by James Phelan
“Yes.”
“I’m filing a syndicated story all around the world and I want your comments,” Fox said. “I have spoken to Art Kneeshaw, as well as Amar Singh. It seems you have been quite busy, in Zahedan, Iran, just across the border from Pakistan. I’m sure you know it?”
Babich’s jaw clenched. “Meet me in Bellagio, ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said. An hour before his catch-up with Sirko.
“Where in Bellagio?”
“I will inform you in the morning, at five minutes to ten.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Fox said. “You tell me now or I’ll set the place and time myself.”
Babich smiled. This guy wasn’t stupid. “Okay, Guzzi’s Café. It’s on the lake.”
“I’ll see you there.”
The line clicked out.
He would make that meeting tomorrow; he would show Fox the woman, give him an ultimatum. Then, only then—when Fox and his precious girl were in each other’s arms, after Fox had given up the location of where Art and any others are—would he take care of this.
His boys had failed him on this. All is not gold that glitters, he reminded himself. His faith in others had been put in check, and when this was over he’d need to reassess those he trusted with such work.
He dialled Kolesnik on his cell. “Where are you?”
“Just landed in Milan.”
“Bring our guest to my villa,” Babich said. “The room beneath the garage. I will see you here soon.”
“I’m on my way.”
He would accept no more excuses from Kolesnik after this. Where something is thin, it tears, and Kolesnik’s mistakes were costing Babich. He could not afford them anymore. It is a bad workman who has a blunt saw, his father used to say, and unless Kolesnik picked up his game, he was out on his own. Babich had given him so much and asked for little in return. Tomorrow, he would bring Sirko into the family; for too long he had been on the outer, and for what, pride? To waste away his talents?
The clouds came together, the water darkened and he pictured Lachlan Fox. He was reminded of another line his father used to say: “Beware of a quiet dog and still water.” The reporter had been asking him for a face-to-face meeting for weeks. Now it was time to see how far he was willing to go, if he would risk rolling the dice with the ultimate kind of leverage. One thing Babich had learned was that every man had his price.
91
LINATE AIRPORT, MILAN, ITALY
“Where are you taking me?”
Kate was dragged down the stairs of a private aircraft, just managing to keep her feet—it was hard to walk, she felt drunk. Each time she had questioned this man, the only person she had seen in the plane’s cabin, he had slapped her across the face. Her left eye felt as if it was going to burst; she tasted blood on her swollen lip.
“Get in,” the man said, pulling her roughly towards the BMW 5-series sedan, the boot opening as she neared. She shuffled towards it, looked in, then back around. The corrugated steel hangar was barely big enough to house the plane, and had only one bank of dim fluorescent lights. It was cold and dark and there was no one around—not even the pilots.
He pushed her roughly, head first, into the boot. She felt her legs being lifted in and folded uncomfortably. Then it was dark and quiet and they were moving.
92
FBI WASHINGTON FIELD OFFICE, WASHINGTON DC
Kavanaugh’s hands were cuffed in front of him and he wore orange overalls. He sat in a holding cell that contained a thin foam mattress on a single bed and a stainless steel bowl that served as both toilet and water spout. He was supposed to be staying in a resort.
He had a wife and kids, he had been successful, and earned good money by selling secrets—had almost three million in a separate account, but whether or not he ever got to spend it would depend on the outcome of the next twenty-four hours.
He had two long-standing draft emails, both of which he had sent via his Blackberry within seconds as he stood listening to McCorkell, and then he had shown them the pistol to buy some time. Actions were in motion, and he was not done yet.
That the FBI had cracked the dead-drop site he’d set up in World of Warcraft surprised him, but in hindsight Hutchinson was an SOB who surpassed most others. The benefit was, like traditional dead drops, that it was a true cut-out device: none of the operatives who used it to communicate and exchange information knew one another or saw one another—perfect for preventing an entire espionage network from being compromised. Sure, he’d been made, as had his point man, but that was it—Sirko was in the clear, no one knew who he was outside the game.
They might be at his computer now, using his avatar, the counter-espionage agents setting up another dead drop that was ready for pick-up—in person perhaps? Beyond Sirko, he didn’t care. The others didn’t know him, the Umbra guys who paid him for intel only knew that he was highly placed, reliable; and of course they knew his account number.
His lawyers would be here soon, and through them he knew he could make a deal—if it even came to that. He had made good money but spent none of it; it could easily be handed over—mea culpa. If his Plan B worked in the morning—if both his directives were carried out—there was every chance he would walk away from this.
He didn’t get this far in intelligence to go down without swinging. His back-up plan would never be traced back to him, and at worst he would come out of this with a few years’ easy time and a fine. Best case, he’d get home detention, maybe even be able to work at a private firm in DC. Or maybe get the fuck out of DC, move to SoCal maybe, write a book.
A man like Hutchinson would never understand, McCorkell either. Well, it had been complicated, but he had always planned to clean things up himself.
He had gone to Grozny to meet Sirko, a target designated as being an easy way into Umbra’s highest echelons of power. They’d been young, the Cold War had ended, and in the spirit of the new relations they had got along well. Digging around on his own, Kavanaugh had discovered the details of Sirko’s father’s death at the hands of Babich. He had shown his friend, shown him the KGB files that had come through a much earlier defection. Sirko had been disbelieving, refused to accept the truth about his own agency-sanctioned double-murder. Kavanaugh had pulled in a source who had confirmed it, and when Sirko still wouldn’t believe, he had helped Sirko pick up Babich’s long-time heavy man and made him talk over four days in a rendition camp. Oh, how that scum had talked.
Then and there, he had restrained Sirko from going out and killing Babich. Then and there, they had formed a plan that was now finally coming to a head. They’d become genuine friends who looked at the world in the same way. He had supported Sirko, treated him like the brother he’d never had, kept him busy and informed, showed him there were better ways to exact revenge.
Over the years they had been building up to this moment, chipping away at Babich and his organisation: Kavanaugh on the legit, driving a desk at Langley; Sirko retaining his FSB credentials and working on Babich’s side—for Umbra and its collection of ex-spies, as well as the FSB. And the FSB was Russia—they had the run of the place and would continue to as long as men like Putin and Babich were around …
Babich would soon meet his deserved fate and Sirko would serve his revenge cold—or rather at the temperature that plastic bonded explosives ignited. Things would be cleaner and leave fewer loose ends; and then Kavanaugh’s second, final directive, would cause some FBI collateral damage.
Kavanaugh smiled, thinking of Sirko, the release he would feel when he finally settled his score with the man who had orphaned him. He would be free to start a new direction in life without the weight of this burden hanging around his neck.
Kavanaugh had made the mistake of getting caught, but victory … that went to the player who made the next-to-last mistake.
93
MALPENSA AIRPORT, MILAN, ITALY
Emma Gibbs and Al Gammaldi embraced as if they had been separated fo
r years.
“You good?” he asked her, his hand on her belly.
“Yeah. Here,” she said, smiling as she handed over a paper bag containing a pound of loot from Rivington Street’s Economy Candy.
“Oh, man,” he said, wolfing a handful down.
“Fructose coma is headed your way, Al,” Fox said, coming into their space. “Any day now.”
“Pure, over the top New York candy,” Gammaldi said, chomping on a caramel chew. “This would have Willy Wonka weeping into his cocoa.”
Fox pinched a few Gummi Bears.
“And they told me there that trick-or-treaters get complimentary goodies on Halloween,” Gibbs said. “The only catch: you have to be a kid.”
“Listen, Lach…” Gammaldi said, putting an arm around his future wife. “I was thinking, since it’s probably going to be a light day tomorrow, maybe I’ll blow off work, go shopping or something?”
“Yeah, Al, take Emma and go blow some money,” Fox said, working collateral Gummi Bears from his teeth. “Maybe squeeze in a little afternoon delight.”
“I was kidding,” said Gammaldi. Emma rolled her eyes and walked towards Duhamel, Brick and the other FBI men. “Although now you said that, this is Italy…”
“I forgot for a second that you’re hilarious,” Fox replied. “Your call, Al, but you should know, your better half will be there looking through a scope expecting to protect your sorry ass tomorrow.”
“Did you forget that I’m going to be a dad?”
“I’m kidding—I’m cool if you guys stay behind, I’ve got all I need out there,” Fox said, with a hand gesture to the FBI guys loading up a couple of vans. “Seriously, there’ll be so many cops around it’ll be like an inauguration parade.”
“I’m not sure what to say to her,” Gammaldi said, watching Emma talking shop with Brick. “She doesn’t want me in the firing line.”
“Well, put on a helmet and pads and get in there,” Fox said.
“Okay, people,” Duhamel said, hanging up his phone. “We’ve got to roll now—got to set up with the local cops.”
“They might be compromised,” Brick said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Duhamel said.
“But Italy has very strict anti-mafia laws, so Babich can’t be moving large sums of cash money around without judicial … what’s the opposite of oversight?”
“So…” Fox trailed off, waiting to be convinced.
“So, I’ve got Luigi and Ivan with me, and SAC Hutchinson has a detachment of EGF cops on this; they’re as good as it gets around here and they’re really fucking happy to be able to get some headway against the fucking Russians who are moving in and taking over their sleepy holiday spots.”
“Maybe you should work for their anti-tourist bureau when all this blows over,” Fox said.
“Besides,” Duhamel said, “no one local knows who our target is yet, and it’ll stay that way until as late as possible. Right now, they’re prepping a place on Lake Como for us to set up all our comms gear. Hutchinson will meet us on the ground there ASAP.”
“Define ASAP,” Fox asked, climbing into the back of a passenger van.
“Hours; momentarily; very fucking soon,” Duhamel said. “Hell, he’ll be there about the same time as us at this rate, and we’ll be ready to rock for the morning’s meeting.”
“Yeah, seriously,” Gammldi said to Fox out the side of his mouth, “these guys have this covered. You’ll be fine; it’s just a meeting. I’ll sit in a café and read a newspaper and watch from afar…”
94
EEOB, WASHINGTON DC
“You seen the Georgian thing on the news?” Wallace asked.
“Yeah,” McCorkell said. “This will make my life so much easier…”
“Save your sarcasm, buddy,” Wallace said, handing over a DVD to his old college friend. “That, there, is the full footage of what went down in Georgia; save you waiting around for the Department of Defense to get it to you.”
“Thanks,” McCorkell replied, putting the disk by his PC.
“Are you convinced Hutchinson can pull this off and get out with my men in working order?”
“He’s got the best out there with him,” McCorkell replied. “It’s all happening in Italy tomorrow morning their time.”
“Pray they get enough to bring the bastard in.”
“They will. They already have enough for some action against his water company,” Hutchinson said. “Half the water is running into Iran.”
“Jesus. They’ve got their own water problems, but they’ve got de-sal plants and oil to burn,” said Wallace.
“Exactly—it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out why they’d need this kind of volume of water running into a middle-of-nowhere town.”
“Have you got proof?”
“I’ve got a team working satellite images as we speak.”
“It almost makes me wish we still had forty-three in the House so our boys could go out there and just bring Babich in, no questions asked,” said Wallace.
McCorkell laughed. “It does sound more like a Cheney or Rumsfeld thing, I’ll give you that.”
“It’s not fair what people say about Bush junior, though,” Wallace added. “Sure, he was a good-time Charlie, but he had to deal with a lot of shit in his time, more than most cats had to.”
“That’s true.”
“It’s just that he’s used his whole life to front questionable business endeavours, and in a way that’s what his presidency was,” Wallace said. “He didn’t quite have Cheney’s cartoonish need for power and greed.”
“Whoever said political satire became obsolete when Henry Kissinger was awarded the Nobel Prize?”
They were both laughing hard.
“You can hang around here while it plays out; come back in?”
“All right, call me in my hotel when you’re ready.”
95
BELLAGIO, LAKE COMO, ITALY
Sirko arrived at his hotel, backpack over his shoulder, bag of shopping from the local providore in his hand.
He had a haircut scheduled via the concierge, during which he would ask the hairdresser for a ‘fresh look.’ There were many Russian eyes around this town, and they were all, by his reckoning, loyal to Roman Babich, a figure so much a part of the economic prosperity they enjoyed. When things went down, there would be plenty of heat around, and while it wasn’t the local cops he worried about, having a different appearance wouldn’t hurt.
He made himself a meal from prosciutto, tomato and bocconcini on a panini, and popped a Chinotto. He sat by the open balcony doors that overlooked the street, just two blocks from the Lake—not quite la camera con la vista, but it had the right view for what he needed.
Tomorrow would be a new chapter in his life; justice at last. First thing in the morning he would go to Guzzi’s Café and plant the device: a US-military M112, 1.25 pounds of C4 wrapped in dark green Mylar plastic; he had readied the small detonator and secured the copper wire that would act as an aerial for the receiver, which was a simple garage door opener. He knew the exact place to secure it: near the seat he knew Babich always booked when he went there. It was enough explosive to take down the front half of the café—maybe even the whole building. He would leave a jamming system there, too, to allow his detonator to be the only frequency available. And he would tip the waiter to do a little job for him.
It was all simple enough, a system that evened the odds against well-equipped adversaries: basic asymmetric warfare that involved a big bang.
Tonight he would prepare his rifle. He would wait until the right moment tomorrow to make the decision: shoot Babich in the face, or take him out with the C4. He had imagined the look on Babich’s face for so long and to not see it might be to deny himself the gratification. A bullet or a bomb. Either way, he would think of his parents when he killed him, think of Babich lying to him, smiling at him, taking the place of his father. The collatera
l damage would be regrettable; the staff and clientele of the café could not survive if Sirko chose the louder option, but his focus had to be on one man, not the welfare of bystanders.
Sirko knew more about war than about peace. But after tomorrow, and his last act of violence, he would spend a lifetime exploring the latter.
96
BELLAGIO, LAKE COMO, ITALY
“I want an iron curtain around this place,” Hutchinson said. “If I give the order, nothing gets out, no one. I don’t want him slipping through, because he may just disappear for good.”
They were in the suite at the Hotel Du Lac where they had all spent the night. Sunrise was just around the corner, and final plans were made and triple-checked. Everyone knew what they had to do.
“Why are you smiling?” Gibbs asked.
“Happiness is my default position,” Fox replied.
She shook her head, incredulous.
“Yeah, well give it time,” Gammaldi said to her. “You live lives like ours, saving the planet every few months, and without humour you’d go nuts.”
“It’s true,” Fox said.
She smiled, punched Gammaldi in the arm.
Hutchinson looked over at Fox, concerned.
She woke after a few hours, shook her dream from her mind. Her face throbbed. When she raised her head from the pillow it was coated in clear fluid and blood that had leaked from her nose through the night. She still felt groggy, and was overwhelmed by a sense of vertigo as she tried to stand. The door was locked from the outside and the walls were solid; there were no windows to climb out of. Her breath quickened and her heart rate rose as she looked around the room, desperate. She forced herself to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the ground while she concentrated on her breaths, counting them until they slowed to something closer to normal.