“Names are good. Quicker. Are your friends with you now?”
Reilly looked about. First over his shoulder across the street, then behind him. He saw the bald one, Curly.
“Just one. Non-threatening.” He privately thought, I hope, realizing he still needed to call Alan Cannon.
“Who’s your other friend?” Heath asked.
“A woman. A femme fatale. Looks that could kill.”
“The worst kind.”
He spelled out Pudovkin’s name, described her, and estimated her age. Heath read it back and typed it into a database that instantly searched a thousand sources. State, federal, and international. CIA, NSA, FBI, Interpol, and more. Not the usual library sources, although Heath’s computer automatically ran Google, Facebook, Instagram, and other social media sources simultaneously.
“While I have you,” Reilly continued, “any updates you can share?”
“Yes and no.”
“I’ll take the yes.”
“Not now. Hope you understand.”
Reilly did. Heath would brief him, but only in a SCIF in the American embassy. That meant he had something relevant, but sensitive.
“Can’t head there right now. I’ve got Curly on me.”
“Curly?
“One of my Three Stooges.”
“With the curly hair?”
“Come on, Curly’s the bald one. Larry has the curly hair.”
“Right.”
At that moment, Heath had results from his first-level search for Maria Pudovkin.
“Okay, buddy. Your girlfriend is either a cheerleader in Glendale, California, which I doubt; a sixty-eight-year-old mother of four in Indianapolis, which I also sincerely doubt based on your description; or about 1,451 girls and women outside the parameters. I think she gave you—”
“A fake name,” Reilly interrupted. “No kidding.”
They both understood the meaning of what remained unsaid.
“Get me the photo,” Heath instructed.
“Will do. Anything else pressing?”
“Just my hemorrhoids,” the CIA Officer replied.
“Too much information.”
“You asked. But—” Now Heath stopped short.
“What?” Reilly asked, sensing trouble.
“Something. Just coming in.”
“What?” Reilly repeated.
At that moment, another call rang through on Reilly’s phone. A number showed up screen that he immediately recognized.
“Getting another call, Bob. A New York Times reporter.”
“You’re not going to want to take it. Not until I tell you what’s happened.”
69
STOCKHOLM
“The story broke online. It’s blowing up the Internet,” Heath quickly explained.
“What story?”
“A partially redacted copy of a sensitive government report that—”
“Shit,” Reilly said under his breath. “Am I identified?”
“Hold on.” He scanned the article written by a Washington Post reporter, Peter Loge. “Don’t see it. But that doesn’t mean—”
Reilly understood why Savannah Flanders was on him again. She was putting things together. And if she could, others might as well. He imagined how conspiracy theorists would run with it and launch attacks on the radio and feed Deep State voices in the political echo chamber.
Reilly stopped walking. So did Curly. He felt like waving hello but didn’t.
“We have to get this quashed,” Reilly said.
“That’s a domestic call. The Bureau. The White House. They can try, but you know reporters, they’ll protect their sources.”
“Unless the Post is being used.” Reilly collected his thoughts. “Bob, if you had the actual document the paper received, can your folks or Watts’ people track it to any specific copy machines at State, the National Security Council, or DHS?”
“Copy machines do have subtle signatures. Chances are it’s a copy of a copy. That makes it more difficult.”
“But not impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Heath affirmed. Reilly’s mind raced.
“You said some sections were redacted.”
“According to the online story, yes. Solid black ink through sections.”
“Then can we find out which office in which department has a copy that matches the redactions?”
“It would need approval.”
“Actually, Elizabeth Matthews could make that call since the work originated in State. Best if that request comes from you, Bob. Still have a good relationship with her?”
“Sure,” Heath replied.
“Good. Let her know we talked. She can do it any way she sees fit. Even in a dark parking lot, Watergate-style.”
Reilly sighed. Things were going from bad to worse. He did a 180 to return to the hotel. Curly was caught off-guard by the sudden move. Reilly shouted, “It’s okay, we’re going back now!”
“Who are you talking to?” Heath asked.
“Curly. I figured I can save him a few steps.”
Reilly’s phone rang minutes after he hung up with Heath. Savannah Flanders again. If he didn’t pick up, she’d just keep calling. Besides, he might get more information without giving up much of his own.
“Reilly.”
“Flanders,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Come on, Reilly, don’t screw with me.”
“We’re back to last names? Okay, I’m in Stockholm. Got a lot to do. What’s up?”
“Why don’t I believe you? Whatever,” she replied. “The Post just broke a story and I have a feeling deep down that it should have been mine.”
“Why’s that, Flanders?”
“Because it has your name all over it.”
“My name?” Reilly choked. Heath had thought he was in the clear.
“That’s quite a reaction from someone playing stupid. You worked at State, the report covered the first three targets, the bridges in Pittsburgh, and there’s a whole lot more a Mr. Dan Reilly, former United States State Department analyst, would have predicted.”
Reilly walked past the hotel. Now Moe picked up his trail.
“Well, can I get a comment from you?” Flanders asked. Cars honked. “Did you say something?”
“Just listening and making my way through traffic,” Reilly replied.
“Just tell me, did you write the report? Reilly, is this your work?” She heard Reilly breathe into the phone. Nothing more than that. “Dan?” she continued.
“I’m here.”
“Look, assuming it is you, you probably have a better idea what’s next. That’s what I really want to get at: what should we be worried about now?”
“For your story or for you?”
“Set the rules.”
“Not for publication. Not yet.”
“Agreed.”
“We’re focused on the attacks back home. But I think it’s a deception for a much grander play.”
70
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WASHINGTON POST EDITORIAL OFFICES
THE NEXT AFTERNOON
Peter Loge had expected the visit from the FBI. Upon their arrival he notified the paper’s lead Constitutional attorney, Jim Harris. Ten minutes later, Agents Moore and Kaplan were led to the Post’s glass-enclosed conference room. Loge and Harris were already seated. They introduced themselves from across the table. No handshakes; Moore and Kaplan produced business cards. Harris passed his to the agents.
Moore studied the lawyer’s card and opened with, “You understand why we’re here.”
Harris, mid-60s and lanky, showed no fear. He replied, “And you must equally recognize our position.” The conversation was already punctuated by Harris speaking and Loge remaining tight-lipped.
“We can’t comment, and we definitely can’t divulge anything regarding our sources.”
Moore folded his hands and leaned in. But instead of speaking to the attorney, he looked a
t the reporter.
“Mr. Loge, we’re not the enemy. I’m not the enemy. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have enemies.” Loge held his gaze, as he had been instructed by legal. “I’ve read the report that you’ve been given. I believe you recognize why keeping it secret was vital.”
Getting no response, Moore pressed ahead.
“That was the intention of the State Department. I’ve met the analyst who authored it, that was his intention as well. The report laid out vulnerabilities and the means to attack them. It was researched, written, and used to help strengthen our defenses, to harden targets against attack. But the report was clearly leaked, stolen, or sold, we don’t know by whom or to whom.” Still a frozen look from Loge. “And now you have a copy, likely from whatever source has been using it to hit us. And they want you to run it to imply we knew these targets were vulnerable and we did nothing to protect them.” Moore tapped the paper. “Mr. Loge, you’re being co-opted.”
“The public has a right to know,” the reporter suddenly declared.
“In time, maybe. This is not that time. It’s in the interest of national security for you to put the report aside and to let us investigate whether the leak is part of a larger conspiracy against the United States.”
The lawyer was about to speak; Loge tapped him on the arm, a signal to wait. “Go on.”
“With all due respect, you’re being used to embarrass American intelligence. And since that is where you find yourself, unwittingly, I’d like to propose a way we can also use you.”
Harris abruptly stood. “I think we’ve spent enough time on this, Agent Moore. No sources,” he said.
“It would make things so much easier if you would, but we know your answer. We know you’d accept a jail term, Mr. Loge, and the Post would still put out more stories. It’s also apparent that if you stop, the same study will show up in other hands. Maybe at the New York Times or Los Angeles Times.”
Vincent Moore hesitated. There was an unspoken and that he left dangling.
“What do you want?” Loge asked.
“Rather than an answer coming from the Bureau directly, I’d like to bring in another voice.”
“Who?”
“One moment.” Moore dialed his cell and turned it on speaker. It rang three times. A man answered. “Moore, FBI. She’s expecting my call.”
“Please wait, Agent Moore.” Ten seconds later, a woman was on the phone.
“This is Secretary of State Matthews.”
Loge swallowed hard.
“Mr. Loge, are you on the line?”
Harris intervened. “He’s here. I’m a lawyer for the Washington Post.” He introduced himself.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your time and I will cut to the chase. Of course, we want the name of your source for the report. But I’m certain you’re not prepared to give that up.”
“Correct, Secretary Matthews,” Harris declared. “It’s not even on the table.”
“So, instead, here’s an alternative: we’d like the actual report.”
“Absolutely not!” Loge shouted.
“I’m not finished. Make a duplicate for yourself but give us the one you originally received.”
Loge was confused. “Our copy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Forensic footprints, Mr. Harris. It may contain clues to where it came from—a specific office at the State Department, or possibly the identity of who may have leaked it, most likely to a foreign power. We figure out those answers, we could have a way through this mess.”
She paused to choose her next words carefully. “Keep a copy, but in the interest of national security, we ask you to write around the actual targets, allowing us the opportunity to prevent additional attacks.” She referenced the assault on the Bay Bridge. “There are plenty of other stats to pull from. Just don’t name targets.”
“That’s all?” Harris was surprised, but not willing to give in on behalf of the Post.
“But, there’s one more thing. We don’t know if you have the name of the report’s author. However, for his safety, it’s absolutely imperative that you do not reveal his identity.”
Harris leaned back. Loge leaned forward.
“A trade before agreeing,” the reporter proposed.
“Mr. Loge, lives are in the balance.”
“I recognize that, but…”
Harris grabbed his arm and started mouthing no, no, no. Loge continued.
“…here’s my deal. If we comply, then when you’re ready to charge the government leak, I get to break the story.”
Moore relaxed in his seat and looked at the other agent who had not said a word. They waited for Matthews to answer.
“Depends.”
“Depends?” Loge responded.
“Depends on who it is.”
71
STOCKHOLM
THE NEXT DAY
The Stockholm committee chose neutral ground for the meetings: Riddarhuset, the House of Nobility. That meant American, Russian, and NATO security forces had hundreds of tasks to coordinate with Swedish officials before the delegates would be allowed on the grounds. And with conflicting safety priorities, checkpoints and event-specific identification to coordinate, it was no quick task.
It was decided that Sweden’s president would hold a welcome reception in the building’s Lord-marshals’ room. During the 18th Century, the room was originally a meeting place for the Secret Committee of the Swedish Riksdag, the parliament. Following the reception, participants would be ushered into the Great Hall of the House of Nobility, first used by the aristocracy for parliamentary meetings, and now where the Assembly of Nobles gather every third year.
Swedish army snipers would take up posts on the roof in a tight perimeter around Riddarhuset, and another wider circle on the property, while drones would feed real-time video to American Secret Service agents, Russia’s SPB, and NATO officers. English was chosen as the common language for all open-channel dialogue. Advance teams moved in shortly after NATO agreed to meet with Gorshkov. Acting President Ryan Battaglio was the latecomer to the list of invitees.
Now three days out, as the deadlines grew tighter the problems became greater. SPB and NATO were at odds on everything from where President Gorshkov and NATO commanders would sit to food preparation. When the Secret Service entered the picture, it got worse. NATO commanders had to move down the conference table and the agenda was expanded.
STOCKHOLM
THE KENSINGTON ROYAL NORDISKA HÔTEL
Reilly followed his own rule in the hotel restaurant. He asked for a table where he could face out. The predator position. That’s precisely where Marnie Babbitt found him. She wore a short red print skirt, a white silk blouse, gold hoop earrings, and a gold and freshwater pearl necklace. Her long black hair was up, for now.
Reilly stood and embraced her. She pressed her lips against his, slipped her tongue inside, withdrew, smiled, and whispered. “There’s always more where that came from.” She took the seat opposite him and soon decided on the Rebuli Superiore, an Italian prosecco. When it arrived, Babbitt proposed a toast. “Six months today.”
“Oh my God, you’re right. Six months to the day since we met in Tehran.”
Reilly looked back on the chance encounter when they were both in Iran to meet government officials. He was there to discuss hotel construction. She was flown in by Barclays to talk about financing ventures.
“See what happens when you open your eyes to possibilities,” Babbitt said. “To us.”
“To us,” Reilly replied.
They toasted to one another and clinked glasses, as they always did. She kicked off her heels, caressed his leg with her toes, and worked her way up. But she wasn’t getting the reaction she wanted.
“You’re worried.”
“Lots on my mind.”
“More than the usual?”
“All things considered, yes.”
“The conference,” Babbitt suggested.
“Not so much the conference. Things back in the States.”
Babbitt leaned in. “You keep so much inside when we’re together. Come on, let go. You can tell me anything. You have to talk if we’re going to grow our relationship.”
Reilly nodded. He was holding back. Maybe it was time.
At that moment, Reilly noticed Maria Pudovkin entering the restaurant. A waitress led her to a table near Reilly’s. Before sitting she spotted Reilly and crossed over.
“Well, hello, Mr. Reilly. Look at this. Our third meeting.”
Reilly smiled politely. He looked at Marnie as she turned to the voice. She flinched.
Pudovkin caught the look.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted.”
“No worry. Marnie, this is,” he paused as if to remember. But he had memorized her name. “Maria Pudovkin, she’s with…”
She filled in the answer, “Russian Federation tourism. We met briefly in London and at the bar the other night.”
She offered her hand to Marnie who was slow to respond.
“Oh, no worries, Ms.—”
“Babbitt,” Marnie said bruskly.”
“Ms. Babbitt,” the Russian continued. “He’s quite devoted to you.”
Reilly thought he saw the Russian take Marnie’s hand and hold it just a little too long. Affectionately. This spider was always laying a trap. Even for Marnie.
Reilly led Marnie into his room. Once the door was closed, she flicked off her heels, stood on her toes and kissed him deeply. He eased away.
“Something’s really getting to you,” she noted.
“Just thinking.”
“About what.”
“That woman in the restaurant.”
Marnie stepped back and said, “Oh?” It was the kind of Oh? you don’t want to hear from a lover.
“Not that way.”
“It seemed too coincidental when she came over to us—”
Babbitt corrected him. “To you. She hardly saw me until you did the introduction.”
“Okay, coincidental to me.”
“Do you ever just allow yourself to relax?” Marnie said coaxingly.
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