“She didn’t slip or fall,” Cannon explained when Eklund sat next to him. “She was pushed. Watch.” He turned to the computer playback that he’d frozen and slowly moved forward through the footage.
The scene turned hectic; people shocked. Hands in the air. Cries. The bus stopped some 30 meters down the street. They went back and forth trying to see the moment clearly. Cannon was convinced it was intentional. Eklund wasn’t so sure.
“Alright, then where’s her purse?”
The detective hadn’t found it at the scene, but Cannon had his own supposition. It was taken in the confusion by the woman in the blue hat.” He scanned the images frame-by-frame. Right after the collision and feet from the impact, the purse was clearly on the ground. For the next 45 frames, a second-and-a-half, another bus drove by obscuring the mounted CCTV camera. After it passed, everything was the same except for one detail. The purse was gone. So was the woman with the blue hat.
Cannon decided to tell Reilly in person, not over the phone. He cabbed back to the hotel and spotted Reilly talking to three security officers in the lobby. Cannon waited a few steps away. Reilly finished and crossed to his associate.
“Hey buddy. Plugging last holes here based on the Russians’ needs. How’d it go for you?”
“Let’s walk,” Cannon said.
Reilly asked why. Alan Cannon wore the kind of expression that said, Not here. Not until we get out.
They walked outside in tandem, past the house security, the Stockholm police, and the army officers posted around the hotel.
“Okay, talk to me, Alan.”
A block away Cannon stopped. He faced Reilly and told him directly. “Flanders is dead.”
Reilly’s shoulders slumped. He felt his legs weaken. Cannon explained what he’d seen and the police’s investigation. He described the moment and his belief that Flanders had been intentionally pushed.
“I don’t understand.” But he suddenly flashed on Marnie’s Åhléns shopping bag.
“She followed her in,” Cannon said, “and was spotted by another woman. A woman with a hat. Then this happened outside. On the street.”
Cannon showed Reilly printouts of still frames from the outside surveillance cameras. The images were sharp. He saw how the woman, somewhat blocked by other pedestrians, pushed Babbitt in front of a bus.
The two men did not move. Reilly straightened and stared into nothingness as thoughts began to flood him. Flanders’s dogged pursuit of facts. My not picking up the phone at a critical moment. My complicity. Then, pure guilt.
And then there was Marnie Babbitt. Beautiful, sensual, hypnotic Marnie Babbitt. Marnie Babbitt who always seemed to show up. In Tehran, in England, Brussels, and now Stockholm. Marnie Babbitt who was interested in him, but equally interested in his work, his contacts, what he knew. Marnie Babbitt who seemed more than comfortable meeting Nicolai Gorshkov in Russia on their second chance encounter. Marnie Babbitt whose Russian was a little too good. Marnie Babbitt who he’d just …
“Pieces,” Reilly whispered. “Parts that form the whole.”
“The whole what?” Cannon asked.
“The whole truth.”
80
Marnie Babbitt left Reilly’s room and walked with a spirited step toward the elevator. She was feeling good and wanted some fresh air. She heard a greeting. “Well, hello again Ms. Babbitt, you look absolutely radiant.”
Marnie Babbitt turned to a recognizable voice. A voice that always seemed to come from behind. This time down the hallway. The last time, in the department store dressing room.
“Ms.” Marnie hesitated. “Pudovkin.”
“Maria’s good.”
“I’ll remember. Maria.”
“That’s good, Marnie. Praktika delayet ideal’nym.” Practice makes perfect.
Babbitt nodded. She looked past the Russian woman, then to her back. No one else was in the hall. “Are you on this floor, too?”
“No. I got off early. But a pleasure bumping into you again.”
Babbitt knew it was no accident. The Russian had been waiting. She took a deep breath, shuddered, and walked forward. Pudovkin gestured to the overhead camera at the end of the hallway. Marnie stopped short.
“Well nice seeing you again,” Pudovkin said politely.
“Nice seeing you, too.”
Pudovkin brushed passed Marnie and slipped her a plastic card. A room key in a sleeve with a number written in black.
Marnie Babbitt palmed it like a pro. Like a pro who had rehearsed the move a hundred times.
Reilly returned to the hotel, shaken. He went directly to the security office wanting to do his own viewing. “Show me the Russian hallway cameras,” Reilly sharply ordered the hotel security chief. “Fifth floor.”
“Of course, Mr. Reilly,” the uniformed officer replied. “From when?”
“An hour ago.” His cell rang almost immediately. Marnie. Take it or ignore it? He answered.
“Hi,” he said. He was chilly. She noticed.
“What’s the matter?”
“Just busy. Why?”
“Dinner soon. Out of the hotel?”
Reilly didn’t answer immediately.
“Dan?”
“Yes, sorry. Preoccupied.”
“Dinner?” she asked again.
“When?” was all he could manage.
“An hour. I’ll be in the room waiting. I’m all yours.”
Reilly wasn’t so sure anymore.
Babbitt had called Reilly from the hallway near the elevator. She hung up the phone and pressed the up button on the lift. It arrived. She took it up two flights. The door opened to a pair of Russian guards who were at the ready when she emerged. Babbitt showed them the room key. One of the guards keyed his wireless and whispered. He got an immediate reply in his ear and motioned for Babbitt to proceed down the hallway to her right. Some fifty steps further, Marnie found room 545. She used the electronic key card to gain entry without knocking. Two steps in, she closed the door.
“Welcome,” the Russian said.
Marnie Babbitt nodded, dutifully stood at attention and saluted Russian Colonel Martina Kushkin.
“Sit,” the colonel ordered. “You look nervous.”
Marnie remained standing. “I just talked with him. He didn’t sound right,” Marnie said, facing Pudovkin/Kushkin.
“Then it’s time to clean things up,” she said coldly.
“I can still bring him in,” Babbitt’s eyes remained locked on Kushkin’s. “I’ve spent so much time and he’s—”
“You’ve run out of time. The warning I whispered to you in the department store was necessary. She followed you. She saw us together. I discovered from her purse that the woman was a reporter. She would have figured things out. I took care of that.”
Babbitt stiffened to hide her shiver. “Colonel, I believe I can fix this.”
“I’m counting on you to do so. By now he must know. He’s smart. You were sloppy. If he doesn’t suspect you already, he will.”
“He loves me.”
Kushkin laughed. “You’re a good fuck, but I’m not so sure you’re that good an agent.”
Now Babbitt realized her own life was in the balance. She nodded compliance. “I’ll make it up to you, Colonel.”
“Yes, you will. And this is how,” Martina Kushkin explained to her sleeper spy.
Reilly scanned through the lobby cam video. He spotted Marnie returning to the lobby with her Åhléns City bag. The bra and negligee. She went to the elevator bank, pressed the button, and entered. Reilly switched to the third-floor cameras and picked up Babbitt going to his room. If the security guard made the connection, he didn’t say anything.
“Back to the lobby. Scan at double speed.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Another woman. A woman wearing a blue hat. Wide brim.”
Forty minutes in, he saw his subject. She kept her face intentionally obscured from the camera. But Reilly definitely recognized her from th
e CCTV footage at the scene.
“Follow her off the elevator,” Reilly instructed.
They picked her up as she stepped off on the fifth floor. One of the Russian floors. For a moment he saw her face. Maria Pudovkin.
Reilly stopped to think. “Back to the third floor,” he said. He gave the security officer the time when he left his room. “Okay, now scrub ahead. For the next few minutes they scanned. Nothing but the empty hallway, then they saw Reilly’s exit. “Alright, fast forward again.” At triple speed it didn’t take long.
“Stop!” Reilly pointed. “Back up and play it slowly. Half speed.”
Reilly watched once, twice and a third time. There appeared to be a polite encounter in the hallway between two women. Marnie and—
“Okay, even slower. I’ll tell you when to freeze.”
On a single frame, Reilly tapped the officer’s shoulder. “There! Can you pan down and blow that up for me?”
The security officer obliged.
“Bigger.” Reilly pointed to Marnie’s hands. “That’s it.”
Blown up, he saw her adeptly palm a small, flat, rectangular object from the second woman—the Russian.
“Damn. A room key,” the guard said.
Damn didn’t begin to cover it for Reilly.
Kushkin had Babbitt repeat the instructions she’d been given. “Good, and he still trusts you?”
“We just made love. Of course he does.”
“Well, he won’t have to for much longer. It will be easy and painless. Do your job and he simply won’t wake up.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Kushkin smiled approvingly, like a teacher to a bright student or a parent to an obedient child. Then she stepped forward, kissed Babbitt on the lips. Her hands eased down and traced Marnie’s breasts. “And Svetlana,” she whispered, employing Marnie’s real name, “you’ll return to London, and after you grieve we’ll find you another subject. In a few months we’ll find time together. I haven’t been to St. Lucia. Have you?”
“No,” Babbitt sighed.
Kushkin smiled again. “Now one more thing. To make sure all goes right.” She inserted a miniature radio transmitter in Babbitt’s handbag. Babbitt watched.
“Just so I can hear everything.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
81
“You look concerned,” Acting President Battaglio noted in a secure conference room at the American Embassy.
National Security Advisor Pierce Kimball was worried. So were the other members of the West’s negotiating team, including a new face that had been flown in.
“Mr. President, this is Dr. Veronica Severi. She’s the CIA’s top psychologist. She’s served at the agency for more than thirty years, advising President Crowe and four prior administrations on the character and psychology of world leaders. Director Watts recommended she stay close to the negotiations to provide insight. We feel her critical assessment would be important for you to hear.”
Battaglio fixed an icy stare on the shrink and then transferred it to the National Security Advisor. “Are you questioning my ability, Dr. Kimball?”
“Mr. President,” Elizabeth Matthews interrupted, “the State Department has also benefited greatly from Dr. Severi’s consultation.”
Dr. Severi tipped her head, indicating she would take it from here. “If I may, Mr. President, with no disrespect…”
Battaglio shrugged. “You have five minutes, doctor. Make it count.”
Severi was an expert analyst, particularly when it came to evaluating the psychological profile of foreign dictators, sociopaths, psychopaths, and plutocrats. She had already determined Battaglio required intellectual reinforcement. She would go slowly and measure her tone.
The doctor removed her tortoise-shelled glasses, folded the temples, and hooked them on the neckline of her off-white blouse. It was a friendly move making her appear less academic, more approachable. In reality, Dr. Severi could be stone cold, clinical, and absolutely direct. She had turned what had been a practice few understood at the CIA into a vital resource for America’s security. But today, she would tread lightly.
“Mr. President,” she began reassuringly, “my job is to help you. I analyze foreign leaders so we can better understand what they will do when pushed too far, when cornered by rivals, when their time is running out. The scenarios are endless. We have to think it all out ahead of time in order to set strategies, prepare counter moves, consider military action, and hopefully negotiate out of crises successfully. To put it another way, I try to figure out what makes them tick. And to the business at hand, it’s important to understand that President Gorshkov is a complicated subject, worthy of understanding.”
“Okay, enlighten me.”
“Of course. Gorshkov relies on three elements of power he learned and mastered first as a KGB officer, then as an FSB agent. Coercion, incentives, and persuasion. Consider the position the U.S. and NATO are in right now. Coercion. He has forced us to deal with the geopolitical hand he has dealt. Ukraine and Latvia. You’re at his back door and he believes he is in the position to dictate terms.”
“Excuse me. No one has dictated terms but me.”
Severi did not argue the point, but she saw his eyes dart. A sign of discomfort. Based on her own comprehensive and classified psyche workup on him when he became Alexander Crowe’s choice for a running mate, she concluded Ryan Battaglio over compensated for any inadequacies with bravado and bullying, quick answers and a short temper. Delving into his personal and political history, she found this to be true. Moreover, in light of his inexperience on the global stage and facing an enormous personality in the Russian leader, he was clearly the lesser of the two, yet he couldn’t admit it.
“Mr. President, Nicolai Gorshkov is a master gambler who has stacked the deck. In another sense, he’s running the table.” She stopped short of adding, on you.
Battaglio was stung by what was left unsaid.
“He’s completely adept at the game. Remember, his background. He has lived in a dark space for the past four decades. Unquestioned and unbeaten. Almost a third of Russia’s top officials, and more than half of his closest advisors are former intelligence officers. They succumb to his will or face death. He eats, sleeps, and breathes diversion, deception, and deceit.”
“And you think he is getting the better of me?” Battaglio sharply asked.
“To answer that, I’ll move onto Gorshkov’s third element of power. Persuasion. He is relying on you being convinced that you are driving the deal. When in fact, he has his plan. His deal.”
Battaglio turned to Kimball. “I’ve heard enough.” To Severi he added, “Thank you for your time, doctor. I hope you have a pleasant trip back.”
“Sir, you offered her five minutes. Give her that time,” Matthews appealed.
Battaglio rolled his eyes and waved his hand.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Severi politely replied. “If you’ll allow me a bit more analysis on the Russian president.”
“Whatever.”
“Gorshkov is counting on America’s turn toward ideological illiberalism and the fragility of our democracy today as a self-regulating, self-correcting constitutional system. He has watched and waited. Planned and schemed. Now he’s acting. Again. And he’s counting on the obvious.”
“Which is?”
“Inaction, sir, based on political realities. Only 30 percent of American millennials consider living in a democracy crucial to their lives. That’s compared to 75 percent of people born prior to World War II. To put it another way, our traditional liberal values supported tolerance of others, individual rights, and civic and international engagement. On the other hand, illiberalism supports populism, protectionism, and nativism.”
Battaglio sat quietly, running the clock out.
“All the more reason Gorshkov wants you to think you get the win while he gets precisely what he wants.”
“A trade.”
“In part, but much more. He sees what’s oc
curred in Europe: the Brexit mess. Italy, where more than half the population voted for anti-European parties. Hungary and Poland, two nations moving toward openly illiberal governments. The rise of extreme right factions in France and Germany. Authoritarian regimes ascending throughout the world. And leaders who view their own power over citizens’ rights and liberty, who openly criticize the judiciary, create and threaten enemies within, rule by decree, and rail against what they deem as unfair media coverage. We’re not immune either, as you know. And he is likely to view the world’s disunity and our own internal chaos as reason to believe we will do nothing as he continues to annex country after country.”
“Dr. Severi, are you implying I’m not up to facing him one-on-one?”
Severi ignored the defensive attack. “No, Mr. President, I am painting the sharpest picture of your adversary so you can make informed decisions. Right now, pump the brakes. In other words, slow the process down. He will get frustrated, but you will make him think twice, possibly increasing his respect for you as a skillful opponent. And in taking your time, listen to your esteemed advisors, they have the experience to…”
That was more than enough for Battaglio. He thrust his hand up for her to stop.
“Spoken like a true shrink, doctor. I see what you’re doing. Own the decisions and the consequences of those decisions.”
“A president’s responsibility.”
“That’s all, Dr. Severi.” He suddenly stood. “We’re done here.”
Dr. Severi rose.
“Have a nice flight home,” Battaglio said dismissively.
The CIA psychiatrist left. The Acting President turned to Pierce Kimball and asked, “Thirty years?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fire the bitch.”
82
KENSINGTON ROYAL NORDISKA HÔTEL
Reilly paused the playback on a telling security camera frame—Marnie Babbitt entering the Russian woman’s room. He stared at the image. Evidence of so many things. Deceit, betrayal, manipulation, and perhaps worse.
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