Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

There was silence for a few seconds.

  “Screw me,” Vic said eventually.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Johnson said. “Zilleman and Donnerstein. What the hell are those two doing together?”

  Goode gave a thin smile. “There’s been no actual calls between these phones, just a few odd text messages. My team managed to capture some of the texts. Some of them went from Zilleman to the phones at this location and also to another phone that looks like a burner, located in different places around Manhattan and Brooklyn.”

  “Any idea who has that one?” Vic asked.

  Goode shook his head. “No. I can’t apply the same methodology to New York as I have here. There’s too many people. But it’s clearly someone linked to Zilleman and Donnerstein. You want to see the text messages we managed to capture?”

  Johnson tugged at the old wound at the top of his right ear. “Yes, let’s have a look—but who the hell is it in New York, then?”

  Goode shrugged and toggled to another window that showed three different blocks of text. “These are the recent messages of any significance. The previous ones were just chitchat. You know, hello, how you doing, that kind of stuff. This first one is from the New York burner phone to the other two, Zilleman and Donnerstein—assuming it is Donnerstein.”

  Need to make final decisions etc. Suggest 40.702684, -73.996108. Monday 17.12.

  Goode pointed to the next block. “This is from Donnerstein to the other two phones.”

  Yes can make that. In area for meetings.

  “And this is the third one, with Zilleman replying to both phones.”

  Seeing investors 17.00. Can make 18.12.

  Johnson leaned over the laptop screen. “Can I take a photo of those?”

  “Yes, no problem,” Goode said. Johnson snapped a photo of the screen with his phone.

  “So it’s a rendezvous point,” Johnson said. “Where is it?”

  Goode copied and pasted the coordinates from the text message into his map app. “I did this just earlier. It’s right in the middle of Brooklyn Bridge Park, next to the bridge.”

  The map popped up on the screen, showing the location Goode was referring to, only about a mile and a quarter southeast of the TITANPOINTE building where they were seated, across the East River.

  “In a park? That’s an odd location. And what is Donnerstein doing with Zilleman?” Johnson asked, turning to Vic. “It’s Afghanistan-related, clearly. Is he working with his investment fund? Advising them? Investing with them?”

  Vic raised his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “No idea, buddy. That’s what we need to find out. We’re going to have to work with the Feebs on this. They’ll have to do the manhandling, especially if Donnerstein’s involved. I know Simon Dover at the CCRSB from way back. We’ll talk to him first.”

  Johnson didn’t need to be told that. It was the FBI’s job to make any arrests, not the CIA’s. Any investigation like this would be handled by the bureau’s Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch, headed up by Dover, the FBI’s executive assistant director. Vic had gotten to know Dover when the latter was a supervisor in the FBI’s counterintelligence division in 2002 and in charge of various espionage investigations on which Vic had also worked. Despite the tendency for CIA and FBI officers to regard each other with disdain, the two had remained friends as they each rose up the ladder in their respective organizations.

  “Prepare for a bomb to go off under Obama’s desk,” Johnson said. “This is going to be nuclear if Donnerstein’s doing what it appears and it stacks up.”

  “You said it, man,” Vic said. “The Feebs better not screw it up. We also need to make 100 percent sure this thing doesn’t leak to anyone, especially media, before we’ve got it nailed down and watertight. Otherwise Donnerstein will call everything off and we’ll be looking like monkeys.”

  Johnson studied the map again. “This meeting location looks odd to me. Surely they’re not rendezvousing in the park. We’ll need to go check out the place beforehand.”

  Vic shook his head. “I presume they must have a prearranged location near to there. We’ll have to stake it out—the Feebs can help us do that bit.”

  “Yes, fine,” Johnson said. “But we’ll also have to make sure they don’t go too heavy too early. You know what they’re like with their bull-in-a-china shop approach. We need to collect some solid evidence and catch Donnerstein and Zilleman while they’re together.”

  “I agree, Joe,” Vic said, slightly wearily.

  Johnson’s phone pinged as a text message arrived. It was from his son, Peter.

  How’s it going Dad? Where are you now? In NYC I guess. Wish I was there with you. I’m off to Old Orchard Beach with some friends this afternoon. Carrie may also come with a friend. Speak soon. Love you.

  Johnson had told his kids he was in New York and had guiltily apologized for not being able to pop up to Portland to visit them. And he found himself wishing he was going to the beach with his son: Old Orchard Beach, half an hour south of Portland, was one of the family’s favorites, with its amusement park, a Ferris wheel, and a pier.

  He had often gone there as a kid with his mother, Helena, a Polish Jewish immigrant who had survived two years in the Gross-Rosen concentration camp during World War II before being liberated by the advancing Red Army in April 1945. She had moved to the United States two years later and had gone on to live a full life, passing away finally in 2001, nine years after his father.

  Feeling suddenly stressed at the two-way tug between the need to focus on his deliberations with Vic and his son’s message, Johnson sent a very quick reply, telling Peter to enjoy the beach, adding that he was fine and would send an update later. He then turned his attention back to business.

  Suddenly, something that had initially been a quest for information in Kabul for Johnson’s report to Frank Rice had become something of very much greater significance across the other side of the Atlantic.

  But he didn’t want to take his eye off the ball with regard to the overall picture. After all, the revelations contained within Akbari’s documents about Severinov, given his current status, were also explosive.

  And although the family-related reasons why Javed was seeking revenge on Severinov were now clear, it wasn’t so obvious why Severinov was apparently pursuing Javed.

  So what would they do next? Johnson wondered. He urgently needed to check in with Jayne to brief her on what they had learned about Javed and Severinov as well as Donnerstein. His biggest concern, though, was that she and Haroon were mounting a surveillance operation on Javed on some of the most dangerous streets in the world.

  Chapter Thirty

  Sunday, June 9, 2013

  Kabul

  Jayne splashed a drop of lime juice into the large vodka she had poured for herself and immediately took a large slug from it before slumping on the sofa in the villa just off Wazir Akbar Khan Road.

  She definitely needed this drink—right then she wished she were back in the comfort and safety of her two-bedroom apartment in London’s Whitechapel area. For the second day running, Jayne and Haroon had attempted to mount a surveillance operation on Javed and discover where he was staying. It certainly wasn’t at the Street Ten address—they had checked that several times.

  But on both days, their surveillance attempts had ended in failure through no fault of their own but because of incidents in Kabul city center.

  On the previous day, Saturday, Haroon had worked alone with Johnson’s driver Omar, on the basis that he was far less obtrusive on Kabul’s streets than she was. Despite her MI6 background, Jayne felt extremely vulnerable as a Western woman out in the open.

  Omar had dropped Haroon within walking distance of the Ministry of Mines and Petroleum offices, a few hundred yards south of Abdul Haq Square and just across the street from the Kabul River. The Pakistani had then continued on foot in the guise of an office worker, observing Javed in his black Toyota as he checked through the security gate on his way into the ministry in the mor
ning, presumably to continue work on the oil and gas sale. He had carefully remembered the license plate, which he later passed on to Jayne.

  Haroon and Omar had then followed Javed by car after he had emerged from the ministry at just after four in the afternoon. However, as they tracked him across Abdul Haq Square, a crowd of protesters carrying banners about poor living conditions emerged from the nearby Makroyan apartment buildings and filled the street ahead of them, blocking off the traffic just after Javed had passed through. It took Haroon another seven or eight minutes to fight his way through the throng, by which time Javed was long gone.

  On Sunday, Jayne had gone with Haroon and Omar, and they had found a place near the ministry where they could park the pickup and observe together. Jayne sat in the rear seat, hidden behind the dark smoked-glass windows. They had again followed Javed from the ministry. But a car bomb that exploded on a nearby street as they shadowed him onto Sulh Road resulted in immediate traffic chaos, and they lost him again as the jam slowly unwound.

  On both days, he hadn’t returned to Street Ten.

  “We’re too old for this game, or at least I am,” Haroon said, clasping his hands behind his head and wrinkling his forehead. He was seated in an armchair opposite Jayne.

  “No, we were just unlucky,” Jayne said. It was true, they had simply been unlucky. In any case, she wasn’t going to concede any diminution of her abilities on the street, and certainly not by using age as an excuse.

  But they did need to find out where Javed was staying and to track him carefully.

  Johnson had briefed her via a secure phone call on the details in Akbari’s files. Given the revelations, they would definitely want to take action to expose Severinov, if not in court then certainly via other channels such as the media. The last thing they wanted was for Javed to wipe him off the planet.

  Similarly, Javed too had gone well beyond the norms of warfare in the way that he had brutally tortured and mutilated the Soviet helicopter crew in the K-G Pass that day in 1988. It was only right that he too be publicly exposed for what he had done.

  A few hours earlier, Jayne had tried calling the number for a senior Afghan police contact that Lieutenant Colonel Storey had given her during the operation to rescue Johnson. But his skeptical-sounding assistant had told her that the man was flat out on a major operation against the Taliban that was likely to last for the next two days and that he therefore was unavailable.

  It seemed to be a familiar story across all security services operating in Afghanistan, both foreign and local—they were all utterly overstretched and overwhelmed by the battle against various insurgent groups.

  “We’ll give Javed’s house another try tomorrow,” Haroon said. “Third time lucky.”

  “Hope so,” Jayne said, draining the remains of her drink. “I’m going to try calling Baz’s family in Wazrar. They might have an idea where he’s staying.”

  She took out her phone and dialed the cell phone number she had for Baz’s wife, Nazia. The number you are calling is not available. Probably the Taliban had taken out the local mast again, she figured.

  Then Jayne had another thought. “Hang on a minute; I could get Seb Storey or one of his guys to go to Wazrar and find Nazia in person.”

  Jayne knew that Firebase Wilderness was on its own military cell phone network. Sure enough, she got through to Storey almost immediately and explained what she wanted.

  “We’re in the middle of an operation right now,” Storey said. “You’re lucky I’ve got a couple of minutes to talk to you. But I’ll try to get one of my guys to drop in there and see her as soon as we get an opportunity. I’m just not sure when it will be.”

  Jayne thanked him and hung up. It was just as well Johnson was making some progress in New York, because she really felt as though she were wading through dark molasses right now.

  Sunday, June 9, 2013

  Brooklyn, New York

  Johnson pulled the cap down over his forehead and adjusted his sunglasses. “They definitely won’t be meeting here,” he said, looking around the park.

  They were standing in the line for the ferries at the northern end of Brooklyn Bridge Park, looking out over the East River. It seemed the best place to check out the location without arousing suspicion.

  The park consisted of a narrow strip of green land about a hundred yards wide with an area of grass in the center surrounded by bushes and trees. It was exactly at the spot specified by the coordinates in the captured text message.

  As they looked south across the park, twenty yards to their right was the East River, with the Manhattan skyline across the water. Behind them to the north was the Brooklyn Bridge, and to their left, beyond the trees, was a building site where the beginnings of a hotel or apartment complex was taking shape.

  There were a number of tourists sauntering past, cameras at the ready to snap the New York skyline. A group of four kids were throwing a baseball to each other on the grass nearby, and a couple lay flat on a blanket, smooching without coming up for air.

  “No, they won’t meet here,” Vic agreed. “Too many people.”

  Next to them, Simon Dover, the FBI executive assistant director, nodded his white-haired head in agreement. “It’ll be near here.”

  Dover, in his mid-fifties, had agreed to come with them once Vic had briefed him on the information they had collected from Akbari and the likelihood of a serious issue involving abuse of public office by someone as high up the political food chain as Donnerstein.

  Wearing black slacks and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Dover slowly scanned the surrounding area with a pair of laser-like blue eyes. “Once you’ve ruled out the park and the building site, there’s still a lot of options just a stone’s throw away. Let’s walk and take a look.”

  The three men left the ferry area just as a yellow New York Water Taxi ferry arrived at the end of Pier One behind them. From there, they walked along the waterfront, past the floating classical music venue Bargemusic and a stream of tourists licking at ice creams.

  At the L-shaped junction of Old Fulton Street and Furman Street, they halted next to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. Johnson glanced at a wine bar, 7 Old Fulton, where several of the clientele already had bottles in front of them.

  “I can’t see them using any of these places for a confidential meeting,” Dover said, gesturing toward the bars.

  “Why name a place if they’re not going to use it?” Vic said.

  “My thinking is they rendezvous at the park, then move on,” Johnson said. “There’s any number of apartment buildings here or hotels down the street. If we can bust them in the actual meeting, they’re screwed. Donnerstein’s history.”

  Johnson looked meaningfully at Dover. “But we want to take a light-touch approach before they get into the actual meeting. We don’t want them spotting surveillance and aborting.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” Dover said, slightly tetchily. “I suggest using a couple of our top surveillance guys to track people coming into and out of the park. Younger ones who’ll look like locals or tourists. Then we’ll use three or four others on the neighboring streets.” He scanned up and down Old Fulton and Furman Street from their vantage point at the junction. “We can wait in a blacked-out vehicle just down the street here and then move when needed.”

  “You’re going to get involved?” Vic asked Dover.

  “It’s Donnerstein; I need to,” Dover said. “I’ll also need to brief Mueller when we’re finished. That’ll set the cat among the pigeons, because he’ll then need to brief the president.” Robert Mueller was the long-serving director of the FBI, responsible for the entire organization.

  Johnson nodded approvingly. It was good to see top federal agents getting their hands dirty when needed.

  His phone pinged as a text message arrived. It was from Jayne, saying that local media in Kabul were confirming that potential bidders for the Afghanistan oil and gas assets were expected in the city on Thursday for final prese
ntations to the minister of mines and petroleum and to submit their final offers. She added that the local TV news was also reporting that Donnerstein was expected back in Kabul to add his endorsement to the process.

  “Listen to this,” Johnson said to Vic and Dover. He read the message. “Why would he go to Kabul twice in the space of three weeks to deliver an identical message? There’s definitely something going on. He’s got fingers in the pie. I’m certain he must be investing in ZenForce’s bid for these assets—which he’s now heavily promoting. He wants to pull favors with the Kabul government and make sure the Swiss-American offer gets precedence.”

  Vic shook his head. “If that guy ends up getting on the plane to Kabul, I’m resigning.”

  “I’ll be fired,” Dover said.

  “Well, if we’re going to avoid that, we need to get eyeballs on these three guys as quickly as possible,” Johnson said. “In the case of Donnerstein, he’s a face lots of people recognize, so he’s likely to be in disguise. Zilleman may not bother with a disguise. And then we’ve got the mysterious third man—the man with the burner phone who organized the meeting. And nobody knows who that is.”

  “Indeed,” Dover said. “It’s not going to be easy.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Monday, June 10, 2013

  Kabul

  “Is that the house?” Omar asked as he piloted the silver Hilux down Street Nine.

  Jayne leaned forward. “Yes, I think that must be it.”

  Eventually, one of Seb Storey’s men at Firebase Wilderness had gone to Nazia’s house in Wazrar and had obtained an address for Javed’s brother, Mohinder, in Kabul, who apparently had died two years earlier. The house was on Street Nine, not far from Javed’s property on Street Ten, which ran parallel.

  Nazia had told the soldier that she understood Javed had access to the Street Nine house, although she didn’t know whether he was staying there or not.