"You will wish you had, when we're through with you. Now, let's back up to where you first became aware there was a person named Christine Susmann."
"Christine who?"
"Susmann."
"Never heard of her."
"Maybe we can help you remember. Gentlemen?"
They lifted him out of his chair and splayed him on his back on the table. His arms and legs were pinned by Mongol and Cro. Ivan leaned across him so his face was inches away.
"Take and drink so we don't have to hurt you."
Jacques opened his mouth.
Over the next ten minutes, he drank down the entire bottle.
Then he told them everything. They slapped him and sat him upright several times, bringing him around; but then he would slump to the side and pass out again.
He was stuffed into a car and driven out of the underground parking garage. The car twisted and turned through Moscow traffic, making its way due west. They pushed him out of the car in an alley on the west side of downtown Moscow, the high crime area. This part of town belonged not to President Irunyaev; it belonged to the Russian Mafia. Even the GRU officers were uncomfortable driving through those forbidding streets, where doors were hammered over with plywood and windows barred and sealed from the inside.
Something or someone would finish him. If nothing else, he had swallowed enough ethyl alcohol to kill him. It always did.
Neat, simple, and very Russian. Death by alcohol poisoning.
"Vas te faire encule de vous, asshole!" cried Cro-Magnon as he pulled the Volga out of the alley and back into traffic.
"Vas te faire encule de vous!"
25
The elevator doors whooshed open and Thaddeus looked above for a floor number. There was no light glowing, no floor number. Nine was the highest number possible, but they had gone past nine. Now what? He wondered.
Angelina stepped past him, exiting the car first.
Thaddeus followed close behind and found they were in a very small reception area consisting of four chairs and a Plexiglas window with no one behind it. Thaddeus walked up to the window and pressed a black button set into the stainless steel counter. He heard nothing and assumed that it had buzzed or beeped somewhere back behind. They shrugged and took a chair. Oh yes, Thaddeus thought, they will definitely come looking to see what the tide brought in.
Five minutes slowly ticked by. There were no magazines, no TV screen, nothing. And there was no identification anywhere to be seen. They might be at any company quarters in the world, the young attorney thought. But they weren't; they were at the CIA's office in Moscow..
A voice came over speakers embedded in the ceiling, speakers neither of them had noticed before.
"Can we help you?"
"Thaddeus Murfee and Angelina Sosa. We were keyed in from the Embassy downstairs."
"State your business, please."
"We came in on the hijacked Swissair. Our friend was traveling under CIA cover. She was going someplace for you. I never knew where," Thaddeus responded.
"Do you have a name?"
"Christine Susmann. Traveling as Ama Gloq. Look, I know they called you about this from downstairs. How about a real person coming out here and talking to me? Your agent—our friend—desperately needs some help."
Silence followed by more silence. The minutes ticked by.
At last, the door next to the reception window buzzed violently.
"Please enter."
Both Thaddeus and Angelina headed for the door.
"Wait, who is the second person?"
"Angelina Sosa. She's a reporter with the Chicago Tribune."
"She stays out. Only you, Mr. Murfee."
Angelina let out a huge sigh of disgust and returned to her chair. "Never mind," she said, "you can fill me in. Will you do that?"
Thaddeus ignored the question. "If I'm not back in two days, come looking."
"Funny man."
He twisted the doorknob and went inside.
There was a short hallway and beyond he found he was looking at cubicle heaven. It was impossible to see how many cubes were occupied. He stood at the entrance and waited for instructions.
Minutes later a black woman wearing a yellow knit dress appeared and held out her hand. Two gold bracelets encircled her wrist. She was medium height and looked to have powerful arms and shoulders. Thaddeus guessed her to be at the top of her physical and strength game. He shook her hand and smiled.
"I'm Thaddeus Murfee."
"We know. I'm Nancy Empress. Real name, honest. Welcome to our office. Follow me, please."
She led him through the first row of cubicles. At the far end, where another hall ran perpendicularly, they turned left and walked past three closed doors. At the fourth, Nancy stood back and motioned Thaddeus inside.
They entered and Nancy Empress closed the door behind them.
"Please take a seat."
It wasn't the usual executive chair-desk-visitor chair setup. In the center of the long room was a teak table maybe twenty feet long with six chairs to a side. Thaddeus selected the end chair and Nancy sat beside him. There were no papers, no files to be seen, and he had noticed his hostess wore no badge. So far, nothing had identified the suite and the workers as CIA, so he asked.
"You are CIA?"
"We are—I am. I am a group leader here and I know about Ama Gloq and her mission. The entire incident is regrettable."
"You mean the hijacking."
"Yes. The hijacking."
"What do you plan to do to get her out of Russian custody?"
Nancy shook her head. Her short hair glistened under the harsh lights in the room. A sorrowful expression came over her face.
"Nothing. There is nothing we can do."
"Why not?"
"Well, consider. If we go to the Russians and ask for her return, we as much as admit she's one of us, she's CIA."
"You can't do that?”
"Can't and won't. Agents are never identified as agents. Rule One of the spy game."
"So what am I doing here? Why did you agree to see me?"
She smiled. "We would like to ask for your silence about all this. We ask you to board your outbound Swissair flight and return to Zurich."
He winced. "You mean you want me to leave Christine here while you won't even confirm she's one of you? You can write this down: that isn't going to happen!"
"Look, Mr. Murfee. I understand you’re upset. You have every right. But Ama—Christine—knew what she was getting herself into. Her family will be provided for. That was the deal if she didn't come back."
"Okay, okay, let's back up. If you do nothing and I go away quietly, what's the usual outcome in cases like that?"
"The agent is sent to a specialized prison. A work camp."
"And you're willing to let that happen?"
"Mr. Murfee, we're guests in a foreign country. We have no say or right of approval to anything that happens here. If the shoe were on the other foot, if this were America and we had captured a Russian spy, we certainly wouldn't just turn them loose. We would first question them, interrogate fully and then encamp them."
"Encamp them means what?"
"There are black ops camps. All spies know this going in. Christine was no different. We also have to trust her to maintain her silence. If we said anything to indicate we had an interest in her, they would become that much more willing to torture her to find out the connection, find out the mission. We don't do that. It can only hurt the person in custody."
"So you're not going to do anything?"
"Exactly. We're not going to do anything."
"What about the Embassy downstairs? Can they help?"
"They have already lodged a protest with the Russian government. Standard operating procedure."
"But that protest is only pro forma?"
"Afraid so, Mr. Murfee. Will that be all now?"
"No, I'm here to demand help. If it's not forthcoming, I plan to go to the press."
"Really now, think tha
t through. You go to the press and reveal you're Christine's employer and that she was carrying out a mission for the CIA. That connection only increases your believability, which confirms her identity as an agent. That makes the Russians that much more interested in finding out what she has to say."
"You're saying I'll get her tortured for certain if I go to the press?"
"That's what I'm saying. That would be the worst thing you could do for her. So, will you and your friend be on the Swissair flight?"
"I don't know about my friend. But I won't be. I won't leave Christine here."
"We figured you wouldn't. But you'll be on your own whatever you decide to do. We will deny all knowledge and information."
"Sure you will."
Nancy Empress stood up. She spread her hands. "I believe we're done here."
"Yes."
"Thank you for coming to see us."
"I would thank you but that would be a tacit agreement to your position. I won't give you that. So I'll just say goodbye."
"Goodbye, Mr. Murfee. Godspeed."
Thaddeus and Angelina took the elevator back downstairs to the Embassy offices and walked out onto the sidewalk.
"Did you get it? Did my phone do the trick?"
Without a word, he pulled Angelina's phone from his inside jacket pocket. "Voila."
"It's still on record. There, I've shut it off."
"Good thinking, my friend," said Thaddeus.
"So you've got it all recorded. Now, what do we do with it?"
"Honestly? I haven't gotten that far yet. Let's get lunch and talk. I'm starved."
"I'm right behind you, Thaddeus."
"Thaddeus? Really? What happened to Mr. Murfee?"
"He left the building. When he recorded an interview with the CIA, he became just another one of us."
"Us?"
She smiled. "American citizens. Nobodies. Strangers in a strange land."
"All right then. We've only just begun. Angelina."
"See, first names aren't so hard."
Thaddeus waved over a taxi, and they climbed in back.
26
President Piotor Irunyaev lived behind four-foot-thick walls that were six hundred years old. Novo-Ogaryonov was an estate in the Odintsovo District of Moscow Oblast to the west of the city, by the Rubiyovo-Uspenskove Highway. It had been recognized as the official residence of the President of Russia since 2000.
The presidential residence was surrounded by a six-meter-high wall, consisting of indigenous stone four feet thick, later reinforced with steel rebar and electronic listening devices.
The residence was overflown 24/7 by the Russian Air Force, which operated three levels of aircraft. First were helicopters, next a layer of Mach 2 fighter aircraft, then aircraft stuffed with electronics capable of listening and watching in one-hundred-mile sweeps.
The president was divorced in 2012. Two of the three daughters of that marriage still resided with him. The third was away at school at an undisclosed location thought by many to be Moscow University, where she would have been attending under an alias. Photographs of the children and the president's other family were never allowed and Muscovites really had no idea what the others even looked like. On the other hand, photographs of the president were issued in a constant stream. He was photographed riding horses, surf-boarding, surveying the Black Sea from aboard a Russian submarine, piloting a Russian bomber, relaxing with a Russian writer before an open fire in the presidential residence, coming from and going to work in his beloved Volga Gaz 21. His entire PR was designed to impart an enhanced picture of who the accomplished man really was.
The capture of Christine Susmann—the Russian GRU no longer clung to the "Ama Gloq" ID—a known agent of the CIA, presented other photo ops proving the prowess of President Irunyaev. In the end, it was decided there would be a set of stills taken during the takedown and arrest of a CIA assassin caught inside the Russian president's compound, Novo-Ogaryonov. Now all that was needed was a CIA agent to do his or her part. The capture of Christine Susmann was a timely gift from the gods. They decided to make the whole affair a sum much bigger than its parts.
First they would need pictures. Karli and his aides were contacted. Was she ready to play the part? Was she cooperating yet?
Karli had excellent news for the president.
27
She was fully dressed and armed with the unloaded semi-automatic Grach. She wore gray militia trousers and tunic, held together at the waist by a black utility belt from which extended the black shoulder strap common to militia uniforms, ankle-high boots and holstered MP-443 Grach sidearm. When she was dressed and had regained her balance, Karli stepped back from her and admired his work. Then Moffi seized her arms from behind and held her.
Suddenly Karli feinted and threw a hard right hook that caught Christine fully on the left jaw, knocking her to her knees where, in total shock, she closed her eyes and drifted into unconsciousness. She sagged to the side and lay in the fetal position on the floor.
"Just so you know, this is the end for you," he said, he drew back his booted right foot and kicked her with all his weight directly in the stomach. He swung and kicked her again, this time in the chest. All the air could be heard rushing from her lungs even while she lay there unconscious.
Then the three GRU agents sat down and talked about possible pay increases while they waited for her to come around.
Fifteen minutes crawled by.
Christine hadn't moved. Karli broke a smelling salt and passed it beneath her nose. She groaned and rolled onto her back.
"That's a good girl," said the Mongol, who had arrived at the dacha an hour earlier. His report had pleased Karli: the Frenchman was alcohol-poisoned and taken away. He had confirmed their suspicions about Christine on his way out. They had been right all along: she was CIA, and the CIA was not responding to inquiries. Which meant the agents were free to do with her as they pleased.
The smelling salt was held below her nose. Her eyes blinked open. She immediately touched her hand to her chest. "My God," she moaned. "What?"
"What?" said Karli. "Just softening you up, my dear."
"What?"
"What? What? What? Is the CIA the one asking the questions here? I don't think so."
Karli motioned to Mongol, who leaped to his feet and approached Christine from the side. He drew back his booted foot and sent a shock of a kick into her side. Another, this time to her ribs. She immediately passed out. Which called for another fifteen minutes of discussion about pay grades, possible GRU cars being lent for personal use, and better apartments in the city. If nothing else, the Russian agents were always hopeful their situations would improve, even though, deep down they knew they were dreaming. It was what it was, being GRU. It wasn't all that bad, compared to the average Russian who rarely was able to buy meat, whereas the GRU agents could buy meat and more at will. Something to talk about while Christine moaned and cried out in her unconsciousness.
But they weren't finished. Not yet.
Another smelling salt. Eyes open but glassy.
"Stand her up."
Moffi obeyed Karli, dragging her to her feet from behind. She wobbled; he held her arms and steadied her.
Again Karli drew back and hit her, this time with a left hook that caused her to slump all the way to the floor. Karli nodded at Moffi, who kicked her fiercely in the back of the head.
"Careful!" said Karli. "We don't want fractures. We'll be taking pictures, and she must stand upright on her own."
Karli went to the kitchen cupboard and returned with a bottle of American whiskey. Glasses were passed around, and the agents drank off several shots. The whiskey warmed bellies; inhibitions lowered, and more kicks were delivered to the unconscious woman.
"Hey," said Karli, "I'll wager you cannot break a finger using just two fingers of your own."
"I'll take that bet," said Mongol.
He knelt at Christine's side and took her left index finger between his thumb and index fi
nger. Swiftly he bent her finger back, back, until all clearly heard the sound of the bone snapping. . Christine moaned and tossed, but her eyes remained closed.
"Again. Same hand."
Mongol complied. Another snap, another moan and fuss.
"Good. Now we won't be pulling any triggers for a long time, Ama. Ama, Ama, Ama. You are a Gloq? We'll show you something more powerful than a Glock," he said, referring to the armor-piercing rounds fired by his sidearm. His own 7N21 Russian 9 mm. gun featured an armor-piercing bullet that generated a massive peak pressure. Karli fully intended to see one of his rounds penetrate the skull bone of the CIA agent. The Russian president would weigh in on her disposal, of course; but Karli hoped the final disposition would be left to him and him alone. He had his plans for her before she was shot.
"Good. Now take her to the car. Each of you on either side of her in the back seat. She'll probably still be unconscious when we arrive. But we'll give her a sniff and find she's happily cooperative, even bowing and scraping before the president."
Mongol and Moffi carried her out to the car. They opened the back door and all but threw Christine inside. In her new position, they noticed blood trickling from both her nose and her left ear.
"Wipe that off," Karli growled. We won't want blood in our pictures."
Karli drove with the militiamen and Christine in the back.
The presidential residence was twenty minutes toward Moscow.
He hoped she would come around before then.
The president would be merciless if she were still unconscious.
28
Jacques Lemoneux dreamed a dog was eating his leg.
Wait. There really is a dog, and it's—
His eyes came unstuck and he contemplated the view in those first sore moments of coming to with a hangover. Inches from his face were bricks, a pattern as in masonry, but very close, in-your-face close. His eyes shut.
He contemplated. Bricks. And the dog.
Again, open eyes, pounding head, dog biting leg. Son of a bi—!
"There really is a dog and it's chewing my ankle!" he shouted against the masonry.
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Page 11