by John Lutz
“All six of them dead,” Laker murmured. He’d been the last to see them alive. He remembered looking in the window at the cluster of young people with earnest faces, listening to the bearded man who was shaking his fist as he made his points. If only he’d warned them. If only, when he’d had his arm around Barsinian’s neck, he’d choked the life out of him.
Telliskivi opened his mouth, hesitated, decided to say it. “We still have hope for one of them. Lina Opalski. The owner of a café in the next street said that she came to pick up coffee for the staff and left shortly before the explosion. But he couldn’t remember how long. It’s possible the explosion took place before she got back.”
“But no one has seen her, either?” asked Tyburn.
Telliskivi somberly shook his head. Laker thought of the thin woman with wide pale eyes and delicate cheekbones, who looked as if a tap would shatter her. Hard to hold out any hope she’d survived.
Tyburn said, “Why do you think Barsinian went back, after he knocked Mr. Laker cold? Why didn’t he flee?”
Antrobus snorted. “Obvious, Tyburn. He went back to retrieve his valuable hoard of Semtex. He still had enough to sell to the next terrorist who came along, and in his hurry he set it off by accident.”
“No, Colonel,” Telliskivi said. “Barsinian did not sell the Semtex. Any of it.”
“What?”
“Now we come to the part of the investigation which the Prime Minister is discussing with your Ambassador.” He looked at Laker with sad dark eyes. “While Mr. Laker was in the ambulance, one of our inspectors thought to examine his discarded coat. He found a photo of Specialist Barsinian. We showed it to the survivors of the tram bombing.”
“The tram bombing,” Antrobus said. “But Barsinian wasn’t on the scene.”
“He was positively identified by a woman named Johanna Janssen. He was in the tram car with her, minutes before the explosion. She got a good look at him because he picked up her baby’s pacifier and gave it back to her.”
“Did the child survive?” Laker asked.
“No. Nor did her father, who was also with her.”
“So Barsinian was the bomber,” said Antrobus. “Christ. That’s the worst thing that could happen to us.”
It seemed to Laker that compared to Johanna Janssen they had nothing to complain about. But he kept silent.
Antrobus was pacing in agitation. “Now we know the whole truth about Specialist Mohammed Barsinian. He was a fucking Muslim terrorist. A lone wolf who just wanted to kill as many Westerners as possible. He set off the Semtex in the upstairs room deliberately. He was impatient to go to Allah and receive his forty virgins. And kill six more Estonians at the same time.”
Tyburn said, “I wouldn’t be so sure—”
“A United States soldier turned suicide bomber,” Antrobus raged on. “I can imagine what your Prime Minister is telling our Ambassador, Telliskivi. ‘You brought a Muslim terrorist into our midst, and you provided him with the weapons to kill our citizens. ’ ”
“The Prime Minister—” Telliskivi began, but Antrobus interrupted.
“This is your doing, Laker. You had him and you let him go. Congratulations. You’ve done something that wouldn’t have seemed possible. You’ve cleared the ethnic Russians of suspicion. United them and the rest of the population. Against us. NATO. When this gets out, we’ll have thousands of demonstrators at our gates. Demanding that NATO get out of the country.”
“Possibly you are exaggerating, Colonel,” said Telliskivi mildly.
“Tyburn, double the guard at the gate. Triple it. Make sure the perimeter is secure.”
“Yes, sir.” Tyburn got to his feet. “Will that be all, Commissioner?”
Telliskivi nodded.
“What about Laker?” asked Antrobus. “What does your Prime Minister want done with him?”
“I have no information on that.”
“Oh no?” said Antrobus petulantly. “You seem to know everything else.”
“I would like to report to my chief in Washington,” Laker said. “Can you arrange a secure link?”
“Your chief won’t talk to you,” Antrobus said. “Don’t you know how things are done in Washington? You won’t see your chief again until he officiates at your public evisceration.”
“Before the evisceration, he’ll want my report.”
Nobody on the base was in a hurry to accommodate Laker. Two hours passed before the secure Skype link to Washington was ready. He was feeling more clearheaded and steady on his feet as he and Tyburn walked down the path to the Communications Building. The sky was blue and cloudless, but the air felt as cold as last night. Laker was grateful for the fatigue jacket Tyburn had found for him, along with shirt and pants. The clothes he’d been wearing last night were torn, bloodstained, and saturated with smoke. Only his shoes were wearable. From the direction of the front gate, the shouts of demonstrators were audible.
Antrobus had been right about that part, anyway.
Eventually he was alone in a small room, sitting in a hard chair facing a laptop screen. Sam Mason, in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, was sitting in his office, face unreadable. Over his shoulder, Laker could see a patch of gray sky and the Capitol dome.
“What happened, Tom?”
Laker suppressed a flinch. He knew things were bad when his boss called him by his first name. “I fucked up.”
“Don’t excoriate yourself. There are plenty of people here waiting to do that. Right now I need your report.”
Laker was familiar with Mason’s debriefing style. He demanded a plain, factual narrative. No speculations or excuses. Laker gave it to him, starting with the cab ride yesterday morning that had put him in the middle of a riot. By the time he finished, he was feeling better. Not that his recent conduct looked any less stupid to him. But he understood what was going on. Partly, anyway. And had an idea what had to be done next.
Mason was silent. He rubbed his eye. Then he lifted the patch and rubbed underneath it. The routine gave him time to think.
“Seems to me,” he said at last, “the vital question is, who the hell was Mohammed Barsinian?”
“I agree.”
“The thinking here, mostly based on what our ambassador in Estonia has communicated, is that he must have been contacted by Islamic radicals who converted him to the cause. Then he waited for his chance to kill Westerners, and finally it came.”
“That’s consistent with what Col. Antrobus thinks.”
“Antrobus sounds like an asshole. Is he?”
“Yes.”
“He’s probably wrong, then. What do you think?”
“The Head MP here told me that on his first hitch, Barsinian was a smart, tough, ambitious soldier, working intel in Afghanistan. Encounters prejudice, resigns. Four years later, re-ups. Now he’s a laid-back, good-time guy. I’m curious about those four years.”
“You think he was recruited. But not by Islamic terrorists.”
“The Beetle Bailey routine was his cover. He was an agent in place, waiting for his orders to come. Barsinian was good at fooling people. His sergeant thought he was a good soldier. The girls in Tallinn thought he was a free-spending IT executive from California. The Home Port people thought he was a pitiful Syrian refugee.” Laker took a deep breath. “And I thought he was whipped. Nothing on his mind but trying to talk his way out of the hole he was in.”
“You let your guard down?”
“I don’t even have that excuse. He just beat me. He was fast and strong.”
“Put that together with the skills he displayed in carrying out the tram op—”
“Yes. He was a highly trained agent.”
“Working for?”
“FSB. I think your original guess was right, boss. Moscow’s decided to directly intervene in the Baltic states. It wasn’t a sudden decision. In Barsinian, they had a carefully placed sleeper agent. This is the moment they chose to activate him, to drive a wedge between the Estonians and NATO.”
“But you’ve got a problem, Laker,” Mason said. “Your highly trained and disciplined FSB agent suddenly turns into a panicky amateur. Having knocked you out, he could’ve gotten away clean. Instead, he went back to his room and blew himself up.”
Laker nodded. “There’s only one way his actions make sense. He had orders to destroy Home Port.”
Mason never took notes during a debrief. Didn’t have to. He remembered every detail. “The NGO on the floor below the apartment. Defending the rights of sailors. Why would Moscow be interested in them?”
“I don’t know. And now it’s impossible to find out. The records were destroyed. All the personnel killed. Or so it seems.”
“There was the woman who went for coffee. Lina Opalski. They were holding out some hope for her.”
“So am I.”
Mason seldom smiled, and when he did, there wasn’t much to it. Just a slight curl at one corner of his mouth. “Okay, Laker. What are you proposing?”
“I’m thinking that the woman—Lina is her name—has figured out that Home Port was targeted. Meaning she’s in danger. She’s gone into hiding or fled. The police aren’t going to find her. Maybe I can.”
The smile had disappeared. Mason sighed and laid both hands flat on the desk in front of him. “I am unable to give you that assignment. I’ve received my orders from the Secretary for Homeland Security, who’s received his from the President. You are to return to Washington. Senators are concerned about intelligence-agency overreach and bungling that have caused strains in the NATO alliance. You are to be burned at the stake, live on CNN.”
“I deserve it. I was wrong about Barsinian before. But . . .”
“But you’re right now?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Too late. I have no discretion to give you any order but hop on the first plane back.”
“Boss, you sent me to Estonia to find out if there was direct Russian involvement in the tram attack. There was. The implication is obvious.”
Mason nodded. “Moscow’s advancing its timetable for sending its tanks across the border.”
“Not just the Estonian border.”
“No. They want all of the Baltic states back.”
“So we’re talking about World War III,” Laker said.
Mason bowed his head in thought. For a minute that felt much longer, Laker gazed at Mason’s bare and gleaming pate, crisscrossed by the black straps of the eye patch. Finally he said, “There’s only one order I can give you. Come home. But I hereby order you to disobey it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can offer you no protection, no support.”
“I understand. I’m on my own.”
“You sure you do?” Mason’s broad brow was lined with concern. “This time I won’t have your back, Laker. I can’t stop the CIA from going after you. Or the FBI.”
“Or the NSA.”
“Or the NSA. You want me to call Ava?”
“No. We have to preserve your deniability. I’ll call her myself.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The red light on Ava’s landline phone was blinking when she got home, shortly after noon. She ignored it. Anybody she wanted to talk to called her cell phone. It was mostly solicitations and robocalls on the home phone.
She set down the box containing her personal possessions from the NSA and dropped wearily on the sofa. It felt strange, being home at noon. She’d worked long hours at her job, when she’d had a job, and spent most weekends at Laker’s loft near the Naval Yard. So she wasn’t used to seeing her apartment in daylight.
It was a very nice apartment, a roomy condo on a high floor of a 1920s building near Dupont Circle. Other junior employees of the NSA would not have been able to afford such a place, as she was guiltily aware. It had been in the North family for decades, having served as a pied-à-terre for uncles in the diplomatic corps, a capital residence for cousins representing distant states in Congress, a love nest for an aunt who was the mistress of a Cabinet member. It happened to be available, and the family had thrust Ava into it.
They’d brushed aside her protests that she wanted to live on her salary, which would only allow her to rent a small apartment in the Maryland suburbs. Not that they weren’t taking her career seriously. It was just that Norths did not pay rent. They only collected it.
The intercom buzzed: someone at the street door. She went to it and pressed the button.
“Yes?”
“It’s Rahmberg.”
“Stan, thank you for coming. I’ll buzz you in.”
A couple of minutes later she opened the door to him. He looked as lugubrious as ever. She waved him to a seat and offered tea or coffee.
“Thanks, but I’ll have to keep this short. I’m on my lunch hour and it’s a long drive back to Fort Meade.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry to put you to the trouble. But I didn’t have a chance to see you before I left the NSA. There were two Marines standing over me as I cleared out my desk. Then they confiscated my passes and ID card and frog-marched me out to my car.”
“I was sorry to hear what had happened to you.”
“Did Admiral Hardin call you?”
“Yes, to tell me to suspend permanently any attempts to investigate Ken Brydon.”
“What did she say about me?”
“That you were a prima donna who couldn’t cut it at the NSA.”
Ava nodded, unsurprised. “She’ll expect me to spend my time shopping and dating lobbyists. That’s good. It’ll serve our purposes.”
Rahmberg turned his weary eyes on her. “I figured when you asked me to come here, it was to discuss something you couldn’t say on the phone.”
“Stan, we can’t let this drop. Ken Brydon stole classified information and sold it to somebody in the Morales organization. Who ordered him killed.”
“You want me to continue the search till I find out what he stole.”
“Yes.”
“Disobeying an order from the Deputy Director.”
“I’m sorry. But yes.”
“And if my search is successful, you’re planning to go over the Deputy Director’s head.”
“I’ll try to cover for you, but—”
“You can’t guarantee it.”
“No.”
Rahmberg laid a hand on the arm of the sofa and pushed himself to his feet with a heavy sigh. He said, “This is going to take a while. It won’t be easy backtracking Ken. He was a resourceful guy. And of course I’ll have to continue with my regular duties. If anybody suspects what I’m doing for you, we’re through.”
She followed him to the door and opened it for him. As he went out, she said, “Thanks, Stan. I’m sorry I had to get you involved.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m doing this for my country.” He smiled wryly. “In my job, never thought I’d get a chance to say that line.”
She hugged him, and he left. Going into the kitchen, she made herself a cup of herbal tea, which she hoped would be calming. Back in the living room, she noticed the blinking light and went to listen to the message.
It startled her so much to hear Laker’s voice that his message was over before she grasped it. She rewound and hit play.
“Ava, take this tape straight to your superiors,” said the voice that always sounded calm, no matter what. “I don’t want you to get in trouble. You’re going to hear a lot of bad stuff about me. Don’t believe it. I love you. I’ll always remember what you said, last time we were together.”
That was all. She got up and paced several distracted circuits of the apartment while her insides seemed to coil and writhe. How she wished he hadn’t said that he loved her! Nothing could drag the three little words out of him, except the knowledge that he was going into extreme danger.
And what was that last part, about always remembering what she’d said? That wasn’t like Laker. Too sappy. She realized after a moment’s thought that he was talking in code. The last time they were together, she’d warned him to look for a bear un
der the bed.
He wanted her to know that he was going up against the Russians.
She sat down in front of the television and picked up the remote. She had to find out what had happened, and the only way was CNN. She didn’t dare call Sam Mason or anyone at the Gray Outfit.
If only she’d been able to talk to Laker. But he’d deliberately called her home at a time when she wouldn’t be there, so she would have a tape to give to her superiors, to prove that he hadn’t told her where he was. He was doing his best to keep her out of trouble at the NSA. Protect her job.
Someday, the irony might be amusing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Early the next morning, Ava was in the waiting room of Senator Charles E. North (R-Okla.)
Like most Norths, Uncle Chuck had been born in a D.C. suburb and educated at Andover and Yale, but then he had struck out for the West to make his own fortune and prove he was his own man. Even now, safely back inside the beltway, he made sure that his waiting room demonstrated to his constituents that he was still at heart Oklahoman, with paintings of oil gushers, herds of buffalo, Cherokee warriors, settlers galloping to register their claims at the land office. There were pictures of the senator with the Sooners football team, a party of fishermen in a bass boat on Lake Latownka, and a party of camo-clad hunters in a wood. Ava had to smile at the last one. As usual when he had a rifle in his hands, Uncle Chuck looked terrified of shooting himself in the foot.
A young man wearing a dark suit and spectacles too heavy for his nose came and got her. He had the air of a senatorial staffer, weary and nervous. They went not to Uncle Chuck’s office but to a small meeting room.
“The senator sends his regrets that he won’t be able to see you today, Ms. North.”
“Oh.”
“He’s on the phone to the mayor of Rosedale about that tornado that hit yesterday, and there’s a delegation of tribal elders waiting in his outer office, and at any moment he’s going to be called to the floor to vote on—”
“Excuse me. Does the senator know I’m not here to talk about Thomas Laker?”
The aide gave a start of surprise. His glasses slid down his nose. “You’re not?”