A Raging Storm: A Derrick Storm Short

by Richard Castle

  “We can discuss this tomorrow,” Petrov promised. “However, if that money was withdrawn from my bank, it was not authorized by me.”

  “You allow your employees to transfer six million dollars out of the country without telling you?” Storm asked.

  Petrov glanced at Lebedev and said, “Only one or two of them. But the point is that I certainly never offered the senator a bribe. We were good friends. And there is no need for good friends to bribe each other. You do favors out of friendship, not for cash.”

  Petrov paused and then said, “If you like, I can save you considerable time by exposing the man who committed the crimes of kidnapping and murder in your capital. The man with bloodly hands is Russian president Oleg Barkovsky. He is the villain you should be investigating, not me.”

  “Let’s set a time to meet tomorrow,” Lebedev said. “In the morning, Mr. Petrov will be delivering a speech at a student rally in Oxford.”

  “You should attend,” Petrov announced. “I will be speaking about the murder of Svetlana Alekseev, the Russian journalist who was found dead in the elevator of her Moscow apartment building last month. She had criticized Barkovsky, and it is common knowledge that he ordered her killed. Just as he had your senator murdered.”

  “If you attend,” Lebedev said, “you will see for yourselves how much loved Mr. Petrov is by the British people.”

  “Isn’t it a dangerous for you to appear at a public rally,” Storm asked, “considering there have been attempts here in England to kill you?”

  “Especially,” Showers added, “since your security detail is not allowed to carry weapons anywhere outside your estate.”

  Petrov replied, “I have full confidence in Ms. Nad’s ability to keep me safe. She is an excellent marksman.”

  “Besides,” Petrov said, “I’m not going to let that miserable bastard in the Kremlin keep me from speaking about atrocities being committed against my fellow oppressed Russians.” He stood from the table and said, “Thank you for coming this afternoon. I will leave you to work out the arrangements for tomorrow.”

  “Before you leave us,” Storm said. “I’d like a word in private with you.”

  Showers gave him a surprised and irritated look.

  “I’m sorry, but this is impossible. I always include Mr. Lebedev in my private conversations.”

  “Then maybe the three of us can step into the main house,” Storm offered. “It’s a State Department matter, not related to the FBI’s investigation.”

  “If you insist,” Petrov said.

  “Just a minute,” Showers said. “I’m not entirely certain what my colleague has to say, but please know that he doesn’t speak for the FBI or the Justice Department.”

  “Thank you,” Petrov said. “This is rather unusual.”

  Lebedev fell in behind them as did Nad, leaving Showers alone at the table. She was furious.

  “Do you really need a security officer with you?” Storm asked.

  Petrov said, “You’re right. I have nothing to fear from our guest. Please keep our FBI friend company in the courtyard.”

  As soon as the three men entered the house, Storm removed an envelope from his pocket and offered it to Petrov.

  “A mutual friend asked me to give you a personal letter.”

  Petrov made no effort to accept it. Instead, he asked cautiously, “And does this friend have a name?”

  “Jedidiah.”

  “You can give it to Mr. Lebedev,” Petrov said.

  “I’d rather give it to you.”

  “I will take it,” said Lebedev, reaching up.

  Storm flipped it aside, stopping him from snatching it.

  “Jedidiah wanted you to take it personally,” he said to Petrov.

  The Russian hesitated and then took it from him.

  Before Storm could say another word, Petrov turned and started to walk away.

  “After you read it,” Storm said. “We can discuss the gold.”

  Petrov stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  “Perhaps. After I read it. Tomorrow then.”

  “Only this time in private—just you and me,” Storm said. “Jedidiah believes you might have a leak in your organization.”

  A concerned look appeared on Petrov’s face. “I see, and did he identify this leak for you?”

  “Not by name,” Storm said.

  Petrov left him and Lebedev alone.

  “I’ll show you and Ms. Showers to your car,” Lebedev said, opening the door to the courtyard.

  Showers stood and Nad fell in behind as Lebedev guided them through the mansion to their parked rental outside.

  “I will telephone you later tonight, Ms. Showers,” Lebedev said. “Perhaps you can fax us your written inquires. Will you be attending the protest in the morning at Oxford?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  As soon as Storm and Showers were in the Vauxhall, Storm said, “Well, I thought that went just dandy.”

  Showers was so angry she couldn’t speak until they had driven down the cobblestones and exited through the gated entrance. When they reached the main highway, she exploded.

  “You rotten son of a bitch! I knew I couldn’t trust you. How dare you pull that stunt. You embarrassed me. You went behind my back again. Every time that I think you’re an actual human being, you prove me wrong.”

  “I was only following orders,” he said.

  “Oh, so now you’re the one who suddenly is following rules. When it suits you. And what was all that macho crap with the vodka. I think this glass is the one, oh no, I think it was this one. My god, I felt like I was in some old spy movie.”

  He started to reply, but she held up both of her hands. “Just don’t speak to me,” she said. She reached for the radio. “The last thing I want to hear is your voice.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  As soon as their guests were gone, Georgi Lebedev hurried to the manor house’s extensive library, where Ivan Petrov was sitting behind an enormous, hand-carved desk reading the letter that Jones had sent him. The CIA director had written a personal note on a copy of the photograph that showed Jones, Windslow, and Petrov holding the gold bar: “We accept your proposal. Mr. Mason is my envoy and will handle all arrangements.”

  Lebedev said, “What did Jedidiah write? Is the CIA going to help us get the gold?”

  “As we suspected, Mr. Mason is not a State Department liaison,” Petrov said, avoiding the question. “Has Nad been able to identify him?”

  “Not yet. She is taking his fingerprints from the shot glasses as we speak. She should have an answer shortly. But what of Mr. Jones and the CIA? Is it going to help us?”

  Petrov said, “I will learn more tomorrow, but today, it is enough for me to tell you that Barkovsky’s days are limited, and when the time comes, I will be the one who puts a bullet into the back of his head.”

  “Vyshaya mer,” Lebedev said, which translated to “the highest measure of punishment.” It was when a condemned man was taken into a room, made to kneel, then shot in the back of the head so that his face was blown away and made unrecognizable. It was part of the Stalinist tradition.

  “You have not even told me where the gold is located,” Lebedev said, “and we are like brothers, closer than brothers. Why would you share your secret with some stranger just because he arrives with a letter?”

  “Do you take me for an ass?” Petrov asked.

  “No, my friend.”

  “Then don’t treat me like one,” Petrov said. “I will talk to this Mr. Mason tomorrow, but I will tell him little, or nothing, until I learn what he has come to offer us.”

  “I say we screw the Americans. Nad is loyal to you. Let her get the gold. Do this on your own.”

  Petrov patted Lebedev on his shoulder. “And what happens when her loyal hired guards see mountains of gold before their eyes? Billions within reach. Can they overcome the temptation? Only men who believe in a greater cause can be trusted to recover the gold. You can’t buy honor or loyal
ty. That’s why I need the Americans. They will not betray their own country.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Novo-Ogaryovo (President’s Residence)

  Moscow, Russia

  President Barkovsky generally ate after nine o’clock Moscow time, in the company of his closest friends and young female playthings. But tonight he was dining alone and watching two men slugging and kicking each other in an Ultimate Fighting Championship event on cable television, in a private dining room adjacent to his bedroom. He’d just finished a pirozhki stuffed with boiled meat and sautéed onions when his chief of staff entered.

  “We’ve just heard from our friend,” Mikhail Sokolov said.

  Barkovsky motioned Sokolov to sit, which he did, as the president refilled his wineglass and poured one for his guest.

  “These American fighters are nothing,” Barkovsky said, pointing to the television screen. “One of our Vympel soldiers could kill any of them with one quick blow. If I were not a president, I would fight in the ring myself and show these American bastards what real men are made of.”

  He took a large gulp of wine and asked, “What does our friend have to tell us?”

  “Petrov had visitors in England today. An FBI agent and a man posing as a U.S. State Department employee.”

  “CIA?”

  “Probably. But we have not been able to identify him.”

  “And what was the purpose of this visit?”

  “The FBI suspects Petrov of assassinating Senator Windslow.”

  Barkovsky gave his aide a toothy grin. “This is excellent.”

  “The CIA man, however, asked to speak privately with Petrov.”

  The president put down his fork and wiped his fingers on a satin napkin. “And what did this stranger tell Petrov?”

  “Our source did not know specifics. But it was about finding the gold.”

  Without warning, Barkovsky slammed both fists onto the dining room table and uttered an expletive. “Do the Americans understand what this means?”

  “I’m certain the CIA will cover its tracks if it helps him. There will be no evidence that we can use.”

  “How is that possible? Aren’t our officers as clever as Langley’s drones? Tell London that we must identify this stranger. Now!”

  Barkovsky let out a loud sigh. “Why do we still not know where the gold is hidden?”

  “Petrov refuses to tell anyone, even Lebedev, his closest friend and advisor. And no one knows how he found where the treasure is hidden. Our friend says that Petrov is going to meet with the FBI agent and stranger tomorrow after he speaks in Oxford at a rally.”

  “What rally?”

  “About the journalist killing.”

  Barkovsky waved his hand threw the air, dismissing it. “Let them demonstrate—in Oxford. Who cares about the goddamn British?”

  For a moment, he didn’t speak. He was considering his options. “No one knows how Petrov found the location of the gold. He has refused to tell anyone where it is hidden. But now it appears that the Americans might be about to help him find it. This changes everything. We cannot risk having it fall into Petrov’s hands.”

  He was pensive for a few more moments and then added, “If we kill the Americans, they will simply send someone else. That leaves me only one other option. If Petrov will not talk, then he must be killed. Better that his secret dies with him than to have the Americans learn where the gold is hidden.”

  “There have been attempts on his life already and all have failed.”

  A smug look appeared on Barkovsky’s face. “Do you think I am that inept? If I wanted him dead, he would be dead. Those attempts were meant to make him share his secret with someone else in case he was killed. But I underestimated his ego. Petrov is willing to go to his grave with his secret. So now it is time to let him!”

  “If Petrov dies,” Sokolov said, “you will never know where the bullion is hidden.”

  “That’s not true,” Barkovsky replied. “If he discovered it, there must be a way for us to learn it, too. It will simply take more time.”

  “We could kidnap him. We could torture him.”

  “And the world would condemn me. They would demand his release.”

  “If you kill him, the world will also know, will it not?”

  “Not if I give them a patsy.”

  “But who?”

  Barkovsky said, “His guests—the FBI Agent who was on the BBC. And the mystery man from the CIA. Let them appear to kill him and the world will blame them and the United States.”

  “And the gold?”

  “We will keep searching. What is important now is to stop the CIA from helping Petrov. Send word to London. We want Petrov killed and we want it to appear that the Americans did it.”

  Barkovsky raised his wineglass and tipped it against Solokov’s. “To the success of the scheduled tasks!” he said. It was one of the first toasts that both men learned after they joined the Komsomol, the young Communist league. “A bullet in Petrov’s head,” Barkovsky said, raising his glass for a second toast. “And a pistol left in the hands of the Americans.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  London, England

  “I’m filing a formal complaint against you as soon as we get to the Marriott,” Showers said. “I no longer wish to work with you.”

  “I understand why you’re upset,” Storm said in an understanding voice. “I would be furious, too. But you’ll be wasting your time if you complain to your supervisors. Trust me, it will be you who will be called home to Washington.”

  “Trust you?” Showers said. “That’s a joke. And what makes you so smug that you think I’d be called home? They sent me here to solve the murder of a U.S. senator.”

  “You don’t want to complain. This came from the top.”

  “The top of what?”

  “The White House.”

  “Then tell me what you and Jones are doing, so we can work together. You owe me that much.”

  “It’s above your pay grade.”

  Showers took a deep breath and said, “At this moment, I would love to shoot you.”

  He stopped in front of the Marriott.

  “How about a Taser?” he said. “If it really makes you feel better.”

  “Just go crawl into whatever hole you’re sleeping in in London,” she said. “I wish I’d never met you.”

  Storm actually felt sorry when she slammed the car door and disappeared inside.

  When he reached his room at the bed-and-breakfast, he removed the false fingerprints that he had applied earlier that morning. He had used his computer to download a copy of someone else’s prints from the database at Langley and had copied them onto the flesh-like material that he’d been given from the CIA’s science wizards. When Petrov’s chief of security, Antonija Nad, checked the shot glass, she would discover the identity of someone else—someone she already knew.

  Herself.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Someone’s been in my room,” Showers said, in an exasperated voice. “While we were with Petrov. I thought you should know in case someone followed you and searched your room too.”

  “Thanks for caring enough to call,” he said.

  “I told you, I play by the rules,” she said. “Even if you don’t.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “The Marriott lobby. I assume they bugged my room. I didn’t bring anything with me to check. Since you’re a private eye and part-time spook, I thought you could come over and remove them. Either that or I’ve got to call in a team from the embassy.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  Storm grabbed his backpack and made the five-minute walk to the hotel. He waved her out of the lobby onto the street.

  “Let’s walk,” he said. “It will be safer.”

  For fifteen minutes, they crossed through a series of streets, often doubling back and then going down a different route. When they were convinced they were safe, he asked, “How do you know someone was in your
room?”

  “I left papers on the desk in a loose-leaf binder. They were FBI press releases about the senator’s murder. I put a penny on page six.”

  It was an old trick. When the intruder picked up the binder, the penny fell to the floor. Even if he spotted it, there was no way for him to know what page it had fallen from.

  “Are you certain the maid didn’t move the papers?” he asked.

  “Haven’t you insulted me enough today?” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve been thinking while we were walking,” she said. “Should we clear it of bugs or use it to misdirect them? Whoever ‘them’ is.”

  He was impressed. She was thinking more like an intelligence officer than a cop.

  He saw they were passing by a pub. “Let’s go inside and get a drink. It’s been a very long day. I’ll pay.”

  “Do you really think buying me a drink is going to make me feel better about what you did today? About cutting me out and going behind my back?”

  “A couple drinks might be the only things that do help,” he said. “Besides, I’m hungry and thirsty. C’mon. What happened wasn’t personal. If there’d been a better way to handle it, I would’ve.”

  “Just one drink,” she said with a sigh. “And only because I could use it.”

  It was a neighborhood joint with dark wood paneling and a regular crowd who noticed strangers. He ordered fish and chips and Showers had a chicken poppy-seed wrap. He told the waiter to bring them drafts of London Pilsner.

  She seemed to relax after she’d finished her first beer.

  “First time someone’s bugged your hotel room?” he asked.

  “They taught us about it in the academy,” she said. “But this is the first time.”

  He raised his second glass of beer and tapped it against hers. “Welcome to the cloak-and-dagger side.”

  “I can see why you enjoy this. It’s more entertaining than writing down questions for Petrov and faxing them to him tonight.”

  “Why are you bothering to send him anything? He’s not going to admit he was involved. He’s playing you, trying to find out what you know.”

  “And what makes you think he’s not playing you—in whatever you’re doing?”