The Kremlin Phoenix

by Renneberg, Stephen

  “Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Define stupid.”

  “Don’t play your smart ass lawyer games with me. You know the law, stay on the right side of it.”

  Craig looked at her big dark eyes. “Will you rat on me?” He put his arms around her.

  “No. But I won’t be visiting you in prison.”

  He pulled her close. “Not even for conjugal visits?” Skin touched skin, and they both felt the electric charge of contact. Craig began running his hands over her body as her arms came up around his neck and they kissed.

  When she pulled away for air, she smiled. “OK, I’ll visit you once or twice, but only if you have a private cell.”

  “I know a great lawyer,” he said with a grin.

  * * * *

  Craig returned to his apartment early next morning to change into fresh clothes before work. Pete, his cat, slinked out from under a table and wound itself around his legs.

  “Hello boy, did you miss me?” Craig cooed as he picked up the cat and stroked its fur. He carried it into the kitchen, setting it down beside an empty bowl. “You hungry, Pete?”

  The cat purred as Craig emptied a tin of cat food into his dish. With the cat’s immediate needs satisfied, he retrieved the master list from his brief case and scanned the document into his computer, being careful to manually check every character had been read correctly. When he finished, he shredded the original page, copied the computer file onto a flash drive and wiped all trace of the MLI file from his computer. He took a roll of adhesive tape into his bedroom and taped the flash drive inside the toe of an old pair of sneakers, then dropped the sneakers casually at the foot of his bed, in plain sight.

  Craig returned to the computer and changed three numbers in each account, then three more in each of the passwords, ensuring the computer file was useless. Satisfied, he printed the corrupted master list, slid the page back into Goldstein’s envelope and locked it in his brief case.

  By the time Craig completed the switch, Pete had devoured his dinner and was curled up on the couch sleeping peacefully. Craig showered and started dressing for work. When he was selecting a tie, he noticed the old shoe box wrapped with an elastic band that he’d been storing for years. He took it down and removed his father’s hand gun. He hadn’t fired it in years, and was at best, an average shot, but he’d kept the gun in good condition for sentimental reasons. Beside the gun was a half full carton of ammunition. He loaded the gun, slipped it into his pocket and finished dressing. He started feeling foolish, reminding himself that he was a lawyer, not a vigilante. There was nothing connecting him to the MLI master list, so there was no way the killer, whoever he was, would even know he existed.

  When he finally departed for work, he left the gun in his bedside table drawer.

  Chapter 2

  Rick Harriman and Hal Woods took seats opposite Phil Powell in the interview room at Police Headquarters. Harriman sat silently watching Powell, who avoided eye contact by studying his fingernails.

  “You bought two guns yesterday,” Harriman said. “One was found with McCormack last night. I assume you have the other?”

  Powell opened his jacket, revealing the pistol in his shoulder holster.

  “You think that will save you?” Harriman asked.

  “It’ll even the odds.”

  “We can protect you.”

  Powell smiled sourly. “No you can’t.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want our help?”

  Powell met Harriman’s eyes for the first time. “I’ll take any protection you can offer, Detective, but I really don’t know why this is happening.”

  “What do you know?”

  Powell returned his gaze to his fingernails, deep in thought, then briefly outlined what he knew about MLI, adding, “We never met anyone face to face. Everything was done by phone or email. The phone calls were scrambled, the emails encrypted. They provided us with the equipment, all very advanced stuff. Nothing you could buy commercially. With the files gone, I’m now all that’s left of the MLI money trail at the New York end.”

  “So you think it’s a money laundering operation?” Harriman asked.

  “No. We invested money for them, all around the world, all in cash. They were very specific, it had to be in cash.”

  “Why cash?” Woods asked.

  “Only reason you stay in cash is so you can withdraw it fast,” Powell replied. “We directly invested as much as we could, and used intermediaries in the world’s leading financial centers to manage the rest. There was just so much of it, no one firm, no one country, could invest it all.”

  Harriman’s eyes narrowed. “How much are we talking about?”

  Powell leaned forward, and even though they were in the privacy of an interview room, he whispered. “More than a thousand billion dollars! I have no idea where it came from. We tried tracing the source once. They knew immediately. They said if it happened again, they’d terminate their business with us. We never tried again, because we knew, they were watching everything we did.”

  “When you tried to trace it, how far did you get?”

  “We followed the trail back through a bank in Cameroon to Hong Kong, then to Switzerland. That’s when they caught us.”

  “So what do you think MLI is a front for?”

  Powell shrugged. “They’re not listed on the stock exchange. It’s a private company, owned by a maze of other private companies.”

  “We’ll start our own trace,” Harriman said, nodding to Woods to take care of it. “In the mean time, we’ll move you to a safe house while we work out a plan with the witness protection program.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until we catch whoever is trying to kill you.”

  “But you have no leads.”

  “Yeah, it’ll take time.”

  “I’m not going to be a prisoner. I’ll take my chances,” he said, patting the gun beneath his jacket.

  “If you refuse protection, and you have a professional hit man after you, he will kill you.”

  Powell leaned forward with a determined look. “Maybe, but if you’re watching me and he makes a move, you can get him.”

  “We don’t use people as bait.”

  “And I’m not going to any safe house, so the question is, are you going to follow me?”

  He’s a dead man, Harriman thought. “All right Mr Powell, we’ll follow you, and we’ll put a protection squad in your house, but we’ll only get this guy after he’s made an attempt on your life.”

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  * * * *

  Craig answered the phone in his office shortly before eleven.

  “Mr Balard?” the heavily accented voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you found anything?”

  “I have something you might want.”

  “Really?” The man said, suspecting a lie.

  “I have a MLI document. A very important document.” There was a long silence at the other end. “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “Do you know Romano’s?”

  “On Fifth?”

  “Meet me there at midday.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’ll reserve a table in your name,” the man replied, then hung up.

  * * * *

  In sub level four of the underground carpark below Craig’s building, a dark van with no side windows was parked alongside a locked metal door which secured the tower’s telecommunications control system. Three men wearing headphones sat inside the van, listening to all calls in and out of the law firm’s offices. They used eavesdropping equipment only available for electronic intelligence gathering purposes, equipment that had been smuggled into the United States in pieces and assembled in secret. Each member of the three man team had carefully constructed identities that would easily fool local police and challenge even the CIA.

  Computers analyzed every call, searching for key words and specific voice prints. A sea
rch term alert suddenly flashed, indicating the computer had detected the trigger word, MLI. The team leader switched to the indicated channel, unaware what MLI meant or why it was important.

  The electronic surveillance unit’s orders came directly from the East Coast operations commander himself, with specific instructions on how to report any actionable intelligence. They were unusual orders, but not without precedent for particularly sensitive work. Only the regional commander, a former high ranking army officer, knew the intelligence gathering operation was not an officially sanctioned mission, but one requested by very senior officers in Moscow to whom he was personally loyal.

  The team leader listened carefully to the brief conversation. When it finished, he used a scrambler to call a number given to him by the East Coast commander.

  Nogorev answered. “Yes?”

  “Zelenyy pyat,” ‘Green Five’, the team leader said, all that was needed to identify himself. “Intercept at 10.43 AM,” he announced, then replayed Craig’s brief telephone call.

  The team leader hung up, leaving Nogorev troubled that another MLI document was still unrecovered. He didn’t know what document it was, or even if it was important, but he’d have to advise his superiors that part of the operation was incomplete. More significantly, he recognized the accent of the man calling Craig Balard. If not for years of training, he would have spoken with a similar accent. It could mean only one thing.

  Someone was mounting a counter operation!

  * * * *

  Dr Chaing slid into the chair between Woods’ and Harriman’s desks. He held up a small plastic envelope containing a tiny melted square of metal. Harriman took the envelope between thumb and forefinger for a closer look.

  “We pulled that out of McCormack’s car,” Dr Chaing explained. “It’s a computer chip from one of the bombs. According to my calculations, the detonation rate was in excess of seven thousand meters per second.”

  Harriman gave him a blank look. “Which means . . . ?”

  “It was a military grade explosive. That’s why there’s not much left of the bomb. I’m hoping we can scrape up enough residue for a chemical analysis, but if not, we’ve still got that chip. It’s a very interesting chip, considering it’s not one of ours.”

  “Ours?”

  “It’s not available in North America. From the metallurgy, I’ve identified some of the compounds used in its manufacture. I’m still trying to get a match, but I suspect the entire bomb was smuggled into the country.”

  Harriman looked at the sliver of metal with renewed interest. “From where?”

  Chaing winced uncertainly. “I’m still trying to work that out. It’s custom made.”

  “Is it a terrorist device?”

  “No, terrorists don’t make bombs that sophisticated.”

  Harriman handed the plastic envelope back to Chaing, who slipped it into his pocket. “Let me know if you find out where it came from.”

  “I know someone who does a little metallurgy for the intelligence community. I’ll ask him to look at it, off the record.”

  Harriman nodded. “OK, but keep it quiet.”

  Chaing got up to leave. “You know Rick, even McCormack’s gold fillings melted. Can you believe it?” Chaing walked off toward the exit.

  Once the doctor had left, Woods swiveled his chair towards Harriman. “I checked Goldstein’s calls for the week before his death. Two calls were made to him on Monday from an abandoned warehouse.”

  “Abandoned?” Harriman said thoughtfully. “It’s worth a look. Get a warrant, and a couple of black and whites – just in case.”

  * * * *

  Harriman’s unmarked car rolled quietly down the back street, followed by two squad cars. There were no flashing lights, no sirens, no screeching tires as they pulled up in front of a dilapidated warehouse near the East River. The name of the company that had once owned the building had been painted over. The few windows high above the street were smashed and the roller door was splashed with graffiti, while the front door was secured by a shiny new, heavy duty padlock.

  The cars parked in front. Harriman sent two uniformed officers to cover the rear while he, Woods and two more uniformed officers approached the front door. An officer carrying a sledge hammer took out the padlock on the front door, then Harriman led the charge inside, guns drawn.

  Four paces through the doorway, Harriman relaxed, convinced the warehouse was empty. Dust and cobwebs shrouded the interior, except for a single wooden chair beside a telephone in the middle of the floor and a heavy concrete road barrier placed parallel to the rear wall. A thin black cable snaked its way from the telephone across the floor to the wall, skirting a small oil patch in front of the roller door, where tire marks and shoeprints marked the dust.

  Harriman holstered his pistol, studying the interior while Woods waved to a forensic specialist waiting outside.

  “Dust the phone and the chair for prints,” Woods said.

  Harriman skirted the oil patch and examined the roller door’s tracks. They were not covered in dust from lack of use, but glistened with grease. “Don’t touch anything!” he shouted, then turned to Woods who was inspecting the telephone. “Get the front door fixed. I want the same type of padlock on it. Once the padlock is on, drive a screw into it so it can’t be used. Whoever’s using this place won’t know his key doesn’t work. And put more graffiti on the door. Make the damage look like vandalism, not police.”

  “You think the perp’s coming back?” Woods asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Harriman approached the door, gauging how severe the damage was. The padlock had taken most of the force of the impact. Once it was replaced, the ruse had a chance. He stepped outside to study the street. On the other side of the road were several cars parked in front of a row of rundown buildings they could use to watch the warehouse.

  Woods came outside. “Look at this,” he said, holding up an empty cartridge box. The label on the front identified the ammunition as seven point six two millimeter. “He’s got an assault rifle.”

  “That’ll punch through our body armor at close range,” Harriman said grimly. “Better let Mooney know the perp has a heavy caliber weapon.” Mooney was the officer in charge of Powell’s protection unit. “And get some ESU guys out here in unmarked vehicles.” If this did turn into a fire fight, Harriman realized, they’d need the heavier weapons used by the Emergency Service Unit.

  “On it,” Woods said, heading for the car radio.

  Harriman studied the approaches to the warehouse, trying to assemble a picture of the killer. Expert shot, high grade explosives, heavy caliber ammunition all pointed in one direction. This was no mere contract killer they were dealing with, he was far more dangerous than that.

  He was military.

  * * * *

  July 25, 2276

  “I thought you said Craig Balard wasn’t in danger?” Captain Wilkins asked.

  “He wasn’t,” Mariena said. “He lived until he was seventy six years old – before the second timeline reset.”

  “You mean, we got him killed?”

  “Yes. After I spoke to him, he must have found the master list. That triggered the second timeline reset, which our sensors detected. We know from the new historical record, the one that came into existence after the second reset, that Craig Balard was murdered the day after I spoke to him.”

  “We never saw that coming?”

  “How could we?” she said. “It never happened in the original timeline.”

  Wilkins sighed. “We really don’t know what we’re doing, do we?”

  “We have no choice,” she said. “I wish my brother was here, but he isn’t.” Her brother had been Professor in Temporal Mechanics at MIT, but he was dead, like everyone else on Earth.

  “How do you know Balard was killed?” Wilkins asked.

  “I found his death certificate,” Zikky said, “when I was scanning all data sources for our next reset point.”

  “So the first time
you researched him, he lived until he was seventy six years old?” Wilkins asked.

  “Yes, then I told him to get the master list,” she said. “That changed the timeline, and got him killed. It’s our fault.”

  “OK, so Balard found the master list in the second timeline,” Wilkins said, “our current timeline?”

  “Third timeline,” Mariena corrected. “Two resets, plus the original.”

  “The question is, do we care if he lives or dies?” Wilkins asked. “I mean, from our perspective, he’s been dead a long time.”

  “We absolutely have to save him.”

  “Why?” Wilkins asked.

  “Because in this current timeline, he’s the focal point. We made him that! Before I used him to trigger the second reset, he was irrelevant, because in the original timeline he never found the master list. Now that he has found it – in the new timeline – everything hinges on what he does with it!”

  “So we get him to hand the master list over to the right people, they do what we hope they will with it, and he’s off the hook. Right?”

  “He still might be killed, but we can’t let that happen while he controls the master list, otherwise the whole thing falls apart.”

  Captain Wilkins sighed. “So how are you going to save this guy?”

  “After Zikky found Balard’s death certificate, we started researching the location where he was murdered. It’s an Italian restaurant called Romano’s,” Mariena explained. “To save him, this is what we’re going to do . . .”

  * * * *

  Present Day

  “Do you have a table reserved for a Mr Balard?” Nogorev asked a jovial little man standing behind the restaurant’s cash register.

  “Yes sir,” Giorgio Romano replied. “Please, this way.”

  Romano led Nogorev through the cafe to a high backed private booth in the rear, far from other guests. A man sat waiting, furtively glancing at the other customers, then at Romano and Nogorev as they approached.