Before he’d left Langley, Storm had collected crime scene photographs taken by the FBI. Taking a seat at an oak desk from the 1850s that faced his room’s street window, he sorted through the photos, stopping when he reached a batch that had been taken on the roof of the Capitol Police headquarters, where the sniper had hidden.
The shooter had used a bag of sugar to support the barrel of the 9.8-pound Dragunov rifle. The bag was a readily available prop that no one would consider suspicious if he was seen carrying it. The Dragunov was a gun that could easily be disassembled and hidden in a briefcase.
The Dragunov’s barrel had been equipped with a flash suppressor to help hide the shooter’s location. But it didn’t have a silencer. This meant the sniper had not been worried about the sound of the gunshot.
Like all professionals, the assassin had known that there would be two actual sounds when he pulled the trigger. The sound from the initial bang—the muzzle blast—would be masked by the noisy, rush hour street traffic around the headquarters building. The second sound would be the sonic crack that a bullet makes as it flies through the air. The bullet would create a sonic wave behind it as it sped forward. Anyone hearing the crack would look forward in the same direction as the bullet was going, not backward where it had come from. There was no need for him to use a silencer. Only the muzzle flash mattered, especially at dusk.
Storm looked at snapshots of the Dirksen Building taken from the sniper’s viewpoint. The distance was roughly four hundred yards, or the length of four football fields, the equivalent of 1200 feet. Storm knew the Dragunov was most effective between 600 meters and 1300 meters, or 1,970 feet and 4,270 feet, which meant the fatal shot actually had been taken much closer than during combat. It would have been an easy shot for a skilled marksman.
He turned to a photo of the Dragunov and examined the weapon. Ordinarily, the rifle’s stock was wood with a hole cut out of its center to make the gun lighter. Someone had modified the rifle in the photo by attaching a shorter, solid wooden stock to it. Why?
He tucked the photos away, stretched out on the bed, and used the remote to turn on a television hanging from the ceiling. He flipped channels until he found the BBC’s twenty-four-hour newscast. Agent Showers suddenly appeared on the screen with a uniformed bobby on one side and a man identified as a Scotland Yard detective on her other. The announcer said:
“The FBI has sent one of its agents to London to interview Russian oligarch Ivan Petrov as part of its investigation into the recent murder of United States Senator Thurston Windslow. The senator was slain in his Washington, D.C., office on Capitol Hill by a sniper who remains at large. The agent, April Showers, refused to comment, but sources tell the BBC that the FBI considers Petrov to be a ‘person of interest’ because of his close relationship with the slain senator.”
As he and Showers had both feared, someone at Scotland Yard had tipped off the British press about their arrival. Showers was paying a price for playing by the rules.
CHAPTER NINE
The cell phone that Jones had given him rang shortly after 12 P.M. London time, waking him from a short power nap.
“We’ve been invited to have tea with Ivan Petrov,” Showers said.
“He must have been impressed with your BBC appearance.”
“Did you rent a car?” she asked, ignoring his comment. “It’ll take us about two hours to get to the Duke of Madison’s estate outside of Gloucester.”
“Your buddies at Scotland Yard didn’t offer to drive us?”
“Are you going to rub that in all day?”
“Probably,” he replied. “I’ll meet you outside the hotel in ten minutes.”
“I can just knock on your door when I’m ready,” she said. “We’re in adjoining rooms, aren’t we?”
“I’m out sightseeing. I’ll pick you up at the front entrance.”
For a moment, Storm wondered if he was being too paranoid. Maybe he was overreacting because of Tangiers. But he couldn’t help himself. While he was in England, he could not afford to let down his guard. The older man sitting in Hyde Park on a bench reading the Times was not really reading the Times. The woman behind him when he was on the sidewalk was not really walking her dog. “Trust no one,” Jones had said. It was his mantra.
He’d rented a Vauxhall Insignia because the German-made car, which was similar to a Buick Regal, was as common in England as a Honda in the U.S. It wouldn’t draw attention. After Showers’s BBC debut, of course, their arrival was hardly a secret.
Showers exited the hotel dressed in an attractive gray pantsuit, carrying a light jacket and her briefcase. Storm had entered the address of the Duke of Madison’s estate into the Vauxhall’s onboard GPS. He glanced at the rearview mirror as he began weaving through London’s congested streets. Eventually, they reached the M-40, the main thoroughfare that would take them west to Gloucester. About four miles outside of London, Storm spotted a black Mercedes-Benz lurking two cars behind them.
“What did you learn at Scotland Yard?” he asked.
“They told me Petrov was having financial problems. The Russians have frozen most of his fortune in Moscow.”
Storm focused on watching the Mercedes. Showers read through a briefing paper about Petrov. When the voice in the GPS warned that the car was only a mile from the exit that would take them to the Duke of Madison’s estate, Storm suddenly pressed on the brakes and brought the Vauxhall to a crawl. Angry drivers honked and swerved around them. At first, the driver of the Mercedes slowed down, too, but then he realized that Storm was testing him. It would be obvious that the Mercedes was tailing the Vauxhall if it also came to a crawl.
As the Mercedes sped up, Showers looked up from her paperwork. “I noticed them, too, when we first left London. Nice work.”
The windows of the Mercedes were tinted, but as the car passed them, Storm made a peace sign. He envisioned the occupants giving him the finger. Showers scribbled down the license tag and then used her cell phone to enter the car’s license plate into an FBI computerized database in Washington, D.C. The vehicle was registered to the embassy of the Russian Federation in London.
“The Ruskies seem to follow you everywhere we go,” Storm said. “They must enjoy watching you from behind.”
Showers sighed.
They reached the gated entrance to the Duke of Madison’s estate a minute later. Two security guards, with patches on their black berets that identified them as employees of PROTEC, checked their passports and then let them pass.
“Did you notice they were armed?” Storm asked, as the Vauxhall bounced over cobblestones toward the manor house.
“They’re called ‘manned guards’ in England,” Showers said, “and yes, I saw their weapons.”
“Regardless of what they are called,” he said, “security guards are not supposed to be armed in Britain. Maybe we should call your buddies at Scotland Yard and report them for breaking the rules.”
Ignoring the dig, Showers said, “According to my briefing papers, the manor house is about five miles up this road. The entire estate consists of ten thousand acres. The main house was built in 1532 with stones cut from a nearby quarry and was designed to show off the Duke of Madison’s vast wealth.”
“How’d the duke’s heirs lose it?” Storm asked.
“Bad bets in hedge funds and London casinos,” she replied. “Your kind of people.”
The three-story mansion came into sight. A carved stag and the duke’s coat of arms were sculpted in marble above each window.
A man and woman were waiting. Storm recognized Antonija Nad from their overnight flight.
“I’m Georgi Lebedev,” the man said, extending his hand as they stepped from their rented car. “I recognize Special Agent April Showers from the BBC.”
Showers blushed.
“Yes, she’s becoming quite the celebrity here. I expect the queen to invite her over any day now,” Storm said. He introduced himself as Steve Mason from the State Department.
�
��He’s only here as an advisor,” Showers added. “Seen but not heard.”
Lebedev said, “This is Ms. Antonija Nad, our chief of security.”
“Yes,” said Storm. “We were on the same flight from Washington this morning.”
“I didn’t notice,” Nad replied.
She was lying.
“I didn’t notice you either,” Showers said.
She was lying, too.
“I always notice beautiful women,” Storm said.
He was not lying.
Nad gave Storm a slight smile.
He noticed she was carrying a CZ P-01 semiautomatic pistol in a holster on her belt. “I thought it was illegal for manned guards to carry weapons in England,” he said.
“It is completely against the law,” Lebedev said, “but under an old English law, a nobleman, such as a duke, has the authority to arm his knights for the protection of his lands and his serfs. Obviously, Mr. Petrov is not a duke, but when he purchased the estate, we were able to persuade the duke’s heirs to sign a document that gives us permission to carry weapons while we are on the grounds here. Quite frankly, I’m not sure it would pass legal muster if someone complained, but no one has.”
“Does this mean Ms. Nad is a knight?” Storm asked, looking at her dark eyes.
“It means I can shoot you if necessary,” she replied.
Lebedev led them into the manor house. As they walked, Showers said, “I didn’t realize Russian oligarchs made it a practice to have English tea.”
“Please don’t refer to him as an oligarch,” Lebedev replied. “It’s not a compliment in Russia. And please don’t assume that because we are Russians, we only drink vodka.”
“I meant no offense,” Showers said.
“I’d rather have a good shot of Putinka, any day, than to drink English tea,” Storm volunteered.
“Ah, you’re familiar with Russian vodkas,” Lebedev said. “I’m sure we can find some Putinka for you.”
“I suspect Mr. Petrov’s tastes are more along the line of Kauffman,” Showers said, showing off.
“First you mention the most popular vodka in Moscow and then you mention the most expensive. I’ll ask one of our servants to pour you a sample to see if you palates match your knowledge.”
“None for me,” said Showers. “When I’m working, I stick to something nonalcoholic. Tea will be fine.”
“Then I will drink her shots,” Storm said.
They walked through a massive dining room and exited the house, entering a garden courtyard.
“We’ll be having what the English call low tea, which is an afternoon snack, as opposed to high tea,” said Lebedev, “which is more of a meal.”
“I don’t see Mr. Petrov,” Showers said.
“He’ll be joining us shortly. Please be seated.”
They sat in chairs on opposite sides of an oblong table covered with a white linen cloth. The head spot was left empty. Storm noticed that it also had a chair larger than the others, to support Petrov’s girth. Three men wearing formal attire brought out silver trays with fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate, egg salad finger sandwiches, and warm scones with Devonshire cream. Nad and Storm didn’t take any. But Showers and Lebedev sampled the offerings. A fourth servant poured tea for the women, but brought shot glasses to the table for the men.
Ivan Petrov entered the courtyard through a side door in the mansion. “Don’t get up,” he said. “I apologize for being late, but when you have businesses in different time zones, sometimes it’s difficult to keep a normal schedule.” He spotted the shot glasses.
“Ah,” he said. “I’m so glad our American friends are not sticklers for English tradition. But I’m surprised that you didn’t want an imported beer, Mr. Mason.”
The reference to beer showed that he’d had Nad run a background check on him. Did they also suspect that his real name was not Steve Mason and he wasn’t a State Department employee?
“Mr. Lebedev has proposed a challenge,” Storm explained. “One shot glass contains Kauffman and the other Putinka.”
“I’ll play,” said Petrov. “But first, are you a sporting man?”
“What are the stakes?”
“I’m extremely wealthy and you, sadly, collect a government salary,” Petrov bragged. “How can we make this fair? Here’s what I suggest. I will bet whatever British pounds I have on my person against whatever pounds you have in your wallet. This way neither of us will know the true value of the prize until we win. It will be part of the fun.”
“Okay,” Storm said.
The two men reached for the first shot of vodka simultaneously and swallowed the contents of the glasses in front of them.
Smacking his lips, Petrov said, “I believe the first glass was the Kauffman.”
“I agree,” said Storm.
Petrov ordered the servant to pour another round.
Again, Petrov went first, downing both shot glasses. “This time, it’s the second glass,” he said.
Storm followed. “And this time, I disagree.”
Everyone looked at the servant. “Which glass did you pour the Kauffman into?” Petrov asked.
A glint of fear sparked inside the man’s eyes.
“C’mon, man,” said Petrov. “Be honest. You won’t be fired. Or horsewhipped.” He grinned. “Tell us which glass had the Kauffman.”
“Your guest is the one who is correct, sir. I poured it into the first glass. The second was the Putinka.”
Petrov laughed. “And so, my friend, you win.” He reached into the jacket of his stylist coat and withdrew a leather wallet. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I never carry money. No British pounds, no American dollars, no Russian rubles. Nothing. Look for yourself.” He opened his billfold, exposing a dozen top-end credit cards but not a single bill. “This is because I have people who pay all of my bills whenever I leave the estate. It is one of the perks of being rich. You never touch cash. I apologize, but you win nothing.”
“Only bragging rights,” said Storm.
“And what would I have won?” Petrov asked.
Storm removed his own wallet. Unlike Petrov’s, it contained a thick wad of bills.
“Ah, you are lucky,” Petrov said, eyeing the cash.
“Not really,” Storm replied. He extracted one of the bills. “Our wager was British pounds against British pounds and all of my currency is U.S. dollars. It appears as if each of us was trying to trick the other.”
“Touché,” Petrov said. He lifted a third glass of vodka and said, “Za vstrechi!”
“It means …” Lebedev said, starting to translate.
Showers interrupted. “To our meet-up.”
“Ah, do you know much Russian, my dear?” Petrov said.
“Just a few words. Enough to be dangerous.”
“Indeed,” Petrov said.
Storm noticed that Nad had not taken a drink. “You don’t like vodka or tea?” he asked. “Perhaps a shot of rakija?”
“Now, that’s a drink that I’m not familiar with,” Lebedev said.
“It’s popular in Croatia, especially in the military,” Petrov said. “Our State Department guest has done his homework.”
“Drinking slows the reactions,” she said.
Petrov said, “My Nad is very, very dedicated.” He glanced at his diamond-studded watch and said, “You have come here to question me about my relationship with Senator Thurston Windslow. At least that is what the BBC reported today.”
He looked at Showers, whose cheeks began to blush.
Continuing, he said, “My lawyer, Mr. Lebedev, has reminded me that I am a British citizen and can claim certain protections as such. But I have nothing to hide, so I am willing to answer your questions.”
“We do have one proviso,” Lebedev announced. “Mr. Petrov’s schedule is extremely hectic today, and as you know, English is not our native language. Therefore, we would like for you to tell us in general what information you require now, and then tonight, perhaps, you could subm
it your questions in writing? We can reconvene tomorrow.”
As if rehearsed, Petrov chimed in, “I can tell you this. I was not in the United States when this terrible tragedy happened. I also considered Senator Windslow to be a close friend. I had absolutely no reason to wish him or his family harm.”
“I’d like to learn more about your personal relationship,” Showers said. “How often did you get together in Washington? Did you engage in any financial dealings?”
She was being purposely vague. She had no interest in tipping her hand.
“In Moscow,” Petrov said, “we ask direct questions when we want direct replies. You want to know if I paid him a bribe.”
His candor seemed shocking. But was it really? Petrov and his attorney had had plenty of time to plan their defense. Mentioning the bribe was clearly part of their strategy. But to what end?
“There have been rumors,” Showers said, “of a six-million-dollar payment going from your London bank to the Cayman Islands and then to Senator Windslow.”
“We can discuss this tomorrow,” Petrov promised. “However, if that money was withdrawn from my bank, it was not authorized by me.”
“You allow your employees to transfer six million dollars out of the country without telling you?” Storm asked.
Petrov glanced at Lebedev and said, “Only one or two of them. But the point is that I certainly never offered the senator a bribe. We were good friends. And there is no need for good friends to bribe each other. You do favors out of friendship, not for cash.”
Petrov paused and then said, “If you like, I can save you considerable time by exposing the man who committed the crimes of kidnapping and murder in your capital. The man with bloodly hands is Russian president Oleg Barkovsky. He is the villain you should be investigating, not me.”
“Let’s set a time to meet tomorrow,” Lebedev said. “In the morning, Mr. Petrov will be delivering a speech at a student rally in Oxford.”
“You should attend,” Petrov announced. “I will be speaking about the murder of Svetlana Alekseev, the Russian journalist who was found dead in the elevator of her Moscow apartment building last month. She had criticized Barkovsky, and it is common knowledge that he ordered her killed. Just as he had your senator murdered.”
A Raging Storm Page 5
