The Power Couple

by Alex Berenson

  “No one said anything about killing you, Brian.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Brian gave Irlov a quick two-fingers-to-the-forehead salute and stepped out. He felt about ten feet tall as he walked through the parking lot. Sooner or later they’d come back. What was a couple million dollars to the Kremlin?

  * * *

  The fall and winter passed with no word from Irlov. Not a threat, not a plea. Nothing. The spring too. Brian kept piling up information. He wanted to have a whole buffet for Irlov when they finally met again, let the SVR know what it had missed all those months.

  After a year, Brian found himself growing nervous. He’d expected something, at least a flutter. Maybe he ought to contact the man himself. He still had the emergency codes.

  But first they had this twentieth-anniversary trip to Europe.

  * * *

  Just as Irlov warned, the bill had come due. Higher than Brian had ever imagined.

  As soon as Rebecca had mentioned the couple in Paris, he’d known. No way would Kira disappear on her own. She was too steady to go home with some random guy. If she did she would tell Tony. Maybe not Brian or Rebecca. But Tony. Tony was the family’s goofy good-luck charm, the one who could always make them laugh even if he wasn’t always in on the joke.

  If Tony didn’t know where she was, then she was gone.

  Why? This operation was expensive and risky. Why not just pay Brian? But Irlov was making a point. Brian had insulted the man. He’d taken Russian money and walked.

  Had he really thought the SVR would just go away? So stupid, so arrogant.

  And they’d waited… and waited… and hit him in the most painful way possible.

  Irlov had to know Kira and Tony were the only two people in the world he cared about. He’d bragged about Kira getting into Tufts, about Tony’s first date. Meanwhile he’d joked about Rebecca—he’d once been late for a meeting because of a nasty accident on the Beltway and told Irlov, Too bad it wasn’t Becks. Irlov had smirked. And listened. No doubt the Russians had a file on his motivations, his weaknesses. Subject cares for his children, shows little interest in his wife.

  How had he deluded himself into believing these people were his partners?

  * * *

  He’d bought a burner two nights before, while he was casing the Gothic Quarter bars. He’d called and texted Irlov a dozen times. He’d even found a public phone and called the Russian Embassy in Washington directly, a huge operational mistake. “I need to talk to Feodor Irlov.”

  “Who?” a Russian woman said.

  “Please—” But she’d already hung up.

  The hours passed. Irlov didn’t call. Or text. Or email. The man was letting him twist, making his point.

  Meanwhile Rebecca raced from police station to club to apartment with her mad-dog efficiency. Brian wanted to tell her to stop, that she had no chance of finding Kira. But then he’d have to tell her the truth. A truth she’d never understand.

  Because everything that had happened was Rebecca’s fault. She was the one who’d taken away his manhood, who’d made him turn to the Russians.

  Her fault. Not his.

  Anyway, he believed Irlov would give him a chance to win Kira’s freedom before the Russians did anything permanent. So he waited.

  Now he couldn’t wait any longer.

  He lay beside Rebecca in bed in the apartment, Barcelona mostly quiet now, only an occasional distant shout. For once Rebecca was sleeping badly, grumbling and turning.

  Maybe he could point Rebecca the right way without giving up his involvement. Maybe he should try Irlov again. Maybe—

  No. He had to tell her. As soon as he did, everything would change. Someone senior would make a quiet call, Let the girl go, she’s not your problem. The FBI director. Maybe even the president.

  Kira would be safe. And Brian would spend the rest of his life in prison.

  “Becks.” A whisper. He would have to work his way up to it. “I have to tell you something—”

  * * *

  Beside him the burner buzzed.

  A text, one line. 0630 AM. Ten minutes. Brian pulled on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, crept out of the room. Rebecca stirred but didn’t wake.

  He went down to the street. At six thirty exactly the phone buzzed.

  “Feodor?”

  “A pleasure, a great, great pleasure to hear your voice,” Irlov said. “And such a surprise.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Brian closed his eyes, tried to think of a clear blue sky. Anything to keep from screaming. Irlov wanted Brian to suffer. So Brian would suffer.

  “My daughter, Kira—”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Brian’s composure cracked. “Fuck you—”

  He was talking to no one. Irlov had hung up.

  * * *

  The phone slid out of his hands, bounced against the sidewalk. Lucky him, it was a cheap clamshell burner. His iPhone would have cracked.

  He picked it up. Waited.

  Finally it rang again.

  “I don’t enjoy being cursed at. If I hang up again it’ll be the final time.”

  “Please. Do what you like to me, don’t hurt her.” Brian counted to ten, could take the dead air no longer. “I’m begging you.”

  “Why would I do anything to anyone as important as you, my friend?”

  “Whatever you want. Never ask for money again.”

  “We’re not savages, Brian. We keep our word. We like our friends to do the same.”

  “Just let her go.”

  “Assuming I know what you mean—”

  “Please.”

  “I can’t promise. Decisions have been made.”

  “But. Feodor. I don’t understand. I mean this sincerely.” Brian hoped he had the right tone, I’m desperate but I’m still thoughtful, useful to you. “If you hurt her. Doesn’t your leverage disappear?”

  “You seem to have forgotten, I understand, all this stress”—Irlov paused—“you have two children. Not one.”

  Brian found himself sitting on the sidewalk, his legs rubber. The phone at his side. He picked it up. Tried to call. Again. Again.

  But Irlov was gone.

  He stomped the burner until it was hardly recognizable as a phone, scattered the pieces.

  * * *

  Upstairs. Thank God. Rebecca was still asleep.

  He had to tell her.

  No. Not just because he’d spend the rest of his life in a cell. He had to give Irlov a chance. The man hadn’t said no. He hadn’t said yes, but he hadn’t said no. Pressuring him might backfire.

  He lay beside his wife, closed his eyes.

  Suddenly he found himself in the back of an ambulance, a faceless paramedic putting a mask to his mouth, rattling over the rough road.

  He didn’t know how long he’d slept but his phone—his real phone, his iPhone—was buzzing. Rebecca’s too.

  A text from a blocked number.

  A picture of Kira holding a Spanish newspaper. The text said only Two million euros. Pay tonight. Tomorrow costs more.

  Rebecca sat up. “Brian?”

  The moment of decision. But Brian had already decided.

  Irlov had come through. Brian would keep his secrets to himself.

  “She’s alive.”

  V KIRA AND REBECCA AND BRIAN

  (NOW)

  24

  Somewhere in Spain

  Kira was already growing used to being neither awake nor asleep, bobbing on the sea of her own semi-consciousness, fleeting Technicolor dreams.

  Now the snap of the deadbolt pulled her back to the world. She saw Rodrigo’s outline in the doorway, just enough gray light for her to distinguish him.

  With the light still out, he stepped in and closed the door.

  “Kira?” His voice slurred, accent stronger than before.

  She had the fleeting hope he meant to free her. But she knew better. He stank of weed an
d booze. Something sweet. Sangria, maybe. He had to be wasted if he was coming for her with the others in the house.

  “You know what Jacques said.” No screaming. Persuade him to leave on his own.

  “That puta just wants—”

  Rodrigo broke off, leaving unanswered the question of what Jacques wanted.

  “You’ll get us in trouble, Rodrigo.” Us. I’m on your side. Buddies. Best friends, see?

  He stepped toward her. Put his hands on his hips as he considered his next move.

  The light snapped on and she heard two quick steps. A pair of huge hands tethered themselves to Rodrigo’s shoulders and flung him against the wall. Jacques. Before Rodrigo could recover Jacques put a shoulder into his chest. The two men thrashed, arms and legs and grunts. Kira stood. She wondered if she could edge past and run, reach the front door, maybe this was the moment—

  But she didn’t know who else was in the house.

  Before she summoned the courage to move, Jacques had control. He wrapped his left arm around Rodrigo’s head, punched low with the right hand, one two three four, the blows landing hard, their smack echoing through the closet. Jacques stepped away and Rodrigo sagged against the wall. His eyes were pure animal hatred, but his hands were low at his sides.

  “Not for you.” Jacques wasn’t even breathing hard.

  A trickle of drool spun from Rodrigo’s mouth.

  “Say it.”

  “Not for me.” His voice a rasp.

  “You think you sneak past me? You think I did this for you?” Jacques caught the Spaniard across the jaw with a right cross. So fast. Rodrigo’s head whipped sideways, and he went to a knee.

  “Next time I kill you.” He turned to Kira. “And you, stop flirting. Egging him on.”

  Are you joking? But she kept herself from arguing. Let Rodrigo think she was encouraging him. Jacques was practically a cyborg. Rodrigo was the weak link. He was dumb and drugged—and he wanted her. Let him think the feeling was mutual.

  “Tell her you’re sorry,” Jacques said.

  “Sorry.” Jacques pointed to the door and Rodrigo staggered out.

  Just her and Jacques now. “This game you’re playing. You won’t like it if I leave him with you.”

  Her kidnapper, accusing her of playing games? And he was right.

  Then he was gone. The deadbolt slammed into place. She tried to make herself feel better by imagining the nail, plunging it into Jacques’s neck. Or Rodrigo’s. The vision had no power. They were too big, too strong.

  She needed a better weapon. But she had no idea what that might be, much less how to find it.

  25

  Sabadell, Barcelona

  Noon.

  The exterior of the headquarters of the Mossos d’Esquadra looked as new and glittery as the rest of Barcelona. But inside, the building was unmistakably a police station, bureaucracy with a coiled edge.

  After the ransom demand hit their phones, Rebecca was smart enough not to say I told you so. She simply forwarded the picture to Wilkerson, let him wrangle the Spanish cops. She could imagine those conversations: Mierda, meet fan. We flying in the whole bureau to find her, or do you plan to do your jobs?

  Now Rebecca and Brian sat with Wilkerson in a conference room on the top floor of Mossos headquarters. Across the table, three unsmiling fiftysomething men: Hector Barraza, the chief of the Mossos; Javier Garza, a colonel in the Grupo Especial de Operaciones, Spain’s elite counterterror police; and Raul Fernandes, the deputy director general of the Interior Ministry. Fernandes had just come up from Madrid. He sat with arms folded, body language that suggested he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  For the moment they had all tacitly agreed to ignore the ransom demand.

  Instead Barraza walked them through the search. Marine patrols along the Mediterranean coast. Unannounced visits to the home of anyone in Catalonia who had ever been arrested for kidnapping. The promise to informants of what the Mossos called a “white card,” a get-out-of-jail-free promise for any crime short of murder, in return for solid information on Kira’s location. Added patrols on the roads near the Pyrenees, the mountains that separated Spain and France.

  “Sea, air, and land. I promise you, if your daughter is still in Catalonia, we will find her.”

  Sea, air, and land. Rebecca itched to be out looking for Kira. But she’d be walking the streets of the Gothic Quarter for something to do. And the Mossos could track a hundred leads in the time it took her to find one, if they were properly motivated. After meeting Barraza, she believed they were. He was almost unhealthily skinny, with nicotine-stained fingers and deep-set eyes that didn’t shy from contact. Some cops at his level were bureaucrats. Others were believers.

  She pegged Barraza as a believer.

  “Let me finish by saying, I understand the motives of the kidnappers remain”—Barraza hesitated—“opaque. To me, finding your daughter is the priority. Whether this is for money or it has a political element, we can sort that out when she is safe.”

  Rebecca wanted to argue. Until we know who took her, how can we know where she is? But Barraza had a point. Kidnappings weren’t like other crimes. Normally, police only became involved after a crime. But kidnappings happened in real time. They didn’t end until the victim was found, alive or not. Everyone in this room would happily give up arresting the kidnappers if doing so ensured Kira’s safe return.

  Maybe not happily.

  “But who these people are must be connected to where they are,” Brian said.

  She tapped his arm, No, Bri, this guy’s on our side—

  “They’ve done everything possible to keep their identities from us. I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

  The bluntness of the question seemed to throw Brian. “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I did?”

  “Of course. Raul—” Barraza nodded to Fernandes, the Interior Ministry deputy director general.

  “Thank you.” He ran his thumb along his strangely black mustache. “As you know, we only learned of the kidnapping this morning.”

  Great, Rebecca thought. Ass-covering from the get-go. The opposite of Barraza.

  “We have increased highway patrols and asked our officers to be aware of young women who appear distressed.”

  Whereas normally, we’d just ignore them…

  “We have also moved extra officers to Carabanchel.” Carabanchel was a slum in southwestern Madrid. Phone records showed the kidnappers had sent the text with the ransom demand from there. “But we don’t think your daughter is there. Mainly North Africans there. The photos from the bar suggest your daughter’s kidnappers are European.”

  Rebecca found herself increasingly annoyed he wouldn’t say Kira’s name.

  “They would stand out, and someone would give them up. Anyway, they knew we could trace the phone to there. They are careful, these ones. Why make the obvious mistake of sending a text from their own location?”

  As much as Rebecca disliked the guy, he did have a point on Carabanchel. The phone was probably a dead end. It had vanished from the networks after the message was sent. No doubt it was already destroyed, the pieces scattered.

  Further, Kira had been holding a paper from Sunday in the photo, so the picture could have been taken at any time Sunday. Then a kidnapper could have driven or taken a train to Madrid, sent the picture, and left.

  As for the photo itself, Brian’s NSA buddies had torn it apart, looking for geolocation tags or other information about the phone that had taken it. But whoever had sent it had expected that response. The text was actually a photo of a photo. The secondary picture had been taken in Carabanchel, without doubt on the now-trashed phone used to send the text. As long as the kidnappers didn’t mind using a new phone for every new text, they could repeat that process indefinitely and frustrate the NSA.

  The kidnappers had also been careful to make sure the photo itself would offer no clues. The wall behind Kira was covered with generic plywood. No light or electrical fixtures were visible,
nothing that might narrow the location. The CIA and Special Forces taught their operatives to make subtle hand gestures if they had any idea where they were being held and who had them. Too bad Kira wasn’t a CIA operative.

  About all the NSA could say for certain was that the photo didn’t appear to have been altered. Meaning Kira had been holding the paper. Meaning she was alive. Or had been yesterday, anyway.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Fernandes was still talking. “As well as additional officers in Carabanchel, we are reviewing license plate readers for the Camry’s plate. Examining records from similar cases. But primarily supporting our Catalan colleagues. Ready to respond to any request.”

  In other words, doing nothing. Rebecca understood the cool logic here, This isn’t our mess; the Catalans are so big on independence, let the Mossos deal with it. Even so, she wished she could shave off the guy’s Just For Men upper lip, make him spend a month with Barraza learning to be a real cop.

  She didn’t say a word, but Rob Wilkerson seemed to read her mind. He nodded at her, I get it, let me handle this.

  “Thanks for that,” he said, as smoothly as if Fernandes had promised house-to-house searches. “And this is Colonel Garza, from the Grupo Especial. I’ve had the pleasure of working with him, so I can tell you firsthand his men are superb.”

  “Thank you, Rob,” Garza said. “As to new information, unfortunately, I do not have much. We focus on Islamists. Nothing suggests these are the people who took your daughter. Further, we have penetration into cells in Barcelona. We believe we would have heard of an operation this complex. We’ve gone back to our informants here and elsewhere, Madrid, Seville, to make sure they know the urgency.”

  Garza cleared his throat.

  “In the meantime, we have put response teams here and in Madrid on what we call active standby. These are nine-person squads with tactical equipment. Access to helicopters with a fifteen-minute scramble. They can be almost anywhere in Spain in four hours.”