Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

  As she walked, she saw the press secretary sitting at a table with the communications director. They were probably trying to figure out how to explain the strategy the president and the British Prime Minister had been developing to counter some of Putin’s potential moves on Latvia and Lithuania. She had heard about all of that in the morning NSC staff meeting.

  She spied her friend, Angela Marconi, Deputy Director of the president’s Scheduling Office, seated at a small wooden table by a wall where paintings of ships decorated the spaces between sections of carved paneling.

  “Glad you could get away for once,” Angela said with a grin as Samantha sat down and grabbed a blue menu with a piece of gold braid trailing down the center.

  “I don’t have much time,” Samantha said. “It’s been crazy as usual, but I always love to get down here. The one place I know I won’t run into a member of the press.”

  “Yes, you must be dodging them left and right these days what with the bombing. Have you learned anything new about the Naples investigation?”

  “Nothing really,” Samantha said. “The FBI sent over an agent—really nice guy. He had a drawing of a server who disappeared after the blast. And I think I remember seeing that server in the ballroom, but nobody knows whether he actually had anything to do with it.”

  “You saw him?” Angela asked, raising an eyebrow. “If you saw him, he probably saw you. Do you think he was checking you out? Everyone around here thinks you were the target of that explosion, and I’ve been worried about you ever since. Maybe whoever it was will try to get you here.”

  “Relax,” Samantha said. “It’s not like we’re under siege. Nothing like what happened in Naples is going to happen here.”

  “Well, I can’t help but worry about my best friend,” Angela said with a slight frown.

  “I appreciate it, but I’m fine,” Samantha said perusing the menu. “Although I have to admit that every time I relive the whole bombing scene, I feel a little off-kilter.”

  “You know, I always wondered. What’s a kilter?” Angela asked with a slight grin.

  Samantha smiled back, grateful her friend was trying not to worry her about the bombing.

  A waiter clad in a dark blue blazer walked up to their table, tablet and pen in hand. “What may I get for you, Miss Reid?” he asked.

  Samantha was always proud of the way all the waiters remembered the names of the staff in this room. “I’ll have a tuna on whole wheat with a side of fruit please. Oh, and an iced tea too.”

  He jotted it down and turned. “And for you, Miss Marconi?”

  “Just a bowl of vegetable soup today. And ice water.”

  “Very well,” he said and quickly strode toward the kitchen.

  “Just soup? On another diet or something?” Samantha asked.

  “As usual. Thought I’d try the vegan thing for a while, although I have to kill it every time I go to my mom’s for one of her big Italian dinners.”

  “Her cooking is fabulous,” Samantha said. “I love her Sunday dinners. Sorry I haven’t been in a while.”

  “You haven’t missed much. She’s still trying to introduce me to a cavalcade of losers.”

  Samantha started to laugh. “Like who?”

  “Remember the dentist she fixed me up with last month?”

  “The one who gave you the toothbrush sanitizer for your birthday?” Samantha said, shaking her head in dismay.

  “That’s the one. She finally gave up on him when I told her to stop inviting him over. But now she says she met a very nice man at a farmer’s market.”

  “And?” Samantha asked.

  “I’m supposed to meet him Sunday. She says he owns a macadamia nut farm in Costa Rica.”

  Samantha couldn’t help laughing again. “Are you excited?”

  “Are you kidding?” Angela said, “When she told me about him, all I could think was ‘That Don’t Impress Me Much.’ How about you? Heard from Tripp?”

  “Just a quick email saying I should come see his new apartment sometime,” Samantha said. “Sometime? Like when?”

  “Well, even if he had asked you on a concrete date, would you have time to go right now?”

  “I guess not. But still.” She thought for a moment and added, “I’ve been thinking that our relationship isn’t completely over, but it’s definitely fading.” And so were her spirits. Samantha had been depressed ever since her meeting with Ken Cosgrove and the order to go to Jackson Hole next week.

  “Here you are, ladies,” the waiter said, walking up to their table. He placed a large bowl of soup in front of Angela and a plated sandwich with fruit in front of Samantha. “And here are your drinks. Anything else I can get you right now?”

  “I think we’re good,” Angela said, eyeing the bowl. “Well, maybe a few crackers.”

  “Coming right up,” he said, and returned to the kitchen.

  Samantha took a bite of her sandwich as the Tetons loomed in her mind. “I meant to tell you about some travel next week. Ken is sending me to Jackson Hole to give a speech at the Federal Reserve conference.”

  “That’s a pretty high level group. As my dad used to say, ‘Above whom there are no whomers,’ ” Angela said.

  Samantha leaned forward. “But you know that’s the last place I’d want to go.”

  Angela reached over and touched Samantha’s hand. “I know, kiddo. But look at it this way, it’s been years since the last time you were there. And, it’ll get you out of town. At least for a while. I don’t like the idea of you possibly being a target in Washington. Or anywhere.”

  “Don’t worry. If I ever feel like I’m in trouble, there are a lot of people I can call, like the Secret Service.”

  “What about the FBI agent who came to see you?” Angela asked.

  “Well, yes,” Samantha said. “He did give me his cell and said to call him any time.”

  “And what does this FBI agent look like, I wonder,” Angela said, tasting her soup and cocking her head to one side with a smile.

  “Not bad, I guess,” Samantha said. “Tall, good build, well dressed.”

  Angela’s face lit up. “What else?”

  Samantha shifted in her seat and said, “Oh, all right. He’s got short brown hair. He’s probably thirty-five or thirty-six. And he had this way of looking right at me . . . Then again, no one else was around except Joan.”

  “Could be interesting, especially with Tripp more or less out of the picture.”

  “I didn’t say he’s out of the picture,” Samantha said defensively. “I just don’t think his focus is centered much on me these days. Besides, I’m not ready to think about other men.”

  “You don’t have to think about them,” Angela said. “Just keep that FBI phone number handy.”

  Samantha heard a low buzz. She pulled out her cell, read the newest message, and pushed her chair back. “Gotta go. Sorry to cut out on you. There’s more talk about a threat at a Cubs game.”

  “A threat at the stadium?” Angela asked wide-eyed.

  “Don’t know too much about it yet,” Samantha said as she stood up. “Maybe we could meet tomorrow night since we’ll both probably be working late?”

  “Good idea. I’ll text you when I’ve wrapped things up in our shop. Good luck with the Cubs.”

  Samantha nodded and briskly walked toward the entrance.

  FIFTEEN

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON;

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  “HOW ABOUT A ROCK MASSAGE?” Stas said, with a big laugh.

  “What the hell is a rock massage?” Lubov asked, getting up from the couch and walking to the glass and chrome dining room table in their hosts’ vast penthouse.

  Stas shifted in his chair in front of the table and showed Lubov a picture of a gorgeous girl lounging next to a hot tub. “You can get one in this spa for a hundred and ninety American dollars. Vadim must have printed this out as an inducement.”

  Lubov grabbed the page and scanned the different treatments. “
I think the four-handed massage sounds better, especially if I can pick which four hands I want.” He pulled up a chair and started pouring over some of the maps and articles spread out on the table.

  “Check out this article,” Stas said. “It has a very useful diagram. Apparently, the finance people always stay in a lodge up north near Jackson Lake. I wonder if they have all their meetings there or if they fan out over the valley.”

  “Even if they don’t spread out, I’m sure they’ll have security everywhere. Every one of those minister types probably has his own body guard.”

  “Yah. But we won’t be targeting people individually.”

  “We still need to figure out all the places they might go as a group.”

  “What we really need is their schedule. Maybe Vadim can get a copy of it,” Stas said.

  Lubov picked up a map and studied it. A large lake some miles from Yellowstone caught his eye. “That big park there. Is that the one with all the geysers and hot springs?”

  “Yes. Don’t think we’ll have time to check it out, though. Look over here,” he said and pointed to a road. “You follow this down from the big lake, there are a couple of smaller lakes, and over a little east is the Snake River. It says here they have good fishing. Maybe we’ll find time to catch some trout.”

  “Sure,” Lubov said. “Wait. There’s a section on fishing here, and, let’s see—damn.”

  “What?” Stas asked.

  “We can’t eat ‘em.”

  “Why not?”

  “They have a catch and release policy.”

  Stas broke into a laugh. “I thought that was America’s immigration policy.”

  Lubov ignored him and grabbed the map again. “So, farther down is the Teton Village. That’s the big ski resort with all the mountains, gondolas, and everything. Says they’ve got the longest vertical drop in the country, and you can see the whole valley from the top. Could be fun.”

  “We’ll be there to work,” Stas said.

  “Yah, but look at the other stuff on this list. Kayaking, rafting, paragliding.”

  “All things to keep in mind if our car breaks down,” Stas muttered. “But this isn’t going to be a vacation.” He leafed through a few more pages on the table and added, “On the other hand, they do have some pretty decent restaurants in Teton Village and Jackson.”

  Lubov glanced over Stas’s shoulder and said, “Everything from the Four Seasons to the Mangy Moose. Whatever the hell that is.”

  “Speaking of food,” Maksim said, walking in with Vadim, “here’s the delivery from the Red Tavern. It took a while, but it’s worth the wait.” He turned and shouted to his nephew. “Otto? Food’s here.”

  A bedroom door opened, and the young man poked his head out, surveying the scene. “Hi,” he said cautiously.

  “Get in here. We have guests from Moscow.” Vadim waved his hand toward Lubov and Stas. “Take these bags into the kitchen and get the food out. Bring the silverware too.”

  Otto nodded to the men, picked up the food, and disappeared.

  Vadim pulled out a chair and joined the mafya bosses. He sat at the head of the table. “So, you’ve looked at all of this?” he said, pointing to the pile.

  “More or less,” Stas said. “How much time should we take out there?”

  “You need to be careful not to get ID’d, so not too long,” Vadim said.

  “A conference schedule would be more helpful,” Lubov said.

  “Here you go,” Otto said, setting down two large platters of food on the table. One was piled with shredded cabbage, tomatoes, and cucumber and dill salad. The other was crowded with pelmeni meat dumplings and zucchini pancakes with salmon tartar and sour cream. “I’ll get the plates and forks.” He turned and rushed back into the kitchen.

  The men eyed the spread, and Maksim said, “Would you like me to pour more vodka? Or should we have water first?”

  “Vodka. Always vodka,” Lubov said.

  Otto reemerged with individual plates, silverware, and paper napkins. He hesitated as he looked down at all the food.

  “Why don’t you take some and go back to your games,” Maksim suggested. “We have business here.”

  Otto looked relieved. He took a plate, swiped a couple of dumplings, grabbed a spoonful of salad, and then quickly retreated to his room. As they all heaped multiple servings onto their own plates, Maksim handed out four glasses of vodka, and Vadim resumed the conversation.

  “We should be able to help with the time tables. I told you about Alexander Tepanov being promoted to that director job at the central bank.” They grunted their agreement as they ate. “With all the problems between the U.S. and Russia, Putin may decide to send more people to the conference. Tepanov could be one of them. He needs someone to put on a good show, maybe cut some trade deals on the side, and distract the press from what he’s trying to do in Eastern Europe.”

  “He is clever,” Lubov said between bites. “But do you think a guy like Tepanov would be invited?”

  “Could be,” Maksim said. “Since he was just appointed, it has to mean he’s been accepted into the inner circle.”

  “And if Tepanov goes,” Vadim said, “I can talk him into getting us a copy of the agenda. He owes us some favors. Besides, it wouldn’t cost him anything.”

  “Wait,” Stas said, leaning back and holding up the palms of his hands. “If Tepanov actually goes to this conference, how can we be sure he’s not one of the victims?”

  Vadim squinted and said, “Once we get what we need, if there is a bit of additional damage, there’s not much we can do about that. Is there?”

  “I guess not,” Lubov said. “Will you need him in the future?”

  “Moving our accounts will take some time, but it will be done before the conference. I just called him early this morning. He had already left for the day, but his assistant told me when to call him back.”

  “Sounds good,” Stas said.

  “Now for pryamoi razgovr,” Vadim said, raising his glass. “Time for straight talk about our undertaking.” They all raised a glass and took a gulp as Vadim continued. “I wanted you to study all the places these people may spend their time so you won’t miss anything that will help us carry out this great opportunity. The opportunity for us to shape financial events, control world markets, and make a killing.

  “Now, we will give you the parameters and assure your payments. Half down when you set a viable plan in Jackson. Half at completion. We will be anxious to hear your ideas. When you figure out how to execute all of this, send us a simple text. Then we’ll know your preliminary work is finished and you’ll be coming back here. To get started, let’s make your airline reservations. You should leave for Jackson first thing tomorrow.”

  Vadim glanced over at Maksim and added, “Of course, my brother and I will also be in Jackson during the conference to make sure everything goes smoothly. We will all fly there together on a private jet a day or two before it starts. So, check out the best places to land while you’re there.”

  “You’ll be shadowing us?” Stas said, raising his eyebrow. “Don’t you trust us?”

  “Of course. But prudence is always worth more than trust when you sell guns for a living.” Vadim looked around the table, stood up, raised his glass, and gestured for another toast. “Doveryai, no proveryai.”

  Maksim smiled, raised his glass, and echoed, “Trust but verify.”

  SIXTEEN

  WEDNESDAY EVENING;

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  BRETT SHUT DOWN HIS COMPUTER, shoved his cell into a pocket, grabbed his suit coat, and turned out the light. A few agents were still hunkered over their desks as he walked down the hall.

  He also had a ton of work to do, but he couldn’t miss his eight o’clock reservation. He had checked out the restaurant online and, judging from the menu, realized it might not fly on his expense report. But Eleanor had picked the place, and he couldn’t afford to miss an opportunity to build trust. She had suggested a relaxed meeting ov
er dinner since she had appointments all day long.

  He headed out of the building, grateful for the mild breeze. It had cooled down to the sixties, and traffic had eased up since most of the government types had already headed out 395, Rockwood Parkway, or Route 50. A lot of the agents complained about the traffic tie-ups and claimed that even if they wanted to take the metro, there was never enough parking at the stations.

  Yet, there they were, with Maryland homes and mortgages in Silver Spring, Wheaton, or Shady Grove. Some of them had bought down in Springfield, Virginia, along with a ton of military families. There simply wasn’t reasonable space in the city for families. Or even nearby. The usual lament in all the bureaus.

  Brett was glad he had snagged a decent month-to-month furnished place by the Mount Vernon Triangle. Nothing fancy. He didn’t need fancy. He had a simple one-bedroom efficiency. In fact, if anyone came over, they might think he was in a witness protection program. Nothing personal in the place. His own furniture, pictures, and books were all still in storage back in Chicago. One of these days, he’d make another move. Just not yet.

  He hurried down F Street, passed the rust brick National Building Museum, and turned left onto Sixth Street. Brett saw several Chinese restaurants up ahead and wished she had picked one of those. Still, he was grateful for the chance to walk. He hadn’t been able to hit the fitness center in his apartment building for the past two days.

  Brett followed Sixth all the way down to Pennsylvania Avenue and then took two rights onto Indiana. And there it was. Fiola. When he opened the door, set back from the street, the first thing he saw was a long, shiny, wooden bar crowded with well-dressed men and women leaning toward each other, trying to converse. The room was noisy, but that seemed to recommend it. Most restaurants had a decibel level equal to the quality of their food.