The Makarov File

by Peter Kozmar

  “Do you mind taking your shoes off? The carpets have just been laid.” Andy stopped in his tracks, not wanting to offend. He bent down and removed his shoes, placing them side by side, with the heels against the wall. As he stood straight, his attention was captured by an enlarged photograph within a thin silver picture frame. If he hadn’t been standing there facing it, he would have walked straight past it without a second glance.

  It showed a young Bruce with a full beard, long unkempt hair wearing baggy cotton pants, a cotton shirt and an old worn out sheepskin jacket. He exuded a beaming smile while sat on top of boulders the size of a large truck. In the background were rugged snow-capped mountains. He held an AK47 in his right hand. On his left was another smiling character who looked vaguely familiar; Andy moved to get a closer look. I know him from somewhere, but where?

  “That’s Bruce with Osama Bin Laden,” Joyce said from behind him, “the two of them were good friends for many years before everything changed.”

  “Interesting, his file doesn’t mention anything about Afghanistan.”

  Joyce snorted with contempt saying, “For six years Bruce was part of a team that worked with the Mujahedeen to arm and train them to fight the Russian’s invasion. That’s how he met Osama. From what Bruce said, a lot of money was handed over, along with the weapons. He felt guilty about it later as the skills he taught, and the weapons he gave them, have been used to kill our soldiers ever since.”

  Andy could make out a third person in the background of the picture, off to the right, using a pair of binoculars to look into the distance. The man had European features, dressed in similar attire to Bruce with the same wild hair, and appeared to be of a similar age.

  “Who’s the other man?” Andy asked, pointing to the third figure in the photograph.

  “Oh, that’s George Blandford, he’s British … MI6 I think.”

  “Do you know why all of this would be missing from his official records?”

  “After 9/11, the Agency formed a team to remove any records of their involvement with Osama. They came by to collect things from Bruce a couple of times; we didn’t even know we had the photo. This photograph is perhaps the last record showing the CIA were ever involved.”

  “Do you mind?” Andy produced his cell phone.

  “That’s okay with me. Go ahead.” Andy selected the camera function and took two pictures in quick succession of the whole picture. He zoomed in on Bruce and Osama for a final photo. He pocketed his phone and continued down the hallway passing two more pictures in matching frames, the first showed the Chesters on their wedding day, they looked younger and very much in love. The second, taken in black and white, showed Bruce holding his wife in a passionate embrace, in the background was a tall metal tower.

  As if reading his mind, Joyce filled in the gaps, “Our honeymoon in Paris. That’s the Eiffel Tower, ever since I was a little girl I’d always wanted to go to Paris and Bruce surprised me … we had a wonderful time,” she smiled at the memories.

  A door to the left led into the living room which had the same light blue carpet. He caught a glimpse of a large painting of a mountainous grey landscape complete with a lake. “Keep going,” she said. Andy followed her instructions and moments later he entered the kitchen diner; a light airy room at the rear of the house. “Grab yourself a seat.” Andy sat on a high chair at the breakfast bar while Joyce busied herself making them coffee.

  “What did you know of Bruce’s work?” Andy asked.

  “Bruce worked for the Agency for over thirty years. He spent a lot of time in Moscow and, for the last few years was Head of Station, officially, I wasn’t meant to know that.” She gave him a wink. “He planned on retiring and had notice of a post back in DC with a promotion which meant he could start his exit process.” It sounds like the Chesters shared a few workplace secrets … I wonder how much.

  “Did Bruce mention anything unusual happening in the last few weeks? Anyone following him? Anything out of place? Have you had any unexpected callers?”

  Joyce looked surprised at the questions, her face pulled into a quizzical look as she thought about Andy’s questions. “Bruce hadn’t said anything to me and I haven’t noticed anything odd here. How do you take your coffee?”

  “Oh, just black, no sugar, thank you.” Joyce passed him the freshly-made coffee; it was strong, just how he liked it, and delivered a thick wood smoke aftertaste. The caffeine quickly surged into his bloodstream and he could feel his mind sharpen.

  She continued, “Bruce did say the Russians were making their lives difficult for some reason.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “The closing of the NGO’s and the local offices of international charities restricted his ability to do his job. Bruce was getting a little down, after spending so many years in Russia it was time for him to come home … but not this way.” She paused and covered her eyes with a hand. Andy reached for a box of tissues which sat on the bar table and passed it too her. Silence filled the room for several seconds before Andy broke it.

  “Did Bruce ever speak of a colleague, Amanda Lightfoot?”

  “Yes, she was earmarked to take over from Bruce. He mentioned she enjoyed the highlife, she fitted in well with the rich people Bruce could never reach. Amanda moved in different circles to most people.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “Yes, twice, she joined us at Thanksgiving and Bruce’s last birthday.”

  “Have you met her fiancé?” Andy asked as he sipped more of the coffee and looked around the modern kitchen. All the appliances appeared new and little used.

  “She was engaged?” Mrs Chester replied with surprise, Andy nodded.

  “Your husband never mentioned it?”

  “No, I’d never considered her the type to settle down, she always visited on her own. Bruce said she didn’t have time for a relationship in between all the parties she attended.”

  “May I take a look at Bruce’s things?” Andy took a final sip of coffee and pushed the empty cup to one side.

  “Sure, when home, he worked in the study so that he could close the door at the end of the day and leave work behind.” Joyce stood, leaving her untouched coffee on the kitchen top, and headed towards the back of the house with Andy following close behind.

  Andy kept the conversation flowing. “Do you work?” he asked. He already knew the answer from Bruce’s file, but it was better to ask a question then let the atmosphere become awkward.

  “I’m an environmentalist. Bruce and I couldn’t have children so he threw himself into the Agency and I tried to save the world. Recently, I’ve been working in New Zealand to shine a light onto their bogus claim to be ‘100% Pure’. Their government recently changed the definition of ‘swimmable’ as too many of their rivers didn’t fit the old definition.”

  “What’s your involvement been?”

  “I’ve been helping an environmental group on their awareness campaign and a local laboratory to test samples from rivers and streams. Our evidence makes it difficult for the New Zealand Government, and the offending farmers, to deny the source of the pollution as we use DNA to track it to their dairy herds and can even identify the individual animals.” She opened a door at the end of the corridor and invited Andy to enter.

  Floor to ceiling bookcases covered three out of the four walls of the room. Each shelf crammed with books of different shapes and sizes. The only wall free of books had a large bay window, and underneath, a large mahogany writing desk. It looked well used, with many files stacked neatly in several piles, it was much more cosy than the one at Amanda’s home.

  Andy took a few moments to look at the titles and could immediately see two bookcases dedicated to the environment, wildlife and geography. A third must have been Bruce’s as it had a large number of political biographies, works on Stalin, Lenin and other Russian leaders past and present. Entire shelves were dedicated to the KGB, FSB and the GRU Spetsnaz.

  Andy also spotted titles on asymmetric war
fare and others offering detailed analysis of hybrid warfare with its practical application in the Crimea, Eastern Ukraine and the Baltic States. He felt right at home in this space; he could have spent weeks reading Bruce’s books and not have been bored. Then Andy noticed three books were stood upside down with their titles to the right and not the left as they were with all of the other books in Bruce’s book case. That’s odd. Andy picked the books off the shelf. “Do you read Bruce’s books Joyce?”

  “No. I’ve no interest in any of that,” she replied shaking her head.

  Andy looked at the titles: ‘Where on earth is Osama Bin Laden?’; ‘The Unwinnable War’; and, ‘Follow the money’. He held each book up by its spine so the pages faced the floor and he quickly flicked through the pages hoping to dislodge any notes or clues they may have contained. Nothing … but worth a go. Joyce stepped closer. “That book was one of his favourites,” she pointed to the book on Bin Laden, “it made him laugh.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “Bruce knew where Osama was. They stayed in touch, using the internet, couriers and intermediaries to pass messages between each other. Bruce even told the CIA at least three times, but was ignored.”

  “Did he say why?”

  Joyce laughed, “Yes, he said the CIA received additional funding to search for him … hundreds of millions of dollars. The funds paid for dozens of shiny new drones, new agents and the CIA got to direct Special Forces teams across the globe. So, not knowing where Osama was, made it better for the Agency; the last thing they needed was some crusty old agent giving them Bin Laden’s address at no cost.”

  Andy turned his attention to the grey filing cabinet located to the right of the writing desk. The top drawer slid open, it was packed with files, each tag on the top had a neatly hand-written description of the contents. In each file there appeared to be an orderly set of papers and supporting material. This looks interesting. “Top one is mine,” Joyce stated, “I like my work to be neat and tidily arranged.”

  Andy pushed the top drawer back in and pulled out the lower drawer. It took a second to register what he saw. Empty? What the heck?

  “Is everything alright Andy?” Joyce asked approached the filing cabinet, “all his notes are in there, even his favourite recipes. He did love to cook. I haven’t had a chance to go through it yet so everything is still in there.”

  “It’s empty,” he replied, she looked in disbelief at the inside of the empty drawer.

  “But … that’s not right. He never threw anything out. It was a joke between us. It was full of his things only last week,” she scratched her head, “I’m going to check the garbage. They don’t collect until tomorrow.” Joyce headed out of the door leaving Andy alone. He slowly looked around the room and noticed some of the pictures on the walls were slightly skewed, not by much, but, if you weren’t looking for something out of the ordinary, it wouldn’t be obvious. Could they have been moved during a search?

  His turned his attention to the bay window focussing on the wooden frame, he saw faint scratch marks near the catch, clear signs, to his trained eye, that someone had gained entry, then locked the window from the inside; probably while Joyce was out. That someone had searched their treasured home and then walked straight out of the front door with Bruce’s files. So who were you and what is in the files that you would risk being caught?

  Joyce came back into the room, disturbing Andy’s thoughts. She wore a puzzled expression on her face. “No, there’s nothing in the garbage. I don’t know where his files are.” She looked like she was about to burst into tears; the missing files being the last straw in the nightmare she was living.

  “Joyce, I think I’ve seen enough,” Andy said calmly as he stood and headed for the door. She followed closely behind him as he made his way back to the hallway where he stopped to put his shoes on. He stood up and took another long look at the photograph of Bruce before heading outside. What were you doing to get yourself killed?

  Andy reached into his wallet and took out a card, which he handed to the Joyce and said, “Joyce, thank you for letting me spend my time with you today. If you do come across anything while you’re going through Bruce’s things, no matter how trivial it may appear to you, I would be grateful if you would call me. I want to find out exactly what happened that resulted in your husband’s untimely death.”

  Joyce glanced at his card and, after pocketing it, she placed her hand on his forearm: “Andy, I believe in the rule of law and that justice should take its course. I want you to do your job and find who killed Bruce and kidnapped Amanda. If I find anything that will help bring them to justice, I will let you know,” she paused as she thought about her next words, “if they won’t come quietly. I want you to make sure they pay for what they have done. Those animals don’t deserve to live.” Tears streaked down her cheeks.

  Andy wasn’t sure what to do for a moment, but then he embraced her with a warm hug and whispered, “I will find them and they will pay.”

  After several seconds Joyce broke away, then wiped her cheeks and eyes with a tissue. “Thank you, Andy, you have already helped by being here and listening.” Andy turned leaving her standing in the doorway; he climbed into his car and headed back across town to his apartment.

  What can I do? I’ve got the possibility of getting back into the Agency if I do a good job for Hobbs. Joyce Chester, Gerald Newbury and the families of the other dead agents need justice. Vladim is being held captive and could be murdered in less than a month. Then there is this damn court case. His commitments had grown exponentially and he wasn’t sure how he was going to manage any of them.

  With no functioning kitchen, he pulled into a local pizzeria for a take-out and a soda to go. Within minutes he’d arrived at his apartment. He grabbed the pizza, soda and his backpack then headed indoors. Once inside, Andy set himself up as comfortably as possible in his bedroom eating pizza, drinking soda and reading the news on the small screen on his phone.

  Andy yawned and checked his watch. Just after ten. He put his phone to one side. Time for bed. He managed to find a change of bed linen and a clean pillow case in one of the boxes and threw the old stuff in a bin liner. There was still an aroma of stale vomit and sweat but at least the sheets were clean and he was in a familiar bed. It didn’t take long for the events of the last two days to catch up and he was soon in a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 8

  The arrival of the workmen before seven forced Andy to clear out with his backpack and head to a local café for breakfast. He wasn’t used to being up at this hour, but the strong black coffee helped sharpen his mind while he waited for his eggs, sausage and bacon on hash browns to be served. Andy looked down at his backpack which had been bulked further, and weighed more, as it now carried his aging laptop and power supply. Placing his hand into his jacket pocket he removed Chuck Boston’s business card and checked his watch. Just after seven thirty. He dialled Boston’s cell number written on the card. Boston answered the call after a few rings.

  “Chuck Boston!” Boston announced sounding very bright and alert. If only I was that ambitious and still trying to impress!

  “Hi Chuck, Andy Flint, I hope I didn’t disturb you?”

  “No, you caught me at a good time. I’ve just finished in the pool. I swim each morning from six-thirty for an hour at the pool on North Carolina Avenue before heading to the office.” You’d never survive in the field with such an easy routine to track!

  I need a favor. It’s to do with the assignment Hobbs has given me.” Andy looked around the café casual to check out the other diners, making sure no-one was listening in on his conversation. They were a mixed bunch, mainly laborers and students who probably lived in the neighborhood, though he didn’t recognise any of the faces.

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “I need to go to Moscow and interview Bob Kintbury as well as look through Amanda Lightfoot’s local files. I can’t assess them from DC and they may have information I need.” Kintbury was Amanda’
s boss, the Regional Director based in Moscow.

  “I’m going to need time to organise this.” The line fell silent, then, “Get yourself to Langley Air Force base for six this evening. I should be able to get the approvals and pull it together by then. At the gatehouse ask for the Operational Despatch Facility or ODF and they’ll guide you to it. I’ll make sure you’re expected.”

  “Chuck, that’s great.”

  Andy could smell the bacon from his breakfast before the waitress arrived at his table with his meal.

  “If anything changes, I’ll call you on this number?”

  “Yes, and thanks.” Andy ended the call, placed his phone on the table and reached for his cutlery when his phone rang. Unknown Number… mmmh. He picked up his phone, he hoped his voice wouldn’t betray his irritation at having to wait a few more minutes before he could eat. Okay I may as well answer! “Andy Flint.”

  “Mr Flint, this is Gerry O’Rourke. I’m a private investigator,” the voice on the other end of the line informed him in a thick New Jersey accent. What have I done to attract a PI? “I’ve been retained by Halifax, Oldham and Matlock to look into the bar fight and your subsequent arrest.”

  The bar owners must be pursuing private damages against me. Andy started to panic. As his mind raced O’Rourke continued, “Their client, Mr Dortman, has instructed them to represent you for your court appearance next week. Their brief is to keep you out of jail.” Andy felt the wave of panic recede. “That’s why I’m here. We need to meet. Are you sober?”

  The New Yorker’s directness took him aback. “Yes, I’m sober.”

  “Listen, Mr Flint, no offence, but you’re no different to any other drunk. Every day, they say they won’t drink. But they do. I’ve dealt with hundreds of people like you from my time on the beat. So I don’t want to waste my time talking unless you ARE sober.”

  “Look, I said I’m, okay? I haven’t had a drink since Dortman picked me up three days ago and there is none in my apartment, I asked for it all to be removed whether it was open or not!” His raised voice revealed his annoyance and attracted quiet stares from the other diners.