by John Weisman
“Can I see?” Virginia Vacario extended her hand over the arm of the wing chair.
“Sure.” Sam closed the passport and passed the document over to her.
She retrieved the half-glasses that sat on a delicate gold chain around her neck, placed them on the bridge of her nose, and flipped through the pages. “He’s done a lot of traveling in the past few years, has our Mr. Maloney.”
His mind spinning, Sam shook his head; tried to focus so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. “Don’t be so sure of it.”
“Oh?”
“Visas and entry stamps can be forged,” Sam said, knowing that one of them wasn’t. Knowing that one of them was a key that would sooner or later open a series of doors for him.
“I see.” She nodded, blind. She handed the passport back to him without further comment.
He took the Rosetta stone between his fingers and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. Seat 23D. October 10. There are no coincidences. There is no happenstance. Edward Lee Howard was trying to tell him something. Him—Sam. Not Rand Arthur. Not Virginia Vacario. That’s why Howard insisted Rand Arthur contact him.
All Sam had to do was figure out where Howard was pointing.
The date did bring Sam to one quick deduction: Ed Howard had been around for almost two weeks. That was plenty of time to set up whatever he’d been setting up. Sam had always been good at intelligence pathology—the art of deconstructing the opposition’s moves. So, perhaps there was a way to salvage this mess—or at least expose a big part of it. He tapped his jacket pocket. “Mind if I keep this for a couple of days?”
Rand Arthur shrugged. “It’s not going to do me much good.”
Maybe not you, Rand, Sam thought, both his heart and his mind now accelerating at warp speed. Maybe not you.
And then he realized what was happening to him, and he let the huge emotional wave pick him up and carry him forward. Oh, God, how good it felt to be inundated by all the old feelings, all those familiar back-in-harness sensations: shallowness of breath, tightening of sphincter, accelerated heartbeat, and palpable adrenaline surge. Oh, yes, he was back. Sorting out the possibilities, working the angles, creating the compartments, operating under Moscow Rules.
Moscow Rules. It had been years since he’d thought about Moscow Rules. Moscow Rules meant one of him against hundreds of them. Moscow Rules were about never surrendering, never giving up, never ever considering the possibility of failure. Moscow Rules was about winning at all costs.
He brought himself under control, hoping he hadn’t given himself away. A quick glance told him he was all right. Good. His next move was simple. He had to distract them—focus them on something—so that he could get out of here and make his own plans. Set up his own three-card monte game. Create his own covert action plan.
“Senator,” Sam said, “and Ms. Chief Counsel, too, I need a favor from the both of you.” He waited until they’d turned toward him, then continued. “I’d like you to write down everything you and Ed Howard talked about before I arrived—every detail, no matter how unimportant it might seem.”
Sam looked at Virginia Vacario. “Put down every single thing you can remember. Everything, no matter how trivial.”
The lawyer nodded, her expression grave. “I’ve been doing that all along, Mr. Waterman.”
“Oh?” Sam was dubious and his tone reflected it. “Complete notes?”
“Verbatim, Mr. Waterman. Every single word.”
“Can you show me?”
The lawyer riffled through the legal pad. Finally, she stopped, perched her glasses on the tip of her nose, and began to read. “Timestamp, five-eighteen. Waterman: ‘You’ve told me nothing. I asked a question and you blew smoke in my face. Senator, you want my opinion? He’s worthless.’
“Howard: ‘I risked my life.’
“Waterman: ‘Ed, you may be able to fool these people. But this is me. Sam. I know you. I know how you operate. To me, you’re cellophane—I see right through you. So, let me translate for the senator and our learned counsel here what you said—and what you were really doing. You claim you came here out of some long-buried sense of civic duty and remorse. “The president knew all about 9/11. There are Russian spies in the American government.” That’s what you said, Ed. But your objective was creating confusion and chaos. You’re a double agent, Ed—you work for Moscow Center. And you might have succeeded, except—thank God—the senator got hold of me instead of calling a press conference and putting you on CNN.’ ”
Vacario flipped her eyeglasses onto her forehead and looked up at Sam. “Is that about right, or was something missing?”
Sam was impressed. “Where on earth did you learn to do that, counselor?”
“I was a young single mother, Mr. Waterman. I had to work my way through law school. I did so as a legal secretary. Thus, I take shorthand. It’s come in handy, especially at the committee.”
“I’ll bet it has,” he said earnestly. He gave the senator an encouraging smile. “Senator,” Sam said, noting Rand Arthur’s reticent body language, “I really need your support here.”
Rand Arthur drained his scotch. “If you really think it’s necessary, Sam, I’ll be happy to comply.” The senator pulled himself to his feet, walked to the big partner’s desk, extracted a laptop from one of the big file drawers, switched the closest of the two banker’s lamps on, dropped into the chair facing the window where Howard had made his escape, then unlatched and booted the computer.
Sam looked on approvingly. “Thank you. This is going to be a big help, Senator.” He watched as Virginia Vacario settled behind her side of the partner’s desk, lips pursed in thought, Montblanc poised above the legal pad.
“Now,” Sam said, “I need something else.”
Rand Arthur looked up. “What is it, my boy?”
“I’d like to borrow a car.”
“Oh?”
Sam’s tone was decisive. “I have some thinking to do. I want to do it in the city. We can meet early next week and decide how to proceed.”
Rand Arthur’s eyes widened. “Proceed? But you said this was a dead issue, Sam.”
Sam set the hook. “I need time to reassess the situation, Senator.”
“And?” The senator raised an eyebrow in Sam’s direction. “There may be a good chance I can salvage things.
CHAPTER 10
MONDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2002
SAM WATERMAN pressed the intercom button outside the locked unmarked door of Rand Arthur’s hideaway office in the U.S. Capitol. “It’s Sam Waterman.”
The senator’s abrupt “Come” was followed by dissonant buzzing, The electronic door lock released. Sam turned the ornate brass knob, pushed the thick door inward, and stepped onto luxurious royal blue carpet patterned with ivory fleurs-de-lis. Michael O’Neill followed in his wake. The lawyer leaned on the heavy paneled wood until it snapped shut.
“Make sure the door’s secured, Sam.” Rand Arthur was sitting behind the desk, his back to the door, looking at a flat, widescreen television screen atop the credenza. It was tuned to one of the all-news channels. A blond woman anchor was talking but the senator drowned her out. ‘They killed another American today. A diplomat from USAID. In Jordan—Amman,” he said, shaking his head. “Where the hell was CIA? According to Nick Becker, we own Jordan—lock, stock, and camels. We pay the damn Jordanians millions in foreign aid. And for decades—decades!—CIA station chiefs carried suitcases of cash to King Hussein. Like clockwork. And this is what we get? For chrissakes, Sam, it’s a travesty what’s going on around here.”
Then Rand Arthur swiveled around, saw O’Neill, and frowned. “You said you wanted to see me alone, Sam. What’s he doing here?”
“In a minute, Senator.” Sam waved a single sheet of paper under the senator’s nose. “I pulled this off the AP site fifteen minutes ago.”
Rand Arthur shrugged. “So?”
“Let me read it to you. It’s slugged Urgent. Quote: Dateline, Moscow. Edward Lee Howard, fifty, the o
nly CIA officer ever to defect to the KGB, died at his home outside Moscow this afternoon, according to Russian government sources. Howard is said to have broken his neck in a fall down the steps of his dacha outside the Russian capital, according to a friend who asked not to be identified. A spokesman at the Central Intelligence Agency had no immediate comment about Howard’s death but said the Agency was following developments in Moscow with interest. End of quote.”
The color drained out of Rand Arthur’s face. “My God,” he said, slumping in his big leather chair. He fumbled for the TV remote, hit the mute button. “My God.” He looked at Sam. “But why? Why, Sam?”
Sam shrugged. “I have no idea, Senator.”
“But … but—” Rand Arthur rubbed a hand across his face. He looked up at the ornate design of the narrow room’s high ceiling. “Why?” he asked again.
Michael O’Neill walked to the window, fingered the curtain aside, and peered out. “Spectacular view, Senator,” he said. “Inspiring. You can see the entire Mall.” O’Neill allowed the curtain to fall back into place. He turned toward Rand Arthur. “A slightly different version of ‘why’ is precisely what Sam and I have been trying to puzzle out for the past three days. Our line of inquiry centered around the possible location and motives of your former houseguest. The uncertainty surrounding our first focus—if not the second—has now been answered definitively.”
Rand Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever happened to the lawyer-client relationship, Michael? You are my personal attorney—as well as a special counsel to SSCI. Your involvement in every aspect of this matter was to be absolutely confidential.”
“I understand, sir.” O’Neill brushed his unruly forelock out of his eyes. “But in this particular case, our lawyer-client relationship gets trumped by the deputy chief-case officer relationship I have with Sam Waterman. Lawyers and clients—even you and I—don’t have the kind of secret handshake Sam and I do.”
“You were a case officer?” The senator was dumbfounded. “A spy?”
O’Neill nodded. “I was.”
“You never told me that. All the time I thought you’d worked at State. And now you’re telling me you and Sam have your own secret handshake.”
“I take secret handshakes seriously. It’s one of those situations where I could show you, Senator, but then I’d have to kill you.”
O’Neill paused just long enough to realize his attempt at humor wasn’t being well received. “Senator,” he continued, “Sam came to me straight from your house. He was furious.”
Rand Arthur shot Sam an angry glance. “Furious?”
Sam’s peripheral vision caught pictures of a car on the TV screen. There were bullet holes in the door and bloodstains on the upholstery. For an instant he was back on the road from Zagorsk. Then he forced the memory aside and focused on Rand Arthur. “You blindsided me, Senator. It was unnecessary. No—worse: it was a recipe for disaster.” He jerked his thumb in O’Neill’s direction. “He should have known better. I should have been told what I was getting into.”
“That was impossible. I swore Michael to secrecy—that’s why he lied to you—and I’d made an agreement with you-know-who.”
“A lot of good that agreement did you.”
“I’m not in the mood to be lectured, Sam.”
Sam slapped the AP story on the senator’s desk. “We’re in a nonsecure room, Senator, so I won’t be specific—and I’d suggest that you follow my lead. But let’s just say that had I been given some advance notice, I might have been able to wring something useful out of your … houseguest.”
Rand Arthur started to say something but Sam cut him off. “I was coming in to see you today to lay out a plan that would perhaps allow us to pick up some of the pieces. But that’s moot now. According to AP, Edward Lee Howard is dead. Maybe he died from a fall down the stairs, just like it says in the news story. But maybe he was pushed. Anything’s possible. Your houseguest said just as much at one point in the conversation.” He looked at Rand Arthur. “Remember, Senator?”
The senator’s head bobbed up and down. “I do,” he said. “He said the … opposition would know what he’d taken, and they’d come after him.” He scratched the side of his nose. “Maybe that’s what happened.”
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
Rand Arthur tapped the single page on his desktop. “You mean his death could be confirmation of the things my houseguest told us.”
“Yes. Or, it could be accidental—just as written.” Sam paused. “It could also be a provocation. I want to take Michael to Moscow and see what we can find out.”
The senator’s eyes widened. “Michael? Moscow?”
“Your houseguest provided a few clues I may be able to follow up,” Sam said.
“Oh?”
“Nothing certain, but I think it’s worth a try.”
Rand Arthur nodded. “Hmm.”
“But it’s not a one-man job,” Sam continued. “I’d feel a lot more secure if Michael came along. And we’ll need cover.”
“Cover?”
“Given my background, there’s no way I can go to Moscow as a tourist,” Sam said. “But if you, as a senior member of Senate Select, were doing—as you are—some digging into the events surrounding 9/11, and Michael and I had credentials as your investigators, then we’d have cover for status.”
“What’s cover for status?”
“It’s a Langley term meaning we’d have a legitimate reason for being in Moscow.”
Rand Arthur’s eyes widened. He pushed back in his chair and focused on the ceiling. “I don’t like the idea. I don’t want to make this matter into committee business.”
“It wouldn’t be. We’d be working for you.”
“It becomes committee business if I get credentials for you. Once you represent me, you represent SSCI, and you fall under Senate rules.”
Sam said, “So what?”
Rand Arthur’s fingertips came together, forming a steeple. “If something were to go wrong,” he said, “it would reflect badly on me.”
“We will be models of discretion,” Sam said. “I’m not talking about breaking into Lubyanka, Senator. I just want to do some nosing around.”
“Some very quiet nosing around,” Michael O’Neill said.
Rand Arthur said, “Hmm.” And then, after a quarter minute of contemplation, he flung himself forward, reached for the telephone, and punched five keys. “Ginny? It’s me. Meet me in the bubble in ten minutes.”
SAM KNEW she was opposed to the whole idea, even though she hadn’t said a word. He could tell it from her body language: arms crossed tightly across her bosom, legs locked together at the ankles, lips pursed, listening as Sam laid out his case. Her legal pad and the big Montblanc sat unused on the bubble room’s bare wood table—another bad sign.
When Sam stopped talking she said nothing for fully half a minute. And then she looked at Rand Arthur, and said, “Senator, I agree with Mr. Waterman. This operation should come under the sponsorship of Senate Select. A formal SSCI visit—a STAFFDEL. Official passports, country clearance—the whole nine yards.”
Sam started to say something but she cut him off. “With one proviso.”
“And that is?”
“I will lead,” she said matter-of-factly.
Sam didn’t like that idea at all, and told her so.
“You misunderstand me, Mr. Waterman,” she said.
“I don’t think so.” Sam knew exactly where she was coming from. She was another in a long line of ambitious bureaucrats engaged in a never-ending campaign of influence building. She was probably related to the Romanoffs. Hell, she probably wanted to become czarina. The first woman DCI.
“You think I’m trying to horn in on your operation because it will benefit me in some way.”
That was pretty close to the truth. Sam said nothing.
“Just the opposite, Mr. Waterman.”
“Oh?”
“If you and Mr. O’Neill went to Moscow by your
selves, even with SSCI credentials, the FSB would be all over you from the moment you arrived.”
Sam had to admit what she said was true. Moscow Center had thick files on him. And they’d probably spotted O’Neill in Paris. He’d had deep embassy cover, but he’d also worked the émigré community. The SVR kept tabs on all American diplomats who met with émigrés. Sam had to admit that traveling incognito was impossible.
Vacario tapped her legal pad with the end of the big pen. “But if we make it clear from the get-go that you are working for me, we may be able to find a way for you to disappear long enough to actually get something done.”
Sam hated to admit it, but she was making sense.
Vacario saw the change in his expression and pressed on. “We’ll have to dazzle them with footwork, Mr. Waterman. Mr. O’Neill and I can distract them with 9/11—demand endless briefings about the Chechen connection to al-Qa’ida, ask to visit the theater where Chechen terrorists took hostages—while you take a cleaning route, slip surveillance, and do the cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
She paused. Sam looked at Vacario, impressed with her knowledge of tradecraft terms.
The lawyer’s fingers brushed her legal pad. “I have been reliably told, Mr. Waterman, that you were remarkably good at making yourself disappear.”
“Not according to the senator’s houseguest.”
“As you said the other evening, Mr. Waterman, there is a good chance that the senator’s houseguest was a fabricator.”
“You didn’t seem to think so at the time.”
“Distance gives perspective, Mr. Waterman.” She tapped the table with a fingernail. “So, do you accept my proviso?”
Sam had never been one to turn a good suggestion down, and this was a good suggestion. “I like it,” he said simply.
She smiled at him warmly. “Good.”
Sam grinned back at her. She wasn’t so formidable when she smiled. And she had green eyes. “What’s your estimate for wheels-up?”
