by J. K. Kelly
After brief introductions and small talk about the weather, Wilson read Matt into the situation they needed his help with. Adams used a remote to start a short slideshow that showed photos of the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, the U.S. ambassador and his wife, Russell and Susan Wilkerson, and their 20-year-old son Raymond, an employee of the Embassy. Finally, a photo came up of a 22-year-old female Russian citizen named Misha Doronin.
“Okay, so what’s the issue?” Matt asked impatiently. He’d been involved with investigating bad behavior, or at least the alleged bad behavior of Embassy families and staffers before. “Who screwed who?”
“If only it was that simple,” Adams responded. “Here’s where it gets messy.”
Adams and Wilson laid it out for Matt in very clear detail. Doronin was the niece of a high-ranking Russian military official, and she was pregnant. She alleged that the ambassador was the father. But the son had thrown himself on the sword, claiming the child was his. So far, Doronin had refused to take a paternity test unless both men supplied their DNA.
“Guys, I’m going to fall asleep unless you tell me something interesting,” Matt insisted. “I can’t go over there and stick a needle in her uterus, for Christ’s sake.”
Adams and Wilson looked to each other. From their expressions, Matt wasn’t sure whether they actually thought that was an option or they were about to burst out laughing.
“So, like I said, what do you think I can possibly do to help you guys out of this? Why not just fly Wilkerson and his family out of Russia under diplomatic immunity and be done with it?”
“Because the Russians are holding someone tied to the ambassador,” Wilson said, sitting back in his chair. “And they won’t let her loose until the ambassador goes public, acknowledges that he’s the father, pays the mother $250,000, and resigns his post.” He widened his eyes at Matt. “More interested now?”
“I see.” Matt leaned forward in his chair. “So who the hell are the Russians holding?”
Wilson opened a file folder and passed an eight-by-ten color photo of the subject across the table.
“Hubba, hubba,” Matt said with a laugh. “Now, that’s a mistress.”
“That’s Anika,” Adams said through a smile.
“Okay, she just might be worth the time and energy to fly all night to Moscow. But in all reality, this is political, cut and dried,” he explained. “I’m not sure if I have the leverage or authority, actual or implied, to solve this one, boys. Looks like another one of those classic screw-ups that someone really high up at State or perhaps Defense needs to fix.”
“They’ve already tried, believe it or not,” Wilson stated. “It’s not happening.”
“So why me?” Matt asked. “Of all the assets at your disposal, why am I sitting here with you two?”
Both men seemed surprised by the question, and Matt enjoyed watching them fumble for the right answer and, perhaps, figure out just who would deliver it.
“Well,” Wilson began, “you’re not an employee. You also know Moscow very well and have a reputation for getting to the bottom of things.”
Matt nodded. As a contractor there were things he could say and do, places he could go, people he could meet, without the restrictions, red tape, or accountability a government employee or an elected official might be tied down by. He also knew Moscow. He’d been there before and had friends and associates in the area if he needed their help or cover.
“And,” Adams continued, “you get the right kind of results and don’t care if you ruffle feathers.”
Matt sat back in his chair.
“We’ll need a Hail Mary to fix this one,” Adams said. “And your number’s been called.” Matt looked at the recurring photos on the video screen and then glanced again at the eight-by-ten of the mistress they had given him.
“Who is the point of contact on our side and from the Russian side, and how are they communicating?”
“It’s all secure, untraceable email, directly between Ambassador Wilkerson’s private email account and someone with a Russian name that means Old Goat.”
“That’s even better, some old prick with a sense of humor.” Matt thought for a minute. “You are sure this is a Russian, in Russia, screwing with Wilkerson? Not some dipshit scammer sitting at a keyboard in Kazakhstan or Burbank, right?”
“Yes, we can’t track to the sender’s physical address or IP address, but we know it’s within the city limits of Moscow. It’s not being rerouted from other locations.”
“Does Mrs. Wilkerson know about the mistress?” Matt asked.
“Not sure,” replied Adams. “I don’t think anyone’s had the balls to ask her.”
“We think it’s best that you use your diplomatic credentials on this one and just go spend some time over there, boots on the ground, as they say,” Wilson interjected.
“Yes – just go there, meet the people, buy some drinks, take them to strip clubs, slide them money, whatever it takes,” Adams said.
Matt sat quietly, staring at one of the blank walls, and then turned his attention back to the two briefers. He studied them. To him, they seemed uncomfortable, as if neither had done anything like this before. Not including anyone of higher stature from the CIA, State, Defense, or NSA in this briefing meant this truly was a super-hot potato. Anyone with rank would want plausible deniability if the whole thing went south.
“Which one of you is going with me?” he asked, wondering how they might respond. Both men went from appearing awkward to outright scared. One was fidgeting in his chair while the other flicked the edge of the file folder. Matt smiled. He knew they were far from field agents.
“Come on, there’s nothing like endless vodka, endless strippers, and a hard-boiled egg baked into the center of your lasagna!” he quipped. “Just joking, boys. I’ll do it. But with a few conditions,” said Matt, before listing out exactly what they were.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Matt loved to fly, as long as it was in comfort, and the quick post-rush hour ride to Reagan International was taken in near record time. He’d booked the flight, ordered the car service, packed his clothes, and selected the appropriate credentials from seven different versions he kept locked in a safe and left his condo behind, again. Matt took his window seat in the front cabin, the business class section of the United Airlines jet, and settled in for yet another adventure. The overnight flight would stop in Zurich, where he’d have time for a quick shower and change of clothes in the First Class lounge and then hop back aboard a connecting flight to Moscow’s Domodedovo airport, arriving just before five o’clock the next afternoon, Moscow time.
The black diplomatic passport he’d chosen to use allowed him to bypass the visa requirement and sail past the customs desk in short order. With bags in hand he boarded the commuter train to downtown Moscow. At this hour, or seemingly any hour of the day, traffic in and around the Russian capital would add over an hour to his travel time to the hotel. It didn’t take long for the train to stop close to his preferred hotel. As he exited the car, he admired the familiar marble floors, walls, and ceilings of Moscow’s famed underground.
A short time later, he moved quickly up the stairway that led onto the street level. Motorbikes, cars, trucks, and a steady flow of pedestrian traffic kept the noise at a level much like Times Square in New York – crowded and loud. The Russian air hovering just above 75 degrees Fahrenheit, Matt walked the three blocks to the Sheraton Palace hotel. After checking in and dropping his bag in his suite, he headed straight to the bar for a long-awaited date with an alcoholic beverage. Meeting with Dale had brought back many good memories, but the bad ones had come as well. He was sad, tired, and lonely, and it was time to drink. Work would start in the morning. He checked his watch. And that was a long 12 hours away.
The vodka was flowing throughout the hotel’s brightly lit bar. So much for ambiance, he thought. An international assortment of patrons attended quiet business meetings, discreet rendezvous, and boisterous selfie sessions (a sports team from Germany).
But there was also the occasional lone wolf, an intriguingly beautiful prostitute occupying a barstool. Matt, like most men and many women, found the exotic and beautiful Russian women with their cool, blue-steel eyes exceptional and intriguing. Set those eyes in a movie star face and a bathing suit model’s body, sprinkle in a captivating Russian accent, and you have a recipe for a memorable night. A night of drinking, laughter, heavy spending, and perhaps a very happy ending.
“Nostrovia!” the men seated at the table directly behind Matt’s place at the bar shouted as they raised their shot glasses of vodka, again and yet again. Their suits all looked the same, grey, with white shirts and red or blue ties, all of which were loosened or gone completely at this point in the celebration. They weren’t from this big city. One man, this one with his tie pulled up and around his head, staggered to the bar to secure another bottle. He bumped Matt, splashing his beer onto his hand and arm.
“Sorry, sorry, my friend,” the Russian offered in an apologetic yet jubilant tone that wasn’t lost on Matt.
“Not a problem, mate,” Matt replied. “What are you toasting over there?”
Matt joined them and soon two more bottles of vodka had been nearly emptied into the Russians, who were celebrating the closing of a business deal. They were all from a company that was located way east of Moscow in Mongolia. Their facial structure and eyes, a touch of arctic eskimo and a bit of Asian, had telegraphed their origin long before they told him. Now they turned their focus on their newfound friend.
“We are glad you were able to join us,” one of them stated. “This can be a very dangerous place. You need to be among friends here!”
Matt raised his shot glass and toasted. “To friends,” he stated, and the group downed their remaining vodka in unison.
“What makes you think this is a dangerous place?” he asked.
“Because we have wolves here, like the ones at the bar,” a man slurred his reply.
“To wolves,” Matt stated, forcing the rest to fill their glasses and join him.
“Those wolves have been known to take down a grown man, no matter how strong they are,” the man continued. “They are carnivores for sure.”
“One can only hope,” Matt said with a laugh.
“No, my friend, I am serious,” the man insisted on continuing his lecture.
“They have been known to take down the wealthiest men, the most powerful political and military figures who come to our country.” Despite the alcohol, Matt knew exactly what the man was saying. He pictured the photo of the face the CIA had shown him the day before in Washington.
“It’s okay, I’ve been here many times before and know all too well what can get you in trouble here.”
As one of the servers stepped in to clear the table of the empty bottles, Matt ordered a dozen bottles of beer for the table.
“No, no, no,” many of them protested. “If you drink beer with vodka, you will get sick.”
“No, no, no,” Matt responded, waving his now empty shot glass back and forth with every word. “This is the way we do it in America!”
The two men who had been listening to the celebratory conversations at the table stepped in on either side of Matt. They were right out of a cold war movie. Short haircuts, scars on their faces, probably from bar fights in their younger days. Both wore black suits, black ties, and off-white raincoats, not to keep dry but to hide weapons. The looks on the faces of the men he had been partying with had all changed dramatically. In an instant, both men grabbed Matt under his arms and lurched him up from his chair. Instinctively, he responded, jerking his right arm loose and using it to punch the man to his left in the face.
With the sound of breaking glass, Matt fell to the floor, his head bleeding from the vodka bottle that had just crashed hard against his skull.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Matt’s head throbbed as the car sped away from the hotel and swerved to bypass one vehicle and then another. After he was clobbered with the vodka bottle, the two goons had grabbed him, drug him from the bar, and threw him very forcefully into the back seat of a black Lada SUV. The buildings, light posts, and traffic lights were flashing by. They were driving fast, too fast, but Matt had no idea where they were headed.
“Who the hell are you guys?” Matt asked groggily from the back seat of the Russian-made sedan.
The driver kept his eyes straight ahead while the man riding shotgun, the one who had introduced Matt to the vodka bottle, continued to speak into his cellphone. It had begun to rain in the city, and the car was moving quite fast. Matt could barely make out where they were headed, let alone why they had grabbed him so violently.
“You guys FSB? Moscow Police?” Matt asked. No reply from the front seat.
“Did I soil somebody’s sister? No, Russian mob, that must be it, then,” Matt joked but still no answer. Matt didn’t speak the language, other than the courteous spasiba, or thank you, dasvidaniya for goodbye, and, of course, the nostrovya he had said so often earlier in the evening.
The conversation on the cellphone up front was getting heated, but he couldn’t understand a word of it. Suddenly the car screeched to a halt, sending Matt flying into the seat backs of his captors. They weren’t amused, and both turned to curse him. The man with the phone continued what was now an argument for another minute, then he ended the call, threw the phone on the dashboard, and gestured for the driver to reverse course and head back where they had come from.
Minutes later, the car screeched to a halt again. From Matt’s position lying across the back seat, he could see immediately where they were. The familiar Sheraton logo shined brightly on the front of the building. He sighed with relief.
The shotgun rider climbed out of the car, opened Matt’s door, pulled him from the car by his right arm, and dropped him abruptly on the curb.
The rain was heavier now. Within seconds, Matt was soaking wet. More importantly, he was in need of a doctor. As the car drove off, two hotel employees ran outside and helped Matt to his feet. An hour later, in the comfort of his king-bed suite, a local doctor sewed Matt’s wound closed with six stitches. The bottle of vodka room service delivered helped mitigate the pain of the wound for the present. But Matt’s head hurt inside and for hours until his wake-up call rang.
When that call finally came, he found himself frustrated and alone. He was surprised, disappointed in himself, that he got that drunk in Moscow. Typically he never let his guard down that far unless he was in a safe environment – like sitting on the back of his boat on the Potomac. But this was Moscow, where things were much different, and this mistake could have cost him his life.
Once his room service order for a pot of coffee and a large orange juice arrived, he showered, mindful of the sutures, and dressed for the day. Meeting the ambassador required a degree of professionalism, but Matt never even considered the tie he had packed. Not for this ambassador, who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, not for someone who could embarrass his country.
On his way through the lobby, he checked with the hotel manager. They had called the Moscow police to file a report, but when the manager had presented them with Matt’s United States of America diplomatic passport, the investigators shook their heads no, closed their notebooks, and left the building. With the climate between the countries already strained, there was little interest on the police’s part in helping any American with an official status that had elected to come to their city.
Most days, Matt would opt to walk to his destination, purposely staying at a hotel that would afford him a distance to be traveled and help him maintain his cardio routine. Hotel gyms and fitness clubs weren’t much to his liking. Considering he’d been made a target the night before, he thought better of having the hotel call him a taxi rather than just stepping to the curb and trying to wave one down. As he thanked the front desk staff for their assistance, he turned to find yet another set of strangers showing an interest in him. These two had seen action; Matt could tell from the wear and tear on thei
r faces and in their eyes. They were in polo shirts, khakis, Merrell boots, and light sport coats to cover their weapons. They looked like Marines. Fit, flat-top haircuts, one a bit taller than the other. He didn’t perceive they were a threat though, so he relaxed his stance ever so slightly.
“We’re from the Embassy,” the man said as he flashed his ID. “We heard what happened last night, and we’ve been sent to make sure you get to your ten o’clock on time.” Matt took a quick glance at the U.S. State Department credentials, but it was the man’s accent that allowed him to let out a breath and feel safer. Not totally safe, but at least in the company of friendlies.
Brad Hadden was from Boston, Massachusetts. Will Terry was from Austin, Texas, and both served in the U.S. Marines as plainclothes elements of the Embassy’s security team.
“Boston, I knew it!” Matt said with a smile as he shook hands and then nodded at the second escort, who spoke up quickly.
“We need to go.” Terry pointed toward the front doors. “Traffic here sucks.”
“Texas Terry,” Matt said with a smile as they left the hotel. Terry opened the rear door for Matt, and once the escorts took their seats up front, they got down to business during the short drive to the Embassy.
“We heard about what happened to you last night,” Hadden said, shaking his head. “You should have requested a detail, and you should move to the Marriott, it’s closer, and it’s where most of us hang.”
Matt listened to the comments but spent most of his attention on any cars that were behind them.
“They won’t bother with you again,” Hadden suggested. “Unless you give them some reason to.”
“What makes you so sure?” Matt asked, rubbing the back of his head, gently feeling for the stitches the local doctor had sewn in just hours earlier. The hot shower and coffee had helped get him moving, but the jet lag, the vodka, the assault, and more vodka, had him in a slight fog. He was having trouble focusing on the situation. His expression wasn’t lost on the driver.