Operator - 01 (22 page)

“They were certainly criminals, but they were also very useful to your government, weren’t they?” I push Dmitriev to measure his ability to stay on script.

“My country admits to no involvement. But perhaps we could speak confidentially? For the ears of you and your direct superiors only?” Dmitriev asks.

“Yes, of course,” I reply calmly, letting the Russian steer the conversation. Dmitriev pulls out a small hand-held device that looks like a personal digital assistant with a very small screen. He flicks a button. A man at the bar immediately starts shaking his cell phone, as it dies in the middle of his conversation.

“You stumbled onto what was a very productive operation for us, but an old one. It should have been shut down some time ago. We have no desire for further unpleasantness,” Dmitriev says carefully. I watch him closely. He’s lying.

“The girls I saw hadn’t been alive long enough to make this a very old operation,” I say coldly. “Have you ever seen a six-year-old forced into prostitution?”

Dmitriev turns a shade paler and stiffens. That’s the military honor I was looking for. This business must sicken him. That’s probably why Constantine sent him. “I am certain that you are correct, Mr. Herne. It is extremely distasteful.”

I nod. “Yes, it is.”

“I am here to assure you that we want no further involvement in these matters, but also to warn you,” Dmitriev says. He lifts a briefcase and puts it on the table. With a backwards glance at the bar, he pops the locks and opens it a fraction, withdrawing an envelope. He slides it over to me.

“What is this?” I ask, and Dmitriev nods for me to open it. Inside I find a stack of black & white, 8x10 photos. I recognize the man in the top photo. It’s Yuri.

“The first man is Yuri Ivanovich Kuznetsov. He is originally from Magnitogorsk, a factory town nine hundred miles east of Moscow. We know that he worked in a steel smelting plant as a child and that his father was a drunk and most likely abusive. He joined the army and attained a sergeant’s rank. Then he was selected for the FSB and assigned to a Spetznaz unit called ‘Vympel.’ He served with distinction in Chechnya. He left the service and was recruited into the Tambov gang six years ago. He is a dangerous man, Mr. Herne.”

I agree, wondering where this is going. “The next photo is of his brother, Mikhail Ivanovich Kuznetsov. He also served in the military, although with much less distinction. He followed Yuri Ivanovich to St. Petersburg and into the Tambov Gang. He was killed on Monday night. Yuri Ivanovich was not.”

This time it’s me who pales a shade. Dmitriev observes and continues, “The other photos are of men connected with the Tambov Gang who we believe are local but were not at the location of the attack on Monday night. Only two of these men have advanced military training but they are all subordinates to Yuri Ivanovich in the Tambov operation. It is very likely they will follow his directions in the aftermath of the deaths of so many of their friends.”

I begin to understand. “And you’re saying you believe they may cause further trouble?”

Dmitriev chooses his words carefully. “We believe that Yuri Ivanovich is unstable and might seek retribution against anyone he believes responsible for his brother’s death. We do not wish to see anyone else harmed by Russian citizens.”

“And he’s also a problem you’d like to see removed,” I conclude. I’m not receiving this information because of the Russian’s abiding concern for my well-being. This must be why Dmitriev started out telling me lies about wanting to avoid more violence. Drubich is hoping I’ll clean up his mess. We talk for a few minutes more and I leave the bar, making doubly sure that I’m not followed as I do. The hairs on my neck are standing up again.

* * *

“I’ve never been that frightened. When – when you didn’t come at first, I thought they would kill me.” Veronica is pale and beautiful in the sunlight. This is the first we’ve talked about what happened to her since I pulled her from the cage in the warehouse. I didn’t want to risk being spotted by any of Drubich’s men in the vicinity of my lunch meeting with Dmitriev, so we’ve made the twenty-minute drive to Woodstock. There is a small town green right in the center of Woodstock where Route 212 meets Rock City Road. I send her to get ice cream while I call Alpha and update him. I’ve got some concerns about both Yuri and Dmitriev, and we talk them through. I ask him for one specific favor, one that will probably cost me down the line. He agrees to my request a little too readily and I am still brooding about that when Veronica returns with two sugar cones, hers filled with chocolate ice cream, mine peanut butter. We sit with the cones in the chill fall air, enjoying the sun, which hasn’t appeared for days.

“I’m sorry,” I say, remembering how I felt when I stepped into that motel room and realized they’d kidnapped Veronica. I try to explain my actions. “If I’d given myself up to the men in our room, they would have killed both of us. You were only useful to them alive as a tool to get me to talk. They obviously didn’t know your connection to Drubich,” I say. I hope it’s true.

“I didn’t tell them anything. I wasn’t really sure if my suspicions were right, anyway, and I wasn’t sure if it would make things better or worse. After they figured out you weren’t coming, they threw me in a cage with those girls. You can’t believe what they did to those poor children. I don’t think they’d seen the sunlight in months,” she shivers. I wait for her to continue, sensing there’s something she wants to get out.

“It’s just…the whole time I was there, for twelve hours all I could think was that this might not have happened without me. If I hadn’t given Constantine the idea for this in the first place…” she stops as her voice starts to quaver and then breaks into sobs, burying her face in my shoulder.

“This is not your fault,” I say firmly. “Constantine could have come up with the same idea in a hundred different ways. He obviously has a very twisted mind. Even for a spy, it’s beyond the pale. When the FBI picks up Sheriff Peterson, he will connect Drubich to the sex slavery ring. The Russian government is going to have a lot to answer for. This will shame them.”

Veronica doesn’t respond immediately. She stifles a few more sobs before straightening up and dabbing her eyes. Then suddenly she looks okay again. Her eyes aren’t red or puffy and her hair has fallen back into place. I admire her for a moment. She’s strong. I’ve seen soldiers come apart in less difficult circumstances. She kept her cool until she got out of that warehouse, kept her composure for another thirty-six hours before it finally caught up with her.

“How did you…how did you do all that? You were completely alone, weren’t you? That place was full of all of those armed men and you still rescued me. That was amazing.”

“It was foolish. I was very, very lucky. Some of those men were trained soldiers, but most of them weren’t. They weren’t working together. The entry technique I used depends on surprise and disorientation.” I stop myself short of naming Delta Force as the originator of the technique. Even if The Unit has been all over the media and popular literature, its existence is still officially classified. “If the Tambov guys had trained together, they would have been able to cooperate and pinpoint my location, or use the girls more effectively as human shields. It could have been a disaster.”

“Then why did you risk it?” she asks.

“I wasn’t sure you would be safe if the FBI showed up before I got you out,” I stammer. I should probably tell her a convenient lie, but I don’t really know what else to say. Veronica turns a deep shade of red.

“How did you learn to do that? Is that what you did in the Army, for Colonel…?” here she uses the name Alpha has given her.

“I can’t really talk about what I did for him. I can say those were some years I’d prefer not to dwell on.” I change the topic, briefing her on the meeting with Dmitriev. She is both surprised and relieved to hear that Constantine did not show up. I’m uncomfortable. Sending a diplomat in his place might have made sense, but I’m not at all sure why Constantine would send an operator. Possibly he thought such a man would have more credibility with me because of my own background.

That gets me thinking. Sheriff Peterson is our only definitive connection to Constantine. Veronica makes a good circumstantial case, but she never saw anything that could tie Constantine to the Tambov gang. Buddy Peterson is the critical link, unless the accountant somehow offers more conclusive proof of Russian government involvement. The hardcore Tambov thugs will certainly never talk and if Constantine is competent, he’ll have made sure there’s no money trail that will lead us back to him. A man like Dmitriev is a special-purpose tool, and that purpose is not diplomacy. Perhaps he’s in the area for other reasons. This gives me another thought. I turn to Veronica.

“We need to shake things up a little before Constantine starts feeling secure again. I’d like you to call him.” Veronica clearly does not like this idea, but she hears me out. “If you tell him you shared the story about the U.N. with me and I’m convinced Constantine must have trapped that tall, red-headed man with his pedophile sex slavery racket, that might scare him. If you’re right about the redheaded man, that is.

“If you warn Constantine, I’m willing to bet he’ll try to make contact with the man. I doubt he’d risk a direct call, but we might get them both if they meet.” This is one of the things I’ve discussed with Alpha on the phone. The FBI will establish surveillance of Constantine, and the NSA will be tasked to intercept his communications. There are limits to what they’ll be able to find – consular communications are rigorously encrypted – but we agree there’s a chance Constantine will lead us to the redheaded man. In the meantime, analysts at the FBI are putting together a book of men who fit the physical description in positions of power in our government for Veronica to review.

Veronica weighs my request and finally says, “If I agree, you have to promise me you’ll make sure they get Constantine. Otherwise I’m dead. He’ll know I was involved.”

“He probably already knows. Besides, as an attaché, he has diplomatic status and immunity to prosecution. The best we’ll be able to do is deport him.”

“That’s not enough,” she says forcefully.

“I can’t promise a specific outcome, but I can promise Constantine will not go unpunished.” As I say this, I wonder what this promise will cost me. But Veronica is satisfied and agrees to call Drubich. I give her his cell number and she stands up to make the call as if that will make it easier to confront him. He doesn’t answer his cell and she leaves a message, telling him what we’ve agreed. Then I call Dan Menetti on the Blackberry. He also doesn’t answer, so I leave a message telling him what we’re doing with Constantine Drubich and warning him that Sheriff Peterson might be in danger. Then I turn back to Veronica.

“This is the end of the road for you,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve stuck your neck far enough out already. I’ll drive you back to your car in Conestoga. From there you should go straight to your parents’ place. The FBI might stop by to show you some photos in the next day or two. Call in sick to work and stay home through the weekend. I think we’ll be able to get this resolved by then.”

Veronica argues this point but eventually concedes. We hold hands for a moment longer in the sun before we walk back to the car to face reality.

* * *

The little Blackberry buzzes just as I’m starting to get uncomfortable.

Instead of heading directly back east towards Saugerties to catch the Thruway, I’ve decided to cut though the heart of Catskill State Park. It’s a gorgeous drive, a real delight with the G8, and the roads have little traffic. I turn west, planning to use Silver Hollow Road to make the jump north from Route 212 to Route 214, which runs east and west through the park. From 214, I’ll catch State Route 23A and wind through Tannersville to the NY State Thruway, then exit north of Saugerties and twenty minutes closer to Conestoga. It is a longer drive, but the G8 pulls superbly as I wind out the motor and I’m able to relax for the first time in days.

Until I spot the tail, that is.

I first take note of the big Caddy while we are still on 212, which is no more than a two-lane local road as we wind away from Woodstock. Veronica is already asleep; her head slumps against the side of the headrest on the passenger seat. Now the red Cadillac is about a half-mile behind me. This wasn’t suspicious when we were on 212, but as we turn off 212 to Eighmey Road, I see him slow so that he can make the turn while letting me pull ahead a ways. It’s an understandable maneuver, but he’s too close to escape my attention.

The Caddy itself stands out like a sore thumb. It’s a bright red, brand-spanking-new CTS-V, a four-door sedan sporting a supercharged 556 horsepower V-8 lifted directly from the Corvette ZR-1, the only American supercar. The big Caddy can hit 100 miles per hour from a standing start in just over nine seconds, before a Prius would reach highway speed. Practically speaking, the Cadillac driver has little chance of escaping my notice on the nearly deserted mountain roads. It is a spectacularly bad vehicle for surveillance. The tarted-up $70,000 Caddy would draw stares anywhere in Greene County. In the mountains it looks as out of place as a limo at a pig roast. Now the driver is paying the price for having followed too eagerly. Even a soccer mom would notice that the Caddy is trying very hard not to get too close, and it would take a four-car team to trail us without me noticing.

My subconscious is just starting to break through to my active brain as the intersection with Silver Hollow Road comes into sight. I’m very tired, not having had a full night’s sleep since I was in jail three nights ago. The human reaction to a lack of sleep tells a lot about our origins as a species. Human motor skills and even the ability to understand language are immediately affected by sleep deprivation, but the parietal lobe activates to take up the slack left by the decreasing activity in the temporal lobe. This allows people to process simple commands and retain some cognitive functions, but it dramatically decreases creativity and the ability to make intuitive leaps. For this reason, elite military operators are screened to be high functioning when sleep-deprived. At the end of one of the hardest days of Delta Force selection, a weighty reading assignment and a written essay followed our forty-mile hike. The purpose was to see which of us candidates retained the basic ability to reason while bone-tired, having slept less than four hours a night for an entire week and not at all for the previous day and a half.