While Rudenko was certain Nureyev was engaging in homosexual behavior, the truth of the matter was he actually had no compromising video of him having sex with another man. In fact, the only kompromat he had in his possession with which to blackmail the consulate’s vulnerable security officer, were some fuzzy cell phone photographs of Nureyev and another nondescript-looking man, who, for all anyone could tell by the photographs, may have been nothing more than Nureyev’s local golfing buddy. Rudenko had taken these innocuous photos at several different innocuous locations throughout uptown Houston. One photo showed the two men leaving the Park Towers parking garage together after work in Nureyev’s car; another showed the two men entering a nearby grocery store together; and another showed the them entering Nureyev’s townhouse with the groceries they had just purchased.
Rudenko had learned of Nureyev’s illicit homosexual relationship as a result of his own illicit relationship with a sexy low-level diplomat assigned to the Brazilian consulate, which was conveniently located in Park Towers North right next door to the Russians. Rudenko was married, yet his wife of seven years had chosen to remain behind with their two children at their lovely seaside condo in Varna, Bulgaria where he was last assigned. He suspected she wished to remain in Bulgaria not for the quality of the private school their children were attending as she had stated, but because she was engaging in an illicit affair of her own, probably with some young and handsome Bulgarian beach bum for all he knew.
But the fact that Rudenko was married was not why he regarded his affair with the Brazilian diplomat as illicit. He thought it so because it was strictly forbidden for Russian intelligence officers like himself – him being identified as a vice consul was merely a cover – to have any relationships, heterosexual or not, with any foreign national unless having been assigned the relationship for espionage purposes; or, if not an assignment, then without the Russian intelligence officer first notifying his superiors of his desire to have the relationship so the foreign national could be given a thorough background security check to ensure the Russian intelligence officer seeking the relationship had not been assigned to be exploited by his or her desired partner. Rudenko had neither been assigned the relationship as part of his duties, nor had he sought his government’s permission before engaging in the affair with the Brazilian.
He justified his illicit actions firstly by truly believing that he, as a seasoned intelligence officer, was much more qualified than some desk-ridden FSB bureaucrat to determine if his affair was a national security risk or not. He also felt comfortable in not reporting the relationship because, while unofficial and wholly unrecognized by the leadership of either consulate, there was an unspoken détente of sorts between the two diplomatic enclaves that, if not outright authorizing, then at least they overlooked most casual relationships between their staffs, as long as the relationships were maintained discreetly and, as far as the Russian consulate was concerned, heterosexual. But what mostly drove Rudenko to not report his affair was that he was unwilling to risk whatsoever losing his unrestricted access to the young Brazilian’s incomparable body by taking a chance that his relationship with her might be arbitrarily terminated by the aforementioned, desk-ridden FSB bureaucrat.
Nearly two weeks ago now, after a particularly momentous six minutes of heart-clamoring sex in Rudenko’s uptown condominium bedroom, Giovanna Cardoso, Rudenko’s vivacious, full-figured, dark-haired mistress, sat up perkily in bed, lit up a Derby red, and, like she always tended to do after their first frenzied go-around, began gossiping to him about her work in her rapid-fire, heavily accented English, which she laced frequently with an incomprehensible Portuguese for emphasis.
Mostly her gossip revolved around such nonsense as who in the office had fallen in or out of favor with her, or other petty matters such as the continual backstabbing involved in the continual strife of the Brazilian consulate’s office politics. Now, had he been interested in exploiting his wild, untamable mistress for intelligence purposes, her office politics gossip may have been of some interest to him; however, as he was only interested in exploiting her for her fabulous abilities in bed, her after-sex gossip time typically served only to allow him the time he needed to smoke one of her cigarettes while conjuring up the strength for another, slower-paced but equally blissful, heart-thumping go-around.
But this time when Giovanna began gossiping about how today Maria Eduarda, the source for most of her “intel,” and one whom she sourly described as a bleached-blonde, busty coworker who sits in the cubicle across from her in skirts always too short and blouses always too tight, rolled across the aisle into her cubicle to tell her in a garlic-clouded whisper loud enough so coworkers several cubicles over could hear that their openly gay supervisor had dumped his twenty-something American boyfriend for some mystery man from the Russian consulate, Rudenko for once tuned in completely to what his mistress was saying, for he knew right away it was valuable intelligence. Not intelligence to be used to further the interests of his nation, mind you; but intelligence to be used certainly to further the interests of his own career.
After hearing this bit of highly valuable gossip, Rudenko felt completely justified in the risk he had taken in not informing his superiors of his relationship with his chatty mistress. The next day, he had Giovanna discreetly point out to him after work exactly who her gay supervisor was. He then began following the Brazilian man around after hours. It didn’t take long for Rudenko to discover who from the Russian consulate the Brazilian was dating. And as easy as that, Rudenko had all the information he needed for him to be able to compromise Nureyev’s career in order to further his own.
But that was the beauty of kompromat. As the main currency driving sistema, the corrupt Russian system of unwritten rules that govern how wealth and power were distributed throughout the power centers of the country, you didn’t necessarily need to be in possession of it, you just needed those whom you wished to leverage with it to believe that you were. For, within this system, there was always much ambiguity, intentional or not, as to who had the power over who, understanding of course that the closer one was to the Russian president, the more power one automatically held.
But because of this ambiguity, however, each person operating within sistema’s rules of engagement had to always be concerned with his current standing and had to continually monitor the standing of his friends and enemies alike. And because kompromat was used so extensively to manage relationships within sistema, one had to always be on the lookout for compromising material to use against others, all the while assuming that others were always on the lookout for compromising material to use against you. For, within such a system of inherent ambiguity comes opportunity aplenty, as long as one had the eye to spot it and, more importantly, the stomach to leverage it. Rudenko wanted it to be known to friends and foes alike that he had both the eye and the stomach necessary to succeed in such a system.
However, the stomach Rudenko wished to believe was fully resolute in the face of any and all adversity was presently feeling nauseous and weak as he read through the Consul General’s Eyes Only report on his screen. He wasn’t surprised there would be an assessment generated by the Foreign Intelligence Service headquarters of the intelligence report he had written detailing the particulars of the meeting between the hotel magnate Mr. Louis DeBlanc with the Bulgarian diplomat Mr. Zlatko Pulev, which, as reported by Mr. DeBlanc, established the foundations of the negotiations to build a DeBlanc hotel in Bulgaria. But what he was completely surprised to see, hence the nausea, was an SRV assessment that beyond the negotiations to build a hotel, DeBlanc and Pulev also met to establish a black relationship where DeBlanc possibly would leverage his vast global property holdings as a means to launder funds possibly embezzled by Pulev and other yet unidentified sources. When Rudenko, pale and nauseous, reached the end of the report, he was at least relieved to read that he had not yet been identified as Pulev’s other source of embezzled funds.
CHAPTER TWENTY
&nb
sp; BEFORE
Killian walked among the charred remains of his childhood home as he waited for RJ to pick him up so together they could visit Diego in the hospital. The large house, built the year after Killian was born with the proceeds from his father’s groundbreaking book on the then-emerging field of cybersecurity, allowed the small family to move out from the land’s idyllic but cramped original nineteenth-century-era stone and log farmhouse and into one giving them room to grow and thrive as a family. He shuffled through the ruins, looking not for the memories an occasional fire-scarred artifact might try to evoke, but instead for anything that could provide him insight as to what caused his father to call him in such a panic on the day of his death.
The call came in at 07:30 in the morning Iraqi time, which meant it would have been half-past midnight, seven hours prior to Gettysburg time, just as Killian was busy preparing for what would turn out to be his final mission. Of course in hindsight, Killian wished he would have taken the time, could have taken the time, to have actually listened to what his father was trying to tell him during, what turned out to be, the last time they would ever speak; but because of the short lead time and the criticality of the mission, he had no time to speak with anyone not directly involved in its execution, let alone with a father whom he had barely spoken to since the day he decided to join the navy instead of carrying out his father’s long-laid plans for him.
The truth of the matter was that Killian had always looked up to his father and had been eager to follow in his footsteps, even going so far as to attending the same schools his father attended. Killian completed his undergraduate work at Carnegie Mellon University, earning a Bachelor of Science degree in computer science, and had been accepted at Oxford to begin work on a doctoral program in computer engineering. And all would have gone on with Killian’s predetermined path had it not been for the world-altering attacks of September 11, 2001.
Even before the toxic dust from the collapse of the World Trade Center towers had settled, Killian had determined that he would not accept the Rhodes Scholarship that he had worked so hard to earn, and instead, with a deep-set, burning desire to serve his country in its time of need, would enlist in the navy and would do whatever it took to qualify to become one of the most elite and lethal warriors in the world – a Navy SEAL.
After informing his father of his decision to forgo the life plans his father had been carefully laying out for him since his birth, Killian began to see for the first time the cracks in his father’s shining armor. His father, unable to understand how his son could throw away such a rare and important opportunity to study at Oxford, resisted fervently Killian’s decision. But Killian, himself unable to understand how his father could feel it more important that he should continue his studies rather than serve his country at such a critical time in its history, was determined to strike out on his new life course regardless the dire consequences his father had predicted. Surely, Killian understood the parental desire to want to keep his child safe from harm; however, to Killian it didn’t seem like that was his father’s concern at all. It seemed as if his father’s primary concern with Killian no longer following in his footsteps was that he would no longer have that point of pride of having had programmed his offspring exactly in his image.
All his life Killian had attempted to emulate his father in every way; for, it had always seemed to him his father was a man worthy of emulation. He was a husband who adored his wife, he was a father determined to provide his son and heir every opportunity to succeed in life, and he was a renowned scholar and author, who, from the reputation earned from his pioneering work in cybersecurity, founded a world-class consulting firm that made him a highly successful and respected entrepreneur. His father was handsome, healthy and fit, and engaged life in the way Killian had always thought that life should be engaged. But once Killian saw that first crack in the armor, an ugly crack revealing beneath the shine, a prideful, egotistical, and spiteful man, Killian was able to look back on his father’s past more clearly and realize the first cracks were actually exhibited long before Killian decided to thwart his father’s plans for him; the first true cracks occurred shortly after his mother’s brutal and senseless death, a death that changed his father foundationally, a death that Killian regarded as the—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel. He looked up from the wet, black coals of what used to be his home to see RJ’s silver rollback tow truck slowly making its way down the farm’s long drive. The afternoon sun, hidden behind the low clouds heavy with the threat of snow, left the cab of the truck in shadows, making it appear as if it were being driven by an invisible force. After the truck had come to a stop and was powered down, he walked over to the driver-side door and waited, expecting her to exit. But she didn’t. She just sat there in a downcast silhouette, looking at her lap as if she were reading something, or looking at her phone perhaps. But when she wiped an eye with the back of her hand, Killian realized she was crying and he quickly opened her door.
“RJ, what is it? Is Diego all right?”
RJ grabbed hold of the steering wheel and shook it violently as if she were trying to tear it from the console. Then, without looking at him, she said through restrained sobs, “He’s dead, Killian. Diego’s dead.”
Killian stepped back from the truck as if he’d been shoved. “That’s impossible. How? What happened?”
“It was a massive heart failure. They couldn’t revive him,” she said, once again wiping at the falling tears.
Killian brought his hands to his head and grabbed fistfuls of the shoulder-length hair as if he wanted to rip it out from his head. “Just yesterday they were talking about downgrading his condition. I don’t understand.”
“It all happened so fast, Killian. I don’t think anybody understands.”
Killian turned and began walking away.
“Where are you going, Killian?” RJ asked desperately. “I have to go to the hospital to... make arrangements. Please come with me. I don’t want to do this alone.”
Killian turned around and started walking back toward the truck. “Arrangements? Why do you have to make the arrangements? Isn’t there someone from the retreat who should be doing that?”
RJ got out of the truck and walked over to him. “Killian, there’s a lot you don’t know about Diego and me and I really don’t have the energy or the time to explain it all to you right now. But just know that he and I were close. After everything with my parents... my father’s death followed so closely by my mother’s suicide... Diego took me in and allowed me to stay at his retreat for a while until I was finally able to... I don’t know... take on the world again.”
“So, what are you saying? You and Diego were in some kind of relationship? Jesus, RJ, he’s close to thirty years older than you.”
A shrill wind blew, forcing RJ to wrap her arms around herself for warmth. She had left her coat in the truck. “No, not a relationship in the manner you’re implying, but we did become close. More like father and daughter. The point is, Killian, Diego named me as his beneficiary long ago. I’m responsible for him now... for him and his retreat.” She reached out to Killian and held his hands. “The truth is, I could really use your help right now, Killian. Please come with me.”
Killian looked at RJ, but he was seeing Diego hanging limp and helplessly from his seatbelt after the accident. “I can’t, RJ. I’m sor— Not right now. I... I need to be alone.” He shook free from her hands and walked fast toward the barn.
RJ stood there unmoving for a moment after Killian slid the barn door closed behind him, never once looking back at her. She returned to her truck and, once inside, waited for some time, hoping he would change his mind. But he didn’t change his mind, and he didn’t come back out from the barn until long after RJ had left and the darkness had fallen heavy upon the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BEFORE
Reggie’s biggest appeal to the locals was that it had absolutely no appeal to the hord
es of Gettysburg tourists, who instead preferred the more commercial bars that ringed the main sightseeing routes closer to the historic town center. With its remote location and drab appearance, Reggie’s looked more like an abandoned warehouse than an establishment meant for drink and entertainment. But those who frequented the bar, mostly local farmers and passthrough truckers, didn’t do so for its presentation, they did so for its cold beer, its country music, and its two threadbare but true pool tables. Killian went there for the first time for none of these reasons. He went there for one reason and one reason only: to drink as much whisky as possible, which, for Killian, a rare consumer of alcohol of any kind, would prove to be much more than he had ever drank before.
After downing another shot of Jack – he couldn’t remember how many he had; probably somewhere around his ninth or tenth – he tapped the countertop with the shot glass, signaling to the bartender to hit him with yet another. As he waited to be topped off, he noticed the escalation in volume of the conversation that was taking place down at the other end of the bar. His focus being diluted by the whiskey, as well as the loud conversation at the end of the bar competing with the even louder Florida Georgia Line song playing from the jukebox, made it hard for him to track what the argument was about. When the bar grew quiet during the moment between the end of the last song and the beginning of the next, the theme of the argument was made clear.
It seemed to Killian to be an uneven match with two large men, one with long, scraggily brown hair and one wearing a bright orange Stihl hat backwards on his head, towering over a smaller man with a patchy beard and dark blond hair tied up in the back into a man-bun who stood with his back to the bar.
“I tell you what,” the man-bun man said resolutely as he looked up at the two large men, “if your president walked into this very bar at this very moment, mother fucker’d be leavin’ in a body bag.”
The Good Kill Page 12
