Conspiracy in Kiev (36 page)
L
t. Rizzo was the first to arrive, dressed sharply in a new suit, his hardcopy files under his arm.
The meeting was in the United States embassy in Paris just off the Place de la Concorde, in a secure room on the third floor. Cerny arrived with Alex. They took seats at a small conference table. A third man there was Mark McKinnon, who was the CIA station chief in Rome. He had made the trip separately from Rizzo so they would not be seen together. They had, in fact, not seen each other in person since talking over a glass of wine at the dark San Christoforo bar in the Trastevere neighborhood in Rome.
Cerny handled the introductions. An embassy observer was present also, a young man fluent in English, French, and Italian.
“Signor Rizzo has been with the Roman police for twenty-two years,” Michael Cerny said to Alex. They spoke English. “Seventeen on the
brigata omicidia
.”
“Rough work,” Alex allowed.
“Gian Antonio has been a CIA asset for at last the last fifteen of those years,” McKinnon added. “High quality material, almost always accurate.”
“Thank you, Michael,” Rizzo said in perfect English. “Almost?” he laughed.
“No one’s perfect,” Mark McKinnon said. “Not in our line of work.”
Cerny looked to Alex. “I brought Ms. LaDuca up to speed on the flight over, vis-à-vis the two murder investigations in Rome,” Cerny said. “In terms of Federov and his bodyguards, where are we now?”
McKinnon opened a file and slid a photograph across the table to Alex. “Recognize this guy?” he asked.
She glanced at it. “That’s one of the men who came to the embassy in Ukraine with Federov,” she said.
“He’s one of Federov’s bodyguards,” McKinnon said. “He’s actually the remaining one.”
“Remaining?” she asked.
“The other one is currently deceased,” McKinnon said. “He had an accident in his home in London. Fell and hit his head.”
She shuddered.
“Yeah, right,” she said. “Careless of him.” She returned the photo. “That’s definitely the man, right? In the photo?” McKinnon asked. “From Kiev.”
“That’s him.”
McKinnon placed the photograph back in the file. “He’s in Paris right now,” he said. “His name is Kaspar Rodzienko. Ukrainian-born Russian. It’s our feeling that he and his boss were instrumental in the attacks on the president in Kiev. We’d like to wrap him up as quickly as possible. For that, we need bait for him to come forward.”
“And that would be me,” she assumed evenly. “The target for Comrade Kaspar.”
“That would be you,” McKinnon said.
“We’d rather get him here in Europe than have him find his way into the US and come after you there,” Cerny said.
Alex looked at the three men at the table, plus the observer, and gave them an ironic shake of the head. “What are you asking me to do now?” she asked.
McKinnon looked to Rizzo.
“We have some informers among the Ukrainians in the local underworld,” he said. “We have the ability to let Kaspar know you’re in Paris. We’ve already done that. The information he received indicated that you’re on a trade mission for the Treasury Department. We have a safe apartment for you to stay in. Near rue Mazarine. Fine neighborhood, about a two-minute walk to the river. We’d set a security ring around you. When he comes looking for you, we hit him.”
“So you’ve made me a target,” she said. “Again.”
Silence around the room. “Not much we can do about it at this point, LaDuca,” McKinnon said. “You’ll be compensated well for this.”
“Well or posthumously?” she asked, her displeasure growing.
“Better to get him on our terms rather than his own,” Cerny said. “We think he’s here for maybe two more days. If he knows you’re here and where you might be found, he’ll come into our view. Then we strike.”
“What about Federov?” she asked.
“We have no idea where he is now. He’s kept a low profile since Kiev. We can’t account for how many passports he might have.”
“Or what names they’re under,” McKinnon added.
In her mind, she was putting it together. “The date of the ‘hit’ in Paris, when someone was killed by our people under a false identity. Wasn’t that January second?”
Cerny answered. “Yes, it was.”
“And the file came to me four days later in Washington,” she said. “So that was the start of your next attempt to get Federov?”
Cerny again. “You could call it that.”
“Then six weeks later, the president is in Kiev, I’m supposed to keep tabs on Federov, and we’re trying to look like we’re negotiating a peace with him. And you guys are looking for new ways to hit him, but he beats you and takes a shot at the president instead. Lucky for you he missed.”
“Well,” Cerny said, “you know what they say. If the shoe fits, wear it.”
Alex considered her part in the near endgame, that of the bait in a trap. “And my alternative is?” Alex asked.
“As we said, wait for months, years. You never know where he’ll turn up.”
Cerny, McKinnon, and Rizzo escorted Alex to her lodging, which was a small two-room apartment on the rue Guénégaud in the sixth
arrondissement
. The apartment was toward the middle of the block in an old building with two huge blue doors at street level. The River Seine was a hundred yards to the north and the intersection with the rue Mazarine a hundred feet to the south.
They went there in the late afternoon. Alex studied the logistics, not a bad idea since her life depended on them. Two flights to walk up, one key to open the door. The door was reinforced from the inside, steel slabs that would bolt all the way across, a steel frame reinforcing the security from within.
There were shutters that would close on the two windows that overlooked the street. No point to be a target from across the street or a rooftop. When Alex inspected them, she saw that they too were reinforced with metal.
She put her foot to the ragged carpet in the apartment to test the floorboards. The wooden floor and steps in the hallway outside had creaked and sung like a choir with every footfall. The floor under the carpet was stable. She could have jumped on it and it wouldn’t have given a vibration.
“Concrete?” she asked.
“Above and below.”
That didn’t protect her from a bomb, but it definitely made one impractical. She checked the rear window. It was barred, though the bars could be unbolted from inside in case of fire. Cerny also explained that there was no access to the building from the roof. No exit from that direction either.
McKinnon gave her a new cell phone, specially designed. Someone on her surveillance team would be on it twenty-four seven. She didn’t even have to dial. Just open it and talk. It had a camera and a tracking device. She may have been a target, but she was a high-tech one.
“I’ll warn you,” Cerny said. “We’d put you in body armor, but then any shooter who detected it would sense the trap and aim for the head. So what good would that do?”
“We think he’ll come after you right away, LaDuca,” McKinnon said. “Probably tomorrow, maybe even during the day. For whatever reason, there seems to be some urgency in getting you killed.”
“I’m flattered,” she said with irony. “What in God’s name is it they think I know that even I don’t know?”
“We have no idea,” McKinnon said.
“What if he comes after me tonight?”
“We’re ready,” Cerny said. “We have backup teams all over the city. Stay in touch by phone and we’ll lead you to the nearest help if you need it.”
“It doesn’t take more than a second or two to fire a bullet,” she said.
“But it takes a while to set up a shot on a moving target in a city,” McKinnon said. “Kaspar is not on a suicide mission. He wants to hit you and get away. That makes him vulnerable. Even more vulnerable than you since he’s not watching for us.”
She was to go out to dinner with Lt. Rizzo that evening in Montparnasse at La Coupole, the atmospheric old haunt of Hemingway and the expatriate American writers of the 1920s. He would pick her up by car and drop her off after dinner. Rizzo would be her escort and act as her bodyguard also.
In the evening Cerny introduced her to a Frenchman named Maurice, a lanky Parisian cop who did extracurricular stuff the same way Rizzo did. Maurice was unshaven in a leather jacket and jeans. He didn’t seem to be the brightest man she’d ever met.
In any case, Maurice would be posted in the entrance foyer of her building, keeping an eye on whoever went in and out, while another local guy named Jean, whom she met at the same time, would watch the entrance at the restaurant. At the end of their twelve-hour shifts, others would rotate on and off.
“Do I get a weapon to defend myself in case you guys screw up again?” she asked.
Cerny reached to his attaché case. He pulled out a box and handed it to Alex.
She opened it and found a Glock 9 with twenty-one rounds of ammunition, enough for a full clip plus a half dozen for good luck. She hefted it in her hand and looked around the table.
“Looks exactly like mine,” she said suspiciously. “The one I own back in Washington.” She continued to examine it. “Even has the same little nicks as mine. Imagine that.”
“What could make you feel more secure than having your own weapon?”
She looked at them angrily, not surprised. “If I knew you were going to burglarize me, I could have used some clothing changes too.”
They weren’t sure whether she was joking or not.
“You guys better know what you’re doing this time,” she said. “I can only be shot at so many times before I get hit.”
She clipped the holster to her waist of her skirt on the right side. There seemed no end to what had been put in motion in January.
A
t La Coupole, Alex sat across the table from Lt. Rizzo. The restaurant, which dated from the twenties, was pure art deco, with characteristic light fixtures on the many square pillars that held up the ceiling of the large, not-very-intimate room. Above the light fixtures were paintings that had been done by local artists in exchange for food and, more probably, drink all those decades ago. Alex wondered which, if any, of them had lived full, happy lives pursuing their muse.
She wore a black skirt, cut well above the knee, comfortable and flexible in case she needed to run for her life later. A light rain fell outside and added a gloss to the Boulevard Montparnasse. Against the rain she wore a pair of chic leather boots, which she had bought late that afternoon in a shop across the street from her lodgings. The boots were supple and flexible while still looking sharp.
They spoke Italian. “LaDuca” meant “the duchess” in Italian, Rizzo noted, a quirk he liked. He asked about the origin of her name. She explained about her father. She shied away from other personal information, however, and he did too; one never knew when a listening device had been dropped. But he did speak of his boyhood, growing up in the slums of Rome, learning English from his father who had been in a POW camp and how he had done his own stint in the Italian army. He amused her with a tale of blowing up a bridge in Spain in the 1970s, part of a prearranged NATO training exercise, but no one had warned the Spanish police.
“It all got blamed on the Basques,” he said with a snort, following an account of how his brigade of Italians had to hightail it to France in their socks.
In return, she told him about Venezuela and the slaughter in Barranco Lajoya. He listened seriously and offered condolences. They did not discuss Kiev. He knew the details of her loss and stayed away from the subject.
Things were playing out in her mind in three dimensions now. The first was the present, in a nostalgia-laden restaurant on Paris’s Left Bank where the relics of eighty years ago—in addition to the painting on the pillars, portraits of Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Kiki of Montparnasse, Man Ray, and Foujita—haunted the walls. Amidst this, Jean sat near the door, poised and intent, his eyes fixed on comings and goings.
The second dimension was one step beyond the immediate present, the notion that at any given moment a bullet could find her, putting her into the same earthly blackness that had consumed Robert. For the first time, she
really
considered what death would be like. It occurred to her that she might have just days, hours, or minutes to live.
But beyond that, even as she conversed with Rizzo in the forefront of her mind, her mind played out its own recent memories. This evening had taken on its own madness and it gripped her. She thought of Robert and his funeral, of the chaos in Kiev, and the massacre in Barranco Lajoya, and she thought of the six slain missionaries, Father Martin, and her friends back in Washington who would probably be playing basketball that night.
Then dinner was finished. She was conscious of the Glock she wore on her hip, concealed carefully under a light jacket.
She reminded herself that she had loaded the weapon and even chambered the first round. The Glock had a concealed hammer, but it was there, back and ready to fall and fire the round. All that prevented it doing so was the safety catch, which she could snap to “fire” with her thumb as she drew the weapon. This practice was dangerous, but the second or two needed for the operation of the slide to chamber the first round might make all the difference between—it was best not to think about what came after “between.” In her mind she went through the reflexive motions of using it.
She ordered a Caesar salad, while he had a
blanquette de veau
, thus confirming her suspicion that Italians largely lived on veal. He matched her stereotype for stereotype, and neither was completely wrong.
“
Voi americane sempre mangiano delle insalate
,
perché non vogliono ingrassare
,” he said with a smile. You American women always eat salads because you don’t want to get fat. “
Ma è chiarissimo que per Lei non c’è pericolo a proposito di quello
”—but it is clear that you’re in no danger of that.
“That’s because we do eat salads,” she answered with a laugh.
For a moment Alex wondered if he was hitting on her, but from his expression it was simply a compliment, and she felt flattered. Of course, she realized that any compliment of a young woman by an Italian male was at least a potential hit.
It didn’t bother her. In some ways, it made her felt normal again. And shortly after, Rizzo began to speak affectionately of his own lady friend, Sophie, who would be joining him in three days.
Coffee, the check, and then they were out the door, leaving. Jean had her back and Rizzo found a taxi.
The driver took them back to the apartment building on the rue Guénéguad.
Rizzo stepped out first and scanned the quiet block.
“Check your telephone,” he said to her. “I’ll check mine.”
They both checked. The devices worked. Then, as they stood there, a shadow moved in a sturdy black Peugeot that was jammed into a parking spot twenty feet from her front door.
In a light rain, a window on the driver’s side descended.
Startled, Alex’s hand went to her gun.
“
Va bene
,” Rizzo said in Italian. It’s okay.
From the driver’s seat in the car, Michael Cerny gave Alex a small and almost playful salute. “The block is clear,” he said. “You’re fine.”
“Maurice is inside the building?” she asked.
“Talked to him ten minutes ago,” he said.
“And he was alive when he was talking to you?” she needled.
“He sounded like he was,” trying to make light of it. “I didn’t specifically ask, though.”
“Very funny,” she said. But she relaxed slightly.
Rizzo gave her an embrace. She walked the rest of the way down the street to her door, tuned into the sound of her own footsteps on the sidewalk.
She stopped, tried to take a sense of the situation, and arrived at the big blue double doors that led into her building.
A nagging instinct told her that all hell was about to break loose. She looked back and saw Cerny give her another wave.
To enter she punched a numeric code on one of those keypads that all Paris apartments now had—the days of the concièrge who lived next to the door and let people in who rang were long gone—and pushed the door open.
Quiet as the grave,
she thought as she stepped inside,
and if I’m not careful, only once removed from one.
