by C. W. Saari
Gordon asked, “Do we know if he’s a known or suspected intelligence officer?”
“We’re carrying him as a suspected IO, assigned to their science and technology branch,” Quattrone said.
“Remember, Kuznetsov’s paperwork indicates he’s a Second Secretary with the Russian Embassy. He’s a diplomat,” Bannister said.
“Ah, shit,” Crum said, smacking a fist into his hand.
“You mean if he’s good for these killings, we can’t touch him? He’s got immunity?” Bell leaned backward and threw his hands up in the air like he was under arrest.
“It looks that way. We’ve only got two options. If he’s our guy and State confirms he’s a diplomat, we can declare him persona non grata and kick him out of the country. Basically, he goes free unless the Russians want to put him on trial in their country. Or we could ask the Russians to waive immunity and let us prosecute him here,” Bannister said.
“What’s the chance of that happening?” Bell asked.
“It’s possible,” Huggins said. “I was here in January of 1997 when the number-two man in the Georgian Embassy crashed a red light downtown, injuring four people and killing a sixteen-year-old girl. The guy’s name was Makharadze. He was drunk. The accident reconstruction team said he was going at least eighty miles per hour when he hit. We had to release him from custody because he was a diplomat. Our government asked the Georgian government to waive his immunity and they agreed. Makharadze was tried and convicted here of manslaughter and got a seven- to twenty-one-year sentence.”
“First, we’ve got to make sure Kuznetsov’s our guy,” Gordon said. “Anything else, Ty?”
“We’ll run his license and see if it shows up on the list of vehicles at Williamson’s service.”
“Right,” Gordon said, looking back down the table.
“And if it’s not on the list, we should be asking, how did he arrive there? Maybe in the car with the stolen tag.”
“Good point,” Gordon said.
“We had some luck with the mini-warehouses,” Bell said. “We identified two drive-in storage lockers rented by ‘Andres.’ One locker’s in Reston; the other’s in Alexandria. The names are Andre Cloutier and Andre Neff. Both signed six-month rental agreements this spring. We’re working on trying to ID them.”
Huggins raised his hand as he spoke. “As you all know, I’m with Metro PD. Bell and I are the only non-feds on this team. Right now I’m not worried about one of my people getting whacked, but if I were the Bureau or one of the other intelligence agencies, I’d be wondering if one of my own employees might be next on our killer’s list.”
“You care to comment on that, Natalie?” Gordon looked at Special Agent Natalie Fowler.
“I agree with Otis. You don’t have to be a profiler to see that whoever’s responsible for these murders seems to be picking a victim from each of the major intelligence agencies.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” Gordon asked.
“Just that I’d put the security offices at every intel agency on notice the killer might be targeting their personnel and to have their employees report any unusual requests or incidents right away,” Fowler said.
“I’ll get that out,” Gordon said. “I want a full court press on Andre Kuznetsov. Let’s do a complete workup on him, and while we’re at it, rule Andre Deverville in or out. Bell, I want your team to keep digging on the two Andres who rented the lockers. And Ty, you guys find out everything about Gillespie’s contacts and activities. We’ll meet here tomorrow.”
Sitting at a small dinette table in his apartment kitchen in Alexandria, Virginia, Andre had spread out sections of the Sunday Washington Post on the table. The smell of Hoppes gun solvent hung in the air like a sour dish towel. He had cleaned and was now re-oiling all the parts of his recently acquired nine-millimeter Walther P99 automatic.
He wanted extra protection while carrying out the rest of his plan. At a gun show a week earlier in Fredericksburg, he’d gotten lucky. A widow was there with her son, selling off her late husband’s collection of handguns and pistols. On the table were eighteen guns, all collectors’ editions. A commemorative model Walther P99 was still in the original box with leather case, manual, and two 10-round magazines. The price tag said $1,150. When the widow agreed to take $1,100, Andre handed her eleven hundred-dollar bills. Sale by a non-dealer meant no waiting, no fingerprints, and no records checks.
Andre had the new gun with him when he’d met Sparky Gillespie. He didn’t know if he’d ever have to use it, but he was prepared to, if necessary. After target practice at an indoor shooting range the previous day, he was pleased with the gun’s action. He was surprised to find he shot better with it than with the Makarov pistol he’d been trained with, and which Soviet forces had carried for almost fifty years.
As he reassembled the pistol, Andre thought of the week ahead. If things went well, he should be identifying his next target by the end of the week.
Doug Gordon was correct about the fingerprint check of the body. By the time Bannister and Quattrone walked to the car, they’d gotten word that the body had been identified as that of Francis “Sparky” Gillespie. Ten minutes later they pulled into the empty parking lot at DIA. Gillespie’s supervisor and a guard were at the entrance. They showed their badges and followed the supervisor, who had introduced himself as Dave Miller, into a silent lobby. The only sound was four sets of heels echoing across the marble floor. The guard turned away and walked to a console in the center as they continued toward a bank of elevators.
“I have some bad news. Francis Gillespie’s been killed,” Bannister said.
“Ah, shit! I was afraid of something like this,” Miller said, shaking his head side to side. They took the elevator to the third floor where Miller pointed out Gillespie’s cubicle. “I’ve got a bunch of people who need to be notified. Does his mother know?”
“One of our agents and a deputy are at her house right now.”
“She called me yesterday from Sparky’s home to let me know there weren’t any signs someone had been in his place. She’s got a key to his condo. She said his stereo was playing. It was on low volume, like maybe he’d stepped out temporarily.”
“She say anything else?” Bannister asked.
“Just that she had a sick feeling. Said it wasn’t like her son to take off without letting her know. Oh, she fed his fish before locking the door.”
The air in the DIA was warm and stuffy, unlike the refrigerator atmosphere of the FBI conference room they’d recently left.
Bannister and Quattrone took off their jackets. They spent the next hour going through Sparky’s desk and files. His space was clean and lacked the dust you normally saw on the tops of cabinets or on the computer; his space was organized with nothing lying out in plain view. He didn’t have the usual office props, like photos of a dog or cartoons or quotations pasted on the wall. But nothing at his work station seemed out of the ordinary.
“A lot of analysts are neat freaks,” Quattrone said, as he pointed to all the tabs on Gillespie’s files that had been typed and centered.
“I give them credit for being organized. The ones who’ve worked for me have been able to put their hands on information fast. Not like agents who stockpile excuses why they can’t find something,” Bannister said.
He continued with his examination, copying telephone numbers from Post-It notes stuck on the top edge of Gillespie’s computer monitor. A Day Timer was lying on the right side of the desk. He looked through it and saw it had the current year’s calendar, as well as the daily pages for last December. One appointment jumped out. Bannister read the lone entry for December sixteenth: “Andre Neff 1330.”
The supervisor returned.
“Do you guys think Sparky was a victim of this serial killer?”
“It’s a possibility,” Bannister said. “Any inquiries should be directed to our Washington office. I’m taking Gillespie’s appointment book.” He handed him a receipt.
“He’s a . . . I mean was .
. . a helluva nice kid. Quiet, smart, polite. A hard-working analyst. I’ve only been in charge of this section four months, but I was impressed with his work.”
“You’ll have to prepare for the reactions of his colleagues when they return tomorrow. Would you do me a favor and call the guards at the front gate to see if they have the visitor’s log for December?” Bannister asked.
“No problem.”
As the supervisor escorted the agents out of the building, he made the call to the guard house and was told the log book was there.
After the guard was assured they were conducting an official investigation, he produced the log. Two names were matched to a taxi that had entered at 12:55 p.m. on December 16. The cab’s plate was recorded, as were the driver’s name and that of his passenger—Andre Neff.
When Robin returned to her Quantico dorm room, her room phone was ringing. She thought it might be Ty, but it was a Washington agent named Lisa Jessup.
“Your counselor, Stan, and I worked together in San Antonio,” Jessup said. “My husband, Dwight, and I are agents here in Washington.”
Robin kicked off her tennis shoes and stretched out on her dorm bed, plumping two pillows behind her head.
“The reason I’m calling is that we’re looking for someone to rent our townhouse for six months while we’re both on a temporary assignment to Los Angeles. Do you think you might be interested?”
“I was actually thinking about getting an apartment for a year while I scouted out a good place to buy.”
“We’d really prefer to rent to an agent. It’s a nice two bedroom, two bath townhouse, completely furnished. The best thing is that it’s one block from the Ballston Metro stop in Arlington. Your counselor thinks highly of you and thought you might jump at the chance.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Robin got up and reached over to her desk to grab a notebook and pen. “Tell me more.”
After they had discussed the details, Robin said, “Well, I’m definitely interested. I’d like to come up as soon as possible to look at it. We have night training this week, so I’m afraid I won’t be free until Friday night or Saturday.”
“What about Saturday? I have a commitment earlier in the afternoon, but would four-thirty work?” Lisa asked.
After the two women exchanged contact information, Robin called Ty.
“It’s me, Robin. Where are you?”
“I’m at Capitol City Cab.”
“Did something happen to your car?”
“No, I’m working.”
“On Sunday night?”
“Yeah, I just tracked down a taxi driver I hope can ID a photo. Dispatch said he was due back at the barn in five minutes. What’s up?”
“Things may be falling into place. Remember how I said I wanted to get an apartment close to downtown?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, an agent couple from WFO is looking for someone to rent their townhouse for six months while they’re both in LA. It’s in Arlington, and they’re offering it to me at a decent price.”
“What are their names?”
“Lisa and Dwight Jessup. Do you know them?”
“I don’t know him, but she works on one of the Russian squads.”
“Super. Maybe I can pump her for some information. I don’t have a squad assignment yet, but I was told all of us are either going to counterterrorism or counterintelligence.”
“You might want to check her place out before committing. You know, location, parking, and shopping.”
“I am. I’m going to look at it Saturday afternoon.”
“What about Saturday night?”
“It’s open. Do you feel like hanging out with a trainee? Their place is supposed to be right near the Ballston Metro stop.”
“I know of some restaurants near there you might like. Give me a call when you’re done with the tour and I’ll meet you.”
“Fab. You know I miss you. I think training intensifies everything.”
“Hmm. I believe I’ve been a witness to that.”
“You’re being nasty, but I love it. See you next week.”
As Bannister was trying to think of someplace different to take Robin, the cabbie pulled into the garage. The driver stepped out, introducing himself as Desta Iskinder, formerly of Ethiopia. Extending his hand to Bannister, he said, “I am now American and would be full of happiness to help the American FBI.”
Wednesday was known as hump day. Today the task force would go over the hump. Ellen Kaminsky, WFO’s Special Agent in Charge, ordered all team members to report to the field office’s windowless command center. Located directly one floor beneath the room where the team usually met, the conference room was an upgraded space with light cherry paneling and the latest communication bells and whistles. When Bannister got there, multiple conversations were taking place. The talk was animated and team members were smiling. For a change, there was an air of excitement in the room. One of the agents had turned on the big screen to CNN.
“Let’s take our seats and get started,” Kaminsky said, walking in purposefully. She had what was referred to in the Marine Corps as “command presence.” She strode halfway around the table, grabbed the remote, and switched off the TV. The talk stopped, and a dozen leather chairs swiveled as the task force members took their seats. All eyes were on Kaminsky.
“Before we start, I’d like to thank all of you for your tireless efforts in this case. We still have a lot of hard work ahead of us. Doug will talk about the breakthrough and what needs to be done.” Kaminsky put her notebook down and acknowledged Doug Gordon, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table. Gordon was wearing his black camel-hair sport coat and customary white shirt. You couldn’t help but notice his bright, diamond-patterned Italian silk tie. He took his cue and stood up.
“We finally have a subject,” Gordon said. “In front of you is a sheet of photos with four different shots of Andre Kuznetsov. The top two photos are from his visa and passport. The other two are surveillance pictures taken this summer, and that’s how he looks today. We’re fairly positive he’s our guy.”
“Bring us up to speed, Doug,” Kaminsky said, folding her arms and leaning backward.
“I’ll trace what we know about Kuznetsov. One of our attachés showed his photograph to a landlord in Vienna. The guy picked him out and remembered him as the person who rented a flat in Vienna for three years. However, the landlord said he went by the name Andre Neff. By the way, that apartment cost twice what the Russians authorize for one of their officers. We don’t have an explanation for how he swung it, but we’ll look into that later. Anyway, we now know Andre Neff is an alias used by Andre Kuznetsov. I’d like Spencer to take a couple of minutes and tell us what the Agency’s learned.”
Spencer Crum remained seated, looked left and right, and nodded to Kaminsky. “He’s a forty-three-year-old intelligence officer with the rank of Captain. He’s Ukrainian by birth and has no family we know of. His father died of a heart attack in 1970. Kuznetsov had an older brother, Dimitry, who was a top Russian pilot, and was shot down in Afghanistan in 1987. Kuznetsov’s mother died the following year.
“The KGB recruited him when he was in college. We know he’s never been married, is fluent in English and French, and is a skilled tennis player. His cover has always been as a reporter. Before coming to Washington at the beginning of the year, he had assignments in Vienna, Brussels, and Algiers. Our file says he received the Order of the Red Star for recruiting someone pretty damn important. We hope it wasn’t an American.” Crum frowned and pointed back toward Gordon.
Gordon continued, “Kuznetsov and Caleb Williamson’s assignments to Vienna overlapped. We don’t know if they met while they were there, but Kuznetsov certainly would have known Williamson was CIA. He was still in Vienna at the beginning of this year when Felix Wells and his wife, Lillian, rotated from Vienna to Washington. He returned to Moscow, probably for updates and some refresher training before being posted here in February. Two weeks after his
arrival, Lillian Wells disappeared. Six months later, Williamson disappeared. Two months after that, DiMatteo was killed. And last week, Gillespie was killed. There’s no information Kuznetsov was anywhere but in the DC area when all four people disappeared. We still have to prove he’s responsible. Natalie, has Quantico revised its profile?”
The question caught Special Agent Fowler just as she had taken a chocolate kiss from the cut-glass dish on the table and popped it into her mouth.
Fowler smiled, embarrassed, and brought her hands together as if to say she wasn’t going to take any more candy. “He fits our profile almost to a ‘T,” she said finally. “Assuming he’s the killer, we still don’t know what precipitated the violence. Why this year? Of course the death of his older brother would always be simmering beneath the surface. And early in his career, Kuznetsov’s hatred for the United States would have been constantly reinforced by the KGB. And even though relations between Russia and the United States have changed, the KGB’s successor organization, the SVR, still considers the United States a major enemy. One thing we’re concerned about is the time between the killings, which is rapidly decreasing. We don’t know how the victims are being selected, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s not another one within two weeks, if we don’t stop him first.”
“Could he have killed other people before this year? Perhaps in Brussels or Algiers?” Kaminsky asked.
“I think I can answer that,” Spencer Crum interjected. “The answer is no. We checked in both cities. One American died in Brussels when Kuznetsov was there. A graduate student was killed by a hit and run driver. There was an American couple killed in Algiers when he was assigned there. But they were missionaries who had their throats slit along with four Arabs. We believe they were victims of Islamic radicals belonging to the opposition’s political party.”
“Thank you.” Fowler continued, “Obviously, something happened, which triggered the outbreak of killings. We believe that whatever the catalyst, it was probably connected to Lillian Wells.”