by Ethan Jones
“How’s your father doing?”
Justin frowned. “Let’s leave him out of this.”
Egorov shrugged. “Just making small talk. How’s your hand?”
“It’s fine.”
“What happened?”
“A knife happened.”
She sat across from Justin. Her hair was cut short and dyed blonde. Her face had a few bruises, especially the right side. Egorov ran her hand along the side of her face, without touching her wounds. “Happened when I fell from the helipad. Remember that?”
“Yes, how can I forget?”
“I also injured my arm and leg. But everything will heal—well, that is, if I don’t re-injure them.”
“It’s a dangerous world.”
“Yes, yes, very much so. And that’s the reason why I’m here. Perhaps we can make it a bit safer, at least for the two of us.”
Justin held her eyes, trying to figure out Egorov’s intentions.
She said, “Instead of working against each other, how about we work together?”
“Like you worked with the Belgian bagman and the terrorist network?”
Egorov leaned forward. “That’s what they’ve told you?”
“That’s what I’ve seen from the evidence gathered.”
“Well, maybe you haven’t obtained and considered all the evidence. May I show you something?” Egorov reached slowly for one of her pockets.
“Go ahead.”
She produced a small tablet and placed it on the table. She typed a few keys on the screen, then flicked to the right and then the left. When she found what she was looking for, she slid the tablet toward Justin. “Take a look.”
He glanced at the screen. It was the picture of an Arab man in a white dishdash, the white robe worn by most men in the Arabian Gulf region, with a white ghutra, the headdress, and the iqal, the black cord to hold the headdress in place. The man was maybe in his late fifties or early sixties, with a broad furrowed forehead. His deep-set brown eyes appeared to have a piercing quality. He had a large aquiline nose, a thin black mustache, and a chin with a birthmark on the left side. “Who is this man?”
“He’s Prince Rashid bin Ahmad Al Khater. One of the most powerful men in Qatar and very close to the Emir of Qatar. Al Khater is perhaps the largest weapon’s dealer in the country, if not in the entire Arabian Gulf.”
“Why should I care?”
“Have a look at the next picture.”
Justin flicked to the left and frowned. It took him a moment to process what he was seeing. “Is this photo authentic?”
“Of course it is.” Egorov sounded almost insulted by Justin’s insinuation. “I’ll provide you with the original file, if you decide to pursue this intel.”
Justin nodded. The photo showed Prince Al Khater in the company of two men, leaders of two of the most ruthless terrorist groups operating in Iraq and Syria. “I see the connection. The prince supplies weapons to the terrorists. When was this taken?”
“About two months ago. Shortly before I was dispatched to northern Iraq.”
“That’s when you went in for the spy exchange that ended up in betrayal?”
Egorov sat back in her seat. ‘That’s what they told you? Another lie, Justin.”
“All right. Then what is the truth?”
“I was dispatched for a covert op, to uncover the ties between the prince and terrorists. It was under the guise of a trade of spies.”
“And what happened?”
Egorov hesitated for a moment. “The story will sound incredible, but it’s all true, and all verifiable. I have all the evidence to back up my claims.”
“Which are?”
“I discovered a connection between our government—the Russian government—and Prince Al Khater. Some of the weapons originating from Russia for Qatar’s government were ending up in rebels’ hands. The FSB had wondered about it, after reports that state-of-the-art heavy weapons were used to attack Russian Army forces helping to restore order in Syria and Iraq.”
Justin frowned and nodded slowly. His mind began to process Egorov’s words. He had never thought of that scenario.
Egorov continued, “Our comrades were being killed by weapons made in Russia, which were supposed to bring order to the Gulf and the Middle East, not help fuel the insurgencies and the instability. My team began to investigate the connection, so we could discover the truth.”
“And that is?”
Egorov sighed. “Well, I never got that far. When we met with one of the rebel groups, for the supposed ‘trade of spies,’ they suspected our intentions. An intense gun battle ensued, about which I’m sure you’ve been informed.”
Justin nodded. “But you said I had been fed lies.”
“Not all of what you know is false. I did disappear, but because my life was in danger. Most of my team was killed, others disappeared in unexplained circumstances. Accidents, suicides. Standard procedure to tie up loose ends.”
Justin did not know what to make of Egorov’s explanation. He shrugged, then reached for his coffee. After taking a small sip, he said, “But there’s undeniable evidence of your involvement with terrorists and their financiers, along with Russian bankers and European government officials.”
Egorov nodded. She leaned closer to Justin. “That part, that’s all true.” She lowered her voice to barely a whisper. “But my goal was not as it seems. I wasn’t scheming with them to launder money or plot terrorist attacks. But I had to keep up appearances.”
Justin gave Egorov a sideways glance. His look must have come across as doubtful of her words, because she continued, “Look at it this way, Justin. We’re operating in the midst of wolves. We must think and act like them, or at least appear to be doing that. Think about it: If someone saw you operating in Iraq or Syria, meeting with rebel fighters or terrorists in order to gather intel, those meetings could be easily misinterpreted. You could be branded as a traitor, especially if your own agency or government wanted you dead.”
Egorov fell back in her seat.
Her words hung out in the tense air.
Justin nodded slowly. “I . . . I need some time to digest all this, Egorov.”
“I know. It’s a lot to take in. And there’s more there.” She gestured toward the tablet. “Keep it. It’s clean, no bugs or viruses. I’m here because I need your help, not to trick you or your agency. My number’s there, when you’ve made a decision. But don’t take long. I . . . I don’t have much time.”
Justin glanced at Egorov’s eyes and saw a sliver of hope clouded by a fog of fear. “I’ll get back to you within twenty-four hours.”
Egorov stood up. “See, that took five minutes.”
“Six.”
“I like you, Justin. Always very attentive. I’m glad I didn’t kill you at the helipad.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Egorov gave the old man a slight head gesture.
He stood up and walked toward the exit, but kept Justin in his peripheral vision.
The young man folded his paper and followed Egorov.
When she had reached the café’s exit, Egorov turned her head. “Take care, Justin.”
“You too, Egorov.”
The trio hurried down the hall.
Justin glanced at the tablet. He picked it up and flicked back to Prince Al Khater’s picture. His face seemed to have taken on a menacing glare. Justin nodded to himself and began to tap the tablet’s screen. Let’s see how much of what Egorov claims is true.
Chapter Six
February 8
Montfort Hospital
Toronto, Canada
Justin spent the next hour reviewing the files stored in Egorov’s tablet. She had prepared quite a comprehensive package. There were more pictures of Prince Al Khater meeting with various rugged men. Justin recognized a few faces as known or suspected terrorists. The pictures seemed to have been taken without any of the subjects’ knowledge, since no one was posing for the camera. Justin doubted the prince would want a
ny evidence of his meetings with men of such reputation.
Some of the pictures were taken on a vessel, a yacht of some sort. The sea in the background, along with white houses along a hillside. Looks like the Mediterranean. Egorov probably knows the exact location.
Justin studied some of the documents. There were copies of email threads, phone transcripts, and FSB and SVR reports. There were bank transfers, bills of lading, and other weapons shipment information. Most of it was in Russian and Arabic. Justin spoke both languages fluently, but his written comprehension was less than perfect. Besides, the amount of information was mind-numbing.
He paused for a few moments and sipped his second extra-large coffee. Egorov’s intelligence seemed genuine. But it was three in the morning, and Justin had only skimmed through the files. Still, there’s a treasure trove here. Flavio and the teams will have to pore over it.
Justin picked up the tablet and his coffee and returned to his father’s room. Carter was still asleep and had turned onto his side. Justin gently arranged the blanket around his father’s shoulders and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. Then he whispered, “Love you, Dad.”
He had always been afraid to say those words when his father was awake, but Justin did not mind saying them when Carter was deep asleep.
Justin sat on the chair across from his father and glanced at the IV machine for a few moments. Its rhythmical repetitious drips somehow gave him a calm feeling. He slowly began to forget about Egorov, Prince Al Khater, and the files, and drifted into a deep sleep.
* * *
Justin was awakened by the light creak of the door. He opened his eyes and jumped straight up in his chair. His hand hovered near his holster.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the short-statured redheaded nurse who had just entered the room. “I was . . . I need to check on your dad.”
“Sure.” Justin held back a yawn. “It was unexpected.”
The nurse nodded and glanced at the IV machine. She wrote down a few numbers, then glanced at Carter. He was on his back and wheezing softly. The nurse looked closer to Carter, peered at the oxygen tubing, then nodded to herself. A few seconds later, she left the room as quietly as she had entered.
Justin drew in a deep breath and tried to go back to sleep. It was more difficult than he had expected. He found that strange. He had slept on battlegrounds more times than he could remember. But he just could not shut down his mind. It was revisiting the intelligence found in Egorov’s files. And the constant beep from the IV machine, announcing the nearing end of the morphine bag, was interfering with his attempts to doze off.
So he shrugged and stood up. He paced around the room, stretching his legs and his arms, rotating his head and massaging his neck muscles. He wondered if the cafeteria was open for breakfast. If not, I can find something at the fast food joint across the street.
The cafeteria was closed, so Justin braved the freezing weather. It was not snowing, but he guessed the temperature had dropped to perhaps five degrees Fahrenheit. He tightened the collar of his felt coat and made his way to the McDonald’s open twenty-four hours, seven days a week. The other customers at this ungodly hour of the night were two large burly men in their fifties. Justin pegged them for truckers or construction workers, considering their physique. Or maybe they’re building maintenance crew.
He ordered a feta and tomato wrap, which seemed to be the healthiest option on the menu, and a large cup of coffee. The attendant handed him the coffee along with the two honey packages Justin had asked for, then offered to bring his meal to the table. Justin thanked her and made his way to the other end of the establishment. As always, his eyes covered both entrances.
He stirred the honey in the cup and thought of the tablet in his pocket. He resisted the urge to pick up the tablet and begin reanalyzing the files. No, I’ve got to give myself a break. At least until I’ve enjoyed my breakfast.
He slowly ate the tasteless meal and washed it all down with the coffee. The temptation to touch the tablet was burning inside him. I’ve got to talk to someone about Egorov’s files.
But the only person he was authorized to share the intelligence with was his boss. Flavio would be sound asleep, and Justin was not about the wake him up with unconfirmed speculations, as one might assess the intelligence.
Karolin?
Justin shrugged.
Karolin Bayer was his girlfriend and the newest addition to the ECS Vienna Section. She worked as a surveillant, and Justin could tell her only so much. Karolin can help me bounce off a few ideas. Justin shrugged, unsure about calling her. He needed to talk to Karolin about more important issues than work. Like the kiss he had shared with Azade, the Peshmerga fighter, and his confused feelings about her and her love for Justin.
He shrugged and went to the counter for another refill.
On the way back to his table, he decided to call Karolin. Even if he did not bring up the Russian intelligence, it would be good for him to hear her voice.
Karolin answered after the first call. “Hallo, Justin, honey. Isn’t it too early for you to be up?”
Justin glanced out the window at the darkness. A thin fog had begun to shroud everything. “It is, but I couldn’t sleep. I’m at the hospital with my dad.”
“Oh, how is he doing?”
“Eh.” Justin shrugged. “Not well. At least, not well enough for the surgery.”
“Oh, sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay. I just . . . I just want it to be done, so my dad finds some peace . . . either way. And that’s what he wants too.”
“Yes, yes. So, do they have a date?”
“No.”
“A rough guess at least?”
“No, nothing. The doctor told me they’re waiting for my dad’s health to improve. He needs to be strong enough for the surgery to happen. I’m afraid he’s not going to get better.”
“I understand, honey. This is so difficult for you.”
Justin nodded. He swallowed hard and shrugged. “Yes, but I don’t want to burden you as well.”
“It’s not a burden, Justin. I’d rather you talk to me about your dad and everything else, for that matter. What’s important to you, of course it’s important to me as well.”
“How . . . how’s work?”
“It’s work.” Karolin said in a bored tone. “Reading report after report. I like surveillance better.”
“I can tell.”
Karolin laughed. “And your work—how’s that coming along?”
Justin thought about his answer and how much he should tell Karolin. “Uh . . . I’ve come on some interesting intel, but I’m not sure how much I can trust the source.”
“Who is the source?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can you tell me what country?”
“Russia.”
“Then you can’t trust them.”
“That’s quite harsh.”
“The truth is harsh sometimes.”
“But aren’t we biased against Russia?”
“We are, and for good reason. They’ve burned us one too many times.”
“Right, but what if they’re telling the truth this time?”
“They’ve cried wolf before, Justin. Very often they haven’t told us the truth. Even worse, they’ve sent us in the wrong direction.”
Justin nodded. He wished he could tell Karolin the exact circumstances in which he had obtained the intelligence from Egorov. That would put things in perspective for Karolin, and perhaps she would change her viewpoint. But he could not. “All right, sweetie. I’ll be careful with this intel and reassess it.”
“I’m sure you will, and you’ll check it against at least one other independent source.”
Justin smiled. “Yes, I was there when they taught us that lesson.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you what to do. Just my opinion—”
“It’s all right, honey. I know you mean it well.”
“Yes, because I lov
e you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt . . .”
“I love you too. Now, I’ll let you return to your reports.”
“Yes, I can’t wait.” Karolin dragged out her words and her tone of voice clearly showed anything but eagerness.
“We’ve all had to trudge through paperwork. I’m going back to reviewing reports as well.”
“All right . . . well, I hope your day gets to be more exciting than mine.”
“Be safe, Karolin.”
“You too, Justin.”
He ended the call and sipped his coffee. Then he pulled out the tablet and turned it on. Let’s see if I missed anything the first time around.
Chapter Seven
February 8
Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters
Ottawa, Canada
Flavio closed the folder and slid his chair near the small metallic desk. Then he looked at Justin, who was standing by the window with his back against the wall. “So, this makes Egorov appear a saint?”
Justin nodded. “It puts her in a good light, yes.”
“But we both know that’s not the case.”
“I’m starting to have some doubts, though.” Justin walked toward Flavio’s desk. “We have two conflicting versions of the same story.”
“Both can’t be true.”
“Well . . . there’s some overlap, and some events are vague. And we’re filling in a lot of the gaps where evidence is missing with information we already have.”
“Such as?”
Justin sat on the chair across from Flavio’s desk. He still found it strange to be back in the same building that had been his headquarters for so many years. Flavio and Justin had been assigned guest offices during the short time they were in Ottawa. The offices were spartanly furnished—a desk, a computer, and a couple of chairs—but they met the basic demands for a safe and secure workspace.
