by Ed Kovacs
“The Macallan. Three fingers.”
The bartender smiled and poured the hefty drink into an Old-Fashioned glass. Bennings took a healthy taste. He was a light drinker, but tonight just might be an exception. Especially considering what he needed to do in the next thirty-four minutes, since it was already 9:26 P.M. and Staci’s life depended upon him making a ten o’clock call to Viktor Popov.
Bennings reconnoitered the Music Room, making quick greetings with many acquaintances, mostly diplomats from the American and other embassies. He excused himself and made his way toward the library, stopping for a moment to toss back the rest of his Scotch. As he turned to look for a passing waiter, an arm grabbed him.
Instinctively, Bennings grabbed the hand and was about to maneuver it into an arm-bar hold, when he stopped himself; the hand belonged to General Alexander.
“Whoa, cowboy.”
“General, so sorry.”
Bennings quickly released Alexander and looked embarrassed.
“I’m not sure a reception for the secretary of state at the ambassador’s residence is the right place for you to put on a martial arts demonstration.”
“You startled me, sir. I reacted on instinct. Very sorry.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Major.”
Bennings didn’t say anything, just kept the general’s gaze.
“You don’t look too good.”
“Well, I thought I looked okay, sir.” Bennings was actually immaculately turned out: starched white shirt and black bow tie, waist-length dark blue mess jacket, black cummerbund, high-rise blue trousers with a yellow stripe running up the outside of each leg, red suspenders matching the jacket’s red lapels, high-gloss patent-leather shoes, and all the appropriate gold trim and miniaturized medals and Combat Service Identification Badges, such as the 75th Ranger Regiment, and the U.S. Special Operations Command.
“You know what I’m talking about. Hell, son, you’re wound up tighter than a drum.”
“I’m fine, General. Really. And sir, the SECSTATE and I … I’ve known her for several years. I used to brief her when she was the national security adviser and I was a DIA investigator. She’s been something of a mentor to me, since I didn’t understand much about Washington politics.”
“Is that right?”
“I just wanted to say hello to her, sir. I won’t stay long.”
“Well, I think she might be upstairs in a meeting with the ambassador.”
Bennings scowled slightly, then checked his watch: 9:37.
“I can give her your regards.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir. I’ll do it myself, and then go home.”
Kit fixed the general with a firm stare, in effect suggesting that he wasn’t going to budge. The general would have to order him to leave, and under the circumstances there wasn’t much chance of that happening. But you never know. He mentally prepared his counterarguments should Alexander demand he leave.
“Very well,” said Alexander, a little reluctantly.
The general moved off, and Kit strode over to the front stairway covered in lush burgundy-colored carpet. Beginning under a graceful arch, the foot of the stairs curved slightly, and then the body of the stairway straightened out to a gentle incline.
But there was no sign of the secretary of state. He checked his watch again and toyed with the notion of just walking up and looking for her. That would cause a huge stink, but he no longer cared about such things.
He caught the attention of a passing waiter and put his empty glass on the man’s tray.
“Have you seen the secretary of state?”
“Sir, she’s right now dancing in the ballroom.”
“Thanks.”
Bennings walked as fast as he could without drawing too much attention to himself. The Ballroom Annex was crowded with the real crème de la crème of Moscow’s diplomatic elite and high society. The designer ball gowns were custom-fitted and not off the rack from Saks; the hundred-thousand-dollar strands of diamonds weren’t on loan from Harry Winston; the men wore watches that cost more than Kit made in a year.
Speaking of watches, as he entered the ballroom, Kit checked his TAG Heuer chronograph: 9:44.
The Palladian windows, plush velvet draperies, and parquet floors of the grand room were almost enough to upstage the preening, lordly attendees. Almost.
Bennings spotted Margarite Padilla looking very elegant in a gold Valentino gown. Unfortunately, she was dancing with the American ambassador, Harry Thorn, and he seemed to be having the time of his life butchering a simple two-step to some generic fifties tune.
There was simply no time to be polite, so Bennings crossed directly to the couple in the middle of the dance floor and decisively interrupted.
“Madam Secretary, excuse me. Mister Ambassador, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but may I cut in, sir?”
Thorn couldn’t quite believe the intrusion and flashed angry. “Just who do you think you are, Major?”
Bennings saw from the corner of his eye that security agents were already heading his way. Then he locked his eyes, lasered them, onto Padilla. When she saw the look on Kit’s face, she gently patted the ambassador on the back.
“Harry, please indulge a middle-age lady,” said Padilla as more of an order than a request. With dyed-black hair up in a rather traditional chignon, Padilla wasn’t slim but carried the extra weight she’d put on as she had aged with refined dignity. A sly D.C. insider and the widow of a distinguished senator, Padilla had parlayed brains, loyalty, contacts, favors, and lucky timing into a very successful political career. Some even touted her as future presidential material. “Major Bennings here and I are old friends. And you might not have heard, but his mother passed away suddenly yesterday. I’d very much like to dance with him right now. But you shall have the next one.”
Ambassador Thorn swallowed his pride, shot Kit a dirty look, then plastered a phony smile on his face as he turned away and waved off the security pukes. Bennings had been schooled in all kinds of formal dancing as part of his attaché training, so he took the lead and crisply danced Padilla across the floor.
“Did you have to cut in like that?”
“I’m operating on a time constraint,” said Bennings, maintaining a big smile.
“Aren’t we all,” said Padilla, not amused.
“If I don’t make a phone call at exactly ten o’clock, after I brief you, they’re going to kill my sister too.”
Margarite Padilla’s eyes went big, and her jaw dropped slightly.
“Smile,” said Bennings, “because everyone’s watching us.”
Madam Secretary swallowed, then smiled the big smile she was famous for.
“It was no car accident. My mother was murdered yesterday. A few hours ago, a hit team stormed my family’s house in California. Rick and Maria Carrillo, my parent’s best friends, were like an uncle and aunt to me. They were shot dead in our house. My sister, Staci, was kidnapped … and then tortured.”
“Oh, my lord!”
“Keep smiling.”
“Who did it?”
“Viktor Popov. Former KGB general, now one of many Mafia dons operating in America and Russia. I’ve been meeting with him as part of my defense attaché cover. Mostly we just sat around and shot the breeze.”
“Then why did he go after your family?”
“He offered me two hundred thousand dollars to marry his niece, get her a visa, and take her to the U.S. I refused in no uncertain terms.”
“And for that he’s killing your family? You’re sure it’s him?”
“He showed me video. I watched his henchmen break my sister’s bones.”
Padilla gasped.
Kit turned them away from another couple and led them toward an empty patch of dance floor.
“Okay, I’ll call Ray Cormier and—”
“No,” he said with quiet authority. “You get the FBI or law enforcement into this and Staci is dead.”
“But we have to notify�
�”
“I’m notifying you. That’s it. I’ll fly to California tomorrow. I know that the FBI could eventually find her. But she’d be dead by then.”
“I can’t authorize you to—”
“I’m not asking you to authorize anything. I just wanted to tell you what I was going to do. You can have me detained or arrested before I leave the premises tonight. I’m giving you that option, but I’m not asking for anybody’s permission to save my sister.”
Padilla digested this. She forced a laugh, then waved to another couple across the floor. “What is it exactly you’re going to do?”
“I’m going to marry Popov’s niece early tomorrow morning. She’ll be on the flight with me to L.A.”
“But you said she doesn’t have a visa.”
“I’ll be at the embassy at nine in the morning with her passport, and I need to be in and out damn quick if I’m going to make the flight.”
“I can’t…” began Padilla, then she stopped once her eyes met Bennings’s. They exchanged the look of two people who shared deep, important secrets. Bennings held her gaze until she finally looked away and cast her eyes downward.
“Remember how we used to joke about all of the ‘I can’t,’ ‘we can’t,’ ‘no can do’ colonels in D.C.? The worthless ticket punchers afraid to do anything or it might screw up their chance to become a general? I hope you haven’t become like them.” There was no accusation in his voice, but his words held a kind of gentle resolve.
Padilla looked up and smiled even bigger. “I have more enemies than any colonel ever had. There are tens of thousands of political types in Washington with the long knives out who would just love an excuse to stick me in the back. If I give them an excuse, it will happen, and then the black world of special operations will lose its biggest supporter inside the Beltway. The question is, what does Popov really want you to do? No one pays two hundred thousand dollars to a soldier to marry a girl.”
“Exactly.” Kit’s eyes flashed. This was the conclusion he’d been waiting for Padilla to arrive at. He stood ready, willing, and able to go rogue, but maybe, just maybe, he could keep Padilla in his corner, at least for the time being. “I mean, why the marriage at all? Popov could get her into the States. He doesn’t need help with that.”
“I think the marriage is extra insurance. More leverage against you. If your sister dies in captivity, they lose your cooperation. But if they have evidence of you committing a federal offense—taking the money—a crime that would get you court-martialed and thrown in prison, then they have an ax over your head.”
“And maybe they want her traveling with me. They might have a tracking device in her things.”
“I’m sure they’d want to keep an eye on you,” said Padilla.
“I’ve been thinking about all of my conversations with him, but I can’t figure out why he targeted me.”
“Does Popov know about you and Sinclair?”
“That was my first concern, but I can’t see how. He thinks I’m an attaché spy, and not a very good one. I don’t know why he picked me, but regardless, I’m screwed. My career, if not my life, is over, based on what I intend to do.”
“Take on Popov and his entire organization.”
Bennings nodded.
“I’ll personally order the head of the consular section to issue a visa. I’ll tell her a … a…”
“A least untruthful lie?”
“Least untruthful lie” was a term originally used by the director of national intelligence to describe a lie he told while under oath to the U.S. Senate regarding NSA surveillance of American citizens. “Yes, exactly,” said Padilla. “A least untruthful lie. You’re learning diplomatic speak.”
Bennings relaxed a little. Padilla was providing him a bit of support. It wasn’t much, but enough to get the ball rolling, and for that he felt profoundly grateful.
“I’m sorry that Sinclair and I didn’t get the third mole, Madam Secretary. But we have a good idea who it is. I appreciate you putting your trust in me for that kind of sensitive mission.”
“You did good work here.” Padilla stopped smiling and pursed her lips together. “This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t sent you to Moscow.”
Bennings didn’t respond. There was no turning back the clock; there was only going balls to the wall.
“I’ll be going AWOL, most likely,” said Bennings. “So maybe there is one call you could make for me. A secure call to Larry Bing.”
“Your old commander at the Activity.”
“When everybody is calling for me to be skinned alive, could you let him know that everything is not as it seems?”
She nodded. “I’m so sorry about your family.”
“Secretary Padilla, just so we’re clear. I’ll do just about anything to save my sister. I’m not going to be too concerned with what’s legal. She’s all the family I have left. So either have me arrested or wish me luck, because I have a call to make.”
CHAPTER 12
Dennis Kedrov took in the clear Wyoming sky and enjoyed the crisp breeze on his face; the day was shaping up to be a beauty. He wished he could get in eighteen holes of golf somewhere. He flicked his Turkish cigarette, stepped under the camouflage netting, and leaned over the open tailgate of a covered pickup truck to inspect the bomb.
The explosive device was a type of shaped charge called a linear shaped charge. Dennis had used them before to take down buildings. This one was large, about the size of a railroad tie, but a couple of feet shorter. The unit had an inverted-V profile running along one side. The V profile focused the force of the explosion in one direction, forming an axlike blast that would cut anything in its path to a certain depth. Dennis had decided to go with a big bomb to make sure they hit the target.
“Okay,” said Dennis, satisfied. “Get it in the hole.”
Workers carefully slid the device onto the tines of a small Bobcat front loader, which then slowly carried it near a fourteen-feet-deep, six-feet-in-diameter hole carved out of rock-hard earth, where dowser Irene Shanks had once placed pink plastic flags.
The camouflage netting over the hole had to come down to allow the rest of the operation to proceed. Dennis wasn’t too concerned, since the spy satellites wouldn’t be overhead for another couple of hours. Still, there was no time to waste. A tracked mini crane maneuvered a small boom above the bomb. Workers connected thick canvas lifting straps cradling the device to the boom. The crane then lifted the unit into the air and pivoted it over the cavity.
Within seconds, the linear shaped charge was lowered into the hole, with the V profile pointing downward, so when the bomb exploded, the force of the cutting blast would be directed deeper into the ground.
Dennis looked on pleased. The whole process had so far gone without a hitch, and he expected that when the deceptions were complete, he would be spending plenty of time on the golf courses of his choice.
“It’s done,” said a worker.
“Fill in the dirt and tamp it down carefully,” said Dennis, removing a yellow golf ball from his pants pocket. He casually tossed the ball into the air and caught it one-handed. “Then erase any trace that we were ever here.”
* * *
Kit Bennings sat on a hard wooden chair in a drab Russian government office. On the other side of a battered table, Yulana Petkova sat erect and businesslike. She wore a light blue blouse under a simple gray pantsuit. The clothes looked good but weren’t expensive. Her off-brand purse and black heels matched well, and the costume jewelry was of the latest trend. Yulana, like many Russian women, went to a lot of trouble to look good. Of course, in Yulana’s case, she could be wearing a dirty bedsheet and sandals or be barefoot with tattered overalls and it wouldn’t have mattered, since she was drop-dead gorgeous.
She could easily be draped with real jewels or the finest furs and designer fashions, but that would require her to sell out or sell herself or marry some rich jerk she didn’t love, so she wore what she could afford to pay for from her modest go
vernment salary.
Her long, thick, jet-black hair with just the slightest wavy quality framed her face as it fell almost to her waist. Pale white blemish-free skin looked stark next to her hair, and natural aqua eyes tented by thin, finely arched eyebrows were the kind of eye color one might find on Polynesian girls. Yulana’s long, fairly thin nose and full soft-pink lips completed an exotic look that had turned many a head, even in Moscow, a city rich with beautiful, well-appointed women.
And like with many Russian women, her demeanor was tempered by a tough undercurrent. It was like an electrified third rail running along the tracks that was best left untouched. Was it the stereotype of the morose, depressed Russian showing itself? Or was her face betraying the suggestion that she didn’t want to be here any more than Bennings did? Or was her dark expression simply the result of her life experience? Of heartbreak, betrayal, and hard work and a longing for escape to something, anything better than whatever it was that held her in its clutches. Maybe for Yulana, it was a little bit of all of the above; she looked as though she could literally feel her inner hard edge, as naturally as she could feel a pebble in her shoe.
* * *
At least he looks sober, thought Yulana, when she first glanced at Kit Bennings. That was the first and so far only time she’d looked at him, when they were first introduced a few minutes earlier. She didn’t bother to stand, offer her hand, or smile. She gave him a quick glance of acknowledgment and then returned to the distractions of her smartphone. For her, the good news was that he wasn’t old, ugly, or fat. Still, she hoped she wouldn’t have to spend too much time with him; if he were a drunk who tried to get fresh with her, especially since they were about to be married and he might have some false ideas about what kind of intimacy that granted him, well, she’d been there plenty of times before and knew how to reduce a man to a ball of screaming pain in the fetal position.
A government clerk with a file folder, and two of Popov’s thugs entered the room. The clerk wordlessly handed Kit’s and Yulana’s passports back to them, then gave each of them an official document from the folder.
