The File, page 4
He sat stock still, heart pounding. He wasn’t sure that he could believe his eyes. His thoughts whirled. Elation, that his hunches and his stubborn instincts over all these years had been right, and that the Nazi files were within his reach. Astonishment, that his search might be so close to its goal. Anxiety, that others might be on the same trail that he was. Or that they would be soon. He re-read the email, and then called her.
“Yan. Come here,” he barked.
She padded into his room. She had slipped on white silk pajamas and pulled her hair up. She looked over his shoulder at his computer. She was silent too for a moment.
Then she asked, “Is it real?”
“I can’t believe it’s not,” he said.
“You found it then,” she said quietly. “That’s exactly what your sources said. A perfect match.”
She rested her hand gently on his shoulder. She watched him, through cool, even eyes, while he sat there, long, slender fingers fidgeting with his keychain, as he thought about the things they needed to do.
“And it looks undamaged. I waited so long for this. It’s finally in my reach.” He spoke rapidly, excitedly. “We have to move now, though. Immediately. There may be many others listening in. And once the files are reviewed, others will definitely be interested.”
“Where is it? The plane wreck?” she asked.
“In Africa. The Ugandan-Congolese border. In the middle of nowhere,” he said.
“So we need to get there. Now,” she said.
“Yes. And not alone. We’ll need help.”
“Your Russian friends? No one else?”
“Nobody else. No one. This is perfect for my old friends.”
“They won’t be cheap.”
“This is worth it. Worth many times what they will charge. And we can afford it. Dozens of times over. Now let me do this.”
He turned to his computer, dismissing her. He needed to think carefully now, about how to approach his contacts at the FSS. They would take what he had found in a heartbeat, if they ever figured out what it was worth. He needed to make sure they wouldn’t ever know enough to do that. He hunched over his computer, lost in thought as he constructed what he would tell his friends.
She watched him for a moment, then walked silently back to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She sat down on the floor and resumed her exercises, sitting alone in the middle of the darkened room, facing the scroll on the wall.
Chapter 6
Franklin Kerrington III
The newspapers lay on the dining table, next to his breakfast setting. Samuel had poured the coffee, freshly brewed and still steaming, as Franklin Kerrington III came down the staircase. The coffee cup was nineteenth-century porcelain, a special edition by Meissen, with an intricate blue and cream pattern. The set had been in the Kerrington family for generations. He eased into the chair at the head of the table — both elegantly proportioned Chippendale antiques that gleamed in the morning light.
The room was long — twelve by five meters — with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling French doors along one side. The shutters were open, and sunlight streamed in from the internal courtyard. He could hear the fountain through the doors, which Samuel had opened to let the morning air come in. There was no traffic — it was 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and Georgetown had not yet started the day.
The courtyard was spacious, with four grassy squares, finely cut, surrounding the fountain. His grandfather had brought the fountain home with him after a summer in Rome nearly eighty years ago. It was by Bernini, with two heroic figures, Honor and Duty, gazing into the basin. The fountain’s marble, still crystalline white after four centuries, was tinged green with moss at its base. The paths that quartered the lawn were laid with white pebbles, glistening in the morning dew, framed by rounded arches of walkways that ran along three sides of the courtyard.
He walked to the window, sipping his coffee. This view always grounded him. It reminded him of a cloister, the courtyard of some monastic order, devoted to a higher calling, detached from the troubles of the day.
The rest of the mansion was more imposing — he knew that. The reception rooms were grand, stretching nearly the entire Georgetown block, with rich teak floors, soaring ceilings and six identical Venetian chandeliers. The double staircase, with ornate marble balustrades and carpeted stairs, was equally splendid. The residence projected wealth and power — he knew that as well and valued it. But it was here, looking onto the quiet, ordered silence of the cloistered courtyard, that he was most at home. He treasured the mansion’s history — the authority it projected, its elegance and refinement — but it was the secluded garden, curtained off from the guests, where he spent his time when he could choose.
He turned back to the table and refilled his coffee. Samuel appeared again, this time with orange juice, freshly squeezed, in a thickly cut crystal glass, and a single porcelain plate with fruit — two plump figs and three dates. He placed the glass and the plate silently on the table and withdrew; he never spoke unless Kerrington directed a question to him.
He savored his second cup of coffee and nibbled at the fruit. The dates were delicious — golden brown with crinkled, translucent skin — imported from Beirut, courtesy of a Lebanese merchant he had known for decades. The first fig was delicious as well, juicy and bursting with flavor. But the second was spoiled — a half-rotted mass of rancid flesh, that he put aside in disgust, thankful that he hadn’t bitten fully into what had looked so healthy from the outside. He consoled himself with the last date and another cup of Samuel’s coffee.
He skimmed the headlines in the newspapers, digesting Congress’ antics and the ineffectual young President’s newest round of missteps. He spent longer with the business pages, pausing for a moment on rumors of one defense contractor’s courtship of another. He made a note to follow up on the last item, and then moved on to an article about corruption in Russia, losing interest when he realized that the authors had nothing remotely new to report, at least not to him. But then, few reporters did.
He was the Deputy Director of the CIA. At 62, he had occupied the office for more than a decade. He had seen three directors of the Agency come and go, as well as two presidents. There were few secrets, few secrets that really mattered, either in Washington or anywhere else, that he didn’t know.
But he was the soul of discretion — respected by both political parties for his judgment and wisdom. In 21st-century American politics, that was no small achievement. Republicans and Democrats, whatever their stripe, also credited him with a healthy proportion of the last decade’s foreign policy successes — and none of its failures. His reputation for competence and foresight was unparalleled. And, the pundits wrote, his humility was just as unique. In a city dominated by egos and self-aggrandizement, Franklin Kerrington III was different — a man content to do the nation’s business, and to leave glory and power to the politicians. That was his reputation.
Honor and duty, the figures on the fountain and the motto of his family, were his watchwords as well. Like his father and grandfather before him, who had served in the Senate, he was celebrated for his patriotism, his devotion to honor and duty. He valued that, the reputation which his family had built over generations, as much as the mansion and the immense family fortune, which he had also inherited from them.
When he was finished with the newspapers, he crossed the hallway to his private study, using the key in the pocket of his dressing gown to let himself into the room. The key hung alone on a finely worked silver key chain. It fit snugly into the keyhole, turned smoothly with a delicate click, and the door swung soundlessly inwards — a wood-paneled slab of steel, on precisely engineered hinges, that could stop all but the best-equipped intruders. And no intruder would have the time needed to get beyond the door, given the round-the-clock CIA security detail on call nearby.
He sat down behind the desk. It was an English antique, finely carved and gleaming. It was tidy, almost bare. Silver-framed photographs, black and white, of his father and grandfather, were arranged on one side of the desktop. They were dressed formally, as they always had been, and gazed directly at the camera, still imperious long after their deaths. They looked every bit like men who had directed the U.S. Senate, as they had. Kerrington had the same gaze — large dark brown eyes beneath imposing grey eyebrows, set in patrician features that could have belonged to an English viceroy or Venetian doge. An aquiline nose, thin lips and silver hair, combed back from a high forehead, without a strand out of place, completed the portrait.
The final photograph on the desk was of his wife, years ago, on their horse farm, smiling regally. For the last decade or so, she had spent most of her time at the farm, in the Virginian countryside, bored by Washington life and a Georgetown mansion that was usually empty. That suited him perfectly, giving him time to continue building the Kerrington family’s fortune and reputation.
Also on the desk was a sleek black computer. It was a custom-built device, constructed at jaw-dropping expense by three former Agency IT engineers who had struck out as freelancers when the budget cuts of the previous decades had reduced the attractions of CIA work. This product of their efforts was exceptionally powerful — and protected by equally exceptional security. It took him the better part of three minutes, working his way through passwords, fingerprints and retina scans, before he was online. Despite the time it took, he logged onto this computer once each day.
Once online, he checked three separate email accounts, each with different usernames. Most days, all three accounts were empty. Even when he received a message, it was usually irrelevant. That was the case again today — with two of the accounts. The third account was different though. The third account contained a single email, with a single attachment.
The attachment was another email, along with four photos. It had been intercepted and forwarded to him by one of the three firms he had hired, through an impenetrable series of front companies, to provide him with information on various matters. Matters that he didn’t want the CIA, or anyone else, to know that he was interested in.
He read slowly, putting down his coffee when he reached the final paragraph. He paused, read the paragraph again and then opened the attached photographs. The email was a report by a botanist, a well-known one from Harvard, his alma mater, about a research expedition in Uganda. The final paragraph reported, in a matter-of-fact tone, on the discovery of a WWII bomber, with six corpses.
His breath came shallowly, and his stomach clenched tight around a thick ball of dread that he had felt only a few times in his life. It was not as if he hadn’t endured dangerous times, on assignments in Aleppo, Caracas, Kinshasa and elsewhere. He had risked his life — really risked it, with bombs exploding and bullets flying past him — more times than he could count, more than most Agency field operatives. But he had hardly ever felt the dark knot of fear, deep in his gut, the way that he did now.
He forced himself to breathe, to think. He sat motionless, first for a moment, then for nearly a quarter hour, calming himself, and then working through the possibilities. When he was finished, he exhaled. He had to assume the worst — that the bomber in the jungle was the same one that he had heard reports of, and that the plane contained the Nazi records, the ones that his father had warned him about. He could hardly bring himself to recall those reports, and their stories of Nazi conspiracies and the tainted roots of the Kerrington dynasty. But he had to, because they threatened his reputation, fortune, and power, all that he and the Kerrington family had built.
Eventually, he picked up the secure phone that sat on the edge of the desk. It looked like a normal mobile phone, but it was another product of his IT contractors — heavily encrypted and untraceable. That meant untraceable by anyone, including the technicians at the CIA. He dialed a number, which answered after a moment — and after multiple re-routings. The voice on the other end was flat, shielded by its own encryption.
“This is a nice surprise,” the voice answered.
“I’m glad you think so.” Kerrington was curt.
“You must need some help.”
“I do. Fast.”
“It will cost,” the man said.
“We’ll see about that. Don’t forget how you got to where you are.”
“How could I? But business is business.”
He knew the man well, despite their tone. They had worked together on more operations than either could remember — Nicaragua, Iran, Yemen, Serbia, and countless other hotspots around the world. He had helped the man leave the Agency, a decade ago, to start his own security firm, handling projects that the U.S. government couldn’t do itself. Truth be told, Kerrington had encouraged the man to set up shop on his own, exactly so that he would have someone to do the things that Congress and the press kept the Agency out of. When the man had wavered, Kerrington had secretly blocked the man’s career at the CIA, making the choice a lot simpler for him. Of course, the man never found out what he had done. And he was instead deeply loyal to Kerrington, who was also the main source of business for his private operation.
The two men turned to business. Kerrington outlined the mission: locate the wreckage of an aircraft in the remotest regions of Western Uganda, retrieve the plane’s cargo and return it to Washington. Kill anyone who interfered. Spare no expense. The man on the phone hesitated, which was uncharacteristic. He hardly ever hesitated.
He finally said: “We can do it, but it’s complicated. It won’t be cheap or easy. Not at all. But we can do it.”
“Of course. It needs to happen right away. The targets may move.”
“Understood.”
Kerrington continued. “One more thing. There may be competition. And I will be sending one of my own men.”
“That’s two things. Doable, but it’s going to be expensive.”
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Ten million, U.S., plus expenses.”
“You might retire on that. We wouldn’t want that.”
“I can retire already. The price reflects the risk.”
“Done then.”
“Half now. Half on completion.”
“10% now; the rest on completion. Successful completion.”
“Of course. 25% upfront and we have a deal,” the man countered.
“Done. But don't fail me. Not on this one.”
“Of course not. We won’t.”
“My guy will be in touch this afternoon. An ex-Agency man. He’ll be branching out on his own today.”
“That sounds familiar. I am sure I’ll be fine with him.”
Kerrington hung up. The knot in his stomach was slightly more manageable. There were multiple scenarios that posed no risks at all for him. The plane might have nothing to do with his family; its cargo might have disappeared or better, been destroyed; the cargo might not incriminate his father or grandfather, might not suggest the origins of the family’s wealth. All of these possibilities were more likely, much more likely, than a disaster scenario. The possibility that a collection of secret Nazi files, which somehow incriminated his grandparents and parents, would turn up after seventy years in a Ugandan rainforest was preposterous. He was worrying about goblins beneath the bed. But, then again, that was why he had survived for so long.
He had work to do then. He needed to organize funding — that would be fairly straightforward. His fortune was massive and largely secret, supposedly in blind trusts; but he could arrange these payments without anyone raising an eyebrow.
The man he wanted to send on the mission was more complicated. He had to be the best. And loyal — completely loyal — to him. No cowboy, but a reliable man whom he could trust. The mission would be dangerous. And there would be no Agency backup; this operation would be completely off the books. Just as important, the man would need to bring him the cargo from the plane, if there was any, as well as deal with the botanists and the competition — Russians and Israelis were the obvious risks.
He had been grooming two men at the Agency for a day like this one, but he wasn’t sure either one was ready yet, especially on short notice. He would have a final look at their files, talk to them, and make up his mind. And then theirs.
He dressed for work, the way he did every day. Samuel had laid out his suit, hand-tailored in Italy, and shirt, white Egyptian cotton with French cuffs. By 7:30 a.m., he was in his car — a Lincoln Continental, armored, courtesy of the CIA and U.S. taxpayer. He made telephone calls on his way to work, tying off loose ends on a variety of problems at the Agency and on Capitol Hill. By 8 a.m., he was at Langley’s front gate, ready to start the day. The knot in his stomach had eased further, but it still made his throat tighten when he thought about what secrets might be hidden in the Nazi plane out there in the jungle.
Chapter 7
Peter Abramov
The Crimea was anchored one hundred kilometers off the Kenyan coastline, near the Somali border, in the Indian Ocean. The captains of most vessels in that part of the world would have been worried about pirates. Peter Abramov was not.
Abramov’s freighter was at least fifty years old — a Russian-flagged survivor from the Soviet Union. It had plied the coast of Africa for decades, first servicing the African regimes that shared fraternal Socialist bonds with the USSR and, more recently, doing business with anyone who was willing to pay rock-bottom prices for no-frills service and no questions. It made a bad target, for pirates or anyone else.
The vessel was rusty and in disrepair, too small for modern containers and too dilapidated for most self-respecting shippers. The windows on the main deck were greasy, cracked or repaired in countless places, and boarded over in another two or three. The deck was weather-beaten, with decades-old wooden timbers that received the bare minimum of care. The ship stank of diesel, burned badly in an engine that wasn’t properly maintained, and the scents of its native crew — bodies that went unwashed for weeks on end, cheap cigarettes, spicy African food, and overcrowded toilets. Clouds of oily black smoke spewed out of the vessel’s smokestack, adding to the layers of dirt and smells.
