Countdown in Cairo

by Noel Hynd

  “I know he’s the former Russian president and still pretty much running the country,” she answered. “Sort of a neo-Stalin for our times.”

  “That would be Vladimir Putin, yes,” Quintero said.

  “Well, I read the newspapers and speak Russian,” Alex said. “So I know more than your basic citizen but less than your experts. Or maybe I know more than your experts when they’re having a bad day. How’s that?”

  “Pretty good,” Quintero said. “And I give you an A for self-assurance.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. I like it. Russia and the old Soviet territory are my field,” Quintero said. “I speak the language okay. Could never master it, though. I read it better than I can hear or speak it. Learned it as an adult. You probably learned it earlier.”

  “Boarding school. University. A work-study program in Moscow,” she said.

  “Boyfriends in Moscow when you were studying?”

  “Maybe.”

  “There you go,” he said. “Your file says you’re gifted with languages as well as with people.”

  “The file flatters me. That, or it libels me.”

  “And you do deflect a question well. Okay, Brother Putin is one of the dominant figures of our time,” Quintero said as they continued down the hall. “He took a Russia that was bankrupt and coming apart at the seams in 2000 and restored it as a world power. No small trick. Like him or not, and like most Americans I don’t, Putin’s brilliant, cunning, vulgar, occasionally charming, possibly sociopathic, and probably the most cold-blooded bastard on the world stage since Stalin or Hitler. On top of that, he’s much beloved by his countrymen. So he’s here to stay unless we get lucky and some Slavic sorehead shoots him. But I never said that, right?”

  “Not to me, at least,” she said.

  “Thanks. God knows, power loves a vacuum in Russia. Any ruler who’s soft gets replaced by a dictator within a few months. It’s like the Middle East. How do you hope for democracy where they’ve never had it?”

  She let the question fly off into space without a response. She didn’t know a short answer anyway.

  Quintero arrived at the door he wanted and unlocked it with a swipe of his ID card. The lights went on automatically as he led her into a small viewing room. There was a large screen on the forward wall and a dozen large chairs. Whatever Quintero had to show her, it was going to be shown on a big screen.

  “You’re going to be dealing with Russians again in the near future,” he said. “I’ll get you the proper background files. Electronic transfer. Put it on your own laptop, but be careful to keep it behind your own security wall. Okay?”

  “Done.”

  “Grab a seat,” he said. “Any seat.”

  She did.

  “No popcorn,” Quintero said as he went to a control panel.

  “I’ll survive.”

  Quintero flicked a few controls. The lights went down and the screen came alive with encrypted graphics, codes for what they were about to see. Quintero slid into the chair next to Alex with a control in his hand.

  “This is from Russian television. December of 2005. Let me know if you’ve ever seen it before.”

  An image came alive on the screen. The colors were faded and distorted, as if from bad video tape. There was an empty conference room on the screen.

  “Here’s what’s going on,” Quintero said. “Vladimir Putin appears on television in broadcasts to the Russian-speaking people of the world. That way he reminds people who’s in charge. He is.”

  On the screen, Alex could see the figures of various men coming into view and taking their seats at a conference table. There appeared to be five men, all in suits. She caught glimpses of faces but didn’t recognize anyone.

  She shook her head. “Whatever this is, it’s new to me,” she said.

  “It’s fairly new to all of us,” Quintero said.

  “These appearances are daily occurrences on Russian TV,” Quintero said. “Putin holds staged meetings in important-looking conference rooms. In reality, the rooms don’t exist. They’re sets built with government money and kept at various points around the country. So wherever he is, Putin can give a fake meeting.”

  “When was this again?”

  “December 12, 2005. We recognize the conference room. Or the set. This was recorded at Novo-Ogaryovo.”

  “Novo-Ogaryovo?” she asked. “That’s a new one to me.”

  “Putin’s suburban estate outside Moscow,” Quintero explained. “Notice the Christmas tree. Nice homey touch, huh? The ‘conference room’ is a TV set at Putin’s estate.”

  Alex had already noticed the tree. “Seriously. My eyes are getting damp, I’m so moved,” she said. “I’m sure there were cookies baking, also.”

  “Right,” he said. “Cookies made out of his enemies, most likely.” On the screen, five men were sitting at a table. Then Putin entered the room, or arrived on set, and all five bolted to their feet. Putin sat as the camera came in close on him. The president addressed the Russian people. Quintero fell silent and Alex tuned in to the Russian. Instantly, she understood at least partially why she had been led into this room.

  In Russian, Putin was discussing Russian-Ukrainian relations. At issue was what had at the time been a major international flap over the natural gas pipelines that ran from Ukraine to Western Europe but which the Russians actually controlled.

  Alex thought back. From her knowledge of recent political events in Europe, she recalled that the issue had come up right around the time of the so-called Orange Revolution, the events that had propelled a fledgling quest for democracy to legitimacy in Ukraine. These events had transpired more than three years before her own ill-fated trip, but they had also laid the groundwork for the disastrous presidential visit to Kiev.

  Putin continued in his crudely accented, clipped Russian. He was thick-shouldered in his dark suit, self-assured, and had a gaze filled with menace. He was stocky, balding, and had the intimidation quotient of a big mean-eyed cat.

  “I am sure that the settlement of the complex issue in the gas sector will have a positive effect on Russian-Ukrainian relations,” Putin continued in Russian. Alex understood him fluently, but someone had provided subtitles for the CIA, subtitles which in Alex’s opinion could have been more accurate. But she continued to listen.

  “It is important that Russia’s approach to calculating European gas prices is recognized as justified for all free people,” Putin said. “But relations between Ukraine and Russia are assuming a new quality and are becoming a truly transparent market partnership for Russian and Ukrainian natural gas. This is good for all free people.”

  “ ‘Free people,’ “ Alex repeated, “there’s a laugh.”

  Then the camera drew back. Not everyone listening to the original broadcast had been free, and the agreement Putin referenced was as transparent as a Siberian blizzard. One of the men assembled around the table—identified also by subtitles in Russian and in English—was Aleksei Miller, the chief executive of Gazprom, the state gas monopoly. Another was Viktor Khristenko, Russia’s energy minister.

  Then there were two other men identified as members of Putin’s political entourage. The camera panned to the fifth man.

  Sharply, Quintero hit a control button.

  The frame froze on the fifth man at the conference table. Alex gasped.

  “Recognize anyone?” Quintero asked.

  Alex answered quietly. “I certainly do,” she said. “I recognized him right away. Yuri Federov.”

  “It’s nothing new that Putin would be keeping company with gangsters; he’s a gangster himself. But it’s pretty impressive even for a big-time hood like Yuri Federov to be seated at a staged meeting with Putin. You weren’t invited to that meeting. I wasn’t either. The president of the United States wasn’t invited. The pope was a no-show; so were Brad and Angelina, and so was Santa Claus. But Federov was there, and Putin obviously wanted the camera on him. Why? There must have been a reason.
And your boy Federov must have had a fair amount of juice to get his butt at that table.”

  “I’ll say,” Alex said, still stunned. “Why didn’t anyone show this to me earlier? Before the trip to Kiev, for example?”

  “Slowness of sifting and interpreting raw material,” Quintero said. “This clip has been in inventory for two years, but just came out of ‘analysis’ three weeks ago. One of our resident Russian chicks went through it and tagged it with the names of all the people in it. When I knew you were coming over today, I ran Federov’s name through the records and spotted the new entry. I thought you’d be interested.”

  “You thought right. Thank you.”

  “Next time you see Yuri Federov,” Quintero said, “maybe you can ask him how he happened to be breaking bread at the top table.”

  “On the contrary,” Alex answered thoughtfully, “I’ve spent a decent amount of time with Federov. Never once did he ever mention that he had actually met Putin, much less knew him. Doesn’t it surprise you that he’s never mentioned it?”

  “Considering we all know that he’s always trying to get you in bed, yes,” Quintero said. “Power. The ultimate aphrodisiac. I’m amazed he never mentioned it.”

  “For some reason,” she said, “he probably didn’t want me to know. That’s interesting right there. So when I see him, I’ll be sure never to mention it … until just the right time.”

  Quintero let his clip roll again. It neared conclusion as the camera panned in on an unsmiling cobra-eyed Putin. Putin finished his statement, then stared mirthlessly into the camera. Then he eased into a hard, cold smile. Not a smile of joy, more like a landlord finally evicting a troublesome old widow.

  “S Rodestvom Khristovym i S nastupayušèim Novym Godom!” the president of Russia finally said from behind his sinister grin.

  Then the clip was finished, the screen went blank, and the lights came up automatically.

  “What was that at the end?” Quintero said. “Sounded ominous but I didn’t get it.”

  “He wished us all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,” Alex said. “The thing is, coming from Vladimir Putin, it sounds like a death threat.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Before leaving Langley, Alex spent some time with a man named Thomas Meachum in the Technical Resources Division. Meachum was in charge of preparing her documents for her trip. Meachum led her through a photo area where new passport and license photos were taken. In keeping with normal procedure, Alex changed her hair and her expression from shot to shot. Tech Resources also had a variety of women’s blouses and tops to change in and out of. For her driver’s license, she wore a summer tank top. For her passport, an office-style blue blouse with a jacket.

  She was equally careful to remove the pendant from around her neck, the one with the praying hands that she had acquired in Venezuela. Then, giving it greater thought later in the day when she returned home, she placed the pendant in her jewelry box. No point in taking extra chances and risk identification through a unique piece of jewelry. For the duration of the case, she would do without it.

  The next morning, Alex selected an itinerary to Cairo.

  While she would have loved to have chosen a direct nonstop from the United States, she reserved, instead, a seat on an Air Canada flight to Toronto from Washington. From there she found a pair of Alitalia flights that would pass through Rome. She kept her reasons to herself for that specific route. The Agency allowed her to book herself through in business class rather than the dreadful economy class that had recently turned into a form of latter-day steerage.

  She left her apartment and went to a newsstand. She purchased fifty dollars’ worth of phone cards. Then she walked several blocks until she found a coffee shop where she had never been before. Making sure no one was on her trail or able to listen in on her cell phone, she used a public phone and called Joseph Collins in New York. With regret, she confirmed that her impending visit to Venezuela would have to wait until early the following year. Collins had no issues with that. She also asked, as a special favor, if she could lodge a close friend at the East 21st Street apartment.

  “Who’s the friend?” he asked.

  “A girl who’s in a bit of trouble with some bad people,” Alex said. “She needs a place to stay out of view.”

  “Well, as I mentioned, my son is out of the country for another several months,” Collins said. “I’m sure it will be no problem.”

  She then phoned Don Tomás and asked Janet to pack immediately. Alex would be away indefinitely, she explained, but there was someplace safer that Janet could stay.

  She had one more call. This one would max out one of her phone cards. The call went to Rome where she arranged to have a dining companion on the evening she would be passing through the Italian capital.

  Alex accompanied Janet to the bank, where she withdrew enough money for a month. In the afternoon, Alex purchased a new cell phone and paid cash in advance for three month’s service. She gave the new device to Janet.

  Later in the day she and Janet crowded into the backseat of her car and kept low to avoid any watchers. Don Tomás drove them to Union Station in Washington where they took a train to New York. In the station Alex visited a locksmith and duplicated the keys to Christopher Collins’ apartment. Then they took a cab to 21st Street. Alex installed Janet in the apartment. She also introduced Janet to Lady Dora Rose, the marginally daffy proprietor of the building. Alex explained to Lady Dora that Janet had recently become estranged from a man in another city who was prone to violence. It was not altogether a lie. Then, still working from her own cell phone, Alex phoned Yuri Federov. Federov, when he answered, was just leaving one of his doctor’s clinics. He sounded pleased to hear from Alex so soon again.

  “I’m in town,” Alex said.

  “In New York?”

  “Is there another town?” she joked. “As it’s turning out, I might get transferred here.”

  “Ah! I envy you. Some handsome, wealthy man will spot you and marry you in a heartbeat. I envy him, with such an extraordinary wife.”

  “That’s the distant future,” Alex answered, playing along. “I’m in town with a girlfriend and I need a favor or two in the immediate future. I’m also willing to do one in return.”

  “Name it.”

  She asked if she and her friend could have an audience with him as soon as possible, with Paul Guarneri attending also.

  “Would this evening work?” Federov asked.

  “That would be excellent.”

  “Paul and I have two tickets to the hockey at Madison Square Garden,” Federov said. “New York Rangers against Chicago. There are several Russian players.”

  “After the game then?” she asked.

  “Nonsense. Come with us.”

  “You said you had two tickets. Aren’t those games sold out way ahead of time?”

  “I have friends,” Federov said. “So does Paul. Are you carrying a gun? What is your country coming to? They have metal detectors now at sporting events in America.”

  “Yes, I have a gun. I also have a federal permit.”

  “Then you’re okay. Paul has a New York permit. I’m walking around defenseless, however. I feel naked. How do you like that, huh?”

  “Not very much,” Alex said.

  “Wear something sexy,” he said, “in addition to the gun. Meet us at the Seventh Avenue entrance, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Two tickets turned into four within two hours of game time. Federov had seats three rows behind the Rangers bench in the $1500-perseat territory. Janet had never been to a professional ice hockey game before, much less in the “connected” section with a pair of wise guys. The Rangers won 4–2 in a game memorable for forty minutes of fighting penalties. One of the Russian stars scored two goals and handled himself well in a brawl. Federov went wild like a kid. Both Janet and Alex savored the experience.

  After the game Guarneri’s driver, a young man named Anthony, waited in a stretch Cadillac at
the corner of Seventh Avenue and 33rd Street. They all piled into the car, which drove south down Seventh, then turned east and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Twenty minutes later, they arrived outside a small Italian restaurant in Red Hook named Margherita’s. The restaurant’s kitchen was closed to the public by that hour but remained open for a selected clientele. Guarneri’s car and driver waited outside, parked next to a fire hydrant with the engine running.

  The woman who owned the place, Margherita herself, came out and greeted Paul Guarneri with a hug. She was a small gnomelike woman shaped like a bottle of Chianti. She had gray hair and gushed over Paul. She alluded to knowing Paul since he was a boy. She was just leaving.

  Over veal and a light red wine from Sicily, Alex eventually got around to what she wished to discuss.

  “Against favors past and present that I might do for either of you,” Alex began, addressing the two men. “I wonder if either of you could do me a favor while my friend Janet is in New York. I need to be away for what may be a few weeks.”

  Both Federov and Guarneri settled in to listen.

  Alex began. “As you may know, Janet is her real name. But it’s all of her name you’ll need to know unless she chooses to tell you more. And I’ve already advised her not to, for her own protection. She’s in some trouble and needs looking after. Normally I’d see to it myself, but her situation is so delicate that I don’t have time to work out something myself. I need to take a work trip to the Middle East,” Alex said. “I leave within a few days.”

  “So you want us to watch over her for you?” Federov asked.

  “Yes. I wonder if you would establish some security around Janet for me,” she said. “Make sure nothing happens to her. She has some people who wish her harm. She needs a bodyguard. At least one, maybe a couple.”

  “I might be able to arrange something,” Federov said, “but I am powerless in this city now. I don’t live here, and I don’t know the right people. Further, I will be going back to Switzerland very shortly.”

  But Guarneri started to laugh. He had a couple of young men in his organization who specialized at such jobs, he said.