“So, they told me. His real name was Pushkin, and he worked for one of Putin’s dark lords.”
“But what about Padruig?”
“Oh, the Feds don’t really give a damn. He can be convicted of murder as far as they care, just so long as their little secrets are kept away from the public. And our friend Curry isn’t doing us any favors either.”
Krystal groaned. “Have I told you how much I hate the CIA?”
“Many times,” grinned Strachey as they pulled into parking for the restaurant.
Inside, they took a booth, and Strachey ordered their meals and a couple of beers. She decided a beer wouldn’t hurt, and they sipped in silence until their meals arrived, then he asked. “Want to tell me what’s wrong now?”
“Not really.”
She didn’t feel like sharing now, least of all with Robert Strachey whose good-natured bonhomie was the polar opposite of how she was feeling. She should have skipped the office and gone straight back to her apartment from the airport. She would not be fit company for human beings today. But she knew if she went home, she would end up drinking alone, and she wanted to avoid falling into that trap again. She looked at the beer. Drinking with someone else was OK, right?
CHAPTER 17
Tuesday morning announced itself with bars of light falling across her face through the blinds in the bedroom window. She awoke with a start and sat straight up in bed, a move she instantly regretted as shards of pain shot through her temples. What time was it? It looked much too bright outside still to be early morning. She raised her wrist to look at her watch and was surprised to see her arm still clad in the sleeve of the blouse she’d worn the day before. She had slept in her clothes. Well, this isn’t looking good, she thought.
She swayed a bit when she stood to make her way to the bathroom feeling queasy. Her mouth tasted bad and felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She fuzzily recalled driving home, at Strachey’s insistence, after yesterday’s lunch and digging a bottle of scotch out of the kitchen cupboard. A look in the mirror revealed bleary eyes, smeared make-up, and tangled hair. She must have passed out on the bed. Christ, I should have been in the office hours ago.
She brushed her teeth, stripped off the wrinkled clothes and underwear, dropped them in a pile on the floor, and ran the shower until it was steaming before stepping in, letting the hot water pelt her skin before twisting the temperature control to cold and standing under the frigid stream until she felt half-way like a fully functioning human being, or at least a fully awake one. She’d set her watch on the basin and now saw the time was already past ten A.M. She must have slept for nearly twelve hours straight through. She needed fluids badly, or the hangover would be with her the entire day. She wrapped her hair in a towel and threw on a terrycloth robe, then went to the kitchen where she downed two full water glasses of orange juice accompanied by a couple of aspirin. The headache receded to a dull throb
As she tried to gather her wits, the thought of Ray Velazquez rose like a specter ready to haunt another day. She shoved him back into a dark recess, submerged him beneath the questions at hand regarding the Padruig Nessmith case. She needed desperately to escape the events of yesterday morning, and Nessmith was her lode star.
She needed food, but she knew her stomach would rebel, so she settled for a piece of dry toast that she held between her teeth as she walked to her car.
When she pushed through the doors to PSI Ruth’s eyes swept over her from top to bottom before she smiled the way a mother might smile at a sick child. “We weren’t sure you would show up today, darlin’. Feelin’ OK?”
Krystal grimaced at the greeting. “Yeah, fine. Is Bob in his office?”
Ruth waved vaguely in the direction of Strachey’s office. “He’s in there,” she said breezily, “You can go right in.”
It did not improve her mood that Ruth should think she needed permission to see Strachey. They were partners, after all. A sharp retort sprang to her lips, but she repressed it. Maybe she was overreacting. But again, she wondered why Bob had hired Ruth Scatterfield in the first place. She just did not fit in with the modern image Bob said he wanted to project. What they needed was a sharp, efficient younger woman who would surely make a better first impression on clients than the dowdy Ruth. Maybe it was a Southern thing.
She took time to stop at the Keurig and make a cup of extra strong coffee, then pushed open the door, cup in hand, to Strachey’s office to find him on the phone. He waved her to a seat, eyebrows raised, as he concluded the call. “… OK, thanks for calling, Tony. No problems from our end.”
He replaced the receiver. “That was my old Company friend, Tony DeLorenzo. He wanted to make sure we’re keeping our distance from the case.”
She was puzzled. “And you agreed? I thought you said we would press on.” She couldn’t believe he planned to leave Padruig to swing in the wind.
He gave her an appraising look, and ignoring her question asked, “Are you feeling better? I wasn’t sure we’d see you today.”
She felt the color rising in her cheeks. “Um, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the day off.”
“A friend in need and all that …”
She broke in before he could say more. “Let’s forget that. What about the CIA?”
“Them? Nothing to worry about. I just want them to stay calm and keep them at a distance.”
“So, you lied to them?”
He shot her an evil grin. “Krystal, it is the CIA, after all. They lie to people, and people lie to them all the time. They’re used to it. This will keep them off our backs for a while.”
“But, won’t you get in trouble?”
He snorted and spread his arms wide. “There’s nothing they can do to me. I left before I reached retirement age, so they can’t threaten my income. I refused to sign their confidentiality agreement, so I’m breaking no laws. They’ll be unhappy, but there’s really nothing they can do about it.”
She wasn’t so sure, having seen a lot of movies about the CIA getting even with people who crossed them. “If you say so, Bob, but I don’t like it. Every time I’ve been involved with the Agency things have gotten a little hairy.”
“I have an idea,” he said.
“I’m all ears.
“I think we can take advantage of the Agency’s involvement to advance our investigation.”
She liked the idea of taking advantage of the spooks. Turnabout was fair play, after all. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, DeLorenzo confirmed that Davis aka Pushkin was a defector under their care. It stands to reason that his wife is no stranger to dealing with Agency representatives. I think I should pay her a visit.”
“You? But you can’t represent yourself as CIA. No matter what you think, that’s against the law. You could get into real trouble.”
“Ah, my dear, but you underestimate me. I don’t plan to tell her I’m with the CIA. But I can drop a hint that I might be.”
She still didn’t like it. “They’ll find out what you’re up to right away, and they’ll make trouble.”
“Maybe. Probably. But it’s worth a chance if we find something useful.”
“It’s still risky.”
“Aw, Krystal, you’ve had most of the fun up ‘til now. Give me a chance.”
CHAPTER 18
There was no time to spare, so two P.M. that afternoon found Strachey parked a block away from the Pushkin aka Davis house in a rented Lincoln Navigator, black, of course. There were two approaches, and he had chosen the one that brought him down a hill on a winding street to an intersection a short distance from the house. The white Honda Accord with the bike rack described by Krystal was in the carport, and the street in front of the house was empty. There was little traffic in this quiet neighborhood. It being Summer break, there were children playing in some of the yards and a few women were walking dogs. A light rain had fallen earlier, cooling the hot streets and leaving the trees and grass sparkling with drops of water as the sun again claimed heg
emony over the sky.
Although only the family car was present Strachey expected the Agency to have posted a watcher with Natasha, maybe someone from the Office of Security. He certainly would have done so, but Agency defector handling practices had never been of particularly high standards. The Brits were probably the best at it among Western services, and he had often advocated emulating them, but as usual the bean counters prevailed. He doubted Natasha was in danger of assassination by Russian agents. Her husband had been the guilty party, and she had been along only for the ride. Having eliminated their prime target, it was unlikely the Russians would lurk around Charlotte waiting for a chance at Natasha. Logic and past practice suggested they would be long gone, perhaps on a plane back to Moscow.
Everything depended on how the watcher, if there was one, reacted to him. He would have either no time or only a limited time to speak with Natasha.
He put the big SUV into gear and rolled down into the street and into the driveway. He’d worn a dark suit, not one of his expensive ones, white shirt, and conservative tie, as well as a pair of non-prescription glasses with thick, black rims. A face appeared at a window as he stepped out of the SUV and walked along the sidewalk to the front door. There was no sound from inside the house. The front entrance was comprised of a combination glass and screened storm door and a wooden door facing a low set of brick steps. He rang the bell.
The door was opened almost immediately, and he recognized Natasha from Krystal’s description. “Yes?” she said.
Strachey’s Russian was rusty, but he’d practiced a few phrases he hoped would put Natasha at ease. “Mrs. Pushkin,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “I’m a friend of Mr. DeLorenzo, and I’d like to have a few words with you.” It was a calculated risk that she knew DeLorenzo, but the man was from the Russia House, and he was in town.
Natasha Pushkin blinked, confused. “Tony sent you?” she asked.
“He briefed me on your case.” Strachey was tiptoeing through a minefield and had to choose his words carefully. “May I come in so we can talk. I won’t take much of your time.”
“Who is it, Natasha?” a female voice sounded from somewhere in the house.
Natasha looked back over her shoulder. “It’s someone Tony sent to see me.”
“Well, let him in,” sounded the voice.
Natasha stepped back to allow Strachey to pass and closed the door behind him. They stood in a wide entrance hallway not quite grand enough to be called a foyer. A door to the right led to the kitchen, and to the left another door that evidently led to the bedrooms. Straight ahead, the hallway opened into a living room with a row of windows that provided a view of a surprisingly large and well-kept back yard. A young woman, evidently the source of the voice, appeared at the living room entrance. Strachey put her age at early twenties and guessed she was a relatively recent hire, probably to the Office of Security. Like Natasha, she wore blue jeans and a tank top with sandals on her feet. “Hi, she said. Who are you?”
“I spoke with Tony DeLorenzo a little while ago, and he briefed me on the case. I’d like a short, private conversation with Mrs. Pushkin, if I may.”
The girl looked uncertain. Strachey put on his stern face. “What’s your name?”
“Erm, Alicia Kensington.”
“Well, Alicia, as I said, I need a few quiet words with Mrs. Pushkin here. We’ll use the living room. I suggest you find somewhere else comfortable to wait until we’re finished.”
“But nobody told me …,” began Alicia.
“Do you understand the meaning of ‘need to know,’ Alicia?” Strachey took unseemly pleasure in using one of the Agency’s mantras against it.
“S-sure.”
“Excellent. Now make yourself scarce for a little while. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to leave.”
Alicia reluctantly retreated into the hallway leading to the bedrooms and closed the door.
Strachey took Natasha gently by the elbow and ushered her into the living room, which was eclectically, but tastefully decorated. An otherworldly yowl startled him, and he spotted an overweight Siamese cat on the sofa, which immediately leapt to the floor and disappeared, tail twitching, in the direction of the kitchen. He led Natasha to the sofa where they both sat down. There was no way to know how much time he would have with her. At this very moment, Alicia could be calling her Agency superiors to report his arrival which could result in the sudden appearance of several large security officers with guns and bad attitudes. He told himself he would refuse to feel embarrassment if this happened.
“Mrs. Pushkin,” he began, “did you or your husband notice anything out of the ordinary before the shooting occurred? Strange phone calls? People following you?”
She screwed her face into a frown. “Do you mean, did we see GRU agents hiding behind trees?”
It was impossible to tell whether this was irony or anger. “Something like that, maybe,” he said softly, watching her closely.
She relaxed a little and said, “Nothing like that. There was only the phone call.”
“Phone call?” DeLorenzo had not mentioned a phone call.
“Yes, but it was not from the Russians. It had nothing to do with the Russians.”
“Can you tell me a little more about it?”
She tossed her long, black hair back over one shoulder and looked him straight in the eyes. “But I told Tony all about it.”
“I know,” he lied. “Will you please tell it again now? It could be important.”
She thought for a moment, calling back the memory. “It was a week before Grisha was killed. It was a man from work.”
He leaned forward, all his attention concentrated on her. “What man, and what did he say?”
“It was a man from one of the offices Grisha was auditing. Grisha had found some irregularities.”
“Did he tell you the name of the man who called?”
“It’s a strange name - Raymond Yang.” A look of confusion came over her face. “But I told all of this to Tony.”
“And what did Tony say?”
“He doesn’t think it’s important.” DeLorenzo and the FBI were certain Pushkin had been killed by a Russian assassin. Everything else was marginal for therm.
“Did your husband tell you what Yang said?”
“No. He only laughed and said the man knew he was in big trouble.”
“Did Yang threaten your husband?”
A cloud passed over Natasha’s face. “I’m not sure. Grisha didn’t say.”
“So, he didn’t think the call was serious?”
“Oh, yes, the trouble was serious, very serious.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Oh, yes. It was important enough that Grisha thought he might get a promotion. He was excited and didn’t want anyone else to know until he had finished his analysis. He even copied his files onto a thumb drive and brought it home with him to keep them safe.”
All of Strachey’s antennae were vibrating now. He’d had this feeling in the past when he was on the right track and was almost afraid to ask, “Did you give the thumb drive to Tony?”
She shook her head so her hair fell over one eye and she had to sweep it back with her hand. “Tony didn’t seem interested in what Grisha was doing at the bank.”
“But you do have the thumb drive?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be willing to let me borrow it? I think it could be important.”
She frowned, “I’m not sure. The information belongs to the bank.”
“I promise it will be closely guarded, and I’ll return it immediately. It could be important,” he repeated.
This was something she had not anticipated, and she chewed on his words trying to make up her mind. She was, after all, Russian, and that meant she was a natural born skeptic and distrustful of authority. Strachey was familiar with this pattern of behavior. In his Agency days recruiting a Russian was like tempting a timid bird out of the forest with a trail of b
readcrumbs.
He was concerned about the amount of time he already had spent in the house. Alicia may have made a phone call or DeLorenzo might show up at any moment. It was past time for him to go.
“Mrs. Pushkin, Natasha, I think this could be important, very important, and I would very much appreciate your cooperation.” He quelled his anxiety and hoped his expression was one that would elicit her trust. He felt a pang of conscience at the deception, but only a fleeting one.
Natasha chewed her lower lip. Finally, she said, “All right. I agree if you think it’s important.” She stood and walked to a small desk that stood against one wall with a laptop resting on it. Strachey followed her. She opened a drawer and withdrew a thumb drive which she handed to him. “This is it.”
There was nothing to be gained by staying longer. With luck he would get away clean, although he was certain there would be repercussions.
“Thank you, Natasha. You’ve been a great help. I’ll be in touch.”
She walked with him to the front door and stood there watching as he returned to the rented SUV and backed out of the driveway. He saw Alicia come to her side and stare after him as he drove away.
CHAPTER 19
Amy Strachey nee Dawson was beginning to see the advantages of the tranquil Southern life she now enjoyed. She thanked God every day that her father, Thomas Jefferson Dawson, a former Charlotte bus driver, was still with them and seemingly thriving on their return to his native city. Thomas was only too happy to be responsible for looking after their active six-year-old son, Robert Thomas, during the day.
But the tasks she now performed as PSI’s cyber chief, she was in fact the ONLY person with those responsibilities, were boring beyond belief. Other than the occasional job designing electronic security systems for customers, there was nothing that came close to challenging her.
She was thinking about what to prepare for dinner that evening when Strachey burst into her office and handed her a thumb drive. “See what you can find on this right away. It might be the break we’ve been waiting for in the Nessmith case.”
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