by Gayle Lynds
Since then, new Swiss laws that required its secretive banking institutions to reveal information that had a bearing on proved criminals or criminal acts had enabled the FBI to expose many of the secret caches. The most recently discovered—the largest and most deeply disguised—was the one to which Jeff referred.
"So that's it." Eli Kirkhart did not exactly smile, but he felt a surge of excitement. Although the account had been emptied before the task force found it, financial technicians had traced the money back to Moscow. Somehow, Jeff had learned the investigation was closed, and that was why he felt free to ask. But what intrigued Eli was Jeff himself—what was his real interest in the hidden stash?
To hide his eagerness, Eli gazed around the parking lot . . . and recalled that it had once been a secret KGB meeting place. He said thoughtfully, "Rather interesting you'd choose this shopping mall for our meeting. You knew I'd remember it was once a yavka, didn't you? A bit of irony on your part, I suppose, to remind me how pervasive the KGB was in America in its old glory days."
"Yes, and they're still here in the District," Jeff reminded him.
Eli chose to ignore that. "Since you know we closed the inquiry, you also must know the account was a dead end. The money's safely back in Russia. The story's over. Nothing for the Post there."
"I have a feeling the money might not be in Russia. I had a name—never mind how I got it. That's part of my job, digging up information. But the name became a corpse last month. A motorcycle accident in Rock Creek Park. Smashed up his bike and killed himself. Now I'm back to square one." He shook his head.
"What name might that be?"
"Mikhail Ogust."
Eli closed his eyes as if he were falling asleep. He purposely made his voice tired and angry. "General Berianov again, Jeff?"
Jeff gazed at him steadily. "Mikhail Ogust had access to that fund. Berianov and Yurimengri must have—"
The FBI man's eyes snapped open, and he interrupted, "We never found the slightest hint Colonel Ogust or anyone else in this country touched that money. I possibly should not tell you this, but because of past favors I'll do you a good turn—we exonerated Ogust. Yes, that's true. Exonerated him completely. Not only that, General Berianov and Colonel Yurimengri are clean, too. Antiseptic. There's no more hint today that any of them is hiding some cloak-and-dagger master plan than there was when you walked off the job."
Although he pretended concern for Jeff's well-being, Eli was beginning to believe Jeff's maniacal pursuit of ex-KGB general Alexei Berianov really had been a cover for other activities. He wondered what had actually happened when Jeff resigned, and what else he had been doing all these years besides serving as the Post's expert on Russia and Eastern Europe.
Eli had his suspicions, and that was why he had agreed to this meeting. "Take my sincere advice," he continued. "You're destroying yourself with this tiresome wild-goose chase. How many more years are you going to waste being obsessed that Berianov is involved in some sort of collusion to destroy America? Listen to me carefully, old friend: That slush-fund money's back in the Kremlin now, and those three Russians had nothing to do with it or anything else remotely disturbing. The case is closed, Jeff. You should move on. As they say, get a life."
Jeff Hammond was motionless behind his steering wheel, his long body tense. "You're wrong. I know they defected for a lot more than just to save their hides from Yeltsin. I can feel it."
"Goddamn it. Let it go! You ruined your career, and your wife divorced you because of this obsession. What more do you want to lose?"
"Never mind what I've lost. Can you help me?"
"Help how?"
"Give me another name. Anyone who had access to the fund."
Inwardly, Eli smiled. So that was it. He kept his face empty as he increased his pose of anger. "I don't have any other names! I told you, no one in this country—"
"What about not in this country?"
A name not in this country. Yes. Eli nodded. Jeff was implying Russia. And once Eli gave Jeff a name, Eli would monitor and observe . . . and with luck trace the connection back to the mole who had been undermining FBI missions and destroying morale for years. This could be the first crack in the myth of invincibility that had always surrounded the deep-penetration agent who had used the FBI as his, or her, own personal gold mine. Finding the mole was his covert assignment, entrusted to him secretly by government forces higher up even than the FBI.
Eli let his breath out slowly. "Very well . . . we did come across one other name: Vok."
Jeffs voice was cautious. "Ivan Vok? The KGB's top assassin?"
The FBI man nodded. "Yes, and he's still in Russia. Does that make it clear, or are you so completely mesmerized by your obsession that you can't think straight? Vok's in Russia. The money's in Russia. Nothing's going on here. It's all there. Far, far away in what was once the Soviet Union. That's the story. C'est fini."
Jeff shook his head. "You can't be sure the money's in Russia any more than you can be sure Vok is."
"Indeed, we can. Their government keeps close watch on dangerous men like Vok. You know that as well as I."
Jeff was quiet. "Thanks, Eli." He started the Mustang's engine. "Soon. I feel it. I'm so damn close to the bastards I can smell their stench." It was his guess that the orchestrated surveillance today had been from the ex-KGB group headed by General Berianov.
In that instant, faced with Jeff's conviction, which suddenly seemed persuasive, Eli doubted himself and his deductions. "Wait a minute. Do you have something to tell me?"
Jeff shook his head. "Too soon."
"If you know of any possible danger to the country, Jeff—"
"I don't."
Annoyed, beginning to worry, Eli made his voice hard: "Is this how you reporters work—all take and no give? No wonder journalists are rated for trust just above used-car salesmen."
"When I've got something to report, I'll phone you first."
"Dammit, I took a chance coming here. Tell me what you're working on that makes you think General Berianov and—"
Jeff shook his head again. "Hunches, Eli. That's all it is. Watching. Running down leads like the slush funds. That's all I've ever had. But that doesn't make the potential any less real. You and I used to solve cases on less than this, but we both know you can't take gut feelings back to the rajas at the Bureau. We always had to tie it up in a pretty ribbon, with everything proved. The one time I didn't do it, I got forced out."
If you were forced out, Eli thought. He opened the car door. "It's been good to see you, Jeff. Let's keep in touch this time, okay?" And he lied: "The past is the past."
"Sure, Eli."
Eli Kirkhart nodded good-bye and climbed into the Bureau car.
Now that dinnertime was near, the suburban mall had quieted. The sun had dropped low in the sky, making the treetops shine and sending deepening shadows across the parking area. As if they had made a silent pact, each man drove off without looking at the other again. They took different exits.
As Jeff Hammond sped back onto the Beltway, he grew increasingly suspicious of Eli. That final suggestion of warmth and friendship—Let's keep in touch . . . The past is the past—jibed with little Eli had said or, for that matter, with how he had acted. Despite the poker face, Eli was distrustful and unforgiving, and he had some purpose of his own—something else that had brought him to the meeting. Whatever it was, it was no desire simply to help Jeff or have an innocent reunion. Jeff frowned, thinking.
At the same time Jeff was heading in to his Washington office, Eli Kirkhart was driving home to his empty house in Bethesda. It had been a long, strange day, and both the high and low points had been seeing Jeff again. In his mind, he replayed their conversation until, with sudden understanding, he knotted his fist and shook it. Damn.
In a flash of understanding, he came to an important conclusion: The real reason Jeff had wanted to talk might not have been to get information to further his hopeless crusade of trying to tie the slush fund to former
General Berianov. No, not that at all. Eli had a strong hunch Jeff had instead wanted to confirm that the FBI had closed its inquiry. In fact, the whole point . . . Jeff's hidden motive . . . could easily have been to make certain that every person connected to the fund was safe from any more probes from the U.S. government. And that included Jeff himself.
4
Her AK-47 assault rifle held chest high, she pounded down a tunnel lined with rough rock walls. Her heart was thumping with fear. At last she found a gray metal door and yanked it open. Inside was a ladder. Glancing back over her shoulder, she climbed swiftly up the long, narrow shaft and, at the top, pulled herself out into a moonless night. Breathing hard, she stared at three men who were sitting around a campfire, talking in Russian. As the firelight flickered on their faces, she recognized the two who were facing her. They were her comrades, and they greeted her: C priyézdam! As the third turned toward her, he asked her how things were. Kak vi pazhiváyitye? She froze with shock: He was the man she had killed with the motorcycle.
How could that be? Stunned, she shook her head and knew it did not matter. Nothing else mattered. She stared at him. He was alive!
As gunfire faded in the distance, she crouched with the trio, her powerful Kalashnikov rifle cradled in her arms. She did not smile. There was no need. These men did not smile. They were hard and seasoned. She was one of them.
Beth Convey awoke with a start, her pulse throbbing behind her ears. It was a new nightmare, but with the same three Russians and the same sense of danger and violence. She made herself take long, deep breaths. It had been a year since her transplant. A full year, and until yesterday the nightmares and other disturbing ideas and experiences had faded, just as her surgeon had promised. She hesitated, reevaluating. Or perhaps she had simply learned to ignore them.
But not now. This dream had been vivid, riveting. Anxiously she stared around her bedroom at the photographs of her family on the walls, at the sunlight streaming in through the windowpanes, and at the bouquet of fresh daffodils on her bureau. She took a deep breath, comforted by the familiar surroundings of her old Victorian.
Then the present flooded back and she remembered: Today was important. Crucial. She jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to take her morning meds and begin dressing.
Yesterday—Monday—disaster had struck. It had been her first day back at work, and managing partner Zach Housley delivered devastating news: Most of her clients had elected to stay with the attorneys to whom Zach had assigned them last year. She had expected some defections, since all the firm's lawyers were very good, but the extent of them had left her breathless. But most ravaging of all, and the least expected, was the loss of Michelle Philmalee, for whom Beth had won such a spectacular victory in the divorce trial that almost killed her.
Admittedly, Michelle's decision was "just business," but it felt like betrayal. Beth's chest contracted with worry. The anticipation of returning to work and earning quick partnership was what had kept her going through her long journey back to health.
She brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her hair, applied lipstick, and stared at herself in the mirror. Despite getting only three hours of sleep—she had spent most of last night at the office, feverishly working on ideas to win back Michelle—her skin glowed, and her blue eyes were clear and bright. She said a silent prayer of gratitude to her transplant surgeon and to her heart donor.
But her robust appearance was a sham. She fairly vibrated with stress, which made her consider whether the sudden intense pressure might have triggered the new nightmare. Plus, there was the Virginia area code, which had returned yesterday afternoon to haunt her. Fortunately, it was now only a buzz, annoying but not overwhelming.
Today was the one-year anniversary of her transplant—a time to celebrate her new life and honor the man whose strong heart beat inside her chest as if it had always been her own. Instead, she must save her career. To make matters worse, the attorney with whom Michelle had chosen to remain was one of Beth's old boyfriends, Phil Stageman. It had been a short office romance, and afterwards Beth could not figure why she had ever gotten involved with him. A case of temporary insanity, she finally concluded. Hormones overruling reason. Now she was certain of it.
She sighed, thinking about all the men she had abandoned or lost. But then, they had always been second to her work. She vaguely recalled a vow to pursue a serious love relationship once she was well again, but now that she was fighting to regain her position in the firm, she found the idea far less compelling.
Today might be her only chance with Michelle, and she had awakened with a nightmare. But she could not think about that now. Instead, she must focus on her plan, because all her hard work had paid off: She had discovered Phil Stageman had been lax in his job of protecting Philmalee International. With that information, she knew she would win back Michelle. She trusted her intellect and her ability.
She was at the peak of her game.
Queen of the Cosmos.
She was Beth Convey, killing machine with compassion, and back in battle.
She folded her hands on the long, polished table. Her throat was dry. The meeting with Michelle and Phil was to have begun now—7:30 P.M.—but she was sitting alone in conference room B at Edwards & Bonnett. Plus, she had not received the last of the documents she needed—an important ownership list.
At 7:45, she was mildly irritated. They were fifteen minutes late, but she was hardly surprised. Disgusted, but not surprised. She knew Phil Stageman too well. It was probably one of his power plays to throw her off, and the thought suddenly infuriated her. Made her so mad she wanted to lash out with the unexpected anger that had become part of her since her surgery. For the past day and a half, her outrage had seethed. She had pushed it down. Modulated her voice. Calmed her features. Reminded herself it was simply the drugs that made her emotions rage at this humiliating comedown. Sometimes it seemed as if two people battled inside her: The former Beth—unflappable and cool. And a stranger—hotheaded and passionate. If you love, then love without reason. If you threaten, don't threaten in play. . . . There were those Russian phrases again. It was all so unnerving.
At 8:00 P.M., fragments of the mysterious phone number began to pulse in her ears, and Michelle and Phil had still not arrived. She knotted her hands and glared at the conference room's door. But then, as if she had willed it, it swung open.
With relief, she pushed thoughts of the annoying number away and stood, a professional smile on her face. "So good to see you, Michelle." She shook Michelle's hand and took in her former client with one practiced sweep. In her early fifties, Michelle was small and attractive, not a hair of her jet-black coiffure out of place. The chocolate-brown Armani power suit she wore, which cost at least $5,000, showed off her curves while at the same time proclaiming the kind of taste and influence that always got her what she wanted. But that was not what caught Beth's attention. One look at Michelle told Beth her former client's decision to remain with Phil Stageman had not been just business. The rumor she had heard seemed true—Michelle and Phil were having an affair: Michelle looked vibrant, almost happy, and her characteristic severity was replaced by a soft, sensual look.
Michelle said politely, "You're looking well."
"Thank you. So are you." Beth's spirits sank. If this were a love match, Michelle might never be convinced she had made the wrong choice for her attorney.
Michelle cocked her head. "She's looking like our old Beth, don't you think?"
"Beth always looks well," Phil said smoothly. He was movie-star handsome, with curly brown hair that tumbled toward his eyes. His square shoulders seemed as if they could bear the legal burdens of the world. He was also twenty years younger than Michelle. His gaze moved to Beth. "Michelle and I don't have much time, so let's hear what you have to say." His tone hinted she was at fault for starting the meeting late and that their other plans for the evening were far more important.
Beth smiled at his juvenile attempt. "Of course."
Beth ran through a quick review of the facts. "But Uridium has backed out, and you need some way to convince or force Uridium to live up to its agreement. Otherwise, Philmalee will lose approximately a half-billion dollars in revenues it had counted on."
Michelle nodded grimly. "That's correct. The facts are known. So why have you brought us here?"
Beth leaned forward. "Phil has filed suit and asked the District Court for a preliminary injunction to block Uridium from backing out of its contract with Philmalee. That's the traditional legal tack—"
Sensing danger, Phil scowled. "Don't pull that damning-with-faint-praise act, Beth. The lawsuit and request for specific performance of the contract aren't just 'traditional.' They're necessary. This has to be handled in a court of equity."
"Maybe. But if it's done the way you've laid out, you're going to lose."
"Scare tactics." Phil's voice was cutting. He turned to Michelle. "We're wasting our time. Any other lawyer would've accepted your decision to move on, Michelle. It's reprehensible that she's putting you through this charade."
Beth locked eyes with Michelle. It was time to gamble. If business were still the most important part of Michelle's life, Beth had a chance. "It's in both our interests to listen to my proposal, Michelle. I've pulled off legal miracles for you in the past. Very simply, if I'm still better than anyone else, you want me. And in this case, you certainly do. I'm serious. Phil's suit is going to lose."
