The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  “Really? Then why is it just now you raise this question?” Fedorov waved dismissively. “Since when does a man of your talents care about sarin gas or other means? You were paid a significant amount. You were told what you needed to know. I engaged you to assist Khalifah and control Saeed. You were to use your considerable talents when needed. So, if we are to renegotiate, perhaps you should return some of the many US dollars I have paid you, no?”

  “No?” Caine angled across the room to a straight-backed chair where he allowed himself to sit and rest his Beretta on his knee. “You’ve made it very difficult for me to find future work for quite some time, Alexei. Grigori has told LaRue everything. Now, he and the FBI know my name and my face. It will be some time before I can openly be engaged.”

  Grigori spun toward Fedorov. “That is a lie, Colonel General. I told them only small details to avoid their torture and have them believe I was being truthful. I had no choice. I spoke nothing of Caine. How could I? I knew nothing.”

  “Operation Maya,” Caine said dryly. “Your plan to inspire the Americans to redouble their attentions in Afghanistan and Iraq, and to close the gates against any future refugees. Operation Maya was to engage the Americans elsewhere so Russia could move westward again over its prior empire.”

  Fedorov looked at Grigori. His eyes were cold and empty—condemning eyes. “He is well informed, is he not, Grigori?”

  Grigori shook his head. “No.”

  Fedorov turned back to Caine. “How did you come to these conclusions, Caine?”

  “I found Grigori’s file in the safe house. I have that file and the videotapes of Grigori’s confessions. It was simple.”

  Fedorov closed his eyes and lowered his head for a long moment. “No. I think not, Caine. Grigori did not know those details. Yes, he knew some, as the Americans would say, big-picture things. But not those details.”

  “Are you sure? Then how else would I have known?”

  Grigori reached out and grabbed Fedorov’s arm. “Sir, no, please. I told them no such things. Perhaps it is Caine who—”

  The shot from Caine’s silenced Beretta struck Grigori in the forehead just above his nose. The sound, silenced only to a small degree, reverberated around the small apartment with little furnishings to absorb it. Grigori staggered backward, tripped over nothing, and collapsed onto the floor behind Fedorov’s chair.

  “Now, Alexei, there is another problem,” Caine said, turning the gun toward him. “Your plans are in LaRue’s hands. Did Sokoloff know of the other targets after Baltimore?”

  Fedorov, a man not unaccustomed to violence, was startled by Grigori’s execution. “Other targets?”

  “Yes. They must be warned. LaRue could already be moving on them.”

  Fedorov’s brow furrowed in confusion “It is only you and Saeed’s cell. He has secured a home in Catonsville for the final push to the harbor.”

  “Give me the address. They must be moved or Maya will fail.”

  Fedorov’s eyes narrowed on Caine, and he stayed immobile. He contemplated his hands for the longest time and then gave him the address within the Arab neighborhood outside Baltimore. “LaRue was to find them, Caine. It will ensure the Americans believe this was an Arab attack, not one so coyly orchestrated by us. But, perhaps you should ensure LaRue and his people do find the Catonsville clues. After all, Grigori did not have that information.”

  Caine nodded. “I’ll see to it myself. There will be no question of their involvement when I finish.”

  “Good.” Fedorov raised his chin. “You should know, however, that, for now, Maya is all I have. When it is successful, Moscow will surely authorize me another. You will be rewarded for seeing me through this.”

  Caine smiled. “No other?”

  “No, no. There is another. A surprise, my friend. A special surprise.”

  “What is this surprise?”

  Fedorov grinned. “If I told you, it would not be a surprise.”

  “This surprise is the last cell?”

  “Yes, but only later. After.” Fedorov smiled. “Go now, Caine. Khalifah has the final plans ready. He will execute Maya within hours.”

  “Tell me now.”

  Fedorov shook his head. “Khalifah will brief you on what you need to know. Return to Winchester. Time is short.”

  “One target? You lied to me, Fedorov. You promised me much more work than this.”

  “Nyet, nyet.” Fedorov folded his hands in earnest. “Operation Maya is a beginning. A simple plan. A plan of my own making, too. Moscow knows nothing of it. They don’t wish to know. That is why I have not planned for more cells. When it is successful, they will support me and we will move elsewhere. New York, Chicago, perhaps California. Moscow only wants the Americans out of our path to restrengthen our country. Regaining some of our lost territories is the first step. From there, we will rebuild our former union.”

  Caine went across the room to the windows. He moved a corner of the closed blinds and took a long time checking the area outside. “Launching these attacks will distract the Americans that much?”

  “Da,” Fedorov said smiling. “They are easily distracted these past years. They have withdrawn from the world. Their invasion of the Middle East was behind claims of national security. Yet, when we do the same in Crimea and Syria, they rattle sabers and cause the world to look at us with old, Cold War eyes.”

  Caine said nothing.

  Fedorov continued. “But, give them a reason to worry again about their own national security and they will leave us alone and keep their prying to rhetoric and saber rattling. They will take no actions. Their voice is not the same as it once was in NATO. The more they are focused on the Arabs, the less they are focused on us. America’s will is broken. Russia will rise again soon, Caine. Very, very soon.”

  “There is no connection to your SVR?” Caine said. “You are sure?”

  Fedorov stood, walked to the alcove, and opened the small refrigerator as Caine tracked him with the Beretta. He retrieved a bottle of Russian vodka and two chilled glasses, poured two tall drinks, and returned. He offered one to Caine and raised his glass. “My mercenary friend, there is no connection to me. Not after Grigori. There is no SVR connection left for them to chase.”

  Caine moved away from Fedorov and sipped his vodka. “You directed Khalifah and Saeed to use refugees to make the attacks look like they came from ISIS or another brand. It’s all a ruse to distract the Americans.”

  “Da. They were easy recruits.” Fedorov shrugged. “After the breadcrumbs we have left, who is to say it was not ISIS? Make this an Arab problem and America will not worry so much about Russia.”

  Caine said nothing. He set his glass down on a small coffee table near the windows and checked outside again.

  “Caine,” Fedorov said in a strong, husky voice, “you have proven yourself. I have many new endeavors for you. But time is short. America is about to believe that Armageddon has landed on its shores.”

  “Now, Alexei, first things first.” Caine turned the gun on him again. “Let’s you and I agree on what Grigori’s file and three cylinders of sarin are worth in today’s marketplace. Shall we?”

  Fedorov threw his head back and laughed again. “Da, da. Of course. What is it you wish?”

  “I wish more money. I have half the sarin Saeed Mansouri is supposed to use.” Caine eyed the Russian SVR man. “Do you have enough sarin for this new target?”

  “What is your price?”

  Twenty minutes later, Caine shook Colonel General Alexei Mikhailovich Fedorov’s hand and slipped out the rear door.

  CHAPTER 72

  Day 6: May 20, 1330 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Leesburg, Virginia

  OSCAR LARUE WALKED through Fedorov’s front door just after one of the three heavily armed men silently picked the lock and preceded the spymaster through.

  Fedorov stood from his chair. “What is the meaning of this? You?”

  “Good afternoon, Alexei.” LaRue waved at
his men to search the apartment. “How fortuitous you’re still here. Grigori, too. Ah, I see he’s already dead. No matter. You will do just fine.”

  Fedorov looked amused and picked up his glass of vodka. “You think you know something? Tell me.”

  “I know everything, Alexei. Everything.”

  Fedorov watched the armed commandos move through the small apartment, checking every door and cabinet. “Ah, more lies from a disgruntled colleague?” He motioned to Grigori’s body across the room.

  LaRue said nothing.

  “Then what is it that you seek here?”

  LaRue stepped forward and handed Fedorov a folder. Inside were transcripts of Grigori, Fariq, and Azar’s confessions. He waited until Fedorov had read snippets of several of the pages. “This is just a taste, Alexei. We have the details as well. Your movement of men, payments, communications. Everything.”

  “I have never known you to be this foolish, my friend.” Fedorov closed the folder. “You are getting excitable in your old age, no?”

  LaRue said nothing.

  “Ah, I see. No matter. You are forgetting the golden rule.”

  “The golden rule?”

  “Diplomatic immunity.” Fedorov returned to the refrigerator and refilled his vodka glass, stepping over Grigori’s body like it was a dog sleeping at his feet. “You see, this is pointless.”

  “Unfortunately, no.” LaRue lifted his chin. “You and your Iranian surrogates have executed attacks on our soil. Hundreds are dead. All by your hand. By your direction.”

  “I have no connection to those savages. The rantings of a rogue Persian tortured into false confession is no proof.”

  “It is over, Alexei. Your actions are an act of war.”

  Fedorov threw back his head and laughed. “War? America is too weary. Your history will not allow you to shed blood without facts. Iraq still haunts you. You have no facts, but still I have immunity. This theater of yours is over.”

  LaRue walked casually to Fedorov and took his vodka glass. He downed it before the SVR man’s eyes. “You have turned our streets into battlegrounds. Our people are fighting each other over faith and fear. All because of you.”

  “Nonsense. Your people are simply releasing what has been pent up for a decade. What is your offer?”

  “You misunderstand, Fedorov. There is no offer. You and the Iranians are accountable.”

  “Accountable?” Colonel General Fedorov let slip a nervous grin. “You will never go to war with Iran. That would mean the destruction of Israel. You would never consider war with Russia, either. You prefer helpless, insignificant countries to battle.”

  “Accountable, Alexei.”

  “Impossible.” Fedorov was failing to show his confidence as sweat formed on his brow and began to trickle downward. “Your debt strangles you. Your politics cripple you. There is no American will remaining.”

  “Unfortunately, Alexei, you miscalculated. You used the IRGC to exploit innocent refugees to carry out Operation Maya. You hope to destabilize us to allow Moscow to move on its old territories in Europe.”

  “You can prove nothing,” Fedorov said hesitantly. “Now, to allow you to keep some face, Oscar LaRue, what are your terms?”

  “There are no terms.” LaRue nodded to the masked commando nearest Fedorov. The man removed his balaclava and stepped forward. LaRue continued. “It seems Operation Maya concerns Moscow greatly. They don’t wish to be embarrassed, as we don’t wish to report to Congress our own failures to protect the homeland.”

  “Your failures are far more than that.”

  LaRue regarded the Russian colonel general. “I am confused by one fact, Alexei. I understand what you wished to gain from Operation Maya. I do not understand, however, what your Iranian friends wished to gain.”

  “It should be obvious.” Fedorov forced a laugh again. “They have grown tired of embarrassing you abroad. They merely wished to taunt you on your own soil.”

  LaRue nodded. “Another grave miscalculation. I am afraid it is over now.”

  “I do not understand.” Fedorov paled. “Moscow will never allow you—”

  “Alexei Mikhailovich Fedorov,” said the unmasked commando in a thick, coarse Russian accent, “Moscow has sent me and I have heard enough.”

  Fedorov turned to the man. “Who are you? What is this about?”

  “Names are not important, Colonel General. But if you wish, you may know me as Boris.” Boris turned to LaRue. “Does this arrangement satisfy you that we are not responsible for Operation Maya?”

  LaRue studied Fedorov for a long moment. “It is a beginning.”

  “No.” Fedorov stepped in front of Boris and turned toward LaRue. “Wait, I can give you Khalifah. You have been hunting him for years.”

  “Dasvidanya, my old friend.” LaRue turned his back on the two Russian Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki men. “I am sorry.”

  Boris moved quickly and looped a wire garrote around Fedorov’s throat. It took only seconds.

  CHAPTER 73

  Day 6: May 20, 1430 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Catonsville, Maryland

  “WHAT IS IT you do with us?” the young tea merchant asked Caine. “Please, tell me. My wife and I do nothing for those men.”

  Caine opened the front door and gestured toward his car. “Get into my car and wait. Don’t do anything stupid like running. If you do, I’ll kill you before you get off your sidewalk.”

  The tea merchant bundled up his pregnant wife and guided her to the door. “As you wish.”

  “Thank you,” the merchant’s wife said in a mere whisper. She glanced back at the two Afghani mercenaries lying dead in the hallway behind them. “They were very bad men.”

  Caine threw a chin toward the door. “Go. Now. Into the car.”

  The merchant pulled his wife’s arm and led her outside just two steps ahead of Caine.

  Before he climbed into his four-door sedan, Caine tapped a brief message on his cell phone.

  Khalifah, I am detained. Will be there soon. Don’t start without me.

  CHAPTER 74

  Day 7: May 21, 0015 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Sandy Creek—Sand Town—Rural Frederick County, Virginia

  THE PUNCHES STRUCK with ruthless potency. My arms were bound behind me and my legs taped to a wooden chair. The beating had just begun and already the Iranian, Khaled I think, had scored serious points on my ribs. He started with a right hook to my jaw and then did a rumba on my chest and stomach. After five or six more tunes, he tired and called out in Iranian.

  A tall, thin Persian stepped from the darkness and approached me. The man’s arms were sinewy, and he flexed them as though preparing to continue my assault. His narrow face allowed a dangerous, dark smile through his tightly cropped, neatly trimmed beard.

  “You are Jonathan Hunter?” the Persian said evenly. “I have heard so much about you from my friend Khalifah.”

  I shook myself to sit up straight. “Let me guess, you’re Saeed Mansouri.”

  “I am.” Saeed seemed happy I knew him as if he were a celebrity. “It is a shame we meet now, under these, ah, circumstances? I must leave you to Khaled. He will take proper care of you. I am so sorry. I would like to kill you myself. But it seems Khalifah wishes me to begin my next journey.”

  I was too late. “Care to share where you’re going? Baltimore perhaps?”

  Khaled grabbed my hair and yanked my head back so hard I thought it would snap off. “Shut up, pig.”

  Saeed nodded to the man to release me. “Baltimore? You know much. Too bad, Hunter. You know so much and can do nothing for it. Fear not, I will give Noor and Sameh your sorrowful good-byes.”

  They had Noor and Sam. They had me. Damn.

  Saeed laughed, nodded to Khaled, and disappeared into the darkness. I heard him ascending steps deeper in the room, beyond where I could see. He spoke to someone before lighter feet descended the same steps and approached me.

  A woman. She was a pretty Arab with bl
ack hair and dark features partially concealed beneath a hajib. She carried a plastic jug of water and a cup. She lifted the jug and poured a cup of water, extending it out toward me.

  Khaled said something in Persian I didn’t understand, grabbed the cup of water from her, and gulped it down.

  She refilled the cup and waited for him to drink again.

  While they exchanged water and cup, I took in my surroundings. The air was dank and stale. I tried to remember how I’d come to be there. Hours before, I’d awakened after the Taser attack at Noor’s house. At last count, it had been five attacks. I was dazed and immediately strapped immobile to the chair in the dark. Sound was dulled and the room seemed small and walls near. There was cold, gritty concrete beneath my feet. Off and on during the hours, I’d been awakened and then tazed again. Somewhere along the trip, I’d lost hours. Khaled seemed to enjoy the ritual. In the moments I’d been lucid, I’d heard virtually nothing. I’d seen virtually nothing. I’d felt only the surge of pain from the Taser and felt the darkness come on.

  The woman holding water to my lips was familiar. Oddly so. I remembered her. She was the woman from the café and Kevin’s graveside. She was one of them.

  Khaled knocked the water from her hands before I could take more than a mouthful. He grabbed the jug, threw it back toward the darkness and the stairs she’d emerged from, and shoved her hard onto the ground. He barked orders at her and she covered her face, preparing for his assault. Instead, he thrust a hand toward the darkness, ordering her from the room.

  As she got to her feet, Khaled turned back to me and slid a long, thin knife from his belt. In broken, difficult English, he managed to explain to me what was about to happen.

  “Now, pig, I will take your skin. One piece. Another. You will tell me who knows.”

  His eyes suddenly bulged. His body rocked upward onto tiptoes, and he tried to scream but the knife in his jugular didn’t allow it.

  The woman grabbed his sweaty, dirty hair and pulled him backward. She worked her knife deeper into his throat, backward and forward, until finally wrenching it out and allowing Khaled to drop to the floor.