The President’s Dossier

by James A. Scott

  Jill answered, Da? We were speaking Russian, of course.

  “This is Colonel Usenko. There is a woman alone in the last row of the coach section. She may be one of them. Watch her, but don’t draw attention to yourself. You may have to follow her when we get to Paris.”

  That was my coded way of telling Jill that the woman might be an undercover security officer for our flight.

  With potential threats identified, I turned my attention to the future. The engineer whose identity I borrowed had a computer in his carry-on. It wasn’t password protected. When we were out of Russian airspace, I switched it to English, sent some emails, and made plane reservations.

  An hour out of Paris, Jill called me on the cockpit intercom. “That woman in the last row, she recognized me. She was watching a video on her cell phone. It was from the bank. She gave me a good look and closed the phone when I approached her.”

  “You’re sure about what was on her phone?”

  “I heard your voice on the video.”

  “Don’t let her contact anyone. Spill coffee on her if you have to. Move the other flight attendants to duties at the front of the cabin. I’m on the way.”

  “Problem?” asked the captain, showing a frown of concern.

  “One of the criminals may have recognized Major Yukovka. I’ll handle it quietly. We prepared for this eventuality.” Like hell we did. Adapt, improvise, and overcome! Semper Fi!

  Leaving the cockpit, I grabbed a pillow and a stack of blankets from the first-class overhead. As I moved down the aisle, I held them high enough to block the security officer’s view of my face. At the front of coach, I squeezed past attendants collecting trash and distributing snacks. Jill was waiting in the rear, at the restrooms, trying to look over the security officer’s shoulder.

  I beckoned Jill to me, handed her a blanket, and whispered, “Give me some privacy.”

  Jill unfolded the blanket and held it across the aisle, pretending to check for holes or whatever flight attendants check blankets for.

  I smiled at the security officer and said, “I see you’re going on to Zurich with us. You might like to have a blanket before the mob gets on in Paris.”

  As she took the blanket, she looked up at my face. Recognition registered in her eyes, but too late. I plunged Dr. Zhukov’s last needle into her shoulder and covered her face with a pillow. She gave up a little yelp. The woman in the next row tried to turn to see what was happening. Jill blocked her view with the blanket.

  For the benefit of nearby passengers, I told the barely conscious security officer, “You’ll be fine. Just relax.” I laid her out on two seats, put the pillow under her head, and covered her with a blanket.

  Jill smiled and announced to inquisitive passengers, “She’s exhausted. She’s been traveling for days. We’ll take her to the airport clinic when we get to Paris.”

  “Call me when she wakes up.” If she does, I’m going to be very unhappy with Dr. Zhukov.

  Back in the cockpit, I told the captain, “We have to detain one of the passengers. She recognized Major Yukovka. After you and your crew leave the aircraft, Russian security officers will come aboard to take her into custody. The major and I will stay behind and see to the transfer.”

  Cautiously, the captain asked, “What about her accomplices?”

  “Unfortunately, we have to abandon surveillance. We believe the woman used her cell phone to warn them. There will be another time. Criminals are greedy and stupid.”

  Four hours after our Moscow departure, we landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Before the plane came to a halt, I went to the rear to “see to the prisoner.” The passengers deplaned, followed by the flight officers and crew. Jill sat the unconscious female security officer upright and posed her in a sleeping position. We were about to leave when I looked up and saw the security man from first class coming down the aisle toward us. Maybe the captain didn’t know there was a second security officer onboard, but this guy did. They were a team.

  Jill was between us and I told her who he was. She gave him a helpless look and whined, “She won’t wake up.”

  The officer looked at Jill, first with concern. His second look was recognition. He reached for his gun. Jill kicked him in the groin. When he howled and doubled over, she twisted the pistol from his hand and drove her knee into his forehead. He stumbled backward. Jill followed up with two quick karate chops to his throat. He fell to the floor. Jill jumped on his chest and twisted his head until his neck snapped.

  Cold as ice water she said, “Help me get him into a seat.”

  Minutes later, Jill and I hurried off the plane. We changed clothes in terminal restrooms and abandoned our flight uniforms and weapons in trash cans.

  During our escape from Moscow, I had used the flight engineer’s computer to book us seats on a plane to Marseilles, France, leaving in an hour. My idea was to get us out of the Aeroflot terminal and out of Paris before the manhunt began. We cleared immigration and customs using our U.S. passports. I collected our tickets and we headed for Terminal 2E and the flight to southern France. Along the way to the departure gate, Jill complained again about not being in on my plan.

  It was a ninety-minute flight to Marseilles. I used the time to pump Jill for information on our employer, the elusive Mr. Bowen, the holder of my ten-million-dollar bounty. I didn’t expect Jill to tell me the truth. I wanted her version of the truth.

  I asked, “Where is Bowen’s base of operations?”

  “My sense is he goes where the action is hot, and the cash is cold and plentiful.”

  That was evasive. Sherri told me that Bowen had been in Panama since Noriega’s reign. Jill would have known that, too.

  “What else do you know about him?”

  Jill shrugged and sipped her drink. “I know that he pays well and on time. That’s all I need to know.” She turned in her seat and gave me a professional appraisal. “I’m sure you can appreciate that, considering how you limited me to ‘need to know’ information in Moscow.”

  Did I detect a drop of venom mixed with the professionalism? I pressed on. “How does Bowen contact you?”

  “By phone call or text.”

  “No face-to-face?”

  “Rarely.”

  “How did he make contact with you the first time?”

  Jill exhaled heavily and put her glass on the arm rest between us. “We met at a security conference.”

  “Where?”

  “In a secure location.”

  “What were you trying to prevent at this security conference?”

  “Among other things, conversations like this.”

  Bravo, Jill! That was a smooth “none-of-your-business” message.

  She lapsed into a brief, hostile silence, which I interrupted by telling her what she needed to know about the rest of our escape plan.

  “The Russians,” I said, “and whoever they can persuade to join the hunt will expect us to be traveling together. So, we’re going to split up in Marseilles.” I handed her the airline ticket sleeve. “This is your flight to Mexico City.”

  “I thought we were going to Panama.”

  “We are, but first, we’re going to Mexico City and take a detour for some well-deserved R and R in Cancun.”

  Jill gave me a broad smile. “Now, you’re talking. How will you get to Mexico?”

  “I’m flying Iberia to Mexico via Madrid. I’ll arrive two hours after you. Take a room at the Hilton Reforma. Leave a note at the desk for me. I’ll find you.”

  This time, Jill’s smile was seductive. “It’s nice to be in the loop again. Maybe we can get back in touch, too, in Cancun.”

  I smiled back, but said nothing. Jill had no idea how far she was out of my loop. Seeing the video of her in the room with Putin sent my trust level to zero.

  When we arrived in Marseilles, Jill had an hour to catch her plane for the seventeen-hour flight to Mexico. We said a quick see-you-later and she made a run for the security line.

  I had a small f
ortune in bribe money I hadn’t used in Russia. In spite of what I told Jill, my actual plan was to use it to charter a private jet and fly directly to Panama City.

  I called Sherri’s office in Virginia and got Tony-D’s phone number in Panama. It was about 11 a.m., his time.

  He was concerned. “Max, are you out of the danger zone?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “And your traveling companion?”

  “Yeah. She’s due to arrive in Mexico City on a flight from Marseilles in about seventeen hours from now. I want to know who meets her when she comes out of the arrival hall, and I want twenty-four-seven surveillance on her until I say stop. Can you manage that?”

  “No problem. I know people in Mexico City.”

  “She’ll be staying at the Hilton Reforma and expecting me to join her.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “Never.”

  “Never?”

  “Is there an echo on this line? Listen, Tony, expect unfriendlies to be in the area.”

  “Copy that. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “See you when I see you.” I broke the connection.

  I gave Jill’s plane an hour after departure before I used a burner cell phone to call the Russian Embassy in Paris and asked for a security officer.

  “Yes?” came back a serious voice from Paris.

  I spoke Russian. “I understand you are looking for a man and a woman who robbed the Allgemeine Volksbank in Moscow. Is there a reward?”

  Hesitation and muffled conversation with someone on his end.

  “There is a reward, ten thousand rubles. Who are you?”

  “A good citizen of the Russian Federation. Where do I go to claim the reward?”

  “If you are in Paris, come to the embassy. Ask for Yevgeny Torshin. Where are the fugitives?”

  “On a plane to Mexico City.” I gave him Jill’s airline and flight number.

  I broke the connection and used a second burner to call Bill Bowen’s messenger at the number Jill wasn’t supposed to give me in London. It was the number I bribed the Savoy’s night man to pull off Jill’s long-distance call record.

  In Panama, a familiar voice answered.

  “Can you get an emergency message to Mr. Bowen?” I asked.

  “I can.”

  “Tell him that Ms. Rucker and Mr. Geller are flying to Mexico City as we speak.” I gave him Jill’s flight information and arrival time. “Tell Mr. Bowen they are carrying sensitive documents. He should meet their plane and bring his checkbook. If he’s a no-show, his absence could trigger a bidding war.”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is the guy who’s hanging up on you.”

  Jill Rucker, or whatever her name was, would get a surprise when she arrived in Mexico City.

  My chartered jet was ready for takeoff. I went to the private terminal, completed my clearances, and was in the air in no time. As I wallowed in the luxury of first-class seats, second-class food, and third-class champagne, I could feel my relationship with Jill Rucker coming to an end and that ten million dollars getting closer. But before I could touch the money, I had to discover the secret of President Walldrum’s high-rise Russian money laundering machine, the Panama Walldrum Tower.

  CHAPTER 26

  TEN HOURS AFTER I departed Marseilles, my plane arrived in Panama City, a little after 8 p.m. local time. I had called ahead. Sherri met me at the airport wearing sandals, shorts, a polo shirt, and ponytail. She looked delicious and greeted me with a radiant smile.

  “Glad to have you back among friends. How did you get out of Russia?”

  “Through the OK Corral.”

  Sherri was alarmed. She blocked my way, thrust her hands inside my jacket, and patted me down. “Are there any holes in you?”

  “Only the one in my head where Bowen planted the idea of going to Russia.”

  “Shush. We got the goods, didn’t we? We’ll get it in Panama.”

  “Did you locate the anti-corruption reporter you told me about?”

  “David Sanchez, yes, but I had difficulty tracking him down. He’s not strictly in hiding, but he’s not an easy guy to get ahold of.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “His reporting exposed politicians and crooks around the world. They sent their money to Panama to avoid taxes or corruption investigations in their home countries. Sanchez believes he’s on the hit lists of some powerful and unpleasant characters.”

  “Is he going to talk to us?”

  “Maybe. I spoke to him twice on the phone. He asked lots of questions about us. He wants to make sure we’re the real deal. I pumped up our bona fides by telling him some of what we did in Russia. If he talks to us, he wants an exclusive when we nail Walldrum with rock-solid evidence of a crime. I gave him your word. That’s the price of doing business.”

  “If he decides to talk to us, when will it happen?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Where?”

  “He’ll call me with the location an hour before the meet.”

  “He’s a careful man.”

  “I would be. There have been two attempts to kill him.”

  As Sherri drove me to the hotel, she asked, “What’s with Jill Rucker?”

  “You were right. She’s not who she claims to be. I saw a video of her sitting behind Putin at Russian TV’s tenth anniversary gala.”

  Sherri’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

  “I never joke about my work, 006,” I said, paraphrasing James Bond’s legendary quartermaster, Q. “If the Russians don’t grab Jill in Mexico City, she’ll come here. When that happens, be on your guard. I’m not sure what her game is, but Jill Rucker is a killing machine.”

  Sherri had booked herself, me, and Tony-D into hotel bungalows in Panama’s Bella Vista district near the Walldrum Tower. Tony-D said I should see what a four-hundred-million-dollar building looks like up close. At the hotel, Sherri showed me to my bungalow. I told her not to wake me until noon, and collapsed into bed.

  The next day, I was up at 10 a.m. and had breakfast in my bungalow. Precisely at noon, Sherri and Tony-D arrived. We sat at my dining table and they briefed me. Tony-D looked worried.

  Sherri looked happy and was carrying a stack of magazines, newspapers, and miscellaneous documents. She announced, “Good news. David Sanchez has agreed to meet us this evening, time and place to be announced during his next call.”

  I asked, “Is there a time limit on the meeting?”

  “No. He’ll stay as long as we want. We should eat an early dinner and be ready to travel as soon as he calls. In the meantime”—Sherri pushed her pile of documents across the table to me—“here’s your reading assignment on the Panama Walldrum Tower.”

  Tony-D didn’t have reading material. He had a grave expression and photographs. “My surveillance crew set up at the airport in Mexico City a little after midnight. Jill Rucker’s plane arrived on schedule.

  “Two heavies from the Russian Embassy were waiting for her when she came out of the arrival hall.” Tony-D passed their photos to me. “I’m guessing they’re SVR,” Russian foreign intelligence service. “My Mexican contacts are trying to get positive IDs. Jill was surprised to see them. They had a brief exchange. Something they said upset her.”

  “Did they take Jill into custody?”

  “They didn’t cuff her. They didn’t strong-arm her. They escorted her out to a limo with Russian diplomatic plates and blacked-out windows. The heavies got into the front seat.” Tony-D gave me the last photograph and continued. “This guy was leaning against the limo having a smoke. He got into the back seat with Jill.

  “They talked for ten minutes. Jill got out of the car and it drove off. Jill took a cab to the hotel, as you said she would. She’s in her room now, probably waiting for you.”

  Tony-D tapped the last photo with his forefinger. “This guy, the smoker, he’s the problem.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know, bu
t he was the lookout for the Russian team that raided the London warehouse, killed Ironside and the MI6 agents, and tried to kidnap you.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. I had overwatch for the warehouse operation. We were about to go in to rescue you from MI6, when the Russians drove up. This guy stayed outside to provide security. The other Russians went in, took down the MI6 people, and dragged you out with a bag over your head. We hit them before they could get you into their van. I watched this guy. Jill fired the first shot at him. He made a run for it on foot. She fired off a couple more rounds and missed. He was into the wind.”

  Tony-D added, “Expert pistol shot Jill Rucker missed this guy three times?”

  I speculated, “Maybe he came to Mexico to thank her. Where is he now?”

  “Last seen entering the Russian Embassy in Mexico City.”

  “Can you tell me where he goes, if he leaves the embassy?”

  “Surveillance there is a waste of your money. He has a dozen ways to sneak out. Besides, the CIA and Mexican intelligence are all over that embassy. Our guys would just be under foot. I recommend we watch the airport to see if he or Jill takes a flight to some exotic locale … like Panama.”

  After Tony-D and Sherri left, I attacked Sherri’s pile of research on the Great Man, Walldrum, and construction of his fallicus erectus, the Panama Walldrum Tower. I spent hours sifting through piles of news clippings and PR dross, searching for a clue to the frugality that allowed Walldrum to create his tower, while stealing millions from the construction budget. I found nothing. In late afternoon, I stopped reading and had a leisurely dinner in my room. I needed time to consider what questions I wanted to ask David Sanchez.

  Sherri called at 6 p.m. to give me a heads-up that it was time to leave for our rendezvous with Sanchez. Ever vigilant Sherri had checked out our meeting place with a hotel staff member. He told her it was not wise for gringos to roam the streets in that neighborhood after dark. As a precaution, we had a cab drop us directly at the door of the appointed seedy saloon in a backstreet near Avenida Central.

  Sherri and I got predatory appraisals as we entered and walked to the bar. I asked for Sanchez. The bartender nodded us down a poorly lighted hallway, past closed doors, to a room at the end. I opened the door and was confronted by a guy built like a downsized sumo wrestler. He wore khaki pants the size of a fest tent and the flowers on his tropical shirt were large enough to be mutants from an atomic blast. His shirt was opened to expose the huge automatic pistol in his belt. His eyes and body language indicated he was in prep mode for attack. He patted me down. I wasn’t packing. He raised eyebrows at Sherri.