The Backup Asset Page 6

  They all fell for it, mostly women, but also a few men. They all worked hard to help the young, desperate, and sexy Russian who had no other choice. Only no element of his story was true. His father hadn’t died, at least not yet, anyway. He hadn’t even traveled outside of Moscow, not even once. A low-level mechanical engineer who worked in a machinery factory, the senior Smolin had failed to instill in his son the willingness to put in a hard day’s work. Evgheni Smolin wanted to be in the elite, to see the world, to live adventurously.

  His fame in the SVR was consolidated the day he received a commendation for a very successful operation on foreign soil. His boss, a little intoxicated at the time, had said about Smolin that, unlike the rest of the men in that room who thought with their dicks, Smolin fucked with his brain. A few weeks later, jokes about him were heard all over the building:

  Why doesn’t Smolin ever wear condoms? So his dick can ask questions when he fucks.

  Why doesn’t Smolin ever get blowjobs? Because his women need to keep on talking.

  He was famous. He loved it.

  A couple of successful recruiting missions in Germany, where his physical appearance and natural talent for foreign languages made him pass for a native, brought him recognition and advancement in the ranks of Directorate S. He enlisted the services of numerous Russian emigrants who were living in Germany, and those recruits stayed productive and in contact, although Smolin’s methods were not always direct and honest, or charming. Some, he had to threaten. A few, he had to kill: stupid idealists who believed that if they made it to the West they were free of their obligations toward Mother Russia.

  He knocked on his boss’s door and entered, then stood at attention.

  “Sit,” Markov invited him. “Have you ever heard of Division Seven?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Seven is an ultra-secret intelligence division, reporting directly to the minister of defense. Only the best of the best from the SVR, GRU, and FSB are invited to join Division Seven. Its mission is top secret, above my level.”

  “Sir?”

  “You are being promoted, major. You have been selected for an urgent mission and you’ll be joining Division Seven. You’ll report tomorrow morning to the ministry of defense. Congratulations.”

  Smolin stood and saluted his soon-to-be former boss.

  “Maxim Sergeyevich, it’s been a privilege.”

  “Good luck. Make us proud!”

  Smolin closed the door gently behind him as he left Markov’s office. Then he allowed himself to smile, a wide smile filled with excitement.

  ...11

  ...Friday, March 11, 9:23PM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)

  ...Astro Entertainment Casino

  ...Virginia Beach, Virginia

  Sylvia Copperwaite wore a pink halter dress, very little jewelry, and her blond hair tied in a simple ponytail. Her green eyes were focused intently and her forehead showed lines of strain as she evaluated her hand. Two kings, a jack, a ten, and a six. She could have used better luck.

  She checked the other players briefly. The skinny guy at her left had a satisfied hint of a smile in his eyes. He had something. The swine across the table, the overweight, sweaty asshole who had made lecherous comments the entire evening looked worried. The guy in the blue shirt at her right showed nothing; he was impassible, apparently not even paying attention. Blue Shirt was dangerous.

  She checked the diminishing pile of chips in front of her and took a leap of faith.

  “Three, please,” she asked the dealer, holding on to the kings and ditching everything else.

  “Two,” Blue Shirt asked.

  “I’m good,” said the skinny guy at her left. He was served, as they say in poker, which meant his hand had been strong from the start.

  “Give me a slice of that,” the swine said pointing at her, “and two great cards.”

  Sylvia flashed an angry glare across the table. She could always leave, but she wanted to play a couple more hands, that’s all.

  The dealer ignored the first part of the swine’s request and delivered the two cards.

  “I’m out,” Blue Shirt said and folded.

  “I’m in,” declared Skinny, and threw a few chips in the pile.

  Sylvia hesitated. Skinny Guy hadn’t asked for cards, which in many cases meant he had a flush or full house. She checked her new cards. Another king and two nines. It was worth a shot, but she was gonna try to play it safe. She added a few chips and said, “Call.”

  A minute later the swine raked in the entire pot, brought to him by a full house aces high. He smiled at her and asked, “Would you care for some of this back, honey? There are a few ways I can think of.”

  “Yeah, like a good hand,” she snapped.

  “If you’re into hand jobs, I’ll take it,” the swine commented.

  “Your last warning,” Blue Shirt said, “we’re here to play cards, not insult each other. I will call the manager on you. We don’t have to put up with your shit.”

  Sylvia blushed. Why hasn’t she stood up for herself? Why hasn’t she stood up, period? She could just leave, instead of sitting here, an easy target for the slimy worm across the table, and losing money on top of it all. One more hand, she decided, then I’ll go.

  The problem was she needed a big win. She’d had a streak of losing hands lately, emptying her bank accounts, maxing out her credit cards, and leaving her stranded. She needed a big win to make it to the next paycheck. The next paycheck, seven days away, was going to bring her some relief, but until then she was screwed. She had a good job and made a six-figure income as an electromechanical engineer, but her luck at cards needed serious improvement. She held a PhD in computational modeling, but couldn’t model herself out of spiraling gambling debt.

  Her next hand held a nice surprise, three aces, a seven, and a deuce. She asked for two cards, and got another ace. She went all in, not paying attention anymore to her opponents’ tells. This was her last chance. Minutes later, she was cleaned out, losing in favor of a straight flush drawn by the swine.

  She stood up, a little dazed, and made for the exit. The swine grabbed her hand as she walked pass him.

  “Let me help you out of your bind, you beautiful thing,” he said, licking his revolting lips. “I have a lot of money to spend. Let me make your day.”

  She yanked her hand from his grip and walked out of the casino, tears welling in her eyes. She approached her car and leaned against the hood, trying to regain balance, as her sobs grew louder and a wave of nausea hit her, causing her to convulse and vomit near the front left wheel.

  She didn’t feel sick because she was drunk. It was because for a split second she had considered taking the swine’s offer for another chance to sit at that green table, play a few more hands, and maybe win it all back. She needed help.

  ...12

  ...Saturday, March 12, 10:11AM Local Time (UTC+2:00 hours)

  ...Vitaliy Myatlev’s Residence

  ...Kiev, Ukraine

  Myatlev had three of his bodyguards lined up in his home office. Ivan, who’d just returned from Moscow the night before, stood half a step closer to Myatlev than the other two, reflecting his status in Myatlev’s personal security detail.

  “All right, Ivan, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll meet with President Abramovich in the next few days. I’ll call his office and get an appointment. But we have to be prepared for anything.”

  “Sir?” Ivan seemed confused.

  “Our friend Abramovich has a reputation for impulsiveness and for destroying people. You’ll have to protect me, Ivan.”

  “Inside the Kremlin? Bozhe moi . . . ”

  The other two bodyguards shifted their weight from one foot to another, probably feeling uneasy at the thought of entering the Kremlin with guns in their hands.

  Myatlev looked Ivan in his eyes. “Yes, inside the Kremlin.”

  “But . . . How?”

  “You’ll form three teams of four men each, all Spetsnaz, all strong and gutsy
, in full tactical gear, armed with silenced MP5s. Pay them well, and then pay them some more. You, three others, and I will take the limo, the armored Bentley. The other two teams will take the G-Wagens.”

  “But how do we enter the Kremlin armed like that?”

  “You won’t. If you do, it will look like we’re there to overthrow Abramovich.”

  “Huh?”

  “You won’t enter the Kremlin unless it’s strictly necessary.”

  “I . . . I don’t think I understand, Vitaliy Kirillovich.”

  “I’ll be wearing that,” Myatlev said, pointing at a new Breitling watch still sitting in its opened box. The yellow packaging resembled more of a toolkit than a watch case, and had Breitling Emergency Night Mission II branded on the lid and on the black shock-absorbing interior lining. The Breitling was a serious downgrade from Myatlev’s half-a-million dollar Patek Philippe, but it came with serious advantages.

  “And you’ll be carrying this,” Myatlev continued, handing Ivan a small device. “This watch has an emergency beacon built in. If I get in trouble, I’ll press the button and you and your Spetsnaz will barge in and get me.”

  “And I’ll see it on this?” Ivan gestured at the locator.

  “Yes, yes. If I press the button, you’ll see where I am. It works by satellite, just like GPS.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “But you have to move fast, Ivan. The moment you see the beacon, you storm the Kremlin, understood?”

  “Y–yes.”

  “You’ll be waiting outside, the Bentley in front of the entrance, and the G-Wagens around the corner, and wait for my signal. Are we clear?”

  “Y–yes,” Ivan replied, still hesitant.

  “What’s the problem?” Myatlev asked, impatiently. After all, it wasn’t so damn hard.

  “Are you saying you want us to shoot our way inside the Kremlin to get you out?”

  “In case the beacon goes off, yes. Bring lots of ammo. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No, Vitaliy Kirillovich. Just making sure that’s what you want. You can count on me.”

  “Good. You have seven days to get everything ready. Then we go to Moscow.”

  ...13

  ...Monday, March 14, 7:19PM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

  ...Alex Hoffmann’s Residence

  ...San Diego, California

  The sun had set and twilight had faded away, leaving a moonless night in its place. Yet the window curtains pulled shut didn’t let a single hint of light be seen from outside, despite multiple powerful light bulbs flooding the blue room with a blinding light.

  The corkboard covered in images, Post-it notes, and pushpins tied together with colored yarn hadn’t changed much in the past few weeks, yet Alex studied it carefully, processing again every bit of information as if it was the first time she’d seen it.

  Curled up in her armchair, legs folded underneath her and leaning against one of the armrests, she went over every milestone in her timeline, looking for anything she might have missed. Nothing new . . . nothing, whatsoever.

  But there was a troublesome article in the newspaper she had just flipped through, a short entry about a near-miss incident involving a Russian military aircraft and a Canadian vessel in the Black Sea. Nothing had really happened, but Alex vaguely recalled a few of these incidents occurring in recent weeks, maybe even months.

  She made a mental note to research it a little and see if anything out of the ordinary came to the surface, but it would all be speculation even if it did. There was no visible connection between any recent Russian military activity and the terrorist plot The Agency had just folded. None whatsoever . . . she was just reaching.

  Her cell phone rang, almost startling her. She smiled, seeing the caller ID, then accepted the phone’s prompt to encrypt the call. Ever since she’d started working on her last case, she’d been using cell-phone encryption software on every call, ensuring that her private conversations remained private.

  “Sam!” she answered cheerfully, glad to hear from him.

  “How are you, kiddo?”

  “Great, just great,” she answered excitedly. “I was just thinking of you. Were your ears burning?”

  “Nah . . . just wanted to check on you, see how you are.”

  She paused for half a minute, not sure what to say.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking,” she started, “maybe there’s a correlation between our case and these Russian military incidents?”

  “Ah . . . Your mind still goes there, huh?”

  “Yup,” she confessed in a sheepish voice.

  “Crazy wall and all that?”

  “Yup.”

  He let out a long sigh.

  “We might never catch him, kiddo, you know that, right? We discussed it.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “The yeah buts are not gonna cut it, you know. We talked about this. I’ve spent my entire life chasing spies and terrorists, and I haven’t caught all of them, only some. The vast majority,” he clarified further with pride, “yet not all of them.”

  “But you know what I mean, right? You’ve felt this; you’ve done this too, right?”

  “What? Obsessing about some anonymous face that eluded me for years? Yes, and I almost lost my mind because of that. That’s why I want you to be smarter than I was.” He grinned, and she heard the smile in his voice.

  “So, if you’ve done it too, how come you expect me to not wanna do the same? How can I let go? Who’s gonna catch this guy?”

  “Listen, kiddo, if anyone’s gonna catch this guy, it’s gonna be you, I promise you that much. But if you wanna have a real shot to catch this son of a bitch you have to let your mind be free of obsession, of bias and frustration. You have to be cold and factual, and see facts and data only where facts and data exist, not where you want them to exist.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “There’s no visible real, logical correlation between the Election Day plot and the Russian military incidents we’ve been reading about lately, yet you thought there might be one. Is that your gut talking? Or is that wishful thinking? Only you can answer this question. Only after you have become completely level headed and rational about this case. You need to stop caring about it from an emotional perspective, and only care about the intel—the facts, whatever the facts might tell you.”

  “Yeah, but that data might tell me we’re never gonna find out who he is,” she protested angrily.

  “That might be true. But imagining correlations where there aren’t any is not gonna help either.”

  She swallowed hard. “Right . . . What should I do then?”

  “Just keep in mind that it’s not over yet, but don’t let it ruin your life. Be ready; get ready. Watch your back. Be aware of your surroundings. See if anyone is following you. Spend time at the firing range with Louie until you’re better than he is.”

  “Ha! That’s never gonna happen!”

  “Are you sure? ’Cause I’m not!”

  She fell silent for a minute, taking in his advice.

  “I miss you, Sam. I miss your training, your friendship, your advice. I miss the life, the buzz of the action. I can totally see how someone can become addicted to this life.”

  “Of course you do,” he laughed. “You’re a natural born spy; it’s in your DNA. Are you working on a case now?”

  “Yeah, I’m support on Brian’s new case,” she said, letting a tad of disappointment color the inflexions in her voice.

  “Is it an interesting case?” Sam probed.

  “Yeah, they all are . . . to some extent.”

  They both burst into laughter at the same time.

  “Not nearly as interesting as our last case, Sam, not even close. Just the typical, run-of-the-mill case.”

  “Just be patient, that’s all. This country has many powerful, motivated enemies. Their interests will flush your Mr. X out from whatever hole he’s been hiding in, and you’ll be right there to nail him. Just hang tight, and I prom
ise you he’s out there and you’ll get him one day.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, OK?”

  “Deal!”

  Minutes after they’d hung up she still stared into the cell phone screen that displayed the end message of an encrypted phone call. Just a few months earlier, she hadn’t even known she could encrypt calls on her cell. Now she didn’t conceive of making or taking a call without encrypting it.

  Things did evolve, and did change. With these changes, always came a change in perspective. That’s what she needed, a change in perspective.

  ...14

  ...Tuesday, March 15, 1:44PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)

  ...Walcott Global Technologies Headquarters

  ...Norfolk, Virginia

  Quentin Hadden read his latest email, clenching his teeth. His boss wanted to see him. Not good. Lately, their relationship had turned from bad to worse, his conflicts with the idiot in charge—as he liked to think of Bob McLeod—evolving from technical disputes into full-blown arguments followed by sit-downs and feedback sessions eagerly delivered by the idiot with arrogance and condescendence.

  He decided to face the music now rather than let the thought of it torment him for much longer. He walked briskly down the hall and entered McLeod’s office after a quick tap on the door.

  “You wanted to see me?” Quentin prompted.

  “Yes. Sit down, please.”

  McLeod took his time shuffling papers, making Quentin feel how insignificant he was. Quentin didn’t matter . . . he could wait. What an asshole.

  “I called you because of the installations project on the Lloyd. Your team has fallen behind schedule. Again.”

  McLeod liked to underline the points he was making with movements of his hand, almost like an orchestra conductor, increasing the perceived arrogance of his demeanor. The man was insufferable.