“Twenty-four hours? Wow, that’s quite a long period of time to be MIA for anyone but especially a journalist.”
“And especially one in Russia.”
“Well, the last time I saw him was after the U.S.’s opening round match. I think he was headed elsewhere.”
“Samara.”
“Why in the world would you send him to that godforsaken city?”
“Dimitry Kitko, star for the Seattle Sounders and superstar for the Ukrainian national team. Lots of local interest around him.”
“Well, let me see what I can do regarding Cal. I’ll have to make a few calls to my friends at the consulate and see if he’s surfaced somewhere. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it all.”
“I hope so. But unless he’s dead, I’m going to chew him out.”
Daniels laughed softly. “You wouldn’t be the editor that you are, Frank, if you didn’t.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As well you should,” Daniels said. “Just give me an hour or so, and I’ll try to call you back. All the government offices should be opening here in the next half hour or so.”
Daniels and Buckman exchanged cell phone numbers and then hung up.
Buckman turned his immediate attention toward searching for a wire story to plug the hole left by Cal’s missing article.
A half hour later, Buckman jumped when his desk phone rang.
“Buckman,” he said as he answered.
“Frank, this is Kelly Murphy. Have you heard anything yet?”
“Not yet, but I called someone I know over there who’s going to try and help us.”
“Well, I hope you find out something soon. I’ve got a feeling something isn’t right.”
“A feeling?”
“More like a hunch based on the fact that there’s this car parked down the street and it hasn’t moved for about twenty minutes.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Kelly. Don’t get too jumpy.”
“I’d agree with you except that I peeked out the window and caught one of the men looking at our house through a pair of binoculars.”
“And you think that’s somehow related to Cal going missing in Russia?”
“You don’t understand, Frank. This isn’t my first rodeo. When he gets in trouble, it often spells trouble for me and Maddie too.”
“Don’t you have a panic room?”
“Yes. And I’m in it now with my daughter.”
“Well, stay calm, and I’ll do what I can on my end. Just don’t try to leave, especially without letting me know.”
Buckman hung up and leaned back in his chair. The seconds hand on the clock above him ticked away. Buckman never realized it sounded so loud—or moved so slow.
Come on, Senator. Hurry up and call me back.
Chapter 22
Samara, Russia
SCOTT MELTON FELT HIS PHONE VIBRATE in his pants pocket as he walked downstairs into the hotel lobby for breakfast. Fishing out the cell, he glanced at it, put it back in his pants, and continued walking.
“Who was that?” Kyle Daniels asked.
“It’s a contact I’ve been working,” Scott said. “He wants to meet in a half hour.”
“Well, let’s just grab something from the breakfast bar and head out.”
Scott shook his head. “I need to go alone.”
“Alone? You know that’s not a good idea given the current climate.”
“It’d be our first face-to-face meeting. I don’t want to spook him by having you there as well. I don’t want to lose this guy.”
“So a strategically placed asset?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Scott glanced around the room. “Plus, I wouldn’t want to say it with all these FSB agents watching our every move. I’m scared to think the man’s name for fear they’ve somehow invented the technology to read my mind.”
Kyle laughed. “You never cease to crack me up, though I know you’re only half joking.”
“I don’t trust anyone, not even our own government.”
“What did it for you?”
“Did what?”
“Made you lose your trust in our government?”
“MK Ultra,” Scott said without skipping a beat. “That was some messed up stuff right there.”
“Was that before or after the CIA recruited you?”
“Before. And for the record, I still think I made a mistake in signing up.”
“Time will tell, I guess.”
Scott looked at his phone again. “Look, I need to run and go meet this guy. I’ll let him know you’ll be in on the next meeting if everything pans out and he agrees to get on board.”
Kyle nodded. “Be careful. And text me the address of the location.”
SCOTT CLIMBED INTO THEIR LADA XRAY and twisted the key in the ignition. The car, from the most popular manufacturer in Russia, roared to life, and he zipped out of the parking garage and headed down the road toward his destination. While stopped at a traffic light, he texted a bogus address to Kyle. Scott proceeded to turn off his phone and removed the battery. He texted a message to his contact from a burner phone.
He only felt a twinge of guilt about lying to Kyle, but it was a survival instinct. Scott recognized such actions were sometimes necessary to protect those around him—or in other cases, to protect him from those around him. It enabled him to somewhat understand the thought process behind the mad scientists who conceived MK Ultra. But he always used that as his standard response when discussing government distrust. Now he was the one foisting deception upon the average citizen—and sometimes on his own colleagues. Espionage was a brutal business, but Scott was made for it, at least in his own estimation.
Scott put the art in con artist, honing his talents as a painter to the point where he could create knockoffs of semi-famous paintings and fence them on the black market. He often developed fake news websites that would deliver proof that the painting had indeed been stolen. The operation would be enough to convince a prospective buyer that it was a legitimate work of art. But his scams were so intricate and convincing that after he got caught, a judge at the request of a high-ranking CIA official offered him a position with the agency instead of jail time. Scott accepted, never once intending to change his stripes for the sake of Uncle Sam.
So far, Scott had succeeded in maintaining his status as a top agent at the CIA’s St. Petersburg station while dabbling in extracurricular money-making ventures on the side. His secret was making sure the two worlds never collided, which grew increasingly more difficult the deeper he had to delve to gather intelligence on certain non-state actors. One such person was Ivan Mortuk.
Scott had been able to infiltrate a branch of Ivan’s organization located in St. Petersburg and was gathering valuable information when he hit a snag: Scott realized he’d once sold a fake painting to Ivan. Of course, Scott wore a disguise and covered his tracks like a pro, but he grew nervous the closer he got to meeting Ivan.
Though Scott had wanted to come clean about his past dealings with Ivan, Scott figured he was just being paranoid. There was little chance that deal was still on his mind, much less that Ivan would be able to recognize Scott years later. The risk was one Scott felt safe taking as his desire to take down Ivan outweighed everything else. Despite his disdain for the U.S. government and for the powerful people who ran things in the shadows, Scott despised irresponsible opportunists like Ivan Mortuk, men who wouldn’t care if the entire world was left smoldering due to their actions as long as they got paid.
After fifteen minutes, Scott pulled into the parking lot of the abandoned warehouse. Samara, the hub of the Russian automobile industry, continued to thrive but had endured its share of failings during the global recession that started in 2008. In its wake were scores of deteriorating manufacturing sites that had been virtually stripped. All that was left inside were concrete floors and the dust of broken dreams.
Scott squeezed through a small opening left by a d
oor that had rusted in place. Treading lightly, he navigated around several pools of water created by a leaky roof. Following the instructions sent earlier, Scott headed toward an empty office adjacent to the outer wall. Light shone through a set of tattered blinds, hiding very little of the room that had been vandalized with spray paint.
“Hello?” Scott called.
He thought he heard something, a scuff of a shoe across the concrete floor perhaps. Scanning the room, he didn’t detect any movement.
“Hello?” Scott said again. “Are you there?”
Only the echo of a drop of water splashing in a shallow puddle.
Scott pulled out his phone and began furiously pounding out a message.
Where are you?
Just give it a minute.
He decided a minute was all he was willing to wait before he’d abandon this idea of a face-to-face meeting. The missed appointment could have very well just been a result of miscommunication. Or it could signal something dire, though Scott didn’t want to stick around to find out what that was.
But he had no choice.
A cold wire pressed against his throat. Instinctively, he reached up to relieve the pressure, which guaranteed his attacker would ultimately get the better of the two in a fight. Scott had been trained to take any assailant to the ground, but the attack was chaotic and unexpected. Instead of remaining calm, he panicked. In a matter of seconds, he lost consciousness.
Two bullets to the head later, he was dead.
Chapter 23
WHEN CAL OPENED HIS EYES, he hoped to see a new environment. Face down on a carpeted floor would’ve been sufficient as long as it meant he wasn’t in the custody of the men who appeared to be Russian agents of some sort. But Cal awakened to bitter disappointment with a slight variation—he’d passed on lying on his right cheek instead of his left.
Within seconds after raising his head, Agent Damiecki entered the room and smoothed his tie as he sat across from Cal. Armed with a folder, Damiecki laid it out in front of him. He licked his thumb as he leafed through the pages.
Cal tried to glean some of the contents of the pages, but he was unable to gather anything since every word on the page was written in Russian. He leaned forward and hoped to make an emotional appeal. He knew it’d be pointless in its ultimate objective, but Cal needed to do something active so he wouldn’t go insane. The mind games were beginning to wear on him.
“Why don’t you just let me go, and I’ll forget whatever it is I can’t remember that you want me to tell you?” Cal said with a wry grin. “You might be asking yourself, could it be this easy? And the answer is yes, it could be that easy. All you have to do is let me prove it to you.”
Damiecki froze, his eyes providing the only movement on his body. After studying Cal, Damiecki returned his attention to the pages set before him—and he did it without uttering a single word.
Cal continued to play dumb, hoping his tactic would wear down his captors. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”
Damiecki closed the folder and clasped his hands. He shifted in his seat before responding.
“Mr. Murphy, we’ve already told you what we want—whatever Yuri Listyev delivered to you through his daughter.”
“I already told you, I don’t—”
“Before you lie to me again, perhaps you should consider your next words very carefully because I detest liars. And while you may think you are untouchable since you’re a well-known journalist, just remember that Natalya Listyev isn’t. And neither is your family.”
“I swear to God if you harm anyone in my family, I’ll—”
Damiecki clucked his tongue and wagged his finger. “Now, now, Mr. Murphy. Settle down and think about your family—your faithful wife Kelly and your sweet little daughter, Maddie. And then think about your meeting with Natalya Listyev and try to think of how she might have been able to slip you some information.”
Cal growled and narrowed his eyes, responding in a measured tone. “I already told you that I never received anything from Yuri Listyev or his daughter.”
Damiecki snapped his fingers and held out his hand in the direction of one of his aides. The man placed a cell phone in Damiecki’s hand. Damiecki slid the phone across the table toward Cal.
“Your wife’s number is already programmed onto the screen as you can see,” Damiecki began. “Just hit send and let her know that you’re all right. She’s worried about you. And no funny business, Mr. Murphy.”
Cal eyed all three men cautiously before following the instructions.
“Kelly?” he said as she answered.
“Oh, Cal, thank God. I was so worried,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Sure, honey. I’m sorry I haven’t returned your call. I’ve been busy, and the cell reception here isn’t as good as in the states.”
“Buckman is worried sick, too. He said you forgot to file your article.”
“Yeah, it’s a long story. I haven’t spoken with him yet, but I can’t really talk right now. Would you mind letting him know that I’m still working on it?”
“Cal, are you all right? Something seems off about you.”
“Look, everything’s fine and—”
“Well, it’s not fine here,” she snapped. “There’s a strange car parked down the street with a pair of guys inside who appear to be watching our house.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Kelly said as her voice rose several octaves. “When I looked out the window once, I caught the guy in the passenger seat looking right in our direction.”
“Why would anyone be doing that?”
“I don’t know, Cal. You tell me. That’s what I’ve been asking for the last minute. Something just seems off.”
Damiecki snapped his fingers at Cal to get his attention. The Russian rolled his index finger around, gesturing for Cal to wrap up the phone call.
“You’ll be fine. Just don’t panic. Besides, you know where to go if things go sideways.”
“That’s all you’re going to say? Just, ‘you know where to go if things go sideways?’”
“At the moment, that’s all I can do, Kelly. I’m in Russia right now, thousands of miles away from you and Maddie. Your situation might very well be serious, but I couldn’t help you even if it was. Just keep Maddie safe and be smart.”
“I’m going to strangle you when you get back, but not before I go down to your office and strangle Buckman for sending you to Russia.”
“Honey, I love your passion, but this isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s just the result of some wacky circumstances.”
“I hope you’re right. You know I hate it when you’re gone like this for long periods of time.”
Cal sighed. “I know. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s part of the job. I’ll be home soon enough, okay?”
Cal could tell Kelly was crying. The quiver in her voice, the information she dished out. Everything pointed toward the group of men in front of Cal were far more organized than he ever imagined. These monsters had his family in their crosshairs—and they were flaunting it.
Cal’s nostrils flared as he stared across the table at Damiecki. “Don’t you even think about—”
“Mr. Murphy, the only thinking anyone in this room needs to be doing right now is you thinking about where you hid the information Yuri Listyev so desperately wanted you to have. Innocent people and people you love are depending on you.”
“My editor is going to send out a search party for me if I don’t turn in my story in the next hour or so,” Cal said. “Your government has enough problems as it pertains to public perception. I suggest you focus your efforts elsewhere to find that information you’re so desperately searching for.”
“You can’t run or hide from us, Mr. Murphy. Before we let you back out onto the streets of our great country so you can do your job, we wanted you to know the imminent danger you and those around you are facing. If you’re lying to us, we will find out. And I c
an assure you that our next meeting won’t be so cordial.”
Cal exhaled and leaned back in his chair, bracing for another knockout blow.
Damiecki stood. “Oh, and Mr. Murphy, who said anything about us being part of the Russian government?”
Cal didn’t have any time to process Damiecki’s cryptic comment before a forceful whack to the back of Cal’s head rendered him unconscious again.
Chapter 24
VLADISLAV RAKITSKY STOLE ACROSS the warehouse floor. He expected company but not so soon. Kneeling next to a steel post buttressed against the outside wall, Vlad studied the movement of the man cautiously approaching the office area. Vlad was familiar with the visitor, but he wasn’t on the list. And Vlad never deviated from the list. It was a philosophy that enabled him to maintain his ghost-like status. Random deaths drew far more attention than those people whose early demise were somewhat expected.
Struggling to see what was happening, Vlad decided to record the interaction using his phone and watch it later in hopes of deciphering what took place. The man squatted next to the body and briskly searched through his pockets. Aside from taking the man’s wallet, the visitor also fished out a cell phone. They were two items Vlad desperately wanted to inspect for himself, if anything out of sheer curiosity. However, he decided it wasn’t worth straying from his steadfast principle.
A drop of water echoed, giving the visitor a reason to pause. He looked around the building and then patted down the body one final time before bolting through a side door.
Vlad didn’t move for a couple minutes in the off chance the visitor might return. Waiting for a car door to slam and the sound of gravel kicked up by a fleeing vehicle, Vlad contemplated what he’d just seen. It was certainly unexpected based off the dossier given to him about his target. The man was a rogue agent and had amassed a healthy rainy day fund at a bank in the Cayman Islands, though judging by his superiors’ response, had done so without their knowledge. He’d accomplished the feat by penetrating a handful of Russian mafia cartels and helping them avoid government interference. He’d been seen as a valuable asset, but apparently not anymore. Vlad didn’t know whether the man was responsible for the latest leak that had his employers and several others groups hand-wringing over the action he’d taken. Despite the concerted effort by strange bedfellows in the Russian mafia ethos to eliminate the mole, what the man knew or how much he shared remained a mystery. And now that he was dead, no one would ever know the extent of his breach, unless it fell into the wrong hands.
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