Assassin's Run Page 8

  “That’s the kicker. He had us stumped for a while. We ran his facial profile through every matching database we have. At first we assumed he was a businessman like the others, maybe a new guy Petrov had brought in to take over a company that got reclaimed from someone who’d fallen out of favor. That’s how it works these days. The president giveth, and the president taketh away. It keeps everyone in line.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  Mike zoomed in on the fourth individual. Slaton saw a man in his mid-forties with a regulation haircut, lean build, and square features. In the captured frame he was practically standing at attention, spine rod-stiff and chin tucked. He was wearing what looked like khaki trousers and a dark polo shirt—a virtual uniform for soldiers when they were off duty.

  “He’s military,” Slaton said.

  “We eventually came to the same conclusion. But that’s a wide net to cast. And unfortunately, when it comes to the facial profiles of Soviet military personnel, our database is pretty limited.”

  Slaton pinned his gaze on Sorensen. “But you figured out who this guy is.”

  “We got lucky, the old-fashioned way. A sharp-eyed analyst recognized him.”

  “Recognized a soldier? What are the chances of that?”

  “Pretty high in this particular case. You asked me why the CIA is interested. Well, this guy is the reason. When I found out who he was … that’s when I booked the next flight to Rome.”

  FIFTEEN

  “His name is Viktor Zhukov,” said Sorensen. “He’s a colonel in the Russian army.”

  “Forgive my skepticism, but there’s got to be a hundred thousand officers in the Russian army. Are you telling me you have some savant analyst who can pick out one guy from a roster like that?”

  “Hardly—and it’s actually closer to two hundred thousand. As it turns out, Zhukov is something special.”

  Slaton’s gaze narrowed questioningly.

  “He’s not just any colonel—he’s a senior officer in the 45th Guards.”

  “Spetsnaz?” Slaton remarked, using the common moniker for the Russian Special Forces.

  “Yes. He’s been a fast burner, saw action in Chechnya, Georgia, and the Caucasus. More recently Ukraine.”

  Slaton looked once more at the man standing left-center in the photo. He was probably close to fifty years old, pale face and sturdy build, distinctly high Slavic cheekbones. The photo wasn’t tight enough to register the man’s eyes, but they could only be blue. In the captured image Zhukov was talking and the three oligarchs listening. This in itself seemed an odd contrast—a hardened Special Forces predator addressing a congregation of vultures.

  “Okay,” Slaton said. “But even Special Ops isn’t that big a deal. What put Zhukov on your radar to begin with?”

  Sorensen gestured to Mike, and a different series of photos began cycling on the monitor. There were five in all, but it took only one to understand. Zhukov was standing between a limousine and a large building, and he was talking animatedly with a man Slaton recognized immediately: the president of the Russian Federation.

  “It began roughly eighteen months ago,” Sorensen said. “Zhukov began popping up regularly with the president. We do our best to track Petrov through official and unofficial channels. As far as we can tell, these two have been meeting at least once a month.”

  The same five pictures kept cycling like a fragmented movie. All at once, Slaton was struck by what they didn’t show. In all five images only two people were present—Zhukov and the Russian president. Every setting appeared private, although not necessarily secretive. In one the two men stood together on the balcony of what looked like a government building. In another they were walking across a field, both shouldering shotguns on an obvious hunting expedition. “What I’m seeing looks unofficial, almost personal.”

  “We noticed the same thing. Petrov of course holds regular meetings with his military command staff. Zhukov has never been seen at one of those official gatherings.”

  “So while establishment generals give briefings, the favorite colonel gets a quail hunt.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Is it possible they’re just old friends?”

  “That would be the simple answer,” she said. “We’ve looked into Zhukov’s background. He’s the son of an army officer, attended the best military schools. He’s got a wife and two daughters whom he rarely sees.”

  Sorensen spun a finger and Mike pulled up a new screen. A close-up of Zhukov flashed to the monitor, a photo that looked like it had been pulled straight from a military personnel file. Slaton didn’t ask how the CIA had acquired it. The colonel was in uniform, same taut lips and high cheeks, although the haircut was a bit loose for a full colonel, barely within regulation. Slaton recognized this for what it was—a bit of Special Ops bravado, typical for a breed of soldiers who set themselves apart wherever possible. And yes, he thought, the eyes were definitely blue.

  Sorensen said, “As far as we can tell, Zhukov and Petrov never crossed paths until a couple of years ago. There’s a record of the colonel receiving an award for valor from Petrov, probably something involving the Ukrainian campaign. Medals for operations like that have to be issued outside the public eye. We think this might be where they first became acquainted.”

  “You make it sound like they’re dating.”

  “I’m guessing Colonel Zhukov was handpicked by Petrov to run a special project. Something important, based on the frequency of their meetings. And I think these three oligarchs are involved.”

  Slaton’s eyes skipped away from the monitor and landed on Sorensen. “You just changed pronouns, Anna. We became I.”

  She dipped her chin like a kid caught cheating on a test. “The Agency has been monitoring this relationship between Petrov and Zhukov for over a year. There’s interest, but not what I would call concern.”

  “You think it deserves more attention.”

  “The tie-in worries me—Petrov’s favorite Special Ops guy meeting with three men who are as corrupt as any in Russia. Nothing good can come from that. I’ve been doing what I can with the resources I have. I run a minor desk back in Langley, and we’ve been digging. We approached it from the corporate side. These three oligarchs have extensive holdings—that’s something concrete, with records and finances that can be tracked. My team is trying to find out what’s changed in the last year, uncover any business venture that ties them all together.”

  “Not a bad angle.”

  “Honestly … it’s a bit overwhelming. We produce so much raw information these days, it’s hard to sift through and extract what’s important. When Ivanovic was killed, my suspicions only hardened, but I couldn’t convince my section supervisor to put more manpower behind it. Then I heard that the FSB believed a high-end assassin was responsible. They were trying to put the blame on a former Mossad operator who’s long been whispered about. At that point, I have to admit … I decided to use you.”

  “Use me?”

  Sorensen and Mike exchanged a glance. It was clearly a signal—Mike excused himself abruptly, something about working his magic elsewhere.

  When they were alone, Sorensen said, “I jumped a few levels on the organizational chart. Director Coltrane knows me, and he saw you work in Lebanon. I got word to him that the Russians were accusing you of being responsible for Ivanovic’s death. That piqued his interest, and I was given two minutes to lay out what I had.”

  Slaton stared Sorensen down. “Let me be clear about one thing—I don’t want the director of the CIA taking an interest in me. Not in any way.”

  “Relax—I didn’t get very far. Coltrane thought it was speculative. He wouldn’t allocate extra resources to pursue it. About that same time I discovered you were in Italy.”

  “You had your people track me down.”

  “I did … and I don’t blame you for being angry about it.”

  “I was at first. But honestly, you’ve shown me some gaps in my off-the-grid scheme.”


  “No harm, no foul?”

  “Something like that,” he said, then looked at her pensively. “So tell me, when you found out I was in the vicinity of Italy—did you really think I might have killed Ivanovic?”

  “I considered it.”

  “And?”

  “You had the opportunity. Certainly the ability. Money could have been a motivation. But no … something told me you would never take that path.”

  “That doesn’t sound very analytical. You put too much faith in your instincts.”

  “Do I?”

  “You approached me in Vieste. If I had been a killer for hire, it might not have ended well for you.”

  “It didn’t end well. You shot my brand-new dinghy.”

  Slaton couldn’t contain a grin.

  “Anyway,” she said, “that’s what brought me here. I came to Italy because I thought it was my best chance to uncover what’s going on with these Russians. And I came to you because I thought you might be able to help.”

  “Okay. But I’ve tried and it didn’t work out. Does that mean we’re done here?”

  Her pretty face fell downcast. “You really don’t know how Ivanovic was killed?”

  Slaton chose his words carefully. “Given what I’ve seen so far, no.”

  She looked dejected, but seemed to accept his answer.

  Slaton looked at the picture on the screen one last time. He said, “For what it’s worth, I think your instincts are good. I’ve been where you are before. You have a hunch about something, but the facts are thin and you can’t get backing to pursue it. Sometimes you just have to move on.”

  “Move on? Is that what you would have done in your days with Mossad?”

  He gave her a circumspect look, but didn’t answer.

  “All right. I’ll arrange for a car in the morning to take you and your family back to Amalfi.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll make our own way back.”

  As Slaton stood to go, he noticed that Sorensen went straight back to work, combing through emails on a laptop. He had a fleeting urge to put a supportive hand on her shoulder, to say something conciliatory. Having been in her position, he knew how empty either gesture would be.

  He left the room in silence.

  * * *

  Back at the suite Slaton discovered the main room dark. Davy was sound asleep on the daybed in the corner. He paused for a moment to watch his son. Aside from the slow rise and fall of his chest, he was completely still. Calm and unaffected by the world around him.

  Slaton wished it could stay that way, yet he knew the currents of his son’s life would one day grow more turbulent. Today he viewed his father as a virtual blank slate. He knew that Dad was always around on the boat, and made a mean grilled cheese sandwich. Knew that he was a fast runner when they played chase. Can I ever tell him the truth? Slaton wondered. Tell him what I once was? How can I not? He and Christine had time to work it out. But all the same, that day of reckoning, the likes of which few parents faced, would come.

  He found Christine in the bedroom. The only light was a dim shaft spilling from the steam-shrouded bathroom, and she came out drying her hair with a plush white towel. She beamed an effervescent smile when she saw him. “That tub was great. And here I had the impression you took up in squalid apartments when you went off on missions.”

  “Yeah, it’s like this every time.”

  She looked at him questioningly. “Something wrong?”

  “No, it’s all good,” he said, putting on a smile. “I’m glad you like the place.”

  “I could get used to it.”

  “Better not. I think we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  She gave him a mock pout. “Maybe we can get a room in town and stay for a few days. This is my first time in Rome.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

  She took him by the hand and led him to the bed. They sat on the edge, and she said, “Can you tell me what Anna said?”

  He was surprised by the answer that arrived. He could talk about it, no worry about security clearances or compartmentalization. Without intelligence services or directors to answer to, he could set his own flow of information. Then and there, Slaton decided that his wife had a “need to know.” He explained what he’d found on Cassandra, and covered what Sorensen had told him. When he was done, he waited to see if Christine’s take on it all matched his own.

  “This involves the president of Russia?” she said cautiously. “Am I cleared to know that?”

  “About as much as I am. Mind you, this is only one intelligence officer’s speculation. But I think Anna is onto something. I wish I could have been more help. As it stands … her investigation has hit a wall.”

  “Okay. So what happens next? We go back to Windsom?”

  Slaton met his wife’s gaze. It was soft and open. So much so that the cast of characters in his head—covert photos of hard Russian faces—dissipated as readily as the steam drifting in through the open bathroom door. He heard soft jazz playing in the background, something he knew she enjoyed. Christine had once told him she’d acquired a taste for it during medical school—she said it helped her concentrate.

  For Slaton the genre had always brought a different response, and one he’d never tried to explain. Jazz, in fact, was the music of safe houses. It was played in them because, at reasonable volume and hours, it was the genre least likely to raise complaints from neighbors. So too, the aural backdrop was an effective countermeasure, masking hushed conversations and delicate phone calls. Under the right circumstances, it could suggest someone was in residence when they were not. Instrumental tracks were preferred, since lyrics could be an indicator of the listener’s language preference. Miles Davis’ horn—that was the same in Germany as it was in Armenia. After Slaton had parted ways with Mossad, he’d avoided jazz for a time for the memories it brought back. Thanks to Christine, however, his aversion was ebbing. What he heard tonight he liked, something soft and melodious that belonged on a stage in a small club.

  “Actually,” he said, “maybe you’re right. A couple of days in Rome could be educational for Davy.”

  “I don’t know about educational. He’ll remember any playground more than the Coliseum.”

  “So will I.”

  She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. She was wearing a nightshirt he’d never seen before, a silken blue item. It had narrow lapels and diamond-shaped buttons running down the front. “Did you go shopping?” he asked.

  “Not yet. There were some clothes in the closet.”

  “Whose are they?”

  “The duchess of something-or-other. Apparently she stayed here last month and got carried away on her shopping excursions. She left a lot of what she bought behind when she returned to England. Bella said she was my size, and that I could keep anything that fits. This caught my eye.”

  “Okay.”

  She looked at him with mock anticipation.

  “It’s nice,” he said.

  She kept staring.

  “The color suits you?” he added hopefully.

  Christine sighed. She got up and went to a tray that held a bottle of gin and an ice bucket. “Sometimes you are a romantic challenge.”

  “We’re married.”

  Her eyes snapped up, but then softened when she saw his grin.

  “You are the most vexing man.”

  “But I can be useful too.”

  She came at him with two full tumblers and held one out. Slaton took it.

  “I’m glad you do that now,” she said.

  “Drink?”

  She giggled. “I’m glad you feel secure enough to let down your guard now and again. When we first settled down you wouldn’t touch alcohol.”

  “It dulls the senses.”

  “Most people don’t mind a social drink now and again.”

  “Most people don’t have to worry about—”

  She jabbed a rigid index finger in the air, cutting off what
he was about to say.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not tonight. Let’s forget about all that.”

  He put his tumbler on the nightstand, already half-empty, and felt the warm burn in his throat. “There—my guard is officially down.” He moved closer and put a hand behind her neck, drawing her gently toward him. He reached up with his free hand and felt his way to the highest diamond-shaped button. From top to bottom, he unfastened them ever so slowly.

  SIXTEEN

  Anyone watching Colonel Viktor Zhukov walk through the halls of the Kremlin Senate might have thought he was marching in a parade. His stride kept time to some private cadence, and he took every corner at a sharp ninety-degree angle. Anyone who knew him would have forgiven it. He had simply never known any other way.

  Zhukov himself, however, felt a degree of distraction in his step. A longtime officer in the 45th Guards, Russia’s elite Special Forces unit, he had seen some of the nastiest fighting in Chechnya and Ukraine. Syria was a bloodbath all to itself. In light of the difficulties of those campaigns, he thought it peculiar that his stomach had rarely knotted the way it did on this front—during his one-on-one meetings with the president of Russia.

  His escort was a severe and officious woman named Olga, a longtime member of Petrov’s personal staff. Wearing what looked like a drab housedress, she was Mother Russia herself, a babushka taken straight from Tolstoy’s Siberia. Ambling ahead of him, she kept a running commentary on their surroundings. She pointed out the room where Lenin and Trotsky had argued over the need for trade unions in a “workers’ paradise,” and paused briefly at an overdone canvas tribute to the Battle of Stalingrad. Zhukov, an ardent student of Russian history, did not appreciate being treated like a tourist, but he kept his opinions to himself. Having never before been inside the Kremlin—his other meetings with Petrov had been in more understated venues—he thought it best to allow the staff their rituals.

  Olga ordered him to wait at a predictably ornate set of double doors. Zhukov stood motionless at the presidential threshold, the hallway still and quiet. While not a man prone to introspection, he could not escape the idea that his career had reached a crossroads—and the door before him represented a highly untraditional path.