Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

  She studied the name and address on his passport. “Oleg Alimov,” she read.

  He had to think for a moment before responding to the alias he had chosen for this trip. Otto nodded and smiled.

  “I see you are from Russia. We get a lot of tourists from Russia, India, and China. You might want to check out our gift shop,” she gestured across the large lobby. “They have a nice assortment of maps and guidebooks that might be helpful.”

  She slid a form in front of him. “Sign here, please. And list your rental car if you have one so you’ll have our special parking rate during your stay. Also, we have a fitness center, a swimming pool in the courtyard, and a nice restaurant down the hall that serves a full breakfast. I’m sure you’ll like it. They have everything. Even grits,” she said, giving him a wide smile.

  “What’s grits?”

  “You’ll see. Try it.”

  The more he looked at the girl, the more he wanted to try her. He wondered if she was allowed to spend time with hotel guests. He had a lot of time to kill. And being alone every evening would be boring. He’d have to think about that. He signed the registration sheet, added information about his car, and took the room key from her.

  “Elevators are over there, Mr. Alimov,” she said in a cheery voice. “Hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Thanks,” he said, reaching for the suitcase. “Oh, one more thing. I was told that there was a UPS store around here.”

  “Yes, sir. There’s one just two blocks down on the other side the street. You can’t miss it.”

  “Good. Guess I’m off to the gift shop,” Otto said as he turned away and pulled his bag over to the shop’s open door. He could access any guidebook or map he wanted on his iPhone. But he wanted to have an excuse to talk to her later, so he grabbed two candy bars, a map, and a D.C. guidebook from a small shelf. Otto signed his alias and room number for the items and then headed for the elevators.

  He rode up to the fourth floor and found his room right away. It was next to the ice machine and across the hall from the elevators. Now he’d hear every guy who wanted a drink late at night, and he’d hear that little ding every time the elevator opened. He thought about asking for a different room but decided he didn’t want to hassle the desk clerk. He’d rather try to impress her. Later.

  He opened the door to his room and saw a stark group of furniture. A king bed with a straight wooden headboard, a simple desk, and a small navy couch that matched the carpet. At least there was a flat screen. He guessed it was about thirty-two inches. Not exactly up to the standard of Vadim’s seventy inch that he loved. But in this small room, the thirty-two would probably work fine.

  He flicked it on, glanced at a list of channels, and tuned to CNN. He had been checking the news each day and was relieved every time he saw a follow-up story on the Naples explosion that didn’t include his sketch. It had only been shown on the national news channels a couple of times. He hadn’t seen it again. The FBI still had it on their website, but he figured nobody paid attention to that.

  There hadn’t been any new developments. No news. No leads. No answers. Maybe Vadim was right. Maybe they were only investigating known terrorists. He listened to the announcer drone on about the British Prime Minister’s visit and a reporter’s update on some possible threat in Chicago. He relaxed. There was nothing to worry about. He just had to get settled, study the map, check in with Vadim, and do as he was told.

  After unpacking and setting up his computer, he checked his email. Sure enough, there was a message from Vadim with an attachment. He scanned the note and then opened the attachment, which was a summary of her actions. Where she goes first thing in the morning and at what time. Occasional lunches and dinners at nearby restaurants. The time she leaves her office, where she parks, and where she jogs on Sundays. He was impressed by all the information the Russian Embassy had compiled on her.

  It was their first report, and it said they would keep updating the information. So, Vadim had pulled off a deal with his military aide contact. He knew Russian government employees were good at surveillance and tracking people at home. It made sense that they’d be good at it here too. Plus, Otto was certain his uncle had made it worthwhile for the contact to slip him the target’s file. After reading the entire message, Otto decided to start learning his way around town and begin shadowing the woman later that day.

  Otto took the elevator back down to the lobby and headed out to Wisconsin Avenue. Once outside, he turned left, walked two blocks, and peered across the street. There it was. He waited for the traffic to move, spotted a break, and then ran across the street toward a sign that read, “P.O. Boxes, Etc. UPS.” He opened the store’s glass door and slipped inside. Behind a scuffed counter, an older man asked, “May I help you?”

  “Yes. Is there a package for Oleg Alimov?” Otto said, walking up to the counter.

  “Let me check,” the clerk replied. Otto watched as the man combed through a stack of big envelopes in a large, cerulean, plastic bin behind the counter. He stooped down to push larger packages aside, checking each label.

  “Ah, yes. This must be it. Addressed to Oleg Alimov. General delivery to this store. May I see some identification please?”

  Otto fished in his pocket and produced a passport. The clerk held it close, compared the picture to Otto, and seemed to hesitate. Otto suddenly worried that the man might have seen his sketch on TV.

  No. He’s old. He wouldn’t have remembered that.

  Besides Otto wore a uniform in Naples. Now he was wearing a sweatshirt. No comparison there. Finally, the man handed him a package the size of a shoe box. “Sign here,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  Otto signed, grabbed the box, and quickly left the store just as a woman with red hair walked in. Looking across the street, he spotted a pizza shop next to a liquor store. He hadn’t had much to eat on the overnight flight. So, he dashed back across the street for some pepperoni pizza.

  It smelled wonderful inside the tiny family-owned shop. While he waited for his order to cook, he played with the idea of breaking one of Vadim’s rules. It was small. Vadim said not to drink anything on this assignment. Said he needed to stay sharp. Well, he was sharp. And he could relax occasionally without losing his senses. Besides, a bit of vodka would pair perfectly with his jet lag.

  After he paid for his food, he walked next door and picked up a small bottle of liquor and a couple of Cokes. He was glad the clerk didn’t ask for an ID. He didn’t want too many people to remember him or his alias.

  Taking his box and bags back to his room, he set everything down on the desk and began to unwrap Vadim’s package. It was covered with heavy tape. He tugged at it, cursing the airline for not letting him bring a pair of scissors on board his flight from San Francisco. Finally, he ripped the tape off and gingerly lifted the lid. The contents were surrounded in a heavy foil, probably to avoid screening devices. He undid the inner wrap and admired his beautiful brand new Glock 19.

  NINETEEN

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON;

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  SAMANTHA HANDED HER DEPUTY A copy of the Jackson conference program. “I got this from Treasury,” she said, poring through a stack of papers on her desk. “What do you make of the line-up? And can you really see me fitting in with that crowd?” she asked skeptically.

  Jim pulled his chair closer to the desk and perused the list. “Let’s see. The Chairman of the Federal Reserve gives the opening speech. Couple of European finance ministers talk about lowering their debt. South American central bankers get all hyped about taming inflation. Pretty dry stuff.”

  Samantha shook her head. “When I first read it, I wanted to be Reba McEntire and sing ‘Consider Me Gone.’ ”

  He laughed out loud. “Looks like all you have to do is say something that keeps them awake.”

  “At least I’ll be speaking at lunch,” she said with a sigh. “But look at the location.”

  He started to read the program. “ ‘In a departure from previou
s itineraries, conference participants will leave the lodge in chartered vans and proceed to Teton Village. There, they will board the new aerial tram and travel 4,200 vertical feet to the restaurant at the summit of Rendezvous Mountain, take in views of the entire Jackson Hole Valley, and enjoy a luncheon speech given by the White House Director of Homeland Security.’ That’s you, babe,” he said, looking up at her with a grin. “At least the view will be spectacular.”

  “But I can’t stand spectacular views,” she said. “Been there, seen that, fell down. Well, my husband did. You remember that,” she said in a small voice. Suddenly she could see the entire disastrous trip unfolding. A decade had passed since she had met him in college and married him the day after graduation. They honeymooned in Jackson because he loved to hike and she was open to learning.

  Images from their first hike came flooding back. The trail, the sudden storm, the lightning, then the wind gusts that cost them their footing along a narrow ledge. He was propelled sideways and fell down a jagged wall, landing on a pile of rocks. She fell too, but his body broke her fall.

  When she caught her breath and rolled off him, she noticed he was lying at a strange angle. And he wasn’t responding. She shook him, called his name, felt for a pulse. It was there but seemed weak. She frantically alerted the rangers on her cell and waited in agony for someone to come. In her panic, she screamed for help. But no other hikers were nearby.

  Samantha tried to use CPR, but her arms were stiff and bruised. Nothing was working. It seemed like ages before the paramedics reached them. The rescue team checked her out and told her she’d had a close call, but her husband hadn’t been so lucky. They loaded him onto a stretcher and transported him to a hospital. They tried to save him, but it was no use in the end.

  Ever since that day, she had worked relentlessly to put her life back together, eventually accepting a few dinner invitations from friends and finally having the affair with Tripp. But she’d never been able to forget Jackson’s vivid mountain scenes or overcome the fear of heights she’d developed after the incident.

  She took a deep breath and refocused on the papers in front of her.

  “Oh yeah, sorry,” her deputy was saying. “But that was a long time ago. And this is a different gig. You won’t be hiking. You’ll be speaking.”

  “It isn’t the speaking part that bothers me. It’s the getting-there part. I can’t even go on Ferris wheels. I don’t like glass elevators, and the last time I went to an event on the top floor of the Hay Adams, I couldn’t even go out on the balcony for cocktails.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Jim said in a reassuring tone. “Just focus on looking up at bankers, not down at boulders.”

  She grabbed another sheet and called to her assistant. “Joan, could you come in here?”

  “Sure,” Joan said, walking in with a folder. “Since you’re already talking about that conference, I’ve got some updates too. Travel arrangements, hotel, all of that.”

  “What do we have so far?” Samantha asked.

  Joan pulled up the other spare chair in the small office and opened her file. “Got you scheduled on a flight along with Secretary Pickering and some of his staff. That includes Homer Belford. He’ll be working with you on talking points for the secretary’s remarks after the fed chairman, and he said he has a few more ideas for your speech. So I’ve arranged for the two of you to sit together on the plane.”

  “Sounds good,” Samantha said. “What about the hotel?”

  “Everyone stays at the Jackson Lake Lodge. It has rooms in the main building and a bunch of cabins. Their website says it was all built in the ‘50s. Not sure what that means today, though,” Joan said.

  “So, I guess it all depends on what the meaning of ‘was’ is,” Jim said with a wry smile.

  Joan threw him a glance. “From the looks of it, I don’t think much has changed. As for décor, they have an Indian motif. A brochure I found says that tourists can stay in a yurt, but that’s farther away,” she said.

  “A yurt?” Jim said with a laugh. “You’re going to Wyoming not Mongolia for god’s sake.”

  The administrative assistant ignored him. “I put you in the lodge rather than one of the cabins. I figured it would be nicer to be close in and not have to traipse through the woods at night.”

  “Good idea,” Samantha said. At least the Treasury will have security on site. She wouldn’t have to worry too much.

  Joan continued to read her notes. “Under the list of amenities, they have a pool, but no TVs or radios. I have no idea about cell phone coverage.”

  “That’s okay. There are always carrier pigeons,” Jim said.

  The assistant carried on. “At other places like the town of Jackson and Teton Village, your cell should work fine.” She rifled through some more pages and started to laugh. “As for the formal sessions, they’re casual. Since the sessions are in the morning, they leave the afternoons open for whatever you want to do. I researched a lot of options. Besides the usual hiking and raft trips, they’ve got art fairs, a bungee trampoline, a marching band at the Pink Garter Theatre, Art in the Park, a Hootenanny, not sure what that is, and a fair that includes pig wrestling and Arapahoe dancers. You can also look at elk, wolves, red-tailed hawks, pika, and marmots.”

  “What the hell are pika and marmots?” Jim asked, trying to suppress a laugh.

  “I don’t know, but I think you have to watch out for the bears,” Joan said. “I pulled a video from the—” She glanced at her sheaf of notes. “Yes, here it is. The Grand Teton National Park Foundation. They produced a video about how to tell the difference between a black bear and a grizzly bear.”

  “You’re really supposed to stand there and analyze the difference?” Jim asked.

  “I guess,” Joan said. “They also have five top tips for hikers. Number one is to remove your bear spray from your backpack and keep it handy. It should spray up to twenty-five feet. If you’ve got a grizzly in front of you, you’re supposed to spray it for six seconds.”

  “Wouldn’t it better to use those six seconds to run away?” Jim asked.

  “You would think,” Joan said.

  “Are you two finished?” Samantha said.

  “Not quite,” Joan said with a smile. “I also read that there are mosquitos in certain places in Jackson. But don’t worry. They provide food for birds and bats.”

  “Hey, you’ll feel right at home,” Jim said. “Congress just voted to make this National Invasive Species Awareness Week.” He got up. “On that note, I’d better get back to work.”

  “Me too,” Joan said, handing Samantha her file and heading out the door.

  Samantha sat back and perused the notes. If she had an evening free, she could go to the Elks Lodge and see a play called, Murder Rides Again—in Jackson Hole. She stared at the listing and wondered if it was an entertainment prospect or an omen.

  TWENTY

  THURSDAY EVENING;

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SAMANTHA LOCKED HER CONDO AND walked down K Street toward one of her favorite restaurants. After cutting yesterday’s lunch short, she was looking forward to a long dinner with Angela. They agreed to meet just a few blocks from Samantha’s place at Chadwick’s.

  As she pushed open the restaurant’s door, she was assaulted by shouts from the bar and the smell of beer and popcorn. Samantha glanced over and saw that the TV was tuned, as usual, to ESPN.

  Chadwick’s had been a popular bar since the ‘70s, and, judging from the photos along the wall, not much about it had changed. Groups of twenty- and thirty-somethings were gathered three-deep at the bar, all jostling for a better view of a game while a few outliers tried to engage in conversation.

  “Hey, Samantha,” Angela called from a table along the side wall. It was covered in a blue and white checked cloth and dotted with a votive candle and a couple of menus. “Glad you could make it. I always worry that some last-minute crisis is going to ruin another evening. But here you are. Finally. I already ordere
d my wine. Wasn’t sure what you wanted tonight.”

  Samantha pulled out a wooden chair, hung her purse on it, sat down, and grabbed a menu. “I feel like a pinot noir. Although after a day like today, maybe something stronger.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It isn’t just what, it’s a whole lot of whats. We have a new situation in Atlanta. Not sure if it’s a crank threat or something really serious. Some hacker got into the Center for Disease Control. That’s bad enough, but he also sent a threatening message to what we thought was a secure server. So, either he’s just playing with us and trying to look important, or there really is a threat. Can you imagine dealing with a bio-hazard?”

  “Jeez,” Angela said. “They can’t find him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Hi. I’m Mark. I’ll be your server tonight,” an eager young man said, standing next to their table. “What would you like?”

  “I’m fine with my sauvignon blanc for now,” Angela said.

  “I’ll start with the house pinot noir please,” Samantha said. “We’ll wait a bit to order dinner. Thanks.”

  “Before you decide, just wanted to let you know our special tonight is chicken pot pie.”

  “Comfort food,” Angela said as the waiter moved to another table.

  “Sounds perfect,” Samantha said.

  Angela scrutinized her best friend. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “I have to leave for that conference next week. I don’t want to think about it, but I need to prepare.”

  “Just follow your Rule of the Six P’s,” Angela said as an impish grin spread across her lips.

  “Oh, proper preparation precludes piss-poor performance?” Samantha said with a small smile.

  “And focus on the positives. That trip gets you away from threat scenarios. Let your staff handle all that for a few days. Plus, I bet the old financial types will appreciate having someone younger on the conference roster.”