of Earl Grey.

  Henri hadn’t interacted with Director Seiden that often. Such a visit was an exceptional occurrence, considering there were three levels of leadership between her pay grade and his. She felt anticipation anxiety creep up on her. She wanted to make a good impression, and she only had one shot at it.

  “Sir,” she said, after clearing her throat, turned dry and scratchy all of a sudden.

  “Take a seat,” Seiden said, not lifting his eyes from the pages.

  She sat in one of the large leather chairs in front of Seiden’s desk, careful to not make a sound and break the director’s concentration.

  “Interesting theory you have here,” he said, finally looking at her. “How sure are you?”

  For some reason, Henri instantly forgot her carefully rehearsed exposé and blurted out unfiltered thoughts.

  “I was very sure when I put that report together, but now I don’t know anymore. Everyone doubts me, questions my judgment. I hope I’m right. I thought I was.”

  She cringed hearing her own words. She sounded like an insecure child presenting her math homework and still somehow questioning whether two plus two equaled four.

  “Are you a leader, or a follower, Ms. Marino?”

  “Umm...I aim to be a leader, sir.”

  “Then you shouldn’t let your self-confidence drop because people are asking questions. It’s their right. But you do have a brain of your own, right?” Seiden’s voice was almost encouraging. He wasn’t smiling or anything, but Henri didn’t sense any disappointment or anger in his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” she acknowledged, aware she was blushing.

  “Let’s try again. How sure are you, Ms. Marino?”

  “It’s Henri, sir.” She blushed a little more. Maybe offering her first name was inappropriate? She had no idea, but she was going to worry about that later. She was clumsy with people, always had been. “Yes, very sure.”

  “On what basis?”

  “I have profiled President Abramovich. His detailed profile is on page five, I think. That profile, combined with several actions he’s taking, all listed in the summary section of the report, led me to believe he is preparing for war, or for a renewed arms race, at least.”

  “I can read, you know,” Seiden said, tapping his fingers on the report cover. “What can you tell me that isn’t in the report?”

  “Sorry, sir. Yes, well, Abramovich is a pure sociopath, of the worst kind possible. He’s a malignant narcissistic sociopath, who would kill millions over his bruised ego. I started my report from that evaluation and from analyzing several actions the Russians have recently taken. They correlate really well; they form a pattern that spells arms race to me, possibly even changes in Russia’s form of government.”

  “How so?” Seiden took his reading glasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers.

  “His entire background speaks to that. He was KGB. No, even worse, he was political KGB. He was a KGB general during Mikhail Gorbachev’s reign at the Kremlin, but Abramovich’s contempt for Gorbachev was common knowledge. He hated Gorbachev for his glasnost and perestroika, for his pro-West attitude and his willingness to end communism in Russia and bring freedom to the Russian people. Abramovich climbed to power under the self-proclaimed mission to restore Russia’s greatness, and he started working on that since his first day as president of Russia, in the typical manner of a sociopath.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning his actions are disrespectful of anyone else’s values, human rights, or the law, for that matter. He is the most dangerous kind of sociopath one can imagine. Absolutely no conscience, no scruples whatsoever, combined with holding the supreme power in a powerful country. After all, when did President Abramovich start being on everyone’s mind again?”

  Seiden didn’t answer; just continued looking at her, waiting for her to resume her analysis. He’d probably heard these things before and had no interest in dwelling on them, nor cared to play question–and-answer games with her.

  “Right,” she continued. “He invaded Crimea, because he needed faster access to the Black Sea, a waterway shortcut. He didn’t care that it was in a different country; he just annexed Crimea, erasing the border that stood in his path. Nothing mattered to him, not even another country’s sovereignty. Then what happened? We applied sanctions. Abramovich, whose ego knows no limit, found the sanctions insulting. He fought back with his own sanctions, but he’s hurting. Along with him, his financial backers are struggling. The Russian oligarchs, who paid him immense bribes in exchange for favorable legislation and the unofficial permission to do whatever they pleased, now are facing bankruptcies and are demanding action. His personal cash flow has almost dried up. That’s why President Abramovich doesn’t want the sanctions lifted anymore. He wants much more than that. He wants revenge; he wants blood. He wants us to pay for his bruised ego and tarnished image.”

  “Interesting,” Seiden said, “but not all that new. What else do you see?”

  “Several other things that correlate. The Russian people like him a lot. They, too, are sick and tired of poverty and uncertainty. Their support for him has created a unique circumstance that allowed him to start on the road of becoming a dictator, to remain in power until he draws his last breath.”

  “How come?” Seiden’s interest was piqued.

  “Well, after Russia became so-called ‘free’ from communism,” she said, making quotation marks with her fingers in the air, “one of the first legislative changes was the amending of the Constitution, limiting the number of consecutive presidential terms to two, just like we have here in the States. The first few terms were four years long, until 2012. Then, they amended the Constitution to make them six years long, all during Abramovich’s tenure at the Kremlin. Once his first two terms were consumed, no one thought he would be coming back to lead the country, but he did. He was elected again after a short hiatus, the single-term intermission required to satisfy the Constitution limiting him to two consecutive mandates. Very soon
after he returned as reelected president, the Constitution was amended again, extending, as I said, the terms to six years. With these changes in place, he already had twelve years ahead of him, during which time many things could happen. That might include, I am postulating, another amendment to the Constitution, opening the door for more consecutive terms. Because he is well supported by the desperate Russian people in search for stability and sustainability, that amendment will be easy to vote in. This is how I see him paving the road to dictatorship.”

  She stopped talking, swallowing with difficulty. She was painfully aware she spoke too much and too fast.

  Seiden whistled and leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers behind his head.

  “You definitely have my attention now, Henri. Why an arms race though?”

  “In the past year and a half, several incidents involving the Russian military took place around Europe and even here, in North America. Forty-seven, to be exact. Near misses, some might call them, or provocative, as others have labeled them, nevertheless they are quite a few. Way too many to be slipups, mistakes, or random acts. These data points form clusters. My analysis isn’t finished yet on these specific actions, though.”

  “Yet you filed a report?” Seiden frowned, the lines on his forehead becoming more visible.

  “My report is focused on Russia’s nuclear stance, and I’ve finalized that part of the analysis. I was just giving you conjuncture.”

  “I see. Then let’s talk nuclear threat.”

  “Well, going back to the forty-seven incidents I mentioned, and how apparently random they were, well, I am positive they’re not. I will finish the analysis on those events and substantiate my point. But keeping those so-called random incidents in mind, I will now list nuclear-related, apparently random events that took place in the past few months. A cleanup and restoration operation of their ICBM sites, in no particular order, took place during the past few months. Satellite shows it clearly; they’ve dusted off the majority of their ICBM sites, even some we didn’t know existed. Our satellites tracked the cleaning crews once we knew what they were doing.”

  “How did you know to look for those? Do you normally track via satellite every convoy they move around?”

  “No, but it was what I would have done. I would have cleaned up my existing arsenal, get it ready, train my people, and produce more weapons. Makes sense. So I had satellite surveillance on a few top ICBM sites, and bingo! One day they showed up. Then I followed the convoys.”

  “Hmm...What else?”

  “A few months ago, an exercise drill was conducted, involving 25,000 armed forces in a simulated massive nuclear attack. You’ll find the details in Appendix 2.”

  “That’s worrisome,” Seiden said, frowning some more. “Keep going.”

  “Their top nuclear research facilities received some new funding recently. The Moscow facility is building a new wing. They’ve increased their uranium extraction rate at Priargunsky, Khiagda, and Elkon, their biggest uranium ore deposits. The plan is to double their extraction in the next ten years, under the guise of green energy. And Abramovich recently made changes in the leadership of the RVSN RF, their Strategic Missile Command.”

  “I see. Keep going, if there’s more.”

  “Yes, there is. They’re building a large center, partly buried underground, relatively close to an enrichment facility, the one in Novouralsk. We’re not sure what that facility will be housing, not yet. On the political side, they’ve forged a troublesome alliance with India, another nuclear power. Finally, President Abramovich made a bold statement in the media, stating that North American defenses, specifically NORAD, cannot stop his new and improved nuclear missiles anymore. By his count, we’re defenseless. That’s unconfirmed, though. The fact, I mean—”

  “Henri, we need to get a task team going. I’ll assign some more analysts under your supervision. Find the underlying correlation behind those incidents you haven’t finished modeling yet, and get me some working scenarios. I’ll deploy a resource in the field to find out what’s going on at that center they’re building. Maybe even find out what the extra funding is supposed to buy them. We need to get ready.”

  “For what, sir?”

  “World War III, most likely. We’ve already entered Cold War II.”

  ...3

  ...Friday, February 19, 5:25PM PST (UTC-8:00 hours)

  ...Alex Hoffmann’s Residence

  ...San Diego, California

  Alex liked her rental home, a comfortable three bedroom in the heart of Carmel Valley. It had a peaceful backyard she often enjoyed, where she could work on her laptop until late in the evening, in almost complete privacy offered by several dense bushes and mature trees. She enjoyed the deep, heady scent of flowering citrus trees, especially at dusk, when cooler air came rolling in from the ocean, bringing a little moisture with it, to enhance the sensation of peaceful, comfortable paradise.

  She’d had that house since she’d started her employment with The Agency, a small, private, investigation firm working exclusively with high-profile corporate clients. Founded by Tom Isaac and his wife, Claire, The Agency had become Alex’s second family. With an IQ of more than 160 and a driven, assertive nature, Alex found her work for The Agency quite enjoyable and fulfilling. It supplied the fast-paced challenge, the reward, and offered a politics-free environment where she could thrive.

  It was a great team at The Agency. She’d been lucky to find it. Tom carried all the wisdom of the business, and the experience of doing this kind of work, for more than twenty years. He was always willing to share that knowledge with her or any one of her peers.

  Claire Isaac was adept when it came to figuring out how someone could infiltrate an organization that The Agency was hired to work with. She found the right open spots on the organizational charts and wrote amazing résumés that fit client job openings, getting a team member inconspicuously hired.

  Brian Woods was an expert in procedures, protocols, and systems, and he was a top-notch strategist.

  Richard Fergusson, a financial and business genius, normally started his work after the culprits had been identified. He helped CEOs and boards of directors with the cleanup, serving as a senior executive on an interim basis. Richard was also Alex’s personal fashion advisor, having taught her how to dress for every role or cover story she needed to fulfill.

  Louie Blake, ex-SEAL and expert computer hacker, broke though firewalls whenever they’d get stuck using other methods. She had recruited Louie from her first job at The Agency when she worked with NanoLance and had him to thank for her self-defense and handgun proficiency.

  And Steve Mercer, corporate psychologist, was the one who assisted clients navigate the rough waters of their investigations, managed everyone’s expectations, and profiled suspects and other players based on their actions and methods. But Steve was more than that to her. She had fallen in love with Steve, despite her better judgment and her determination to follow the unwritten rule forbidding any type of romantic involvement with a coworker.

  Yes, they were a great team, that’s why she thrived at The Agency. She had a strong sense of right and wrong, and native investigative skills that helped her navigate the intricacies of undercover investigations in corporate environments, where entire fortunes were at stake, and the perps were highly qualified and knowledgeable.

  Alex didn’t hold any official function; she didn’t wear a badge. She infiltrated organizations at the request of business owners, CEOs, or boards of directors who had reasons to suspect malfeasance within their corporations. Her clients preferred their concerns to stay quiet, private, yet to be investigated just as thoroughly as any official inquiry. Over time though, she had forged good working relationships with the authorities. In a couple of cases, some of the wrongdoing she had exposed had crossed the line from corporate misconduct well into criminal code territory.

  When she had a new client, she immersed herself in her work, and the effort was quite considerable. Her co
ver, typically a newly hired leadership employee starting at the company she was investigating, was a fulltime job in itself. In addition to that, she had The Agency team to work with, a client to update, reports to write, and actual investigative work to handle. No wonder she didn’t spend a lot of time decorating her home or picking out new furnishings.

  She didn’t have a lot of furniture; just a few items she needed to feel comfortable and function effectively. A large leather sectional occupied the living room, together with a huge TV and stereo surround she’d bought the night she moved in. The master bedroom, painted in a light shade of green, held a king-size bed, two nightstands, and two lamps with tabletop dimmers. It wasn’t much, but she was most comfortable in open, clutter-free spaces.

  The second bedroom was another story altogether. Painted in light blue, it had track lighting installed on the ceiling, holding many powerful light bulbs. Thick, dark blue velvet curtains, not allowing a single shred of that powerful light to be visible from outside, covered the windows.

  A huge corkboard covered almost an entire wall. Another curtain railing hung above it. If needed, matching thick velvet drapery could cover the corkboard completely, leading any visitors to believe there was just another window behind it.

  Post-it notes, knitting yarn in four colors, scissors, multicolored pushpins, markers, and tape cluttered the two tables in the blue bedroom. A small coffee machine and scattered coffee pods in various flavors completed the inventory of apparently disorganized items. A large armchair stood in the middle of the room, facing the corkboard. Despite the sunny day, clear sky, and perfect temperature, Alex chose to close the heavy drapery and curl up in that armchair rather than go outside and enjoy her backyard. There was one thing she couldn’t take with her outside: her crazy wall.