by J. C. Fields
“His first year as governor. He attended a conference in Paris to represent the tobacco farmers of Virginia. After a few too many drinks, a young woman accompanied him back to his hotel room. Afterward, she threatened to tell his wife about the tryst. I intervened and we reached, what I thought was, an agreement with the woman.”
“That happens all the time,” Knoll chuckled. “Why would he commit suicide over it?”
Sandifer looked at him with sad eyes. “Because neither Pittman nor myself knew the woman was sent there by the Russians to trap him. After that incident, they owned Donald Pittman. They contributed heavily to his campaign and brought pressure on other compromised politicians who forced Bryant to take him as his running mate.”
Nodding slowly, Joseph said, “A modern-day Manchurian Candidate.”
Sandifer nodded.
Joseph continued, “He was so far in, he had no way out but to cooperate with them or lose everything.”
Again, Sandifer nodded.
“What was your role?” Kruger looked at the attorney with suspicion.
“My role was benign at first. I was the attorney handling the pay-off of the woman. I didn’t know about the Russian connection until Volkov told me all about it during his visit. He thought the media would love to hear about my part in the cover-up.”
Kruger pursed his lips and studied his coffee cup. “You mentioned they also wanted the lobbying department. Why?”
Sandifer chuckled slightly. “When you think about it, it was a brilliant decision considering their goal.”
“I don’t like the direction this is taking, Kyle,” Joseph frowned. “Are you saying they would use information from your lobbying department files to point out Congressmen who are susceptible to being influenced by money?”
“The Russian didn’t say it, but I got the impression that was exactly what they would do.”
Kruger sat back in his seat and frowned. “They’re looking for more targets, aren’t they?”
Nodding, Sandifer studied the crumbs on his plate left from the consumed pie. “He didn’t say it that way, but that was my assumption.”
Taking a deep breath, Joseph stared at Sandifer. “With the constant need to raise funds for their re-election campaigns, no telling how many congressmen would be susceptible to accepting their money.”
“Particularly if they already have something in their background that could jeopardize their career.” Everyone looked at Kruger, who had taken a sip of coffee after making the comment.
Sandifer nodded. “That’s why they want my client files. To identify those individuals.”
Kruger turned his attention back to Sandifer. “Most lobbying firms have clients that supply the money for this type of activity. Who’s paying for the lobbying?”
“Banks and financial institutions with foreign ownership. The public has no idea how many of these institutions are not owned by American interests.”
Knoll let out a slow whistle. Joseph frowned and Kruger said, “Kyle, does Volkov know how many files you have?”
The man shook his head. “Not yet. I was told new management would be in place soon and my services would no longer be needed.”
Kruger turned to Joseph, “I believe you’d better tell the President about this.”
With a grim expression, Joseph nodded.
Chapter 21
Plano, TX
The rented white Chevrolet Cruze drove past the house on Southgate Drive in Plano, Texas.
In this particular neighborhood, on this particular street, a Chevy Cruse was more conspicuous than the driver intended. The cheapest home within the subdivision sold for north of three quarters of a million dollars. Few, if any, cars in the neighborhood were Chevrolets, unless they were tricked out Suburbans or Silverado pickups. Even new sixteen-year-old drivers drove nothing less than a BMW. This car stood out like a business suit in a biker bar.
But then, Yuri Popov did not know this. His interest lay in a house located near the center of the subdivision, a house owned by Dr. Richard Sandifer, Kyle’s son. As he passed the residence, he noticed a black Suburban with US government plates parked in the circle drive. A man in a gray suit with dark wrap-around sunglasses stood next to the SUV and followed his passing. Popov realized, too late, the FBI knew someone had interest in the younger Sandifer.
Popov did not see the FBI agent raise his hand to his mouth and he did not realize the jogger he passed thirty seconds later took his picture with a cell phone.
Decisions made in the field can and do have consequences. Popov made the decision, without consulting Volkov or Orlov, to abort his directive to give a message to Kyle Sandifer through the son. With the FBI already protecting him, there would be no way to deliver it.
Forty-five minutes later, Popov pulled into the Hertz car return, stepped out and opened the trunk to retrieve his small carry-on travel bag. As he reached in to extract the bag, two men dressed as Hertz employees, grabbed him by the arms and hustled him into a newly arrived Ford transit van directly behind the Chevy Cruze. With a Hertz logo on the side, the van drew zero attention as it exited the return area. A third man closed the car’s trunk with the bag still in it and sat in the driver’s seat. With the keys still in the ignition, he started the car and followed the van out of the Hertz facility. All of these events occurred within the span of twenty seconds.
Once inside the transit van, Popov looked at the two men who still held him by the arms and started to protest.
The larger of the two men put his finger to his lips and said in English-accented Russian, “zat KNEESS!”
Suddenly understanding his situation, Popov complied and shut up.
***
Twenty-four hours later, FBI agents Sean Kruger and Jimmie Gibbs stood in the FBI field office at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport examining the contents of the carry-on bag previously in the possession of Yuri Popov. At the same time Popov, occupying one of the facility’s interrogation rooms, demanded to see a lawyer.
One of the arresting agents pointed to a passport and said, “We found that one on him.” He pointed to another one. “That one was hidden in the lining of his suitcase.”
Kruger picked up the one Popov carried and opened it. “George Alexander. Interesting.” Flipping through the pages, he stopped at the one in the back. “Our Mr. Alexander has been a busy traveler. It appears he flew in from Mexico City a few days before he drove past the Sandifer home in Plano.”
Gibbs looked up and asked, “How long was he in Mexico?”
“Looks like he was there for four days, flew to Montreal, then flew back to Mexico City from Regan National.”
“That would explain his absence watching the café for a few days.”
Kruger nodded. “And it explains his presence in front of Kyle Sandifer’s law firm. Let’s have a chat with Mr. Alexander.”
Gibbs smiled.
Kruger opened the door to the interrogation room and sat down across from Popov. Gibbs leaned against the wall.
“Remember me, Yuri?” Kruger asked.
The Russian stared at Kruger and slowly shook his head. “You have me confused with someone else.”
His English contained only a slight Eastern European accent.
Gibbs spoke to him in Russian.
Popov’s eyes widened slightly, but he returned his glare to Kruger. “I want a lawyer.”
“Can’t have one.”
“I am familiar with your laws in the United States. It is my right to have an attorney.”
“In your case, not really.”
“Why?”
Kruger placed the George Alexander passport on the table and smiled. “Entering the United States under a false or forged passport is a violation of US Code Title 18, Section 1543. That offense carries a penalty of up to twenty-five years in a federal prison. Plus, since you’re not really a citizen of the United States, we are forced to believe you have entered the country to commit a terrorist act. Therefore, you are being declared an enemy combatant
and not entitled to an attorney.”
“I am not an enemy combatant.”
“How do we know that?”
“Call my embassy. They will tell you I am a businessman.”
“What embassy? Your passport identifies you as an American citizen, which we know is false. How do we determine your real nationality? You leave us no choice but to hold you on a John Doe warrant.”
“You know who I am. Both of you do.”
“How would I know who you are?” He turned to Gibbs. “Jimmie, do you know who this man is?”
Gibbs displayed a slight grin, tilted his head to the side as he studied Popov for a few moments. “Nope, can’t say that I do.”
Kruger turned back to Popov and narrowed his eyes as he spoke. “See, neither one of us knows who you are. Now, why did you enter the country under a false ID? And why did you drive by a house owned by the son of Kyle Sandifer?”
Extracting two pictures from inside his suit coat, Kruger laid them down on the table. One picture showed Popov looking back at traffic outside the offices of Rothenburg and Sandifer in Washington, D.C. The other showed him driving the Chevy Cruse close to Richard Sandifer’s house.
Popov glared at Kruger and then at Gibbs. “So, I am driving car. There is no crime in driving a car. Everyone in this country does.”
“True, but not everyone enters the country using a false passport.”
No response came from Popov.
“I’m going to give you a chance to save yourself. Tell me why your buddy, Boris Volkov, met with Kyle Sandifer and what they discussed.”
Popov shrugged. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
Kruger tapped the picture of Popov in Washington, D.C. “You picked him up after their meeting. I would assume you knew the topic of their conversation.”
“I am finished answering questions.” He folded his arms over his chest and sat back in the chair.
With a smile and a grating metallic screech, Kruger scooted his chair back and stood. He turned to leave. Just before Gibbs opened the door, Kruger paused and returned his attention to Popov. “Two things I forgot to mention. First, we haven’t decided on where to send you. I mentioned ADX Florence, others have suggested Camp Delta at Guantanamo Bay. At ADX, you’ll never see the sun again and at Camp Delta, well…” He paused, “Let’s put it this way, no one will hear you scream.”
Popov glared at Kruger, but remained quiet.
“Since you will be held as a John Doe, if anyone from your country makes inquiries about you, the system can honestly say we don’t have you in custody. You will, for all practical purposes, disappear. Second, we sent your iPhone to our labs for examination.”
He saw Popov display a sly smile.
“Oh, don’t worry, they cracked your security code in a couple of hours. Apparently, your fingerprints on the screen gave them a clue to the code. After that it was just a matter of trying different combinations. Isn’t technology great?”
The smile disappeared.
“I’m told everyone is giddy over all the information they’re getting out of it.”
Kruger’s cell phone vibrated. After looking at the screen and reading the message, he smiled. “One last item, we just learned from one of your emails that you have a wife and two daughters.”
Popov’s eyes narrowed as he continued to glare.
“That’s too bad. Do you know why it’s too bad?”
Popov did not answer.
“You’ll never see them again.”
Kruger’s face displayed a hard smile as he stared at Popov. He turned, Gibbs opened the door and Kruger walked out followed by the ex-Navy Seal. Before exiting, Gibbs turned, gave Popov a big smile and an exaggerated good-bye wave. “Say goodbye, Yuri.”
As they walked down the hall away from the room, Gibbs turned to Kruger. “Think it will work?”
“Don’t know. What do you think?”
“He’s well trained and, at one time, a member of an elite Special Forces team in Russia.”
Kruger glanced at Gibbs. “Would you give it up?”
“No, but I don’t have a wife and two daughters.”
“If you did, would you then?”
Gibbs ignored the question. “He’s in a tough spot. If he tells us anything, he can’t go back. If he doesn’t tell us, we won’t let him go back.”
“I know. Time for him to contemplate his predicament for a few days. Then we can offer him an alternative.”
Chapter 22
Paris, France
At 11:03 a.m., Dmitri Orlov placed the cell phone on his desk. He stood, turned with his back to the desk and stared out the window of his office. Across the Seine, sightseers crowded the grounds of Notre-Dame. Below his office, traffic snarled the Quai de Montebello, where street merchants peddled their old books, paintings, drawings and other wares to the tourists who flocked to Paris each fall. Aromas from the restaurant below his office always permeated the air at this time of day.
Orlov perceived none of this. His thoughts dwelled on a new problem, or was it a true crisis? He did not know at this point.
He turned at a knock on his office door.
“Da.”
The door opened and his assistant in Paris, Grigori Pushkin, stepped in and closed the door. Pushkin possessed a thin face, pale blue eyes and sandy hair cut short. A hawk-shaped nose supported wire-rimmed glasses.
“Did you need to see me, sir?”
“Grigori, we may have a problem.”
Pushkin stood ramrod straight, a habit learned during his time as a GRU agent. “How can I help?”
“When did we last hear from Popov?”
Blinking several times, Pushkin relaxed noticeably and said, “Three days ago. He called after arriving in Dallas.”
“Nothing since?”
“No, sir.”
Orlov nodded. “Calls to his phone go straight to voicemail.”
The assistant did not respond.
“I just talked to Volkov and he has not heard from him either. Why do you think that is, Grigori?”
“If I had to guess?”
“Yes, if you had to guess.”
“He is either under surveillance, or worse, the FBI has him in custody.”
“My guess would be he is in custody. Is there a way you can make quiet inquiries?”
“What about our embassy?”
Orlov shook his head. “He is traveling using an American passport.”
“That will make it difficult, but I will see what I can find out.”
“Keep me informed.”
Pushkin nodded and left the office.
Turning to look out his window again, Orlov surveyed the street below. The disappearance of Kyle Sandifer and Yuri Popov could not be a coincidence. He sat back down at his desk, pulled out a drawer on the bottom right side and extracted an iPhone. This was a phone only a few individuals knew about. He dialed a number and waited for the call to be answered.
***
Peter Yanovich maintained a quiet life as a divorced Arlington, Virginia attorney. His practice consisted of negotiating real estate transactions and mergers and acquisition contracts. Now in his late forties, he made a decent living performing these activities. His real money came from being Dmitri Orlov’s lawyer in the United States. Born in Fox River, Alaska, to Russian immigrants, Yanovich fled the state after he graduated from high school. With a law degree from Georgetown Law School, Yanovich met Orlov at a banking seminar five years after opening his one-man shop.
Yanovich’s loyalties were to neither family, country, nor political philosophy. His loyalty was simply to money. Dmitri Orlov made Peter Yanovich a rich man, more so than his small law practice ever would and therefore he was loyal to Orlov.
Growing up in Alaska, Yanovich enjoyed the outdoors more than his legal practice. He maintained a lean body by biking to work each morning and constant hiking excursions on weekends. Of average height and average looks, he could blend into any crowd and never be remembere
d. This was the one trait Orlov found invaluable about Yanovich. He was forgettable.
His cell phone announced a call at 6:15 a.m. Having just stepped out of the shower, Yanovich thought about not answering until he saw the number and quickly accepted the call.
“Good morning, Dmitri.”
“I know it is early there, Peter, but something has come up and I need you to jump on it immediately.”
“Very well. What can I do for you?”
“Remember I asked you, sometime ago, to look into the background of an FBI agent named Sean Kruger?”
“I remember. You asked me to wait until I heard back from you.”
“Well, it is time to start.”
“How deep do you want me to go?”
“I want to know everything about him. Family, residence, education, wants, desires, you name it, I want to know about it.”
“Very well. How soon?”
“Yesterday.”
“Then I had better get busy.”
***
Despite his forgettable looks, Yanovich’s profession and money allowed him to indulge his preference for having a variety of women in his life. He’d learned to never let them spend the night. It became too difficult to get them to leave.
One of the women Yanovich dated off-and-on worked for the Washington Post as a researcher, not a journalist. Brenda Kozlow slaved over a computer confirming backgrounds and sources for stories the paper intended to publish. They met for drinks after work later that evening.
“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” Peter began as they sat down at a bistro table in one corner of the restaurant’s bar area.
“I always enjoy meeting you, Peter.” Brenda took a sip from her glass of Merlot. While not fashion-model pretty, she possessed a face most men considered pleasant. Her hazel eyes and long brown hair added to the attraction Peter felt for her. “You mentioned you wanted to ask me something?”
Yanovich smiled. “I need some advice.”