He came up the half dozen steps and sat next to McGarvey. “A pleasant place, this,” he said. His English was good, slightly British. Among other things he was a linguist and had studied for two years at Oxford.
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”
The Russian smiled faintly. “I had no choice, Mr. Director.”
“So the White House and the Kremlin have a problem.”
“It would seem so.”
“Which is what, in addition to your missing nuke?” McGarvey said.
“Turn the tables, wouldn’t it be enough for your government?”
“I guess. But I agreed to help, for all the obvious reasons. Our governments aren’t involved to this point, only you and I. What can you tell me?”
“The answers may be in New York, with one of our people. Trouble is we can’t do anything about it, because your FBI is on the case. His cover name is Viktor Kaplin. Works at the UN for our representative, though exactly what his function is no one seems to know.”
“SVR?”
“Yes. Colonel Vladimir Kazov. He was under investigation by us, until the FBI got involved and we had to back off. Actually we hoped your people would solve the problem for us by arresting him as a spy and either put him prison or send him home.”
“What do you think he was involved with?”
“Money. He was stealing your secrets—mostly IT and some industrial stuff—and selling them to the highest bidder.”
“Do you think he was involved with your missing nuke?”
“There’s no direct evidence.”
“There never is.”
Fomin shrugged. “But there it is. And unfortunately it is all the help that I can give you.” He looked toward Pete. “Pretty woman.”
Mac had to smile. “What do you suggest?”
“Just between you and me? Go up to New York, find the bastard, and give him his nine ounces. Save us all a lot of grief.”
“I’ll need proof.”
Fomin got up. “That’s up to you, Mr. Director. But I can give you one other tidbit. Important, I think, but puzzling. Two highly placed Washington insiders are already up there. Looking into the same matter, I suspect.”
“Names?”
The Russian smiled. “That’s one direction in which I’m definitely not going. Good luck.”
SIXTY-THREE
Bambridge had delayed leaving Washington for two days, on Pamela’s suggestion that they both think everything out. And carefully. He’d even gone into Langley and worked at his desk until the director informed him that McGarvey was on his way home.
Sitting now in his room at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, looking out the window at the traffic below on Columbus Circle, he could not believe what had been brought up to him from the front desk.
He had debated calling his wife, but it was possible that their home phone was bugged, though he had a lot of sophisticated security measures in place. And at this point he had no earthly idea what to do next, except that he had been backed into an incredibly tight corner, with no way out that he could see.
The dossier and photograph Bill Rodak had given him was of a Russian spy working at the UN, under the name Viktor Kaplin. He lived in an apartment off Riverside Drive on the Upper West Side.
He was one of the men involved with the theft of the Russian nuclear weapon, and he was the bagman for the money coming out of Moscow. But the second man, whose dossier had just been delivered, was supposedly Kaplin’s partner.
Bambridge held up the photograph of Bill Rodak, along with his dossier and the address of an apartment he kept here in New York, just a couple of blocks from the UN. Both had been printed on the same type of paper as the material Rodak had given him at the White House and were already beginning to fade.
But the message was clear, and there wasn’t one chance in hell that he was going through with either hit. It was time now to bail out.
He telephoned the front desk. “This is eight oh two. Could you tell me who delivered the envelope that was just brought to my room?”
“No, sir. It was just dropped off at the valet station with your room number. Is there a problem, sir?”
“No,” Bambridge said.
He tore up the photo and dossier, flushed them down the toilet, then got his jacket, took the elevator down to the lobby, and walked across the street into Central Park. He was going to ground, before even more shit came his way, and if it meant leaving Pamela behind, so be it. But first he had to cover his own ass.
* * *
McGarvey and Pete checked into the Grand Hyatt just before noon. The hotel was a few blocks from the UN, which was their starting point, but what Fomin had said about two Washington insiders already up here had bugged him on the plane all the way up.
They went downstairs to have lunch in the Lounge, overlooking Forty-Second Street, Pete still walking with a slight limp. When they were settled at a table and had ordered drinks, she cocked her head to one side. She did that when she wanted something.
“You hardly said a word since last night,” she said. “What gives?”
“I want you to go back and stay with Otto and Lou.”
“We’ve already covered that. I mean what else did Fomin tell you that you haven’t shared with me?”
“Nothing that makes any sense.”
“Come on, Kirk, this is me you’re talking to. I’m not going back to DC, and I can’t work in the dark up here. So what’s it going to be?”
McGarvey had known better than to underestimate her, and yet he wanted to protect her—put her in the safest haven he could think of, which right now was with Otto and Louise.
Pete reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. “Maybe I’ll say no. Get you off the hook.”
McGarvey had to laugh a little, despite himself. “This is me you’re talking to, remember?”
She nodded. “Okay, we’ve got that over with. Now, what did your Russian pal tell you?”
“He said that a couple of what he called ‘highly placed Washington insiders’ were up here, and probably looking into Kazov.”
Pete got it almost immediately. McGarvey could see it in the sudden dawning on her face.
“Impossible,” she said.
“Yeah,” McGarvey said. He phoned Otto, who was in his office.
“You guys okay?”
“Everything is fine so far. But I need a couple of answers. It was something else that Fomin told me, that got me wondering.”
“I’m listening,” Otto said.
“Is Marty at his desk?”
“No. His secretary said that he was taking a few days off. When I called his house his wife said that he’d gone fishing, down around the Farm somewhere.”
“Is he there?”
“If he is, he’s off the grid.”
“One more. I want you to check on Bill Rodak,” McGarvey said. “Find out if he’s taking a couple of days off.”
“Okay, now I’m really listening. What bug did Fomin put in your ear?”
“He said that a couple of Washington insiders were up here doing the same thing we were. He apparently knew who they were but he wouldn’t give me their names. Said it was a direction he wasn’t going. Wished me luck.”
“Stand by a mo,” Otto said.
“Mark Rowe was working for Marty, and the son of a bitch tried to kill me,” Pete said.
“And he and Rodak are pals.”
“The deputy director of the CIA and the president’s chief adviser on Russian affairs. Plus a missing nuke that Putin wants you to find. What the hell did we stumble onto in Paris?”
Otto was back a minute later. “His secretary says that he’s on a fact-finding mission for the president.”
“Where?” McGarvey asked.
“The UN. So what are these guys up to—assuming that Marty is up there too?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
“If it has something to do with the Russian nuclear weapon, I think tha
t we could be in some serious shit. You better nail these bastards ASAP. And in the meantime do you want me to take this upstairs?”
“Not yet.”
“Keep in touch, kemo sabe. Because I think it’s a real possibility that more shit could be coming your way in the form of Karim Najjir and the woman he’s working with. Though how the hell that all fits together is beyond me right now.”
“Work on it.”
“Yup,” Otto said, and he was gone.
* * *
Bambridge sat on the low concrete wall across from the wading ponds in Heckscher State Park, watching the mothers watching their kids play in the water. It was a little cool today but no one seemed to mind. Nor did anyone notice him. He was anonymous here.
Using one of the throwaway phones he’d brought with him, he called Rodak’s private line in the West Wing. It was answered on the second ring by Bill’s aide, Steve Tavel.
“May I help you?”
“Let me talk to Bill, if he’s not tied up.”
“He’s out of the office just now, Mr. Bambridge. Should be back in a couple of days. Anything I can help you with?”
“Nothing important, I just wanted a quick word. Is he reachable?”
“Yes, sir. He’s in New York at the UN. You might try Ambassador Rigby’s office. She’d know where he was.”
All the air seemed to go out of the park.
“Would you like me to give her a call and pass the word for Mr. Rodak to call you?”
“No, it can wait until he gets back to town,” Bambridge said. “What’s he doing at the UN?”
“He said something about a fact-finding mission for the president.”
SIXTY-FOUR
Najjir and Miriam, traveling under the last of the several work names they’d brought with them, were in a cab from LaGuardia into Manhattan at 12:30—just twenty minutes after their British Airways flight from Riyadh had touched down and they had been passed through customs and immigration with no problems.
She’d been morose and mostly silent on the long flight, which was a blessing to Najjir, who thought that she was too noisy at the best of times. And most of what she talked about was drivel in any event. But she was damned good cover.
“So what’s the drill?” she asked, keeping her voice low and conversational for the cabbie’s benefit.
“Soon as we settle in and have a little lunch we’re going to ask the good colonel to meet us at the UN. It’s neutral ground.”
“Where are we staying?”
“The Grand Hyatt. A man I used to know recommended the place, and it’s just up Forty-Second Street from the UN.”
Miriam gave him an amused look. “I didn’t know that you had friends. What happened to him?”
“I’ll tell you one of these days.”
* * *
Colonel Vladimir Kazov was an anonymous mouse of a man whose cover job was as a minor secretary to Mikhail Borisov, who was a second deputy assistant to the Russian ambassador to the UN. Kazov’s job was fact checker for the Russian mission. The American media was so loosely controlled that ten different versions of an important story were often reported in as many television, newspaper, and internet outlets.
His specific job over the past months was to separate the wheat from the chaff in stories concerning President Weaver, one of the most hated presidents in recent American history. The job was not an easy one, in a large part because Kazov was under nearly constant surveillance by the FBI.
But it was almost always an interesting game of cat and mouse, which he enjoyed.
It was already late for lunch and he was about ready to leave his office when his encrypted cell phone buzzed. The caller did not identify herself, because it was unnecessary.
“An interesting development may be coming your way from Washington, but if you play it right you may come out in a better position than you’re in at the moment.”
“I’m listening.”
“Two men who you’ve been working with are already there in New York, wanting to talk to you about the contract they negotiated six months ago.”
“Yes?”
“But the former director of the CIA and presumably his partner are also on their way to see you.”
“How did the CIA get my name?”
“A mutual friend gave it to him last night when they met at the Lincoln Memorial.”
Kazov nearly hung up, on the instinct of self-preservation alone, but he stayed his hand. “Why, exactly?”
“Because his primary goal—or at least one of them—is to find the two men from Washington. They want to unravel the attempt on the Eiffel Tower and try to learn what connection that event might have with your nuclear warhead.”
“And the rest of the op? Do you think that they have a glimmering?”
“I don’t get that impression,” the caller said. “But listen very carefully to me now, Vladi. This game that you’re playing with the Americans could backfire very badly. Our president is himself very concerned. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” Kazov said, his voice calm, though he was seething with anger. Several millions of euros were at stake. A considerable fortune that would allow him to go to ground permanently.
“Can you take care of it?”
“Who is this former CIA director?”
“Kirk McGarvey.”
Kazov was standing behind his desk, but he sat down, his stomach suddenly sour. “Who is his new partner?”
“The woman CIA interrogator. The same as the past couple of years.”
“But I was told that she was shot to death in Istanbul.”
“Apparently not. She was also there at the Lincoln Memorial.”
“I got the impression that Mr. McGarvey was in Novorossiysk.”
“He was, but Mr. Putin sent him home.”
“Why? It makes no sense.”
“Oddly enough, our president thinks that McGarvey could well be the key to reaching CKCHIMERA.” The code name was the operational designator that had been developed when it became obvious to everyone—except Americans at home—that Weaver would win the presidency. It was Russia’s most dangerous gamble in the past half century or more. Mr. Putin’s presidency was at stake, as was his complete control of the military, and especially of the SVR.
“What am I to do?”
“Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Rodak have come to New York to kill you.”
The news wasn’t terribly surprising.
“But they’re amateurs. So it should not be impossible for you to eliminate them instead. Perhaps staged to look as if they had a falling out and killed each other.”
“No one will believe such a thing. My God, Bambridge is the CIA’s deputy director.”
“Yes, with the mission of protecting the United States from all enemies foreign and domestic. And of course Rodak has worked for us for the past twenty years. But his scheme to cause Weaver to lose the election and then force him into an impeachable situation because he could not handle a serious crisis—a nuclear crisis—with us is on the verge of failure. Rodak is a traitor, and Bambridge, in an effort to arrest him, was involved in a shoot-out in which both men died.”
“No one will believe it.”
“No one will be able to disprove it.”
“What about McGarvey?” Kazov asked.
“I suspect that he’ll lose interest when Bambridge and Rodak are eliminated.”
“What about the nuclear warhead?”
“It never existed,” Raya Kuzin said, and she hung up.
* * *
Najjir and Miriam had only one bag each, and they didn’t bother with the services of a bellman. They were staying in New York only long enough to carry out their mission from the prince and then disappear, and he didn’t want to leave a big impression on the hotel staff.
The clerk at the desk only checked his passport, under the name of Charles Sampson, which matched the Amex Gold Card. “Will you and Mrs. Sampson be needing the services of our concierge? Dinner reservations p
erhaps?”
“No,” Najjir said.
“Yes, sir.”
They were given a room on the twelfth floor, facing Forty-Second Street and, crossing the lobby to the bank of elevators, Miriam happened to glance over her shoulder just as one of the doors opened.
“Bleeding Christ,” she said half under her breath, and she nudged Najjir into the elevator.
“What?”
“Don’t fucking turn around,” Miriam said, reaching over to push the button for eleven.
SIXTY-FIVE
McGarvey and Pete left their handguns in the hotel room safe and took a cab over to the Russian Mission to the UN on East Sixty-Seventh Street, a few blocks from the southeast corner of Central Park.
The well-kept twelve-story building was set back fifteen or twenty feet from the sidewalk, protected by an iron fence and guards in blue shirts just inside. It was directly across the street from the Park East Synagogue.
Pete pointed it out. “Odd,” she said.
“Actually the Soviet Union was the first country—even before us—to recognize Israeli independence.”
“That’s even odder yet.”
“Gave the Russians a place to get rid of their Jewish problem without killing them.”
They presented their IDs at the gate. “We’re here to speak with Deputy Mikhail Borisov,” McGarvey said.
“Does he know that you are coming?” the security officer asked.
“No, but President Putin suggested that we come to discuss a matter of some importance.”
The guard stiffened for an instant, but then called someone. A half minute later they were allowed through security and inside to the lobby area, where their driver’s licenses were checked again by another security officer.
A young man in a business suit, white shirt, and tie stepped off the elevator and came across the lobby to them and held out his hand. “Mr. Director, Ms. Boylan, welcome to the delegation.”
They shook hands.
“I’m Mr. Borisov’s personal secretary. If you’ll just follow me, he’s most anxious to speak with you.”
“And surprised we’re here?” Pete said.
Face Off--A Kirk McGarvey Novel Page 26