Remaining invisible was what he’d done best over the years. Average in height, weight and appearance, he was easily overlooked, unnoticed, and people said and did things when they thought no one else was nearby that they wouldn’t otherwise. While an undercover cop he’d heard stories about the massive amounts of Communist Party money being moved into banks to buy stock in companies and those same banks as the Soviet Union disintegrated. The party used top-ranking KGB officers to make it happen. And Subkov knew from his underworld connections that organized crime was moving money at the same time through the KGB, to the point where it had become difficult to tell what money in all those bank vaults belonged to the party and what belonged to mobsters.
He also knew the stories about Putin’s activities as the head of the Committee for Foreign Liaison in St. Petersburg after he left the KGB in 1991. Putin had publicly been accused of mismanagement in one case. Putin had issued permits for the export of $100 million in raw materials in exchange for badly needed food. The raw materials went missing and the food never arrived. No one knew if Vova had been involved in the money transfer while he’d been with the KGB, but Subkov was convinced that the other stories he’d heard were true, including those about Putin using city funds to build villas in Spain for himself and a few select friends. That Putin had survived and even flourished in power as long as he had spoke to his skills at hiding his connections.
Subkov, honest cop that he was, had been incensed by the stories. But he’d done nothing, other than bide his time and gather in all the information he could. He knew that to advance, to accomplish some good in his life and career, he had to work within the system. Prizak—a ghost in the machine.
He got off the subway train at Polezhayevskaya station, with its harsh, modern design, fluorescent lighting reflecting coldly off the angular, hexagonal marble pillars, marble tile platform and sharp rectangular benches. It typified somber and uninspired Soviet-era bureaucracy, its generic plainness the perfect ambiance for the station closest to GRU. He walked a long block to the one of the two back entrances to the headquarters of the largest intelligence operation in the world. The complex comprised about a dozen buildings. A new building had been constructed in front of “The Aquarium,” the name not so fondly given to the old headquarters building. Now the new complex almost entirely surrounded the old building.
Like many new buildings housing activities best kept out of the public eye, GRU headquarters had a magnificent façade, but no way to enter the front directly. Back here, pedestrian gates were hinged into a tall wrought iron fence on the left. On the right was an eight-inch thick solid sliding vehicle gate kept closed at all times unless opened by a guard behind a barred window in a door to one side. Flashing his ID to a uniformed guard on the other side of the wrought iron fence, Subkov strolled through the gate and into the building leading to the rest of the complex.
Before sitting at his desk, Subkov took off his summer weight suit coat and carefully draped it on a hanger. Air conditioning was more predictable than in the old building, but still prone to idiosyncracies. Though much of the complex never slept, quiet still reigned in his area, only a few offices occupied this early. He checked the corridor for signs of life, then quietly closed the soundproof door and went to his desk.
An electronic sweep of the office turned up no bugs—one never knew in this business—but he pulled a satellite phone from his briefcase to be sure, and to avoid having the call logged through the office phone system. And with all the electronic communications traffic in and out of the building—the array of antennae bristling from the roof resembling a hairy insect—one more transmission would be lost in the mass unless searched for. He checked his watch and did the mental computation to account for the eight-hour time difference. His timing was good. After dialing, he placed the phone in a device that would scramble the call and allow him to talk on a speakerphone.
“Da,” a voice answered when the call connected.
“Leonid, my old friend,” Subkov said genially. “Are you staying warm?”
“Still haunting me after all these years?” the voice said with a chuckle. “Yes, as long as I stay in my quarters it’s warm enough. On the bridge, though, it’s a different story. Every time some starshina or matros opens the door all that cold air seeps into my bones.”
“Time for us to retire, perhaps.”
“Perhaps, but after one more attempt to restore some luster and glory to Mother Russia.”
Subkov heard the steely edge in Orlov’s voice. “Then all is well on your end?”
“Yes, Mikhail, all is well. But we are running out of time, my friend. If we want to make a statement it has to be before the exercises end.”
Subkov sighed. “You don’t need to remind me, Admiral. I have bad news, I’m afraid. We’ve encountered another delay.”
“What now?”
“The scientist is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“Shot while trying to escape. He was about to make a deal with an American agent.”
The line was silent for a moment.
“And the parts we need?” Admiral Orlov said.
Subkov’s mind raced, considering the possible permutations on their plans. “Our agents say they’ll recover the things you need, but it may take some time. A day or two.”
“Mikhail, my old friend, don’t fool yourself into thinking they are your agents. You know as well as I do that they’re nothing more than common criminals.” Orlov paused. “I wish it didn’t have to be so. We’re trying to restore the world’s respect for Russia’s power, not tarnish it.”
Subkov nodded though his friend couldn’t see the gesture. “I know, I know. But times are lean. You know that, Leo. Gone are the days we had spies in every nook and cranny of the U.S. This is an expedient way to put eyes and legs on the street.”
“They’re scum, and you know it.” Orlov’s assessment was vehement, but Subkov expected no less from a man who’d spent his life in the navy upholding Russian honor. “They pay allegiance to no one but money and other thieves.”
“They serve our purpose,” Subkov said, losing patience.
Subkov hated using a criminal network to do their work as much as Orlov did. Their mutual abhorrence of corruption within the system was what had brought them together in the first place. Subkov’s boss, Pedrovsky, had introduced them at a diplomatic dinner for some high-ranking Syrian military and intelligence officials back when Subkov was just coming up in GRU and Admiral Orlov was on a GRU naval intelligence subcommittee. Their conversation had naturally turned to the latest corruption scandal in the news, and they’d guardedly talked around their personal views until getting the sense from each other that Pedrovsky had put them together for a purpose.
“Does Volodya know?” Orlov said now.
Subkov snorted. “Of course not. No one knows about this mission except the two of us and whomever we require to execute it. And those in our circle, of course.”
“He’d have a fit,” Orlov muttered. “Shoot us himself.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Subkov was willing to take his chances. Putin talked a good game when it came to law and order, but everyone knew that the millions he had hidden in offshore bank accounts hadn’t come from small change delivering newspapers. Oligarchy was alive and well in the new Russia, and the businessmen who had made their billions in the newly opened markets after the fall of Communism in the Soviet Union weren’t the only ones to benefit. No one could prove it, of course, though Subkov had nearly evidence enough to at least embarrass him. Putin’s days in the KGB had served him well in that regard.
Subkov, however, had other concerns, other problems—how to deliver what the five men above him wanted without the extensive network of spies the GRU had once had at its disposal. That wasn’t to say that its reach and power had been diminished since the end of the Soviet era. Just that the world had become even more fragmented, with more special interests in farther-flung places. Most of the for
mer Socialist Republics of the Soviet Union, for example, were now independent countries or states of the new Russian Federation, making it harder to keep tabs on their internal workings. And technology had made the world both smaller and more complex. Subkov’s solution, as much as he hated it, had been to use the contacts he’d developed after years of dealing with the Russian underworld and set up his own network of spies.
The network had proved useful in other ways, too. Information that had come through his contacts had provided him with an insurance policy of sorts. After Yeltsin appointed Putin head of the FSB in 1988, scores of Putin’s political enemies had conveniently died—gunned down in their homes, poisoned, abducted and killed. Subkov understood the necessity, the expediency of eliminating a threat, dispatching a rival on rare occasions. But the sheer number of reporters, human rights activists, political opponents, current or former KGB agents and the odd outspoken banker or billionaire businessman had seemed excessive even by the GRU’s standard of tradecraft. None of the murders could be linked to Putin himself, of course.
One of the victims, however, had been lured into a honey trap, ostensibly for purposes of blackmail. But the man—a reporter for a small left-wing paper in a Moscow suburb—had been brutally murdered in the middle of having sex with a bliyadischa. Though traumatized, the girl had had the presence of mind to retrieve the video camera she’d hidden before the tryst. The video had not only captured the sex, but the killing as well, including the face of the former KGB spetsnaz assassin as he pulled the garrote tight around the victim’s neck.
The prostitute’s pimp, a junior boyevik in the local arm of the Russian bratva, the mafia, had delivered the video to his boss, an avtorityet, a brigadier in the Organizatsiya and one of Subkov’s contacts. The contact had passed the video on to Subkov, who had instantly realized the import of what he had. Having only the word of a witness, especially that of a whore, would not be very effective against a man like Putin. But hard evidence on video of one of Putin’s former associates in the KGB, and former employee when Putin headed the FSB, was more convincing. But, like TNT, the video was the kind of evidence that could just as easily destroy him as President Putin. He had to handle and use it with the greatest of care.
“A day or two, you say?” Orlov said, breaking into Subkov’s thoughts.
“At most.”
Orlov sighed. “We must do this, Mikhail, for the motherland.”
“Yes, Admiral, I agree.”
“Keep me informed.”
The call disconnected, and Subkov replaced the satellite phone in his briefcase and locked it. He sat down heavily in the leather desk chair and wondered if they could still pull this off.
Chapter 11
July 26—Suitland, Maryland
Chief Warrant Officer Janet Tolliver absent-mindedly nibbled an unpolished fingernail as she read a credit report belonging to the subject of one of her SSBIs. The Single Scope Background Investigation would tell her if she had reason to pursue further investigation, and if so, the direction that investigation should take. She was good at what she did, detail-oriented and quick to spot discrepancies. More importantly, she enjoyed it. She could have been an actuary for an insurance company, but the U.S. Navy had paid for her college degree, so she’d figured she owed Uncle Sam something in return. When the chance to join the Office of Naval Intelligence had come up she’d jumped at it.
Now, years later, she wondered if the dedication, the lost weekends and late nights had been worth it. Her marriage had gone down the tubes—no kids, thank God—and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a date. She frowned and looked at her finger as if surprised to see the chewed nail. Ruefully, she plucked a tissue from a box on her desk and wiped off her finger. That could be the reason she hadn’t had a date. Well, one of them. She kept her nails short anyway, and though she often wore a coat of clear polish, she hadn’t for weeks. Too much trouble, she supposed. She ran her fingers through her short brown hair and sighed.
She wasn’t unattractive, she knew, and though she wasn’t getting any younger, she wasn’t yet on the downhill side of forty. So she still had a few good years in which to find someone, right? And even if she didn’t find Mr. Right, she could at least have a life. One outside of work, that is. She surreptitiously slid a compact from her handbag and inspected her reflection. Maybe some hair color to hide the few gray hairs that had started to appear and brighten the drab brown. And maybe a bolder shade of lipstick than the pale, neutral one she had on.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a voice said, startling her.
An Adonis stood in front of her desk. Two of them, now that she looked. She quickly snapped the compact shut and stuffed it in her handbag, feeling a flush creep up her neck. She’d never considered herself vain, and she wasn’t about to start now. Both of them were younger than she, and the one directly in front had a wedding band on his left hand, further banishing all previous thoughts from her head.
“Can I help you?”
“NCIS senior field agent Jim Torrance, ma’am.”
Tolliver’s heart leapt into her throat. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Had she screwed up one of her investigations? A data search, perhaps?
Torrance gestured behind him without looking. “This is Special Agent Parker. We’d like to speak to Lt. Commander Reyna Chase. Is she available?”
Janet breathed a silent sigh of relief, but her brows knit in consternation almost immediately. She wondered what they could want with Reyna. “Wait here, please, Agent Torrance, and I’ll let her know you’re here.”
She straightened her skirt and stood. Torrance and Parker stepped back to let her go by, and she caught a whiff of citrusy cologne. She flashed a nervous smile at Parker, and he returned it before quickly pasting on his serious face. Stop it! Poking her head through the opening to Reyna’s cubicle, she rapped on the metal edge.
“Ma’am? A couple of NCIS agents to see you.”
Reyna swiveled her chair around and frowned.
“You weren’t expecting them?” Janet said. Now she was worried.
“No, I wasn’t. Did they say what they wanted?”
Janet shook her head.
“Thanks, Chief. I’ll be right there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Janet walked back to her desk and let the agents know Reyna would be out momentarily. She sat down at her desk and picked up the credit report again, but couldn’t focus on the words with the two agents hovering close by. She tried not to look interested when Reyna greeted the agents and asked how she could help.
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Torrance said.
“The conference room may be open. Chief Tolliver?”
The tone of Reyna’s voice brought Janet’s head up from the reading she pretended to do. That and Reyna’s use of formality. They typically called each other by first name unless other officers stood within earshot. Janet quickly checked the calendar.
“It’s open as far as I can tell,” she said.
Reyna led the way to the conference room, the two agents on her heels like jackals closing in on wounded prey. They closed the door behind them.
Janet found herself biting her nail again. She not only respected and admired Reyna, she also liked her. As a boss, Reyna was fair and demanded no more from Janet and others she worked with than she asked of herself. Janet chided herself for worrying. Reyna could handle herself, and whatever NCIS wanted, it was probably something related to one of Reyna’s investigations. She resumed her reading.
Close to an hour passed before the conference room door opened. Torrance appeared in the doorway, looked around and headed for Captain Farley’s office.
Reyna’s voice floated through the open doorway. “I’m telling you for the umpteenth time, I don’t know anything about your missing agent.”
Janet couldn’t make out Parker’s next question, but Reyna’s response was loud and clear.
“My private life, Agent Parker, is private. Yes, I know a
man named Blake Sanders. Yes, we had a brief relationship. But I haven’t—”
The words were muffled to a murmur as someone—Parker, she presumed—closed the conference room door.
Less than five minutes later, Janet looked up again to see Torrance escorting Farley to the conference room. No, that wasn’t quite right. Torrance deferred to Farley, as he would any senior officer. Janet wasn’t sure why but she didn’t believe Torrance wanted to question Farley so much as he wanted to include him, apprise him of the situation. Her mouth curled in distaste. So like men to gang up on a woman. Janet’s stomach twisted, but she could do little except bury herself in her work.
Surprise momentarily confused Janet when she glanced up. Another ninety minutes had gone by, and Captain Farley now escorted Reyna past Janet’s desk, his hand firmly gripping her upper arm above the elbow. Janet lowered her head, but continued to follow the pair with her eyes. Fatigue strained Reyna’s face, but she held herself erect.
“…give you the benefit of the doubt,” Farley was saying, “but this is serious. One of their agents missing?”
“As I said, sir, I know nothing about it.”
“But until they do, you’re not in the clear. I’m sorry, but you’re on administrative leave until further notice. You’re not to have anything to do with this case. You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t investigate anything. Is that clear, Commander?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Reyna said.
Farley peered at her, but even Janet couldn’t detect a note of sarcasm or disrespect in Reyna’s voice or demeanor. Janet breathed a little sigh, her admiration for Lt. Commander Reyna Chase going up a notch. Being a woman in most jobs was tough. In the military, women had to be tougher than men with skin thicker than elephant hide and confidence as unshakeable as Gibraltar.
Farley left Reyna at her cubicle and went back to his own office. Janet saw the two NCIS agents disappear down the hallway without further acknowledgement. Five minutes later, Reyna emerged from her cubicle with her briefcase and a reusable shopping bag filled with personal items. She moved slowly past Janet’s desk, keeping her face turned away from Farley’s office.
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