The Export

  “The bad news is…” Matt said, shaking his head slowly left to right, “…Misha’s no longer pregnant, but the Old Goat is keeping what she lost. He’s going to hold the fetus for ransom.”

  Wilkerson shot to his feet and threw his napkin onto his plate. “What kind of sick bastard would do something like that?”

  “It’s all about the DNA, Mr. Ambassador. They intend to use it to leverage you as if Misha was still in play, but the reality is, there’s no chain of custody, and there’s nobody in the free world that would believe a Russian lab that’s slandering an American diplomat.” Matt thought for a moment. “Except your enemies.”

  “Bunch of amateurs, no doubt,” Wilkerson uttered.

  “Or some professionals wanting you to think that’s the case,” Sarah suggested.

  “There’s another possibility none of you have considered,” Matt asserted. “How do we even know she was ever pregnant in the first place, and if she was, what guarantees do we have that a Wilkerson fathered the child? If she was pregnant and lost the child, then we need the evidence. It might clear your name.”

  Nobody moved for a long minute. Finally, Ray got up from the table, told his mother he was going to try to reach Misha again, and left the room. Sarah called out for the staff to come clear the table.

  “What, no coffee?” Matt said in a disappointed tone. Wilkerson stormed out of the room while Sarah sat quietly and watched as the staff cleared away what was left of their meal.

  “Did I just hear him utter asshole as he left?” Matt asked Sarah. She looked at him and cocked her head slightly to the left.

  “Most days I’d say that was damn inappropriate, young man,” she said softly. “But today, I think your timing is impeccable.” She thanked the kitchen staff for their excellent meal and then asked for coffee and pecan pie for two to be delivered to her private study on the second floor.

  “Care to join me for dessert?” she said in a teasing tone. “Then you’ve got to help me buy a dead baby.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The ambassador’s wife’s study was on the second floor and she had used the lure of endless coffee and decadent desserts to entice Matt to follow her there. It wasn’t long before all that had been replaced by glasses of Kentucky bourbon and Stella Artois beer. Matt tried to log into the secure server at the residence but his host kept pointing out the various mementos she had brought there from Texas to make her feel closer to home. A brick from the Alamo, a Dallas Cowboy player’s helmet, a framed flag of the Lone Star state mounted above the wood burning fireplace, and an assortment of antique handguns and rifles used by famous Texans in the various wars and conflicts they had fought and died in. Finally he was in and able to focus on what he had come there for.

  Sarah leaned over Matt’s shoulder as he emailed the Old Goat back and forth, negotiating the terms of the surrender of the DNA and attempting to secure assurances that the matter would be put to rest as quickly as possible. The ambassador had joined them briefly two hours earlier but tired of the direction the conversation had taken. Sarah had asked Matt if he’d be interested in going to London as a private investigator on her family’s behalf to see if her cousin’s death really had been suicide.

  “Their MI5 and our FBI ruled it a murder-suicide, but he loved life, his women, cars, and his money. To have shot himself like that – I just can’t accept it,” she said.

  “He’s dead, he had enemies, we all do,” the ambassador retorted. Then a look from his wife sent him away without a word.

  “I love that bastard,” she whispered to Matt as the ambassador had closed the door behind him, “but what is it about men that makes them have to screw everything they can?”

  “It’s all about the caveman, Sarah,” he said as if preparing to tell a joke. “It’s in our DNA. You know this. Dating back as far as anyone knows, men were supposed to do two things. Procreate to keep the species going and kill for food to keep the species fed. Most of us have evolved, but there are still a few cave dwellers out there.”

  “And you, Matt Christopher, what do you have back in D.C. – a cave or a condo?”

  He turned and looked at her. He knew there was no way the ambassador was going to come back into the room. He was in the doghouse, now more than ever. Ray was probably still longing for his former girlfriend, staring at pictures of Misha on his laptop. Were they just having a discussion, or was she thinking about the old in-out, in-out?

  “I have a condo overlooking the Potomac and a sixty-footer tied up at a marina. No cave dwelling for me. I’m definitely housebroken.” She gave him a look of disappointment.

  “Hey, I can get down on my knees and drag my knuckles on the floor and grunt when I need to, if that’s what you were hoping for?”

  She smiled. “On your knees then, young man!” she commanded with a smile. “There’s no reason only the men in this family should have all the fun.”

  A sudden knock at the door interrupted their banter.

  “Mrs. Wilkerson, it’s Will.” She looked at Matt with embarrassment.

  “Busted!” he said with a laugh.

  “To be continued,” she whispered and then walked to the door to greet her Marine.

  Evidently surprised to see Matt seated on the massive sofa behind her, Terry took a step in. “Just making my rounds,” he said. “Wanted to be sure everything was A-OK up here.” She smiled at him, and he returned the look.

  Matt could see his expression change, and that was his cue to call it a night. He found his own way back to his room but first made a pit stop along the way. He found three off-duty Marines sitting with members of the residence’s female domestic staff around a large kitchen table drinking coffee, tea, cola, beer, or vodka.

  “Looks like a party, but I’ll take a rain check,” he said, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, and then headed out of the room.

  “Not sure you were invited,” one of the Marines stated. These domestics were theirs, and they weren’t interested in sharing. Matt stopped. He was tired but wasn’t in the mood for testosterone or someone pissing on him to mark their territory.

  “How’d you guys get here anyway? Navy give you a lift, or did the Air Force have to haul you around as usual?”

  A second Marine stood up and extended his arm to block his outspoken comrade from additional dialogue with the unknown guest from the national security wing of their government.

  “Stand down, gentlemen. I’m friend, not foe,” Matt said. He wished them a good night and then headed upstairs to recheck for bugs in his room and then hopefully get a good night’s sleep.

  Once he finished his search and the beer, he checked his laptop one last time. To his surprise, there was a response to an email he had sent. It was from Staryy Kozel.

  The next morning, as the four joined for breakfast at the same table they had sat at the night before, Matt briefed the Wilkersons on what he had been able to negotiate late into the night with the Old Goat.

  “It’s actually pretty cut and dry,” Matt suggested. “We went back and forth on demands and solutions, and this is what we agreed to around five this morning.”

  “Without briefing me first?” Wilkerson questioned.

  Matt had little time for bullshit. The ambassador had gotten himself and his country into a mess, and Matt was here to solve it to the best of his ability. He had authorization to spend money if needed, had some meat-eating Marines who were up for a fight, and he had his own bag of tricks to play if needed. After pouring another coffee and then downing a twelve-ounce glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice without taking a gasp of air, Matt gave one of the servers a nod to indicate he wanted a second round of crepes, eggs, and orange juice.

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said, “you told me all that I needed to know, and I have authorization for funding. I want to clean this up and get back to the States.”

  Wilkerson looked at his wife and son, wondering if what Matt was going to divulge might be something he didn’t want them to hear. He gave Mat
t a questioning look. The nod he received in return led him to believe it was safe to proceed. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s hear what the fixer has in store for us.”

  “Well, first, Misha did indeed lose the baby, and as I indicated before, there is no way a DNA test on the baby’s remains, umbilical, or anything else for that matter, would be believed in the U.S. or anywhere else other than perhaps the offices of the National Enquirer.” Matt watched the three faces as he spoke, watching for emotion, reaction, something. But nothing came.

  “I convinced whoever was on the other end of the email stream that the only financial concern you had was for Misha and her wellbeing. I am going to personally deliver 3 million Russian rubles, approximately $50,000, to Misha later today. She is going to meet me, along with her father, in Red Square at four o’clock in front of Lenin’s Tomb. I know the area well.”

  “Is she okay?” Ray asked, finally showing interest in the woman he used to bed.

  “She’s strong, like every Russian woman I’ve ever met. She’ll be fine, Ray,” Matt reassured him.

  “Can I go with you?” he asked.

  Matt looked at Wilkerson and then Sarah, his expression indicating one of them should step in. But they just sat there, taking in the briefing.

  “No, Ray.” Matt felt bad for the boy, but he couldn’t let him be seen as part of a payoff. “Misha specifically said she doesn’t want to see anyone from the Embassy with me, not you or either of your parents ever again.” Ray shoved back in his chair and stormed out of the dining room, bumping into one of the servers but quickly steadying them and apologizing for his rudeness.

  “He’ll get over her,” Sarah said to her husband, having turned her attention to him. “Now, Mr. Fixer, what are you going to do about little Anika?”

  Wilkerson looked stunned. Not only did his wife know about his latest mistress, she knew her name.

  “Matt,” the ambassador choked out, “give us the room, if you will.”

  The server had just placed the fresh plate of food in front of Matt. The look and smell of French toast, fresh off the griddle, and covered with caramelized bananas was such a delicious tease. He was still hungry but pushed it away, stood up, and excused himself. As he left the dining room, two Marines, Hadden and Terry, were standing on either side of the doorway in the hall. With no door to provide any privacy or reduce any sound, they had heard everything.

  “Which way did Ray go?” Matt asked Hadden, who then pointed in the direction of the ambassador’s office in the residence.

  Someone needed to console the young man. Ray’s competition with his father, bedding local women, had turned serious. One of them had gotten Misha pregnant, and Matt could tell by the way Ray had spoken about her that he was clearly hurt, not just by his father’s constant attempts to prove he was the “better” man, but by the loss of a girl he cared for. Ray had probably never felt anything other than lust for any of the girls he had known back home or in Russia, until now. Misha had gotten to him, and her rejection, hearing she didn’t want to see him ever again, was tearing him apart.

  Matt followed Ray to his father’s office. He found the young man standing behind the massive desk, center drawer pulled open, and a Colt 1911 .45 caliber gun in his hand. Tears filled the boy’s eyes.

  Matt stopped dead in his tracks and spoke softly to him. “Ray, we can sort this out, put the gun back in the drawer, please, before someone gets hurt.”

  Ray didn’t move. He sobbed, tears flowing down both cheeks. Finally, he looked at Matt and let it all out.

  “I can’t do this anymore! I hate it here. I hate my father, and I hate being alive,” he cried out.

  Matt could hear footsteps coming down the hallway. He again calmly cautioned Ray to put down the weapon and move very slowly.

  Suddenly Wilkerson strode into the room and burst into a verbal rage. “Put that damn gun back where it belongs, Raymond, before I come over there and take it from you!”

  Wilkerson shot Matt a look, who returned an expression Wilkerson read as back off.

  “Bullshit,” was the response he gave the man sent to fix the ambassador’s problems. “I know how to deal with this.” The ambassador turned to face his son and started toward him, then charged toward the desk and the weeping boy standing behind it with a gun.

  Matt watched it play out with a sense of helpless horror. This was something that had been brewing between the Wilkersons for years, through drug abuse, multiple arrests, rehabs, and then their twisted sexual competition. What happened next took an instant, but to Matt, it played out in slow motion. Ray began to raise the gun to his own head and demanded that his father stop. Wilkerson kept coming, and suddenly, the gun came down and was pointed at him instead.

  “Ray, stop!” Matt shouted, loud enough for anyone in the hallway to hear.

  Wilkerson dove forward and reached for the gun, grabbing his son’s hands that were wrapped around it. As he overpowered his son, he shoved the gun up into Ray’s face and shouted at him. “Point that at me, you useless shit!” he shouted.

  Matt could hear more footsteps rushing down the hallway. Wilkerson shoved the barrel of the gun against his son’s left cheek, and as quickly as their scuffle had begun, it ended. Whether Ray pulled the trigger intentionally, accidentally, or his finger was squeezed as they fought for control of the gun, it went off. The bullet tore through Ray’s face and up through his skull, exiting at the top and stopping in a book on the shelf behind him. He dropped to the floor and disappeared from sight behind the desk.

  Wilkerson stepped back and stared at his son lying dead before him. The gun slipped from his hand and slid out into plain view. Matt stood and glared at Wilkerson in disbelief. His ears rang from the noise as the familiar smell of gunfire spread through the room. Two Marines ran into the room, sidearms drawn, but they stopped inside the doorway. One took a kneeling stance as the other stood above him.

  “What the hell’s going on?” the first one through the door demanded, surveying the room for threats, looking for the shooter and a gun.

  “My son just killed himself,” Wilkerson murmured. He slowly backed away from the body and turned toward the Marines.

  Matt shook his head in disbelief at the man.

  “Is that what happened?” the lead Marine asked.

  Matt nodded his head slowly as if to affirm the ambassador’s statement, but the look he gave both Marines told a different story. “They struggled for the gun, and it went off.”

  More Marines and staffers were arriving at the office doorway. Panic began to spread as the sobs and screams echoed down the hall. Radio calls were being made between the security elements at the residence and the Embassy. Before long, the State Department, CIA, and NSA would be notified – and the hell they were now in would take on another level of pain.

  The Marine guards immediately restricted entry into the room. Wilkerson collapsed onto the sofa and looked down at the floor, not uttering a word. The sound of high heels running down the hallway made everyone turn toward the doorway. Sarah would be there in seconds. The Marines tried to stop her, but she wasn’t having it and shoved through, demanding they let her by. Matt stepped in front of her to try to block her view, but it was too late. Her son’s foot protruded from behind the desk. She screamed and tried to fight her way past him.

  “You don’t want to see him this way,” Matt whispered as he restrained her.

  The cries coming from a heartbroken mother made even the toughest men in the room bow their heads. She struggled with Matt but gave in to his embrace and sobbed uncontrollably on his chest.

  Terry pushed his way through the crowd and was allowed entry by the guards at the door. The Texan was close to the family, even closer to Sarah, Matt suspected. Seeing her in Matt’s arms sent him into a rage. Then he saw what he could of Ray lying on the floor. And the blood spatters. And the gun. His gaze shifted to the ambassador looking dazed, sitting on the couch, his face buried in his hands.

  “Get your h
ands off her,” Terry rasped as he drew her away and into his arms.

  “I want to see him,” Sarah moaned. “I need to see him.”

  Matt looked at Terry. If it were up to Matt, he’d carry her from the room and then drag the ambassador to that bridge and throw him into the Moscow River. But the Marines were in charge now. He was just a witness to this horror show.

  “You do what you have to, but you shouldn’t,” Matt said softly.

  Sarah straightened up and spread her arms to free herself from Terry’s embrace. She looked to her husband, but he had turned away from Ray and from his wife, lost in his own thoughts and emotions. She took a deep breath and walked to the side of the desk.

  Matt watched as she slowly shook her head in sorrow and then knelt down by her son. She touched the boy’s hand but didn’t make a sound. Matt looked at Terry and the other Marines in the room. No one moved. Not a word was spoken as a mother said goodbye to her only child. At last, she stood up and turned to the nearest guard. “Please find something so I can cover my son,” she asked. She glared at her husband, and if looks could have killed, they’d have needed a second blanket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sarah Wilkerson was as tough as they came. She could be soft and sweet as the morning dew, or ruthless and vindictive in defense of her family or if she felt she had been wronged. The few staffers that had been granted access to the ambassador’s office were visibly shaken. They debated in a whisper whether to call for an ambulance, the Moscow Police, or Washington for guidance.

  Matt stepped forward, gesturing for Hadden to join him, and then suggested that they call no one until he had the chance to inform his contact in D.C. Looking at Sarah, and then the despondent ambassador, Hadden agreed and asked everyone to move down the hallway to the reception area, where they would be able to speak more freely and give the family privacy.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw Sarah stand up from the chair someone had found for her and coaxed her into sitting down. She steadied herself for a moment but then made a sudden move toward her husband on the far side of the room. Before he or any of the Marines could react, she had swept the ambassador’s gun from the floor and pressed it against the side of his head.