Edwards and his team had discovered, in the slain Russian’s apartment, located behind the kitchen cabinet, a set of papers and a photo binder. The pictures were typical shots of people mugging for the camera, army buddies. Russia, Afghanistan, Angola, Chechnya, but one troubling page featured pictures…from Washington.
Edwards had settled on one in particular, a typical tourist pose in front of the capitol with a woman, faded and blurred. She appeared in other shots too.
The caption on the back read: “Katrina”, the same name found in the diary.
Chapter 12
Kabul
Dave Edwards was dreaming of doing belly shots off Martha Stewart when his phone rings, making him jump like a frog out of a biology class. Scrambling to answer it, he crawls over the new friend he’d brought home from the bar.
“Start moving, now.”
“Bob? What’s up, man, did I miss something?”
“No, but you will if you don’t move your ass and get out to Bagram ASAP. I’ll meet you there in an hour.” Bob hangs up.
“Shit!” Edwards looks around at the room, trying to see if he could find his brain.
He’s dressed quickly, grabs his “go bag” and is out the door. The heat and light hit him like a shovel to the side of the head, but he manages to catch a chopper shuttle and get there on time. Bob Stevens waits for him at the stairs of a Gulfstream G-V executive jet inside the agency’s hanger. It belongs to Savannah Air, a front for the CIA. The spooks have their own fleet of aircraft to get around, handy for those discreet “renditions” jobs.
“Get in.” Bob laughs at the sight of Edwards, waving to the pilot to start it up. They sit down next to each other in a pair of large leather chairs as a pretty Air Force master sergeant tells them to buckle up. Sitting across from them are Freaks and Mayo. Freaks has a Brian Green physics book to read while Mayo settles into Candide in its original French. The plane moves the moment the door closes, out of the hangar’s shade into the hot noonday sun.
“Where we going, boss?” Edwards asks.
“You’re dropping me off in Dubai. You’re going back home.”
That wakes him up.
“I had a rather disturbing talk with Uncle Yuri this morning over at the morgue while he was collecting what was left of his countryman.” Bob tells him. “Although he was less than forthcoming, he gave up enough to get me going. Malekov was a Spetsnaz operative in Washington. Back in the bad old days, they put teams in to fuck with us if the balloon went up. Whatever it was that Malekov told the Iranians, it’s got Yuri so scared he’s already sent people after them.”
“Shit, that was fast,” Mayo mumbles.
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Bob sighs. “Yuri gave me the names of the people he’s sending. I’ll call ahead and see if we can get a tail on them when they land. Perhaps they’ll lead us to them.”
“What are you going to do?” Edwards asks.
“I’m going to take a little side trip to Tehran, see what I can turn up there.”
“Now you’re scaring me,” Freaks says.
“Here’s a history lesson,” Bob sighs. “You know why the KGB ended up running Russia? It’s because they had control over the WMD. All the codes and the keys come from them.” He points to the picture in Edwards’ hand. “Old Yuri was there to instruct those folks on how to use them.”
The silence lasts for a while.
Chapter 13
Washington, DC
The FBI surveillance teams used to call Vanya Sergeyevich Ustinov “Santa Claus” because of his impossible resemblance to the old King of the North Pole, but that was years ago when they believed he was a real player. At one time he couldn’t cross the street without G men in his shadow, but not anymore. Now he’s just another cold war relic, at least that’s everybody thought, himself included.
For thirty years he’s worked as one of the resident janitors at the Russian Embassy. For security reasons, most embassies bring in their own people instead of hiring locals to clean toilets or empty the trash. After all, one person’s trash can be another’s intelligence treasure.
It is exactly as it is supposed to be, a seemingly innocent wrong number. The conversation however was scripted long ago, and followed precisely as planned. He is quite surprised when he gets it, sitting alone in his small room, in his underwear, drinking tea. At first he’s confused. It just shouldn’t be, after all this time, that he would receive such a call.
“Perhaps it is a test? A chance to prove my loyalty, to see if I am still up to the task?”
It can be the only explanation. Things have been different since the fall of the Soviet Union, but a call to duty is still a call to duty. He puffs himself up. “They will see that Vanya Sergeyevich is more than ready!” As the seventy-five-year-old rises proudly from is chair, a twinge of sciatica hits him, but he braves through it, filled with new vigor and a new meaning to a life that had seemed all but forgotten.
The brief call is sucked into the machinery of the NSA. The system analyzes the conversation, determining origin, language, voice recognition and content. Anything out of the ordinary is flagged. In this case it is the word Katrina.
Chapter 14
Moody is slowly losing his mind. He has been sitting now for hours down the street from the main entrance to the Russian Embassy residence compound, looking for Santa Claus. Since he can only cover one gate, he sits in continuous fear that his choice is the wrong one. He tries to remain calm and weigh his options should he fail, but none of them are pleasant. When you get caught in the middle, there is always the risk that you can get it from both sides.
“Merciful Allah, I beg your forgiveness for straying, for falling to the temptations of the great Satan…” he prays, hoping a last minute deal can be made. “I will attend prayer dutifully, I will abstain from evil spirits and follow your will.”
At the gate appears a fat man with a white beard who starts heading down the street with a small wheeled piece of luggage.
Moody blinks in disbelief. “Allah Akbar…” he whispers.
The Lord does work in mysterious ways.
Chapter 15
Glenside, Pa
It has been an unsettling Sunday for Kate, up until now. While the rest of the world seems to be watching the Eagles take on the Giants, Kate and Sheila are taking on their deadly enemy alcohol in the pitched trench warfare of Sheila’s fifth step. It is just the thing she needs right now, an opportunity to get out of her own simmering shit by helping somebody else.
In the large and nearly empty Barnes & Noble, they sit in a secluded corner on a couch near the store’s coffee bar. Bookstores hold a special place in Kate’s heart. Lydia, her old sponsor, owns a little used bookshop, and that was where they would meet.
“Now what?” Shelia asks.
“Just go with the flow of your new life, for today. As they say, yesterday is done, done over. Tomorrow is yet to come, but today well lived is a gift. God has this way of only giving us only what we can handle, so when you’re tested, you can always look back to what you did today, and the strength and courage you found to do it.”
Kate lets that sink in. Shelia is only twenty-eight years old, with a lot of her life ahead, but Kate has a good feeling about her. Sheila’s road had been rough, but not nearly as bad as many, herself included. Kate suspects that Shelia has “gotten it,” the point of true understanding that goes beyond mere words. However, you never know what is really going on inside another’s head, where the real truth hides, and the real demons prowl. This too she knows all too well.
The worst lies an alcoholic tells are the lies they tell themselves. This thought makes Kate draw her hands back. “Now, I want you to take that inventory of yours, and put it in a safe place, and a year from now, we’ll see if you have to add anything to it.”
“Kate, I cant tell you how much…”
Kate cuts her off. “Don’t. I should be tha
nking you, for keeping me sober one more day.” Shelia hugs her tightly, relieving the tension that had built up.
“Easy! You’re gonna squeeze all the coffee out of me. I’d better hit the sandbox. I’ll be back in a sec.” Kate laughs.
Taking care of business and freshening up her makeup, Kate starts thinking about dinner and sitting across from Michael at the table. Looking into the mirror, she stops. A wave of anxiety washes over her, or is it fear? She senses something is terribly wrong. After rushing out of the bathroom and back to the couch, the chill of darkness, like a cloud’s passage before the sun, sweeps over her body. It is from the glimpse of a man disappearing behind an aisle of books. She closes her eyes and shakes her head before looking again. Seeing this, Sheila rushes over.
“Kate! Are you okay? What’s wrong?” she asks, holding Kate’s shoulders.
“Whoa! I just got really dizzy,” Kate laughs.
“My God, it looked like you just saw the grim reaper.”
“Did that just happen?” Kate thinks, trying to regain her composure. “Maybe I did, or it’s early menopause, or a lack of food. I’d better get home and get some dinner going for my boys. Come on, Sheel, let’s get out of here.”
They say their goodbyes with a final hug, but not without Kate giving a final backward glance at the bookstore.
She goes back inside.
Walking slowly down the center aisle, she looks left and right, back and forth, as if she’s watching a tennis match from center court, but this is no game. Then she sees him, back turned to her. She knows he doesn’t need to turn around. She knows he knows she’s there. Like nearing the edge of a cliff, the closer she gets, the greater the fear. Kate would prefer the cliff.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilson, what a coincidence meeting you here,” the man says without turning around.
“Hello, Stani. I thought it was you.”
Stani turns around. They are in the self-help section, and he’s holding a Big Book. “Interesting reading, this. This is what you use, yes?”
“I use what works. Looking for advice?” she asks. She can smell his breath.
“Just saying hello. It has been much too long,” he smiles.
“It’s over, Stani, you know that.”
Stani frowns. “Now, Mrs. Wilson, how can you say that? It will never be over. Wasn’t that you I saw last night, stopping by to see your champion? “ he asks, lightly touching her cheek, feeling the slight tremble.
“What are you doing? Coming to me for a cheap thrill?” she says, using the bravado to steel herself against the imposing figure of Stani. He doesn’t like it, and the flash of anger is seen in his eyes.
After a moment, he smiles. “No, I’m just reminding you of who, and what, you are. The kind of person who is ready and willing to go over to the edge, for the taste, for the rush, just like me.”
She turns away from him, wanting to ignore him, but she can’t.
“I remember when you used to be a regular at my little fight club, and boy oh boy, did they like you! Perhaps this book hasn’t changed you as much as you would like to think, “ Stani says, handing her the Big Book. “Which I certainly hope is true. After all, you never know what the future will bring for us,” he tells her with a flashing sarcastic smile as he walks away.
“Get over it, Stani. It’s time to move on. We’re done,” she says to his back.
Still moving, he turns and wags a finger at her. “Delusion is a terrible enemy. Good night, Mrs. Wilson.”
And he is gone, leaving her standing there, Big Book in hand.
Chapter 16
Regional Train 193
What does it take to turn a person into a killer? The answer is usually fear. Fear of being killed oneself, fear of loss, or fear of being caught. Some consider it sport, and there are more of them than you might think. How easy it is to commit the act depends on a few different things. One is proximity. It’s simple for a UAV operator to pull the trigger on a terrorist halfway around the world as it is on a bad guy in a video game. That separation between predator and prey eases the second consideration, conscience. But even those who possess high moral standards are not beyond rationalizing what is universally known to be fundamentally wrong. And if you take into account other species, the majority of us have blood on our hands. Life is life.
Moody is one of them. His father the butcher exposed him to blood at an early age. The first one was a chicken. He followed his father’s careful instructions on how to kill the Hallal way, the Islamic method of ritual killing. Although he’d seen in done many times before, doing it yourself is different. It horrified him, especially seeing the poor bird run across the dusty dirt yard with its head hanging to one side after losing his grip on it. Right now, motivation is abject fear, and that kind of fear clouds judgment.
He has followed the Russian onto a Northeast Corridor Amtrak train, buying a ticket to New York. He has no idea where they are going, but he has to make contact and win the confidence of the target, but he knows he can’t do so empty handed. No, he has to do something, and fast.
The train is mostly empty, and dark. A middle-aged woman walks by him and pauses at the toilet at the front of the car. His fear takes over. It is impulse, desperate but he has no other ideas. He grabs his backpack, fishing out his Swiss Army knife as he goes. He looks over his shoulder; no one notices him.
Moody comes up fast behind the woman as she steps into the bathroom. Before she begins to turn to close the door, he grabs her from behind, covering her mouth. He takes the blade and digs the point into the back of her neck until it hits bone, then with a jerk, it slips between two disks, severing her spinal cord. The woman goes limp and urine pours out of her. With his foot, he slides the door closed.
Chapter 17
Woodcrest Road
There is little sleep for Kate that night. She reads from her own Big Book, and then prays long and deeply, yet her troubled mind still resists sleep. Eventually, she finds her big rocking chair and snuggles into a favorite blanket. This is the refuge where Kate spent many a sleepless night, nursing her colicky sons, nursing hangovers, the shakes of withdrawal, and the shame of guilt. Right now she just wants her fear to go away.
Outside, the final leaves of fall whisper to her on the breeze, warning of a cold dark winter ahead. Something stirs deep within her, something she’d prayed had been forgotten, locked away in the dark attic that exists in us all, the place where we put the parts of us we never want to see, but cannot throw away.
“God only gives you as much as you can handle,” Kate recalls telling Shelia, what Lydia had told her. Either way, she will face it, for she cannot run away. She has to remember that most of all because in the silence of the night, beyond the attic door, she hears her disease calling to her, and she recognizes the voice.
Chapter 18
Regional Train 193
“Mind if I join you?” Moody asks Santa Claus at a café car table. Vanya tries to hard to hide his surprise by the bold appearance of his new shadow. He picked up on the tail after he turned onto M Street off Wisconsin on his way to the Metro. At first he thought the man was an amateur, but now it seems his method is deliberate, and he guesses he’s about to find out why.
“No, please.” Vanya smiles. “It seems we’ve been traveling the same path for some time now. A curious coincidence. Should I be afraid?” He isn’t, especially with the 9mm in his now open bag on the seat next to him.
“Ah yes, you noticed me,” Moody blushes. “No, you have nothing to fear. I am here to help you. Consider me your guardian angel.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Vanya smiles, but his eyes hold the stranger in an icy stare.
Moody is on his game now. “I think you do. In fact, I know you do,” Moody says with the same insincere smirk.
For a moment, the two men stare at each other in cold silence.
“I’m still at a loss…” Vanya begins.
Moody cuts him off. “I k
now you received a long overdue phone call this morning. I know what you are about to do. I am here to make sure you succeed.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps you have me confused…”
“We have a mutual friend, Katrina.”
This time the denials stop.
“There are many who think you are too old for this. I am not so sure, but nevertheless, I have been ordered to watch over you. Think of me as a safety net.”
Moody gets up to leave. “By the way, the loo in the next car is out of order. It’s a filthy mess.”
With that, he is gone.
Vanya sits for a few minutes, puzzled by all this. They will be at his destination, Trenton, NJ, in about ten minutes. He grabs his bag and goes to the next car. He comes to the bathroom and sees that it is says, “occupied,” but a handwritten note shoved in the jamb warns, “Toilet clogged”. Looking around and seeing no one, it only takes the old KGB operative ten seconds to open the lock.
He looks in. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says to the woman sitting on the commode, head between her legs and her jeans and panties down around her ankles.
He begins to shut the sliding door, but she doesn’t even flinch.
He gets the picture and relocks the door, instinctively using a hanky to smear any prints, not that it will matter anyway.
Chapter 19
Newark, New Jersey
Elayna enjoys the sparkling view of Manhattan as her plane makes its final approach into Newark Liberty International Airport, reminding her of the images she’d seen of 9/11. She thinks of how barbaric but brilliant the attack had been, having studied every detail she could get her hands on. Russia too had fallen victim of savage acts of terrorism: the Beslan School attack, the apartment bombings, the Moscow theater debacle, the Groznyy hospital …the list is long. The blood of innocents is a terrible thing to endure, but it is the nature of war. In all struggles, victory goes to those willing to sacrifice what they hold dearest, let it be freedom, morals, souls, and sometimes all of the above.