The dragon selected a button from a console and said, "They're here, Director Whitehall."
"Show them in."
The dragon pointed to a solid-looking door behind her.
Krystal pushed the door open with Ferguson hovering behind her and entered the Executive Assistant Director's inner sanctum, the very air of which seemed redolent with intrigue. No one knew how long the spectral figure of Enoch Whitehall had been at the FBI. The only hint was a framed black and white photo of a much earlier version of the man shaking hands with J. Edgar Hoover. It was the sole adornment on the wall behind the work table that served as a desk.
Whitehall had not changed since the last time Krystal had spoken with him in this very office. He wore what might have been the same dark gray suit that hung from a cadaverous frame. If he had an aura, it would be gray to the point of disappearing into his surroundings. But when he turned his attention to you, the hatchet face with its blade of a nose and deep-set gray eyes, was mesmerizing, and undoubtedly frightening to evil-doers and subordinates alike.
Whitehall unfolded his body from behind the table and, like Dracula rising from his coffin, stood to greet them. "Detective Murphy, what brings you to see me?" The voice was surprisingly resonant for a man more wraith than substance. Murphy wondered if one day he might just fade into the ether and haunt the halls of the Hoover Building for eternity.
"Well, sir," Whitehall was the only person she would call sir without hesitation, and now that she stood before him, she wasn't certain how to begin. She silently cursed Strachey and simultaneously prayed he was not leading her on a wild goose chase. She finally found the words. "You know the case I," a quick glance at Ferguson, "I mean, we, are working on?"
"The incident at the Clarendon Metro. Of course, but that's not my turf, Krystal." An interrogatory eyebrow rose.
Ferguson experienced a small vindication, but then Murphy said, "I received information this morning that might change that."
Whitehall invited them to a small conference table in one corner of his office. "Go on," he said.
When she was finished no one said anything for several beats.
"That's very melodramatic," said Whitehall. "I understand why you would want to tell me about it, but you haven't determined whether this alleged Russian woman actually exists."
The admonition punched Krystal in the gut. Whitehall had never shown her anything but kindness and trust and had actively helped her in some tough situations when no one else was on her side. She had let him down.
Ferguson dropped his head to hide an involuntary smirk.
"But," the gray man said, "it does present some interest, however bizarre."
Krystal perked up. Ferguson lost his smirk.
Whitehall frowned slightly as though deciding how much to tell them. "The interest of which I speak centers on one of the victims of the bombing. His name was Mark Lvovich Shtayn, and he was a sharp thorn in the side of the Russians. In the 90's, Shtayn worked at a rather influential level in the Russian banking sector. Moscow was wild in those days, and Shtayn had an insider's view of just how absolutely corrupt the system under Yeltsin became, and how it continued and deepened under Putin. Putin was infamous for his loyalty to his former benefactor, Sobchak. The two had become wealthy together by diverting millions from projects in Leningrad. Yeltsin needed someone like this, and sure enough, as soon as Putin was elected, he gave Yeltsin and his family immunity from prosecution. Shtayn knew it all – collaboration with the mafia, graft, you name it. His death can only benefit the Kremlin. The assumption was that he was just unlucky, like the rest of the victims. Islamist terrorists have little interest in Russian defectors.
"But the Russians have kidnapped and murdered their enemies since the Bolshevik Revolution, and they've not changed their stripes. Even in their own country they've murdered journalists who refused to toe the Kremlin line and delved into forbidden subjects, like Shtayn."
"There is a lot of interest now in international money laundering, and this was something Shtayn told us about in private – yes, he was a source, but refused any payment. He was going public with what he knew about the dirty dealings of the Office of the President and Putin's circle of friends. So it's not surprising that they would target him for assassination."
Ferguson could not contain himself. "But, sir, isn't it unlikely they would try something on American soil? And previous assassinations have been carefully targeted on a single individual. This was mass murder. Such a plan would be insane."
"Yes, it most assuredly would be insane, but we must check it out nonetheless. Don't forget the Boston Marathon bombing. Despite what they claim, the Russians never warned us specifically, and I for one do not doubt that they were fully aware of the Tsarnaev brothers' plans.
"From what I've seen of late, there is no lack of the kind of arrogance and recklessness in Moscow that would stay a wiser, less desperate hand." He stood and cast a stern gaze over them. "Until we know more, you are to say nothing to anyone about this. As of this moment I'm declaring this a need to know matter. There are too many ears and too many wagging tongues in Washington to risk such a story getting to the public. I'm sure you must have realized that if true, such an outrage could bring about a crisis the likes of which we haven't seen since Cuba in 1962 or the Twin Towers in 2001."
Chapter 50
Ferguson commandeered a Humvee from the Bureau's motor pool, and he and Krystal set out on the 100-mile drive to the Shenandoah Valley less than an hour after the meeting with Whitehall. It was not a pleasant journey. Ferguson was sulky behind the wheel and made occasional snorting noises to indicate what he thought about Krystal's "lead." She remained silent, studying the map and instructions Strachey had given her at the Mayflower.
Strachey warned to approach the place carefully. Bob wanted to go with them, but both Ferguson and Whitehall had vetoed the idea. He would call ahead and advise his friend that they were on the way.
U.S. 66 and 81 were mostly clear of snow, and there was little traffic other than trucks as they barreled west and then south into the Shenandoah Valley. Once they got off the Interstate at Woodstock, it was a different story. Much more snow had fallen over the Appalachians. Conditions were worse on the unpaved road that brought them eventually to the cabin. Without the Humvee, the drive would have been impossible.
The entrance to the property was barely visible and barred by a metal gate. Neither Krystal nor Ferguson had boots fit for two-foot deep drifts, but he managed to get the gate open and drive through. Having been a farm girl, Krystal insisted he get out again and close the gate behind them. His face told her he was unenthusiastic about the task, but he obeyed nonetheless. Clearly, the Special Agent was not adjusting well to a subordinate role.
The cabin lay about three-quarters of a mile beyond the gate, around a sharp curve and up a steep grade. Heedful of Strachey's precautions, Ferguson sounded the Humvee's horn long before they reached the cabin.
A tall figure in a parka and a fur hat emerged from around the corner of the cabin with an ugly, military-style weapon aimed directly at them. "Don't make any sudden moves," Krystal said to Ferguson who was taking male umbrage at having a weapon pointed in his direction and reaching for his own.
She opened the door and stepped out into the snow with her hands away from her sides. "Bob Strachey sent us," she said.
The old man's stance did not change. "Who are you?" he asked.
"I'm Lieutenant Murphy of the Arlington County Police, and that's FBI Special Agent Ferguson behind the wheel."
"Tell your friend to get out of the car and keep his hands where I can see them. Then you can show me your credentials." The old man approached the Humvee carefully, taking slow steps in the deep snow.
Gritting his teeth, Ferguson stepped out of the Humvee and said, "Pointing a weapon at an FBI agent is a federal offense."
"Fuck the FBI," was the old man's prompt response. "I never had much use for Hoover's attack dogs. Now, move in front of the car
to stand beside the young lady." He couldn't cover both of them from up close if they were on opposite sides of the wide Humvee.
They laid the documents on the hood and stood back. When he finished examining them, his voice turned to a low growl as he said, "А сейчас, подонки, я вас убью."
Krystal and Ferguson looked at one another. "What did he say?" asked the latter.
"I don't know, but it didn't sound friendly," she answered.
For the first time, the old man gave them a crooked grin and lowered his weapon. "Good," he said, "you don't speak Russian. I guess you're who you say you are." He eyed Krystal for a moment. "Young Strachey said you were a good-looking redhead. He didn't lie. Come on inside and let me introduce you to my guest."
But at the front door he paused and said, "I'd better show you something else first. Follow me."
He led them between the cabin and the garage to a pile of snow which he gave a good kick. When the snow fell away, they saw the face of a man whose departure from this life had been precipitated by a large hole in his head.
"There're two of 'em in there," said the old man. "It took two shots to take the other one down."
When Strachey told her about the two dead men it had seemed farfetched, yet here they were, dead as doornails. The weapon in the old man's hands was more than just a threat.
He kicked some snow back over the Chechen's face and led them again to the front door. The interior of the cabin was warm and inviting, definitely masculine with a lot of wood and leather and the scent of cigar smoke hovering in the air. A fire crackled in the fireplace and a yellow Lab stood in the middle of the room wagging her tail.
Divested of parka and hat, their host was tall and thin with long white hair and a short, scraggly beard. His eyes were sharp and intelligent. He wore jeans and a heavy turtleneck sweater. "There's a fresh pot of coffee on the stove if you'd like some. Take those coats off and make yourselves comfortable while I get the girl. She's scared out of her wits and very nervous, which is understandable after what she's been through. She's telling the truth to judge from the two assholes in the snow outside, and there are going to be several sleepless nights in Washington while the morons who run this country try to figure out what to do."
Olga was shaky. This was partly a natural reaction to shock and partly because running lightly clothed through the snow had left her with a bad cold and a fever. The uncontrollable shivering had diminished since the horrific events of the night before, but was giving way to despair. The two thugs who had taken her forcibly from her apartment were dead. The strange old man at least believed her story. In her hysteria she had at first feared that the Chechens would somehow rise again and break down the door, but now the fear was replaced by alarm of another sort.
There was nothing left of her life. She had no doubt that her captors acted on Karpov's orders and doubtless would have killed her had it not been for their drunken carelessness. Not a trace remained of the inspirational ideal of "the Motherland"; it had collapsed and died in the Metro explosion along with the other victims, and lay buried under the ruins of all her former convictions. Her friends and companions, members of a closely knit team had become her worst enemies, murderers, and she was in the hands of her former foes.
Exhausted, frightened to death, she had absolute faith in the strange, dark old man to whom through wracking sobs she had poured out everything: "Svoi," Solntsev, her American mission, Karpov and Shtayn, and even for some reason Vlad Illarionov and his father, and the apartment bombings in Moscow. She needed to confess, to somehow lift the weight of her guilt. The old man provided the outlet she needed.
The more she talked the more the pain and horror faded to be replaced by uncertainty. What would happen to her now? The old man had been patient and even sympathetic, at times asking perceptive questions. Afterwards, he went into another room where he remained for a long time.
When he returned she asked directly what would happen to her now. He took her by the shoulders. His face was kindly, but his voice was firm. "You must tell everything to the FBI."
The FBI? Her terror returned and she shook out of his grasp as though he had suddenly turned into a monster. The idea of the FBI aroused an instinct other than fear, an instinct born of her training in Russia, all the talks with Solntsev, and even with Karpov – the entirety of her experience over the past several years. This combination of letters pushed a button that launched a sense of uncompromising animosity. She couldn't tell such things to an enemy special service. It would be a kind of suicide.
"But they'll imprison me for espionage and taking part in a terrorist act! I can't … Please …" She stared at the old man in unfeigned anguish, but he remained adamant. The wheels were already in motion, and the authorities would arrive soon. She finally understood that she could do nothing and sank onto the sofa with no idea what might happen to her next.
Her revelation to the American of what she had done in his country left little hope for clemency. To escape from this godforsaken house was impossible, and she had nowhere to go in any event. Sooner or later Karpov would realize the Chechens had failed and send someone else to kill her. That was to be her fate. She had no friends in this country, and she was convinced that everyone she knew would gladly hand her back to Karpov if she asked for help. She could imagine how sleek Stash or slimy Petrov would run to the embassy to betray her in exactly the same way they had reported on Shtayn and other dissidents.
It was foolish to resist he American authorities. On the other hand, confessing to the FBI would mean life in prison, and the thought of a slow extinction behind bars was only slightly better than death. In spite of everything that had happened, she could not escape the notion that to tell all to yesterday's enemy would be a form of treason, and this she could not imagine. No matter how they had treated her, would it be possible for her to cross that line?
Somewhere deep inside glimmered a forlorn hope that Gleb Solntsev was unaware of Karpov's actions. What if it was a stupid independent decision of the Washington rezidentura? Gleb, Nastya, Boris Ivanovich – surely they could have nothing to do with what happened here. Would it be right to betray them, too?
The insane hope that she still had friends in Russia and that she must somehow get back home unexpectedly possessed her. In this empty world where not the slightest hope remained, the memories of something familiar and eternal were her only chance. These people might appreciate what she had done in refusing to be a part of Karpov's dirty work and understand that she had betrayed no one. In spite of everything, Gleb could save her.
Still consumed by these thoughts, she did not hear the arrival of the Humvee. But she was called back to the present by the old man's gruff challenge to the new arrivals. She couldn't make out the details of the verbal skirmish. Horrified, she rushed to the bedroom window but could see nothing.
She fell back onto the bed and curled up like a hunted animal. She was ashamed of her weakness and hysterics, for her excessive openness, her tears and her demeaning and useless pleas. How could she explain to the Americans what had happened without admitting her own guilt? How could she trust people who had so recently been her enemy?
Chapter 51
Vlad Illarionov was angry and impatient. His article on the Moscow apartment bombings was complete, the editorial board had approved its publication, but the Metro outrage knocked everything else out of the news. Several days passed with little or no official progress. There was a claim of responsibility that may well be specious. Homeland Security and the FBI were still studying the evidence, so press speculation ran the full spectrum.
Most of the stories by now concerned the victims and the families left behind. America was a strange place where mourning, sympathy, and pleas for unity came before rage and vows of revenge. Aside from a few publicity-seeking hotheads, no one was demanding the invasion of another country or "turning the desert to glass." The public debate was all about determining the truth before leaping to conclusions.
The Kremlin immediately offered condolences and solidarity in the face of international Islamist terrorism and issued a statement about its own struggle with terrorism. Given what Vlad knew, he could only scoff at such cynical opportunism. Every emanation from the Kremlin was aimed at advancing only the Kremlin's agenda.
The chance meeting with Olga Polyanskaya was a shock. His childhood fondness for her had curdled into sour loathing. He could not imagine what that lickspittle of Gleb Solntsev was doing in Washington. He was certain it was nothing good, and he vowed to look into it after his article was published.
Right now he hurried along the wet sidewalk toward the Washington Post building on 'K' Street for a meeting with Ethan Holmes. The reporter's phone call a half'-hour earlier was the first contact with Vlad since his article had been postponed. Maybe the day had come.
Holmes greeted him with a hearty handshake and a slap on the back. "We're going to publish your story in Sunday's paper on the op-ed page with a photo of your father. We'll have to compose a shorter version because of space allotments, but it'll cover all the main points. The full version will appear on our webpage, and we'll include excerpts from the recording of Tretyakov's confession along with translation."
He expected Vlad to be pleased.
"It will be published as an opinion piece rather than factual reporting?" Vlad didn't hide his disappointment. In his mind, the piece should be on the front page with a screaming headline – GLEB SOLNTSEV IS A MASS MURDERER.
"Calm down, Vlad. This is a very influential newspaper. It's read all over the world, and it'll be picked up by other news outlets. Believe me, it'll be big. I just hope you're prepared for the blow-back. There'll be a lot of that, even from Putin apologists here in the States."
"At least no one here will beat me to death and throw me in a ditch," replied Vlad, his voice embittered by the memory of discovering his father's body in Bittevskiy Park. The horror of that night seemed at once long ago and only yesterday.
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