“Not without evidence,” Dalton said. “Our SAC has ordered us to give Hawthorne and his dudes a wide berth. That means the order’s coming from on high. Maybe the Secretary, or maybe from POTUS himself. And if I go poking around the IC to see what they’ve got on the topic, it’ll raise some red flags.”
“I was afraid you were gonna say that,” Bradshaw said. He rubbed his temples, then grabbed his iced tea and took a sip. “I need everything you can get on the hitters. Can you get that discreetly?”
“Maybe,” Dalton said. “But if I’m caught…”
“It’s worth the risk,” Bradshaw said. “Look, Logan Fox was killed in action, and the chain of command was content to look the other way on his killers because it wasn’t politically expedient to follow the thread. If the Russians have co-opted a white supremacist group, it’ll be big enough to make this right.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Dalton asked.
“Then we lose nothing,” Bradshaw said. “They won’t know I got my intel from you. I’ve been doing this private eye shit for the past year. I’d like to think I’m pretty good at it.”
Dalton studied his sandwich as he weighed his options. After a few moments, he looked Bradshaw in the eye. “Logan was a good man.”
Bradshaw nodded. “The best.”
After another lingering pause, Dalton said, “What’s your work schedule like?”
“0800 to 1800,” Bradshaw said. “Pick up the client, escort her to work. Follow her through her daily activities. Help her close up the office, drive her home.”
It was Dalton’s turn to check his surroundings before he spoke. “Tomorrow, 2000. Reid Park. You know the bench at 22nd and Randolph?”
“Yeah,” Bradshaw said.
“Red means I came up empty. Yellow means I’m still working on it. Green means the drop’s in place.”
Bradshaw finished his tea, loaded his trash on the tray, and shook Dalton’s hand. “Thank you, Rick. You’re doing the right thing.”
“Don’t thank me until you see what I can find,” Dalton said. “Now get the hell outta here and lemme enjoy my Hate Chicken.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
San Francisco, California
21 August 2018
14:38 hours Tango (21:38 hours Zulu)
Oleg Gradenko was a gray man. A healthy life with few vices and a strenuous physical regimen helped him to look considerably younger than his 55 years. That was no small feat, having survived three wars on behalf of his motherland. Still, he was not handsome enough to merit lingering or second glances, which was a blessing in his line of work.
His official title at the consulate was “military attaché.” On paper, his job was to coordinate with the host nation’s armed forces on matters of mutual national security. A decade earlier, the job would have been much easier, as the West had been convinced that Russia was their friend. Reclaiming Crimea and Donbass had been the event horizon for the previous administration, and relations chilled considerably.
Things had not gotten much better with the new administration. The American national security apparatus had received notice and were on-guard. Surveillance was always present, as American counterintelligence knew, as he did, that his official job title was diplomatic cover. He was the rezident for the San Francisco office of Main Directorate of the General Staff of the Russian Armed Forces. Gradenko still thought of the agency by its former acronym: Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, or GRU. With that job title always came surveillance, but the intensity had increased over the past four years, and particularly after the most recent American election.
It did not matter, though. As the rezident, it was not Gradenko’s job to get his hands dirty. Others reported to him through cutouts, and those others were the ones who engaged in the front-line espionage. The Americans could waste their time watching him eat, exercise, or spend an intimate evening with an “enhanced” American woman. They would not get much more than that.
The meeting Gradenko awaited at that moment was the sole exception. It was too sensitive a mission to trust to a cut-out, and he had been ordered to personally supervise the agent’s mission. The agent selected was independently driven, yet had demonstrated sufficient loyalty to the motherland that his handlers need not worry about his developing second thoughts. The agent certainly would not have called for an emergency meeting on a whim. Not for the first time since the call, Gradenko wondered if the agent had been compromised in the previous day’s events.
Gradenko had picked the Blackwood Thai restaurant for two primary reasons. The first was that he knew the security configuration well enough to know the locations of the blind spots, both for the restaurant’s internal security and the surveillance established on the outside. The second was that one of Gradenko’s vices was Thai food. He had been the deputy rezident in Bangkok, where he had developed a slight affinity for the people—particularly the women—and a more considerable affinity for their spicy, rice-based cuisine. Gradenko took every excuse he could to eat at Blackwood. The cookery was surprisingly authentic for a commercialized American enterprise, and Gradenko enjoyed every bite.
As he worked on his green curried chicken and jasmine rice, Gradenko caught motion out of the corner of his eye. Two men sat beside each other in a booth, the appendages on their faces pierced at every conceivable angle. The men leaned forward and pecked each other on the lips. Gradenko masterfully suppressed a scowl at the disgusting public display of affection and continued to focus on his dish. Such behavior in his homeland would have been severely and painfully punished, and justifiably so. Russians were made of stern stuff and did not tolerate deviancy, much less embrace it like their American counterparts.
Goddamned liberasts, Gradenko thought, not for the first time. The knowledge that he was on a mission to bring the morally corrupt nation to his knees, as well as his decades of tradecraft experience, kept Gradenko focused. Now, Gradenko suppressed a smile.
Enjoy it while it lasts, goluboi scum.
Gradenko saw movement at the front door. He recognized his asset the moment the man walked inside. His curly hair was straightened and held in a part by what Gradenko presumed to be copious amounts of styling gel. The asset wore a crisp suit and hip rectangular glasses. Few people that knew him would recognize him without a close second look. Most people thought one had to make drastic alterations to be unrecognizable, but a change of clothes and hairstyle were often more than sufficient.
Gradenko watched the man take a seat across the table and gave him a nod. “Kazimir Mikhailovich,” he said in Russian. Many consulate employees frequented the restaurants in the area due to its proximity to their place of work, so folks speaking Russian was not out of the ordinary.
“Tovarisch Polkóvnik,” Major Kazimir Mikhailovich Merkolov said. “It is good to finally speak our native tongue.”
“It is a pleasure often taken for granted,” Gradenko said. “Were you followed?”
“No,” Merkolov said.
“Very good.” Gradenko nodded, then took a deep breath. “I see the White Resistance Movement failed to kill Gabriela Rivera.”
“Part of that is due to operational limitations,” Merkolov said. “I can only push them so hard in training, and I have to be careful what I show them, lest they ask questions.” A small smile grew on Merkolov’s face. “Though, given current public opinion, I’m not sure that would be enough for them to boot me from the group. If anything, Pfarrer might lose his captaincy.”
“It’s not them that I am worried about,” Gradenko said. “They are like most of our American assets: useful idiots. I am more concerned about American law enforcement uncovering our activities. Certain factions within the government are thirsty for Russian blood. If the plan is to be successful, we must take great caution, tovarisch mayór.”
“I know this,” Merkolov said patiently. “That is why I need to know the security company that protected Rivera that day.”
“I know, and I know why,” Gradenko said. He
slid a manila envelope across the table. “That does not leave this meeting. Commit what you can to memory.”
Merkolov picked up the folder and read the pertinent information. First Guard Protective Services…static and mobile security, private investigations, executive protection…Ivan Dillonovich “Jack” Bradshaw. 3rd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment. Regimental Reconnaissance Company, Joint Special Operations Command.
A ghost pain seized Merkolov’s chest when he read the last line. His mind flashed back over a year prior, to the rugged desert wilderness outside of Acin. Merkolov’s fingers unconsciously reached for the spot where the bullet had torn through his breastplate and collapsed his right lung, narrowly missing his heart and spine. Only the fast thinking of a Talib had saved him from bleeding out. Months of convalescence followed. He was fully healed, but the memory still played in his head every so often, especially after he saw the recognition in John Bradshaw’s face.
“He was the one who shot you in Afghanistan,” Gradenko said.
“Yes,” Merkolov said quietly.
“What you see there is what we have on him,” Gradenko said. “He keeps no social media. He has no recurring subscriptions that we can use to data mine. He has a minimal online profile. Since his departure from the military, we’ve had no reason to keep tabs.”
“Well, now we have a reason,” Merkolov said.
Gradenko’s brow wrinkled. “You think that he has compromised you?”
Merkolov hesitated. “Potentially.”
“Impossible,” Gradenko answered immediately. “The full report listing your unit’s activities in Afghanistan was redacted. That was what drove Bradshaw from the military. He has strong suspicions, but he has no proof. Without that, he has nothing.”
“We shouldn’t leave it to chance,” Merkolov said, finding his voice again. “I can arrange an accident or some poisoning.”
Gradenko shook his head. “Poisoning is out of the question. He ends up with radiation sickness, then his words will gain credibility. Leave it alone.”
“The look in his eyes suggested he would not leave it alone,” Merkolov said. “He hadn’t just seen a specter. There was a visceral hate. He will come for me. Perhaps not directly, but he will.” He shifted and rest his interlocked hands on the table. “The Mark Gerald legend is thin as is. The last thing we need is this pissed-off American suka yanking a thread and unraveling the entire mission.”
Gradenko finished his curried chicken and took a sip of water as he contemplated this detail. “Surveil him passively. Perhaps you misread him. Or, perhaps he will make a mistake that will render his death above suspicion. In either case, do not take any unilateral action.”
Merkolov nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Gradenko checked his watch. “You have a bit of time if you’d like something to eat.”
Merkolov shook his head as he pushed the file back to Gradenko. “I’m not hungry. I should be going.”
Gradenko nodded silently as Merkolov rose from the table and made his way to the exit. The gay men were still affectionately talking with each other across the way. Gradenko did not bother to hide his disgust this time as he rose from his chair, pulled out three $20 notes, and left them on the table before walking out. Such behavior was rampant all throughout the city and served as a constant reminder that Gradenko’s mission was necessary.
After all, it was Mother Russia, with its strength and clarity, that deserved to be the preeminent nation in global affairs, and not the weak, morally bankrupt United States.
Tucson, Arizona
21 August 2018
18:30 hours Tango (22 August 01:30 hours Zulu)
The day’s events had been mundane. Rivera had fielded several interviews from media outlets, did a livestream on her firm’s website where she talked directly to her donors and followers. After lunch, she saw a few potential clients, teleconferenced with the other lawyers in the American Dream Foundation’s network, and conducted preparatory work for upcoming cases.
Bradshaw stayed with her the entire time, always facing outward, hands clasped at his waistline. Rivera had shot a few glances his way, but he paid them no mind. He doubted that the would-be assassins would take another shot so soon after a failed attempt, but he was not paid to underestimate threats. It was tiring work to scan and assess every single person that entered or exited the office. Bathroom breaks were infrequent and his lunch break was hurried, all reliant upon the uniformed guards’ availability to provide temporary relief.
Once business hours concluded, Bradshaw escorted Rivera to the Safeway near her home. He didn’t like that stop, as it was a constant exercise in scanning and assessing. Rivera had insisted that she wanted some semblance of normalcy, and that she could buy her own groceries. She offered for him to drop her off there, but Bradshaw knew the contract explicitly stated escort between home and work. Thankfully, Rivera shopped unmolested, and Bradshaw got her to her car. From there, it was a short drive to her place.
Upon pulling in, Bradshaw saw the uniformed guard posted at the door and exchanged a nod with him. He then put the car in park, stepped outside, and walked around to Rivera’s door. He held the door for her and continued to scan and assess the area.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, ma’am,” Bradshaw said.
“Would you come inside, Jack?” Rivera asked. “I’d like a moment with you.”
Bradshaw suppressed a grimace. He checked his watch and saw he had about an hour and a half until the dead drop would be in place. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Great,” Rivera said with a closed-lip smile. When she exited the vehicle, Bradshaw closed the door, then followed her to the doorstep, continuing to scan on the way in. As he reached the front door, he looked at the posted guard and addressed him.
“Interior’s swept?” Bradshaw asked.
“Yes, sir,” the guard said as he reached for the doorknob. “All clear.”
Rivera stepped through the open door. Bradshaw stopped when he was on-line with the guard and said, “Log in your ClientVision that the principal wanted to speak with me one-on-one. Make sure you log when I leave, too.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard said. He reached to his duty belt for a Blackberry smartphone, brought up the ClientVision app, and started to log an entry. Bradshaw knew that all interactions with the client would be above-board, but he wanted to cover his six, just in case.
Bradshaw entered the house. He immediately saw the relatively spacious living room. From the doorway, a leather couch was situated against the far wall, with a glass coffee table sporting several University of Arizona-styled coasters directly in front of it. A pair of matching chairs flanked the coffee table at oblique angles.
As Bradshaw stepped further into the house, he saw the flat-screen television mounted to the wall, and an entertainment center beneath it. An Xbox controller rested on the corner of the entertainment center. To the right was a hallway, presumably where the bedroom and restrooms were. To the left was a small, round dining table, and a kitchen.
“Go ahead and grab yourself a drink,” Rivera said. “I’m going to change.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bradshaw said.
Rivera moved to the hallway, and Bradshaw entered the kitchen. Embedded within the fridge’s left door was an ice and water dispenser. Bradshaw explored the cupboards until he found a glass, then returned to the fridge. He filled the glass halfway with ice, then filled the glass to the brim with water. Normally, Bradshaw would have declined any sort of refreshment, but he wanted to make sure he was hydrated for his workout later.
Bradshaw settled into the chair closest to the kitchen, took a sip of water, then set it on a coaster. A moment later, Rivera emerged from the hallway. The business attire had been substituted for a relaxed Henley tank top and a pair of gray pajama pants. Rivera’s tank also bore the U of A’s emblem, with the words “Bear Down!” printed across the chest. She stretched overhead and let out a relieved sigh.
“Long day,” she said. “But, I’m out
of my corporate costume. Bra’s off, face is off. It’s time for a drink.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bradshaw said.
Rivera glanced at the glass of water before she gave Bradshaw a look. “Really, Jack? Typically, a girl invites you in for a drink, you don’t go for water.”
“I’m still on the clock, ma’am,” Bradshaw said.
Rivera glanced to the door and folded her arms. “Hmm. Seems like the door is closed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked back to him. “That means you can drop the soldier front. I’m not going to report you for having a personality, Jack.”
“Ma’am, I maintain my bearing to establish professional boundaries,” Bradshaw explained.
“And I get that around the rank and file,” Rivera said. She turned her body towards him. “Let’s try something. Around your colleagues and supervisors, you can ‘yes, ma’am’ me all you please. In private, I don’t want to hear the word ‘ma’am’ leave your mouth. When it’s you and me, it’s ‘Gabs’ or ‘Gabby,’ as you like it. Understood?”
Bradshaw nodded as he reached for his water glass. “As you wish…Gabby.”
Rivera smiled. “Better.” She continued to speak as she made her way to the kitchen. “You know, I’ve got the opposite problem with most men. Not a professional bone in their body. Caught staring at my tits, or worse, mansplaining.” She paused as she grabbed a corkscrew and the bottle of 19 Crimes she had picked up at Safeway. “Not you, though. Yeah, it’s nice to have a male colleague that makes eye contact and listens to what I’m saying, but the robotic mannerisms are honestly a bit off-putting. There’s a happy medium.”
Bradshaw said nothing. Rivera returned to the living room with a full wine glass and the uncorked bottle. She set the bottle on one coaster, took a seat on the couch, and downed the first glass of wine in a matter of seconds. Rivera reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass. Bradshaw frowned as she drank half of it before setting it down.
Fault Lines Page 14
