by Chris Goff
“Have you ever been to China, Agent Jordan?”
“No, sir.”
“Well I have. It’s crowded, smoggy, and difficult to know who you can trust.” His eyes locked on hers. “When the DSS received information that Zhen had been located, McClasky went to pick him up. The local police liaison, a detective named Yang, tracked Zhen to an apartment in a suburb of Guangzhou. Unfortunately, before Detective Yang and McClasky could move in, Zhen was swept up in a drug crackdown.”
“Wouldn’t Yang have known about a sting operation?”
“You’d think. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. The Chinese don’t always like to share.” Lory started tapping his fingers on the desk. “In an effort to get a handle on their growing drug problem, they’ve instituted some of the harshest drug laws in the world. But since users and dealers exist in all levels of government, crackdowns are initiated with no warnings or interagency cooperation. Anyone caught trafficking in large quantities faces execution, while the local police have the authority to bypass the court system and send any casual users to compulsory drug rehabilitation centers. We’re basically talking labor camps.”
“Zhen was facing possible execution for the drug charges then?”
Lory nodded. “He must’ve figured he’d do better facing charges in the U.S. While McClasky worked with the police to get him released, Zhen was busy talking to the embassy. That’s how the political officer at the consulate got involved. He was able to arrange for Zhen’s release into U.S. custody, but by then the Triad had put a price on his head. McClasky had no choice but to load him onto the next plane out—Flight 91 to Krakow.”
“So no one but McClasky knew what Zhen had to offer?”
“According to the political officer. But if you ask me, the PO is our resident spook, the CIA chief of station in Guangzhou. He made some quick arrangements. The powers that be were ready to grant Zhen immunity from prosecution and protect his family in exchange for what he knew. Unfortunately, no one ever had a chance to cash in.”
Jordan ran the scenario. If the PO was CIA, his cover was working as a Foreign Service officer for the Department of State, and he would be trained in negotiating with foreign government agencies. In order to maintain his cover, he would have had to let DSS transport Zhen back to the States.
“Whatever Zhen knew, it must have been good for the CIA to be willing to barter for his freedom, in light of the fact he would be in the custody of Homeland Security.”
“Tom Daugherty told me you were sharp.”
It surprised Jordan to hear him say her boss had complimented her. It was no secret that she and Tel Aviv’s RSO didn’t always see eye to eye. She didn’t know how to respond.
Lory reached for his drink. “Though, personally, I think Zhen would have disappeared once he was stateside.”
“So what’s our next step?”
“To call the director and write up the report.” Lory glanced at his watch. “It’s five thirty PM in Washington. Let’s see if he’s still in his office.”
She sipped her Diet Coke while the call connected. Lory exchanged a few pleasantries and then brought his boss up to speed.
“About the envelope Agent Jordan claims to have seen . . .” Lory broke off, nodding his head to whatever the director was saying. “We’re in total agreement.” More head bobbing. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
Lory cast Jordan a pointed look, and she felt her bullshit meter go off. Why did she have the distinct impression he was about to ask her to lie? The last person who’d made that request was Dan Posner, her first RSO, and look at how that had turned out.
She thought back on that fated night. She and Dan staked out in the alley behind the Lebanese consulate waiting for a suspected terrorist to exit the garage. Posner’d reacted too quickly, gunning down the terrorist and killing the Lebanese consul’s daughter while they were still on consulate grounds. She could still hear Posner asking her to back up his story and tell the FBI that the terrorist had shot first. She’d opted for the truth, and they’d both been reassigned—she to the embassy in Tel Aviv, while he’d been placed on the Secretary of State’s protection detail.
“Yes, sir, we’ve expedited the process,” Lory said. “Repatriation of the remains should happen in the next day or two.” More head bobbing. “I’ll do that, and I’ll let you know when we’re sending them home.”
Jordan’s apprehension grew when Lory cradled the receiver and said, “He’s not happy.”
She shrugged. From her perspective, there were no positives in this scenario. “Did you expect him to be?”
Lory smiled grimly. “He would like you to write out a full statement of what happened in the Poltava Oblast, from your arrival in Hoholeve to the ambush to Brateshky.” The RSO pulled a form out of his drawer and pushed it toward her. “He also asked me to remind you of the State Department’s official position.”
“Which is?” She figured she would sweat him a little.
“That George McClasky was not in possession of anything other than travel documents.”
“Is he asking me to falsify my report?”
“Absolutely not. He just wants you to be sure of what you saw before you put it into record. Regardless, I intend to continue looking into the matter.”
The last time she’d spoken up and told the truth, the director’s nod had gone in her favor. That wouldn’t be the case now. Lory had put her in a tough position. If she made reference to the envelope in her report, it couldn’t be substantiated. Sure, Captain Melnyk, Sergeant Hycha, and a handful of soldiers could corroborate its existence, but not one of them could read English. She would be the lone dissenter on the official position, which would do nothing to further her career. On the flip side, if she omitted the envelope in her report and then it later turned up, she made the perfect scapegoat. It was a no-win situation.
The safe bet was to forsake her ethics and go with the crowd, but when had she ever played it safe?
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“No, sir, I understand the department’s position.”
“Good.” He picked up his glass of soda. “The last thing the ambassador or the Ukrainian government needs right now is another diplomatic headache.”
Based on the current state of affairs, she found it hard to disagree. Still, if the contents of that envelope had been worth downing a commercial passenger jet and ambushing a military transport, Jordan figured it merited a mention.
“Agent Lory, aren’t you at all curious about the contents of that letter?” she asked.
“What letter?” Lory laughed at his joke. “Truthfully? Right now, I’m more interested in resolving this situation without ushering in another diplomatic ice age between the U.S. and the Russians. If we fan the rumors, governments will get testy, and threat levels will rise. Before you know it, everyone will have an interest. I’m telling you, we make one wrong move here, and the DSS comes out smelling like shit.”
“Unless the rumors are right, in which case there’s more to worry about.”
“Especially if they’re right.” Lory set his glass down hard. “Then everyone will want to know how we let a lowlife like Zhen board a plane for home without first divesting him of his secrets. The truth is what would a scumbag like Zhen know anyway?” His temper seemed to cool slightly before he spoke again. “Don’t misunderstand me, Jordan. I think it’s great we captured the hacker. But I also believe it’s coincidence, misfortune really, that caused this plane crash. And I think it’s misinformation fed by the press that prompted the attack on the transport.”
Jordan swirled the Diet Coke and ice chips left in her glass. “Except that I’m not misinformed, Agent Lory. I know what happened out there, and trust me, those men came for the envelope.”
“I wish I had your idealism and lack of cynicism.” He gazed off as though remembering a different time and then looked her square in the eye. “I only wish your appreciation for the delicacy of the situation was as strong as y
our sense of righteousness. Right now my bosses, both the director and the ambassador, feel it makes sense to wait until the IIC investigation is complete before we go substantiating any claims or releasing any information. Everything we’ve talked about stays in this room. We can’t afford to have anyone going off half-cocked.”
The exchange left a bitter taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with her flat soda. “I understand.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re on board.” Lory leaned back in his chair. “You know, what you accomplished in Israel was remarkable, especially for a rookie. The brass has its eye on you.” He jerked his head at the paper on the desk. “Now what’s your gut telling you?”
She stared at him for a moment, trying to put her thoughts into words. Finally she picked up the incident report form. “To quote the late, great Flannery O’Conner, The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.”
Lory’s smile froze in place. “You’re going to document the envelope, aren’t you?”
“You can always classify the information,” she said, knowing it was not the outcome he’d expected. It put the ball back in his court. If he censored her report and the rumors proved true, his name would be the one people dragged through the mud.
“Think it through, Jordan. Do you like your job?”
“Is that a threat?”
“That’s not my call.”
She sat there awkwardly staring him down. Finally he stood up and showed her to the door. “You can finish writing your report in the waiting area, Jordan. Just leave it with Mary.”
“I’d be happy to track down the envelope, sir.”
“I think you’ve done enough.” He paused, and then as an afterthought added, “I’ll be sure and let your RSO know how much we appreciated your help.”
She nodded at the closing door, knowing it was more likely he’d give Daugherty an earful, which he would pass along.
Sitting down on a cushioned chair in the waiting area, Jordan finished her report, fleshing out as many details as she could remember in addition to the main event. She stopped at the point where she found the bodies.
Lory’s question ping-ponged around in her head. Yes, she liked her job. What wasn’t to like about it? As an ARSO in Tel Aviv, her job was backing up the regional security officer in conducting criminal investigations of passport and visa fraud and keeping an eye out for travelers with criminal histories or terrorist connections; in protecting U.S. diplomatic facilities, personnel, and information; and by serving as a law enforcement liaison to Israel. Then in the last six months, she’d taken some additional training and earned a new job classification: assistant regional security officer-I.
Officially the I stood for investigations. Mostly she worked the same details, only now she was trained to assist in tracking down and apprehending U.S. citizens wanted for serious crimes back home or help in the apprehension of U.S. citizens committing crimes on foreign soil. On rarer occasions, she pulled a protective detail, like traveling to Kyiv with the ambassador’s wife.
Jordan had requested this assignment. Had she known it would turn out like this, she might not have come.
Refusing to be intimidated by the director and Lory, she wrote down her observations, including her concerns about the hole in the fuselage, the envelope, and the ambush. Something bad had happened out there. She wished she could shake the feeling that things were just heating up.
Jordan signed the report. Then she remembered the fragment. Retrieving it from the toiletry case in her go-bag, she held the evidence bag up to the light. She still wanted the piece tested. She had no idea what she expected to find, but she had a gut feeling that an analysis of the metal might offer a clue to its origin and from there the cause of the crash.
“RSO Lory asked me to leave this with you.” She handed the woman the report and one of her business cards. “Thanks for taking care of the filing.”
“Not a problem.”
Jordan guessed that wasn’t true and that she’d probably just added to Mary’s workload.
“Just one more thing.”
Mary looked up, and Jordan realized for the first time that the woman was not much older than herself. Her roots showed she’d dyed her hair an ash blonde, which added age, but her skin was smooth and wrinkle-free. “Shoot.”
“I need to have this analyzed.” Jordan held up the fragment. “Can you point me toward the lab?”
Mary opened up one of her desk’s side drawers, pulled out a form, and scribbled her name on the signature line. “Take the elevator to the basement and follow the signs. Give this to the tech,” she said, handing Jordan the form. “He’ll send me the results, and I’ll let you know when they come in.”
* * *
The forensic lab occupied a corner of the basement. If staff needed crime scene materials analyzed, such as fingerprints or photo identifications, this was the place. Pushing through a set of double doors, Jordan found herself standing in front of a long Formica-topped counter. A tech in a white lab coat with horned-rimmed glasses and spiky hair was the only one present. Tall and thin, he sauntered over and leaned against the counter in a manner he must have intended to be attractive.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, eyeballing her from head to toe.
Jordan held out the fragment. “I need this analyzed yesterday.”
“That’s my specialty. Do you have a form?”
She handed him the paper Mary had given her. He took a quick look and handed it back. “You need to finish filling it out. Don’t forget to leave your contact numbers, both your office and personal cell.”
“The results should be sent to Mary in RSO Lory’s office.”
The tech looked disappointed. “Too bad. I wouldn’t mind delivering them personally.”
Jordan pursed her lips and focused on filling out the request. She’d gotten used to the come-ons, always being the new girl in town. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage him. Still, having an ally at the embassy couldn’t hurt. She smiled and handed back the form. “You know, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Henry.”
“I’m Rae. I did put my cell number down. I’d like to know what you discover. Maybe when you’re done with your preliminary analysis you could give me a call?”
Henry perked up. “Really? I mean, you got it!”
Chapter 9
The Intercontinental Hotel occupied a small triangle of land on the corner of Rylskyi Lane and Volodymyrska Street. The lavish eleven-story guesthouse occupied a spot across the square from St. Michael’s Golden-Domed Monastery. It boasted a five-star classification and luxury accommodations that—according to its literature—were “designed to satisfy the most pretentious guest.” Upon seeing her room, Jordan bought into the propaganda.
Mrs. Linwood had booked herself into the Royal Suite with a connecting executive room for Jordan. Hers was a third of the size with no free minibar, but the room came with a large king-sized bed, a soaker tub, full use of the Club Intercontinental, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered stunning views of the city. The weather had cleared, and the sun reflected brightly off the golden domes of the cathedrals.
The first thing Jordan wanted was a shower. After doing her best to scrub the stink of the crash site off her skin, she drew a fresh tub of water and tried soaking away the memories. Images of the burning wreckage, the shattered bodies, and the car explosion had become rooted in her mind. She couldn’t shake the thought that in spite of all the devastation that had occurred, there was ultimately a bigger price to be exacted.
If only she could figure out the end game.
A half hour later, she toweled off and reverified the duty schedule. She had four hours before she needed to report. That gave her plenty of time to pay a visit to the Kyiv Medical University of UAFM. It was the school where Jordan’s father had allegedly studied and taught prior to playing goalie for the Russian National Hockey Team. It was also where he’d allegedly met Ilya Brodsky and been recruited as a
KGB spy. Allegedly.
Just the thought of Brodsky caused her stomach to tighten and her insides to crawl. She had blocked all memories of the man until their paths had crossed in Israel. A former Russian soldier, he’d emigrated to Tel Aviv after her father’s death, where he’d reinvented himself as a Shin Bet colonel. Their meeting hadn’t been friendly.
Since then, she couldn’t shake the childhood memories where he played a role. The times at her home, out for dinners, at the hockey rink. She remembered her father encouraging her to call him dyadya, uncle, as one sometimes did with close family friends. She remembered Brodsky drank too much, his icy-blue eyes, and how her mother always seemed fearful when he was around. And then there was the endless loop of him threatening her father just two nights before he’d died.
Jordan exited the Intercontinental and headed south. UAFM was located twenty-five minutes away and a straight shot down Volodymyrska Street. As she walked along, she tried imagining what life had been like when her father had lived in this city. She imagined a more stark and monochromatic world. Long before his birth, the Soviets had banned all manifestations of Ukrainian patriotism, while today the colors of Ukraine festooned the buildings. Yellow-and-blue flags draped the balcony railings, colored the alcoves, and served as neckerchiefs on the statuary in defiance of the politics that divided them. The pro-Russians on one side and those who believed Ukraine’s future lay with the west on the other. One constant thread bound them together—nationalism.
Her father’s legacy had helped forge a different kind of unity among the Soviet people. Born in Ukraine, he had risen to fame as the star goalie of the Russian National Ice Hockey Team. His countrymen had loved him, and Jordan had never tired of hearing the stories of his glory days or of how he had captured the heart of the beautiful Frances Jordan. Theirs had been a fairytale romance, the Russian and the American. Defying all odds, they’d married, had two children, and then, when Rae was six, her father was murdered.
She recalled the sound of her mother keening at the news; the images of her father resting in his casket at center ice. The sadness and confusion that surrounded that day had never completely dissipated. It steered her life, driving her into her present job.
