The Russian Endgame

by Allan Topol

  “It wasn’t his. He never read it. He didn’t own a copy.”

  “Then how did he become involved in Dalton’s assassination?”

  “I blame a cousin of his back in Islamabad.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Colonel Khan. He’s a big deal in the Pakistani military intelligence.”

  Craig nearly fell off his chair. A big deal, Craig thought. That’s an understatement. The man’s now the head of ISI. “Did Asif see the Colonel frequently before he moved to the United States?”

  “For the first several years we were married, Asif rarely saw the Colonel. Then something happened. An American drone fired missiles to attack a terrorist living close to the house occupied by Asif’s parents and siblings. The missile struck their house, killing all of them. Asif was enraged. I’d never seen him like that before. He began spending time with the Colonel. Shortly thereafter, we moved to the United States. Asif is a skilled electrician. He learned that in the army. He was able to get a visa to work with an electrical firm. So we moved.”

  Craig was getting the picture: the Colonel had planted Asif as a sleeper in the United States, planning one day to use him for a terrorist attack. So was Craig wrong about Zhou being responsible? Perhaps it was the Pakistanis who had reasons of their own to eliminate Dalton. He never concealed his hatred for them.

  “Was Asif happy in the United States?”

  “The only thing he was unhappy about was that we couldn’t have children,” she said reluctantly. “We had tests here. Something was wrong with his sperm. My husband was a good man.” Her voice was cracking with emotion. “If we had a child, I don’t think he would ever have done this.”

  She began crying. Craig handed her his handkerchief and got her a glass of water.

  “What else do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Did Asif communicate often with the Colonel when he was in the United States?”

  She shook her head.

  “In the days before Asif’s death, to your knowledge, did he meet with any other Pakistanis?”

  “No,” she said with hesitation in her voice.

  “You’re thinking of something else.”

  “Yes. Thursday morning, the day before the attack on President Dalton, Asif had a visitor at our house. A little after seven in the morning. A Russian.”

  Craig was on the edge of his chair. “How do you know he was a Russian?”

  “From his accent. I heard plenty of them back in Pakistan when they were at war in Afghanistan.”

  “Do you know what this Russian and Asif talked about?”

  She shook her head again. “They went downstairs. I couldn’t hear them. After they were finished, my husband said he was going away for a couple of days. He wouldn’t tell me where. But surprisingly…” she hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “When Asif left with the Russian, he had an inner calm that he hadn’t since his parents and siblings had been killed. I should have suspected something.”

  Craig reached into his bag and pulled out Dimtri Orlov’s picture which he had gotten from German intelligence. He handed it to her. “Is this the Russian who visited Asif that morning?”

  She studied it for a few seconds and said, “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Very sure. I’m good at remembering faces.”

  Craig felt as if he had scored a touchdown at a critical part of a game. Now he was even more confident that Zhou, who had met with Orlov in Beijing, was responsible for Dalton’s assassination.

  “I appreciate your help,” Craig said.

  “When will I be able to move to California?”

  “It will take a little time. No more than six months. I promise you. Meantime, we’ll keep you safe and comfortable in this house.”

  He wrote a telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “This is my personal cell phone number. You can call me any time.”

  From the car, he phoned Betty. “Did anyone take fingerprints in the assassin’s house?”

  “The FBI tested for prints in the cabin near Camp David and found only the shooter’s. I don’t know about his house. I’ll call the FBI. I’ll get right back to you.”

  “If they haven’t, have them do it ASAP, particularly downstairs.”

  Three hours later, when Craig was back in his office, Betty charged in.

  “The FBI found three sets of prints in the house. The shooter’s. A woman’s. Must be the wife. And an unidentified male. The FBI is running that last one through their database and state databases. I’m waiting for a call back.”

  Her cell rang. She put it on speaker. Craig heard. “Betty, this is Bill Harrison at the FBI.”

  Betty replied, “I have Craig Page with me. What’d you learn?”

  “Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania police have a match. Someone strangled a clerk at the pick-up counter at Highway Shipping Lines in Pittsburgh a few days before Dalton’s assassination. They haven’t been able to apprehend the killer. No car license plates, although the owner of a lunchroom next door may have seen him.”

  Craig said, “I want the Pittsburgh police to show the lunchroom owner Dimitri Orlov’s picture. We’ll send it to you. I’m certain he’ll ID Orlov.”

  “Will do.”

  When they hung up the phone, Craig told Betty, “So Orlov killed the clerk at the truck company. He probably asked too many questions about the package Orlov was picking up. Must have been the grenade launcher.”

  “Makes sense,” Betty said. “The package came overland from Toronto. Listed as medical equipment. Prior to that, it came from Paris. Before that, Moscow.”

  Betty paused for a moment, then she continued, “I could go back in the chain, try to get some info in Moscow.”

  Craig was shaking his head. “Orlov’s former KGB. It’ll be a dead end. Besides, we don’t want to tip off the Russians. Orlov must be taking orders from his former KGB boss Kuznov. “

  “So what do you want to do next?”

  “Fly to Islamabad. Talk to the good Colonel.”

  “What do you hope to learn?”

  “I’m not sure. But we know the Colonel is in this up to his eyeballs. The weapons and the assassin are both linked to Pakistan.”

  Betty looked concerned. “That could be a dangerous trip.”

  “A chance worth taking. How soon can you arrange an Air Force flight for me to Islamabad? And a couple of security people dressed in civilian clothes?”

  “I’ll get on it immediately. You planning to report any of this to Treadwell?’

  “Not yet.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said in a concerned voice.

  Washington

  “My house in Georgetown,” Craig said to his driver when he climbed into the back of the car at

  CIA headquarters at ten thirty in the evening.

  Those words had a strange ring to Craig. The only place he had lived in the Washington area was the house in McLean. But Elizabeth had pushed hard for Georgetown, telling him, “You’ll be working all the time. I don’t want to be stuck in the burbs. When you are around, there’s always so much more to do in the city evenings and weekends.”

  Finally, he had yielded, using the money from the sale of the McLean house to finance Georgetown.

  He realized for Elizabeth it wasn’t simply the advantages of living in the city. The McLean house had too many memories for him, having lived there with Carolyn, his only wife, who died of bacterial meningitis, and his daughter Francesca, whose murder Zhou and Kirby had arranged. Ironically, he and Elizabeth first met in that McLean house following Francesca’s funeral. He could understand that she wanted to start over with a clean slate and he had to move on as well.

  It was almost eleven in the evening when the car pulled up in front of the house on P Street, a block east of Wisconsin Avenue. Climbing the stone steps, Craig looked up and saw lights on in the second floor room that Elizabeth used as an office study. No doubt, she was working on her b
ook or preparing an article for the International Herald.

  As soon as Craig entered the house, she bounded down the stairs. “How was the first day of school?” she asked.

  “If you have about an hour, I have lots to tell you.”

  “Sure. I even cooked some beef bourguignon to show you that my time in Paris wasn’t only spent writing. I’ll warm it.”

  “Sounds fabulous.”

  Craig opened a bottle of Chevillon Nuit St. George, and they sat down at the dining room table.

  He took a bite and said, “Hey. This is delicious.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Not at all.”

  He described his meeting with Betty, with the Pakistani assassin’s widow, and what they learned about Orlov.

  “Great. So you now have every law enforcement official in the country looking for Orlov.”

  “I decided not to do that.”

  “Why not? Orlov could still be in the United States.”

  “Even if I caught Orlov, that wouldn’t give me Zhou.”

  “You could cut an immunity deal with Orlov.”

  “That wouldn’t give me Zhou. I’d have the word of a former KGB agent that the Chinese President was involved. That and a quarter…”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “If Orlov doesn’t know we’re on to him, sooner or later he’ll surface. He and Zhou are no doubt planning to do something else. Then I follow Orlov and he leads me to Zhou.”

  “I guess.”

  He could tell she was unconvinced.

  “It’s our best shot.”

  “Does Treadwell agree?”

  “He doesn’t know yet.”

  She stopped to sip some wine. “Okay. You’re going to tell him tomorrow.”

  “No. Tomorrow I’m going to Islamabad.”

  “As in Pakistan?”

  “Correct. Colonel Khan, the head of ISI may have some information linking Zhou to Dalton’s assassination. China and Pakistan have gotten much closer. It’s possible General Zhou hatched Dalton’s assassination with the Colonel, then used Androshka’s brother Orlov to do his dirty work.”

  “Are you insane? Going alone to Islamabad to confront the Colonel with allegations that he was involved in Dalton’s assassination and doing it without Treadwell’s knowledge?” She raised her voice, charged with emotion. “It’s madness.”

  “Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think.”

  “Your obsession with Zhou is skewing your judgment.”

  He thought about his conversation with Treadwell when he took the Director’s job. Could he really be impartial? “I don’t think so.”

  “At least, you should let Treadwell know what you’re doing.”

  “I’ll tell him when I get back.”

  “I think you’re making a big mistake. You promised Treadwell that you’d keep him informed.”

  “I’m doing it anyhow,” Craig said stubbornly.

  “Because you’re afraid Treadwell will order you not to go. That’s why you won’t tell him. Isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. The opportunity is too good to pass up.”

  “Opportunity!” she cried out. “What opportunity? What could you possibly learn in Islamabad about Zhou’s involvement?”

  “The Colonel has a nasty habit of secretly recording his conversations. So if he met with Zhou, then…”

  She raised her hand. “Stop. Given the state of relations between the United States and Pakistan, do you really think he’d give you his recordings of those conversations?”

  “The Colonel likes to play both sides. That’s why he’s been so successful.”

  She was shaking her head. “It’s obvious I can’t talk you out of going. Still, I’ll say it one final time. “You’re out of your fucking mind. Going to Islamabad. You’ll never get out alive.”

  “I’ll arrange a security detail. They’ll protect me.”

  “Protection for Americans in Pakistan is impossible. The place is a cesspool of violence. If they ship your body home, and that’s a big if, I’ll bury you next to Francesca.”

  Los Angeles

  Orlov, who had entered the United States by car from Canada after a flight to Vancouver, walked into the bar at the Four Seasons hotel in Los Angeles and looked around. At seven on a Sunday evening, the place was busy. Most seats at the bar were taken and about two thirds of the tables. As he scanned the room, he saw several women who appeared to be by themselves—high class-prostitutes, he guessed. Exactly what he wanted.

  He sat down at an open table and ordered a vodka on the rocks. By the time he had his drink, he decided on his first choice: a tall, busty blonde sitting three tables away, dressed in a pale pink tank top that showed half of her boobs. She had a glass of champagne in front of her, but wasn’t sipping it.

  Orlov noticed her glancing his way a couple of times. He picked up his drink and walked over. “Can I join you?” he asked.

  “Sure. My name’s Angie.”

  “I’m Val.”

  He didn’t know what perfume she was wearing, but she smelled damn good.

  “Where’s that accent from?” she asked.

  “Prague, in the Czech Republic.”

  She smiled, showing perfectly white teeth. “I know where Prague is. I was even there a couple of years ago on a tour of Eastern Europe.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Great city. I still remember that exotic clock in the tower in the old city. I met lots of nice people in Prague. What are you doing in Los Angeles?”

  “I work for a bank. We’re looking at some investments here. What about you? Where are you from?”

  “Australia. Sydney.”

  “Down under.”

  “The end of the world is a more apt description.”

  “I gather you’re glad to be out of there.”

  “You better believe it. The most overrated and provincial place in the world. Ever been there?”

  “Not yet. I was hoping to get there one day, but if I spend time with you I might reassess.”

  Angie was a good talker. That made her even more valuable for the job.

  Casually, she reached down and touched his knee. Then left her hand resting there. She had long fingernails. Polished bright red.

  His plan had been to hire Angie to pick up Paul Walters, one of the five engineers in Rogers Laughton’s Epsilon Unit who developed the PGS technology. But based on Walters’s behavior last evening, he wouldn’t be in the Marriott bar until eleven. That left Orlov almost four hours. He could easily go off with Angie and still have her pick up Paul at eleven. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. And Angie was an incredible turn on. Looking down her tank top, he saw that she wasn’t wearing a bra. He felt his prick stiffening.

  As if reading his mind, she moved her hand over to his erection.

  “Wow,” she said softly. “I like having that effect on men.”

  “What else do you like?”

  “We could go to my place, and I’ll show you.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Two thousand.”

  “I can handle that.” He finished his drink in a single gulp, paid the bill, and followed Angie out of the bar. She was wearing an incredibly tight pair of Armani jeans. Looked like they were painted on.

  She drove a white Audi convertible, top down, too fast for Beverly Hills. Seat belt on, he closed his eyes and let the breeze whip through his hair. He was in LA, baby. Ain’t no place like it in the world.

  Her apartment was on the twelfth floor of a luxury high-rise on Wilshire Blvd. near Beverly Glen. Business was good, Orlov thought.

  When they entered her apartment, she said, “Want something to drink?”

  “I don’t think so. I want you now.”

  She held out her hand. He reached into his bag, extracted two thousand in hundreds, and handed them to her. She tucked them into a desk drawer.

  “Now we can play,” she said.

  She looped
an arm around his back and led him into the bedroom. He was standing close to the wall. She kicked off her shoes and pressed her body against him. Then she unzipped his pants, reached in and pulled out his hard cock.

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s something. I got so wet talking to you in the bar,” she whispered and nibbled his ear.

  “Let me see.”

  She wiggled out of her jeans and pale blue silk panties. He reached down and touched her blond bush. Her pussy was soaked.

  She was unbuttoning his shirt while he yanked off her tank top and played with her breasts.

  “I can’t wait to feel your hard cock inside,” she said.

  She pushed him down on the king-sized bed and removed a condom from the end table, which she slipped on him with her mouth while she stroked his balls.

  “I want to ride you,” she said.

  “Whatever you want, honey.”

  She climbed on top. Sitting, she slid him inside. Then she leaned her arms back. With her hands anchoring her, she moved up and down. He watched the rising and falling of her breasts. She was moving faster and faster.

  God, she was good, driving him wild. Pleasure filling his whole body. He wanted to make it last as long as possible but he couldn’t. He felt himself exploding.

  “Yes,” she cried out. “Yes, I’m coming, too.”

  He was convinced she was lying, but he didn’t care. She had made him feel so damn good.

  She climbed off and headed off to the bathroom. He heard water running. Sated, he closed his eyes and lay back on the plush pillows.

  “Can I take you back to the Four Seasons?” she said. “Or drop you somewhere else?”

  He watched her putting on her clothes. She was all business now. A working girl. She had to move on to the next client. That was how she had gotten the apartment and the Audi.

  “I have a financial proposition for you,” he said.

  “I’ll listen to anything. Get dressed first.”

  When he came out to the living room, she handed him a glass. “Vodka on ice,” she said. “I heard you order it at the Four Seasons.”

  He sat down in a brown leather chair facing her on the sofa. She was perfect for what he wanted. With enough money, he was confident she’d do it.