The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8)

by John Ellsworth

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "Yes, you do. Tell me your real name and we'll put you right back on your plane. Did I tell you it's been cleared this morning to continue to Zurich? Would you like to be on that plane?"

  "Definitely," said Thaddeus.

  "What agency do you work for?" asked Angelina, ever the storyist.

  "I'll ask the questions, please."

  The silly smile had vanished.

  "We would like to be taken to the American Embassy," Thaddeus said. "Please."

  "Certainly, happy to oblige," Karli replied. "But first I need you at my office. We need to fill out some papers, a question or two; then we will go. All right?"

  "No. We demand to be taken directly to the U.S. Embassy. We have that right."

  "You do? Where do you think you are, Chicago?"

  "I'm a lawyer. I know a little about international law."

  Karli found him in the rearview. With a wink, he said, "Did I tell you we don't have international law in Russia? Did they tell you that before you obtained the courtesy of our overnight visa?"

  "No one told us that."

  "Oh, but they should have. No, no international law here. We follow Russian law. Did you hear of it?"

  "Please take us to our embassy," said Angelina, as if the weight of their plight had suddenly settled over her. For the first time in the twenty or so hours Thaddeus had been in her presence, she seemed frightened. Not much, but there were signs.

  Karli sensed it too. "Young lady, are you recording me with that phone in your hand?"

  "No. Yes. I'm a reporter; that's all."

  "What kind of reporter?"

  "Newspaper."

  "Are you reporting on me?"

  "Yes. No. I'm following a story. I'm living a story. I think."

  GRU headquarters is located on Khoroshevskiy Highway in Khodynke. The main headquarters is more a campus than a single building. But just inside the main entrance, embedded in the marble floor, is the icon of Russian Intelligence, a bat-looking graphic in white and black marble spreading its eight-foot wings. It's not wholly unlike the bat beaming in the sky on nights when Batman is called out.

  Moving through the long, curving halls, Thaddeus noted how all office windows looked down on a courtyard where there was a covered garden, fountain, and a wooden bridge over a stream. He noted the fitness center and swimming pool on the building's first floor. Thaddeus moved along the corridor with his handcuff-mates, walking ahead of Karli, their captor, as the grim reality of GRU captivity set in.

  "This is GRU," Thaddeus whispered to Christine.

  "Roger that," she whispered back. "Not so good."

  "Where are we?" said Angelina, who had been distracted by the young men working out in the glass-walled fitness center. They were buff, she would have termed it, and looked like young, tough men anywhere in the world.

  What they couldn't see, of course, was the plethora of high-cost secrets the building hid away from view.

  "These walls can withstand an American M1 Abrams tank," said Karli, as if reading minds. "We know, because we have tested."

  That same morning the Russian President, Piotor Irunyaev, had landed on the building's roof in an Army helicopter. He had heard about the Swissair skyjacking and the possibility of the capture of an American CIA agent. The president understood the young woman's introduction into the motherland seemed to some as more than coincidental. Already there was a growing undercurrent inside the GRU that the skyjacking was a ruse for placing the young woman in-country, where she would mount an assassination attempt against the president himself. The rumor was started by none other than the president himself. He had his reasons.

  Said Irunyaev, this spy he would see for himself.

  Out of character? Not for this president, the man who publicized his virility with shirtless photos on horseback and Speedo pictures entering the surf at the freezing Barents Sea. Photos of the great man personally overseeing the interrogation of the assassin at GRU headquarters guaranteed a ten-point jump in approval ratings. He never missed an opportunity, and today was no different.

  Two hours later, when the president climbed back aboard his helicopter, a press release was making its way around the government news service. New footage was appearing on the country's TV screens, radios were playing statements, and public affairs officers were all issuing the same stunning report. They said a young woman whose name was Christine Susmann and who was a CIA field operative, had early that morning made an attempt on the life of Russian President Piotor Irunyaev. The president was attacked as he made his way from his private residence to his staff car in preparation for the commute to the Kremlin. The young woman, the talking heads reported, had gained access to the President's compound while wearing the uniform of the Russian militia. She was fully armed and attempted to draw her sidearm and assassinate the leader. The captain in charge of the command that morning had noticed the young woman, immediately realized the ruse, and taken her down to the ground, where she was jumped and taken into custody. The CIA had been notified, and complaints filed with the White House. The American president had denied all knowledge and maintained the U.S. had no interest in seeing the Russian premier dead. While there were differences, those were always ideological, not military; America was not at war with Russia and had sent no assassins.

  But the point had been made. Russia had a new chip in the game. GRU decided Mother Russia could improve its position by obtaining a confession from the prisoner. President Irunyaev was advised he could expect a video at the Kremlin within thirty-six hours. They promised it would contain a full confession by the young woman.

  At a composite door lettered in Russian, three additional officers joined them. The three Americans were separated. Thaddeus and Angelina were uncuffed and forced to stand apart from Christine. They rubbed their wrists while Christine, still cuffed, looked at them helplessly.

  A Russian with shaved head and no eyebrows stepped between Thaddeus and Christine. He faced Thaddeus full-on, his back to Christine, and seemed to dare the American lawyer to speak. Which he did.

  "What the hell, Karli," said Thaddeus with alarm. "We go wherever she goes."

  Karli waggled a finger at Thaddeus. "No, no, we need your friend to fill out some papers. It won't take ten minutes. Your new friend, Ruskov, will offer you breakfast next door. You will be fed and allowed restrooms. Thank you."

  With that, Karli turned his back and faced Christine. He grasped the short chain running between her handcuffs and jerked her through the door. She turned and gave Thaddeus one final look before disappearing inside. Her eyes said it all: Christine was scared. Thaddeus had never seen her scared. Which caused a bolt of anger to surge along his spine.

  "This is bullshit, Karli!" he called after the agent.

  But to no avail: the door had abruptly closed.

  Ruskov stuck a meaty finger in Thaddeus' chest and motioned him to move on down the hallway. Angelina had attracted her own escort, a tall, willowy man wearing a chocolate brown suit and orange and black necktie straight out of the 1970's. The tie was six inches wide and heavily knotted at the throat, so its length was no more than twelve inches. He tentatively pushed Angelina's back to move her with Thaddeus, and she turned and gave him a dour look. He took one step back and smiled. "Please," he said in English and indicated she should turn and follow Thaddeus. Which she did, her point having been made.

  One hour later, Thaddeus and Angelina were shown through a side door and suddenly found themselves standing on Khoroshevskiy Highway, the street that fronted the GRU campus. In the mid-morning light, they blinked and shaded their eyes against the sun just above the skyline of the headquarters.

  "Must be thirty below out here," Thaddeus said, wrapping his arms around himself.

  Angelina was the only one of the three who had taken her winter coat when departing the aircraft. It was a sturdy Northface, guaranteed to seventy below. She pulled the drawstrings at the cuffs and throat and jammed her fists i
nto side pockets.

  "At least thirty below. So what now? Where are we?"

  "We're in Russia. We've been dismissed. The question is, where's Christine?"

  "We could go around to the main entrance and ask about her."

  "Good idea. We'll use your Russian."

  They walked a good four hundred meters east, coming back to the main entrance of the intelligence enclave. Thaddeus followed Angelina up a double staircase, hoping against hope someone would tell them something. Better yet, that Christine would somehow miraculously be waiting for them to come for her.

  They pushed through the double glass doors and walked across the huge GRU graphic of the bat.

  A woman sat behind a bulletproof window, half-smiling in welcome. She was wearing a red sweater with animal fur around the neck and reminded Thaddeus of pictures of his mother out of the 1950's when sweater sets and animal furs were in.

  Angelina spoke through the mike embedded in the Plexiglas. The woman spoke back.

  Thaddeus understood no Russian, so he fought to remain patient while the conversation went back and forth a least a half dozen times. He did hear "Ama Gloq" said both ways.

  At long last, Angelina turned to him.

  "Well?"

  "They know nothing. She's never heard of any Ama Gloq. No record of anyone being brought there by that name."

  "Did you tell them about Karli? That he brought the three of us here?"

  "She said they are hundreds of Karli's in the bureaucracy. She asked for a last name but of course I didn't have one for him.”

  "Great. So what did she suggest we do?"

  "She said we couldn’t loiter here. We need to leave the building at once."

  "You're kidding. That's it?"

  "Seems like it."

  "Bullshit. I'm not leaving."

  "The militia will be called, at least she hinted."

  "Then we'll go back to our room and make some calls. I have a name in Langley, Virginia. Somebody back there needs to get all over this."

  "Let's leave, Thaddeus. She made it very clear we had to leave at once."

  "All right."

  They retraced their steps to the front entrance.

  Ten minutes later they had a cab and Angelina gave the destination.

  And so they left Christine alone with the Russians.

  Had they known what was about to happen to Christine, maybe they could have done something differently, Thaddeus would later think. But as it was, they knew nothing except it was urgent they get in touch with someone who could help.

  That someone was in CIA headquarters, Moscow. It was located at Bolshoy Devyatinskiy Pereulok 8, the location they gave the cab driver.

  * * *

  Thaddeus was uncomfortable but managing in the back of the cab when it suddenly came to him: Katy. He had to let her know what was going on. She had been talking non-stop about getting pregnant, about a sibling for Sarai, and now, maybe more than ever, she needed him around. In more ways than one.

  He pulled out his cell. It was international, it was worth a shot, so he hit speed-dial 1.

  Moments later, her unmistakable voice came over the phone.

  "Thad? I thought you would be in Chicago today. Where are you?"

  "We're not coming home today. We've been...delayed."

  "Is anything wrong? Tell me you weren't on that plane that got hijacked. That wasn't you, was it?"

  The alarm in her voice tugged at him. He needed to be with her putting his arms around her. Instead, he was stuck in Moscow with no idea where he was or what was going on with Christine, the second most important woman in his life.

  "Yes, it was my flight. I'm in Moscow."

  Long silence. Then, "Not Idaho?"

  "Afraid not. Russia is right outside my window. I'm in a cab with another American from the flight. We've hit a snag."

  "What kind of snag?"

  "Christine has been hauled away by the Russians. Something about her passport, I think," he said though he said it without enough conviction even to convince Sarai, truth be told.

  "I don't believe that for a second. What's really going on? This trip came up too sudden. I knew there was something else going on here."

  "That's what's going on. She's been hauled in by the police, and they won't let us see her. We're on our way to the American Embassy right now, for help."

  Another silence. "We? Who are we?"

  "She's a reporter from the Tribune. She's covering the hijacking story and covering the Christine story."

  "How old is she?"

  "Please, Katy."

  "No, just tell me. Old? Young?"

  "The latter. Nothing to worry about there. You know I'm thinking about you, and you know how much I want to get back to working on our little creation. Don't ever think otherwise. Not even for a second."

  "You can't talk. She's sitting right there beside you."

  "Now you've got it."

  "Okay. Well, I trust you. Please call me after the Embassy. I need to know what's going on with Chris."

  "Will do."

  "And stay out of trouble. Try not to shoot anyone."

  "No need to worry. I'm a guest here and no one's after me. It's all good."

  "Just don't let it be too good. You read me?"

  "I do. Okay, so long for now. I'll call after the Embassy."

  "I'm thinking about you. In fact, I'm going to be worrying about you. Don't tell me not to. It's my nature, and you know that."

  "Okay, all my love, goodbye."

  "Bye, Thad."

  The phone went silent, and Thaddeus turned in the seat. "Wife," he said.

  "No shit, Sherlock," said Angelina. "You sounded like you were getting the third degree."

  "No, nothing like that. My wife totally trusts me."

  "Sure she does. I'm certain of that. That's why she asked you three times about me."

  "You could hear that?"

  "Thaddeus—Thad—it's crowded back here. Just let it go, okay?"

  "Fine."

  He faced forward and looked to his left.

  He had been right. It was Russia outside.

  22

  They shot her up. She lost consciousness immediately, and they drove her in a Volga sedan to a dacha thirty kilometers north of Moscow. The building was set back off Caushkov Road in the Seshovkovich Mountain foothills. It was a long, low building built in the 1950s with river stonework to waist height across the front, above which was redwood paneling in dire need of a new stain. The curtains were drawn, and the ficus tree and small pine on either side of the entrance were dying for lack of water. Christine saw none of this as she was carried inside by two burly militiamen. Two others had come along, one of whom was Karli; and he looked like a volcano about to erupt.

  Interrogation back at GRU had not gone well, as Karli had predicted. The young woman maintained a steady, calm composure and the usual threats and promises produced no admissions and no cooperation. So Karli elected to elevate to Stage Two—the dacha experience. The Caushkov dacha was selected primarily because neighbors were at such a distance that screams couldn't be heard coming from the interior.

  The room was a good twenty feet by sixteen feet. It housed the wooden table used to restrain the subject, a side table of stainless steel, a utility sink with hot and cold water and a small generator—vented to the outdoors—capable of producing voltages from as low as five volts to as high as 220 volts. The generator sprouted a set of four wires capped off with alligator clips to carry the current from generator to subject. There was also a glass cabinet on the south wall. In it were the various serums, syringes, dental appliances, pliers, and small cutting devices to hasten cooperation.

  First they stripped her clothes away. They removed even her wristwatch and wedding and engagement rings. They wanted her to know the terror of having every inch of her body exposed to their methods. As far as GRU was concerned, the time for talk had passed. Now it was time for persuasion by physical—first—and then mental means.
r />   When she was nude, they cuffed her wrists and ankles to the wooden table. She was prone, with the electric tilt keeping the head six inches lower than the feet, so that upon regaining consciousness she could be easily waterboarded. A broad leather strap was fastened across her chest and tightened so her breathing would be constricted. They wanted her to feel like she was suffocating.

  Finally, they secured a strap to either side of the table. It was drawn across her forehead, pinning her head to the wood. When they were at last ready, she could move only her eyes and mouth.

  They administered a smelling salt of ammonium carbonate. Her head jerked but was restrained. Her eyes opened, watery against her dark Middle Eastern/Italian skin.

  "Welcome back, Ms. Susmann. Yes, our operatives have purchased your true ID. Even your CIA secrets are for sale. But you knew that."

  He made a small production out of going to the wall cabinet and selecting a small Taser. It was perhaps two inches longer and eight ounces heavier than a militiaman's Grach sidearm. It was colored light gray. Two silver darts protruded out the muzzle end to violate human flesh. He held the Taser so she could see.

  "I know you know what I'm holding. I am going to set it on low energy and dart you. We are finished with words, so no need to reply, no need to beg or suddenly become cooperative."

  With that, he aimed the unit at her upper thigh, the fleshy part, and pulled the trigger.

  She was instantly stunned by the shock; her back arched upward against the restraints and her mouth cruelly opened in a long, aching scream.

  "NO NO NO," she cried, and tears flooded her eyes and she wept.

  Karli released the trigger, and the shock ceased. The darts remained embedded in her flesh.

  "So. You didn't like that."

  "UH UH UH!"

  "I see. No one likes the Taser. But it is unavoidable."

  "Please."

  "No, no please. We are not negotiating. I thought I had made that clear."

  "Please, don't. Not again."

  "Oh, you mean this?"

  He jerked the trigger, and she again arched upward against the electricity rushing through her body. Again, the scream, "NO NO NO NO!"