In truth, something he had little experience with, he didn’t know when or if he’d return to Staritsa. He wondered whether the FSB would detain him the moment he tried to board the bus at Tver, or later. Would he feel a cold hand yank him on the shoulder, steps away from his Moscow-bound, not St. Petersburg, train? That’s how he often did it, theatrical and forceful. He simply slipped out of the shadows when his subjects were most focused on blending in, when they were convinced they had succeeded in tricking Mother Russia. That’s when he loved making his arrests. In public, with no equivocation. No sympathy. Everyone would talk about what happened. Few would dare it.
Yet, now Aleksandr Dubroff looked for movement in the shadows. He glanced around to see if someone from the FSB would make an example of him.
Yes, the train. 250 kilometers. That’s when. It’s such a good time to instruct rookies, he thought. No, Moskovia. So many more people to witness my capture. Maybe, he thought.
The bus door opened and Dubroff climbed the stairs. Then again, giving himself credit, maybe not.
Chapter 43
Russia
Aleksandr Dubroff could feel it. He blamed his own stupidity. Too much time on that damned computer.
He didn’t know where they were, but he was certain they were watching. Maybe it wasn’t the man two rows behind him on the bus, or the attendant who stared far too long at his window as they rolled away. Maybe it was someone he hadn’t noticed yet. The farmer in overalls in the aisle opposite him. He looked at the man’s fingers. Rough and dirty? No. He strained to glance over his shoulder. Then what about the woman another row back? She seemed to be reading, but she hadn’t turned a page yet.
Dubroff spent the next two hours sneaking looks and evaluating everyone. He knew he’d be doing the same thing on the train at Tver, assuming he made it that far.
There’s an expression that goes to the very heart of the paranoid: Sometimes they really are following you.
A car pulled up onto the dirt driveway in front of the old Russian’s dacha. Two men in poorly fitting suits stepped out. The driver walked around to the passenger side and motioned to the back of the house. The second man went where he was told.
The driver walked to the front door. His orders were to knock solidly and wait. If, after an appropriate amount of time, the door didn’t open, he was authorized to break in. His supervisors told him that his subject was old. He’d also been warned: “He’s a former colonel in the KGB. The man is resourceful.” He wasn’t informed about his status in the Politburo. No one cared anymore.
When the second knock went unanswered, he unholstered his revolver and put all his might against the wooden door. It gave way, probably needing only half the effort.
“This is the FSB! Show yourself!” There was a noise at the rear of the house. Another door opening. The Russian agent leveled his gun in the direction of the sound.
“In!” called Number Two from the back. Damn. He was supposed to stay and wait! Doesn’t anyone pay attention to training anymore?
The agent worked his way around the first floor. There were old pictures of a beautiful young woman, books on horticulture, an upright piano. He touched a few keys. Instead of recognizable notes, the piano produced discordant tones and thuds. He continued his search. A collection of shot glasses. Dog-eared books of Russian poetry. A box of letters in a woman’s hand. He looked at the postmarks. Nothing newer than the mid-1980s.
The agents converged at the steps leading upstairs. A worn carpet covered the scuffed brown hardwood floors, long in need of a good sanding and stain. The head agent nodded for Number Two to accompany him.
Wony hit the agent. What did they say? Former colonel in the KGB. They weren’t just looking for an old man, they were here to take in a dangerous man.
The agent-in-charge had a printout of the websites Dubroff had logged onto, the length of time he spent on each, and the contents of the webpages. The psych ops shrink, assigned to evaluate Dubroff’s motivation, concluded:
“The behavior of the subject is consistent with one who is absorbed in self-evaluation or end-of-life reflection. The tools of the technology allow him to search for references to his own career; to create meaning for his life’s work, for his existence on the face of the earth. Finding little, yet seeing accounts of colleagues, many of whom he views as lesser, fosters a growing anger. First it is directed at them—people who have achieved fame, perhaps wealth, by violating their allegiance to country. Worse still is when they exploit their achievements at the expense of the subject. But soon this anger transfers to the State. Not only the former Soviet Union, but today’s State. It is the recommendation of this department that the subject be questioned, that his computer be confiscated, that his actions cease.
“While he poses no immediate security risk, his archival knowledge could be embarrassing.”
The report was initialed and dispatched to a bureau supervisor who bucked it up. The name Dubroff, though not instantly recognizable to everyone in the FSB hierarchy, was familiar to a senior control, Yuri Ranchenkov. He was the man who ultimately decided to round up Dubroff.
Ranchenkov recalled a pain-in-the-ass teacher many years ago at the famed Andropov Institute. He made everyone who entered wish they’d never enrolled and turned anyone who graduated into a professional. His name was Dubroff, too. But he still couldn’t be alive?
If he was the same man, he held important secrets. Between his KGB work and his years at the Politburo, he was a walking encyclopedia of every Cold War trick in the book. The shrink’s summation was vastly understated. He called for an assistant to pull all the records on “an Aleksandr Dubroff, retired, Politburo, 1984 or 85. Mid-’80s at least. Ex-KGB field officer and teacher at Andropov.” Then he added for good measure, “Confirm if he is deceased; if so, where he is buried. If he is alive, tell me where he lives!”
They found the information. Dubroff, Aleksandr, was alive. Ranchenkov sent investigators to his home without complaint from subordinates. He had an old-guard sensibility, left over from the Communist regime. He demanded obedience and loyalty. Ranchenkov supervised the secret branch of the DII—the Department of Internal Investigations—the newest version of the Secret Police. In a strange turn of events, he was tracking down his mentor.
After listening for any sound of life in the bedroom and hearing none, the lead FSB agent swung open the door with a simple nudge. Like every other room they checked, it had the musty smell of an old house. This did not make Sergei Ryabov any less cautious. The dossier on Dubroff was impressive. He had been a master spy. That meant he was proficient with a gun.
While both men were relieved the entire house was clear, Dubroff’s absence presented another problem. Where was he?
“He picks mushrooms. He’s probably out in the forest,” said Number Two.
Ryabov had more experience, but only a little. Still, he bullied his partner as if he had years of experience. “And if he is not, then we have wasted hours.”
His Number Two reluctantly nodded.
“Look in his drawers. I’ll check his closets.”
“What am I looking for?”
“What’s there and what’s missing!” exclaimed Ryabov.
The chief officer surveyed Dubroff’s closet. He ran an elimination list. Suitcase. Not here. He looked under the bed, then in the guest room, in the hall closets, and finally in a quarter basement that housed the boiler and hot-water heater. There, he found four bulky, dusty suitcases, stacked one on top of another. The top one had a thick layer of dust on it, but curiously, a rectangle within that was dust free. There had been a fifth, smaller suitcase. He glided his finger across the clean portion of the top suitcase and looked at it. Clean. Dubroff left recently!
Sergei Ryabov shot upstairs and called into FSB headquarters the same moment Aleksandr Dubroff boarded the train.
Chapter 44
Boston, Massachusetts
Roarke’s Secret Service creden
tials went a long way in defusing the momentary excitement. He explained to the police that he had been tracking a fugitive who, using a new identity, took a job at the coffee bar. Katie confirmed what she could, which helped. Unfortunately, for Roarke’s sake, more damage had been done in the minutes while he was chasing Depp.
Another Starbucks employee took it upon herself to clean up. That included wiping the pots, trashing the cup that Depp used as a diversion, and restoring everything back to spic and span, customer-friendly normal. The possibility of lifting usable latent prints quickly went from 100 percent to basically zero.
Also, despite Roarke’s protestations, the police were not inclined to declare Starbucks a crime scene. “You tell me what crime was committed here,” the officer declared. He walked away from Roarke and got himself a free coffee.
Ten minutes later, Roarke and Katie were back on the street.
“What now?” Katie asked.
“So much for surprise.” Roarke looked at the time. “Witherspoon would have been here by now. If he has a half a brain, he’s taken off.”
Katie shared the thought.
“Wait a second—Starbucks!” Roarke exclaimed.
“Yes,” Katie said.
“Why was Depp here?”
Katie never asked herself that question. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, Katie. Here, across the street from your office.”
“Oh, my God!” She started shaking. “Me?”
Six minutes earlier, Donald Witherspoon approached his regular Starbucks. He was drawn to the commotion and pushed his way through the large crowd that had quickly gathered.
“What’s going on?” he asked no one in particular.
“The police are in there,” a woman said.
“I heard somebody had a gun,” added another.
Witherspoon saw another lawyer from the firm. He maneuvered close enough to call out. “Hey, Rog!”
The man, dressed in the same pinstripe uniform, turned to the voice. “Donald,” he said with no particular enjoyment.
Witherspoon worked his way closer to his colleague and the front of the crowd. “I heard ‘gun.’”
“Me, too. The police are in there now. Apparently there was some sort of chase. Don’t really know. See.” He pointed to the left side of building. “They’re talking to somebody now.”
They were about fifteen feet from the front door. He couldn’t see anything from his angle. Glare from the morning sun reflected off the glass. He sidestepped to the left and looked inside. A cop held a walkie-talkie to one ear. He had what looked like a license or ID card in his other hand.
“Did they catch anyone?” Witherspoon asked.
“Dunno. Just got here a few minutes ago.”
He continued talking, proposing a theory, but Witherspoon stopped listening. He felt his chest tighten with anxiety, and his heart begin to race. Beads of perspiration immediately formed on his forehead. His palms got sweaty. Kessler!
He could easily see her. She’d stepped away from the doorframe and faced the outside. Witherspoon turned 90 degrees and leaned behind the other lawyer, avoiding her line of sight. A few seconds later, he slid around ever so slightly and looked up.
Now she was gesturing in the direction of their law offices. He slid behind his colleague again and let his mind race through what he had just seen and what it meant. Kessler. Alive. And the man with the ID. Roarke? He couldn’t quite make him out. And the chase? What kind of chase? Who was he after? It almost didn’t matter. The fact that Kessler was alive was enough.
Witherspoon faded back. The other attorney felt him leaving. “Hey, where you going?”
“Coffee down the street,” he called out without looking back. He didn’t offer to get his colleague any. He wasn’t returning.
Russia
the same time
Neither was Aleksandr Dubroff. The old man felt like he was back in the game. He let a lot of himself die when he buried his wife. Now, the blood pumped through his veins with renewed vigor. His brain calculated options ten steps ahead. He weighed each move, but not as someone on the run, but from the perspective of the hunter. After all, even today, the FSB taught from the book he wrote.
Will they come looking for me? Absolutely.
Do they have orders to detain me? Now that I’m fleeing, yes.
Will they shoot if I don’t stop? Without hesitation.
Will they know where to look?
The final question brought a broad smile to him. No. Search as they may, they weren’t going to find Dubroff at the typical places. He wasn’t going to the American Embassy or the airport. He didn’t intend on sneaking across the border in the dead of night. Aleksandr Dubroff had other notions. He decided to switch trains, taking a roundabout route to Moscow, and cash in a few chits from someone who owed him.
Boston, Massachusetts
Katie didn’t realize that she was standing on Milk Street with her mouth wide open. “Will he still try?”
If he wants to get paid, he’ll try again, Roarke thought. “He’s not foolish. He’s seen me,” Roarke said, trying to console her. He took Katie into his arms. She was shaking.
In less than a year, Katie Kessler had crossed over into a different world than she’d ever known or imagined. Roarke’s world was full of death and deceit, power and politics. People weren’t beaten in court, they ended up dead on city streets, or at the bottom of the Charles.
“Is this the way it’s always going to be with us?” she asked softly.
Roarke squeezed harder. He could answer with a lie or tell the truth.
“For now, yes,” he said. Roarke released her and took half a step back. He angled Katie’s chin up toward his eyes, so she would clearly see him, and said, “Not forever.”
“Why? Why me? I haven’t done anything.”
The question gave him pause. Why Katie? It actually didn’t make sense. Why would Depp be waiting for Katie to return to her old routine—including a morning coffee? If he wanted to kill her, he had ample time and opportunity, and much earlier. And Depp would have succeeded where the other contract killer had failed.
“Wait a second.” Roarke was thinking it through. “How many people come here before work?”
“What?” Katie asked.
“Starbucks. Who comes here?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Katie, I don’t think you were the target. At least it’s possible you’re not. So who else stops for a coffee before work?”
“God, lots of people.”
“Anybody relevant?”
“Well, yes. Donald Witherspoon.”
Witherspoon wasn’t a talented fugitive. He didn’t know where to go. Returning to his Back Bay apartment was out of the question. He had cash, but not enough to get far. The most he could get out of an ATM was five hundred. He’d need help.
The summer heat began to rise off the pavement, making Witherspoon even more uncomfortable. He took off his suit jacket, speeded up his walk, and crossed Franklin, heading deeper into the maze of downtown office buildings. He turned his head slightly to the side every half-block to see if he was being followed.
“Ah!” Witherspoon slammed into an oncoming pedestrian with such force that he knocked the man down. Without realizing it, he stumbled as well, tumbling right on top of the man.
“Excuse me. Sorry, I wasn’t watching,” he stammered.
“No problem. Just help me up, old boy.” The man held out his hand for Witherspoon to grab onto. Witherspoon’s instinct was to continue, but the man’s hand remained outstretched. “Come on,” he said with a clipped British accent. “Help a friend up. No harm.”
Witherspoon looked over his shoulder again, thinking twice. “Okay.” He met the man halfway and they locked hands.
Witherspoon was instantly aware of a warm, comforting grip.
“That’s it. ‘Up, up and away,’ as Superman would say,” the man added in a sooth
ing voice. He sized up Witherspoon. “You’re all dusty on my account.” Without stopping to ask, he patted Witherspoon’s jacket and pants. “How clumsy of me. In such a rush.”
Witherspoon felt the man’s hands lightly brush across his crotch. It was soft, but intentional.
“I’m okay,” Witherspoon said.
“Good. I do apologize. I insist that I pay for a cleaning.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary. Look, I have to go.”
Witherspoon took a step forward, but the man grabbed his hand again. He felt the warmth once more. “Please, then. Let me buy you a breakfast. You look hungry. It’s the least I can do.”
Witherspoon hesitated as if to say, well, maybe.
“My name is Mycroft. Terrence Humphrey Mycroft. My friends call me Terry.” He still held onto Witherspoon’s hand, and squeezed it ever so gently. “Really, let me make it up to you.”
Witherspoon was on the run. The man offered him refuge. Probably more. He always had a hard time saying no. And he was definitely being asked. I can disappear with him.
“Okay. Where?”
“Well, I’m just in for business, but the restaurant at my hotel is just around the corner. What do you say?”
Witherspoon thought for a second more.
“I’ve just been out for a morning constitutional. My meetings aren’t until much later, and I’d love the company. Truly.”
“Where did you say you’re from?”
“Oh, I didn’t, but my accent must be a giveaway. London. I’m an attorney.”
“As am I,” Witherspoon offered.
“Fine, then let’s bore ourselves to death,” the Brit joked.
Witherspoon pursed his lips, giving the invitation one last thought.
“Thank you, Terrence. I’m Donald, and that sounds absolutely perfect.”
Roarke and Katie went up to Witherspoon’s office as planned. After twenty minutes it was apparent he wasn’t going to show up.
“Damn!” Roarke exclaimed. “Too much time here. Ten-to-one…no, one-hundred-to-one he spotted us; probably when we were talking to the cop. He split.”
Executive Treason Page 29
