Jack in the Box

by John Weisman

  “He believes the whole thing is falling apart. I’m not so sure he’s wrong. Using Ed Howard was a huge mistake. So was bringing Waterman back into the game.”

  “That was the idea—the bull in the china shop.”

  “Except Waterman isn’t following the script. He’s dropped out of sight. I’m certain now he picked up Howard’s materials in Moscow. God knows what he’s done with them.”

  “We factored that eventuality in. That was the reason for Semonov.”

  “Semonov was always a loose cannon, Nikolai Sergeievich. We can’t be certain what he told Waterman.”

  “Semonov gave Waterman exactly what he was instructed to give. Howard was Casey’s man in Moscow. His Alec Leamas. Semonov even passed the confirmation signal as he left the restaurant. That is why we were able to … conclude the operation successfully.”

  “And off the poor son of a bitch before you had a chance to debrief him thoroughly? Waterman is talented, Nikolai Sergeievich. He might have gotten something out of Semonov. Something small but significant—which you wouldn’t have known until the debrief.”

  “It is unlikely.”

  “You’re too goddamn self-assured. I keep telling you that intelligence is an ever-changing petri dish, and you have to keep your eyes open as events modulate. But no: you people are so damn doctrinaire. KGB, SVR—nothing changes. You somehow always manage to combine the two worst characteristics of espionage in your operations. You’re inflexible, and you adore labyrinthine scenarios. It’s been more than a decade since the Soviet Union imploded. Haven’t you learned anything from us?”

  “We have learned quite a lot from you over the past twelve years, Edward. P. TOP HAT. VERMILLION—a dozen other programs as well. CIA considers SVR a sister service. As a part of the international war on terror we have a liaison relationship with Langley. SVR’s director is invited to the seventh floor for lunch with Director Becker once a year. Putin and Klimov are geniuses. Don’t lecture me on tradecraft or philosophy.”

  Sam couldn’t wait. He exploded out of the closet, pistol in hand. “Jeezus fucking Christ.”

  Michael O’Neill spun around, wide-eyed. For an instant, he went ashen-faced. Then the color returned to his cheeks. “Cyrus N. PRINGLE—in what’s known as light disguise, if memory serves,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here on Thanksgiving Day.” His gaze dropped to the weapon in Sam’s hand. “And armed, no less.”

  The lawyer turned to Ostrovsky. “I don’t believe you’ve been introduced. Nikolai, this is Samuel Elbridge Waterman, CLA retired. You’ve probably heard of Sam. He was a friend of Pavel Baranov’s. Sam, this is Nikolai Sergeievich Ostrovsky of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.”

  Ostrovsky’s watery gray eyes flickered in Sam’s direction. He was a short, stout, bald man in a very well-tailored three-piece suit. His ears were red and his pockmarked, bulldog face resembled the Frank the Pug character in Men in Black II. Sam noted that both Ostrovsky and O’Neill had shed their coats but they were both wearing latex gloves. O’Neill’s tradecraft certainly had improved.

  “I must be going now,” Ostrovsky said in accent-free English. He glared at Sam. “You know the rules, Mr. Waterman.”

  Sam pointed the muzzle of the pistol at the Russian’s belly. “I know only Moscow Rules, Mr. Ostrovsky. Besides, I’m no government official, so you stay right where you are.”

  There was a “shave and a haircut” rap on the door. Sam took three steps backward, turned the knob, eased the door open, waited until John Forbes stepped inside, and was gratified by Michael O’Neill’s horrified expression. “You remember Assistant Director of the FBI John Forbes, Michael. He was LEGATT in Paris. He—” Sam was interrupted by a pounding noise and muffled screams coming from the bedroom. He looked at Forbes and was reassured to see the Glock semiauto in his right hand. “You comfortable?”

  “I feel right at home, Elbridge.”

  “Good.” Sam slipped past the dinette table and disappeared into the bedroom, sidled past the bed, and yanked on the wedged closet door until it opened, revealing a red-faced, hyperventilating Ginny Vacario.

  “Damn door stuck on me, Sam. I couldn’t hear anything not a single word and I thought I’d put you in danger not to mention I thought I was going to have a panic attack. I’m so sorry. And then—”

  “It’s okay,” he cut her off, “Forbes is here.”

  Vacario took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. She rubbed her eyes. “You got them.”

  “C’mon.” He allowed her to precede him into the living room.

  She pulled the door open. “Holy Mother of God—Michael.” From behind, Sam watched Ginny’s shoulders sag. Her body language said it all.

  O’Neill stared at Forbes. “You’ve screwed up big time, John-boy,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Idiot. Numbskull. This is a recruitment. Have you any idea how long we’ve been working this guy?”

  “Probably not as long as he’s been working you,” Forbes said. “Tell you what—we’ll straighten this all out downtown.”

  “I protest,” Ostrovsky interrupted.

  “Duly noted.” Forbes looked over at Sam. “I guess it’s time to switch the recorders off.”

  That was when Ostrovsky bolted for the door. Forbes never appeared to move. But Ostrovsky was suddenly on the living room floor, gasping for breath.

  Forbes looked at O’Neill. “Michael, you want any?”

  O’Neill’s hands went up in surrender. “There’ll be no trouble from me,” he said. “We can straighten this out with a simple phone call.”

  Sam said, “And that would be a phone call to …”

  “My boss.”

  “Vlad Putin?”

  O’Neill flashed Sam a nasty look. “Easy does it, Cyrus. Things ain’t what they appear to be.”

  “In this particular case, Michael, I think they’re exactly what they appear to be.”

  “Which is why I’m going to call the DCI, and then Rand Arthur,” O’Neill said. He dropped his arms to his sides. “When you understand how we set this operation up, you’ll realize why we had to keep you”—he swiveled toward Vacario—“and you, too, Ginny, in the dark. Everything was just too damn precarious.” He paused to see how the monologue was playing. When he realized it wasn’t, he said, “Fact: Ostrovsky is my developmental. Fact: Rand Arthur can confirm it. Fact: retirement is just another form of cover. That’s the truth. Because you can corroborate what I’m saying with the senator, or with Nick Becker. One phone call.”

  O’Neill was following textbook case-officer procedure: Deny everything. Admit nothing. File countercharges. “No phone calls, Michael.”

  But somehow, O’Neill already had a cell phone in his hand.

  Before he could switch it on, Sam launched himself, wrestled it out of the lawyer’s grip, pressed the catch on the back, and dropped the battery onto the floor.

  “Huh?” Vacario looked puzzled.

  “He was going to warn Rand Arthur.” Sam brandished the dead phone. “These can be set up to send an emergency signal simply by turning them on in a certain way,” he said.

  O’Neill, wincing, shook his hand, then turned defiant. “Or by dropping the battery, Cyrus. The technology’s been improved since you retired.”

  Forbes examined the instrument in Sam’s hand. “Sorry, Michael, but you’re wrong. This particular phone doesn’t transmit without a battery.” He turned to face Sam. “What’s the call, Elbridge?”

  Sam pursed his lips. “I think we go to Rand Arthur’s,” he said. “I’ve always liked the idea of Thanksgiving in the country.”

  “I protest,” Ostrovsky said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sam turned toward the Russian. “Then you can stay here.” He ran his hand under the dinette table, wrenched the recorder and microphone free, turned the device off, and handed it to Ginny. Then he knelt by the coffee table and repeated the action. He tossed the second recorder to Forbes, who switched it off.

  Sam pu
lled the thick roll of duct tape from where he’d hidden it under the sofa. He taped the Russian’s arms tightly behind his back, checked his pockets and removed the man’s cell phone, allowed Forbes to check the instrument, then, having received a curt nod, removed the battery and stuck it in his pocket. Then Sam bound Ostrovsky’s legs and feet together, rolled him onto the sofa, and taped him immobile. He tore a three-inch length of tape off, then another eight-inch strip and made a gag, which he pressed over the Russian’s mouth, running the ends of the strip back behind Ostrovsky’s ears.

  Then he switched the TV set on. “Make yourself comfortable watching the soaps, Nikolai Sergeievich. We’ll send someone for you in a few hours.”

  CHAPTER 33

  12:38 P.M. Sam felt the suspension of O’Neill’s vintage Mercedes give as the car left black macadam and veered onto the three-tenths mile of rutted gravel lane that led to Rand Arthur’s Round Hill estate. He lay stuffed rudely onto the rear floorboard, the driveshaft hump wedged uncomfortably against his kidneys, his long legs tucked fetal, his body hidden under a stadium blanket, his mind producing an unsettling series of memories concerning the last time he’d been in this position.

  But now things were different. O’Neill was driving, not some young consular officer. And John Forbes was riding shotgun, his Glock stowed at the ready under the fed’s left thigh. And Sam could feel the warmth of Ginny Vacario’s legs on his rib cage as the car bounced along the washed-out road. This time Sam was in control.

  They’d traveled in convoy from Washington. Forbes drove with O’Neill; Ginny and Sam followed behind in the G-man’s Bureau wheels, a huge silver Mercury with concealed red and blue flashers behind the grille and five radio antennas on its trunk lid. Three miles north of Round Hill they’d stashed the big sedan and transferred into O’Neill’s ride.

  It all began to make sense now. O’Neill’s sudden illness in Moscow—giving him time to receive instructions from an SVR officer masquerading as a room-service waiter. And the outrageous performance at the police station in the Ukrainian quarter. It was designed to make sure they’d be PNG’d.

  Except Sam had managed to find Ed Howard’s materials. And Howard, ever the incompetent, had provided Sam with the clues to pursue the truth—or at least a shard of the truth. Which ultimately had led them here—back to the start of the maze Sam had entered on his forty-fifth birthday in Moscow.

  “We’re here,” O’Neill said. “ ‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill.'” He paused. “Robert Louis Stevenson, y’know.”

  Sam was wary of O’Neill’s puckishness. “Be smart, Michael,” he growled from under the blanket.

  “Don’t you worry, Cyrus. I am with the program.”

  Forbes said: “Car ahead.”

  “I’ll flash my lights twice, just as I always do.” O’Neill’s voice was calm and even.

  Sam felt the Mercedes slow and felt a rush of cool air as O’Neill lowered his window and called out to the rolling roadblock. “Hi, guys—just me and a couple of friends.”

  Still, Sam held his breath until O’Neill picked up speed and he felt the ruts and potholes of the road give way to the scrunch of the pea gravel that covered the long, arced driveway.

  As the car came round the top of the curve, it gained some speed. Then O’Neill slowed to make the tight turn that Sam remembered would take him onto a small circle in whose center stood an ancient willow. Except O’Neill applied the brakes—hard, and the vehicle came to an abrupt stop.

  Sam muttered: “What’s up?”

  Ginny said, “Stay quiet,” and shifted her position, adjusting the stadium blanket that covered her legs—and most of Sam’s body.

  O’Neill’s voice: “Hey, Desmond, happy Thanksgiving. Whassup, guy?”

  “Sorry to have to hold you up, Mr. O’Neill, but you weren’t expected.”

  “No prob, man.” There was a pause. “Just some lastminute details Ms. Vacario and I have to work out with the senator. Brought the feds with me, too—this is FBI Assistant Director John Forbes. John, this is Sergeant Desmond Reese of the U.S. Capitol police. Nation’s finest.”

  Forbes’s voice: “Nice to meet you, Sergeant. I’ll bet you’d like to be home with your family instead of standing post out here.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “Well, me, too. You stay safe now, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir—you, too.” Sam could hear the muffled sounds of radio transmission. Then Reese’s voice: “You’re clear to go ahead, Mr. O’Neill. Senator will meet you in the library. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “You, too.” Sam felt the vibration as O’Neill raised the window, put the car in gear, and drove ahead slowly. Forbes said, “The senator must be a little nervous these days, Elbridge. Think you have anything to do with that?”

  The car slowed to a crawl. John Forbes said, “Pull around there, Michael, out of the cop’s direct line of sight.” The Mercedes moved what Sam figured was another fifteen feet, then stopped. Forbes’s voice stage-whispered, “Michael, I’m turning the ignition off and taking the key. You open the driver’s side door, then keep both hands on the steering wheel while I get out and come around to your side of the car. Got it?”

  “Affirmative, John.”

  “Good.”

  Sam heard the doors open. Then he felt the front seat move forward. Ginny’s legs lifted off Sam’s frame. “Sam, you can get out now.”

  Sam went to his hands and knees and crawled from the back onto the cold gravel of the driveway. He stood up. Stretched. He reached back inside and pulled the long metal box he’d taken the previous night from the Senate Select offices and cradled it in his left arm.

  Ginny said, “Disguise,” and Sam reacted, straightening the mustache and adjusting the hairpiece and prosthetics.

  Forbes crooked his index finger to summon O’Neill out of the car. The lawyer adjusted the chain that hung across his vest. “I’ll need my briefcase, John. It’s in the trunk.”

  “I’ll get it for you.” The G-man unlocked the boot, retrieved an ancient leather briefcase, opened it, peered inside, riffled the papers, poked the bottom, then closed the bag up and thrust it into O’Neill’s arms. “Here.”

  The lawyer clutched the big case like a football and turned toward the hand-finished door adjacent to the big garage, his polished brogues scrunching on the gravel. “This way, please.”

  2:43. They entered a long corridor redolent of cinnamon, apples, and roasting turkey that led past the Spainsh-tiled kitchen where a trio of women in starched white chef’s tunics were preparing the senator’s Thanksgiving dinner. O’Neill turned into a narrow passageway. They marched through a pantry and small wet bar, then made their way to the thick, ornate library door. O’Neill punched the cipher lock, waited for it to click, turned the handle, pushed the door open, and stood aside. “After you, gents.”

  “No way, Michael.” Forbes nudged the lawyer through the doorway first.

  Rand Arthur was standing in front of the huge stone fireplace, flipping through the pages of a leather-bound book as the mournful tones of Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder reverberated through the high-ceilinged room. He turned as the group came through the door, his left hand signaling that he was in the middle of something and he’d be with them as soon as he was finished. His eyes flickered in Sam’s direction, but there was no sign of recognition, even as Sam was closing the door behind them and quietly throwing the dead bolt.

  The senator slapped the covers of the book shut, then turned to face his attorney. “Michael, what was so urgent?”

  O’Neill stood aside for John Forbes. “Senator Arthur,” the G-man began, “I’m Assistant FBI Director John Forbes.” He brandished his credential so Rand could see it. “We have some disturbing news relating to national security. I wonder if you’d join us over here.” He indicated the kilim-covered sofa.

  The senator gave Forbes a quizzical look. “I’d be pleased,” he said warily. Then he set the book on the edge of
the ornate wooden mantel, crossed the room, and dropped into the black leather wing chair facing the door.

  Forbes indicated that Michael O’Neill should sit on the edge of the desk. The lawyer complied, dropping the briefcase between his feet.

  The G-man turned to Virginia Vacario. “Perhaps you might take notes, counselor.”

  That was when Rand Arthur realized what Sam was cradling in his left arm. And that it was indeed Sam.

  “You,” he gasped. “You!”

  Rand Arthur tried to push himself out of the wing char. Forbes forced him back. “You stay right there, sir, please.”

  Sam pulled on his latex gloves, lay the metal box on the coffee table, and flipped the lid open. “You’re SCARAB, Senator. Remember SCARAB? Ed Howard told us about SCARAB—he was sitting on this sofa.”

  “Impossible.” Rand Arthur bristled. But his face had turned ashen. “Even if I were this SCARAB, there’s very little you can actually do, my boy,” he said.

  “I don’t see it that way, Senator.”

  The color returned to Rand Arthur’s cheeks. “You don’t get it. None of you people get it.”

  Sam said, “Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself, then.”

  “It’s quite simple actually. Consider the implications of frog-marching me out of here in handcuffs. A high-ranking member of the president’s party. Incoming chairman of SSCI. The Bush administration would be DOA, Sam. There’d be calls for impeachment. The war on terror would be fatally affected. Iraq? The invasion would never happen. Saddam Hussein would go on building up his weapons programs until the Israelis decided they couldn’t allow things to develop further and launch a nuclear strike against him, starting a regional conflict that could go on for years. And I can tell you truthfully, Sam, that I never passed a single document. Not one. All I ever did was give Moscow a sense of what the U.S. position might be—and I emphasize the word ‘might.’ I provided Moscow a heads-up. Nothing more. I turned over no more information than any political officer at the Moscow embassy when they gossip with their Russian counterparts at a cocktail party.”