by Eva Hudson
Ingrid exited their office and strode out into the bull pen, where the program’s clerical staff busied themselves beneath ceiling-mounted TV monitors spewing rolling coverage of the presidential election. The FBI’s Attaché Program worked out of the shabbiest offices in the American embassy in Mayfair. The State Department had announced the embassy was relocating to a brand-new building, and that meant maintenance of the old one had not been a priority for several years. The place looked like the set of a vintage cop show on daytime repeat. She turned into the hallway and headed for the stairwell.
“Ingrid?” She didn’t recognize the Southern belle voice. She spun round to see a slender young woman who was somehow familiar. “It is you!” The woman’s mouth gaped open in exaggerated surprise.
It couldn’t be, could it?
“Oh wow! Carolyn!” Ingrid stepped toward the girl and they embraced. “You’re all grown up. Let me look at you.”
“Marshall said you were working here.”
Ingrid couldn’t quite believe who she was looking at. “How long has it been?”
“I don’t know, I guess four or five years. I see you’re still into those motorcycles.” Carolyn gestured at Ingrid’s boots and leathers. “Marshall said something a while back about you shaving your head.”
“He did?” Ingrid winced. The buzz cut had been acquired in the line of duty, a disguise to help her evade capture on a mission that had gone spectacularly wrong. “The last time I saw you was at a wedding in Hilton Head. Remember? You can’t have been more than twelve.”
Jen, clutching something in her hand, approached with an eager expression on her face.
“Jen,” Ingrid said, “have you met Marshall’s kid sister?”
Jen shook her head and offered her hand.
“Carolyn Claybourne, pleased to meet you.”
“Jennifer Rocharde.” She turned to Ingrid. “You might want this.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a jersey.” Jen looked at Ingrid’s biker gear. “I’m assuming you’ll be sitting down, so they won’t see the jeans.” She proffered the black silk-mix top. Ingrid passed her notebook and iPad to Carolyn and pulled the jersey over her head.
“How do I look?”
Jen and Carolyn both reached out a hand to fix the rucked-up collar. Jen withdrew first and Carolyn did the necessary.
“Good thinking, Batman,” Ingrid said. “A lifesaver yet again.”
“Can’t have you going to the most important meeting of your career looking like you’re delivering the pizza.”
“Though, to be fair, that was the look I was going for.”
“You should go,” Jen said.
“I know, you’re right. I do. Carolyn, how long are you in London for?”
“Three years.” The girl was beaming.
“Years?” That was a surprise.
“I’m going to UCL.”
“You’re old enough to go to university?” Ingrid couldn’t compute how the girl she’d once viewed as her little sister was now an adult.
“Nineteen.”
Jen glared at Ingrid.
“Damn, I gotta go. Give me those things and then give me another hug.”
Carolyn held on tight. “It’s so nice to see you. I missed you since the split with Marshall.”
Ingrid looked at her. She’d missed her too. “You do realize you’re legal to drink in this country?”
“Sure do.”
“And that means I’m taking you out for a drink.”
Jen glowered at her, so Ingrid started walking away.
“Looking forward to it already,” Carolyn called out after her.
Ingrid jogged toward the elevators, then pushed through the fire door into the emergency stairwell. If there was an option of using the stairs, Ingrid would always take it. So much better to arrive at a meeting with the blood already pumping. When she bounced out into the lobby on the second floor, the elevator doors hissed open.
“Well, hello there.” Even though Marshall had managed to stop himself from calling Ingrid ‘sweetie’ due to her threats to report him for inappropriate conduct, she still mentally added it on to every sentence he uttered to her. He stepped out, ran his hand through his mop of blond hair, and smiled at her.
“I just bumped into Carolyn. You never said.”
“Oh, good. She was asking about you.”
They started walking in the same direction.
“She’s nineteen. How did you let that happen?”
“I keep telling her she’s only eight, but she insists on growing up.”
Ingrid wondered what Marshall was doing on the second floor. The FBI’s offices were all on the fifth floor of the embassy. “Is she staying with you?”
“Sure is.”
Ingrid remembered what living with Marshall was like: rotas, deadlines and phone bills divided through algebraic equations. How could she have been in a relationship with him for four years? “It’ll be nice for you to spend time together.”
They turned a corner, and still he was walking in her direction.
“You’re not coming to this meeting, are you?” she asked.
“Sure am.” He smiled.
Ingrid took a deep breath. Of course he was. Marshall Claybourne, the most ambitious agent in the entire Bureau and still in line to be the youngest ever director.
“Why?” She knew the reason, but just wondered if he’d admit it.
“Well—” he held open the door for her, the epitome of Southern chivalry “—it looks like this investigation is gonna tie up one of my best agents for a while, so I reckoned I should make sure she gets all the support she needs.”
They showed their security passes to a uniformed guard outside briefing room B, and he pressed a buzzer that opened the door.
Like hell that was his reason. This meeting was being attended by an executive deputy director from the DC office, and Marshall wanted to make himself seem important, just not so vital he couldn’t be considered for a promotion. They stepped into the soundproofed conference room. TV screens showed their counterparts in the US were already in attendance. The deputy ambassador was in the room and getting miked up. David Rennie, wearing a different color check shirt, gave her a smile.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Marshall said. “I’m sorry we’re late. But you know how women like to gossip.”
Ingrid stuck out her biker boot, tripping Marshall up and making him drop his notebook.
9
The attendees of the video conference introduced themselves. In London were Ingrid, Marshall, Special Agent David Rennie, the deputy ambassador Mark Guthrie, and his assistant who was taking notes on behalf of the State Department. On the screens were Executive Director Conchita Gonzales of the NSA, a representative of the CIA using the codename Marlin, and Deputy Director Frank Usher from the FBI’s headquarters in DC. It was without doubt the highest level meeting Ingrid had ever attended and briefing room B was probably the closest she’d ever get to the White House’s situation room. Soundproof, bombproof, with independent air-conditioning and its own network capabilities in case of an infrastructure failure in the UK. The room smelt like a recently unboxed iPhone.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Usher said once the introductions were over. “I’m sure you’re all following the election, so you’ll already know plenty about the hacking allegations. We have teams here in DC following several strands of what I can only call an attack on American democracy by a foreign agency.”
A necklace of tension tightened around her throat. Marshall, sitting next to Ingrid, audibly sucked in a breath to show anyone watching he understood the gravity of Usher’s words. A weary man coming to the end of an illustrious career, Frank Usher looked like he’d been pulled straight out of the dryer: slightly crumpled with pink cheeks. He continued, “The hackers have targeted both parties’ servers, voting machine manufacturers, and have attempted to access almost every branch of government.” He paused and wiped a palm over his thin
ning hair. “Now, I don’t want to be alarmist—this is far too serious for that—but it seems someone wants to either have foreknowledge of the result of the presidential election, or to influence its outcome. I’m sure I do not need to point out to any of you that, should such an attempt be made using military force, it is very likely that the United States of America would now be at war.”
Ingrid swallowed. She trusted Frank Usher. He’d worked at the Bureau for forty years and had a reputation for levelheadedness and tenacity. He was famous for spending ten years undercover—a Bureau record—in a white supremacy organization, gathering evidence that jailed an entire network. He’d finally got them for abuses of employment law because he couldn’t secure convictions for the murders he knew they’d committed. If Frank Usher was using this kind of language, Ingrid was willing to accept it wasn’t hyperbole: this was deadly serious. A shiver brushed her skin.
After a deep breath, Usher looked up from his notes. “Now, as you have all no doubt heard, these hackers are based in Russia. Whether they have ties to Putin or the Kremlin, we cannot yet prove, but as it’s our duty to keep American citizens safe, we would be failing in that duty if we did not work on the probability they do.”
The deputy ambassador’s assistant made a considerable noise as he attacked the keyboard of his MacBook, distracting Ingrid’s concentration.
Usher continued: “What we do know, thanks to the work of Agent Rennie and his colleagues in Omaha, is that they are being funded by a billionaire called Igor Rybkin. The election is now fifteen days away. It may be too late to make arrests before November 8. It may also be too late to prove the election is being interfered with before polls open, but if someone does want to influence the way the American people vote, they are going to be very busy in the next two weeks, and that means we are going to be working our little asses off too. This is likely to be our best opportunity to gather evidence that may one day lead to the most important legal case in United States history.” He took a sip of water. “Okay, I’ve said enough. Before I hand over to Agent Rennie, I just want to acknowledge the presence of our friends in the CIA, the NSA, and the State Department. Obviously we’re all working together on this, but what we are about to discuss is straight up a Bureau investigation.”
Marshall cleared his throat. “Yes, I agree. Think it’s always best to be clear about the chain of command.”
Ingrid resisted the urge to eye roll. Jerk.
They turned their attention to Agent David Rennie. With his hipster beard and preppy haircut, he looked like he should be working in Silicon Valley. “Thank you, Deputy Director, and thank you all for your time today.” He bit his bottom lip and looked down at his notes. “My team has identified the perpetrators of these attacks on America are members of a loosely affiliated group of hackers who call themselves the Pelicans. Unlike some of the other hackers you may associate with Russia, all working in hack farms in old soviet buildings on the outskirts of minor cities, the Pelicans are geographically dispersed.” He pushed a button on the desk that made an image appear on the center screen. “This is Igor Rybkin. Made his money in coal and infrastructure and owns about half a suburb of Miami.”
It was a photo of Rybkin Ingrid hadn’t seen before. It was a professional shot of him holding some kind of certificate in an official-looking room with the Russian flag and a photo of Vladimir Putin behind him. Papery skin, a neck that resembled folded towels, tinted spectacles, and a nose most commentators called a beak if they were hostile, or aquiline if they were writing a hagiography.
“The guy’s rich,” Rennie continued. “Six billion. Cases have been brought against him on every continent, but he’s never actually appeared in court because what he doesn’t spend on jets and real estate goes into the back pockets of judges and witnesses.” He filled them in on Rybkin’s disappearance, the speculation he was either dead or living on his yacht, though the occasional and seemingly random use of his bank card pointed toward the latter. He pulled up another photo on the screen. “Yelena Rybkina, his wife of about eight years. Dropped dead on a London street last week, and Agent Skyberg’s contacts confirm she was poisoned.” He paused. “By a spider bite.”
There was an intake of breath.
“Fast-forward to two days ago, and a dormant email address associated with the Pelicans we have been monitoring for almost five years was used at an internet café in an Essex village fifty miles east of London.” He looked into the camera. “This happens to be the same tiny out-of-the-way village Rybkin’s bank card was used in June of last year. This place is so small, so far away from any other hacking activity, or anywhere Rybkin has known interests that it is my belief these two events are linked. It is also my belief that his wife’s death may be the catalyst for Rybkin to surface. These next few days could be the best chance we ever have to find him and bring him to justice.”
Everyone nodded.
“The question we’re here to answer,” Usher said in DC, “is how.”
10
“So,” Frank Usher said, “have the CIA been monitoring him?”
Marlin took his time before answering. “Not at this time, no.”
“But you have? In the past?” Usher asked.
Marlin remained so still Ingrid thought the video had frozen. “He’s never been a person of interest, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Ingrid noted that wasn’t what Frank Usher had asked. “And the NSA?”
Conchita Gonzales looked at her notes. “I believe we have some intel on his movements. If you would just bear with me for a moment.” She tapped away at her laptop. “What’s the date you have for his disappearance?”
Everyone looked at Ingrid.
“September 2014,” Ingrid said.
“Ah,” said Gonzales, “then, sorry, no, the last we have on him predates that.”
“The State Department got anything?” Usher asked.
Guthrie cleared his throat. “He’s not on any of the sanction lists. To be honest, we rather thought he was dead.”
Usher turned to Ingrid. “Agent Skyberg, what happened in September 14 to Mr Rybkin?”
Ingrid relayed the story of the auction, how he had told everyone he was going to buy the most expensive Picasso in the world but had left humiliated when he’d been outbid by an anonymous phone buyer.
“Do you believe he’s dead?” Usher asked.
Ingrid scratched her nose. “Personally, I had assumed he was. He has, or had, depending on your opinion, one of the world’s most luxurious yachts. It’s called Patnitsa, which is Russian for ‘Friday.’ It’s huge; it cost something like $300 million. It’s got a golf hole on it. Not a simulator, an actual hole of golf—tee, fairway and green. Takes up the entire deck.”
The room absorbed that information with a collective intake of breath.
“If you wanted to disappear, it’s a damn good option, and technically, he would never need to come ashore. If he’d only been gone for a few months, I might buy that. But two years at sea? Voluntarily? No matter how nice it is, after a certain amount of time it just becomes a floating prison, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds pretty nice,” Marshall said.
Ingrid couldn’t think of a better person to send on a perpetual cruise. “I just don’t think it’s plausible for someone like him—gregarious, attention-seeking, extrovert—to hide himself away for that long. Which is why I strongly suspect he’s not only dead, but that he died within a few weeks of that auction.” Ingrid spread her hands flat against the table. “However, there are also some good reasons—aside from his bank card use—why we should consider the possibility that not only is he alive, but that a man with such a huge ego is planning a spectacular return to the global stage. When Agent Rennie told me he was behind the hacking of the election, I thought, what better way to announce his presence and prestige than by anointing our next president? That’s real power, right? And even if he doesn’t want to do that, if all he wants is to know hours before the rest of us who is going
to win the White House, then there are millions—maybe even billions—to be made at the betting office and stock exchange.” She paused. “Even if he’s not motivated by either of those things, doing President Putin’s bidding might be his best route to redemption. Whether he’s Putin’s pawn or acting for his own gain, Igor Rybkin has plenty of reasons for ploughing millions into the hacking of American democracy.”
Rennie smiled at her, making Ingrid realize he was actually quite good looking.
“There are a couple of other, circumstantial, pieces of evidence that also support the theory he is alive,” Ingrid said.
“Go on,” Usher encouraged.
“The first is that no one ever reported him missing. Not his wife, not his kids, not his business partners. That suggests to me some or all of them know where he is. And let’s not forget that until she died, Yelena Rybkina was filing for divorce. If she thought she was a widow, she wouldn’t need to do that. So on balance, maybe he is alive.”
“And if he is,” Usher said, “we’re going to find him. The reason for calling this meeting is to see if we can use the uncertainty around his wife’s murder to dispense with slow methodical police work and find a way of making him surface before the election. We may be too late to reverse the impact the hackers will have on the outcome, but I want Rybkin in an orange jumpsuit on every news channel in the country. People need to know the result is tainted.”
“What are you suggesting?” Rennie asked.
Everyone was silent until Usher spoke again. “I’m hoping our colleagues might have some diplomatic pressure they can apply, or intelligence gathering that’s been kept in a store cupboard, or maybe the investigation into his wife’s death will throw something up?”
Gonzales offered to see if the NSA had bank accounts under surveillance the Omaha office hadn’t traced. Marlin said there were a couple of sources the CIA could tap up discreetly, and the deputy ambassador revealed he was having dinner later in the week with his Russian counterpart. No one had a lever they could pull that would catapult Rybkin into the open.