As before, the Addison Road metrorail stop was nearly deserted. Bousikaris stepped off the train, paused at a pay phone, and pretended to make a call until the last passengers had disappeared, then walked to the railing. He heard footsteps behind him. Qing walked up. “Who were you calling?”
“No one. I was waiting for the platform to clear.”
“Very well.”
“What do you want?” Bousikaris said.
“Tell me about the plans. Are there any problems?”
“The whole damned thing is a problem. You don’t just order the chairman of the JCS and the director of the CIA to put on this kind of operation and expect them to not ask questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Nuts and bolts stuff.” Bousikaris noted Feng’s confused expression: “Tactical details. It’s highly unusual for a president to dictate those. The background we put together is solid enough, but the rest of it … They’re both nervous.”
“They answer to the president, do they not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then they’ll do as they’re ordered. Is the operation moving forward?”
Bousikaris nodded. “If anything goes wrong, though, there will be investigations. Mason is a cold warrior at heart. He sees conspiracy behind every bush.”
“That’s his job. Nothing will go wrong and Mason will find other things to worry about. There’s another matter that requires your attention. The FBI is investigating an … associate of ours. If it goes any further, it could endanger our arrangement.”
“How so?”
“That’s not your concern. We want the investigation stopped.”
“Christ, we don’t have that kind of power. You don’t just call the FBI and—”
“Then don’t use power,” Qing replied. “Reach out, plant the seed. Let others do the work.”
“What’s the case?”
Qing told him.
“That was you? You did that?”
“Of course not. We’re not stupid. Our connection to the man is accidental. According to our associate, the man had a gambling problem. He owed many thousands of dollars to … what’s the word?”
“Loan sharks? Are you saying he and his family were—”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m merely stating facts. Somehow he got the name of our associate and contacted him hoping to buy several kilos of cocaine, which he hoped to turn into a profit. The FBI must have come across our associate’s name in their investigation, and now they’re interested in him.”
“How does this person relate to our arrangement?”
“That’s not your worry. We want the investigation stopped. How you choose to do it is up to you, but you will do it.”
Though Qing didn’t bother saying “or else,” Bousikaris knew it was there. What would happen? he wondered. The country had had a bellyful of scandal. How would the public react if it realized China had funded the lion’s share of Martin’s campaign? They’d be lucky to escape prison.
They’d worked too hard and too long to get here. Whatever China’s game, that was their business. He and Martin would play their part, then move on. If they had to get their hands a little dirty for the greater good, so be it. A little dirt never hurt anyone. “I’ll handle it,” he told Qing.
Moscow
Vladimir Bulganin stared out the car window. “Two weeks until the election, Ivan,” he said. “We have them. We’re so close.”
Nochenko felt the same, but wasn’t ready to celebrate yet. “The polls may be in our favor, but now is the time we must push even harder.”
“Yes, yes, whatever you decide.” Something outside the window caught Bulganin’s attention. “Driver, pull over!”
“Vlad, what are you doing? We’re expected at the Duma. We cannot keep them—”
“The Duma can wait,” Bulganin replied, then grinned. “After all, in a few weeks, they’ll have no choice but to wait on me—hand and foot!” Bulganin laughed uproariously and opened the car door. Nochenko followed.
They’d stopped on Kuybyshev Street. To their right stood St. Basil’s Cathedral—or, as Bulganin demanded it be called—the Cathedral of the Intercession; to their left lay Red Square.
As Bulganin stepped out, his security detail formed a ring around them. “Pyotr,” Bulganin called to his security chief, ‘“I feel like a stroll. I’ll sign a few autographs, but no more.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nochenko said, “Vladimir, we don’t have time—”
Bulganin clapped his shoulder, “Perhaps in public, Ivan, it might be best we avoid familiarities.”
He must be joking, Nochenko thought. “Pardon me?”
“Mr. Bulganin will do, I think. Of course, in private, we’re just two comrades having a chat. All right, Pyotr! Lead on.”
Bulganin was immediately recognized. Within minutes he and Nochenko were surrounded by well-wishers and autograph seekers. Pyotr and the other bodyguards cut a path through the crowd, occasionally letting an admirer through for Bulganin to greet and dismiss. Nochenko felt himself jostled from all sides; the cacophony of voices was almost deafening.
After a few minutes, Bulganin nodded to Pyotr and the bodyguards spread out, pushing the crowd away until Bulganin and Nochenko had a circle in which they could stroll.
“How well do you know your Red Square history, Ivan?” Bulganin asked.
“Fairly well, I suppose.”
“What about the very name—Krasnaya Ploshchadl In Old Slavonic, Krasnaya also means “beautiful.” Too bad the West didn’t pick up on that, eh? Instead of ‘Reds,’ perhaps they would have called us ‘the beautiful ones.’ Do you know where all that St. Basil’s nonsense began?”
“No.”
“St. Basil was nothing more than a delusional hobo. The truth is, the cathedral was built to commemorate Ivan the Terrible’s capture of Kazan. Oh, what I would give to have been there—to see the expressions on their dirty Tartar faces when Ivan fired the city.”
Ivan the Terrible had earned his moniker for good reason, Nochenko wanted to say. The man had been a butcher. How Bulganin could—
“And there!” Bulganin called, pointing to the GUM department store. “Moscow’s first concession to capitalism right across from Lenin’s Mausoleum. It’s an insult! No, that’s not the right word … betrayal is more like it.”
Bulganin stopped before the Mausoleum. On either side of its heavy wooden doors stood a pair of stoic sentries. “Six times in the last year,” Bulganin muttered.
“What’s that?” Nochenko asked. “Six times for what?”
“To repaint the tomb’s facade, Ivan. Just last week a pair of thugs pelted it with paint-filled balloons. Can you believe it? What’s happening to our country?”
Knowing Bulganin didn’t want an answer, Nochenko remained silent.
“And this,” Bulganin murmured, “this is where it happened. The worst crime of all.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The removal of Koba’s body. Until that backstabbing dog Khrushchev removed it, he was resting in his rightful place: next to Lenin, next to his friend and mentor, the founder of the Soviet.”
Nochenko suddenly realized that Bulganin was weeping.
“Wrested from eternal peace, shoved into a pine box, and buried under the mausoleum wall like some commoner. It makes my blood boil, Ivan, it truly does.”
Nochenko didn’t know what to say. In all the years he’d known Bulganin, this was the first moment of unguarded sentiment he’d seen from the man; that he was crying over the corpse of Russia’s greatest mass murderer chilled Nochenko. Was all Bulganin’s talk of the great Koba Stalin more than just historical musings? Was there something more to it?
“Did I ever tell you where I was born?” Bulganin asked.
“No, you didn’t.”
Bulganin turned to him. “They call it the Valley of the Blossoming Orchards.”
&nbs
p; The nickname sounded vaguely familiar. “Gori,” Nochenko said. “Kartli, Georgia, correct?”
“That’s right. And why else is it remarkable? Do you know, Ivan?”
“No.”
“Gori, my friend, was also the birthplace of the great Koba.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, Bulganin virtually marching, his hands clasped behind his back. “So, Ivan, you were saying …”
“Pardon me?”
“In the car—about the polls.”
“Oh, yes. The election is nearing. Now, more than ever, we must stay focused. The greater the pressure on the current administration, the greater the likelihood they will make a mistake. When that time comes, we must be ready to exploit it.”
“A chink in the armor, is that what you mean?”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
“Yes, yes. An Achilles’ Heel. We must expose the opponents’ true colors. Of course!”
If nothing else, Nochenko thought, Bulganin certainly knew how to string together cliches. “Yes, Vladimir, I see that, but we must be careful not to …”
Bulganin didn’t seem to hear the question. He continued pacing, muttering to himself.
Holystone Office
Still working under the assumption that Genoa had not only been a colleague of Soong’s, but also a career spook, Oaken returned to the Wan Trahn database, this time looking for a face.
Using both open and classified sources, he and Tanner constructed a “yearbook” of every officer that had served with Soong in the years prior to Ledger. It took Tanner an hour before he was able to narrow the field to half a dozen candidates. “It’s tough,” he said. “It’s been twelve years.”
“Don’t think too hard,” Oaken replied. “Go with your gut.”
Tanner leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to recall his meetings with the man known as Genoa. He let the images flow. Don’t think, just look …
He leaned over the photos again, scanning faces—
“That’s him,” Briggs whispered, tapping a photo. “Jesus, that’s him.”
“You’re sure?”
Tanner nodded. “I’m sure.”
Oaken turned over the photo and read: “Commander Moh Yen Fong, People’s Liberation Army Navy. He was Soong’s personal aide.”
Tanner nodded. “Let’s find him.”
13
Washington, D.C.
Latham had met the current director of the FBI several times, either at formal functions or in passing at the Hoover Building, but had never had reason to speak with him at length. Until now.
With a nod from the secretary, Charlie knocked once, then opened the door and walked through. Owens was already there. The director stood to shake hands. “Special Agent Latham. Thanks for coming. Please sit down. It’s Charlie, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Charlie, I’m going to get to the point. The Baker case is being put on hold for a while.”
“Pardon me? Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Sir, this is my case. If it’s being jerked out from under me, I deserve to know why.”
“The decision’s been made, Special Agent Latham.”
The hell with it, Charlie thought. “That’s unacceptable, sir.”
“Charlie …” Owens said.
Latham pushed on: “This is an active case; it’s moving forward. If the decision’s been made, fine, I’ll deal with it, but I’ll say it again: I deserve to know why.”
The director stared at him and then, to Latham’s surprise, he smiled. “You know what? You’re right. You have earned the right.”
Well, I’ll be damned …
“Surprised?” the director asked.
“Frankly, yes.”
The director chuckled. “I know my strengths, Charlie, and telling agents how to do their jobs ain’t one of them. Here’s the short answer to your question: The Justice Department has asked us to back off. Certain sections of the Commerce Department are under investigation for corruption, and Baker was one of the employees under the microscope.”
“What kind of corruption?”
“The JD believes that several U.S. computer manufacturers were bribing Commerce employees to approve overseas sales of restricted processor components.”
“These components are on the NCTL?”
“They are.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Perhaps millions. If so, that might explain Baker’s bank account.”
But not the slaughter of his family, Latham thought. “And the murders?”
“Hard to say. Maybe Baker broke. Stress, remorse, guilt …”
Latham didn’t buy it; he knew who was responsible. “We’ve still got a lot of holes,” he said.
“I know. And you’ll get your chance, but for now I’ve agreed to put our investigation on hold until Justice can wrap up theirs. I don’t like it either, Charlie, but that’s where we stand.”
Latham nodded. “Okay.”
The director stood and extended his hand. “Thanks, Charlie. Harry.”
Latham and Owens headed for the door.
“You know,” the director called, “it just occurred to me: Too bad there’s not a way to keep our plate warm while Justice does it’s thing.”
Latham smiled at him. “Yes, sir.”
“Loose ends … background stuff—that sort of thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
The director shrugged, gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh well, just thinking out loud.”
Back in the Owens’s office, Charlie said, “What the hell was that?”
“That,” Owens replied, “was everything and nothing.”
Translation: Dig if you want to, but stay away from Commerce. “What do you think?”
“Your case, Charlie. It’s got to be your choice. I can run some interference, but not for long.”
“I know.”
“On the other hand, we shouldn’t count on Justice to wrap up any time soon. If we’re right about the Guoanbu—and I know we are—every day that passes, the colder the trail gets.”
“I keep thinking about those little girls—taped up, tortured, watching their mother shot dead … My own girls were that age once. I want to get the sons-of-bitches, Harry.”
“When was the last time you took a vacation?”
“Last year, I guess.”
“Might be nice to get away for a while.”
“It might at that,” Latham replied.
Three hours later, Latham was sitting on his patio grilling some chicken when Bonnie poked her head out the screen door. “You’ve got a visitor.”
“Oh?”
Paul Randall stepped through the door. “Nice apron, boss.”
Latham looked down at his “Kiss the Cook” apron. “Bonnie’s mother gave it to me. It’s sort of grown on me.”
“Where’s your chef’s hat?”
“At the cleaners. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’ll take a beer if you’ve got one.”
Latham dug into a cooler and handed across a plain, brown bottle. Eyes narrowed, Randall removed the top, sniffed, then took a sip. “Not bad.”
“It’s straight from the Latham Basement Brewery.”
“I like it. So, what’s going on with the Baker case? We’re off it?”
“For the time being.”
“And suddenly you’re on vacation.”
Latham shrugged, said nothing,
“Want some company?”
“No, Paul.”
“Too late,” Randall replied with a grin. “Harry’s already signed off on it.”
Latham stared at him. It. would be nice to have some backup … “Should I bother arguing?”
“I wouldn’t.”
Latham reached over and clinked Randall’s bottle with his own. “Welcome to the club. Now we just have
to figure out where to start.”
“I think I’ve got that covered. I got an abstract of Skeldon’s service record.”
“And?”
“About half of it was blacked out, but I know what he did for the army: He was a Lurp.”
“A what?” Latham asked.
“LRRP—Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. The name is different now, but Skeldon was a Lurp through and through. Sixteen years’ worth.”
“Which means?”
“He’s got some pretty scary talents. Lurps are trained to go deep into enemy territory, stay hidden for months at a time, gather intell, then get back out again.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Latham said. “I doubt Baker was paying him for his raking skills. The question is, Why did Baker and the Guoanbu need a former U.S. Army commando?”
College of William and Mary, Williamsburg, Virginia
It was almost eleven p.m. when Samantha Latham left Swem Library and began walking toward her dorm. She had an early morning study group and another hour of reading before she could go to bed. She stifled a yawn and kept walking.
Dew was forming on the grass and she could feel the dampness seeping through her canvas sneakers. In the distance she could see the lighted windows in Rogers Hall. What she wouldn’t give to have a room in Rogers; instead of having to trudge all the way back to Chandler, she’d already be in bed. Well, maybe next year …
She reached the path bordering Rogers, followed it to the end, then around the corner to Landrum Road. To her right, a couple hundred yards away, she could see the lights of Chandler.
Almost home.
She looked down the road, saw no cars coming, and started across.
Samantha would never remember which sensation registered in her brain first, the sound of the engine revving, or the glare of headlights washing over her, but in those last few seconds, as she saw the dark shape rushing toward her, she thought, He doesn’t see you. Run, Sammie, quick …
She was taking her first running step when the front bumper touched her.
14
Fort Greely, Alaska
Even before they set foot in the water, Smitty dubbed it Lake Shriveljewels in anticipation of the effect the water was going to have on their anatomy. If not for their dry suits, he’d be right, Jurens decided. Even so, he could feel the cold pressing in on him, a watery glove encasing his body.
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