by Allan Topol
Walters closed his eyes.
He’s thinking it over, Orlov decided. The brilliant engineer is
trying desperately to find a way out. But there is no solution to this problem. He has to give me the CDs.
Orlov reached into his bag and removed a map with a penciled x in the center. “Here’s the meeting point tomorrow at midnight. You better be there with those CDs. Oh, and open a Los Angeles bank account. A soon as I have the CDs, I’ll transfer the million to your bank account.”
“I’ll be there,” Walters said weakly.
Orlov stood, then added, “Don’t even think about going to the police or the FBI. I’ll sense that when I approach Great Falls and I won’t show. Then I’ll distribute the photos and video. And if I’m caught, I’ll deny everything. You don’t have any evidence. Also, before tomorrow night, I’ll make a copy of the photos and video. If you try to trick me, one of my colleagues will anonymously distribute them. You’re up shit’s creek without a paddle. So be there.”
“I will,” Walters replied in a faint hoarse whisper. “But I’ll want all the copies of the photos and the video.”
“Of course, I won’t need them anymore. We’ll be finished with each other.”
Orlov said it with such conviction that Walters seemed to believe him. The truth, Orlov thought, was quite different. Once Orlov had the CDs, he couldn’t risk leaving Walters alive.
Beijing
President Zhou sat in his office brooding. He had finished reading for the second time the report that State Security forwarded to him on Mei Ling’s activities.
He was astounded to learn how close she had come to capturing the presidency when she had challenged him. He was also amazed to read the transcript of a telephone call Qin Ping, a member of the Central Committee, had with Mei Ling, prepared pursuant to Zhou’s directive to record all calls which Central Committee supporters of Mei Ling conducted. The call didn’t last long enough for State Security to pinpoint Mei Ling’s location. Only that she was somewhere in France. But the substance of the call astounded Zhou. Ping told her that Zhou had boasted that he was responsible for President Dalton’s assassination and that he planned to launch a military action against the United States.
Ping had also told her about the arrest and execution of Bao, the former Intelligence Minister. Ping had called Zhou a monster and Mei Ling promised to enlist Craig Page’s help to stop Zhou.
When he finished the transcript, Zhou was spitting bullets. The nerve of those two traitors.
Though Zhou despised Mao for destroying his parents, he still had studied Mao’s methods to preserve his rule. When advantageous, Zhou was prepared to emulate Mao. One thing Mao did was eliminate all of his adversaries.
That meant killing Ping and Mei Ling. In the case of Ping that would be easy. He was in Beijing. Captain Cheng could easily arrange for him to have an accident.
With Mei Ling, there was a problem. France was a large country. Zhou had to locate her. There had to be a way.
Then it struck him. She had a son in the Chinese navy who was currently at sea. He might know where his mother was.
The power of the Chinese president was awesome. In five minutes, Zhou had on the phone the Captain of the ship on which Mei Ling’s son was serving.
Zhou gave the Captain an order to arrest Mei Ling’s son. “I want you to interrogate him, using extreme torture if necessary, whatever it takes to get his mother’s location. Then toss him overboard. Call me back as soon as you have the information.”
While waiting for the ship Captain’s call, Zhou studied a report Jiang Hua forwarded to him “for your eyes only,” describing in detail the American PGS system and its schedule for implementation. The Pentagon was formulating a proposal to install it in California, outside of Los Angeles. Cost analyses were being prepared by Rogers Laughton. “I need that technology,” Zhou said aloud. “Orlov had better get it for me or…”
The intercom rang. Zhou’s secretary said, “Captain Cheng is here to see you. He says it’s an important matter.”
“Send him in.”
Cheng looked worried.
“What is it,” Zhou asked.”
“I was just informed by one of our military intelligence people stationed in Pakistan that Craig Page traveled to Islamabad for a meeting with Colonel Kahn, the head of ISI.”
At the mention of Page, the veins began protruding in Zhou’s neck. “Do we know what happened?”
Cheng nodded. “The Colonel gave our man a complete report. He said that Page has proof that Orlov was responsible for arranging Dalton’s assassination. Page also has information that Orlov met with you in Beijing.”
That damn Mei Ling, Zhou thought. That must be how Page found out. She must have a line of communication with him. Probably through Elizabeth Crowder. He should have killed Crowder in Marbella.
“What else did he say?” Zhou asked.
“That Page was anxious to have the Colonel implicate you in the Dalton assassination, but he refused to do that. So Page only has Orlov.”
Zhou thought of tipping off Orlov, but decided against it. Orlov might break off his effort to get PGS and go into hiding. Zhou couldn’t risk that.
“I want you to do two other things for me,” Zhou told Cheng. “In the next couple of days, arrange for Qin Ping to have a fatal accident.”
“I can do that,” Cheng said. “What else?”
“I’ll let you know shortly.”
Four hours later, Zhou received a call from the ship captain. “Mei Ling son’s broke after only mild torture. He’s now food for the sharks.”
“Where is his mother?”
“Paris, France. Room 610 at the Hotel Burgundy on Rue Duphot.”
Zhou gave Captain Cheng the information about Mei Ling’s location. Then he added, “After you dispose of Qin Ping, I want you to go to Paris and kill Mei Ling.”
Great Falls, Maryland
Expecting it to be deserted at midnight, Orlov had selected an observation point adjacent to the Potomac River for his meeting with Walters. The air was unseasonably cool after two days of heavy rain. A full moon shone between the clouds.
Orlov had learned long ago that people in Walters’ position sometimes do foolish things. He had to make certain Walters didn’t enlist the aid of the police or the FBI. Orlov arrived in the area an hour early and parked fifty yards from the observation point. No other cars were in the lot.
Orlov climbed a rock and flattened himself down out of sight. With night vision binoculars, he had a clear view of the gazebo in the observation point as well as the surrounding area. He couldn’t see anyone. No signs of a trap. Whew, he let out his breath with a sigh of relief.
He focused on the river. With the recent rain, the flow was fast. Orlov checked his watch. Forty minutes to midnight. He removed a chocolate bar from his pocket and ate it. Then he waited.
Thirty minutes later a dark blue Toyota pulled into the parking lot for the observation point. Through the binoculars, Orlov watched Walters, wearing a navy windbreaker with zipper pockets large enough to hold CDs, exit the car and walk slowly and hesitantly toward the gazebo. Orlov waited five more minutes to make certain no one else came. Walters was sitting alone on a bench in the gazebo. Satisfied, Orlov climbed down the rock and headed toward Walters. Orlov was holding a cell phone in his hand. He planned to tell Walters that as soon as he had the CDs with PGS he’d use his Swiss bank’s automatic transfer system to send the money to Walters’ account. He had no intention of doing this.
As soon as Orlov stepped into the gazebo, Walters stood up on the dirt floor. With his back toward the river, Walters was facing Orlov.
“Give me the PGS CDs.” Orlov said. His jaw was set tight, his eyes bearing in on Walters like lasers.
“I didn’t bring them,” Walters replied, his voice quavering.
“If you’re trying to hold me up for more money, you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“It’s not that.”
“Wha
t’s the problem?”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“You don’t have a choice. I’ll deliver the photos and videos to your wife. To Linda at Cornell and to Paul Junior at Penn. Also your boss at Rogers Laughton. I’ll put them on the Internet.”
Hunched over, Walters looked away from Orlov’s relentless stare. “I’ll take the humiliation. Rather than be a traitor.”
“No, you won’t. That’s not an option. Tomorrow morning, you’ll get the CDs. Then we’ll meet again tomorrow night, right here at midnight.”
“No. I won’t do it,” Walters said, straightening up.
Orlov hadn’t anticipated this response from Walters. His face displaying a cold fury, Orlov moved in close to Walters. But Walters didn’t cower.
Orlov slipped the cell phone into his jacket pocket and pulled out a hard black rubber truncheon. “I’ll beat you with this. Not on the face so anyone can see, but on your stomach and your genitals. I’ll beat you until the pain is so great that you’ll think you’re going to die. You’ll never have sex with Angie or anyone else again. Then you’ll agree to get the CDs. Or I’ll go up to Philadelphia and beat your son the same way. I’ll destroy your manhood. Then I’ll destroy his.”
When Walters didn’t respond, Orlov raised the truncheon in his right hand high above his head. “This is your last chance.”
Still, Walters remained mute. Orlov lunged for him, trying to grab Walters with his left hand. At the same time he pulled back his right arm to swing the truncheon.
Orlov was concentrating on aiming his blow. He never saw Walters’ foot viciously swinging at his groin until it was too late. A muddy, black-pointed shoe smashed into his balls. Orlov almost passed out. He gave a loud cry. “Au…Au…” He dropped to his knees.
“You’ll pay for this, bastard,” Orlov growled.
Expecting Walters to race for his car, Orlov, in excruciating pain, was too stunned to react immediately when Walters turned and bolted for the river. Orlov crawled, then staggered after him, but he was too slow. In horror, he watched Walters standing at the edge of the swiftly moving muddy river.
Orlov removed a gun from his pocket. “Don’t do it, Paul,” he called. “You’ll drown.”
Walters ignored Orlov and plunged in. Orlov fired, but had no chance of hitting Walters.
Orlov went up to the edge of the river. In the moonlight, he saw the current tossing Walters around and carrying him fast. He was bobbing up and down. Going under. Not coming up.
Shit. He’s a dead man, Orlov thought. And I may be as well, when I have to explain this to President Zhou.
Washington
President Treadwell looked angry. Real angry, Craig thought.
“When I appointed you,” Treadwell said to Craig, “people told me that you were a cowboy and a loose cannon. I thought they were exaggerating, but after what I heard from General Thomas about what happened in Islamabad, I realize they were right.”
It was eight in the morning. Craig and the President were alone in the Oval Office. Treadwell had summoned Craig for a briefing about his trip.
“Dammit,” Treadwell continued. “You should have told me about it ahead of time.”
Craig thought about Elizabeth’s warning. Time to suck it up. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I was wrong. I won’t do it again.”
“And you expect me to believe you?”
“Please. I mean it. I hope you will.”
“Humph.” He shook his head in dismay. “Okay, now tell me about this sudden trip of yours to Pakistan.”
Craig took a deep breath and began talking. “I now have almost a complete picture of who was responsible for Dalton’s assassination.”
Treadwell sat up straight. “Go ahead.”
“A former KGB agent by the name of Dimitri Orlov approached the Pakistani shooter, Asif Pasha, took him to the cabin near Camp David, and supplied him with a grenade launcher. Asif was a cousin of Colonel Kahn, the head of ISI, who planted him in the United States after one of our drones accidentally killed Asif’s parents and siblings. Orlov hid the Koran in the cabin; it didn’t belong to Asif, who was a secular man. The grenade launcher was supplied by Colonel Kahn. It was manufactured in the United States, shipped to Pakistan, and never used by the Pakistanis.”
“And you can prove all of this?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Most of the information I got from Asif’s wife. She identified Orlov as the man who came to see her husband.”
Treadwell’s face was taut and red. “For all the money we give those fucking Pakistanis, this is what we get.”
“With all due respect, Sir, these are the people who hid Osama Bin Laden.”
“Humph. You said that you had almost a complete picture.”
“That’s right.”
“What are you missing?”
“I don’t know who was pulling Orlov’s strings: Russian President Kuznov, Chinese President Zhou, or both of them.”
“What makes you think Zhou was involved?”
“Orlov had a meeting in Beijing with Zhou a little over a month ago. Before Dalton’s assassination. No doubt arranged by Orlov’s sister, who is Zhou’s mistress.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yes, sir. When I was still in Paris in my EU job, Betty Richards, who knows of my interest in Zhou, told me that Wayne Nelson, our CIA Station Chief in Beijing, reported that Zhou met with a Russian by the name of Dimitri Orlov. I obtained Orlov’s bio from German Intelligence. I was worried that Orlov might be planning a terrorist attack in the United States so I called Norris, offered to give him Orlov’s photo and bio, and asked him to circulate it to all border entry points. That way we could pick up Orlov before he entered the United States.”
“And Norris told you to go pound sand?”
“More precisely, he told me where I could stick the photo and the bio.”
Treadwell’s face was beet-red with rage. “That explains why Norris went off the deep end after Dalton’s assassination. He must have realized that he could have avoided it. That Dalton would still be alive.”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Orlov was the linchpin for this Zhou-Kuznov operation.”
“So why don’t we find this Orlov, arrest him, and make him tell us whom he was working for? Is he still in the United States?”
“I don’t know.”
“I should call Leeds at the FBI and have him launch a full-scale manhunt. Do you have a photo or fingerprints?”
“Both. Orlov also killed a trucking agent in Pittsburgh when he picked up the grenade launcher. His prints were on the man’s throat. The owner of a lunchroom next to the trucking company remembered seeing Orlov in his place right before he killed the trucking agent.”
Treadwell reached for the phone. I can’t let him do that, Craig thought.
“Can we discuss this a little more, Mr. President?”
“Okay.” Treadwell let go of the phone.
“Orlov’s a former KGB agent. It’s extremely unlikely that he’ll talk. A better approach might be not to let him know that we’re on to him. Chances are Orlov, Kuznov, and Zhou will do something else. Then we may be able to catch all of them with their hands in the cookie jar. At that time, you can take firm action.”
“Suppose I agree with you. What do I do about Pakistan?”
“Let’s hold on them, too.”
Treadwell raised his arm and rested his head in his hand. “I don’t know, Craig.”
There was knock on the door. The president’s secretary entered, holding a note. She walked over and gave it to Treadwell. He nodded and picked up the phone. Craig heard Treadwell say, “Absolutely, Bill. I’ll see you in ten minutes. I’ll have Craig Page with me.”
As the secretary left the Oval Office, Treadwell put down the phone and turned to Craig. “We’ll have to table our discussion about Dalton’s assassination. Bill Merritt wants to talk to me about an urgent matter of national security. You know Bill?”
“I’ve never met h
im, but I know he’s the CEO of Rogers Laughton Aerospace. Our largest defense contractor.”
“Bill’s also a good friend. I got to know him well when I was a senator from California. Even though their headquarters is in Gaithersburg, Maryland, up the I-270 corridor from Washington, they have several large facilities in California. At the time, Bill was based in Rogers Laughton’s Los Angeles office with the job of Director of Strategic Planning. After that, he became the CEO and moved east. He’s very much of a hands-on leader.”
Treadwell removed a small orange ball from the desk drawer and squeezed it. “I’m having circulation problems,” he told Craig, as if an explanation was needed. “Doctor Lindsay, my primary doctor, says it’s no big deal. Goes with the stress of the job. If he thinks it’s anything more, he’ll send me to Bethesda Naval for a cardio workup. Anyhow, Rogers Laughton is working on our most important military contract.”
“Prompt Global Strike,” Craig said.
“Exactly. Nothing is more vital than PGS. Rogers Laughton finished the development work here in Gaithersburg. Dalton never moved forward with implementation. One of the first things I did as president was to give the green light to move aggressively with installation at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. Construction of parts will be done at one of Rogers Laughton’s Los Angeles area plants. I hope to hell Bill isn’t having a problem with PGS.”
The intercom rang. Treadwell picked up and told Craig. “Sorry, I have to take this. You can stay.”
For the next ten minutes Craig listened while Treadwell argued and cajoled the House Speaker about budget issues. Craig was relieved that he and Treadwell had gotten off the subject of Dalton’s assassination and Craig’s trip to Pakistan.
As soon as Treadwell put down the phone, there was a knock on the door. His secretary opened it and Bill Merritt walked in. The pictures Craig had seen didn’t do justice to the fit looking, tall, trim fifty-five year old with a thick head of brown hair who was known for his outdoor exploits: mountain climbing, kayaking, and triathlons.