by Gayle Lynds
Surprised, the winners cursed and protested their outrage, while the crowd of losers erupted in cheers and laughter. Two of the invaders hurled themselves at Marty, but it was too late. All had been marked for injury or death by Marty's red blotches.
"He can't do this!" one complained loudly.
"It's too damn late to attack, Coulson." Sergeant Austin swore. "The operation's over!"
"Colonel Bates," Marty said earnestly, breathing hard. "You always say initiative counts. They missed me. I played dead, and they walked right by. Doesn't that mean for me the attack was still going on? I mean, no one calls time out in a war."
Everyone in the militia group believed Bates to be a retired U.S. Army colonel, which was close to the truth. If his followers had been real soldiers he would have applauded Coulson. The boy was right, and it was sometimes a hard lesson to learn, as he well knew from bitter experience a long way from West Virginia. But he was worried: He had already had an eye on the boy as being too clever for his own good and therefore dangerous to his plans, but he could not let the Keepers know that.
Instead, Bates nodded. "Yes, Coulson is right. He did a good job, and let it be a lesson to us all." His solemn gaze swept them, drawing them to him with his personal magnetism. They leaned toward him, eager for each word. "In battle, nothing is really finished. The dead soldier lying bloody on the ground could have enough life left to put a bullet between your eyes. The expensive wristwatch you find alongside a trail is almost certainly booby-trapped. Private Coulson has just reminded us of the basic truth of war—we're all vulnerable all the time. Your weakest moment may be just when you think you've won."
When Bates had found them four years ago, they were a rudderless, undisciplined gang of quarrelsome dissenters and government-haters, made violent by anger at a world that had failed to give them what they considered they deserved. They would lash out intermittently without plan or direction. Still, they'd had one essential ingredient—a bone-deep, generations-long, nationalism. So he joined them, impressed them with his military knowledge, and as soon as they chose him to lead, he constructed this hidden training camp.
He supplied them with the finest equipment and trained them into a small but powerful force. And in the process, he had weeded out the weak and timid, the too-smart, the too-educated, the less-committed, the loners and the whiners. Those remaining were fanatics to the core, with a single-minded obsession for all they had "lost" since the days of "true patriots" like the Minutemen, who had won the Revolution back in 1776. Never mind that the fools had never figured out that it had been General George Washington's regular army, the brief dominance of the French fleet of Admiral De Grasse, and England's concern with the far-more-urgent political situation in Europe, that won the Revolution they revered so much.
He had named them the Keepers of the Truth, and they had taken to his guidance like moths to a beguiling flame. Then he had seen his opportunity, and he summoned them, described a heroic plan, and put them through refresher training in weapons, martial arts, and loyalty to the cause. Now they were ready, and so was he.
A sense of optimism swept through him. He was a product of his past, and this was his most important war.
"One last thing," he reminded them grimly. "A single leak, and not only the mission but the Keepers could be finished. Since D-Day is just two days off, no one leaves the hunt club. Questions?"
There were none. The Keepers moved away, their faces solemn and determined, their steps brisk and purposeful. They had waited a long time for this, their chance to save their country and take their rightful places in it.
Caleb Bates's cabin, where he lived and worked when he was at the hidden training center, stood on a knoll in the forest a quarter-mile west of Little U.S.A. From the front window he could see some twenty other cabins in neat rows. Two were large, single-sex dormitories, while several others offered small bedrooms for couples. Everything was simple and utilitarian, from the garages that sheltered vehicles and supplies to the cookhouse and large dining room that doubled as a meeting hall. Bates had hired outside contractors to put up the perimeter fence, pour foundations and roads, raise walls, and create a septic system. But to keep the final purpose of the encampment secret, the Keepers themselves had finished the work.
Bates stood at his window, surveying what he had wrought. He was satisfied, even proud. Long ago, everyone had told him that motivating recruits, training them and inspiring them, was one of his greatest strengths. Perhaps he should have pursued a career in the regular military, risen to the top, leading troops into battle. But he had no regrets for the path he had chosen. He was what he was, and that was best for what he had to do now, for his great vision for the future of his country.
He was still musing over the course of his life and how it would determine the direction of the world for a long time to come, when he saw the coiled-spring body of Sergeant Austin double-timing toward him. He had given the sergeant an assignment, and from the sober expression on Austin's face, Bates already knew the results.
He stepped out onto his porch and waited. The sergeant stopped neatly before him, hardly puffing. For him to be even slightly out of breath, Bates knew he must have run a long way.
"He's gone?" Bates said.
"Yes, sir," Austin nodded. "Took a motorcycle, but didn't turn on the engine so we wouldn't hear him. He's coasting down the road toward Stone Point."
Bates showed none of his anger. "It's the girlfriend then. We suspected that, didn't we, Sergeant?" The youth, Coulson, who'd had the resourcefulness to slip out a window and escape at the end of the guerrilla exercise would also have the creativity to figure out how to have one more hot night between cheap sheets with a girl Bates was certain must be the local slut.
The sergeant was apologetic. He was a man of action, but now Bates had ordered him to be inactive. "Guess so, sir. You said not to go after him."
"You did the right thing. I'll handle it now. Go back to your regular duties, Sergeant." He watched as Austin hesitated then turned on his heel and left smartly, double-timing to the central camp.
Bates strode back inside his cabin. Checking front and back to be sure he was alone, he went to stand beside the window where he could watch the camp and see anyone heading toward him.
He pulled a cell phone from his shirt pocket. He was no computer genius, but he had people who were, and he had ordered them to find scramblers for all their phones that no one could breach. As a result, two silicon chips in this digital phone encrypted transmissions so completely they were uncrackable and scrambled so effectively no law-enforcement agency could read them. Recently, the National Security Agency had conceded the chips had effectively killed encryption controls in America, because they were made by the Japanese and could be imported everywhere, including into the United States. There was nothing the U.S. government could do.
"You're late reporting," he snapped into the mouthpiece. His voice had changed. Gone was the low, gravelly rasp of Caleb Bates. His posture grew less severely angular and rigid, became more sinuous.
In Russian, Ivan Vok apologized. "Fedorov just called, Alexei. I chewed him out good."
"We can't have such delays, Ivan Ivanovich," Alexei Berianov responded in Russian. Talking to his old KGB comrade, he felt completely himself. But then he caught his reflection in the window, and there was Caleb Bates staring back. For a split second his brain swam, and he seemed to float in a kind of numb limbo, without time, place, or identity. He shook his head angrily. He had lived much of his life in one kind of disguise or another, and this was no time to question his actions. "Have Fedorov report directly to me from now on. You have enough to do in Washington."
"Okay, Alexei." Vok described Nikolai Fedorov's report on Beth Convey, everything from her date of birth and parents to her heart transplant and job at Edwards & Bonnett. Through political contacts and their far-flung businesses and data banks, Vok and Fedorov could find out almost anything Berianov wanted.
With growing unease
, Berianov listened for what he really needed. Finally he interrupted Vok: "What about last night? It makes no sense. How could she have known about Yuri?"
Vok paused uncomfortably. "Fedorov doesn't know yet. None of our people has ever seen her, and they didn't recognize her name. It's almost as if she dropped whole from the sky."
"She's an international lawyer. Maybe she worked on cases that touched us somehow. Find out."
"Of course. No problem."
Berianov paused to think. "When did Fedorov say she had the transplant?"
"A year ago to the day, Alexei."
Berianov had an odd feeling in his gut that the past thirty years had taught him to respect. His gut was telling him the date might be significant somehow. He needed to find out more. He fired off instructions to be relayed to Nikolai Fedorov.
Vok said, "Fine. Consider it handled."
Satisfied, Berianov changed the subject. "Any problems at Meteor?"
"None." Vok reported that the fake Meteor Express had been completely disappeared, and they had taken over the name of another company. It was E=Phrase, a small software designer for business services, and it would go on the sign at their new location in Reston, Virginia, in the District's new high-tech corridor. The transfer to E=Phrase had been a success, they had a new phone number, and there had been no more suspicious calls.
They had used the ruse of adopting other companies' names to protect their real purposes for the past four years in Washington's dense, changeable metropolitan area. Last night's troubles at their fake Meteor Express in Arlington were highly unusual. But even that mishap had been eliminated in the very early hours—after Yurimengri's corpse had been disposed of—by installing Renae Trucking, a legitimate company owned and operated by one of their old KGB associates.
But Berianov was already on to another nagging issue: "Now we must discuss one more thing, Ivan Ivanovich . . ." They continued talking, with Berianov giving orders as he made plans to eliminate another man, this one an American, who was on the brink of causing them serious trouble.
9
Beth parked and hurried through chrome-bright sunshine toward a boxlike, eight-story building that was the epitome of so-called modern architecture. Although it looked like a concrete-sided penitentiary, the 1970s structure housed the illustrious Washington Post. Here was where Beth hoped to find something useful about Anatoli Yurimengri from the journalist who had written so knowledgeably about his life.
The article had both electrified and repelled her: Not only had she been close to knowing Yurimengri's name, but once again there was the Russian connection. Perhaps other people called him Yuri. It could be a nickname. As a culture, Russians were fond of using nicknames and diminutives.
She strode quickly toward the newspaper's massive doors, feeling the pressure of lost time. She had stopped on the drive to buy a cardigan sweater to replace her dirty jacket, hoping to improve her presentation factor, and then she had stopped again at a deli for food and to take her meds. Annoyed at the interruptions, at least she had been able to study the Post article.
The newspaper's lobby was cool and spacious, with high ceilings. Now that she was inside, the building gave off a sense of greatness, as if important things could be expected from whatever business was conducted here.
She headed to the security man behind the desk. "Jeffrey Hammond, please."
"You have an appointment?" The man had sharp gray eyes beneath heavy brows that drooped low. In his security uniform of blue blazer and gray slacks, he sat smartly erect, as if he never stopped being on duty.
"No, but I'd like to see him. Tell him it's about Colonel Yurimengri."
"Your name?"
"Beth Convey." As he dialed, she reread the article's opening:
In one of the least-kept secrets of the new century, the United States and Russia still run espionage operations against each other, despite the end of the cold war a decade ago.
Last night, an apparently minor player from those distant days was shot to death in Washington. In its own way, his murder signals how much the spy game between the former arch enemies has changed, yet remains the same.
His name was Anatoli Yurimengri, and he was a defector.
A former colonel with the Soviet Union's dreaded spy agency, the KGB, he was born and raised on the windswept taiga of Russia's bitter north, while he met his death a half century later on a warm spring night in a urine-spotted alley less than three miles from the U.S. Capitol.
In the neighborhood around Orleans Place, where police say he apparently died from a single gunshot to the chest, brick row houses line narrow, claustrophobic streets, and the drug history is long and notorious.
No one with money shops there except for drugs. That is why the tags of cars cruising the area are often from out of town.
Yurimengri's expensive red Jaguar had Virginia plates. It was found a block from where he died. It had been stripped.
He had come a long way from poverty and communism to die not for political ideals but for what police are initially theorizing was an old-fashioned robbery.
His gold Rolex watch, credit cards, diamond wedding ring, and "gangster roll" of cash were missing. His widow, Cheryl, a blond former beauty queen he met locally, told police he habitually carried those items.
He died rich, but when he arrived in the United States ten years ago, he was penniless. . . .
"Ms. Convey?"
She looked at the security man.
"Mr. Hammond says he'll be right down."
"Thanks." Brooding, she stalked across the lobby, peered unseeing out the window, and strode back to glare at the elevator, waiting. The writer had related so much detailed insight not only about Yurimengri but about the spy agencies of the old Soviet Union and the new Russia, that she figured he must be some kind of dusty researcher-type who spent his life navel-deep in piles of clippings, arcane reports, and crumbling interview transcripts. In her mind, she saw a little ink-stained man with a green eye shade, unpressed shirtsleeves rolled up above his skinny elbows, and chinos with the permanent imprint of bony knees bent from years of sitting at a desk.
What the journalist, Hammond, had written made her skin crawl. Surely she had no relationship with Yurimengri or his violent past. Silently she accused her heart, "Don't tell me you knew him or his killer!"
She continued reading:
In August 1991, Communist hardliners tried to overthrow Mikhail Gorbachev's government and quash the opposition forming around Boris Yeltsin.
The hard-liners' coup failed utterly, and, shortly afterwards, reformers dismantled the KGB. Many long-time officers lost their jobs and were cast adrift in a world they no longer recognized. It was the beginning of today's New Russia.
Almost as if he were prescient, Colonel Yurimengri defected at the time of the fateful coup, thus avoiding job loss and perhaps execution.
Both the CIA and the FBI welcomed him with open arms. Unknown to the world at large, he had been high in the KGB's First Branch of the Second Chief Directorate, which operated counterintelligence in Moscow against the CIA.
He had heard and seen many things useful to America, and the CIA and FBI debriefed him for three weeks. Then they gave him the standard resettlement package of three weeks of classes in how to function in the United States, plus a modest living stipend.
And they cut him loose.
He chose not to disappear. Instead, he kept his real name and identity. Within a year, Wheels SovAm, the machinery-partscompany he founded after his debriefing, made him a multimillionaire.
In his busy new life, he flew back and forth between Washington and Moscow, New York and St. Petersburg, Des Moines and Bratsk. He was a biznesman, rich in greenbacks, with a stunning new young wife.
Then last night he was killed for his American money, his British car, his South African diamond ring, and his Swiss watch. Not for his Communist ideology. Which shows how much not only the spy business but the world has changed.
Watch his funera
l four days hence for who stays away. Do not expect his fellow ex-spies, many of whom remain unknown and underground, to appear.
Remarkably, they form the largest group of "retired" KGB outside Moscow.
And do not expect to see many of his acquaintances from the old days who claim to have played no part in espionage, because they are uncomfortable being associated with what happened during the no-holds-barred cold war.
Or perhaps some will stay away for a far different, more dangerous reason: They have slipped back into the spy trenches.
Intelligence operatives are more valuable than ever to Mother Russia. Even in the most remote corners of that suffering land, it is common knowledge the longer the country remains in poverty and despair, the more she yearns to be a superpower again.
And although the KGB is defunct, its violent, secret ways thrive on in its successor agency, the Federal Security Service (FSB).
So while retired Colonel Yurimengri—supposedly a reborn Capitalist and democrat—may rest in peace, we in the West have reason to wonder what is going on beneath the surface of the still waters from which he arose—the cream of the deadly KGB. . . .
"Ms. Convey?"
She whirled and tried to keep the surprise from her voice. "Mr. Hammond?"
"The same."
He had come down the stairs, not the elevator, and he walked toward her with a faint glow of sweat on his broad, handsome face. He had a ponytail and wore a gold hoop earring in his right ear. His large features were seized up in an impatient scowl. In his tight jeans and blue cotton work shirt, there was nothing small and refined about him. This was no ink-stained little man with weak, rounded shoulders. Instead, everything about him was oversized and impressive, from his aristocratic nose to his big, square shoulders and large hands and feet, which were stuffed into high-heeled, lizard-skin cowboy boots. He exuded a cocky power that seemed to knock the oxygen from her lungs.
Yet there was something else—a haunted expression around his eyes. The eyes and the impatient scowl did not match. They battled each other, as if the scowl were forced, put on, a façade he was presenting to her, and perhaps to the world. He was hiding, acting, covering something. But what was it? What was he trying to conceal?
