And who would have that as his motive?
But for now, there was no point directly confronting Hunter again. He’d proved he was way too slick to show signs of guilt or trip himself up under interrogation. Besides, Cronin had no valid reason to call him in for further questioning, let alone arrest and charge him with anything. And why tip him off that he was now under suspicion for Boggs’s murder?
No, he’d have to gather more evidence on his own. And hope the cops in Pennsylvania came up with something more from the crime scene.
He thought suddenly of Erskine. He felt conflicted about not bringing him in on this. Paul had been his partner for a long time, and not sharing stuff with him felt like disloyalty. It started when Abrams and that CIA spook told him to lay off Hunter, offering bullshit “national security” reasons. They ordered him not to say anything to Paul or anyone else about it, too.
At the time, Cronin pretended to go along. But it made him angry. Nobody was going to tell him to bury an investigation. He continued to stay on Hunter. Still, he didn’t want to get Paul in trouble, so he kept his investigation to himself.
That’s what he told himself. But he sensed, deep down, that something else was stopping him from sharing his suspicions about Hunter with Paul. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Or maybe he didn’t want to . . .
3
Avery Trammel stood inside his spacious clothes closet, selecting the tie he would wear to the banquet, when he heard his mobile phone chirp in the bedroom. He frowned; that particular ringtone was associated with a man who should not be calling him after normal business hours.
Half-dressed, he emerged to see Julia seated at the vanity, toying with her hair.
“Up or down?” she asked, raising her red hair in a pile atop her head. She was to receive a special award tonight for her charity work on behalf of undocumented immigrants.
“Give me a moment,” he said, hurrying past her to grab the phone he had left on the bed.
“Wallace, I am afraid I cannot chat right now. We—”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Trammel.” The annoying, lisping voice had taken on a tone of whiny pleading. “I didn’t want to bother you at home in the evening, but I didn’t think this could wait.”
Wallace Rouse was the president of the Currents Foundation, the funding conduit for much of Trammel’s political activism.
“Let me be the judge of that. What is it?”
Rouse told him.
Trammel did not move as he listened. Nor did he speak.
“Mr. Trammel?”
He realized that Rouse had stopped talking and was waiting for a response.
“You were right to let me know about this promptly, Wallace. For the time being, do not communicate with them any further. Tell them to direct any future communications to our attorney.”
He slowly lowered his hand and dropped the phone back on the bed.
“Well? Up or down?”
He turned to her. “What?”
“I need to know whether to wear my hair up or down tonight. Up, and I can wear the emerald earrings you gave me for my birthday. But those might be too ostentatious. Down, and I—”
“Julia,” he said, approaching, “that call—there is a crisis I must attend to tonight. I am afraid that I shall not be able to accompany you to the banquet.”
“What?” She leaped to her feet.
“I am truly sorry, but this—”
“You’re sorry? You are actually going to make me attend the banquet unescorted?” Her pale-green slip began to tremble. “And I’m their guest of honor! Do you have any idea how that will look?”
“It simply cannot be helped. I must . . . arrange a meeting tonight to deal with this emergency immediately. I am likely to be out till quite late.”
Her mouth gaped open and tears gathered in her eyes, glittering from the lights surrounding the mirror. She sank back onto the padded vanity seat.
“I can’t believe this! I can’t believe you would do this to me. You . . . you’ve been so distant lately—and now . . .” She began to cry. “And you say it all so cold and calm and matter-of-fact . . . like you really don’t mean it. Like you really don’t care. Avery, what in hell is wrong with you? What is happening to us?”
He took a step toward her, raising his hand—then dropped it, knowing it was useless. The woman would not be mollified, of course. He would just have to deal with her later.
“I am sorry,” he repeated, then turned away.
Moments later, he was back in casual attire and headed toward his study. Two weeks ago, it had taken him twenty minutes to decide what to do about that writer, Wasserman. This time he had made up his mind before the call with Rouse ended.
He tapped in the keypad code to unlock the door, then entered and locked it behind him. He went straight to his desk and opened its hidden safe. He retrieved a flat device with an antenna and powered it on. A screen on its surface lit up, opening a virtual keyboard. He tapped rapidly with his thumbs for a couple of minutes, then a press of a button dispatched the encrypted message in a high-frequency burst.
Ten long minutes later, he received a reply on the same frequency. He read it, automatically decrypted, and grunted in relief. He keyed in his brief acknowledgment, then powered down and replaced the device back in the safe. He was preparing to close and lock it when, on impulse, he grabbed and pocketed the Sig-Sauer and a spare magazine.
Though he had worked with them for a long time, he knew that these people never could be fully trusted.
EIGHTEEN
The motel on New York Avenue in the Northeast section of Washington was a dump, frequented by the city’s nocturnal predators and their prey. A man like Avery Trammel would never be caught dead in such a place. But for this meeting, secrecy was paramount, and he knew that the man who booked the room would have paid the night clerk handsomely, in cash, so that the security cameras would go dark for the next hour.
Trammel had taken the Metro from the Watergate to Union Station. There, in a restroom stall, he changed into shabbier clothes, a fake mustache, eyeglasses, and a broad-brimmed hat, which he had brought with him in a shopping bag. Then he caught a cab to deposit him here.
The night clerk—young, male, and African-American—sprawled in a chair behind the desk, wearing headphones attached to his phone. His eyes were closed, and he rocked and bobbed to a thumping beat Trammel could hear from the doorway when he entered. He had to shout to get the clerk’s attention. At his request, the guy handed over the key to room 109 without a word, then shut his eyes and began bobbing again.
Trammel kept a hand in his windbreaker pocket as he crossed the parking lot, taking comfort from the feel of the loaded Sig-Sauer. Unlocking and entering the shabby ground-level room, he was assaulted by the mingled smells of cigarettes, urine, and bleach. He closed the door behind him, latched the security chain, turned on the lights, and glanced around.
He had endured places far worse during his childhood. He placed the bag bearing his change of clothes on the desk, and crumpled it shut to keep out any vermin. Covering his fingers with a tissue, he pulled shut the curtains, which hadn’t been washed in years. He was glad to be first to arrive: He settled onto the cheap laminate chair, leaving his contact to brave the ancient gray-brown bedspread, if he dared. Then he checked his Rolex, which he had transferred from his wrist to his trousers pocket, to remain inconspicuous.
It was three minutes before eight p.m.
Right at eight he heard footsteps on the sidewalk outside. Three quick knocks were followed by two more, spaced out. Trammel got up, taking the pistol with him. He looked out through the door’s security peephole, just to make sure. Then he dropped the gun into his windbreaker pocket, unlatched the chain, and opened the door.
2
The middle-aged man who entered had the sort of pleasant, darkly masculine, yet unremarkable features that never drew much attention. That served him well, because Leonid Dimitrievich Sokolov was Russia’
s most valuable spy in America.
He took in Trammel’s disguise and laughed heartily.
“Am I in the wrong room? You are ‘Allan Jones,’ right?” he said, using the alias Trammel had been told to give the motel clerk.
Sokolov’s accent was impeccable. He had been trained intensively to pass for an American native, and he had been living in the United States for two decades as an “illegal,” under the alias of Leon Sokol. Trammel had once visited Sokolov at his modest home in Takoma Park. His pretty American wife and two boys had no idea that “Lenny” was a high-ranking officer in Russia’s SVR.
His cover job was executive director of Brotherhood Without Borders, a nonprofit educational and lobbying organization ostensibly promoting “international cultural understanding and cooperation.” In actuality, it was a Russian influence operation—a conduit for dezinformatzya, often coordinating with RT, the Russian state’s international television network. The group maintained headquarters in the District and satellite offices in several European capitals, which gave Sokolov a plausible reason to travel frequently. On such trips he often hand-delivered to his SVR bosses troves of intelligence gathered by the spy ring he also handled. The ring had included James Muller at the CIA; it still included the second mole there, whose identity had never been revealed to Trammel.
And, of course, it included Avery Trammel himself.
Brotherhood Without Borders was funded largely by generous grants from the Currents Foundation—Russian money, laundered through the Trammel Foundation. The Currents connection allowed Sokolov to meet with Trammel regularly and publicly.
But this irregular meeting could not be public.
Keeping his right hand on the gun in his windbreaker, Trammel retreated back to the chair. The man across the room had killed before. One could never tell what orders he had been given.
“What? No handshake?” Sokolov laughed again and secured the door behind him. Then he turned, took in the room, and wrinkled his nose. “Oh. Well, never mind the handshake, old friend. I don’t know what in here you might have touched.”
“We could have met in some park, you know.”
“What? You don’t like our accommodations?”
“Be my guest,” Trammel replied, nodding toward the bed.
Sokolov looked at the stained bedspread, then around the room for another chair. Finding none, began to pace. Trammel waited him out.
“All right, then, down to business. I can inform you that the Kremlin debated your plan for a long time. To be more accurate, they argued about it violently, for two days. And with good reason. The risks are enormous.”
“I acknowledged the risks in my proposal.”
“Frankly, most of the leadership thought it too risky. Many said the plan was insane. But Putin concluded that circumstances had turned critical—desperate, in fact—and therefore, desperate measures were required.”
“Which means what, exactly?” Trammel asked, gripping the arm of the chair.
Sokolov stopped pacing.
“It means he overruled them. Yes, my friend, your crazy operation has been green-lighted.”
Trammel felt like dancing. Instead, he kept his expression sober and simply nodded. He knew he was safe and could relax, now; he released his grip on the gun in his jacket pocket.
“Naturally,” Sokolov added, “Putin wishes it were otherwise. All of them are still howling about Ashton Conn’s murder. Nobody can believe it. They had so much riding on his election.”
“We all did,” Trammel said.
Sokolov waved his hand dismissively. “Nobody gives a damn about your ‘green energy’ investments, Avery. We push those only to offer options to fracking, not to make you even richer. Okay, sure—it would have been nice if they had paid off for you. Maybe then we could have cut back on our subsidies of your lavish lifestyle. Every time I submit your requests for another infusion of cash, the Center screams at me.”
“That ‘lavish lifestyle’ has been instrumental in maintaining my profile and influence here. I should think that, after all these years, they would realize that. I am one ‘investment’ that has paid Moscow handsome dividends, for a long time.”
Sokolov came and stood over him. His eyes, usually soft and affable, narrowed. “True. But it may surprise you to learn that, in recent years, we had started to doubt your loyalties, my friend.”
Trammel sat back and crossed his arms. “It may surprise you to learn that I had sensed as much, Leon. Even though I have never given you cause to doubt me.”
A little smile curved the corners of Sokolov’s mouth.
“Be that as it may, you proved your commitment last year, when you responded so quickly and effectively to our urgent request to deal with Muller.”
“You made it abundantly clear what the stakes were.”
“And thanks to you, our other asset is still in place at Langley.” He bobbed his head, a salute. “For which we are eternally grateful.”
“So. I passed the test, then.”
Sokolov grinned. “With flying colors. Still, you must be more reasonable in your spending habits. Things are tight and getting tighter. With Conn’s death and the fracking moratorium lifted, oil and natural gas prices have collapsed again. American fracking is taking a terrible toll on the Russian economy. It’s killing our energy export market. If we don’t do something about it, it’s only a matter of time until liquified natural gas shipped from here will wean NATO countries like Germany from their dependency on Gazprom.”
“You are merely reiterating the arguments I put forth in my proposal. What did they say, specifically, about the plan itself?”
Sokolov glanced again at the bed cover, reconsidering the risks. He resumed pacing.
“Beyond the fracking issue, they like the fact that your plan will undermine Americans’ faith in their government and its ability to protect them. It will cause them to panic and stampede toward the candidate who seems most willing to go to extremes to protect them.”
“Which is neither Waller nor Helm,” Trammel said.
“In fact, that’s what they found most ingenious about your plan, my friend. It exploits the public’s lack of confidence in Waller, whom they believe is unprepared and unstable. And when it drives them to demand more security over liberty, that will turn Helms’s passion for civil liberties into a major political liability.”
“Precisely,” Trammel said. “My media associates, such as Lucas Carver, will hang the ‘weak on terrorism’ label around his neck like an albatross.”
“Which brings us to Spencer. He’s the wild card. Are you absolutely sure you can co-opt him? You didn’t specify how you plan to do that.”
Trammel spent several moments explaining. Sokolov still looked uncertain.
“You understand that we’ll give the operation a final ‘go’ only if all those things you promise do happen?”
“I understand. As for the operation itself, to insure security, it will be implemented through multiple layers of intermediaries—”
“‘Cutouts.’”
Trammel chuckled. “You people and your theatrical spy jargon.”
Sokolov raised his chin. “That ‘spy jargon,’ as you mock it, is an integral element of tradecraft,” he shot back. “It serves us well, just as it served your own father well.”
It felt like a slap in the face. Trammel shot to his feet.
“Did it, now?”
“Oh God, Avery. That was stupid of me.” Sokolov’s voice turned suddenly soft, mollifying. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I told you never to mention my father.”
“I’m truly sorry. I know how painful the subject must be, even after all these years. I cannot imagine what a nightmare it was for you as a child.”
“No. You cannot.”
He steadied his breathing and sat down. “Now, let us stick to the reason for this meeting, shall we?”
“Of course, of course. Let’s discuss the logistics.
“Finally,” said Av
ery Trammel.
3
After Sokolov left, Trammel called for a cab. While he waited, he wiped down every surface either of them had touched, including the door knob as he departed.
He had the cab drop him off back at Union Station. Carrying the shopping bag, he returned to the restroom. He got rid of the disguise and changed back into the clothing he had worn at the beginning of the evening. He rolled up the disguise and shabby clothes in the bag and stuffed it into the restroom’s garbage can, beneath a heap of used paper towels. Then he retraced his path on the Metro back to the Watergate.
The residence was empty and quiet. Julia would return from the banquet angry and upset. The prospect irritated him. Much as he was tempted to spend the night downstairs with Emmalee, it would be imprudent and risk raising needless suspicions. He would have to stay here to endure Julia later.
Trammel went to his study, locked the door behind him, and returned the gun to the desk safe. He retrieved his satellite phone and punched in the code for Lasher. His call was returned quickly.
“Unfortunately, it appears that our concerns about the CAP organization were justified,” he began.
“So, where does that leave things?” Lasher asked.
“They now have become loose ends.”
He knew Lasher would understand.
“All right. How many are we talking about?”
“Thankfully, it is a small nonprofit. From what I learned from their website, only about a dozen people, including support staff.”
“That’s still a lot of loose ends.”
“The numbers do not matter. I have made clear to you that a great deal is at stake. Much more than you could imagine. The information you brought me from the researcher’s office—it cannot get out, under any circumstances. Is that understood?”
“I understand, sir. But that many people . . . it will be complicated. It’ll require a lot of planning. And the involvement of others. I’ll need a team. The logistics alone . . .”
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 18
