Private Moscow

by Patterson, James

  “Maybe he was worried they’d been infiltrated by Bright Star operatives? Maybe he even knew they were? He knew he could trust me. And Private has resources and connections,” Jack replied. “I might not have known the truth about his background, but maybe you’re right. Maybe I really did know the man. You can’t hide good, and the man I knew as Karl Parker was good. I think that’s why he left a trail for me. He was trying to expose this without putting his family in jeopardy. I think he loved them and I have to believe he had grown to love America. I think he was going to give me the identity of Minerva.”

  “The identification of the Russian agent known as Minerva has become a strategic priority,” Hudson remarked.

  “Who’s overseeing it?” Jack asked. “Whoever it is, how do you know they’re not Bright Star?”

  Hudson said nothing.

  “Karl left a trail only I could follow. He led me to the basement that revealed he was a spy. I’ve got to believe he wants me to know the truth. If he knew Minerva’s identity, he would have left a clue, something I could use, something only I would recognize,” Jack said.

  “We’ve got people working on this,” Hudson assured him.

  “I don’t know who they are or who they report to,” Jack replied. “But I do know my team and I trust them with my life. I’d like two phones and a couple of computers please. Miss Orlova and I need to get to work.”

  CHAPTER 98

  MAINSTREAM MEDIA OUTLETS all over America had run the story of me fleeing Moscow as a murder suspect. Russian authorities had given interviews portraying themselves as the victims of a coordinated conspiracy, and painting me as the villain. The Russian ambassador to Washington had lodged a formal protest demanding my immediate return to Moscow to face justice. Justine had emailed me the worst articles, so I could gauge the threat to Private, and they were currently open on the laptop John Hudson had given me.

  “It’s not good, Jack,” Justine said over the speakerphone. “We lost TradeBank.”

  TradeBank was a big client. Jessie Fleming had been leading a team out of Private’s New York office, investigating a possible financial fraud by organized criminals making use of the bank’s overseas branches.

  “They said they can’t afford more scandal,” Justine revealed.

  I sighed. “I’m going to have to quit Private,” I said. “At least until—”

  “Don’t you say another word,” Mo-bot cut in.

  She and Justine were in the New York office, poring over the huge data dump they’d shared with us. Everything we could pull on Karl Parker.

  “You quit and everyone will think you have something to hide,” Mo-bot said. “And predators never go easy on a wounded animal.”

  “I’m gambling everything,” I replied. “I’m putting all your livelihoods at risk.”

  “Do the right thing for the right reasons, Jack Morgan,” Mo-bot said. “And we’ll back you all the way.”

  I looked at Dinara, who sat across the aisle, studying files on the laptop Hudson had given her. She glanced up and nodded.

  “Don’t let them win,” she said.

  “OK,” I responded reluctantly. “But this can’t go on much longer.”

  “Did you check the diary?” Dinara asked.

  She turned the computer to reveal one of the crime-scene photos taken of Karl’s basement, which had been shared with Private by the NYPD before they’d stopped cooperating. I recalled the blank desk diary that had been lying beside the false passports and stacks of foreign currency.

  “Yes,” I replied. “It was blank.”

  I was struck by a thought. What if we weren’t supposed to look in the diary? What if the diary itself was a message?

  “Have you been through his appointments?” I asked.

  “We’ve checked his schedule for the past three years, and everything going forward,” Justine replied. “It’s in the folder marked ‘Admin.’”

  Dinara went through the zip files we’d been sent via the high-speed satellite link and found Karl Parker’s digital calendar in the admin folder. She started flicking through the daily planner, and I saw something that made me lean forward suddenly.

  “Go back,” I said.

  “What is it?” Mo-bot asked.

  John Hudson stood up and came round the table to peer at the screen.

  “What have you seen?” Dinara asked.

  I pointed at a diary entry. A midday lunch with Ann Kavanagh, the CEO of a company called Enterprise Web Services. The meal was scheduled to take place tomorrow.

  “It’s the lunch with Ann Kavanagh,” I told Justine and Mo-bot.

  “We checked it out. Enterprise Web Services took over the tech platform of Karl Parker’s company, Silverlink International, about a month ago,” Mo-bot replied.

  “So Karl Parker would probably have met Ann Kavanagh only recently,” I remarked.

  “Ann Kavanagh?” Justine said. “Would the Russians really go to such lengths to protect the CEO of a tech company?”

  “That’s her,” I said. “That’s Minerva.”

  “How can you be sure?” Dinara asked.

  “The name of the restaurant where they’re supposed to meet, DC Legitum,” I replied. “‘DC’ is a military acronym for ‘danger close’ and ‘legitum’ is shorthand for a legitimate military target.”

  CHAPTER 99

  “ENTERPRISE WEB SERVICES is a massive data provider. It competes with Amazon for enterprise-level data management,” Mo-bot explained. “Banks, video streamers, the military …” She trailed off, and I felt the familiar thrill of a lead.

  “Jack, there was no way Ann Kavanagh was ever going to make that lunch date,” she revealed. “Tomorrow at midday, the Pentagon will activate its real-time cloud network, linking battlefield operations with live intelligence. It’s designed to give America the strategic advantage, but guess which company is providing the tech behind it?”

  “Enterprise Web Services,” I replied.

  “Bingo,” Mo-bot said. “It’s called the Field Operations Resource and Communications Engine, otherwise known as the FORCE System. The date for the activation ceremony was fixed months ago. Ann Kavanagh will be there. That’s what Karl Parker’s calendar entry must signify. I’ve sent you a link to an article in Jane’s Defence Weekly.”

  I checked my email and found Mo-bot’s message. When I clicked on the link, a window opened, revealing an in-depth feature about the Pentagon’s state-of-the-art battlefield solution, and a profile of Ann Kavanagh, the technical genius behind it.

  “If she is Minerva, the Russians will be able to see our every move. Every troop deployment, every base, all our military and intelligence secrets will be open to them,” I concluded with a sinking feeling as the scale of the threat became clear. Technology, not politics, not conventional espionage, was going to give the Russians the keys to the republic.

  “She fits the profile,” Justine advised. “I’m sending you what I’ve been able to get on her, Jack. Raised in Ryegate, Montana, she was another small-town orphan who became a ward of the foster system. She enlisted in the Navy aged eighteen, and served with distinction. She started Enterprise Web Services after a short career at IBM, using investment funds provided by a syndicate of European banks and financiers.”

  “This is it,” I told Hudson. “You’ve got to run this up the chain of command. Stop the FORCE System going live.”

  “I’ll radio it in right now,” Hudson said, moving toward the cockpit.

  “Justine, I want you to call Erin Sebold. Tell her everything,” I said, but I could hear commotion at the other end of the line.

  “Jack,” Justine replied. “We’re being raided. It’s the FBI.”

  I heard people tramp into the meeting room where Justine and Mo-bot had set up their operations center.

  “Step away from the computers,” a man’s voice commanded. “We have reason to believe Jack Morgan is a spy for Russian intelligence. This entire organization is under investigation for espionage activit
ies against the United States.”

  “Don’t come home, Jack,” Justine whispered. “It isn’t safe.”

  “Who are you talking to?” the intruder asked at the other end of the call. “Move away from that phone,” he ordered.

  An instant later, the line went dead.

  CHAPTER 100

  DINARA COULD SEE Jack was stunned by what had just happened. She turned to her computer, opened a fresh browser and went to the Otkrov blog. The top story identified Jack Morgan as a rogue SVR spy, and outed Dinara as his Russian handler. It was a bold move that demonstrated Salko’s desperation to discredit them. It made them targets in both countries, and meant it would be almost impossible for them to find safe haven anywhere. It also took Private out of the equation. The entire organization was now tainted.

  “Jack,” Dinara said, turning the laptop toward him. “They’ve upped the stakes. This story identifies you as a rogue SVR agent and says I’m your handler,” she translated. “They’ve given us nowhere to go.”

  “We still have friends,” he replied, getting to his feet.

  He went to the cockpit door and knocked. “John,” he said. “I need to get a message to Erin.”

  The door opened, and Hudson emerged looking somber. He put his arm on Jack’s shoulder, and led him back to his seat.

  “I’ve just heard what’s happened,” Hudson said. “It’s a world-class screw-up. One agency not talking to the other.” He slid into the chair opposite Jack. “We’ll get this cleared up. You must have really got the Russians pissed. Breaking into Salko’s office, assaulting Spiro Fomin and his assistant.”

  Dinara’s stomach lurched, and she looked at Jack, who’d also registered the significance of Hudson’s words. They hadn’t mentioned Spiro Fomin in their debrief to the CIA; it hadn’t seemed relevant. The only other people who knew Spiro Fomin had been assaulted were the Russians. Hudson must have sensed the change in mood and realized his mistake, because his hand whipped beneath the table, and when it came back up, it held a pistol.

  “No sudden moves,” he told Jack. “Damn. Never volunteer information. That’s the key to pulling off a good cover, right?”

  “Where’s the real CIA jet?” Dinara asked in Russian.

  Hudson smiled. “Quarantined in a hangar at the airport,” he replied in English.

  Jack glared at the Russian operative. “You hurried us onto the plane, so our escort couldn’t verify your identity.”

  “People get sloppy when under pressure,” Hudson replied. “We knew the Americans would try to get you home. Three jets, three airports. It wasn’t much of a challenge to have substitutes waiting at them all. And we’ve kept your people in custody, so Erin Sebold and her fellow plotters at the embassy are in the dark. They don’t know whether your escape was successful.”

  Dinara felt the jet bank into a sharp clockwise turn.

  “We now know what you know,” Hudson said. “So you will be taken back to Moscow, where you will face justice.”

  Dinara felt a wave of panic. The Kremlin had learned exactly what she and Jack knew. Hudson had listened to it all, and she had no doubt all their electronic communications on the plane had been processed through a Russian satellite. They’d neutralized Private. No one would believe anything Justine and Mo-bot said, and Dinara had no doubt Russian intelligence would find a way to take them out permanently. She was under no illusions; she and Jack would be taken back to Moscow, where they would be executed.

  Jack must have reached the same conclusion, because he sprang forward. Hudson fired, but the bullet zipped past Jack, who moved sideways, and buried itself in the plush headrest of Jack’s chair.

  Jack swatted Hudson’s gun and punched him in the face. Hudson fell out of his seat and, as he tumbled, his hand hit the table and the pistol clattered free. Dinara grabbed Hudson while Jack picked up the pistol. Hudson headbutted her and Dinara lost her grip on him. Hudson sprang toward Jack, who fired, shooting him in the neck. As Hudson fell, choking, the cockpit door opened, revealing the pilot, who held a pistol. Jack shot him twice in the chest, and he fell to the ground.

  Dinara and Jack froze, staring at the two men lying dead on the floor. For a moment, the aircraft was still. The only sound was the constant roar of the engines.

  Jack snapped out of his daze. “Find out where the FORCE System is located,” he said. “It was mentioned in the Jane’s Defence article. Find out where the activation ceremony is taking place.”

  “OK,” Dinara replied.

  Jack headed toward the cockpit. “I’m going to turn this plane around, and we’re going to do whatever it takes to stop this thing.”

  CHAPTER 101

  I’D BEEN TRAINED to fly Sea Knights, and I hadn’t piloted a fixed wing for a long time, but our high-speed satellite connection put the Internet at my fingertips, and with it the sum of human knowledge. A combination of information gleaned from the aircraft’s flight manual and online tutorials enabled me to supplement my general flight skills with a specific understanding of the G650’s controls. Once I’d corrected course, and set the autopilot, I dragged Hudson and the pilot to the rear of the aircraft and put their bodies in the small baggage hold in the tail.

  I said a quiet prayer for the men as I shut the door to the compartment. I had killed before, when there’d been no other option, but the taking of a life never got any easier. Hudson and the pilot had been a threat, but they’d been turned into my enemies by circumstance. In another world, we might have talked sport over beers. I harbored no ill will toward the fallen men. They’d done what they thought was necessary. Just like me.

  “The FORCE System is run out of Naval Air Station Fallon, Nevada,” Dinara revealed as I returned to the main cabin.

  “Bring your computer,” I said, picking up my machine and the satellite phone. “Let’s get set up in the cockpit.”

  Dinara grabbed her laptop and followed me through the cabin.

  “Fallon,” I remarked as I took the pilot’s seat and Dinara slid into the co-pilot’s chair. “That’s north of Vegas.”

  I used my laptop to check the nearest civilian airport and discovered Fallon had a municipal field that was rated for the G650. I thought about attempting to land at NAS Fallon, but an unidentified civilian aircraft approaching a military base would almost certainly be shot down.

  “We can land at the local airport,” I told Dinara, “but we’re going to need help.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed one of many numbers I knew by heart.

  “Private Vegas,” an operator answered.

  “This is Jack Morgan,” I said.

  “Mr. Morgan—” the operator began, but I cut him off.

  “I know. Don’t believe everything you hear on the news. Put me through to Hector Lopez, and if anyone asks, you never heard from me.”

  “Yes, sir,” the operator replied.

  The line went silent; then there was a ringing tone and the call connected.

  “Jack?” Hector Lopez said.

  I could hear the disbelief in his tone. He was the new head of Private Vegas, and was a decent, honest man. The rumors and scandal wouldn’t have been easy for him.

  “No names,” I said. “This isn’t a secure line. I’ve been framed by Russian intelligence. Whatever you’ve heard is a lie.”

  “I never thought otherwise,” Hector replied.

  “What’s the situation where you are?” I asked.

  “Feds are freezing our assets and operations,” Hector informed me. “Part of a counter-espionage operation. My read is someone’s putting the squeeze on you.”

  “You read it right,” I told Hector, relieved I’d hired this perceptive former FBI agent out of the Vegas field office. “I need you to meet me upstate. Municipal airfield. Name of a late-night talk-show host.”

  If Salko, Veles or any of their SVR associates were listening in, they’d probably guess where we were heading, but I wasn’t going to make it easy on them.

  “Got it. What’s your E
TA?” Hector asked.

  I performed a quick calculation. “Flight time of around twelve hours. We should touch down just before eleven.”

  “I’ll be there,” Hector said.

  “Come prepared,” I replied.

  “Copy that,” he said, before hanging up.

  “We’re going to be cutting it fine,” Dinara observed. “The system goes online at midday.”

  “We’ll make it,” I replied, but in truth I wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER 102

  INSTEAD OF FLYING over the continental United States, which would have attracted attention, I tracked the Pacific coast over international waters. Dinara managed a few hours’ sleep, but I was too amped to rest and was running on adrenalin. I disabled the aircraft transponder, but there was nothing I could do about radar except keep clear of known installations and air corridors. I spent a long time studying everything I could find on Ann Kavanagh. Justine had been right; Kavanagh fit the Bright Star profile. A ward of the state, distinguished service in the military, a successful career, a wealthy recluse. She wasn’t often photographed, but the pictures that did exist showed a tall, athletic woman with blond hair, pale, unblemished skin, and wide, flat eyes. There was something ethereal about her, and she looked as though she might have had Scandinavian heritage.

  We finally entered American airspace over the Mendocino National Forest, a large stretch of wilderness some 350 miles from Fallon, approximately forty minutes out. My gamble paid off, and we weren’t challenged until we were a hundred miles from Fallon and had started our final descent.

  “Unidentified aircraft, this is Naval Air Station Fallon. Identify yourself and state your destination,” a stern voice said over the radio.

  “This is November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango,” I replied, giving the tail number of a G650 based in San Francisco. “We’ve run into electrical problems. All our systems are failing intermittently. We’re heading for Fallon Municipal, and will put down there until we can get an engineer out.”