Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  The entrepreneur who brought the news of the accident had been on his way home from the nightclub when his driver had heard all about it on his police scanner. Stunned that he had been enjoying the same elite watering hole with the honored newspaperman just a few hours before, the man had immediately ordered the driver to return him to the club.

  He had entered shakily, ordered a stiff drink, and related the tragic events. The music stopped, voices rose, and glasses were filled and refilled as he was required to tell the story over and over, to which he did not object. He also was able to describe his new line of pocket computers and hand out his business card. The tiny computers were knockoffs that he sold at full price, but no one needed to know that. As the alcohol flowed, the gloom lifted. The music and dancing resumed, and Professor Georgi Malko left after sadly accepting everyone's condolences for the death of his long-time friend.

  His driver took Malko straight home to his restored nineteenth-century mansion near the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. The butler helped Malko off with his coat, and Malko went directly upstairs to his bedroom. His bed was turned down, displaying freshly ironed satin sheets. A pot of hot chocolate waited at his bedside, covered in a needlepoint cozy. The large room was filled with the inviting scent of burning pine from the fire that crackled in the fireplace.

  Malko loosened his tie and peeled off his suit coat as he gazed above the fireplace to an oil painting of Peter the Great, empire-creator, modernizer, and tyrant. "Well, Peter," he announced familiarly, "we're back in the game. It's cold outside, but less than twenty-four hours from now, things are going to sizzle in the Kremlin." He chuckled as he considered how silly and idealistic Oleg Dudash had always been. Stubborn, stupid, and now dead as yesterday's news.

  Before he headed into the bathroom, still chortling to himself, he turned on his television set to the national station, ORT, the only one that reached all corners of the country. As of today, he and Alexei Berianov owned the largest private share of it, which meant it was now their personal media tool.

  For a moment, he remembered how much he disliked Berianov's presumptuous ways, his high-handedness. Then he shrugged. There was no way around it: Professor Georgi Malko was unelectable, just as Oleg had charged. Which was why he needed Alexei Berianov as much as Berianov needed him. Berianov was not only untainted by scandal, he was a legitimate, highly successful international merchant who could promise new avenues of commerce with the United States. Plus, he was handsome, educated, and charming. In the eyes of the public, he would be the perfect replacement for Putin.

  As he prepared for bed, the second TV rerun of the day appeared of the strangely hypnotic Roman Tyrret, who six months ago had first appeared on ORT with his own brand of populist humor and transfixed the country: "I've got a joke for you tonight, folks, straight from one of those ritzy private clubs where they won't let in the likes of me or"—he paused for dramatic effect—"you. But on the other hand, we can't afford to go there anyway, right? Remember, you heard it here first: So . . . one oligarch says to the other, 'I just bought the most fab-u-lous wristwatch in Geneva. It cost twenty thousand rubles.' 'Oh, really,' says the other proudly. 'I just bought the same one for thirty thousand!' "

  Tyrret threw back his head and howled. His freckled face with the infectious grin was irresistible. He was thirty-six years old, energetic, and radiated charisma. "Oh, the arrogance of it," he said, wiping his eyes. "They don't even know they've just conned each other. But we know it, folks, don't we. So why aren't we rich?"

  The reality was, Roman Tyrret was wealthy, the most highly paid TV celebrity in the history of the country, with the most widely watched show. He had risen from announcing local TV news in St. Petersburg to the Olympian heights of his own personal national television show that shouted the gospel of equality, shared values, and returning Russia to her rightful place in the firmament.

  Yet as soon as he was able to afford to live better than an Everyman, he did. Now he collected expensive women, was chauffeured around in his own armor-plated limousine, and—as if he were in a bad movie—counted among his closest acquaintances the very people he lambasted for a living. Which all went to prove, Malko decided, that everything was a game, even the truth when it was in the hands of someone with an audience of millions.

  Chuckling and shaking his head, the media star continued his soothing rant, voicing the public's resentment, confusion, and jealousy, kindling for today's politics: "Our churchgoing mafia runs car-theft gangs, protection rings, and import-export rackets. Our respected briefcase barons bribe Kremlin officials and members of the parliament for contracts, licenses, and jewels from the great privatization scam. And then, their buttons busting, all of them tell us their success comes because they're such astute biznesmeni. While the rest of us are dying like mosquitoes in a bug-zapper because they're stealing food from our mouths, they have the gall to tell us it's our fault because we're not hardworking enough, not clever enough, not biznesmeni!" He smacked his forehead and rolled his eyes. "They're criminals, my friends! Gangsters! Oligarchs! I think it's time we told them that, don't you?"

  Before he could cock his head and dramatically cup one hand behind an ear to listen, cheers of agreement erupted in the studio. Station hands were typically jaded, hearing every kind of spiel and con story possible, but five days a week, even the most cynical at ORT shouted for and applauded Roman Tyrret. And truth be told, Malko liked him, too. And now he owned him, just as he would—sooner rather than later—the Kremlin.

  As the van carrying Ivan Vok and Alexei Berianov rode on through the Pennsylvania night, Berianov found himself lost in reverie. The traffic signs, the trees, the distinctive North American architecture blended and blurred as the van swept past, and suddenly the vegetation was different, the architecture was different, the signs, geography, cars . . . everything was different, and he was back home in Moscow.

  It was the 1970s, and hope infused the air. Excited Kremlin planners expected Moscow to be a model urban community by the year 2000. There were new flats, new factories, and so many jobs that there was a shortage of workers. A new trade center was going up on the Moscow River. A French company was planning deluxe hotels. But despite all the growth, the Kremlin was wisely preserving the center of Moscow with its classic beauty and long history for future generations.

  He had a baby son, his first child. He was in love with his wife with her satin skin that turned into freckles as soon as the last of the snows melted. She was a mechanical engineer. Together they went off to work each morning, making their contribution to the nation's dream of a workers' paradise. They left the baby in a nursery where the nannies cooed over him. In those days, children were fed, bundled, educated, and prized.

  Disappointment is an elusive quality. It starts with tiny moments of despair, lingers in the shadows of the mind, and grows to take over one's life. Five years later, he had risen in Department Eight. He was good at his work and believed he was making a real contribution. He planned events, as they were called, in which his forces cut down enemy leaders and trained and fought alongside guerrillas to free their homelands so they could enter the exciting Communist fold.

  But in his apartment, his wife had grown sad and fat. She developed acne. They had another child, a daughter. His wife started quarrels with him all the time. He stayed late at the office and drank.

  His new secretary had obsidian hair that was as black and mysterious as an arctic night. So he divorced his wife and married his secretary. They moved in with her parents, who had a government apartment high above the Moscow River. He would stand at the window and look down at the river's wide expanse, an artery of trade since the Middle Ages. Now there were modern barges and boats with diesel engines. As always, there were swimmers, too. Even in winter a few hearty souls paddled amid the ice floes. Everyone called them walruses, real Muscovites, who understood the joys of a challenging climate.

  He and his new wife had two children, too, another boy and girl. Her parents spoiled the chi
ldren, but gradually he had less time for them, anyway. In the summer, everyone but him went off to her parents' dacha on the Black Sea, while he traveled on assignment or stayed in Moscow to work at his desk. In the beginning, his wife sent him many letters. But there were fewer each summer until finally there were none. She did not like the way Alexei treated her, she complained—his rages and long absences. She hated the guns he kept in the apartment. Besides, she had fallen in love with a lumberman. She stayed with her lumberman and the two children in the dacha on the Black Sea and divorced Alexei.

  All that winter he wandered among Moscow's yellow-plastered buildings and shaded courtyards. Iron railings rimmed the steep roofs to protect the men who shoveled snow from tumbling off. On the coldest days, the sky was translucent blue, but when it was warm, snow fell in large, hushed flakes.

  He was taking a walk in Gorky Park when a troika nearly ran him down. He dove into a snowbank and rolled over onto his back to look up as a slim-faced woman with a shiny red nose and eyes that glinted in the winter sun passed by, driving high above on the troika. The bells on the traditional Russian sleigh jingled, and there was great appeal in the three horses with their flared nostrils and whipping manes. She turned the charging animals around in a wide arc and returned with apologies to see whether he needed help. He married the driver with the fierce Cossack soul and flaming red hair, and they moved to a flat all their own. He was a quickly rising KGB official by then, and his superiors had their eyes on him. Her name was Tamara.

  When the cell phone inside his jacket vibrated against his ribs, Berianov jerked himself back to the present. The van was quiet. Ivan Vok was concentrating on his driving as they approached the secret apartment near Washington. The assassin's face was severe. He was unhappy with the erratic traffic, which he blamed on congenital American sloppiness.

  Berianov answered the phone in a neutral voice, unsure which of his two groups—Bates's Keepers or Berianov's operatives—was calling.

  "Colonel?"

  Instantly Berianov's voice changed to the low, gravelly rasp of Caleb Bates. "Yes, Sergeant. Make your report." Now that they were in the final stage, he had turned over direct command to the sergeant, who would lead the assassination team.

  Eager pride filled the sergeant's brisk voice. "Right on track, sir. Almost everyone's arrived at the depots. They're resting. At 0700 sharp I'll begin dispatching them to their assignments. We could do it sooner, but it might attract attention."

  Most of the Keepers would be stationed along the escape route, enabling the assassination team to get out of the White House and through Washington with car changes along circuitous routes. The roving van would track everyone to make certain they arrived back at the West Virginia hunt club, where the federal authorities could be counted upon to trap them. With luck, all would bite into their cyanide capsules. The only one who would not be tracked or trapped was Caleb Bates, who did not wear the belt and who would never again willingly be within ten miles of a Keeper.

  "Morale is excellent," the sergeant continued. "But there's an odd situation—two of our men didn't show up. They were supposed to take the bus, and it's possible they're lost. They'd been assigned to lookout duties tomorrow."

  "Give them a few hours," Bates decided. "You can always make adjustments to cover their responsibilities. The absence of two men so easily lost isn't enough to disrupt our plan, is it, Sergeant?"

  "No, sir! It sure isn't."

  "What about the invitations? They're far more important."

  "As you ordered, I'll pick them up at 0700 sharp at the mailbox near the Mall."

  "Good. At that early hour, you'll be able to slip in and out easily. Now I have a final order. This is very important. Crucial. Make certain you carry your cell phone tomorrow so you can call me five minutes before you go into the White House. There's going to be a slight change in your assignment. It won't alter any of our other plans. I can count on you to make this one vital call, can't I, Sergeant?"

  "Yes, sir." Austin's voice was reproving. He knew his job and his cause.

  "Of course, my error," Berianov smiled. There was nothing else as reliable as a well-trained, committed soldier. As long as he was breathing, Austin would phone. "Anything else, Sergeant?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then I'll wait to hear from you." He paused, thoroughly adjusted to Caleb Bates's way of thinking. "I'm proud of you, Aaron." He had never been so familiar, but he knew it was the right moment to solidify the military man's allegiance by calling him by his first name.

  There was almost a gasp of pleasure on the other end. "Thank you, sir. You won't regret the trust you've put in me, Colonel. You know that, don't you?"

  "Absolutely, Aaron. I'll be waiting at the hunt club, and as soon as you get back we'll have a drink of that fine sour mash I've been saving. Shall we make that a date?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  Berianov laughed aloud as he ended the connection. He felt jovial. The event was as good as carried out. All the years of waiting and planning . . . the sacrifice of living in this foreign land . . . were going to pay off in ways Yurimengri and Ogust with their small ideas could never have envisioned or carried out.

  He settled back into his seat, unconsciously resuming the more polished demeanor of top KGB official Alexei Berianov.

  "Alexei!" Vok had turned on the radio, on which an agitated voice was reporting the murder of FBI director Thomas Earle Horn by an enemy mole within the Bureau who used the name Jeffrey Hammond. "Do you hear that, Alexei?"

  Berianov smiled. "I hear." He felt a surge of confidence. The murderer of the FBI director . . . now that was something. Hammond was as good as dead. Berianov had no idea what had happened, but he suspected his man inside the Bureau had had a hand in it. He slid out his cell phone again.

  Vok glanced at him, his heavy face mirroring Berianov's relief. "Things are going our way now. What about the Keepers? Anything new there?"

  "They are in place, Ivan Ivanovich, and they'll begin tomorrow at seven A.M. as planned. It couldn't be better."

  Before he could dial his call, the phone vibrated again. Once more he spoke cautiously in a neutral voice. "Yes?"

  It was one of Vok's people, Sergei, and he sounded breathless and unsure as he babbled in Russian: "I don't know how it could've happened, but Hammond and Convey killed our two people. Our car was there, of course, as was the Ferrari." He described the scene in detail. "We planted fake identification on our two men. It'll look like a drug sale gone bad. The authorities won't be able to connect any of it to us."

  "At least that's good." Berianov's chest was tight with urgency. With an act of will, he forced himself to relax. "Very well, Convey and Hammond will have to surface somewhere. Break up your pairs. One person alone to each surveillance post so we can spread out and cover more possibilities. I'll get back to you with locations." He ended the connection.

  Vok was glowering. "They escaped, Alexei?"

  Berianov filled him in. "Nothing must stop the Keepers. We need less than twelve more hours to protect them and keep them on track." Berianov's eyes snapped, and adrenaline surged through him. He thought for a moment, then dialed.

  Vok shook his head. "Hammond and Convey have turned out to be a much bigger problem than we ever thought." As usual, his words were an understatement. His eyes told the truth: They radiated violence.

  Berianov listened as the telephone's ring ended. No voice answered. Instead, there was a long squeal that to someone else's ear would sound as if the line were dedicated to faxes. But after about sixty seconds the noise ended abruptly.

  Berianov ordered into the silence: "Call me immediately." He hung up. Within two minutes, his phone pulsed. He punched it on and spoke in English. "What happened to the Bureau director?"

  Bobby Kelsey's low voice answered. "Somehow the son of a bitch got the idea I was the mole, and he was going to expose me. Luckily, he wasn't one-hundred-percent sure he was right, so he didn't tell anyone, and he met me alone. He had delusions of ma
king the grand gesture and arresting me himself. Of course, what he ended up doing was giving me time to prepare for our meeting."

  Berianov smiled. "And so you planted evidence against Hammond."

  "Never miss an opportunity, I say."

  "Excellent," Berianov approved. "But we have another problem. Unfortunately, Hammond and Convey have learned—or guessed—too much, and they're still on the loose. I need every piece of information you have on them. Every possible contact they might make. Forget risk. . . . There's no more time to worry about that."

  "I understand. How shall I get it to you?"

  "Coded e-mail. The usual address." Berianov snapped off the connection, shoved the phone into his pocket, and crossed his arms, scowling ahead at the highway as if he were looking for the end to it.

  41

  It was midnight near Dupont Circle, ten minutes from the White House and five minutes from elegant Embassy Row. Beth and Jeff left the Volvo and walked five blocks to Senator Ty Crocker's house, which was on a street lined with historic homes and tall, branching trees. The place was silent and dark, and Jeff led Beth into the side yard, past a magnolia tree, and into an enclosed rear garden of shadowy rose bushes and herbs. He rang the back doorbell.

  Rousted from his bed, the seventy-eight-year-old senator tried to slam the door the moment he opened it and saw Jeff on his doorstep. Jeff jammed the door open with his foot, and then, both hands on the edge of the door, he forced it open against the angry resistance of the older man.