by Allan Topol
“I’d like to talk to you about renting the farmhouse described in the window.”
“Yeah. It’s a good property. A small farm. The owner died. His wife moved away. She gave up trying to sell it. Unless of course you’d like to buy the whole farm.”
Orlov laughed. “No. I just want it for six months.”
“What for?” She was working that gum aggressively.
“I’m from Hungary. In the United States to write a novel. I need a quiet place.”
“This is quiet alright. The rent’s five thousand a month. One year lease. First two months and the last one in advance.”
Orlov was willing to take that, but if he didn’t negotiate, Sara might get suspicious. “How about four thousand a month, on a six month lease. First two and last one up front. And I’ll pay cash.”
“You don’t want to see it first?”
“It’s only for six months.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Okay. Then forty-five hundred a month. Three months in cash up front. And it’s all yours.”
He guessed if she had any qualms, the possibility of all that cash in her hot little hand overruled them.
He pulled out the money and was preparing to reach for a Hungarian passport, but she never asked for it.
“Give me your name?” she said.
“Lazlo Richter.”
“Okay. I’ll prepare the contract.”
Minutes later she handed it to him. He signed with an unintelligible flourish but Sara was happy. She had her money. She handed him the keys and gave him a map to the place.
He loved dealing with Americans. The profit motive always took priority.
Orlov walked back to the Odyssey. He left town by a circuitous route to avoid passing Sara’s office.
The farmhouse was forty five minutes away, but only half a mile from a gas station and a truck stop with a convenience store where Orlov bought food.
He pulled the minivan into the deserted barn adjacent to the house, closed the door and locked it.
The house was a two-floor A-frame with peeling paint. Inside, furniture was sparse. A bed. A table and chair. A refrigerator. Enough for Orlov.
He ate and, exhausted, fell into bed.
The next morning, he walked to the gas station. There he told the driver of an eighteen-wheeler that his car had broken down and he had to get to Lancaster for a funeral.
They settled on two hundred dollars.
In Lancaster, Orlov went into a Hertz office. He produced a Florida driver’s license and credit card in the name of Philip Savier. That was enough to rent a maroon Toyota with GPS.
Orlov set his destination as Washington, D.C. and left the Hertz lot.
It was time to meet Valerie Clurman, Kuznov’s old girlfriend.
Paris
Craig always tried to put himself in the mind of the terrorist he was tracking. If you can anticipate their moves, you can be waiting for them at their next target.
He was convinced that Orlov’s meeting with Zhou in Beijing meant Zhou was using Orlov to launch an attack against the United States. Of course, there were American targets all around the world—embassies, bases, organizations. But the most dramatic strike would be on American soil, and Zhou always tried for something big.
Immediately after his frustrating conversation with Norris, Craig realized that having INS agents detain Orlov when he tried to enter the United States wasn’t an option.
No, I have to pick up Orlov before he gets to the United States, Craig decided. Grab him and force him to talk.
How would Orlov get to the United States? Craig asked himself. Not a direct flight from Beijing or Shanghai. Zhou would never countenance that because it would mean leaving a trail back to China. Besides, Orlov probably had to return to Moscow to brief Kuznov.
There were direct flights from Moscow to the United States. Craig doubted Kuznov would permit that. Again, the trail issue. Besides Craig had no way of obtaining the cooperation of Russian airport agents. Even if he could, he’d be tipping his hand with Kuznov and Orlov.
Craig had to assume that Orlov would fly from Moscow to a European city and from there to the United States. It was also likely Orlov wasn’t using his own name.
Same appearance or plastic surgery?
Not enough time to alter his appearance, Craig decided.
Craig circulated Orlov’s photo and name to the National Police in all the European countries and asked them to provide the information to immigration agents at their airports. “If you see this man, detain him, and call me.”
In view of his position as EU Director of Counterterrorism, the National Police were willing to cooperate. After receiving their positive responses, Craig was hopeful. As the days passed, and he heard nothing, he repeatedly emailed them. He kept coming up empty and despaired.
Finally, one week after sending out the information, Craig received a call from Captain Ernest Mason at Scotland Yard. Mason didn’t beat around the bush.
“We screwed up, mate,” he told Craig.
“What do you mean?”
“Orlov, that Russian fella you were looking for, passed through Heathrow three days ago. Using an alias. Anton Dubkin.”
“You’re sure it’s Orlov?”
“We didn’t trust our eyes. We had the photo machine confirm
the ID.”
Craig felt the anger rising. “Then why wasn’t he stopped at Heathrow?”
“Look, mate. People make mistakes. Maybe our agent was tired. Maybe he didn’t have the photo nearby. Stuff happens. I don’t think it was deliberate.”
“Damn… damn… damn,” Craig muttered too low for Mason to hear.
“Then how did you find out about it now, Captain Mason?”
“We were examining video feed from Heathrow searching for a Muslim terrorist when one of our people recognized Orlov. He was calmly walking to his plane. Like I said, that was three days ago.”
“Where was the plane going?”
“BA176 to New York JFK.”
“Oh fuck. Orlov’s in the United States.”
“What’d you say?”
“Never mind. Thanks for the info.”
Craig hung up and called Detective Patrick Malloy of the NYPD. Three years ago, when Craig was still a CIA agent, Patrick had helped Craig circumvent CIA Director Kirby and break up a planned Al Qaeda suicide bombing at Madison Square Garden, which earned Craig the Medal of Freedom from President Brewster.
Craig’s call reached Patrick on his cell, having breakfast at his home. Once Craig explained what he wanted, Patrick called to his wife, “Hey Jill, breakfast just ended.”
Patrick told Craig, “I’ll get on it immediately.”
Two hours later, Patrick called back. “The news isn’t good.”
“Shit!”
“I figured you’d say that.”
“What happened.”
“The man calling himself Anton Dubkin, arrived on BA176 three days ago. He cleared Immigration routinely. He had a tourist visa. At JFK, he rented a gray Odyssey minivan with GPS and New York plates from Avis. He’s supposed to return the car in a week.”
“So he could be anywhere in the United States by now,” Craig said glumly.
“Exactly. I’ll feed the plates and car ID as well as his photo to law enforcement around the country. But at this point, it’s a long shot.”
“Very long. We’re talking about a former KGB agent.”
“Then he no doubt ditched the car.”
“That’s what I figure.”
“You have an idea about his likely target?”
“Not a hint. But I know it’ll be a major strike if he succeeds.”
Washington
When Orlov reached Washington, he checked with telephone information. There was only one Valerie Clurman. She lived on 3499 Newark Street in Washington. Orlov got her telephone number. He drove past her house, between Connecticut and Wisconsin Avenues in Cleveland Park. It was a three story wood frame, freestanding house that
looked to be about a hundred years old.
Orlov checked his watch. Four ten in the afternoon. He parked a block away and dialed the number.
“Please leave your name at the tone.” He heard in a woman’s pleasant sounding voice. He hung up without leaving a message.
He’d wait until evening to try again. With time to kill, he found a small Italian restaurant on Connecticut Avenue where he ate pizza. Then he walked along the sidewalk, passing shops and restaurants in this pleasant, upper middle class neighborhood.
All the while, he was thinking about Valerie. She should be fifty-five. She hadn’t seen Kuznov in thirty years. What would her reaction be to a stranger trying to collect on a commitment she made thirty-five years ago as a foolish and impressionable young girl. Anger? Outrage? Denial?
He didn’t care. He was holding all the cards. He had her life in his hands.
At seven thirty, he dialed again. A woman answered. “Yes?”
“Is this Valerie Clurman?”
“Who’s calling?”
“My name is Ivan.”
Silence for a moment. Then the phone slammed down.
He dialed again. It kicked over to the answering machine.
Orlov began speaking. “I received your name from an old friend of yours from Oxford. For your own sake you should talk to me. If not, I’m prepared to…”
She picked up. “Who are you?”
“I want to come to your house and talk to you.”
“What about?”
He detected fear in her voice.
“I think we should do this in person.”
Silence for several seconds. Then she gave him the address, which he already had.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Valerie Clurman was a petite brunette who reminded Orlov of a once beautiful rose which had faded in the summer’s heat and with the passage of time. Her skin was wrinkled; her eyes sad, her walk slow and halting. She was dressed simply in a white cotton blouse and navy skirt.
As she moved away from the door to let Orlov enter, she looked terrified. Fear might account for the trembling Orlov noticed in her hands. Or maybe it was something else.
“Who are you?” she asked as he quickly closed the door.
“That’s not important. I’m a friend of Fyodor Kuznov. That’s all you need to know.”
When she didn’t respond, he left the words hanging in the air and looked around the living room. No pictures of a husband or children. He guessed that she had never married. Probably lived alone.
Prominently displayed along one wall, was a framed certificate commending her for twenty-five years with the Secret Service. It was signed by President Dalton two months ago. She had been married to her job, he decided.
When she didn’t respond to his mention of Kuznov, Orlov added, “You remember Fyodor Kuznov. You first met him at Oxford and you saw him twice after that.”
“Oxford was a long time ago.”
Through the corner of his eye, Orlov saw a picture resting on the mantle above the fireplace next to a beer mug with the word “Oxford” on the front. Orlov walked over and studied the photo. Standing in front of an Oxford banner was a group of six young people, three men and three women. He recognized Valerie in the center. A young man had his arm draped around her shoulder. Had to be Kuznov. The resemblance was striking.
Before Orlov could ask her about it, she walked over, removed the picture and slid it in the drawer of the desk.
“Oxford was a long time ago,” she repeated.
“But promises were made.”
“I was young and foolish. Oxford was a wonderful place. So many intelligent people.”
“Perhaps you were wise beyond your years.”
“What do you want?”
“One small bit of information. That’s all. And we’ll never bother you again.,”
“What is it?”
“Whether President Dalton is going to Camp David this weekend and if so, when?”
She looked horrified. “You’re planning to kill him?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why do you want it?”
“You don’t have to know.”
“And if I don’t tell you?”
“Kuznov recorded all of your conversations. I heard them. The technology in those days wasn’t as good as it is now, but the words are clear. As I’m sure you’re aware, he’s become quite an important man now. president of Russia. If I were to deliver the recordings to the
Secret Service Security Office, there would be repercussions.”
Her face was red with rage. “You’re a bastard.”
“As I said, I’ll never bother you again.”
“You’re asking me to choose between my life or Dalton’s. One of us will be destroyed.”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
He pointed to the computer. “All you have to do is go over to that computer, access Dalton’s schedule, and give me what I want.”
“Oxford was a wonderful place. So many smart people. We used to sit around and…”
Orlov had to get her to focus. “Just go to the computer and give me what I want.”
“Tell me again. What is it?”
Orlov was taken aback. “I want to know whether President Dalton is going to Camp David this weekend and if so when.”
“I won’t give you that information. You don’t have clearance for it.”
“I’ll get you fired. Ruin your life.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m retiring in a month. I’m not well. I won’t end my career by giving out classified information without clearance.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Have you ever been to Oxford?”
“Do it now,” Orlov said in a menacing tone. She walked over to the desk. Orlov was hopeful she’d boot up the computer. Instead, she sat down, removed the Oxford photo from the drawer, and stared at it. “Oxford was a wonderful place.”
He cut across the room, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Hey! You’re hurting me,” she cried out.
Orlov weighed his options. He could torture her, but he was convinced she’d never do what he wanted. He’d have to find another way.
He bolted toward the front door. Behind him, he heard her saying, “Oxford was a wonderful place.”
Orlov spent the night at a Days Inn on Connecticut Avenue.
At ten the next morning, he called Valerie. As he expected, the phone kicked into voice mail. Good. She must be at work.
In a heavy rainstorm, he drove south on Connecticut, turned onto Newark, and parked a block from her house. He was glad for the rain. The sidewalk was deserted. Given the hour, traffic was sparse.
When he reached Valerie’s house, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching him, then went around to the back of the house. Large trees blocked the view from neighbors. Orlov climbed the three cracked cement stairs leading to a small wooden porch with decaying wood. He tried the back door by turning the knob. The lock was in place, but he could tell it was old and weak. He leaned his powerful shoulder against the door. The lock quickly gave way.
One more glance behind. Confident no one had seen him, Orlov went right to the living room. He sat down at Valerie’s desk and stared at the blank computer screen.
Lots of people, he had learned over the years, were fearful of losing the passwords for their computers or the numbers to gain access to a safe, so they write the information down and hide it. Generally, not very well.
Valerie might even have left the paper with the password in the desk drawer. He began with the side drawers. Just pens and supplies. No paper with the password. He opened the center desk drawer. On top, Orlov found a booklet containing a telephone and email directory for the U.S. Secret Service. He recalled Valerie saying last night, “I won’t give you that information.” And not, “I can’t access it from my home computer.” The presence of the directory confirmed what Orlov had deduc
ed from Valerie’s words. Like many people, she used her home computer for work.
Under the directory, Orlov found a medical report from Johns Hopkins Medical Center in Baltimore with Valerie’s name on top. It contained a date one month ago. Orlov pulled it out and began reading.
“Conclusion:
The patient is displaying the early signs of Alzheimer’s disease. At this point, it is difficult to state how rapidly the disease will proceed.”
Valerie knew she had Alzheimer’s. This medical conclusion strengthened
Orlov’s conviction that Valerie had written down her computer password.
He rifled through the rest of the center desk drawer. No password. He tried drawers in a couple of chests. Only dishes and silver.
Orlov looked around the room and asked himself: where would Valerie be likely to hide it that she could get at it quickly.
The beer mug above the fireplace caught his eye. Orlov pulled it down and looked inside. He found a small piece of paper. On it, Orlov saw written in pencil the word Oxford. Then a series of numbers 1-26. The first twenty-five had lines through them.
Orlov was now convinced he had what he needed. Valerie’s password was Oxford and a number. The U.S. Secret Service, like many organizations, no doubt required that people change their passwords periodically. So she had done it by repeatedly changing the number next to Oxford. He placed the paper back in the beer mug. Excited, he returned to the computer and booted it up. “Welcome to the U.S. Secret Service” appeared on the screen. Orlov entered Valerie Clurman for user and the password Oxford26. Then he held his breath. Eureka!
He was in the system.
It took Orlov five minutes to locate President Dalton’s schedule. He went to Friday, three days from now. There, he found what he wanted: “POTUS” will be leaving the White House by helicopter at four ten in the afternoon. POTUS will be flying in the second helicopter.”
Orlov was amused by the American intelligence community’s use of the acronym POTUS for president of the United States. Everyone knew it. Why didn’t they just say Dalton?
Well, never mind. He had what he wanted.
He turned off the computer and tried to make everything in the house look like it had been when he entered.