The Krasnovs were found out seven months later. A floater agent, one assigned to spy on spies, read a mole’s report and resealed it before it was turned over to Yuri for translation. The deception was discovered. The Krasnovs fled. The family was relocated to Wisconsin and given the new last name Brown, chosen by Svetlana. She was a big fan of the Peanuts comic strip.
Young Fayina and her brother Vladilen grew up American, and no one could have been more of a patriot than Vlad. He joined the marines as soon as he turned eighteen and proved to be remarkably skilled with the M-14. His proficiency was the result of the years he had spent hunting with his father in the woods. Implicitly, the elder Brown wanted to be ready in case the KGB ever came looking for them. Fortunately, the collapse of the Soviet Union made that unlikely.
Vlad was so good with weapons that the Marines appointed him to a special reaction team at the Marine Corps Air Station in Iwakuni, Japan. As part of his assignment he was sent to Camp Foster, Okinawa, to train with the new Designated Marksman Rifle. The DMR was an urban combat rifle. Before being certified, Vlad had to be able to make a moving head shot from two hundred yards and hit a stationary thumbnail-size object from the same distance.
He placed number one at the base, and among the top 1 percent of all Marine marksmen nationwide. Shortly before the Iraq War, Captain Vlad Brown was reassigned to special duty at the White House. Along with two other men, Vlad spent his nights on the roof with infrared glasses, watching for potential attackers. His DMR was worn across his back in a loose leather sling. He could have the rifle unshouldered and aimed in less than three seconds. His orders were to report any suspicious movement within three hundred yards of the White House. Vlad wore a three-ounce video camera on his left shoulder, where it would not get in the way of his DMR. The camera relayed images to Secret Service On-site Command based in the West Wing. If the SSOC determined a threat was real, Vlad would be ordered to neutralize it.
The post was quite a journey for the son of Russian defectors, unthinkable a quarter century before. The young man took some ribbing because of his very Russian name, but not too much. That was the one area where Vlad Brown was self-conscious and extremely sensitive. Though the captain passed the monthly psych evaluations, which were required for armed individuals with presidential access, his fellow marksmen sensed his name was an area to avoid. There were some things team members picked up on that psychologists did not.
Vlad was rarely called to the White House during the day. Marksmen required seven or eight hours’ sleep to be their sharpest and, besides, he did not like to be out much during the day. After seven months on the job, his eyes were accustomed to night, his body to the pleasant night air, his ears to the sounds of the evening and early morning. He did not want to do anything to upset that balance.
But the president’s chief of staff said it was important, so Captain Brown put off going to sleep, called up a staff car, and had himself driven from the Marine Barracks at Eighth and I to the White House. Upon arriving, he went directly to the SSOC office and was introduced to Darrell and Maria McCaskey of Op-Center. The former Russian citizen felt an immediate empathy with Mrs. McCaskey. Obviously, she was not a native to these shores.
Secret Service Agent Stephen Kearns—the son of Greek immigrants—offered Vlad a seat in the small office. He declined. Mrs. McCaskey was standing, and the officer would not sit in her presence. Her husband introduced himself to Vlad. He looked as tired as the marine captain felt.
“Thank you for coming,” McCaskey said. “Captain Brown, we are investigating the assassination of William Wilson at the Hay-Adams Hotel. I assume you’ve heard about it?”
“I have, sir.”
“We understand from Agent Kearns that you wear a small video camera equipped with night-vision capabilities,” McCaskey said. “We would like to look at the images from that night.”
“We believe the individual we are seeking walked past the park, past your observation post,” Mrs. McCaskey added.
“Agent Kearns, do you have any objection?” Vlad asked. Because of the cooperative arrangement between the Secret Service and the marines, dual releases were required before a third party could examine White House security tapes.
“Mr. and Mrs. McCaskey have been cleared by the office of the chief of staff,” Kearns informed him.
“Then you have my permission, sir,” Vlad told the Op-Center officer.
“Thank you,” McCaskey said.
Agent Kearns had booted the digital videodisc on which the images were stored. The SSOC officer swung the monitor toward the McCaskeys. The couple must have friends in high places to have been given access to these images. Few people even knew they existed.
The image was time-coded and bookmarked in five-minute chunks. Kearns jumped directly to the times the McCaskeys wished to see. Vlad stood back while Darrell and Maria bent very close to the monitor and to each other. There was something touching about it.
A woman walked past the screen.
“Hold on!” Darrell McCaskey said. “Can you hold the image and enlarge it?”
Agent Kearns obliged. A blurry green image of a woman filled the screen. She was walking away from the hotel toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Mr. McCaskey pointed at the monitor with his pinkie. He traced what appeared to be a faint smudge of dress beneath the woman’s long jacket.
“See the line under the hem?” McCaskey asked his wife excitedly.
“Yes,” Mrs. McCaskey said.
“What do you think?”
“That could be satin,” she replied.
“Sir, if you give me a minute, I’ll extrapolate the color information and sharpen the image,” Kearns said.
“Please do,” Mr. McCaskey said.
No one spoke as the computer did its job. Though the image was entirely in tones of green, the image processor was capable of matching a color to each particular shade. The saturation of green corresponded to the comparative brightness of a color. By removing the green and matching the remaining light intensity to a color, the image could be accurately colorized. At the same time, the computer scanned the picture to differentiate between legitimate information and pictorial noise such as blurred motion, video snow, and other artifacts. It removed these flaws by replicating information from adjoining pixels.
Within two minutes, the woman looked as if she had posed for a profile picture in daylight. The McCaskeys studied it for a minute, then asked Agent Kearns to print the image. He obliged. He handed the eight-by-ten to Mr. McCaskey.
“Do you recognize the individual?” Kearns asked.
“Yes,” Mr. McCaskey replied. “Gentlemen, you have been of immeasurable assistance. Thank you.”
Mrs. McCaskey smiled. It was formal but sincere. For Vlad, it was worth coming back to work. One day, when his assignment ended and the pressure of his job was behind him, Vlad hoped to find a woman like that. A woman with poise, intensity, and beauty.
The captain returned to his car and driver. Vlad had to admit it was encouraging how people from four nations had just worked together to solve the death of someone from a fifth country. There was probably a lesson in that for the United Nations and the world in general. But he was too tired to search for it. And maybe it was not worth analyzing. As Yuri used to say with a dismissive wave of his hand, “It’s politics. My keeshkee cannot take it anymore.”
Maybe the Krasnov gene pool and intestines were averse to chaos in general. It was lunch hour, and Vlad found the traffic disturbing. It was thick with growling buses, limousines, and Washingtonians who honked at tourists who slowed as they passed each familiar landmark. Vlad shut his tired eyes, and the comfort of darkness returned. Along with a troubling realization.
He shared a love of nighttime with someone else. Someone whose values were the antithesis of his own: the assassin.
Vlad nudged this thought from his mind. It was way beyond his pay grade. Besides, the gene pool that disliked chaos also gave him something else. Something with which there was no
debating. A part of him that did not want to think about this: his keeshkee.
FORTY
Salt Lake City, Utah Wednesday, 10:17 A.M.
Mike Rodgers was changing planes when he checked the personal cell phone he had bought to join the twenty-first century. He never took the phone with him to work, so it had been unaffected by the electromagnetic pulse. There was a call from Maria McCaskey and plenty of time to return it. The connecting flight to San Diego did not leave for another sixty minutes.
The flight from Washington had been routine. Routine for Rodgers, anyway. That invariably meant planning for conflict. The difference was that for the first time in his life, he was sizing up Americans. He was talking to Kat Lockley, trying to find out what she knew and what she might be hiding. Either she was very good at deception, or she was very innocent. He could not decide which. He was hoping it was the latter. In fact, he hoped this entire thing turned out to be a misunderstanding of some sort. Being away from Washington made him inherently less distrustful. The murderer of William Wilson was probably a former lover or a business rival. The EM attack on Op-Center may have been long planned, the timing coincidental. He still believed it was executed by a group or nation the NCMC had crossed. At least, Rodgers wanted to believe that. One of the failures of Homeland Security was that it presumed when the moat was drawn, only good guys remained in the castle.
Kat planted her ear to her cell phone the instant she left the plane. She said she had to talk to Eric Stone and to Kendra to see how everything was going. The senator had no plans for that morning. The convention opened in the evening, but the senator’s big night was not until the next day. He would make a speech and then, on Friday, the convention would select a candidate. Kat said she wanted to make sure that everything was going as planned.
Rodgers walked away from where Kat was sitting. He went to a quiet corner at an empty gate and stood with his back against a wall. It felt good to stand after being in the crowded plane. People were rushing about, but the general felt disconnected from their urgency. He had always felt that way in combat, too. There was a tightrope strung between himself and the outcome, with potential enemies everywhere. He had to be very attentive to each step. This investigation was like that in a way because of what the outcome meant to him personally and professionally. Rodgers felt apprehensive as he punched in the number. He did not think Darrell or Maria was calling to find out if Kat had told him anything. Rodgers would have called from a phone on the airplane if he had intel. The call probably meant the McCaskeys had information for him. Maybe they had found the killer, an angry former employee or maltreated valet.
The information Darrell had was not what Mike Rodgers wanted to hear.
“A woman from your circle was at the second crime scene,” McCaskey told him. “The time is right, and she was wearing a dress that matches the color of fibers found in the room.”
Since this was an unsecured line, McCaskey would not tell Rodgers how he found that out, but the former FBI agent was a conservative man; he would not have made such a conclusive statement if he weren’t sure.
“Who is it?” Rodgers asked.
“The reporter.”
Lucy O’Connor. Rodgers felt relief, doubt, and renewed concern in quick succession. The relief was because the killer appeared to be outside the group. The doubt was because it seemed unlikely Lucy would have conceived the one murder alone, let alone a second murder and possibly the bombing of Op-Center. In the little time he had spent with Lucy, she did not seem to have the patience for murder. And concern because, if all that were true, Lucy had to be in league with someone. That still did not clear Link or his people.
“What about the hat with the big brim?” Rodgers asked. “Is that a match?”
“Not worn in this image,” McCaskey said. “But it could have been stuffed into a shoulder bag.”
That made sense. If she were caught on a security camera outside, there would be one less element to connect her to images from the hotel.
“What do you want me to do?” Rodgers asked.
“I think you should tell your traveling companion and see how she reacts,” McCaskey said.
“I agree. We leave for San Diego in less than an hour. I’ll try to call back before then.”
Rodgers hung up. He flipped the phone shut and started walking toward Kat. She was still sitting there, her eyes fixed on nothing, her index finger in her open ear as she talked on the phone, conducting her business. But which business? And how was he going to find out? He was a soldier, not Morley Safer.
The seat beside Kat was open. Rodgers took it. She did not attempt to conceal what she was saying.
“. . . only CNN talks to him before the press conference. That’s the deal we made for a prime-time spot,” Kat was saying. She was silent for a moment, her shoulders straight and stiff, her mouth a tight, unemotional line. Then she said, “I understand, Diane. But Larry was the only one who offered that. What about this: you get the first talk with the ticket. I would want ten minutes in the eight o’clock hour of the morning show.” She was silent again. “Yes, an exclusive sit-down at the senator’s home in Georgetown.” Kat smiled slightly as she listened. “Good. I will present it to the senator, but I am certain it will be okay. Thanks. Say hi to Mike.” Kat punched the Off button and slumped into the seat. “Well, this is what I worked for. Now I’ve got it.”
“What is that?”
“A hungry press,” Kat replied. “Before Wilson, Senator Orr was only on the radar of the all-news networks. Now everyone wants him, especially if they can shoot at the party house.”
“Lucky break for us,” Rodgers said.
Kat looked over. “I’m too busy for sarcasm.”
“Okay. Let’s try it straight up.” Kat had given him a clean shot, and he decided to take it. Maybe that was the best way. “What do you say to Lucy O’Connor being at the Hay-Adams when Wilson was murdered?”
“I would say she was trying to get an interview,” Kat replied. She speed-dialed another number.
“Or maybe trying to make news,” Rodgers suggested.
“What are you talking about?”
Rodgers looked around to make sure no one was listening. For all he knew, Lucy O’Connor had been on their flight. “There is an image of Lucy leaving the Hay-Adams shortly after the murder. The dress she had on is the same color as the one the assassin was wearing.”
Kat terminated the call. “That hardly makes her a killer or even an accomplice,” she said. “Maybe they bought it off the same rack.”
“That’s a reach,” Rodgers said.
“So is your idea of what constitutes a murder suspect,” Kat said. “You’ve got a hungry reporter. A reclusive news-maker. Of course she would be at the hotel after the party, trying to intercept him.”
“You’re defending her pretty adamantly,” Rodgers observed.
“This is America. Lucy is still innocent. Besides, she doesn’t deserve to be pilloried. Nor does Senator Orr,” Kat said.
“Is that what you think is happening?” Rodgers asked.
“Yes. You or someone at Op-Center has obviously made up their minds that we are guilty of murder, or worse.”
“No one has made that determination,” Rodgers told her. “This is an investigation.”
“Yours or Op-Center’s?”
“Until my resignation takes effect, I am working for Op-Center by assignment and command of the undersecretary, Department of Defense Security Cooperation Agency,” Rodgers replied.
“Then I suggest you get back to Washington and complete your assignment there,” Kat said.
“For the record, I have spent most of my career in the field, protecting America and the rights of its citizens. I have condemned no one, either openly or in here,” Rodgers tapped his right temple. “You, on the other hand, have made up your mind that I am out to get you. If that were true, I would have turned this over to Paul Hood and his bulldogs.”
Kat’s expression returned to neutral
. She looked at her phone and tapped it in her open palm. “It sounded like an attack,” she said.
“I’m a soldier. A lot of things I say come out like that.”
“Not always.” The young woman regarded Rodgers. Neutrality suddenly looked more like exhaustion. “General—Mike—I really don’t know about what Lucy did or did not do. And I do not want to be defensive. It’s just this whole thing has been a distraction at the worst possible time. Part of me believes it was designed that way by a person or group that does not want to see the senator become president or even have a voice in this election.”
“Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“Sure. Every lobbyist and politician from the center to the left. Political rivals like Senator Debenport and Governor Jimmy Phyfe of Ohio, both of whom want President Lawrence’s job.”
“Do you have specific information that either of those men may be involved in the assassination?” Rodgers asked. “If you do, even if it’s just a suspicion, this would be the time to tell me.”
“There are rumors that Debenport and Lawrence are using the presidency to attract allies for partisan activities, but we have no proof of that,” Kat told him. “Anything you can imagine is possible in Washington, but I don’t even want to believe that.”
Rodgers had always felt like a resistance fighter, risking his life to stop oppression. At the moment he felt like a collaborator, dirty and small. He moved closer. “You just said that anything you can imagine is possible. I have never done a lot of abstract thinking, Kat. I look at maps, at facts, at logistics. Since this thing started, I have been taking one small step at a time, just as I did whenever I led a unit against an enemy position. The difference is, I am accustomed to knowing who my opponent is. This is new ground for me and for Op-Center.”
“For all of us,” Kat said. “I have never been part of a murder investigation.”
“At least your involvement is peripheral at best,” Rodgers pointed out. “For that matter, the spotlight is on Lucy now, not any of your coworkers.”
Call to Treason (2004) Page 27
