by Sam Powers
“Definitely the latter,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for our need to pipe oil through and from the region, he might have been dealt with a long time ago. Khalidi has some interesting beliefs and even more interesting friends.”
Malone wondered about the group he’d named. “Where did we get this information? Do you have someone close to…”
He cut her off again. “We did, yes. But that person is dead.”
“Anyone I know? A certain French diplomat maybe?”
“Look, that’s all you get for now. If you need more or get stuck on something, leave a paper out, same spot, same method.”
“Can I just…”
“No, I have to go.” He turned quickly and strode between the cars, disappearing into a darker area of the garage. Malone didn’t try to follow; she knew who he was, knew his intel would be good. And she knew she had some work ahead of her.
JAN. 29, 2016
Boris Miskin was late for dinner, and Ivana was preparing potatoes stuffed with bacon and cheese, which meant he did not want to be late.
The driver had gotten stuck in traffic on the Beltway after Miskin’s meeting with a trade delegation, but had done so on the one night when Miskin didn’t want an excuse to be somewhere other than with his wife. When he climbed out of the car in front of their brownstone Georgetown home just off Thirty Fifth Street– his permanent residence when not working in Europe – the sidewalk was dusted with snow and it was already near dark.
Still, better late than never, Miskin thought – before realizing how grim an idea it was in light of recent events. He’d come home for Christmas because, despite his love for his own country, he’d become accustomed to the style of living in America. On top of that he was convinced that a disgruntled individual was behind both shootings, someone aware of his collusion with the ACF. It seemed unlikely that person would follow him across the Atlantic Ocean; Miskin did not exactly advertise his U.S. residence, and a person would have had to go back several years in library newspapers to find a reference from when he was cultural attaché, which in turn had merely been a KGB cover.
He rang the doorbell and the maid, Bernice, answered the door. “Welcome home sir,” she said. “May I take your bag upstairs?”
After she’d left to tend to the laundry, he took off his topcoat and hung it in the closet. Ivana had not come to the door to greet him, which was no surprise. It had been many years since his wife had been excited by the prospect of his return. He walked down the carpeted hallway to the living room entrance. She was propped up on the couch watching television, her suicide blonde hair almost in a beehive, it was stacked so high, the dry threads of it barely illuminated by the TV screen. “You keep dinner hot?” he asked.
“In the oven,” she said, without turning away from her show.
He strode through the doorway at the far end of the room, which connected it to the kitchen. He kept his head down as he walked over to the stainless steel refrigerator to retrieve his chilled, pre-mixed bottle of vodka and Pepsi, then reached up to the white cupboards to get a glass.
“You should be careful, Boris Mikhailovich,” a man’s voice said in flawless Russian. “Too much drink has been many a man’s downfall.”
He turned quickly. The man sitting at the kitchen table was a stranger, dressed in black. “You know me, my friend, but I don’t know you,” Miskin said calmly. He slowly reached for the cell phone in his pocket.
Brennan shook his head. “Put that away, Boris. We need to talk civilly, and that is difficult to do if I’m being arrested for trespassing. Beyond that, I’m sure you’re aware that the local response times are hardly those of the police in Moscow.”
He withdrew his hand from his pocket. “Again, I don’t know with whom I’m speaking. Please explain.”
“I’m just a bird who decided your window was a good place upon which to alight,” Brennan said. “Let’s leave it at that. But you have a piece of information I need.”
“I see. So this is… what, a kidnapping?”
“No, just a couple of quick questions.”
“And if I choose to not answer these questions?”
“Well… then things do get a bit more difficult. But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Okay, guy in my kitchen, tell me more. I see if I can help.”
“Tell me what the connection is between Ahmed Khalidi’s ACF and a missing nuclear bomb from South Africa.”
If Miskin was a poker player, he was a damn good one, Brennan thought. “I don’t know anything about this,” the big Russian said, seemingly oblivious.
“What about the name ‘Borz Abubakar’?”
Miskin looked deep in thought. “It seems familiar. Is this someone I should know?”
“Chechen dissident…”
“Oh sure! Now I get you.”
“You knew him.”
“I knew of him. He is the one who…”
“…blew up a bus with two dozen people aboard in Peru, back in oh-nine. Allegedly.”
“Allegedly?”
“I’ve got a source that suggests the device may have been elsewhere at the time.”
“Yeah? You want to share this source with Boris?”
“Why would it matter if it has nothing to do with Khalidi’s group?”
He shrugged. “Assuming we accept your suggestion that Mr. Khalidi fronts such a group, a loose nuke is something we all should worry about. Not that it sounds likely.”
“What about Khalidi? I understand you’ve worked together but do not think much of each other.”
“This is no secret,” Boris said. “But if you think he or anyone else is connected to this other matter, it is a bit foolish. We are a business networking group, nothing more. We review political policy as a hobby, recommend changes to our various contacts in government.”
“Really? That’s all?”
“Of course, my intrusive friend.”
“Because I’d heard you were working outside that mandate a little.”
Miskin’s head dipped for a moment and he took on a wry smile. “This is very imaginative, yes? What did you hear?”
“Just that your group may be a little more active that is advertised. I don’t know yet; but I’ll be looking.”
“I tell you, there is nothing that…”
Brennan cut him off. “Keep in mind, Boris Mikhailovich, that whoever shot your colleagues may yet have you in his sights. Perhaps you need outside friends more than you realize.”
Boris turned back to the refrigerator and put the bottle of Pepsi and vodka away. “I don’t know what you think you will find, but…”
But when he turned around, the back door was open once more and the man had gone.
By the time Miskin poked his head outside to see where the intruder had vanished to, Brennan was already over the back fence and around the block. His rental was parked half a street away from the house. As he approached it, he heard voices behind him. He hugged the wall of the adjacent building to stay out of sight, then peered back around the corner, across the street to the Russian’s residence.
There was a woman at the front door; she was familiar.
The bar, when he’d met Walter months earlier. She was the woman who’d walked in and made everyone nervous.
It couldn’t be coincidence. He pulled out his phone and dialed Lang’s number. Maybe he’d talked to her for long enough to get an ID, Brennan thought.
18./
It was late, after ten o’clock. Malone got home tired and frustrated. The tipster’s information was pure dynamite, story-wise. But confirming any of it was going to be nightmarish.
She closed her townhouse door and put her keys in the top drawer of the small telephone table by the entrance. She switched off the light on the table, always left on during the day to give the place the look of someone being home, in case anyone peeked through the front window.
Then she hung up her coat in the closet behind the door before taking the stairs to the k
itchen. She put her purse on the nearby kitchen table and moved to the small sideboard she used as a stand-in for a bar, grabbing a bottle of rum and heading towards the fridge for mix.
“Don’t turn around,” a voice said. She gasped inwardly and dropped the bottle… and it was caught, by a man’s hand, from right behind her. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” said the voice. The man put the bottle down on the table, behind them.
“I have no money,” she said. Years of being a reporter had steadied her nerves, and she found herself unshaken and self-controlled, even though she was frightened. “Take my purse and please leave me alone.” He was probably a junkie looking for a quick fix, she reasoned. That was usually the reason for a break-in.
“I don’t want your money and I’m not going to hurt you,” the voice reiterated. It was strong, authoritative. It was strangely calm, as if he really meant what he was saying, and she began to turn around. But he stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t turn around. It’s better for you if you don’t know who I am.” There seemed an implied threat in the comment, and she stopped the motion.
“What do you want?” she said. “How did you …”
“You left the latch on your rear living room window undone. My apologies, but we can’t have this conversation anywhere public.”
Was he a source? “What do you mean?”
“Your name is Alexandra Malone, you’re a writer for News Now Magazine, and you’re working on a story about the sniper shootings. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Earlier this evening, you attempted to interview Boris Miskin at his home in Georgetown. Why?”
“Like you said, I’m working on a story.” If he was going to try the cloak-and-dagger routine, she was going to be obtuse as well.
“About the ACF?”
“Possibly. Why do you want to know?” There was no way Alex was giving this guy anything without some quid pro quo.
“I’m also working on something,” the man said. “I think we might be looking for some of the same answers. But I’d have an easier time knowing if that’s the case if you filled me in on what you know.”
“That’s not going to happen,” she said. “I don’t reveal my source information before I publish, and I don’t talk to strange guys who break into my apartment.”
“What you’re investigating, these people… they won’t put up with someone nosing around. You need to know that they’re deadly serious.”
“Did they send you to threaten me?” Alex said. “Because I don’t scare easily.”
Brennan liked her. Most people would have been terrified if they’d found him lurking in their apartment, but she was cool as a cucumber. “Nobody sent me. I just want to know what you asked Miskin, and why.”
“But you won’t give me anything back in return.”
“I have nothing to offer,” the voice said.
“We could start with who you are and go from there,” she suggested. “You trust me with a face-to-face, I’ll tell you what I asked Boris Miskin.” Whoever he was, Alex figured, he was intimately involved. That meant he had information she needed.
Brennan thought about it. The wise thing to do would have been to listen to David, to go back to Europe and bunker in until needed. But he’d already blown that idea off. Ballantine and Han’s new information had been too incendiary. “Fine,” he said.
She turned around and her eyes narrowed immediately. “I know you from somewhere,” she said. “We’ve met before. Years of writing down exact spellings have rendered me pretty damn unable to remember names, but I don’t forget a face.”
“I’ve fulfilled my portion of the deal,” he said. “Tell me what you asked Miskin.”
Who is he? “I have an intelligence source that claims Khalidi’s ACF, is rogue; it’s funding paramilitary types to clean up problems that get in the way of its commercial ambitions. He also said the chairman, Ahmed Khalidi, is mixed up in something bigger, and that he and Miskin don’t like each other. I was trying, without any luck, to get Miskin to complain about the investigation.”
“Let me guess: he laughed off the whole thing.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I was in the kitchen when you dropped by his house. You didn’t stay long enough to get into anything with depth.”
“And what did Mr. Miskin tell you… sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Brennan added. “He gave me the brushoff as well. But I pointed out to him that whoever came for the other committee members could go after him, too. So maybe he’ll think on it, at least.”
“Then what is this all about? Why the shootings, what does Khalidi have to do with it and why the level of American involvement? It’s like every source I have in D.C. expects us to solve this for the EU. Why are we even over there?”
“Who said we were over there?” Brennan wasn’t going to share Fawkes with a reporter, especially one fishing for confirmations on a potential ongoing crisis. “As for the rest, I don’t know yet, but I suggest we stay in touch.”
Whoever he is, she thought, he’s got nerve. “Why would I trust you? You won’t even tell me who you are.”
“Because I broke into your apartment and didn’t hurt you. If I wanted harm to come to you, it already would have.” His face was deadpan; he was completely serious, and for just a moment, Malone felt a jolt of nerves. “And… because I work in intelligence.” He mentioned the last factor with obvious reluctance. “And that’s all you need to…”
“Walter Lang,” she said, pointing at him. “That’s where I know you from: you were talking to Walter Lang in a bar more than a year ago.”
“And if you know Walter…”
“I know he’s a good man. I know he’s been honest with me at least twice since then. He hasn’t given me confidential or classified information, however. And he said you were an architect.”
“He’s a good friend.”
He could see the gears turning in her head. “You’re working undercover, which means you probably work for the agency and with Walter. The last time I saw you it was the last day of the Colombia hearings. He said something about you; what was it? He said… he said you were in town for a conference.”
Brennan quickly wondered what he’d gotten himself into.
She wasn’t done. “A lot of people wanted to know who went into Colombia and extracted him, and there you were, obviously a covert operative of some sort, talking to him in a bar.”
“Some people already know the truth about that story,” he said, watching her eyes widen at the prospect of a scoop. “And they’re on a need-to-know basis.”
“So what do I call you? How do I know if it’s you calling me?”
“Your magazine. When I call, I’ll start with the first line of the last article in the latest edition…”
“Like a code?”
“…and you respond with the last line from the same article.”
“You can trust me with your identity,” she said.
“I know you think that,” he said, “and I know you mean it. But I also know it’s not true. Whatever we’re mixed up in… you have to realize, Ms. Malone, these people play awful rough. You understand that, right? Nothing inside your head is safe.”
“Sure, but…”
“No buts. This is how we work it, or we don’t talk at all.”
“Okay,” she said. “So what now?”
He couldn’t gamble telling her about the nuke. If she wrote something prematurely, the ensuing panic could be catastrophic, or spook someone into arming the device. He didn’t even know yet why it was in play, or if it was just a myth. “What did your source tell you about Ahmed Khalidi?”
“Very little. He just said I should check out his involvement in some trouble in Africa a few years back. I’ve been working on another source to get more detail.”
“Africa?” He tried to keep his voice level, so that he didn’t sound too enthusiastic, but she picked
up on it anyway.
“Yes… why? Have you heard something that would link it back…”
“No,” he lied. “But see what you can find out about it and maybe we can stitch it into the narrative as things make more sense.”
She headed towards the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink, Mr…”
“I told you, my name is unimportant,” he said.
“I know, but if it give me an indication of why you need ...”
She’d turned back as she tried to talk him into it; but once again, Brennan had vanished.
19./
Miskin acted quickly once the reporter had left. He knew there was always the potential that one of his peers might have him under surveillance. If there was a suggestion – even an inkling – that he was speaking with the media, he wouldn’t survive the week.
He’d gone back to the refrigerator, taken out the Pepsi-vodka mixed and poured himself another drink. Then he headed upstairs to his study. He started his computer and opened the video conference connection. It took a few moments before his connection was accepted by each of the members.
“Russia,” the chairman said. “As you are doubtless aware, it is early in the morning here….”
“I’m sorry, really, but this could not wait.” Miskin and Khalidi disliked each other. But the Russian knew they’d present a united front if the ACF’s work were at stake. “I had a pair of visitors today.”
He told the members about Brennan and the reporter. “The unnamed man was definitely a pro, perhaps American intelligence. It would be worth checking with our own sources…
“Done,” said Khalidi. “And the reporter?”
“An Alexandra Malone. She writes for the weekly magazine News Now, as well as for its website. She has a reputation for tenacity that few share and has been a thorn in the side of numerous politicians in her own country over the last decade.”
The Chinese delegate, Fung, broke in. “Russia, why did you not just eliminate the problem?”
“I live here,” Miskin hissed. “I’m not in the habit of getting my hands dirty…”
