by Sean McFate
“Come on, darling,” I whispered as I gently shook her awake, ready to defend myself. “Come on, my tulip, time to go.”
“Get on with it! I don’t have all day,” he said, waving the canoe paddle menacingly.
“Come on, love,” I said tenderly as the guy stood over my shoulder. Lin’s eyes opened and then her hand shot up for my throat. Anticipating it, I grabbed her wrist and tried to make it look normal, but it just looked weird. I glanced back at the guy with a smile, hoping it would defuse the situation, but he looked horrified and curious, like a rubbernecker slowing down to view a gruesome traffic accident.
“She always does this when I wake her up unexpectedly,” I whispered as Lin expertly broke my grip and grabbed my larynx with a Krav Maga hold. My whole body stiffened in pain, and both my hands clung to her wrist. “Easy, my darling,” I rasped, and tried to smile though the pain. She looked pissed.
“You two are a pair of sex freaks. Is that what you’ve been doing in my boathouse? Heavy bondage and S&M? Let me guess. She’s the dominatrix and you’re the slave?”
Lin looked at him in revulsion and let go of me, blushing. I lay rubbing my throat and whispered hoarsely, “Y-y-yes.” The pain was enormous, but I could not drop the act. Under no circumstances could I let him become suspicious. It was far better to be thought of as perverts than terrorists.
“I never understood the whole S&M thing,” he said, folding his arms in disapproval. The man turned to Lin and said, “Take your gimp and get out of my boathouse.”
Lin grinned slightly. “Come on, gimp. Up with you!”
“We’re leaving,” I said, sounding like a frog. Then I realized we couldn’t stand up with the guy watching since our weapons were hidden beneath the sail. If paddle boy saw our artillery, he would flip out. Lin saw the problem, too.
“Could you, uh . . .” she said, pulling the sail up to her chin and spinning an index finger in the air, indicating she wanted him to turn around. “We’re not decent and I need to get dressed.”
The man dutifully turned his back, and we stood up, fully clothed. Our weapons lay at our sides, and we looked at each other, trying to figure out how to carry them away without the man glimpsing them.
“Um, do you have a spare beach towel or something lying around?” coaxed Lin.
“What do you need a beach towel for?” he asked suspiciously, and Lin looked at me for help.
Before I could say anything, he said, “Don’t tell me. I’d rather not know. You’ll find a pile of towels we lend to customers on the shelf by the door.”
“Thanks,” she said and walked across the boathouse, fetching towels. Minutes later, our weapons were wrapped in aquamarine blue. The guy eyed the odd package curiously.
“Like you said, you don’t want to know,” said Lin, then she added in a malevolent whisper: “Not unless you want to feel the whip and chain.”
He involuntarily cringed, and she blew him a kiss. Then he began squinting at me. “Hey, aren’t you—”
“Aren’t I what?” I interrupted, a little too defiantly.
“You look like the guy on TV. The guy everyone is looking for. The guy who . . .” His voice trailed off in fright and recognition.
Lin stepped in. “Do you really think the world’s number one terrorist mastermind would spend last night here?” She laughed. “I had him tied up four ways to Friday last night on your davenports. He’s just a slave, trust me,” she giggled and slapped my ass hard. It stung.
The guy looked at me, then her, then me again. “Just get out of here.”
We walked to the car holding hands, keeping up the act, and it felt good. It had been a long time since I felt a woman’s touch, and I missed it. I liked her. It was always my fate to find the right woman at the wrong place and worse time.
“You were pretty convincing back there,” I said as we got in the car, and she flashed a knowing smile but said nothing. She started the Mini Cooper as I put the weapons in the tiny backseat, ensuring the towels covered them. As we drove away, a police cruiser passed us, heading to the boathouse.
“Honeysuckle?” she giggled. “Did you actually call me honeysuckle?”
Chapter 44
The Kremlin’s smaller press room was adorned in eighteenth-century artifice. Pillars painted to look like precious green chrysocolla stone stood beside deep red walls. White wainscoting and crown molding with gold leaf trim gave the room a wedding-cake feel. On the walls hung menacing oil paintings of uniformed leaders from past centuries staring down at the gathered journalists. A single podium sat at the front of the room, on a dais. The low rumble of conversation gave way to silence as Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin, took the tiny stage and greeted the room with a politician’s smile. After pleasantries, Putin got to his message.
“Everyone knows the United States is being attacked by terrorists. We strongly condemn this brutal and cynical crime against civilians. What has happened once again emphasizes the need for the global community to join efforts to fight against the forces of terror. Russia stands ready to help the United States,” said Putin with a grin.
Hands shot up around the press pool. Most were state-owned media, but some international outlets were present. Putin nodded at the front row and a reporter from Russia 24, a domestic network, spoke up. “Mr. President, America’s media is reporting that Russian agents and not terrorists are behind the assassination of their vice president. I know you have denied all involvement, but why do you think Americans continue to blame us?”
“Russia has no involvement in the United States’ problems. None. Some in America think they can blame others for their problems, but this is wrong. Terrorism in America’s homeland is the result of their actions abroad. They have inflamed the Middle East and are now surprised they are on fire too. Sometimes it’s easier to blame others than face the truth.”
Hands went up again. Putin paused and then called on a Western reporter.
“I’m with Bloomberg News,” said a young man in Russian. “You say Russia is not involved in the terror attacks. However, sources tell us that the FBI raided a Russian safe house outside of Washington last night and found evidence pointing to Russian collusion in the vice president’s . . . death.” The reporter was careful not to use the word “assassination.”
“The FBI did not raid a Russian safe house last night. Check your facts.”
“But sir—” said the Bloomberg reporter.
“Check your facts,” interrupted Putin. “Next question.”
“I’m Niles with the Guardian. Mr. Putin, it’s well known that Moscow tries to interfere in the internal affairs of other countries. Examples include Ukraine, American elections, and the Brexit vote. Do you really expect the world to believe you when you say Russia is not involved with the chaos in Washington right now?”
“Yes. Russia has nothing to do with it. For twenty-five years, the United States has antagonized the world with its wars, and now it has come back to America’s motherland,” Putin said, and leaned forward casually, putting an elbow on the lectern while gesticulating with the other hand. “It’s strange, even amazing. It’s a typical mistake of any empire, when people think that nothing will have any effect. They think they’re so sustainable, there can be no negative consequences, but those come sooner or later.”
“Just to be clear,” said the reporter, “you are saying Russia has absolutely no involvement in anything going on inside Washington right now?”
“That’s what I said,” replied Putin with condescension. “Did you know last night there was a helicopter battle in front of the White House? Yes, in front of the White House. Such a thing would never happen at the Kremlin.” He chuckled.
“Yes. The entire world knows.”
“Do you know what kind of helicopters they were?” asked Putin.
The reporter looked stunned, not expecting the president of Russia to interview him on live TV. “Uh, no.”
“They were all U.S. military aircraft. Not Russian. Not an
y other country. All were American,” said Putin, enjoying himself.
“What are you saying?” asked a reporter from a different Kremlin-owned media outlet.
Putin smiled and shrugged.
“I’m with the BBC,” said another reporter. “Mr. Putin, could you please elaborate on your last point? If true, it doesn’t sound like terrorism. What do you believe is actually happening in Washington?”
The Russian president looked down and smirked as he composed his answer. “It’s the curse of empire. When a country gets the sense of impunity, that it can do anything, then it will turn inward and destroy itself. History shows this to be true. This has arisen from a dangerous American monopoly on power, from a unipolar world. Soon it will come to an end and we will all be safer.”
“Do you think the U.S. is fighting some sort of civil war?” continued the BBC reporter, barely able to contain his skepticism.
“Who can say?” said Putin unconvincingly. “But thank God this situation of a unipolar world, of a monopoly, is coming to an end. It’s practically already over.”
The BBC man was about to ask a third question when he was cut off.
“Will Russia’s policy toward the U.S. change now?” asked another state-owned reporter.
“Russia is prepared to assist America in its troubled times,” said Putin. “We understand. After the collapse of the Soviet Union—the worst calamity of the last century—chaos ensued. Russia became a lawless and tyrannical country, on its way down. It was not until 1999, when I was first elected president, that we reversed course. Now we are a great power once again. Russia is prepared to help the United States in its moment of need, even though the U.S. did not help us.”
“This is CNN. What kind of assistance are you offering? What does ‘help’ mean?”
“Building up tension and hysteria is not our way. We are not creating problems for anyone,” Putin said. “I hope we can build dialogue.”
One of Putin’s staffers gave a subtle nod, and Putin stepped away from the podium. Everyone waited quietly as he walked toward the exit. Then suddenly he turned around to face the room again.
“I just want to help,” said Putin with a big smile and open arms. Then he disappeared.
Chapter 45
“Listen, you need me. We want the same thing. We should work together, combine forces,” I said as Jen drove. She had told me about her fall from the FBI, and how I could be her ticket back inside.
But she had yet to arrest me.
“Why shouldn’t I haul your ass into the Hoover Building right now?” she asked, steel in her voice.
“Because you need me. You’re alone and the FBI is hunting you, along with everyone else. You walk us into the Hoover Building and we both get arrested. It only helps the bad guys.”
“Aren’t you the bad guy?”
Somehow it hurt, coming from her. “Maybe you should slow down,” I said gently as she took another turn too fast.
“Driving helps me think.”
“Speeding gets us noticed, and that would burn us both.”
Jen let the car coast until we resumed the speed limit. It was rush hour, but the inner city was almost deserted as everyone had either left town or shuddered themselves at home. The radio said highways to Baltimore and Richmond were a crawl and I-66 was stopped up. The last time I had seen the city this empty was September 11, 2001. Police had enforced an armed curfew, but no one wanted to be outside anyway. At the time, I was staying at the Army Navy Club on Farragut Square, and vets sat around the bar talking about Pearl Harbor while getting drunk before noon. It was a horrible Tuesday.
“What’s the plan?” I asked, concealing my impatience. There was an international manhunt for me, and we were driving to nowhere. I had risked everything coming back to stop Apollo Outcomes—Winters, really—from conducting another terrorist attack on American soil for profit. But so far, my mission was a complete bust, and time was running out before the next attack.
And they have a nuke, maybe more than one, I shuddered to think. I must find Winters and take him down.
“I’m still thinking,” she said, unconsciously speeding up again. Her interrogation of me started shortly after we got in the car. I figured I owed her, and she was the only potential ally I had left, so I gave her a little background. However, the more I shared the less she believed. Now she was in full denial and speeding.
“Do you have a plan?” I repeated. “Because—”
“I don’t believe you,” she interrupted. “There’s no way a company could do what happened last night. Take out an elite special forces unit on the Mall? No way. Russia could maybe do it, but wouldn’t dare. And you’re telling me a corporation did? One that normally works for the government?! I don’t buy it.”
“Mercenary companies like Apollo Outcomes, Wagner Group, and others are how dirty foreign policy is done today. When you need something absolutely, positively, done in a shadow war, you outsource it. That way Washington or Moscow has maximum plausible deniability, and in the information age that’s worth more than firepower.”
Jen shot me a skeptical look. “Yeah, that’s why we have the CIA and SEALs, for that kind of wet work.”
“We are all former SEALs, Delta, CIA, and more. Where do you think Apollo recruits? Washington secretly likes mercs because if things go badly—and they do—then the client disavows the whole thing. The White House cannot abandon SEALs or CIA in the field, but mercenaries are expendable.”
“But isn’t that their job?”
“Sort of,” I said, uncomfortably. “Also, mercenaries can do things special operations forces and the CIA cannot.”
“Like what?”
“Like break the law: domestic military operations, spying on citizens, shaping operations abroad, political assassinations . . . lethality without the red tape. In the industry, we call it ‘Zero Footprint’ operations because mercenaries operate like ghosts.”
“Bullshit. I’m an FBI agent and I’ve never heard of it. You think I would have,” she said with sarcasm.
I sighed. “Apollo works above the FBI. You just don’t know it because it happens waaaay above your pay grade. For example, the safe house you blew up last night. You said the FBI put it under a surveillance embargo. Ever heard of that before?”
“No, never,” she admitted uncomfortably.
“That’s what I’m talking about. Someone at Apollo called it into the FBI.”
“How is that even a thing?”
“Not how, but why. ‘Why’ is the only question that matters,” I said, and Jen took a hard left in anger, lifting the car up on two wheels. I clung to the armrest. Jen slowed down as she spotted a police cruiser around the corner. We exhaled as soon as it was out of sight.
“OK, smart guy, let me ask you a question. Washington uses Apollo for its dirty work and Moscow uses Wagner. Washington and Moscow are enemies. Then why are Apollo and Wagner working together? Wouldn’t their big clients disapprove?”
“I don’t know,” I said, disturbed. The question was the supernova that blew my mind apart, and my fixation since she first brought up the Wagner Group.
Jen laughed. “It’s obvious. They are in business together to overthrow the United States government!”
“Now wait a minute, Jen. Apollo would never—”
She cut me off. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re the operator but I’m the detective. You said ask only the ‘why’ question, and now you’re afraid of the answer.”
Maybe I was, I realized. My mission was failing. Since arriving, I discovered more questions than answers and I was nearly killed twice in twenty-four hours. If I were smart, I would leave while I still could. But I’m not smart that way. I never was.
“Tom, who is Apollo’s real client?” asked Jen, using my name for the first time. I wanted to scream Brad Winters, but up till now I had omitted his name and the civil war within Apollo. It was dangerous information. Yet her tone was confident, as if she knew the answer. Did she know something I did n
ot? Unlikely, I thought, so I gave the stock answer.
“Apollo works for the U.S. government. Sometimes they work for an ally or an American company sanctioned by the White House, usually in the extractives or financial services industries,” I said. It was true, aside from Winters’s rebellion.
Jen giggled. “You might be a top-tier knuckle dragger, but you make a lousy detective.”
“Then tell me, Ms. Detective, who is Apollo really working for?”
“Russia.”
My mind staggered. The National Security Council hired Apollo to wage shadow wars against Russia in Ukraine, Syria, the Baltics, Libya, and central Africa. I lost my team in Ukraine to Russian special forces and the Wagner Group. Only one word came to mind: “Impossible.”
“Impossible? Think about it. Why else would Apollo be working with Wagner?”
I knew the answer was somehow connected to Winters, but I couldn’t tell her. Not yet, at least. Then the bomb hit me: Could Winters be working for Russia?
“Well?” she pressed, speeding down an ally strewn with litter.
It made sense but it was too frightening to contemplate. My mind felt like a satellite spinning out of orbit and heading for earth. She was more right than she knew: The Kremlin must have bought Winters. If true, we were all screwed.
“Well?!”
I gave her the honest truth. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Not to service safe houses. There’s only one reason why anyone would hire Apollo Outcomes: to do their dirty work. You said it yourself. Things that no FSB agent or mafioso or Spetznatz could do.”
“And what dirty work, exactly?”
“To stage a palace coup inside the White House.”
I guffawed, not ready to accept the implications. “Unlikely. It’s the White House that keeps Apollo in business.”
“Not if they cut a better deal with Moscow. They’re mercenaries, Tom,” said Jen with a twinge of stigma she extended to me.