She didn’t tell Brian how much time she spent on it. She talked to Barraza and Rob Wilkerson, tracked every kidnapping of a woman anywhere in Western Europe. She’d even fallen into the rathole that was the Russian financial system as she looked at ZAM Muscovy.
* * *
Fall turned into the winter. Kira took her finals, came home. Her grades were fine. In fact, they were better. Not going out much, she said. Figure I got my partying in over the summer. They stayed close to home for New Year’s. Kira went back to school.
Now she was trying to be good to a little girl who was dying. In the middle of a Boston winter. Maybe it was all too much. Maybe Becks ought to go see her.
Yes.
She’d find a flight to Logan, surprise Kira. They’d visit Ayla together. Have dinner at one of those overpriced Italian places on the North End. If Kira told her she was making a big deal, she’d insist, no, she just wanted to hang out for a day, she’d missed the misery of single-digit weather.
* * *
By 1 p.m. she stood in front of her daughter’s dorm, Harleston Hall, brick and four stories. Like a lot of Tufts, it looked not-quite Harvard. God. What a snob she was deep down. Anyway, she hadn’t told Kira she was coming. Now she wasn’t so sure of what she’d done. What if Kira wanted to spend the afternoon hanging out with her roommate? Or studying? Or—
Too late for regrets. And too cold. She reached for her phone.
“Kira. I’m downstairs.”
“You’re where?”
“You weren’t kidding. It’s freezing.”
The day went fine. Kira seemed excited she’d come up, a chance to play hooky in a city that somehow belonged to them both, neutral ground. As they finished up dinner at Carmelina’s—a no-white-tablecloths North End place that hadn’t been here when she was growing up—Rebecca felt relaxed in a way she hadn’t since that first night in Barcelona. The bottle of wine they’d shared had helped.
“Let’s check out the Encore,” Kira said.
“What’s that?”
“Casino.”
“Boston has a casino? Along with modern Italian food and the Patriots being great? Ohh Tom Brady—” Maybe they hadn’t exactly shared the bottle.
“Please don’t, Mom.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t slobber over Tom Brady like every other middle-aged woman.”
“Middle-aged.”
“Sorry.”
“No it’s true. So. Encore. Casino.”
“Yeah, it opened like last year.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve been spending lots of time there, K.”
“Never been. It’s close though. Like up by Logan. Not sure exactly where.”
“Hold on. I’ll check—”
Rebecca pulled up Bri’s app.
But she couldn’t find the Encore. Weird.
“You sure about this?”
“No, I just made it up.”
She checked again. Nothing. As far as the app was concerned, the Encore didn’t exist. In fact, nothing on Twenty-One seemed to have been updated in a while.
Rebecca had the feeling she sometimes did when her phone wouldn’t do what she wanted, I’m so old. She tapped at it a little more. Nope.
What was wrong with her husband’s two-million-dollar app?
“The Encore, right?”
“I think so, yeah.”
Rebecca went to Google: Encore Boston Harbor is a luxury resort and casino located in Everett, Massachusetts…
A hundred pieces that hadn’t fit suddenly locked together.
She had the strange sensation she was falling down a well, or maybe more accurately falling up, falling away from the darkness that she hadn’t even realized was all around her—
“Mom,” Kira said. “You okay?”
Not a word to her, not a breath.
Not now. Not ever.
“Never better.” She turned the phone to Kira. “It’s in Everett, super-close.”
“Can we?”
“Girls’ night.” Rebecca made herself smile. “I think we both deserve it.”
35
Gaithersburg, Maryland
Room 310 of the Holiday Inn Gaithersburg had a not-quite-new wooden desk in the corner, a not-quite-ugly blue-patterned comforter on the bed. Brian sat on it, jiggling his legs. His blue North Face puffer beside him. He patted at its pockets like they held a pistol or a knife. But they didn’t.
He’d figured Irlov might pat him down when they started meeting again, maybe bring a bodyguard. Nope. They’d gone back to work like Brian had never left. Like Barcelona had never happened.
Like Irlov figured Brian was fully domesticated, would never try anything.
Problem was, Irlov was right. Brian couldn’t imagine going at the Russian. Dude had made his point. Had he ever.
The door swung open. Irlov stepped inside. He wore a wool knit cap and a short peacoat, a strangely stylish combination. All dressed up. Maybe he had a date with Eve coming up. The trouble that one had caused, and Brian’s mouth still went dry when he thought about her.
Brian didn’t ask how Irlov had gotten the key, how he could be sure they hadn’t been followed. At this point if Irlov said he had chips implanted in every FBI agent in D.C., Brian would have believed him.
“Comrade.” Since Brian’s return to the SVR fold, Irlov had taken to using the word. Another way to remind Brian he was owned, now and forever.
“Colonel.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we begin right away.”
The false, mincing courtesy was another affectation that irritated Brian. “Question. If I may.”
Irlov turned his hands outward, the gesture of a lord tolerating an uppity serf.
“You know the bureau is chasing this great new Russian asset.”
“Naturally. Enough operations fail, even the FBI notices.”
“Any reason they would think he’s inside the CIA?”
“Why do you ask this, Brian?” Now the hint of an accent slipped into Irlov’s voice, proof the question had surprised him.
“Just that my wife has had more meetings than usual at Langley recently.”
A lie. The reason he asked, the week before Becks had—more or less out of nowhere— mentioned the mole again. Looks like Ames the sequel, she’d said. Meaning Aldrich Ames, the CIA officer now locked in a federal penitentiary for betraying the agency to the Russians.
How is Ames these days? Brian said.
Oh, lots of time to regret his choices.
The way she’d said it bugged Brian. Even though he should have felt better hearing it. More accurately, because he should have felt better hearing it. It was so… convenient. Nothing for him to worry about, the bureau wasn’t even looking at the NSA.
Plus, last week Becks had flown to Los Angeles, a quick thirty-six-hour work trip, out one morning, back the next night. She’d never had a case in Southern California before. And she’d been more than typically cryptic about it. And yeah, she’d been in the SoCal office. At one point she’d called him from there. Which was weird too, nobody used landlines anymore, almost like she was trying to prove where she was.
But why would Rebecca lie to him?
Only one reason, as far as he could see.
Funny, the other reason, the one that would have bugged most guys, that Becks was spending quality time with a special friend in the Los Angeles bureau, hadn’t even occurred to him. And even now that he’d thought of it he couldn’t worry about it. Because, really, if that’s what she was doing, at this point good for her.
On the other hand, if Rebecca had somehow gotten onto him—
But he didn’t want to tell Irlov he was worried about Becks. So he was lying to Irlov, too. Lying to his case officer about his wife possibly lying to him… he could see why people got caught. After a while you needed a spreadsheet just to keep the stories straight.
“Brian. Do you have any concerns about Rebecca?”
“None.”
“Certain?”
“We’re getting along great.” True enough. All through the fall and winter they’d been hanging out a lot, and not just for sex. They even had a favorite show, Stranger Things.
“All right. Because, yes, we appreciate her information, but the NSA—you are the Tsar’s heir.”
“The what now?”
“I believe Americans say ‘golden boy.’ ”
Brian laughed. Was Irlov suggesting the Russians would kill Rebecca if he asked? Brian didn’t want to find out. Whatever was going on, whatever might be going on, lay between him and his wife.
“I understand. Colonel. Another question.” He’d held off on asking too long. Now he wanted to know.
“You think my time is worthless.” Irlov smiled, but his eyes didn’t. Ask quick.
“At the end, with Kira—”
“Oh, Jacques had a buyer for her. We were going to sell her.”
Brian rose half from the bed.
“Sit, please.”
Brian sat, the voice in his head: Good dog.
“Did she ever tell you the full story? What she did, how she got out? We have a saying, you learn from those you live with. She learned fast. She realized Rodrigo was weak, that if she could get him alone… maybe she’ll tell you one day.”
“But what if she hadn’t?”
“The truth? Jacques would have fought with Rodrigo, shot him. Come on, Brian, we aren’t monsters.” Irlov smiled, a smile that said, Or are we? You’ll never know. He looked at his watch, the gesture ostentatious, playtime is over. “So. BONITAS”—a new NSA effort to crack Russian naval communications—“How is that one?”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later Irlov walked out. Brian stayed still. Rooted to the bed.
He was stuck with Irlov. He couldn’t kill Irlov.
But he could kill someone, couldn’t he?
36
First stop, Las Vegas.
Rebecca caught the early-morning United nonstop from Dulles to LAX, walked through Terminal 7 looking for a flight to McCarran. By ten thirty she was in a cab on Tropicana Avenue, headed for Silver State Gaming Consultants, the company that had bought Brian’s app.
Her ride stopped beside a two-story office building. Just down the block was the Pinball Hall of Fame. Only fitting. She was on tilt for sure. She handed the driver a twenty, stepped out. A check of state corporate records showed that Silver State Gaming had been in business for thirty years. Still, she wanted to see its offices for herself. Both to make sure it wasn’t a shell and see if she could pick up what the bureau liked to call “soft intel.”
* * *
In retrospect maybe she should have asked more questions when Brian sold the app. But the deal had come together fast, and the idea someone would pay Brian seven figures for a successful application hardly seemed crazy. She’d read about Candy Crush, how the company that made it was worth billions.
When Brian showed her the app, she could see why people would want to use it and casinos would advertise on it. It had lots of tips about games and even directed users to the quote-unquote hottest slot machines. The play games it offered could easily be turned into real-money versions if the federal government legalized Internet gambling. Like Hollywood, Brian said. Millions of scripts, but most of ’em suck. Write a good one, people notice.
Plus the download numbers, twenty-one thousand, had seemed solid to her at the time. Brian said even more important was how quickly they were going up, how much people used the app after they downloaded it, was it what developers called “sticky”? Truth is maybe I’d be better off waiting, but I don’t want this thing to take over my life, he said. Two million, not bad.
Even the fact the offer had come out of nowhere hadn’t bothered her as much as maybe it should have. She knew Brian had gone to that casino industry conference. And her focus had been elsewhere. She’d been investigating two congressional aides for helping a Russian bank evade sanctions—not exactly espionage, but close. An important case.
Later, she’d wondered once or twice when he’d found the time to write it. When she wandered down to the basement at night, he was usually watching ESPN or Hong Kong martial arts movies. Then again he’d won that NSA challenge. He was smarter than he liked to admit. Maybe smarter than she liked to admit. His problem had always been his attitude.
She could see now she’d felt ashamed for doubting him in so many ways. She assumed his secrecy about the app only proved how lousy their marriage had become. She dropped her usual skepticism, played cheerleader instead. Soon enough the deal was done. Brian hired a lawyer in Vegas to review the contract, flew out two more times. Then they were rich. Rich enough, anyway. A million, with another million the next year. She never even met anyone at Silver State Gaming. You can if you like but they’re pretty boring, Brian had said. Not worth the flight.
The contract did have one condition she found odd: A non-disclosure agreement. They weren’t supposed to tell anyone that Brian had written Twenty-One. Brian said Silver State Gaming didn’t want anyone to know that it hadn’t created the app itself.
But don’t you want credit, Rebecca said. Maybe you’d get more business.
Credit’s fine. Two million dollars is better.
Okay, but you’ll have to tell the NSA, and I have to tell the bureau. They’ll want to know where the money’s coming from.
I’ll make sure the non-disclosure section has an exemption for our jobs, Brian said. And he had. They disclosed the deal on their financial disclosures, and neither the bureau nor the NSA seemed to care much. She’d only had one lie detector test since the sale—the polygraph examiners were notoriously overbooked. The examiner hadn’t even asked about the money.
Otherwise, Rebecca had stuck to the non-disclosure agreement, which looked to her now like a way to help her forget the app. As in fact she had. She hadn’t checked it in years. She had no idea if she ever would have again, had Kira not happened to mention the Encore.
Of course, the fact that the app had fallen into a state of quasi-disrepair didn’t prove anything, not by itself. Maybe other companies had made their own, better versions. Maybe now that gamblers could bet online for real money in states like New Jersey, they had decided they trusted the big casino companies more.
But there were other clues. The size of the ransom demand, which now seemed less like coincidence than a coded message to Brian. The way he had frozen when she mentioned that fact to him on the train. His nervousness the first night before they knew anything was wrong, so unlike his personality. The way he’d insisted since the kidnapping that they shouldn’t push the investigation.
Most of all, she’d always believed Jacques had targeted Kira, that the kidnapping wasn’t random. But she’d never understood why, never really convinced herself Jacques planned to sell Kira. That version of the story was too tabloid. And the kidnappers had been so much better trained than a typical gang. Even their response to Kira’s escape had been professional. They’d shut the operation down and vanished. No hard feelings, no grudges. Game over.
* * *
So. Her husband had pissed off the Russians, and they’d used Kira to send him a message. Why? She could guess.
One thing she knew about Brian, the man always wanted something for nothing, always thought he was better than the bargain he’d made.
Yeah, she had an inside line on this case.
She’d learned over the years to trust her gut on complicated investigations, the moment the answer came into focus. Sometimes intuition outran evidence. But she knew the danger of relying on intuition, too. When it was wrong, innocent people wound up in prison.
She needed proof. So here she was.
* * *
The office building on Tropicana Avenue was dated, seventies-style, white cladding and black glass. Silver State Gaming Consultants was in Suite 212. Rebecca marched up the stairs. Just another investigation. Lock down the facts, then move forward.
The office behind the wooden door of S
uite 212 looked real enough. A secretary out front, a corridor that led to half a dozen offices. Voices on phones, Okay, lunch, then, the chatter of business. On the wall behind the secretary, framed photos from industry journals. Silver State Gaming picked to market Henderson’s first casino-brewery! They mostly featured pictures of a ruddy, chubby guy in his sixties who wore a cowboy hat and an I’d never cheat ya grin. Rebecca had to be honest with herself: he couldn’t have looked less like a Russian operative.
“Can I help you?” The secretary was in her fifties, bottle-blond hair and electric-blue fingernails.
Rebecca handed over a résumé, Tracy McDaniel, a freelance web designer looking for full-time work.
“Too bad you weren’t here last month. We just hired somebody.”
Rebecca smiled. “That is too bad. I’m Tracy. I mean, obviously.”
“Linda.”
“Nice to meet you. Just moved here from Buffalo, papering the walls. I know everybody says Indeed and LinkedIn are all you need, but I feel better getting out.”
“Buffalo? Like New York?”
“Yeah, done with those winters. Mind if I ask, do your Web work in-house?”
Linda nodded. “Our specialty. We help independent casinos with marketing. The places the locals go, not the Strip.”
Rebecca pointed at the framed photos.
“That’s the man in charge? Carl James?”
Linda lowered her voice. “To be honest, we keep the photos up, but Mr. James had a stroke a few years back. He’s in a wheelchair, doesn’t come in much anymore. His daughter and son-in-law run the company. Joanna and Fred.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Anyway, if you could please pass along my résumé—”
“Will do.”
* * *
The Power Couple Page 33
