The Russian Endgame

by Allan Topol

  Looking for Orlov, Craig scanned their faces. After a minute, he saw the Russian seated in the back row wearing his Vladimir Drozny credentials, and looking bored. In the middle of the room, Jiang sat with the other members of the Chinese delegation.

  Craig turned toward the screen showing the front of the room. Seated at the table on the dais, Elizabeth was listening to the polite applause from the audience. The first speaker, from Carlton Industries in the UK, a manufacturer of advanced sensors, had just finished his prepared speech. “Now I’ll take a few questions,” the speaker said.

  After ten minutes, the speaker returned to his seat. Cecil Weinright, the moderator, was back at the lectern.

  “As you know,” Cecil began in a British accent, “this morning’s session is devoted to technology with particular applicability to military uses. No company in the world has been on the cutting edge of this technology as much as Rogers Laughton. And we’re fortunate to have today as our speaker Jill Morgan from Rogers Laughton. Jill is a graduate of the Air Force Academy where she was at the top of her class. She was a fighter pilot before joining her company. Her topic today will be technology related to long-range missiles.

  “Jill has asked me to tell you to bear with her. She is suffering from laryngitis following a nasty cold. Just another sickness rampant in Washington, D.C.”

  That evoked laugher from the audience.

  Cecil waited for it to die down before continuing. “Jill absolutely refused to cancel her speech so cut that scratchy voice some slack. However, she may not be able to answer questions. Now please

  welcome Jill Morgan.”

  The audience gave a large round of applause as Elizabeth, dressed in a navy blue Ann Taylor suit with a white cotton blouse that belonged to Jill, stood and walked to the lectern. She signaled to one of the administrators on the association’s staff who dimmed the lights and prepared to follow the speaker’s directions with slides for the PowerPoint presentation.

  Craig shifted screens to glance at Orlov who was now on the edge of his chair, staring straight ahead, looking as if he’d be hanging on every word. The same for Jiang.

  Five minutes into the fifteen minute talk, Craig was impressed with Elizabeth’s mastery of the text. She sounded self-confident, completely at home with the material. All those hours practicing the presentation definitely paid off. Elizabeth was totally in control of the words and the slides. Silence reigned in the ballroom except for Elizabeth’s voice. The delegates were focused on her. Everyone had to think she was

  Jill Morgan. If there were differences in facial features between Elizabeth and Jill, they would have been impossible to pick up in the dim light with the delegates at a distance from the lectern. With the spray the doctor had administered that morning, Elizabeth sounded hoarse but could be easily understood.

  She was now coming to the end of the speech. “We are just engineers. We are not statesmen or politicians. But never forget the lesson from the development of nuclear weapons in the 1940s. We engineers have the power, for better or for worse, to change the way in which nations make war and thereby conduct their foreign affairs. Long-range missiles are the cutting edge of military technology. Those who have the technology to hit a small target thousands of miles away will have an incredible advantage. Today I’ve summarized for you some of the early work we’ve done in this field. As you might imagine, we are continuing this development. Thank you for listening.”

  The audience responded with a burst of applause.

  Elizabeth downed a glass of water, then said “With this throat, I’m afraid I can’t take questions today, but please send them to me at my office via e-mail at Jill.Morgan@Rogers Laughton.com.

  “Don’t expect an answer too quickly. Next Thursday I’m off to Monte Carlo for a little vacation with my boyfriend. I have to win back in the casino there what I lost here.” A large round of laugher from the audience.

  “Certainly my luck can’t be any worse than it was last night.”

  More laughter.

  Then applause as she moved back to her seat on the dais.

  Five minutes into the next speaker’s presentation, Craig watched Elizabeth get up from her chair carrying her bag, exactly as they had planned. She was heading toward the nearest side exit from the ballroom. That opened to a side hallway which ran to the main corridor from which delegates entered and left the ballroom.

  Once she reached the main corridor, Elizabeth headed toward the nearest water fountain.

  Craig was watching her intently. Dale, meantime, was watching the screen with feed from a camera in the ballroom. Dale said to Craig, “The Russian is leaving his seat in the ballroom and heading toward the exit.”

  Craig asked Dale, “What about the Chinese man?”

  “Not moving.”

  Craig said to Elizabeth on the two-way, “Orlov is headed out. Not Jiang. I repeat. Only Orlov. Hold you position near the water fountain until he appears.”

  Orlov had gone running on city streets early that morning. When he had seen a small tumbledown diner in a seedy part of town, he stopped, went inside, and bought a bottle of water. The diner would be the perfect place to meet with Jill later today, he decided. No cameras. No security people. No other aerospace delegates would be there. After finishing the water, he had snatched a grease-stained card that said, “Duchess Diner,” with the address and phone number from the counter next to the cash register, and shoved it in his pocket.

  As he had resumed running, the rest of his plan had fallen into place.

  He’d ask her to meet him at the Duchess Diner at three that afternoon. “I’ll give you some gambling tips to win back your money and much more.”

  But he had to deliver that message outside of the view of the hotel cameras. How?

  After five more minutes of running, he decided. Following her speech, she was likely to go to the restroom. Speakers often did. He’d follow her into the ladies’ room. There wouldn’t be cameras inside. He’d claim he’d made a mistake. “Wrong door, sorry.” Then deliver his message for a three o’clock meeting.

  When he saw her leave the dais, Orlov thought everything was

  falling into place. She had to be on her way to the ladies’ room.

  He exited the ballroom swiftly, looked down the corridor toward the nearest restrooms, expecting her to be en route, but she was standing near the water fountain, drinking water, not moving.

  What to do now? Hand her the Duchess Diner card and give

  her his invitation in the corridor? It would all be picked up on camera. Too risky.

  But shit, it was the only chance he had. Take the risk?

  “No, don’t be an idiot,” he chided himself. She’s going to be in Monte Carlo next week. Meet her there. Still, he wanted make casual contact with her, one delegate to another, to make sure she’d remember him when they met in Monte Carlo. So he made a beeline for the water fountain. Before he had a chance to open his mouth, she said, “Hi Vladimir. How’re you?”

  That was good, he thought. She remembered him from their prior meetings. Monte Carlo would be easier.

  “Excellent speech, Jill,” he replied. “I’d like to talk to you about it someday, but right now I have a plane to catch.”

  With the microphone concealed beneath Elizabeth’s jacket, Craig heard her exchange with Orlov. After Orlov said, “Right now I have a plane to catch,” Craig watched him turn and head toward the elevator. Craig said to Elizabeth, “I’ll meet you in the suite.” Then he turned to Dale. “Stick with the Russian and keep me informed.”

  When Craig entered the suite, Elizabeth was already there. He heard from Dale: “Subject just left his room, wheeling suitcase toward elevator. Appears to be checking out.”

  Craig had a tough decision: to arrest Orlov or not. After all, the man was responsible for the deaths of President Dalton, Paul Walters, Angie, and a trucking company clerk in Pittsburgh. Craig could try to cut a deal with Orlov and hope Orlov gave him Zhou and Kuznov.

 
Or he could let Orlov leave the hotel and probably the country, hoping that Orlov made a move on Elizabeth in Monte Carlo to obtain PGS. But if Orlov didn’t approach her in Monte Carlo, then Craig might never get his hands on Orlov again.

  “Orlov’s checking out,” Craig said to Elizabeth. “What are the chances of him making contact with you in Monte Carlo?”

  “Sixty-forty he will.”

  “Shit. I’d like better odds.”

  “Sorry. I’m being honest. That’s as much as I could get from his body language.”

  Dale said, “Orlov is at the checkout desk. He’s paying the bill.”

  Now or never, Craig thought.

  Close call.

  I’ll take a chance.

  “I’m letting Orlov leave,” Craig said to Elizabeth.

  “It’s your call. For what it’s worth, I would have, too.”

  “Okay. Let’s talk about Monte Carlo. Why in the world did you say you’d be going with a boyfriend?”

  “No woman goes by herself. I wanted it to sound real.”

  “It can’t be me. Orlov would recognize me.”

  “I know that. I figured you’d find me a boyfriend.”

  “You want me to run an ad on the Internet?”

  “Call Betty. The CIA must have lots of attractive single men.”

  “Many of whom are in the Russians’ database and might be recognized.” Then it occurred to him. From time to time the agency hired contract agents to do odd jobs off the books when they didn’t want to use an employee for one of a variety of reasons.

  He called Betty and explained the problem.

  “I’ll get right on it,” she said. “How likely is it that whoever we use will get caught up in a fire fight or other rough stuff in Monte Carlo?”

  “I don’t know. At this point, my bigger concern is that this is all a fool’s errand. That Orlov will never contact Elizabeth in Monte Carlo and all our work has gone down the toilet.”

  Paris

  In the days since she had learned of her son’s death, Mei Ling was sleepwalking through life. She wandered the streets of Paris aimlessly, followed by the French policeman who was part of the protection Elizabeth had arranged. She forced herself to eat, to maintain her strength, so that one day she could gain her revenge, but that was easier said than done because she had no appetite. She slept ten or twelve hours a day because she had no desire to get out of bed.

  After days of grieving, her mind began to focus again. She forced herself to think: why would Zhou have killed her son now? What did he have to gain?

  Then the answer came. Her son was one of the few people who knew where Mei Ling was. If Zhou wanted to locate and kill the person who challenged and almost defeated him for the Presidency, then forcing it out of her son would be the logical way to proceed.

  It was afternoon in Paris. She walked over to the window overlooking Rue Duphot and looked out from a break in the curtains. She could hardly believe her eyes.

  On the sidewalk in front of the hotel was the French policeman protecting her, but standing next to him was a Chinese man dressed in a suit and tie who was talking to the policeman. She thought she recognized the Chinese man.

  No. It couldn’t be. Her eyes must be deceiving her.

  Mei Ling snatched the binoculars from a desk drawer and looked down. Her eyes weren’t deceiving her. It was Captain Cheng, Zhou’s personal aide and henchman. There was only one reason Captain Cheng was here: to kill her. She needed help and she needed it fast. She knew Jacques was the head of French Intelligence and Craig’s friend, but she didn’t have his number. The only person she could call, Elizabeth Crowder, was thousands of miles away in the United States.

  It was probably hopeless, but Mei Ling had nowhere else to turn.

  While keeping her eyes focused on the sidewalk below, she frantically dialed Elizabeth’s cell.

  She heard, “This is Elizabeth. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Mei Ling. I need help. I…”

  Holding the phone to her ear, Mei Ling watched in horror as Captain Cheng whipped out a knife. He stabbed the policeman in the chest and knocked him to the ground. Then Captain Cheng stepped over his bleeding body and walked into the hotel.

  “What’s wrong?” Elizabeth cried out.

  “Zhou sent somebody to kill me. He just killed the French policeman outside the hotel. He’s coming into the hotel now. What should I do?”

  “Get out of your room fast. There’s an inside staircase two doors away. Leave your room; lock it. Then hide in that staircase. Don’t go out on the ground floor. He might see you.”

  “What if he comes in the staircase?”

  “I’ll get help for you before that happens. Only listen to someone who tells you: ‘Jacques sent me.’ Now stop talking and move.”

  In Washington, Elizabeth had been at home working on her book when Mei Ling called. She would have liked to call Craig and have him call Jacques, but there was no time for that. Besides, Craig was at the White House for a meeting with Treadwell. She’d have to deal with this herself. She dialed Jacques. Fortunately, he answered the phone.

  As soon as Elizabeth spit out her story, Jacques said, “I’ll get on it. Call you right back.”

  “Thanks. Make sure your men tell her, ‘Jacques sent me.’”

  The staircase was dimly lit and dusty. Straining her eyes to see and holding onto a railing to avoid falling, Mei Ling took baby steps down three flights to the midpoint; then stopped. She could go up or down depending on which direction he came from.

  She felt stupid. She should have brought a knife with her into the staircase. Even a bottle she could have thrown. Anything she could use as a weapon, but she didn’t. You fool, she berated herself.

  She remained still. Trying to breathe softly.

  Then she heard it: a series of blasts coming from the sixth floor, like a car backfiring. But she knew it was gunfire. One… two… three…

  four shots. Then silence.

  The door to the staircase flew open on the sixth floor. Mei Ling held her breath. The bright beam of a flashlight zeroed in on her face.

  “French police. Jacques sent me.”

  “Yes,” Mei Ling called out with relief.

  Her knees wobbling, she walked up the stairs to the policeman who told her, “Your assailant is dead. You’re safe.”

  She walked back to her room. Two French policemen were lying on the floor not moving. Across the room was Captain Cheng in a pool of blood. Dead!

  Mei Ling called Elizabeth and told her what happened. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It was all Jacques, the Director of French Intelligence. He’s coming now to your hotel room. He’ll take you to a safe house in Paris where you’ll be heavily guarded around the clock. You don’t have to worry anymore. And I’ll tell Craig what happened.”

  “How long will I have to stay in that safe house?”

  “A month or two. By then, hopefully, we’ll bring down President Zhou.”

  Washington

  “Run that by me again,” a visibly upset President Treadwell said to Craig. The two of them were alone in the Oval Office at ten the next morning.

  Craig repeated his words. “I didn’t stop Orlov when he checked out and left the hotel.”

  “That’s what I thought you said. Orlov was responsible for President Dalton’s assassination. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “That Orlvo will take the bait with Elizabeth in Monte Carlo.”

  Treadwell was squeezing his hand. “From everything you’ve told me about Orlov’s behavior in Las Vegas, I doubt that. I think he’s on to us.”

  “As I said, Mr. President, it was a close call. I used my best judgment.”

  “Humpth.”

  Treadwell stood up and paced around the office. Finally he said, “You’re the intelligence pro. I have to respect your judgment… I

  guess… I just hope you’re right.”

  “I do, too, Mr. President,” Craig said, without mu
ch confidence.

  “What about the Task Force? Have you had a meeting with them where you told them about the dangle?”

  Oh shit, Craig thought. Accustomed to being a solo player, he’d forgotten all about the Task Force. “It all moved so fast with Las Vegas, that I haven’t had a chance. I’ll set up a meeting for this afternoon. What is your schedule?”

  “Completely booked. Go ahead without me.”

  “I’ll set it up for six in the Situation Room.”

  “Good, if my schedule changes, I’ll join you.”

  Craig had turned off his cell phone when he was in the meeting with the president. Walking through the White House corridors to his car, he turned it back on and checked for missed calls. One from Elizabeth. He called her back.

  Once she began telling him about Mei Ling and Captain Cheng, he stopped walking and sat in a chair in the corridor. He didn’t want to miss any of this. At the end, he told her, “Well done. What shape’s Mei Ling in?”

  “She’s tough. She’ll be okay. Jacques will take good care of her. How’d it go with Treadwell?”

  “He thinks I made the wrong call letting Orlov leave Vegas, but he didn’t beat me up too badly.”

  “Because he respects your judgment.”

  “That’s what he said. I’m not sure he meant it. He’s pragmatic. What’s done is done. Or as my dad used to say, ‘Mrs. Murphy already had her drink.’”

  “I never heard that one before.”

  “See you tonight. I have to get back to my office at Langley to see if Betty has found you a boyfriend.”

  “I’d like one tall, dark, and handsome.”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  As soon as Craig walked into his office, his secretary said, “Betty wants to see you.”

  “Good. Have her come over.”

  Minutes later, Betty entered the office and said, “I found a boyfriend for Elizabeth for Monte Carlo.”

  “Who?”