by Gayle Lynds
"Beth!" Phil objected.
But Michelle raised her small hand. "I want to hear what she has to say."
Beth smiled, but her voice was grave. "I've spent the last two days tracing the lawsuit." The difference between a good lawyer and a great lawyer was a willingness to do original work. Phil had indeed taken the classic route, while Beth had dug around in the backyards and garbage heaps of government. "This is what you don't know, Michelle: A friend at State tells me the government's going to file against you, asking your injunction be denied because Uridium has sovereign immunity as a foreign, state-operated entity"—she paused then dropped the bombshell—"and because your arrangement would interfere with national interests."
Behind her red-rimmed glasses, Michelle's eyes grew large, flat, and worried. "National interests?" she repeated.
Beth nodded. "It means it's the federal government against you. Someone powerful in the government wants the contract to go to your competitor, and whoever it is has the power to lay the mantle of 'national interests' on the deal. As we all know, national interests will prevail. Which means you're holding a losing hand. By the time Phil finally gets your suit to trial, it'll be too late. The uranium you were supposed to buy will have been acquired by your competitor and delivered to Uridium. No piece of the atomic pie will be left for Philmalee to make a dime from, even if you win."
Michelle paled. "That's a lot of money to lose. You have a solution?"
"Of course. Do you know the other company Uridium has lined up to acquire the uranium in your place?"
"HanTech. What about it?"
"Another of my contacts tells me HanTech is no longer owned by an American family. Instead, a group of émigré Russian investors in the United States with close ties to Minatom has acquired it. In fact, one of them is the son of Minatom's chief." Minatom was Russia's Ministry of Atomic Energy, which oversaw Uridium. Minatom was enormously powerful, almost a state within a state, and Uridium would always do what Minatom wanted.
Michelle's eyes flashed with outrage and excitement. "Then we can take charges of collusion to the press. A sweetheart deal between a Russian agency and Russians who have immigrated to this country but are still connected to Minatom. Whether they're citizens or not, it doesn't matter. At this point, it's the appearance that counts. One way or another, with good press, we can at least stop the momentum until we can find out who's behind all this national-security nonsense. But I need to know who owns HanTech now. Who are all these Russians? I need names!"
"I don't have the entire list yet, but I will soon."
"Excellent. Tomorrow?"
Beth blinked. Surely the list would arrive tonight. "Of course. Tomorrow."
"Ten A.M.?"
The ringing in Beth's ears was back. She forced herself to nod. "Ten A.M. here."
Phil scowled. "I warn you, Beth, if this is another of your fast and loose tricks to buy time while you hope to come up with something real, it isn't going to work."
"Thanks, Phil," she said drily. "I appreciate the warning." She looked into Michelle's eyes and said earnestly, "You can count on me, Michelle. I'll have the list. As we both know, I've invested a lot in you and the Philmalee Group, and I want only your success."
Michelle looked away guiltily and nodded. Phil jumped up and pulled out her chair so she could step gracefully from the table. She took his hand, and they walked to the door, leaning together, a couple.
Michelle stopped and gazed back. "I don't know whether I want you to be right or wrong, Beth."
Beth's head was beginning to ache. The Virginia area code had returned, gaining in intensity. "You want me to be right, or you'll lose a great deal of money."
Phil had been watching. "You'd better have the goods, or I'll report you to Zach, and Michelle will never believe you again. Right, Michelle?"
Michelle frowned. "I'm afraid that under the circumstances he's right."
Beth's smile felt plastered to her face. "Don't worry. You'll have what you need. I guarantee it."
As the pair left the conference room, Beth got to her feet. The insistent area code made her feel nauseated as she walked along the hushed hall toward her office. 703 . . . 703 . . . 703 . . . As if something—someone?—wanted her to dial it. Thank God she did not know the complete number. She groaned aloud.
In her office, she flipped on the light and checked her watch. It was time to take a round of meds. Sometimes that reduced the problem. Shaking, she pulled out her desk drawer, grabbed her pills and water bottle, and swallowed the drugs. It was already late, nearly 8:30 P.M., and the overhead fluorescent glare made her office shadowless, almost surrealistic. Michelle's schedule had been so packed, or so her secretary had claimed, that 7:30 was the only time she'd had free to meet with Beth.
Feeling steadier, she turned to her computer to check her e-mail. Maybe the information about HanTech Industries had arrived. That would cheer her up. The screen came to life, and she scrolled down the new messages. Nothing. Damn.
A knock sounded at her door. "Come in."
Zachariah Housley with his narrow shoulders, oversized head, and sloping paunch appeared. His pear-shaped silhouette was so famous in Washington legal circles that, when he entered a meeting, opponents had been known to duck in metaphoric respect as if he had just lobbed a fast ball at them. In one of his off-the-rack suits that bagged at the pockets, he looked like a backcountry good ole boy, one of the ploys he used to lure adversaries into legal traps so he could snap open their valises and empty their bank accounts before they sensed peril. He had been a senior partner for at least thirty years.
He came straight to the point, blunt as ever: "Phil says you claim Russians run HanTech now. That true?"
She hesitated. "Yes, Zach. Russians who may or may not be American citizens." She was furious. Phil was trying an end run. She resisted pressing her palm to her forehead. The fragments of the phone number were hounding her.
Zach eyed her. "Can you prove it?"
She filled her voice with confidence. "I expect to. Tomorrow morning."
He cleared his throat. "Interesting. That'll make some pots boil. Course, if you're wrong . . . or if you can't prove it—"
"I understand."
It would be a black mark against her at Edwards & Bonnett. In the firm's barracuda environment, the corporate memory was long and unforgiving. Too much rode on each partner and associate for the firm to dedicate time and attention to rehabilitation, especially when clients no longer clamored for that particular attorney's services. She was making an aggressive play to retrieve an important client, and if she failed because her argument was built on lies, they would avoid firing her—a heart-transplant survivor—because it would not look good in the glass house that was Washington's legal world. But she would lose her status as a senior associate and return to the level of a first-year lawyer, assigned work that would be closely overseen. Indignation churned up from her belly.
He peered at her. "How are you feeling now that you're back?"
She froze, suddenly suspicious that he was baiting her. "I'm feeling great," she said brightly. "Did you know I almost have my black belt in karate?" Describing an athletic pursuit was a male way to affirm fitness. She did not know why she had thought to say that, and she did not care. She would use anything.
He chuckled coolly. "Modern women. Whatever happened to those fine times when girls never wore trousers? They were ashamed to smoke cigarettes in public. And if there was a problem, they'd develop a case of the vapors and swoon."
She studied him, suddenly aware of what she had been denying a long time: Zach Housley did not like female attorneys. "Those days are gone," she said firmly. "We're as free to make idiots of ourselves as you."
Again online, she checked her e-mail. To hell with Zach's implied threats. Energy flowed back into her limbs as she searched. Since HanTech was privately owned, it did not have to reveal anything about its ownership. But she knew an accountant who would likely have access: Carly King, fellow graduate
of the University of Virginia, now a top analyst at the behemoth Toole-Russell, Inc., and—since her days as a high school computer nerd—an accomplished cybersleuth.
When Beth learned during her investigation that Toole-Russell handled HanTech's annual audit, she phoned Carly, who—typical of her relentless curiosity—had already run a program she had written to secretly crack the encryption and discover the password to the Toole-Russell system administrator's file. With that, she had also acquired the system's internal IP—Internet Protocol—address and the blueprint for the entire computer network. That had made her "root," which meant she had access to every Toole-Russell computer file and could change, delete, and trace all data. She was the Goddess.
Still, Carly would never embezzle or defraud. Money was not her goal. What riveted her attention, made her heart palpitate, and sent her into paroxysms of joy was a challenge. Therefore, when Beth asked for her help based on the information from her contact at State, Carly grumbled, because it was tax season and her work load was heavy, but in the end she had agreed to try to find the complete list of HanTech owners.
The only question was when. With excitement Beth spotted Carly's code name. Using a server that offered such anonymous favors for a high price, the e-mail's route and the sender's name were blocked so no one at Edwards & Bonnett would be able to sniff Carly out.
Eagerly Beth scrolled past Carly's complaints about the interruption to her work. "Bingo." Thrilled, she highlighted the list and hit the PRINT button. "Hot damn!"
She studied the screen. Carly affirmed that not only was HanTech no longer completely owned by Earl Hansen, who had founded the trading company many years ago, but that the new majority owners had Russian names. And now, at last, Beth had the entire list. All the names were Russian-sounding except one, Caleb Bates. This Bates owned the largest share—twenty-five percent. She wondered who he was and how he fit into the picture. Since expatriate Russians had a strong tendency to keep their businesses in the family, maybe Bates was an American of Russian descent.
But that was a minor question. She paused thoughtfully. Or was it? She e-mailed back, soothing Carly's jangled nerves, and added a note asking her to check further into what this secretive group was up to with the American company. Then she erased both messages and followed them back into the protected data bank she had discovered in which the firm kept old e-mail. She erased them there, too. Now no one would ever learn Carly had been her source.
With that, she snatched up the pages from the printer, dropped them into her briefcase, and grabbed her purse and water bottle. She was going home to celebrate. She would do her kata ritual exercise, make herself a delicious dinner, study the list in preparation for tomorrow's meeting, and sleep well tonight.
Abruptly, the Virginia numbers thundered inside her mind: 703 . . . 703 ! Each digit was an explosion. And now there were more numbers. An entire telephone number. Was it real? She fell back into her chair. She was frightened. She had done everything to take care of herself that she was supposed to—with the exception of the last day and a half—but still these incomprehensible episodes had returned.
How could this be happening? She was worn down. Worn out. It was ridiculous that this phone number could have any kind of relation to her. As soon as she thought that, it pounded again. Her brain was going to split open. She grabbed her ears and closed her eyes.
Instantly, the whole ten-digit number detonated again. She broke out in a cold sweat. She could not stand it any longer. She had to know. She could not believe—
With a growl, she snapped up the phone and dialed. Her hand was slippery with sweat as she unconsciously dug the receiver into her ear, dreading someone would answer. Dreading no one would.
It rang twice. A man answered in a thick Russian accent: "Yes? Who is this?"
She repressed a gasp and thought quickly. She remembered one of the names from her nightmares. "Mikhail. I'd like to speak to Mikhail." Her heart thundered.
"Impossible." The voice stopped. "What is your name? Who is calling?"
"Just a friend of Mikhail's. When do you think he'll be in? I'll ring back—"
The receiver went dead.
In the low, boxlike office in the Washington suburb of Arlington, Ivan Vok stood motionless, still surprised, his beefy hand frozen on the phone he had slammed down.
Who was that woman? How had she known this very private number? Only a select few knew, and Vok could personally recognize each voice. In his sports jacket and cotton trousers, his short, hard-packed frame was a study of controlled strength. He pursed his thick lips and gazed across to the tall chair where his boss sat behind the big mahogany desk.
"Well, Vok?" he demanded. He had dark hair, a cool, symmetrical face, and blue-brown eyes. In his mid-fifties, he looked much younger, with the clean-cut body of a distance swimmer. But what always struck people about him was his compelling self-confidence. It drew them to him, and, once they were there, he usually got what he wanted.
Vok said in Russian, "We've got a problem maybe." He repeated the conversation.
"She asked for Mikhail?" Equally startled, he swore and answered in Russian. "Perhaps it was a mistake. Or it was someone Mikhail knew and you didn't learn about."
"Someone Mikhail gave this number to? No way, Alexei." From his exotic Mongolian face to his wide feet, he exuded cold disbelief.
"No, probably not." His boss sighed, annoyed more than worried. "Perhaps someone else gave her the number."
"Possibly." Vok nodded.
"We need to know. You'd better find her. Get everything you can."
"You want me to do it myself?"
He scowled. "No, I need you here. Send your best man."
Ivan Vok said without hesitation, "Nikolai Fedorov." He had trained Fedorov in the old days, back in Moscow.
His chief nodded, watching a fly balance on the edge of his desk. Just as it flew off, he reacted. He grabbed it in midair, crushed it in his fist, and let it fall dead to the floor. He smiled, pleased with himself and his incredible reflexes. "Very well. But tell him to be careful, Ivan Ivanovich. Let's find out if she's a threat before we act. We don't need unnecessary complications. If it turns out she really is a problem, we'll deal with her. But be sure. And change this phone number. We've probably had it too long anyway."
"Ladno." Okay. Vok touched a button. The number from which the woman had dialed appeared on the digital pad next to the telephone. He went to work tracing it.
5
Jeffrey Hammond hurried out of The Washington Post building and into the noisy city night. The moon had risen, and the stars were out, but he paid no attention to anything but the traffic. Tall, lean, and angular, he moved quickly along the sidewalk, occasionally breaking into a trot, toward the corner. As he hurried, he pulled his long brown hair back into a ponytail and snapped a rubber band around it. Everything about him radiated impatience, and his restless gaze examined the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Fifteenth Street with more interest than that of an ordinary pedestrian.
A loud voice called out from behind: "Hey, Jeff! Don't try to run out on me. You damn well know I want to talk to you!"
It was Nate Heithoff. Swearing to himself, Hammond stopped and turned. "First thing tomorrow, Nate. I don't have time now."
"Why the big rush?"
"A hot date, okay? I'm late already." It was a lie he knew Nate would believe.
"One question. Putin's damn press attaché was insulted I didn't know what rasputitsa was. What—"
Hammond, who had been answering questions from fellow journalists at the Post all day about the forthcoming state visit, interrupted: "It's what Muscovites call spring—their 'mud season.' Sorry, Nate, but I've really got to push it. Don't like to keep a lady waiting. See you tomorrow."
"No problem." The other newsman grinned. "She must be something. Enjoy."
"Right." Hammond hailed a passing taxi, jumped in, and slammed the door.
The driver looked back. "Where to, mister?"
"Just drive ahead. Now."
Hammond watched through the rear window. Nate was still staring after him with the curiosity of all good journalists. As Hammond told the driver to turn at the next corner, he continued to check behind. When it was obvious his colleague had given up, Hammond told the driver to pull to the curb. He paid, got out, and continued cautiously on foot, stopping to gaze in store windows and watch all around.
He was edgy, jumpy, and he knew it. He saw surveillance behind every lamp post, in every darkened doorway. Over the past year there had been more and more episodes of surveillance, and he had begun to read each as a gauge of whether he was closing in or moving away from his target.
When he saw no sign of anyone's tailing him, he hurried around another corner and once more hailed a taxi. He climbed in and directed the driver back and forth, from one street to the next, around blocks, again and again until at last he told him to go to Columbia Road and Eighteenth Street. There in the heart of the multiethnic Adams Morgan district, he paid the driver and left the cab.
Sitar music and the spicy scent of incense floated into the night from one of the funky music clubs. He walked vigilantly among the potpourri of cafés, neighborhood bars, new and used bookstores, music stores, second-hand clothing shops, and nouveau boutiques. He allowed none of his wariness to show. His rugged face was a mask.
With a final glance around, Hammond entered a crowded coffee shop, ordered a double espresso at the counter, and bought a copy of the Post. As he gazed casually at the packed tables, he carried the espresso and newspaper back to an empty one at the very rear. He sat down there, sipped his coffee, and read. He never looked up, not even when an older man joined him at his table, uninvited.
Hammond turned his head slightly to the side, opened his newspaper wider, and from his peripheral vision studied the newcomer: Late fifties, sunken cheeks, thin gray hair combed up from the side to cover his bald spot.
