“Ah, yes, the document that must not be spoken of. Do you know why I’m here?”

  Victor continued with his honesty-was-best approach. “If I had to hazard a guess, it has something to do with what happened at Mr. Peskov’s residence last night.”

  Nikitin smiled. “Very astute. And what do you think happened?”

  Victor shifted uncomfortably.

  “It’s all right, tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I think the news story was less than accurate.”

  Nikitin chuckled. “You mean the fact that a terrorist was killed before he could even get to the floor where the family was, yet the patriarch of the family has a bruised neck?”

  “Something like that, sir.”

  “Well, obviously we can’t have the public worrying that its senior officials can be attacked, and the truth, of course, is a state secret that you won’t be discussing with anyone.”

  “Of course not.”

  “So, this document. There’s a theory that the so-called terrorist might have been after it or been aware of its existence. Tell me everything that’s happened since you were asked to translate it.”

  “Mr. Kozak entered the room looking for a translator. I was the only one there who handled Chinese, so I was tasked with it. He told me how classified it was and that I was to translate it on paper only, then immediately report to him. No copies were to be made. No one was to be shown the document and no one told of the document.”

  “So, you made your translation. Was there anyone else in the room?”

  “Yes, sir. Some people started to arrive later, but I didn’t speak to any of them. I simply did my translation, then went to Mr. Kozak’s office.”

  “So, no one saw the document?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you ever leave the document unattended?”

  “No, sir.” He hesitated.

  Stick to the truth. There could be video footage.

  “Actually, that’s not true, sir. I desperately needed to pee. As soon as Mr. Kozak left the room, I headed to the bathroom, not thinking, and I left the folder unattended on my desk. I was only gone maybe three minutes, and when I returned it was exactly where I had left it. And again, at that time, there was nobody in the room.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Well, I guess I should say there was nobody who could read Chinese. I really don’t think anyone would’ve dared open the file because it was marked Classified. If anything, they would’ve reported me for breaking the rules.”

  “I agree. Then what happened?”

  “I translated it.”

  “How long did that take?”

  “About an hour-and-a-half.”

  “And then?”

  “I took the translation and the original file to Mr. Kozak’s office and handed it to him. He read the translation, reminded me that it was highly classified and I wasn’t to speak to anyone about it, then dismissed me.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I returned to my office, resumed my regular translations, which are mostly foreign news articles that have been flagged, and then finished my day, went home, spent the evening by myself at my apartment, went to sleep, then this morning came into work.”

  “You spoke to no one yesterday?”

  “I think my mother called. Yes, my mother did call. I spoke to her for a few minutes. Other than that, it was a quiet night.”

  “So, you didn’t mention this to anyone, friends, your father, a coworker?”

  “No, sir. If you knew what the document contained, you would understand why I wouldn’t dare say anything to anyone ever.”

  “Now you have me curious.”

  Victor forced a smirk. “Well, sir, I could tell you what it said, but then you’d have to kill yourself.”

  Nikitin tossed his head back, laughing again. “I think you’re going to do well here. A sense of humor is important in this business. If you’re constantly serious, eventually what you’re exposed to will get to you.” He indicated the door. “You’re dismissed. Don’t forget to report to Mr. Peskov’s office. If I have any further questions for you, I know where to find you. This conversation, like that document, is classified.”

  Victor rose then hesitated. “Does that mean I can’t talk to Mr. Peskov about what was said here?”

  “There’s no point in instructing you not to speak to him. And besides”—he waved a hand at the room—“I have no doubt we’re being listened to. But no one else.”

  “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.” Victor left the conference room, shaking like a leaf, and he struggled to steady his breathing as he slowly made his way to Peskov’s office. So far, it appeared he had gotten away with what he did, but how long that would remain true he had no clue. Clearly, something was going on here involving the document, and even if they had no evidence he was responsible for what had happened yesterday, they might still eliminate him just to reduce the number of suspects.

  He had to get out of this country. He had no choice.

  It was time to reach out to the Americans.

  K

  12 |

  Molly Malone’s Irish Pub Moscow, Russia

  Victor stood in a corner of the packed bar, gripping an untouched glass of Baltica beer, his heart racing as the debate continued to rage in his head. He had seen something he should never have, all because of the damn job his rich father had secured him. He had to admit he had been thrilled when he landed it, and was the envy of all of his classmates. And just the mere mention of where he worked meant he rarely went home alone unless he chose to.

  But yesterday, what he had been exposed to was something so terrifying in its implications, it had rocked his entire belief system to the core. He loved his country. He believed in its president. He believed in the war. Fascists who modeled themselves after the Nazis had to be destroyed. If rot like that were allowed to take hold in central Europe, there was no telling what could happen.

  But while fighting fascism was a noble cause, and he couldn’t understand why the West opposed it, what he had translated took things too far, and it had him rethinking things. Rethinking everything. Many of his friends had fled the country to avoid the draft, and he had dismissed the messages they had sent him claiming everything the government was telling them was a lie. His father had said it was Western hatred of Russia’s success, fear of its power, that had their governments and news organizations lying about the war. But he wasn’t so convinced anymore, chinks forming in the armor after what he had been reading.

  The document, an agreement in principle between two allies, was terrifying. And it didn’t matter who was telling the truth about the war—there was no possible good that could come of what was about to happen. And it had to be stopped, for if it wasn’t, the country he loved could be destroyed. Unfortunately, there was only one way he could think of to prevent that—the secret had to come out, but he didn’t know how to accomplish that. Simply posting on the Internet the photos he had taken of the document would be useless. No one would believe it, and the FSB, the federal security service, would figure out it was him within hours.

  No, this wasn’t something where going to the press would help, or going on social media would help. This was something that only the Americans could stop. It sickened him that he was involving his country’s enemy in its internal politics, but he had no choice. If he had any doubts, the threatening conversation with Peskov after his meeting with Nikitin had convinced him he had to get himself out of the country before it was too late.

  A nearby table erupted in laughter, half a dozen young American embassy staffers enjoying drinks after work on a Friday night. They were regulars here, the establishment dominated by foreigners who no longer felt comfortable at a bar filled with Russian patrons. They were the only Americans he was aware of that worked at the embassy. He would have preferred to make contact with somebody older, more mature, but he didn’t hang out at bars or clubs where they did, so didn’t know anybody that met the criteria. He had to settle for someone his age and pray they were smart enough to take what he gave them seriously, then have enough clout to be listened to by their superiors.

  A young woman stood, grabbing her jacket off the back of her chair. “Well, I’m calling it a night. I’ve got some errands to run tomorrow and I don’t want to do them hungover.”

  Victor had seen her before. She was cute, every man at her table desperate to bed her. Hell, every man in the bar and half the women were desperate to bed her. One of her colleagues, a man he recognized, rose. “I’ll walk you home, Gail.”

  “Sure, Carl, walk her home. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  “You guys are pigs. You know the streets aren’t safe right now, not with what happened two weeks ago.” He pointed at the other men at the table. “And if I hear that you guys let any of these ladies go home alone unescorted, you’ll be hearing from me on Monday.”

  More friendly insults were hurled, though Victor agreed with Carl’s sentiment. The streets weren’t as safe as they were two weeks ago, though things had vastly improved since some American named Jack had been accused of an unspeakable crime, and America and Russia had almost gone to war. He shuddered as he recalled the chatter at the office. The Americans had apparently reached DEFCON 2, one step away from all-out war.

  Carl helped Gail into her jacket then put his own on, and they headed for the door. This was it. This was his chance, yet his legs refused to move. Technically, he was betraying his country. As soon as he did this, he was a traitor. And if he were found out, it meant torture, imprisonment, maybe even death. Yet was he the traitor? Was he the one betraying his country, or were those behind the scheme he had discovered the real villains here?

  Perhaps it was a romanticized notion to think of himself as a hero, yet he was certain he was more hero than traitor, though both had a tendency to die in literature. He put his beer down on the ledge that circled the bar, and forced himself forward. He maneuvered through the crowd then pushed open the doors. He bundled up against the brisk cold of a Moscow winter, several inches of fresh snow covering the sidewalks from an earlier dusting. The temperature was forecast to drop rapidly overnight, and he hoped to be home before he felt its full effects.

  He checked left but didn’t see the two Americans, then he heard a giggle to his right. His head swung toward it and he spotted them, already a good distance ahead, his hesitancy in following them having lasted longer than he had realized. He hurried after them and quickly closed the gap, the two Americans not in any hurry, both clearly enjoying each other’s company. He was certain from the way Gail was hanging on to Carl and constantly making eye contact that if Carl played his cards right, he would be getting lucky tonight. But if he were the man Victor hoped he was, any plans those two might have were about to be canceled.

  They came to an intersection and the two potential lovers stopped, waiting for the crossing light to change, giving him time to reach them.

  “Excuse me, Carl.”

  The two of them turned and Victor extended a hand, the envelope with his plea to the American government gripped tightly, the paper crinkled.

  “I believe you dropped this.”

  Carl instinctively reached out then hesitated. “That doesn’t look like mine.”

  You fool, haven’t you been trained?

  “No, it is. It came out of your pocket when you were putting on your gloves.”

  Carl opened his mouth again to deny it was his when Gail recognized the fear and frustration on Victor’s face. She reached for it. “Oh, that’s mine. Thank you so much.”

  Victor released his grip. He didn’t care who got it as long as an American that worked at the embassy did. He turned on his heel and quickly rushed away, his heart hammering as his stomach protested. He ducked into an alleyway and vomited.

  Oh, my God, what have you done?

  K

  13 |

  Gail Nichols Residence Moscow, Russia

  Carl Garneau checked over his shoulder for the umpteenth time since the mysterious Russian had handed them the envelope. They had returned to Gail’s apartment as casually and as calmly as they could manage, just in case they were being watched, and his paranoia was now getting the better of him.

  Gail unlocked the door and pushed it aside, locking it behind them. They hurriedly stripped out of the jackets and boots, then she led them to her couch. She handed him the envelope.

  “You open it.”

  His eyes bulged. “Me?”

  “He tried to give it to you.”

  He frowned. “Fine.” He carefully tore open the envelope and read the letter, written in English and addressed to the president of the United States, from a man named Victor Stepanov. He claimed to be a translator in the Russian president’s office, and also claimed he had come across a document that could change the balance of power. He insisted it was critical America be made aware of what was happening. He was requesting asylum in America with a new identity in exchange for the document.

  Carl handed it to Gail who quickly read it, her eyes widening as she read the single page.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think we can ignore it.”

  “I guess not.” He paused. “Or can we?”

  She gave him a look. “You do remember orientation, don’t you? We’re supposed to report any contact like this immediately.”

  “What does immediately mean? Like Monday when we go to work?”

  She shook her head. “If that’s what it meant, that’s what they would’ve said. To me, immediately means right now.”

  “But it’s two in the morning. We’re both half in the bag.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think that matters. It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. It’s Friday. We’re off duty. We went to a bar. For all we know, the ambassador could be hammered.”

  “Please tell me you’re not saying we should be calling the ambassador.”

  She sighed. “You really didn’t pay attention during orientation, did you?”

  He bristled, feeling defensive, and leaned away from her. “Of course, I paid attention. I just don’t remember the exact procedure.”

  “We’re supposed to call the switchboard and report the contact.”

  “Who’s going to make the call?” He prayed she took the initiative. He was too drunk, and besides, it was her apartment. She rose from the couch and headed for her desk in the corner, returning with two pads of paper and pens.

  “Let’s write down everything that happened while it’s fresh in our minds. I’m going to make some coffee.”

  He thanked God someone was thinking straight. He checked his phone and wrote down the date and time at the top of the page, then his name and position, cringing at how piss-poor his cursive was. He almost never wrote by hand. Everything was digital these days. He pressed the tip of the pen against the paper then paused. “Where should we start?”

  Gail stopped what she was doing for a moment then resumed. “I guess from the moment we left the embassy. Actually, maybe from the moment we made plans. Whoever’s reading this is going to want to figure out how this Victor guy knew where we’d be.”

  “Good point. It was Ian’s idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  He chuckled. “He’s always the instigator, but even if he’s not at work, we still always go to the same place every Friday.”

  He quickly jotted down what he remembered in point form. He wasn’t writing a novel. He was almost finished when Gail returned. She placed a cup of coffee in front of him.

  “You take it black, right?”

  He nodded and she sat beside him, jotting down her own summary, and he glanced over with envy at her flowing handwriting. “Why do girls always have such great handwriting?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Passing a lot of notes in class?”

  He frowned. “I don’t think I passed a single note. I remember in high school a girl named Angela passed me a note through a friend. I can’t remember what it said, but despite having a wicked crush on her, I didn’t respond. I just talked to her after class. I guess I was too scared of getting in trouble.”

  Gail regarded him. “Only one girl ever passed you a note? A cutie like you?”

  His cheeks flushed. “I was a late bloomer, I guess.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Well, you bloomed quite nicely.”

  His cheeks burned. “Thanks, but you’re way hotter than I am handsome.”

  She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Never use hot when describing a woman to her face.”

  “Pretty?”

  “That’s better.”

  “Gorgeous?”

  “Ooh, even better.” She resumed writing as they both downed their coffees as quickly as the temperature would permit. He reviewed his notes, inserting a few items he had forgotten, then finished his coffee.

  Gail gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s more.”

  He rose. “Refill?”

  She nodded and he took her cup as well. He refilled their coffees, noting her kitchen was impeccable. He would be embarrassed to bring her back to his place, and he made a mental note to clean his apartment as soon as he returned home. Things were going well with Gail, very well, and if it weren’t for this situation with the Russian and his letter, they could be burning up the sheets, starting a relationship. But that would have to wait, which meant the venue of their next encounter could change, and he didn’t want to screw things up by having her think he was the slob he was.

  He returned to the couch with the fresh coffees and sat beside her, a little closer than when he had left.

  She handed him her pad. “You want to read this over, see if I forgot anything?”

  He took it and handed her his own. He reviewed her statement, the handwriting beautiful. He couldn’t remember the last time he had read something handwritten, and it reminded him of middle school and a girl named Thea that he had been crushing hard on. She had been the first girl to ever stroke his inner thigh in a suggestive manner. Unfortunately, she had done it in the middle of English class, much too close to the bell, leaving him gripping his binder against a rager, but forever in love with the touch of a woman.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20