by Leslie Wolfe
“Bozhe moi, I get it, Vitya, you are a genius!”
“Now you see? We’ll continue doing this on a large scale, unofficially declaring our total war, and more such nuggets of information will come our way. Anyone can be an asset for us.”
“Why do you call this a total war? We’re not firing a single bullet.”
“There will be losses of all kinds, even from the ranks of the diaspora. We will apply pressure on many people, and not everyone will survive without being caught, killed, tortured, and so on. But we can’t afford to care, Mishka, we just can’t. Not when we have twenty years of stagnation and obsolescence to make up for . . . not when we have to go to war and win!”
“Na zdorovie!” Dimitrov raised his glass and cheered, then gulped down another shot.
“Na zdorovie!” Myatlev followed suit happily.
“How many handlers do you have? How many can you send in the field?”
“I’ve sent our best so far, Smolin. I have others that I’m preparing to send. I found another gem, a captain by the name of Anatoly Karp. That one can turn Jesus Christ into a spy, Mishka. Given enough time, that one can turn you!”
Both men burst into laughter.
“But you only have a few, Vitya, how are you going big with just a few handlers? Abramovich doesn’t have the patience to wait for you to build your ranks.” Dimitrov’s cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a look of worry brought by the thought of the irascible and bellicose Russian president, eager to start his vengeance war as soon as possible.
“I am building an intelligence infrastructure, Mishka, just like we had in the old days. The handlers are leading the deployment, then the diaspora operates as a second level. Some of them are still willing to fight and give their lives for Russia, even if they’re now American citizens. And for those who won’t, well, the handlers can find ways to be persuasive. I’ve chosen handlers who don’t take no for an answer, and who won’t stop until they get the job done.”
“You’re the businessman, Vitya, this is right up your alley. Just be careful, because that’s what you said last time, that your plan can’t fail, and it did.”
Vitya ran his hand over his forehead and against his buzz-cut graying hair.
“I still don’t know what went wrong with that one,” he said quietly, after a few seconds of silence. “It should have never happened. I thought of everything. It was almost like I had an enemy out there, someone so decided to foil my plan that it almost felt personal. Someone who could see through the complexities of what I’d laid out to perfection on a global scale. Did you know they’re all dead? All the players? Apparently unrelated accidents of all sorts, but I’m no idiot, Mishka, they all died within less than a week,” he said, unaware he was wringing his hands almost convulsively, in a rare display of frustration and resentment. “If someone’s cleaning up, why am I still here?”
“I didn’t know they’re all dead,” Dimitrov replied quietly. “No one told me.”
“You were sick, Mishka, fighting for your life. I didn’t need to burden you with my nightmares. You have no idea how many nights I’ve spent awake in bed thinking of what could have gone wrong, and I can’t think of anything.” He rubbed his head again, then continued, suddenly refreshed and in control of his emotions, “But I promise you, this time we’ll get the job done.”
“Good,” a thoughtful, almost gloomy Dimitrov replied. “You focus on getting us the intel, while I work on getting the military ready for our war. They’re unprepared, untrained, sloppy. The commanders have grown lazy and fat, while their livers are giving up on them, dying of cirrhosis. Just like you found your handlers, I have to find my future generals.” He stopped talking for a while, sipping a few spoons of borscht. “We’re thinking a nuclear strike might be possible, preemptive, or defensive, but these men aren’t ready for any of that. Not yet, anyway.”
“Can you talk to Abramovich?” Myatlev asked, halfheartedly. The Russian president wasn’t open to such suggestions, nor was he willing to listen to the voices of reason.
“You know there’s no way I can get Abramovich to give us some more time. Any day now he could wake up one morning and decide he wants to push the button, and we better be fucking ready when he does, otherwise we’re finished . . . screwed to the bone.”
They both reflected quietly on that perspective for a while, eating absently, engulfed in their own troublesome thoughts. Then Myatlev changed direction.
“I love the idea of rebuilding Russia, Mishka, but I don’t like the idea of war that much. War can be bad for business, you know.”
Both men savored their food for a minute, then Dimitrov answered, “It doesn’t have to be. War creates a lot of need, and maybe you can help your country with that.”
Myatlev’s face lit up a little.
“Maybe it’s time to diversify my business portfolio. What do you anticipate the military will need?”
“Many things; I’ll make a list. Guns. Helicopters. Ammunition. New tanks, new ships, new weapons technology. Manufacturing the technology you’re going to steal for us with your new network of spies. Not to say that in the event of a nuclear strike, we have almost nothing, no protective equipment, limited countermeasures, and nearly no contingencies. The same goes for biological and chemical warfare; we might even go that route. Who knows what Abramovich decides to do . . .”
“Just send me your list and quantities, and let me know if you have a preference as to where these items should be manufactured. Whatever you need done, you’ll have done. You can count on me.”
“I am. And I hope you won’t forget your friends, when war brings its windfall your way.”
Myatlev filled their glasses with vodka to the brim.
“To a war that’s good for business, ura!” he cheered and downed his glass.
“To old friends and a new Russia, ura!” Dimitrov replied cheerfully.
The waiter gave them a few seconds to finish their round of drinks, then cleaned away the empty borscht bowls and brought in their steaks.
...51
...Tuesday, May 24, 9:58AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Walcott Global Technologies Headquarters
...Norfolk, Virginia
Alex struggled to open Mason’s office door. A steaming, tall cup of coffee and her laptop bag kept both her hands occupied. Jeremy hopped off his chair and helped her get in.
“Thanks!” she said, smiling briefly in his direction. “Good morning.” She put her coffee cup down on Mason’s desk and the bag on the floor, next to the only open seat in the room.
“Good morning, Ms. Hoffmann,” Mason greeted her, briefly standing as a courtesy then sitting back down in his massive leather chair.
“Please, call me Alex,” she encouraged him.
“What do you have?” Jeremy asked. “What can you tell us?”
“I’ve spent two full days with the team. Friday we spent the entire day working on the Fletcher, yesterday we were there only half a day, then I joined them for a meeting here, in the seventh floor conference room. It was a project review, very helpful for my study.”
Mason watched her intently, waiting for her to cut to the chase.
“And?” Jeremy said. “Do you have anything we can use?”
“I think so, but you’re not going to like it.” She looked first at Jeremy, then at Mason, and continued. “Almost all seem to be likely candidates for this leak of information. The only one who seems the least likely to be our traitor is Faisal Kundi.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake . . .” Jeremy said, leaning back in his chair and pushing away from the table, failing to hide his frustration. “That’s just great . . . the one who made the most sense, the foreign-born national, the Muslim; are you saying he’s clean? How sure are you? And based on what?” Jeremy’s voice escalated with every rapid-fire question he threw out there.
“I only had two days,” Alex started to explain apologetically, but then regained her self-confidence. “I know what I’m talking about. All
the others are preoccupied by something else. When they think no one’s watching them, their body language shows they’re concerned, worried, and fidgety.”
“Has any of them said anything?” Mason asked.
“No, nothing that would definitively put them at the top of the suspect list.”
“This gives us nothing,” Jeremy said with a grunt. “How are we better than last week? Why did we even go through all this trouble to get you aboard that ship?”
“Why don’t you tell me what the almighty FBI was able to do in these couple of days? Did you get their phone records, backgrounds, banking info? How’s that coming up?”
Jeremy cleared his throat and frowned before responding, visibly annoyed.
“We have some background, not everything. Warrants are still pending to get their finances and phone records; the judge turned us down. He said group probable cause doesn’t apply to individuals. Our DA is appealing it, playing the trump card of national security.”
“So you got a bigger nothing than I did,” Alex chuckled bitterly. “How about we drop the attitude and start cooperating?” Alex offered.
“Meaning?” Jeremy asked, irritation still seeping in his voice.
“Run me through the background you have on all these people, and let’s take it from there. We might be able to get some progress made today after all.”
Mason silently watched the dialogue, but his almost perfectly immobile face started to show signs of concern. For a man like him, a man used to taking charge and getting things done, being almost powerless was not acceptable.
“I’ve pulled the work records for all five,” Mason said, “and I’ve interviewed in detail all their current and former supervisors.”
“How sure are you they’re gonna keep quiet about these discussions?” Alex asked, frowning slightly. “The word could get out there from former supervisors just as well.”
“I don’t think that’s a possibility. I’d say that’s a low risk. We have to have something to go on with,” Mason replied.
“True,” Alex said. “Let’s paint a picture of each one; let’s combine the background information you have, Jeremy, with their personnel files and supervisor interview notes. That will give us a better idea of who these people are. By the way, before we start, is it possible that one of the seamen on the USS Fletcher used the van?”
“No, I am positive about that,” Mason replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I ran into a very anxious, apprehensive young man on the ship. Well . . . maybe it was nothing,” she dismissed it, ignoring the feeling of uneasiness that still tugged at her gut when she remembered the boy’s red hair and freckled face.
“I have something too,” Mason said. “Our pest control found a godforsaken copier forgotten in the basement mailroom. I have no idea how that was missed. It’s very old; must have been there since before the 1990s. I’ve instructed them to remove it ASAP.”
“No!” Alex blurted. “That would draw our spy’s attention. Ask them to just disable it, make sure it doesn’t work anymore, and dust it for prints if they can do it discreetly, after everyone else has gone home. We don’t want to get anyone’s attention. A piece of junk like that could break anytime; no one will be the wiser.”
“Consider it done,” Mason said.
“On second thought,” she said, fluttering a mischievous smile on her lips, “scratch that. Wouldn’t it be nice if they fitted it with a camera and watch who’s using it instead? We might hook us the traitor faster that way.”
“I will get on it,” Mason said, with a hint of a smile.
“OK, then. Let’s start with the one I thought was our prime suspect, Faisal Kundi. Graduated from Columbia with a master’s of science in computer engineering,” Jeremy read from his file, then flipped through some pages. “Immigrated to the United States at age three. He did well in school, even better in college. He had very few friends, and he didn’t participate in any team sports. Umm . . . that’s about all we have for now. He lives in a townhouse, and his wife is a homemaker.”
“He is highly appreciated by his supervisor,” Mason said, “who finds him reliable and calm under stress. He is talented and creative. He is quiet and not engaging much with the rest of his coworkers, he’s not the water-cooler kind of guy.” Mason closed the file he was reading from and set it on the table. “That’s all we have that’s relevant on Faisal.”
Alex thought for a second, then asked, “What kind of car does he drive?”
“I can access the DMV database, just give me a second,” Jeremy replied, pulling his tablet and logging in. “A two-year-old Toyota Corolla.”
“Any recent foreign travel?” she asked.
“No,” Jeremy replied, after taking a minute to check Homeland Security’s database.
“OK,” she replied thoughtfully. “It matches what I saw; a quiet, relatively withdrawn individual, who does his work, keeps socialization to a minimum, and is very calm, almost relaxed. He might be clean after all.”
“I find it hard to swallow,” Jeremy objected. “His background is Muslim, a foreign national, it fits.”
“You can’t hold people accountable for the place they were born,” Alex protested.
“No, I can’t, and I won’t,” Jeremy replied. “But I can use statistical information to profile a suspect; that’s my job. Statistically there’s a strong correlation between this type of background and anti-American interests. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I have to agree, to some extent at least,” Mason intervened. “Even here at Walcott, bringing a foreign-born national on staff is frowned on, and a Middle Easterner fares worse. But we recruited Faisal straight out of school, at the end of his master’s program. We chose him.”
“That was how long ago?” Jeremy asked. “Seven years? Many things can change in seven years, especially the allegiances of a Muslim. Statistically, we have a better chance of finding that Kundi is the spy.”
“And, of course, to every such rule there are exceptions,” Alex pushed back. “Let’s try to keep an open mind this time, and move on to . . . who’s next?”
Jeremy groaned and opened the next file.
“Sylvia Copperwaite, thirty-three, PhD in computational modeling,” Jeremy replied. “She was quite popular in school, partied a lot. She studied at Duke. Divorced five years ago, no boyfriend that anyone knows about. No travel, and . . .” Jeremy switched focus from his paper files to his tablet, “drives a 1998 Honda Accord. Huh . . . No recent foreign travel, outside of a trip to Cancun last year.”
“1998 Accord, you said?” Alex asked. “That jalopy is a pretty dismal set of wheels for a six-figure income.”
“Agree,” Mason said. “Her supervisor said she’s very talented, yet sometimes she lacks focus. She can fall behind on projects if not closely supervised, which is a bit of a concern for someone in her role. On rare occasions, she snapped at coworkers, slamming them for minor issues, then immediately apologizing. She’s behaving like she’s under a lot of stress.”
“That aligns with my observations,” Alex added. “She looks pale and distraught, camouflaged somewhat by makeup, but below the chin and jawline the pallor of her skin showed clearly. Her state of mind seemed to vacillate between deep sadness and all-consuming worry. In short, judging by everything we have so far, she’s distraught and broke. Not necessarily the makings of a spy, but you never know. I think we need to understand what’s going on in her life before ruling her out.”
“Got it,” Jeremy said. “Next we have Robert McLeod, the project leader. MIT grad with honors, played football on his school’s team, he was a quarterback. Popular with girls back then, enough to be noted in his file. On his school record there was a mention of a cheerleader who got pregnant. McLeod persuaded her to get an abortion, then the girl had a nervous breakdown and he never wanted to have anything to do with her again. He’s extremely intelligent and quite arrogant. He’s ambitious and competitive. He drives a Mercedes S-Class, and travels every year to
Europe on vacation. He’s single and doesn’t enjoy long-term relationships.”
“Mercedes? How new?” Mason asked. “That could be a factor.”
“A year old,” Jeremy replied. “But before that he had another Mercedes, and before that, another. It’s more of a lifestyle choice than a red flag, I would say.”
“I didn’t like this guy,” Alex said. “He’s an arrogant ass. His attitude burns like acid. He seems to be engulfed in a cloud of constantly frustrated superiority, as if someone had done him wrong somehow, and that someone is everyone. This man is angry at the entire world. It could be him. We need financials, more data to confirm.”
“His boss said that he was passed over for promotion a number of times for precisely this reason—his arrogance and superiority, which is not conducive to good team cohesion,” Mason reported. “They’ve also said he tends to be very harsh on his subordinates, to the point where there were concerns with potential lawsuits from psychologically abused employees. Several people transferred out of his team, and two quit, leaving detailed information about his abrasive style in their exit interviews. On the bright side though, he holds several patents of significant value,” he added.
“Makes you wonder why he is leading a team instead of being a researcher,” Alex said.
“Apparently he wants to grow into leadership; his boss was concerned with completely demotivating him by taking his team away, considering McLeod’s potential for invention.”
“So they sacrifice some people knowingly, just so this guy can invent more stuff?” Jeremy said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“That stuff is what keeps this country safe, Agent Weber,” Mason replied coldly. “That stuff can make a difference during wartime, a difference we can’t afford to lose. It might not be an ideal situation, I agree, but managing talent of this man’s caliber is not an easy job. Inventors, scientists, men like McLeod are desperately needed, and they’re not only scarce, but also very fragile. We all have our battles, Agent Weber, so before you pass judgment on Walcott Global’s management practices, I’d like to remind you what’s at stake.”