by John Weisman
“I told you back at Hart, Vern Myles is neither one.” Sam was emphatic. “The point, Ginny, is that SCARAB and SCEPTRE are high level. Remember—Howard told us SCARAB was invited to the diplomatic reception for Primakov. Myles? No way. Myles is the cutout.”
“How high level would SCARAB be?”
“Way, way above your government pay grade. Someone who gets invited to the secretary of state’s shindigs.”
Which is when she got what he was driving at. “That’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible, Ginny.”
“This is. You’re talking about someone for whom I’ve worked for almost ten years. For Christ’s sake, Sam, I’m a professional. I’d know.”
“Right,” Forbes said. “Just like I knew about Bobby Hanssen, with whom I worked for more than a decade.” He dropped his voice. “Believe me,” he said, “unless I thought this would turn out righteously, I wouldn’t have gotten involved.”
Sam said: “John, where’s the laptop?”
“Right here, Elbridge.” He one-handed Sam’s slim computer. Sam took it, set it on his lap, turned it on, and waited until Windows booted up. It took him less than a minute to find the file he was looking for.
“Here, Ginny.”
“What is it?”
“A story from the Washington Post style section.”
Vacario’s voice was adamant. “What in hell does this have to do with anything, Sam?”
He handed the computer to her. “Just read it quickly.”
She squinted at the small screen. “I need my glasses.” She found her half frames, slid them on, then read the material. “Okay, so? It’s a story about the reception the secretary of state threw for Yevgeniy Primakov.”
“Right.”
“So?”
“So, whose name do you see mentioned?”
Vacario scrolled through the file again. “Okay. Warren Christopher. Primakov. DCI Woolsey. NSC adviser Tony Lake. Sam Nunn, Madeleine Albright, Larry King, yadda, yadda, yadda.” She looked at Sam. “What’s your point, Sam?”
“Rand Arthur was there, too. Gave the writer a lovely little quote.” Sam paused. “And what did Ed Howard tell us about the Primakov party?”
Vacario sighed audibly. Sam didn’t wait. “He told us that SCARAB was at the party.”
“Which according to you makes Rand Arthur SCARAB? What about the other ninety-nine people?” She crossed her arms. “I’m not convinced. Besides …”
“Besides what?”
“You say the safe house is on Idaho Avenue.”
“Right. Just off Wisconsin.”
“Is it one of the new apartment houses—the high-rise condos?”
“No,” Sam said. “One of the older ones. One self-service elevator, and sixty-two apartments spread over eight floors.”
“Garage?”
“Negatory,” Sam shook his head. “Street parking.”
“No way.” Vacario shook her head. “You are telling me that a United States senator, whose face is all over the Sunday-morning talk shows, whose picture is in all the newspapers, is going to show up at an apartment building in upper Georgetown—walking? Sam, you may know spies. But I know senators. And senators don’t do that kind of thing. At the very least, a nosy neighbor sees a senator slipping into an apartment, and they immediately think, ‘Ah—a mistress,’ and they get on the phone to the National Inquirer.”
Sam said, “Hmm.”
“Rand Arthur has a car and a driver—a U.S. Capitol police officer.” She frowned. “And even then, he wouldn’t risk jumping out of the limo, running across the sidewalk and into a seedy apartment house. No, Sam, it’s just not in his makeup. Idaho Avenue may be a safe house. But it’s nowhere Rand Arthur would show up. It just isn’t the way he does things.”
Sam looked at her. “Then I guess we’ll have to see who shows up, won’t we?”
5:24 A.M. They’d solved the Vern Myles problem with a roll of duct tape and John Forbes’s handcuffs. Which allowed Forbes to head to Union Station to mark a double D on the appropriate column, and Sam and Ginny to leave their three-white-line call-out sign in the alley off Twenty-first and P Streets. They’d stay in touch by cell phone. The G-man had a second cell phone—another of the Bureau’s latest STEs, or secure telephones—charging in his car. He ran downstairs, retrieved it, and handed it to Sam. “Okay, get outta here.”
Forbes said that as soon as he’d completed marking the column, he’d call Johanna and ask her to keep an eye on Myles. Sam was nervous about involving anybody else. But Forbes said they really had no other choice, and Sam had to admit he was right.
And so now, Sam was using his tradecraft skills to break- and-enter Apartment 6H at 3624 Idaho Avenue, Northwest. He and Ginny had cruised the neighborhood for almost an hour, looking for countersurveillance and finding none. So they approached 3624 from Wisconsin Avenue arm in arm, like a couple coming home. And Ginny swayed unsteadily as Sam fumbled with his key outside the glass-paned double doors.
Except he wasn’t fumbling with a key, but working at the old-fashioned electronic lock with his pick and torque wrench. Vern Myles kept the keys to the safe house at the Foggy Bottom apartment he sublet and Sam hadn’t wanted to risk going for them.
5:26. The elevator door opened and Sam stepped out into the sixth-floor corridor. Ginny followed. He looked left, then right. The place was unremarkable: built in the 1950s as low-priced housing for federal workers, it had probably gone condo in the late eighties or early nineties. The hallways were linoleum, not carpeted. The steel doors had old-fashioned peek holes. Sam counted nine apartments on the floor. Six of them had copies of the Washington Post, the Wall Street Journal, or the New York Times in front of their doorways. Sam headed for the closest door without a newspaper, looked at the letter, shook his head, and pointed Ginny in the opposite direction.
It took Sam less than a minute to get through the dead-bolted lock. He pulled his own gloves on, looked at Ginny’s hands, then tapped the back of his wrist until she slipped hers on, too. He put his fingers to his lips to remind her that there was probably voice-activated audio surveillance inside, then eased through the doorway. Ginny followed him into a tiny foyer. The place smelled as if it had been shut up for months. It was dark, but there was enough ambient light coming through the gauzy curtains to their left to allow them to move without tripping.
Sam almost let go of the front door when he realized there was a self-closing spring on the upper hinge. He caught the door before it could slam, turned the interior knob, and eased it shut. Silently, Sam made his way to the window and looked out. Six-? faced a rear courtyard and, sixty feet away, the back side of another apartment house. That was good news. When safe-house windows faced the street, the drapes, curtains, and shades were often used as go/no-go signals. That wasn’t going to be the case here. It was one less factor to worry about.
Sam pulled the drapes shut. Only then did he turn his flashlight on and, using his hand to baffle the light, make his way back to a door that he assumed led to the bedroom. He cracked the door, grimacing when it creaked, looked into the room, then turned back toward Ginny to give her an upturned thumb. It was just as he’d thought. He disappeared inside, and fifteen seconds later, having drawn the blinds, was back. It was a matchbox of an apartment—probably no more than four hundred square feet.
He emptied his jacket pockets onto the dinette table that sat next to the minuscule kitchen. He’d been carrying a roll of duct tape, two of Forbes’s digital recorders, and two self-powered, voice-activated microphones along with the lock picks and his flashlight. Now it was a question of finding the opposition’s A/V surveillance gear. There were two closets in the minuscule foyer. One, facing the door, was a wide but shallow coat closet. The other, much smaller, was a linen closet. The four shelves held three folded towels. Sam shone the light carefully, but found no audio devices in either one.
Silently, he reentered the bedroom, eased open the narrow closet door, and beamed his flash
light inside only to discover six wire hangars on the clothes rod and a pair of empty shelves. He played the light under the double bed and saw only dust bunnies.
Opposite the bed was a low, painted chest. Sam held the light between his teeth and inch by inch slid the drawers open, working from the bottom. He found nothing.
5:36. The single bathroom was off the bedroom. Sam peered inside. The toilet seat was up. That told him that the last person to use the safe house was a male. He looked behind the shower curtain, checked the medicine cabinet, and glanced under the sink, but found nothing. Careful not to disturb anything, he backed out and closed the door.
That left the kitchen, and the two closets in the tiny foyer. Sam examined the closets first, but they, like the bedroom closet, were empty. He made his way around an oblong kitchenette set—a table and four chairs, and shone the light inside the small kitchen. Straight ahead was the fridge. To its left, a sink and a narrow gas stove were crammed side by side, ringed by old-fashioned painted metal cabinets.
Sam crossed the threshold. He pulled on the door of the refrigerator. It opened. Inside was a six-pack of St. Pauli Girl beer, with three bottles left in the cardboard carton. Sam opened the top-side freezer to discover a half-liter bottle of Golden Ring vodka next to three trays of ice cubes. Instinctively, he glanced toward where Ginny waited in the living room. He’d given her the exact same bottle, and even though he knew it wasn’t hers, he was still paranoid enough to pull the vodka out and check the rear label. It bore, he was delighted to see, neither tax stamp nor price sticker—not even from the duty-free shop at Sheremetevo. This Golden Ring came from the Russian embassy commissary.
He cast another quick glance in Vacario’s direction, breathed a huge sigh of relief and affection, stuck the bottle back in the freezer, closed the door, then reached up and opened up the double cabinets above the fridge. He discovered nothing except the fact that his pulse had begun to race. That was to be expected: the endgame was under way.
But he was a professional. Methodically, he opened and shut each of the cabinets, including the one below the sink, and found nothing. In a fit of inspiration, he even checked the oven, but it was empty except for a shiny broiler pan.
Sam stuck his head into the living room, gave Ginny an exaggerated shrug, and mouthed, “Nada.” He returned to the front door and rolled the dead bolt closed, exactly the way he’d found it.
5:58. The apartment was clean. There were no devices anywhere. Sam had checked under the couch, inspected the light fixtures, shone his flashlight into the air registers, and even unscrewed all the electric outlets, but found nothing.
6:14. The STE in Sam’s pocked vibrated. He flipped it open. “Yes?”
“Mission accomplished.” Forbes’s voice echoed in his ear. “You inside?”
“Affirmative. As soon as it’s light, I’m going to put things back exactly the way we found them.”
“Good. I’ll be on-site by six-thirty to set up surveillance.”
“How will you know the players?”
“I’ve got a current flash book.”
“Ooorah.”
“Hang in, there, Sam.”
“I didn’t know I had a choice. Semper Fi, guy.” Sam snapped the phone shut. He turned toward Vacario. “Might as well make yourself comfortable, Ginny, it could be a long wait. I’m going to position the recorders.”
CHAPTER 32
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2002
9:14 A.M. Sam felt the cell phone vibrate. He pulled himself into a sitting position and pulled the instrument from his shirt pocket. He and Ginny hadn’t dared to disturb any of the furniture. So they’d slept on the floor, back to back on the musty wall-to-wall carpeting. Slept was an overstatement. They’d been up all night, reacting to every sound. They’d only closed their eyes for a catnap after eight.
He checked his watch and nudged Ginny with his left hand. She rolled over, rubbing her eyes.
Sam had to smile. Her hair was standing straight up. Her makeup was smudged. She had dark circles under her eyes. His verdict: she looked absolutely beautiful.
Sam cleared his throat, flipped the phone open, and said, “Yo?”
Forbes’s voice singsonged in his ear. “You’ve got mail …”
The hair on the back of Sam’s neck stood up. “Anyone we know?”
“According to the picture I’m looking at, one Nikolai S. Ostrovsky, commercial counselor. Works out of the trade representative’s office on Connecticut Avenue. He’s deputy Rezident.”
Sam used his free hand to make sure his prosthesis and hairpiece were straight. “Alone?”
“Da.”
He pressed the mustache firmly onto his upper lip and cocked his head in Ginny’s direction. “Any countersurveillance, John?”
She caught Sam’s eye and mouthed “You’re okay.”
“None that I can tell, Elbridge.” Forbes’s voice was momentarily interrupted by static. Then: “He should be arriving in about two minutes.”
“We’ll be ready.” Sam’s tone was serious. “Ring me once when the second party arrives—one ring only. I’ve got the phone on silent. Then get your G-man butt up here fast.” Sam slapped the phone shut and looked at her, his expression grave. “It’s showtime, Ginny.”
She ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it down. “What do we do?”
“We wait.”
“In here?”
“Of course not. We conceal ourselves.”
He could feel the adrenaline starting to pump. But he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. He reached under the dinette table and turned the recorder on, went to the coffee table, knelt, and repeated the action. “You go into the bedroom—close the door behind you but leave it ajar by an inch or so. It creaks, so you’ll know when someone’s coming. Get inside the closet now. Make sure the door shuts firmly. Pull it tight, Ginny—tight—and don’t make a sound. I’ll be in the linen closet behind the front door. We have to wait until both targets have arrived, and are conducting business. Then we seal things up until Forbes arrives.” He looked down at her, waiting for a response. “Ginny—are you with me?”
Finally, she nodded.
He could see the tension in her face. Inexplicably, he drew her close and kissed her softly on the lips. She didn’t protest. He kissed her once again. “Don’t move until you hear me speaking. Not until you hear me loud and clear. Don’t you even breathe.” He took her hands in his. “Got it? We have to get them on tape. We need evidence of collusion. Conspiracy. We need unimpeachable evidence.”
“I understand.” She hugged him tightly, then dropped her arms to her sides and stepped back. “My God, Sam, I’m shaking all over.”
He smiled at her reassuringly. “You’ll be fine, Ginny. Okay—c’mon, move.”
9:16:22. Sam crouched inside the cramped linen closet. He’d left the door cracked just slightly. He could just make out the luminous second hand on his watch as it swept around the dial. He counted off seconds, estimating Ostrovsky’s progress. Through the outer door. Push the elevator button. Wait for the elevator. Push the scuffed black button. Wait as the coffin-size elevator creaks upward floor by floor. Exit. Down the hall to 6H.
9:17:31. Ears keened, Sam heard a key turn in the lock. His body tensed. He slowly swept his suit coat aside and he placed his right hand on the butt of John Forbes’s compact Glock backup pistol riding in its Kydex paddle holster.
9:17:34. Through the fissure, Sam heard the door open, then slam shut. He waited for the sound of the dead bolt but it wasn’t thrown.
Sam listened intently, his mind’s eye playing the movie in his brain as the Russian provided the sound effects. Ostrovsky shrugs out of his coat. He flings it across the back of the nearest dinette chair—the chair shifts. A second chair scratches across the parquet floor when Ostrovsky brushes against it as he moves into the living room. He slides the chair back into position. He reaches for the bedroom door and it creaks as he pushes it open.
Sam counted eight seconds of
silence—an eternity—and then he heard the faint splatter of liquid as Ostrovsky, obviously in the bathroom with the door open, took a leak. Despite the tension of the situation, the thought of Ginny’s reaction brought a smile to his face. Sam’s reverie was interrupted by the sudden explosion of water pressure when Ostrovsky flushed the toilet. The water pipes ran behind the linen closet.
9:22:50. The STE in Sam’s shirt pocket vibrated like a pacemaker gone berserk. Instinctively he almost reached for it but caught himself in time. One ring. One ring only. But the phone kept vibrating. Three, four, five times. What the hell was Forbes up to?
Finally, the STE went quiet. Sam was perspiring now, standing in the dark closet, his whole body trembling with tension. He forced his breathing to slow, working to calm himself, although his pulse was racing and the hair on the back of his neck was standing up. Christ, I’ve been out of the game far too long. He stared down at the luminous dial on his watch. 9:24:41 … 42 … 43 … 44 … 45 … 46 … 47.
And then. And then, he heard the second key in the front door lock. Not daring to breathe, he eased the pistol out of the holster and held it parallel to his right leg. His hand tight around the butt, his right index finger straight against the frame, just as Forbes had instructed him.
The spring-hinged front door closed itself, the latch shutting with a click so loud Sam almost jumped. He heard the scrape of leather soles on the wood flooring. And then a voice: “Salut, Nikolai Sergeievich. Comment tu vas?”
Sam’s blood ran cold. His hand tightened around the pis- tol. His finger slipped onto the trigger. He had to force it back onto the gun’s frame.
Ostrovsky’s gruff voice answered, but in English. “This was your signal, not mine.”
“I beg to differ. But no matter. There’s enough to discuss.”
“Is there a problem?”
“The senator seems to feel there is. The senator is getting nervous.”
“And you?”
“When the senator gets nervous, I become very uneasy.”
“You must reassure him.”
