Shawnee Mission, Kansas
Roarke drew his Sig from his shoulder holster and brought it down to his side. He didn’t want to be caught with it in the open, yet at the same time, he couldn’t be unprepared. “Nobody come, nobody come,” he whispered.
Roarke ducked down and went between the rows of cars until he got a good twenty-five feet closer to the store. It took six cars before he lost the sun’s reflection. He leaned against a Ford Focus. His gun was flat to his stomach with the safely off. He thought he could see his man browsing. Davis was behind him and off to the side.
Two minutes. Three. Roarke wished that he had gone to the bathroom before they started the surveillance. Stupid, he thought. Four minutes. Come on already. Don’t you read the catalogue? You should know what you want! Five. That’s when he saw his man making a purchase at the counter.
Roarke took that as the cue to get back into position. This is where it would happen. This is where he would take down Depp. Right here. Right now.
Moscow, Russia
It came from out of nowhere. A little shove from the side, and a hint of a thickly accented “Excuse me.”
“What?” O’Connell turned to his left, but no one was there. Then he looked ahead. Yes. O’Connell caught a glimpse of a man, an older man, already steps ahead of him heading through Red Square in the direction of GUM. He wore a tweed sports jacket with worn elbow patches, black slacks, and dirty, beat-up shoes. He walked slowly, occasionally giving a fleeting, yet thorough, glance back.
The reporter’s heartbeat quickened. That’s him! He had been right. Red Square and GUM. O’Connell congratulated himself for his skills as a spy, then quashed the thought. That’s not who he was.
No quick movements. Do what you’ve been doing, he said to himself. Finish feeding the pigeons and go shopping. When he picked his head up again, the man was gone. He remembered what he had been wearing. The man also had a newspaper rolled up in his left hand. A gun?
O’Connell was suddenly overwhelmed by fear. He found his man.
So had Sergei Ryabov of the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. A tip from a bell captain at the Sovietsky, one of dozens of hotels he visited, paid off. It seemed money still talked louder in Russia than threats. Ryabov paid 200 U.S. dollars for the information, which led Ryabov to Aleksandr Dubroff in Red Square. He spotted Dubroff walking among the tourists feeding the pigeons. He observed him for five minutes when he thought he saw Dubroff make contact. A brush pass? A comment? Possibly. He held back. Dubroff continued through the landmark square. Ryabov looked for the man he bumped, but he lost him. Ryabov decided to stay with Dubroff. He knew he should call Deputy Ranchenkov, but he wanted to redeem his standing; he wanted to bring in the traitor himself.
Shawnee Mission
The man stepped off the curb. He wore jeans and an unzipped black leather jacket. He held a Sharper Image shopping bag in his left hand, keeping his right hand free. Roarke never took his eyes off that hand: the hand that would go for his gun.
He waited for the cars to go by, then crossed to the parking lot. Roarke was able to get a partial view through the window. Watch his gun hand. Davis was twenty steps away, at a slight angle, suggesting he was heading to a car parked a few spaces away. He slowed down and reached inside his jacket for his pistol, the 10-mm Colt.
A few more seconds. Roarke ran the possibilities. Keep down until he’s at the door. Can’t make a sound. No reflections in the tinted window. Same for the side mirror. Roarke looked over his shoulder for a split second to see what his subject could use as cover. Damn, a van’s pulling out!
The man in the baseball cap halted. A woman with two kids backed out. They could see Roarke. He slid his gun under his jacket. The driver seemed to take forever, actually seven attempts to make what was a three-point turn.
Roarke’s target waited, but now the van blocked his view. He lost his line of sight on the gun hand. Roarke hoped that Davis had a clear view, if not a clear shot.
Moscow
By now, O’Connell knew the layout of GUM. The shops opened at 8:00 A.M. and, among the busiest were the ones that sold Krasny Oktyobr (Red October) Chocolates and the lacquered wood Matroishka dolls. Roarke went into the store he thought would work the best: Gallery Bosco di Ciliegi, with its rows and rows of clothes. The boutique was crowded with foreign posh shoppers excitedly browsing through the stylish clothing.
O’Connell entered, knowing the Russian would find him again. He went directly to the far end of the store, where a mirror provided him with a good way to see who came in. He surmised that the man would take his time, first making certain it was safe to enter. He would not rush forward. He would approach calmly.
O’Connell considered how times had changed. Russia was becoming increasingly closed and more secretive. The hammer and sickle were long gone, so were the daily fears of American missiles. But even his newspaper reported on an almost daily basis how the new regime embraced the return of autocracy. Citizens again served the State, not the other way around. Initially, the political shift was blamed on Russia’s own war on terrorism. Yet, in too short a time, power consolidated in the hands of a virtual dictatorship that could fight anarchists, or any enemies within, with greater effectiveness. That’s what Michael O’Connell thought about as he held up a leather jacket into the mirror. That’s what went through his mind when he saw the old man saunter into Bosco di Ciliegi.
Shawnee Mission
Roarke heard some humming as the man got closer. An oldie. What was it? He tried to concentrate on getting Depp, but the name of the song was bugging him. A few more seconds. What the hell is the song?
The subject rounded the back of the car. Roarke knelt behind the rear and saw his own reflection in the green Toyota parked next to the Mercedes. He quickly adjusted, but the move meant he gave up his vantage point. Roarke heard a bag rustle and the sound of keys. Bag’s on the ground. Keys in his hand. Then the unmistakable quick beep of the wireless lock unlocking. Roarke stood up and stepped out from behind the Mercedes.
“Stop!” he shouted.
“FBI!” Davis yelled from the front. “Freeze!”
Roarke didn’t anticipate what happened next.
Moscow
The man stopped to examine a few items of clothing: a woman’s silk scarf, an argyle cashmere sweater, a sports jacket. He appeared to leisurely work his way to the far end of the store. The reporter kept his eye on the mirror. Something new caught his eye. Another man rushed in through the entrance to Bosco di Ciliegi, looking as if he were late for something. He frantically scanned the room.
A frumpy jacket, loose pants. The man was totally out of place, even to O’Connell’s thinking. He was definitely searching for someone. Christ! O’Connell automatically turned to the side, away from the new man.
Where’s…? He caught sight of the old man who brushed him in Red Square. He was a few rows away, walking toward him, seemingly unaware of the danger. O’Connell caught his eye and nodded his head slightly. The no was instantly understood. O’Connell cocked his head in the direction of the other man, now fifteen feet away. The old man was able to see his reflection in a store mirror.
O’Connell watched as his contact quickly broke right, putting racks of clothes between him and the second man. Suddenly, a gun was out.
Russians automatically froze. It was impossible for anyone not to recognize the distinctive demand to “Halt!”—which the old man did not heed.
Shawnee Mission
The man froze in place. Roarke issued his next order. “Drop the keys and raise your hands!”
“What?” the man said.
“Arms out. Lie down, face on the ground.”
The man’s left hand went up slowly. His right hand remained at his side.
“I said, on the ground! Arms out. Legs spread. Now!”
Davis was now ten feet behind and off to the side, avoiding Roarke’s potential direct line of fire.
The man was s
till looking down. He hadn’t moved yet, and his hat obscured most of his face.
“FBI! Do as he says. This is your last warning.”
The quarry looked to his left, to Davis, and back to the right, to Roarke. Roarke lowered his gun, aiming at the man’s kneecap. “You’ll be on the ground one way or another.”
The man knelt, stretching his left arm forward, but his right was not.
“Arms out!” Roarke demanded!
“I can’t!” the man finally said.
“I said arms straight out!”
“I can’t!” There was desperation in the man’s voice.
Acting? Roarke wondered.
“For God’s sake, man, I’m disabled!” The man did his best to get into the spread-eagle position between his car and the Toyota, but his right arm wouldn’t move where Roarke demanded.
With the man on the ground, Roarke stepped closer to cover him. Davis closed in from behind. He shoved the man’s right arm forward and patted him down.
“He’s clean.” With his knee grinding into the man’s shoulder blades, Davis pulled his hands together and threw on the handcuffs.
“Okay, now up!” Roarke ordered. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
Moscow
A shot rang out as the old man made for the door. The old Russian stumbled into a group of Canadian tourists. There were screams. O’Connell froze, waiting for the policeman to find him. But a store manager tackled the gunman. The old man continued a few steps into the common area, finally crashing into a food cart of Krasny Oktyobr Chocolates.
Some people froze; others darted in every direction. O’Connell joined the runners trying to escape. Nobody really knew what to do or what had happened. O’Connell saw the old man on the ground. He stayed with the flow, pushing closer. O’Connell calculated that he only had a moment before the policeman would be on him. He leaned over. The Russian was bleeding, but he was still alive, laying on his side. His eyes were open, but cloudy. A pool of blood formed, soaking the crushed chocolates. O’Connell was a foot from his face.
“It’s me. Michael O’Connell,” he whispered.
Nothing. He inched closer. “O’Connell. You needed to see me.”
The man’s eyes widened. He managed a glimpse of recognition that seemed to say, I know.
O’Connell glanced over to the store. He saw that the policeman was engaged in a heated conversation with the man who had tackled him. He produced a badge.
With more urgency, O’Connell asked, “Please, what can you tell me?”
“Move out of the way,” the policeman called out in Russian. Those who could understand him moved. Others didn’t.
The old man grimaced with pain. He blinked once, uttered just one word, then closed his eyes. Even through his thick Russian accent it was distinctive enough to be understood. But it made no sense.
Shawnee Mission
As the man awkwardly rose to his feet, Roarke got a better, closer look. The features were slightly different. His eyes were bluer. He had a thin, but unmistakable scar above his lip. Most importantly, the man didn’t show a hint of recognition of Roarke. Not a glimmer of the defiance he expected. It wasn’t just good acting.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“FBI,” Davis said, which kept Roarke quiet. A crowd was beginning to draw around. Someone had called the Shawnee Mission police; a siren sounded from a few blocks away.
“Why?”
“Are you Charles Corbett?” Davis said, coming around front now.
“Yes,” he managed.
“Former Army Special Forces.”
“Yes.”
“You’re wanted for questioning for—”
“No,” Roarke said under his breath.
Davis quickly glanced over, still keeping his gun on Corbett. “He’s not Depp,” Roarke said. “Are you certain?”
Roarke gave him an almost disappointed, “Yes.” He holstered his pistol, then stooped down and picked up the man’s shopping bag. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you sure?” Davis asked again. His gun was still on the man. “Absolutely.”
The local police car rolled into the Town Center Plaza parking lot. Davis returned his Colt to his shoulder holster. “We’re going to have some explaining to do.”
“Yes, I know.” The song Corbett had been humming finally came to him. A Broadway tune, not an oldie. He must have been practicing for a play. The Impossible Dream.
Moscow
O’Connell quickly drifted back in with a group of people making for an exit. Once clear, he decided not to return to his hotel. Instead, he went to St. Basil’s Cathedral to do something he hadn’t done in years—pray. He prayed that he would get out safely, and he prayed that he could figure out what the old man meant.
Chapter 53
Moscow
O’Connell IM’d the international desk for any news on a shooting at GUM. The editor pulled up an extract. “Something. Not much.”
“What?”
The New York Times editor copied the text and sent it. According to a carefully worded Izvestia report, a Chetchnian terrorist was tracked by Russian security from Red Square to the GUM department store, where he was shot.
O’Connell IM’d another question. “Was he killed?”
The response. “No mention.” Then a question from the editor, who’d suddenly become curious. “Why?”
O’Connell quickly typed in, “Just checking.” He shut his laptop down and packed it in his attaché case. He hailed a cab for the airport, anxious to leave Russia. One word played in his mind the entire ride. It echoed through the long wait at the terminal, and it was with him as he finally fell asleep on the nonstop flight home.
Lebanon, Kansas
Elliott Strong chastised his listeners. “I’m telling you right now, you better book your hotel. Three weeks. If you wait much longer, you’ll be sleeping on the Mall…which wouldn’t be so bad,” the talkshow host offered with a half laugh. “George Washington’s troops camped out there. So did Lincoln’s Union forces. The Bonus Army in the 1930s.”
Every night he nudged his audience more. The printouts on his desk, sent to him by a friend on the Hill, confirmed the point. Hardly a hotel room was left within the Beltway. General Bridgeman’s army was taking form. The networks estimated as many as two-and-half-million protestors were making travel plans for August 18. Strong was right. They were running out of beds.
He switched tones. “Now I just want to hear from people who are going.” He gave the call-in phone numbers. “Open lines tonight. Hello, you’re on the air.”
“My wife and I are,” the first caller said.
“Where are you coming in from?” The accent should have been enough to give it away, but the host loved letting people say where they lived. It reinforced the national reach of his show.
“Outside of Mobile.”
Strong acknowledged the affiliate station the caller listened to. He didn’t have to memorize them. They were always on-screen.
“What’s the schedule, Elliott? I haven’t heard much about that.”
“It’s online. We have the link to General Bridgeman’s website. It starts with a prayer at 10 A.M, the Pledge of Allegiance, ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’ a rock concert until noon, and then the general speaks.”
“You’re introducing him, right?” A perfect question.
Strong looked at his watch and smiled to himself. “Oh, thank you, but I think General Bridgeman deserves someone far more worthy than me.”
Washington, D.C.
the same time
They met for dinner at Washington’s Hotel Tabard Inn, a quaint Victorian watering hole and eatery made famous long before novelists like John Grisham wrote about it. The maitre’d placed them in a discreet room up a short flight of tin-lined stairs. Many secretive meetings had been held in this room with presidents and men who would be presidents, political enemies who broke bread together, and all
ies who broke their promises to one another. If only these walls could talk. So many conversations, so much strategizing, and so much lying over Grilled Hereford Ribeye, Marinated Ostrich Steak, and Rack of Lamb.
Duke Patrick wasn’t sure what it would be tonight. Still, the invitation intrigued him.
Patrick, the Speaker of the House, was the first to arrive. He passed the time with a vodka martini. Normally he could pack away a half dozen and not slur a line of speech. Tonight, he would make one last.
The general arrived with no fanfare. He was quietly led up the stairs by the owner, assured that they would not be bothered except for the food order, which he would personally handle.
“Well, well, Congressman Patrick, it’s so good to see you,” General Bridgeman said. He opened his arms to the speaker, who stood to greet him.
“General,” Patrick said tentatively. He rejected the bear hug and opted for a handshake.
“No, please. First names. I never want to hear you say ‘General’ again.” He let out a laugh. “Unless it’s in public.”
Duke Patrick didn’t find the comment humorous. “If you don’t mind, let’s keep it at the general and congressman level for awhile,” Patrick said, not giving into the cordiality.
“Well, that would be fine, but I’m sure we’re going to find we have a lot in common before the evening is out.” Bridgeman motioned to the owner, who had stayed at the door. “Scotch on the rocks, please.” Once they were alone, Bridgeman took his seat. Patrick joined him, trying to figure out what political advantage he could garner from the unexpected meeting.
The White House
the same time
The chief of staff asked to have dinner with the president. He had a good deal to go over, and there never seemed to be enough time during the day. They were hardly into their first course, a simple arugula and pear salad, when Bernsie launched into his agenda.
Executive Treason Page 34