Which was when Bobbi appeared to stumble off the curb. She swung Lila around. Off-balance, Lila’s umbrella tilted, shielding them from the eyes of the bustling crowd on the sidewalk. Bobbi let go of her elbow and hip-bumped her, hard, directly into the path of the SUV, now speeding toward them.
Bobbi had started moving away even before the sound reached her ears, the thunk, heavy, wet, ominous. She eeled her way through the crowd at precisely the same pace as those around her. Behind her came the squeal of tires, screams, shouts, and the crowd began to press toward the curb, attracted to the scene like mice to cheese. The approaching wail of sirens found her on the fourth floor of the department store, shielded by a forest of expensive designer dresses, heading toward the escalator down to the entrance on the far side of the store.
PART ONE
1
WASHINGTON, DC
PRESENT DAY
Benjamin Butler had made a mistake. A grave mistake. By Zoe’s determination, anyway. His daughter, eight years old going on sixteen, had made him promise that there would always be Oreos in the house. Because they just returned from a week at the Atlantis in Paradise Island, celebrating her eighth birthday, tonight there weren’t any, which was why Ben was trolling down the wide aisles of the Costco on Market Street NE, in DC with an impatient Zoe on his heels. It was almost 8 P.M.; they had just over thirty minutes to find and purchase the Oreos before the store closed for the night. He should have known where they were; he’d bought them often enough. But Costco had this annoying habit of moving displays around.
At last, after long minutes of hunting, Zoe spotted them midway down the snacks aisle.
“There, Dad! There they are!”
He pushed his cart after his sprinting daughter and caught up with her in front of a massive stack of the oversized blue boxes filled with thirty six-packs of the cookies Zoe loved so much. He grabbed one, looked at her happy hungry face, and decided to make it two, so he wouldn’t have to think about buying them for weeks. As he turned to head for the register lines, he saw a suit standing at the end of the aisle. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the suit’s twin—or near enough. Ben had been in the business of espionage long enough to recognize government bodyguards with a single glance. He could smell them too—a combination of cheap aftershave, cheap fabric, and sweat. No one was in the aisle save himself and Zoe. He prudently decided to shelter in place and let the situation reveal itself. He stood with his hands on the bar of his shopping cart, Zoe in front of him cradled between his arms, and waited.
A few seconds later, a new actor emerged from behind a display of M&M boxes the size of his chest. The no-neck monster Ben knew as General Ryan Aristides, his boss at DOD, who had proved himself a gutless wonder when Ben’s job and reputation were on the line several months ago. Instead of coming to Ben’s defense against Brady Thompson, the Secretary of Defense, he had stepped away, keeping himself clear of whatever fallout would ensue from Brady coming down on Ben’s head and on Ben’s clandestine shop. As it turned out Ben and Evan Ryder had been able to neutralize Thompson, uncovering evidence that he had been working for the Russians and turning him. As a double agent, he now delivered vital intel to Aristides while feeding disinformation to his erstwhile Russian masters.
The general’s big square face looked pale beneath the harsh blue-white overheads. He walked with a rolling gait, slightly bowlegged, result of his time aboard ships.
“Quite a sweet tooth you have there, Ben,” he said, pointing at the Oreos.
Ben. Aristides always called him Benjamin. Something was up. It was only then, as the general approached, that Ben realized Aristides was out of regs: he was in a shiny suit he might have worn to his daughter’s wedding.
“Zoe,” Ben said.
“Ah, yes, the lovely Zoe.”
The general should have been smiling, but he wasn’t. Anyone else would have said hello to the girl, asked how she was, but Aristides was busy looking at a display of gummy bears. “I hated these when I was a kid,” he said, his voice a basso rumble. “Disgusting stuff, don’t you think? All that sugar, just rots you from the inside out.” But it was clear he didn’t expect or want an answer. In fact, it wasn’t altogether clear whether he was speaking about gummy bears at all.
The general sighed, turned back to Ben. “I think it would be best if Zoe took a stroll around with Wilson here.” One of the suits stepped forward. He was young, fresh-faced, and, unlike his boss, was smiling at Zoe.
Ben took a short moment for a sit rep. Evaluating the situation wasn’t difficult; Aristides had given him little choice. He leaned over and put his mouth to Zoe’s ear. “How about it, kiddo? The general and I need to have a bit of a chin-wag.” He couched the request in as unintimidating terms as he could.
Zoe, who was both smart and used to the secretiveness of her father’s job, nodded. “Okey-doke.
“I’m not a child,” she said, slipping out from between her father and the shopping cart, ignoring Wilson’s extended hand, fixing him with her disconcertingly direct stare.
“My mistake.” Wilson scarcely missed a beat.
When the two of them were out of sight, Aristides cleared his throat. “Ben, I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Ben’s stomach dropped, as if he were in a fast descending elevator. “Let’s have it,” he said.
The general picked up an enormous bag of miniature Snickers, regarded it as if it were a crystal ball, then, almost angrily, shoved it back with its brethren. When he turned to Ben, his gaze was concentrated on a spot in the middle of Ben’s forehead.
He can’t look me in the eye, Ben thought, and braced himself as best he could.
Aristides heaved a sigh. His neck was bulging, threatening to burst out of its collar. “As of today, your shop is out of business.”
“Wait. What?” Ben couldn’t believe what he just heard. “You can’t be serious.”
“Everyone but Evan has already been reassigned.”
“After we delivered Thompson as a double agent? The Secretary of Defense? The biggest espionage coup in …” Ben shook his head. “How is this possible?”
“You delivered Thompson to me, personally. No one else knows we compromised him and to protect him that’s the way it needs to remain.”
“I understand. Of course I do. But still—”
“Listen to me, Ben. First, POTUS doesn’t care for your agents being female.” Aristides began to count on his fingers. “Second, you lost control of one of them, Brenda Myers. She went rogue and killed a civilian. Third, your shop’s incursion on foreign soil and its messy aftermath have made you and Ryder some extremely dangerous enemies here at home—billionaires with the wherewithal and power to influence POTUS.”
Ben grunted in disgust. “General, with all due respect, you still need me, need my shop. These people aren’t done. Samuel Wainwright Wells is right at the heart of the same evangelical conservative cabal that’s been funding Nemesis’s neo-Nazi arm here in America. That’s the right wing’s plan, meld their brand of conservatism with white supremacy. He’s their top dog. I’ve got my eye on him, with his people spewing their evangelical racism through the TV and radio stations he owns.”
“Undoubtedly. Nevertheless, Ben, these evangelical conservatives have POTUS’s ear. Wells’s Super PAC played a major role in his election. Ever since Wells married his third wife, the former Lucinda Horvat, just over a year ago, he’s been even more seriously into the evangelicals.”
Ben shook his head. “Right. They had a low-key wedding at the DC hotel owned by one of POTUS’s companies. I heard he offered the hotel gratis—as a wedding present.”
Aristides nodded. “Tight guest list—an echelon of his compadres, but none of her family; they’re all dead. Probably because Lucinda is in her late twenties, the marriage caused something of a ripple in the mainstream press.”
“Which set off the usual backlash in the right-wing media. And even they weren’t allowed to take photos.”
The ge
neral nodded. “Wells is notoriously reclusive, so there wasn’t much of a story for the press to latch onto. And, of course, Wells’s own virulently right-wing media network ignored the age difference altogether. In any event, it took the new Mrs. Wells no time to climb into the Wellsian life. By all accounts he’s content to have her be his mouthpiece. And POTUS seems enamored of her. She often leads his private prayer group. Word is, she also appears to be taking a more active role in Wells’s business affairs. She’s seen more often at high-level corporation meetings than he is.”
“Well, there you go. Their involvement in Nemesis is a logical conclusion, General. Even you can see that.”
Aristides’s expression did not change. “All circumstantial, all conjecture. You have no proof, Ben. As far as we are concerned, the Wellses’ hands are clean.”
“Their hands are as dirty as they come.” Ben shook his head. “This is insane, General. I know it and you know it.” Ben realized that unconsciously he’d taken up a defensive stance: feet at hip’s width, arms hanging at his sides, hands slightly curled. But it was no use—Aristides had already attacked him. He was rocked back on his heels. The ground had been scooped out from under him, and he was falling into an abyss.
“I wish it were, Ben, but facts are facts. This cabal of ultra-wealthy conservatives, whoever they are—”
“Who, not incidentally, are raping this country, following the game plan of the robber barons of the early 1900s.”
“Irrelevant to this discussion. What is relevant is that you thwarted them when you took down Nemesis,” Aristides continued, ignoring Ben’s furious outburst. “They’re not likely to forget that. They’re not used to losing.”
And this is the thanks I get, Ben thought. I get fucked while they get away scot-free. But he didn’t say it. Self-pity was not a trait Aristides could abide. Nevertheless, Ben felt the rage rise in him like bile, burning his stomach and throat, momentarily muting him.
He’d spent a decade in the field, facing innumerable forms of peril that placed him so close to death he could feel its icy heartbeat. He’d deliberately wrenched himself out of the field—a place he had come to view as home—in order to work himself up the intelligence ladder, and at last he’d been delivered his reward: his own black ops shop.
Now it was gone, vaporized with a cynical and self-serving command.
“I’ve pulled some strings, dodged a couple of regs, to get you an extremely generous severance package.”
Ben’s lip curled. “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”
Aristides’s meaty shoulders rose, fell. “Either way, the money is yours. It’s in your account.”
“And that’s it?” Ben said with pointed belligerence.
“It’s a shitload of money,” Aristides said with equanimity.
“What about Evan?”
“She has a choice. Either accept a reassignment to the Department of Energy or take severance.”
“The Department of fucking Energy? You must be joking. What is she going to do there?”
The general shrugged. “Politics, Ben.”
“You already know what her choice will be, General.”
Aristides nodded. “Money will hit her account tomorrow morning.”
Aristides took another step closer. “A word of warning. These people, they’ll never forget what you and Ryder did,” Aristides said in a raspy whisper. “They’ll never forget.”
Ben passed a hand across his forehead; it came away damp and clammy. He was grateful that Zoe couldn’t see him in this state. The general had done one thing, at least, to ease Ben’s pain—and it was no small thing.
“But—” Aristides’s voice returned to its normal level. “Lemons, lemonade.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. This was no time for word games. “Please.”
The general’s expression softened like taffy. Ben recognized genuine compassion in his eyes.
“Seen in a new light,” Aristides said, “this turn of events can be fortuitous.”
Ben goggled at him. A bitter laugh exploded out of his mouth. “In what multiverse?” He was incredulous.
“Yours.” Aristides spread his hands. “New start, new opportunities. You were always a wizard at those.”
Aristides’s face was sallow, unhealthy-looking in the overhead illumination. Briefly, Ben wondered whether he looked as bad.
General Aristides glanced at his watch; their time was up. “Evan Ryder is the only one of your field assets currently out of the country,” he said. “Yes?”
Ben nodded.
“For her sake and yours get her the hell back here ASAP.”
2
EN ROUTE
THREE DAYS LATER
At thirty-five thousand feet aloft, the Pacific was a sheet of beaten brass. Not long into the flight, however, clouds raced in, hurrying to unknown destinations, and the view out the window turned white as a desert sky at noon.
Evan Ryder, strapped into her seat, slid the plastic screen down over the window, sat back, and closed her eyes. Thinking of Lyudmila, their many weeks together in Sumatra, their last goodbye for what might be many months before Evan had stepped onto the ferry to Bali.
Lyudmila Alexeyevna Shokova, one of only two female apparatchiks in the Politburo, had managed to amass so much power that the Russian sovereign had ordered her purged. Her contacts had not failed her, flying her out of Moscow in a crate on a private flight, then secreting her aboard a freighter out of Odessa, crossing the Black Sea to Istanbul, where she vanished into the incessant crowds.
Lyudmila had told Evan that Bobbi, Evan’s younger sister, had been a sleeper agent for a highly secretive arm of Russian intelligence.
“What?” Evan had blanched. “I don’t … I can’t fathom how that’s possible.”
But the dossier Lyudmila had shown her proved the truth of what Lyudmila had said. The Kobalt Dossier, for that was her traitorous sister’s operational name. Kobalt. “We’re going to find out how this is possible,” Lyudmila had told her. “You’re going to need my help. Bobbi was part of Directorate 52123, we think within the SVR.”
“But there is no Directorate 52123 within either the SVR or the FSB, so far as I know.”
“Which is why we’re not sure Directorate 52123 is part of the SVR. In fact, it’s so secretive no one I’ve contacted has ever heard of it or can find any trace of it. The sole evidence of Directorate 52123’s existence is in this dossier, buried soul-deep in the SVR server.”
“I can’t go on not knowing how she was recruited. And why.”
“Your dismay is my pain, pchelka. So. Revenge has become our way of life. Now we enter the darkness.”
Evan stared out the Perspex window at the whiteness of nothing at all.
If not for Ben’s summons, she would still be with Lyudmila. They had been preparing to move on, to wend a circuitous route to wherever it was that Lyudmila had set up her independent shop.
Evan closed her eyes. She tried not to wonder what was behind Ben’s signal that had appeared on her mobile. She longed to be with Lyudmila, for them to journey together into the dark enigma of Bobbi’s betrayal. How could her sister possibly … ? It was unthinkable, unspeakable. Evan shifted, feeling the presence of the icicle that had been thrust into her when she had begun to read the dossier on her sister that Lyudmila had shared with her.
But what if …
What if the intel in the dossier was disinformation? It was possible; the Russians were expert at dezinformatsiya, a dark art that had its origins in Stalin’s KGB black propaganda directorate.
The only problem with that theory was she couldn’t for the life of her fathom why they would bother. What was Bobbi to them, except her sister? Her little sister, who had died in a hit-and-run incident on the streets of DC a little over three years before, ten days after the similar death of Lila, Ben’s wife. Evan and Ben had always believed that the two deaths were linked—murders—retribution for the havoc they had wreaked on the Russians during their last fiel
d assignment together. What would this bit of dezinformatsiya, even if it found its way to Evan, gain the Russians?
So, probably not.
Turning her mind away from her attempt to absolve her sister, she drew her handbag onto her lap, plucked out the presents she had bought at the Pasar Atas market in Bukittinggi: for Zoe, Ben’s daughter, a clutch of old hotel room keys—some purportedly from hotels that were occupied by spirits. Zoe had moved on from her obsession with dinosaurs, which she now saw as too babyish, to researching hotel hauntings—ghosts of those who had been murdered or terribly wronged. This led her to collect hotel room keys. From knowing the names of every dinosaur that ever roamed the earth, she now knew the provenance of every key in her possession, which numbered in the hundreds, meticulously tagged and cataloged. For her niece and nephew: a batik scarf for Wendy and a “Save the Sumatran Tiger” T-shirt for Michael. Wendy was eleven, Michael, nine. They were growing up so fast. She closed her eyes, asked herself the question that often tugged at her: What if she had chosen Bobbi’s lifestyle—marriage, kids, a suburban home, two cars, maybe a dog? The same day-after-day drudgery. She had never understood why Bobbi had opted for such a boring life, let alone how she’d managed to bear it.
Now, of course, she realized that Bobbi hadn’t opted for the boring life after all. She had chosen a double life—married mother of two, a husband who ran a conservative Super PAC for candidates backed by Samuel Wells, and a life of secrets, shadows, living in the interstices between things, where no one looked. What ate at Evan was how her sister could have chosen the other side? What had made Russia so tempting for her? These unanswerable questions pinballed around Evan’s mind. But with Bobbi dead, the questions would remain unanswered. The finality of that made Evan’s anger at her sister all the more galling.
The Kobalt Dossier Page 2
