“If you aren’t going to help Petrov,” Storm said, “then why tell me about the gold?”
“Because you’re dead, remember? No one can be held responsible for the actions of a dead man, can they?”
“But I’m only one man.”
Jones gave him a sly look and asked, “Are you sure? Do you really believe you’re the only man who has gone off the grid? Do you think you’re the only man who has disappeared?”
“Project Midas,” Storm said, putting two and two together. “That thick file locked in your safe—it has the names of other ‘dead’ operatives just like me, doesn’t it? You want me and the other ‘dead’ operatives to help Petrov because our country can’t afford to leave any fingerprints behind.”
“No fingerprints, no footprints,” Jones said. “No prints at all.”
Jones pulled a large envelope from a desk drawer and said, “I need you to go to London and talk to Petrov. First, try to find out who killed Windslow and why. Second, tell him that I’ve assembled a team to help him. All we need to learn is where the gold is hidden.”
He emptied the envelope’s contents onto his desktop. “Here’s a passport, cash, credit cards, a cell phone, and airline tickets. Agent Showers is booked on a six o’clock flight to London. She’s being sent to question Petrov. She’ll be your ticket in to meet him. You’ll tag along. I’ve already arranged it.”
Storm’s mind was swirling. “What about the mole?”
“If the mole is in Petrov’s camp, there’s nothing we can do. Just be careful.”
“And what if it is on our side—someone inside this agency?”
“I know who you are, but you always worked in the field. No one else here in headquarters knows you or that you’re still alive. I’ve also compartmentalized Project Midas.”
“Meaning?” Storm asked.
“Meaning that only you and I know that you are involved in it. That’s it. To everyone else, Derrick Storm is still a ghost.”
The last time that Jones had been so confident about a covert operation, he’d sent Storm to Tangiers. Look how that had turned out.
Jones continued, “Be careful when you meet Petrov. Just because he showed me the gold doesn’t mean we can trust him. I want you to find out what you can about the gold, but I also need for you to help Agent Showers solve the kidnapping and murders. Maybe Agent Showers is correct and Petrov killed Dull and Windslow because the senator had gotten cold feet about Project Midas. Maybe Barkovsky is behind the killings because he wanted to stop Windslow from pushing Project Midas. Or maybe Windslow was trying to extort a bigger share of that sixty-billion pie than what Petrov wanted to give him. Trust no one.”
“Just like old times,” Storm said.
“I’m still running covert operations,” Jones said, “because I trust only a handful of people.”
“Does Agent Showers know about the gold?” Storm asked.
“No. Only one handful of people know about it, and she isn’t one of those fingers.”
“She won’t like having me tag along with her to London.”
“She doesn’t get a vote. Everything has been arranged—although your role will be strictly advisory.”
Storm imagined Showers’s reaction. This was not a minor case. A U.S. senator and his stepson had been killed. She wouldn’t want him interfering. She was shrewd enough to know that Storm would be Jedidiah Jones’s eyes and ears. She’d be suspicious of him.
“Weapons?” Storm asked.
“None for you. You’ll be traveling on a diplomatic passport as Steve Mason. You’ll be posing as a liaison officer from the State Department.”
“Some paper pusher in the State Department told you that I couldn’t be armed?”
“It wasn’t a paper pusher. It came directly from the secretary of state. Tangiers. Remember? Ever since that fiasco, other agencies have been reluctant to let any of our people pose as one of their own, especially if they are armed.”
Tangiers. Even in death, it continued to haunt him.
“How about Agent Showers?”
“No one objected to her having a sidearm,” he said. “I’m also going to give you a personal letter to take to Petrov. He’ll know it’s from me.”
Jones gave Storm a piercing look. “You were the last piece that I needed for Project Midas.”
“Why me?”
“I just told you that I trust very few people. You happen to be one of them. I am trusting you to find sixty billion in gold and not let it corrupt you.”
“That’s a lot of gold,” Storm said.
“Yes it is, and if I am wrong in trusting you, then I will see to it that you really do end up dead.”
Another layer had been peeled. Jones was sending him down a dangerous path. And yet Storm still wasn’t sure that Jones had told him everything. Knowing Jones, he doubted that he had. There were going to be more layers, more surprises, more twists, more turns, and with sixty billion dollars at stake, there were going to be more murders.
Of that, he was certain.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Storm took a seat in a sports bar directly across from Gate 21 at Dulles International Airport so that his back was against a wall and he could see all possible entrances and exits. He was supposed to meet Agent Showers there at 5 P.M. He’d arrived at 4:30 P.M. In his line of work, you never wanted to walk into an area cold, even if you were simply catching a flight to London with an FBI agent.
He’d just sat down when Agent Showers entered the bar. She’d come early, too. He liked that. As he watched her scan the lounge, he was reminded of how attractive she was. Showers was wearing a dark gray pants suit with a short jacket that covered an off-white silk blouse layered over a black camisole. She was a knockout.
Showers carefully weaved through the jumble of chairs and tables occupied by travelers who were taking advantage of a two-drinks-for-one happy hour.
“Hello, Ms. Showers,” Storm said, rising politely from his seat.
She was only carrying a backpack.
“Where’s your luggage?” he asked her. “I’ve never known a woman who traveled light.”
“Where’s yours?” she replied. He glanced at a backpack next to him.
Both of them had checked their luggage for a reason besides convenience. They would not have been able to react quickly during an emergency if they were lugging suitcases with them.
“Whaddaya want to drink, doll?” a busty cocktail waitress, wearing too much makeup and fishnet hose, asked them.
“A diet cola, either brand,” Showers said.
“I’ll take a beer. Whatever you have on tap.”
“Great choice, handsome,” she said, winking at him.
As she walked away, Showers said, “You just ordered a draft of whatever they have on tap and she complimented your choice. You must love it when women flirt with you.”
“But you don’t,” he said. It sounded like a question.
“I don’t what? Like it when someone flirts with you? Or are you saying I don’t flirt with you?”
“Both.”
“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “That waitress is just working you for a tip.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her that you’re paying the tab.”
The waitress returned with their drinks, serving Storm first. “Here you are, cutie,” she said.
She plopped Showers’s cola on a napkin in front of her without comment.
“Thank you,” Storm said, beaming. “By the way, my friend here is going to be paying our tab.”
“A girlfriend who buys you drinks,” the waitress said. “Be careful, she might be trying to get lucky.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Showers said indignantly.
“Too bad for you,” the waitress replied.
When she was out of earshot, Showers said, “I’m tipping her zero.”
Storm looked smug. He liked Agent Showers.
She got down to business. “I’ve contacted Scotland Yard, and they’re sending a
liaison to meet us at Heathrow and take us to the Yard for a briefing about Ivan Petrov.”
“Thanks, but I’ll skip the introductions at the airport and just meet you later at our hotel. You can brief me.”
“I can brief you?” she replied, bristling. “Hey, you’re tagging along with me, remember. It’s not my job to brief you.”
“You’re right,” Storm said, throwing her a bone. “But I think it’s better if I stay in the shadows.”
She thought about it for a second and said, “You’re probably right. I didn’t have a choice about notifying Scotland Yard. It’s agency procedure when a law enforcement group visits a foreign government to interrogate someone. I just hope the Brits have enough common sense to keep their mouths shut about us coming.”
“I doubt it,” Storm said.
“Why? Because they’re cops?”
“Of course not. I just love cops, especially women in uniform with nightsticks,” he said, grinning. She scowled.
He said, “I’m suspicious because this is a high-profile case and Ivan Petrov is internationally known. Your arrival in England to question Petrov will be big news if word leaks out.”
“I raised that issue with my bosses,” she said. “But they assured me that the Bureau and Scotland Yard have a close professional relationship. Actually, they accused me of thinking like someone who worked for Jedidiah Jones rather than like a cop. Cloak-and-dagger versus real police work.”
“Real police work,” he repeated. “I like how that rolled off your lips.”
“I’m not a private detective,” she said, “nor am I one of Jones’s contract ‘fixers.’ I’m still not certain who you really are or what you are doing for Jones, and I doubt if you are going to tell me, are you?”
“A deduction made by real police work,” he replied, lifting his beer in a mock salute.
She said, “Look, there’s something I need to tell you. I told my superiors that it was a mistake sending you along.”
“I would have been surprised if you hadn’t.”
“It’s nothing personal. You’re kind of likable.”
“Kind of likable, not adorable?”
“The reason why I said I didn’t want you tagging along is because you’re a cowboy. You don’t follow the rules and that means I can’t depend on you. When we first met—when Senator Windslow first demanded that you be brought into the kidnapping investigation—I put all of my cards on the table. I was completely honest with you and treated you like a professional. But you didn’t put your cards on the table. You didn’t treat me like a professional. You hid information from me.”
“You’re right,” Storm said. “I did hide information from you.”
“At least you’re honest about that,” she said. “My point is: How are we supposed to work together if I can’t trust you? I don’t know for certain if you are being honest with me right now.”
“I understand,” he replied, “but I work with people all of the time who are not telling me the truth and are hiding things from me. I’ve even worked with people who wanted to kill me.”
“I can understand that,” she deadpanned.
“But you find a way to get around all of that and accomplish the mission.”
“How? Especially if you don’t follow the rules?”
“I don’t trust rules. But I do trust my instincts and what they tell me about the people working with me. Rules can get you killed.”
“So can breaking them.”
“Agent Showers, have you ever had a one-night stand?” he asked.
She let out a sigh. “I’m trying to have an adult conversation.”
“Perhaps it’s not the best analogy, but hear me out. If you meet someone in a bar and you end up in the sack, you have certain expectations, maybe even certain demands, but you don’t fall in love with that person and you don’t share your most intimate secrets with them, even though you are doing something very intimate. You don’t necessarily trust them either. You just do your job and move on. The same is true at work.” He smiled, clearly happy with that explanation.
“You’re making my head spin with your logic. Is that what a one-night stand is to you?” she asked, raising a brow. “A job? And then you move on?”
Without waiting for him to answer, she said, “I guess that’s one of the differences between us and why I work at the FBI and you work for Jedidiah Jones.”
“Now my head is spinning,” he said, mimicking her.
“When I was in college, a CIA recruiter came to see me. He told me that people who worked for the Agency were not obligated to follow U.S. laws when they traveled overseas. He bragged that a CIA employee could lie, cheat, steal, break into apartments, and even kill. The rules don’t apply. That’s what he said. That’s the sort of folks he wanted working for him. People who think they are above the law. People like you.”
“He was just being honest with you,” Storm said. “As my mother used to say, ‘You got to crack a few eggs to make an omelet.’” He finished his beer and waved to the waitress.
“I’m not a person whose moral code ends when I cross the U.S. border,” she said. “Oh, another thing. I don’t do one-night stands. So don’t get your hopes—or anything else—up during our trip.”
“Around you,” he replied, “I’m always fully hopeful.”
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said. “I’ll see you on the plane.”
“Don’t get confused and go into the wrong potty,” he said, smirking.
“I only do that when I have to rescue you,” she replied, leaving.
He noticed that she’d not left a tip.
“Lady friend troubles?” the waitress asked, returning to his table.
“She’s a bit high-strung.”
“Too skinny, too.” The waitress bent over when she served him another beer, giving Storm an eyeful. “This one’s on the house. My name’s Eve. You know, the girl who ate that nasty apple. Why don’t you stop in again when you get back from wherever you’re flying off to.” She walked away slowly, making sure that he got a good view.
The gate agent announced over the intercom that it was time to board the Heathrow flight. First class ticket holders hurried forward. Business class was next.
Storm checked his first class ticket. But he did not move. He had no interest in boarding early. If he did, all the passengers that came after him would see his face as they slowly made their way down the aisle, finding their seats and storing their luggage. Storm wanted to be the last on a flight. He wanted to sit as near the front of the plane as possible, and he wanted to be the first off every flight. This way, he could observe all of the other passengers and hopefully not call attention to himself.
When it looked as if the last passengers were on the walkway, Storm tossed a ten-dollar tip on the table and walked over to the gate. He’d not seen Showers and was curious where she’d gone.
“Welcome aboard,” the agent said, taking his ticket. “Oh, you’re first class. You could have boarded earlier.”
“Nature called.” He bent down to tie his shoe, stalling. Where was Showers?
Storm heard the sounds of someone running toward him.
“I’ve got a ticket.” It was a woman, but not Showers. Storm noticed that she had a distinct Russian accent.
“Looks like you have three late-comers,” Showers said as she stepped to the gate.
“Yes,” the agent replied, “and all three of you are seated in first class. What a coincidence.”
“Yes, indeed,” Storm said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Storm knew the instant that he saw her and heard the Russian accent. In her late twenties, she was wearing functional shoes, skin-tight designer jeans, and a dark gray sweater pulled over a low-collared, gray, wide-striped shirt whose tail peeked out. A professional women’s dive watch was on her wrist. She wore no jewelry but did have a thin silver belt around her waist that Storm suspected could be an effective garrote in her well-manicured hands. He put her
at five-foot-six and 119 pounds. She had long black hair pulled back from unblemished bronze skin. Her dark eyes were highlighted perfectly by thin brows.
Storm knew the SVR—the successor to the Soviet KGB—didn’t believe women were emotionally stable enough to be trained as operatives. Instead, the Russian intelligence service used them as secretaries, couriers, and sometimes as prostitutes in covert operations. They also sent them abroad as illegals, giving them fake backgrounds and sending them into enemy countries to embed themselves in the local culture and gradually work their way into useful positions to spy. But they never used them as Vympel soldiers or on protective details.
If Storm was correct, this woman was not a native Russian but was from one of the Soviet’s former republics whose intelligence services didn’t share Moscow’s machismo attitude. He suspected she worked for Ivan Petrov.
The overnight flight proved uneventful. Unfortunately, Storm found himself seated next to a rather plump middle-aged woman who drank four glasses of Riesling, fell asleep instantly, and began snoring with an open mouth.
As soon as the flight landed, Storm exited, keeping an eye on both the late arriving passenger and Showers. After clearing Customs and Immigration, he ducked into Heathrow’s Virgin Atlantic clubhouse, where he used his laptop in one of the private rooms to send a photo to Langley of the female passenger. He’d snapped the picture with his cell phone when she’d gotten up to use the toilet after dinner on the transatlantic flight. The agency’s facial recognition program identified her in less than a minute.
Antonija Nad was a former member of the Special Operations Battalion in the Croatia armed services. The BSD, as it was known, focused on airborne assault and behind-enemy-lines combat. It was one of the most respected special forces units in the world. It was also one of only two European forces that allowed women to fight in specialized units. She’d resigned from the Croatia military a year ago to work for PROTEC, a security firm based in London.
He had guessed correctly. She had to work for Petrov.
Storm checked the time. By now, Showers and Nad would have exited Heathrow. He walked to the airport’s rental counters to get a car and an hour later pulled up outside the London Marriott Hotel Park Lane across from Hyde Park. Storm never understood why Americans booked rooms in American hotels when they traveled overseas. It was like eating McDonald’s in Paris. But someone in the government, who had arranged the tickets and hotels, had gotten them adjoining rooms there.
A Raging Storm: A Derrick Storm Short Page 4
