A voice broke through from the back. ‘We don’t need no more white people telling us.’
Vitruk opened his hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘Only take it if you want it.’
‘Get the hell off our island.’
Vitruk’s expression remained cordial. ‘We will, and we’ll get Akna and little Iyaroak back to the community.’
To the left a door opened. One of the television crew tapped his watch. Without another word, Vitruk walked outside onto the veranda. Yumatov switched channels to show Vitruk lit by broadcast lamps standing against the backdrop of Big Diomede and the wreckage of the two helicopters on the sea ice.
TWENTY-SIX
Stephanie stamped her feet against the cold as she rang the bell to her ex-husband’s apartment. The door opened and, unexpectedly, Harry Lucas looked ten years younger and a million times healthier than when she last saw him. He had lost weight, was trim, fit, and stylishly dressed in a sleeveless green down jacket over a blue denim shirt. His dark hair touched his ears and collar, longer than his usual military cut. Marriage had suffocated him. Divorce had freed him. Whatever Harry was doing now, whoever he was with, had restored him to the person she once loved.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ she said, walking briskly in. ‘I need your mind, Harry.’
‘And you used to want me only for my body,’ he smiled.
As she pulled off her gloves, she couldn’t help looking around, to see how he was living now. It was an old-style first-floor apartment between Dupont Circle and Rhode Island Avenue with shabby high corniced ceilings, worn rugs from exotic places over wooden floorboards, an open-plan living room, and a kitchen chaotically filled with color and mementos. She recognized some — the mask from eastern Congo, swords from Sudan, portraits of Mao, Hitler, and Stalin, and a table of photos from Harry’s time in Congress, posing with the Obamas, the Clintons, Nelson Mandela, Mick Jagger, and an assortment of other famous people.
She looked everywhere except at Harry. What should she do — peck him on both cheeks as a friend? Say ‘hi’ as they did whenever they talked to each other but reined in open affection because it could be read in a thousand different hostile ways? Give him a hug for dropping everything for her, and for being lucid and sober? She had assumed he was in Kazakhstan negotiating a defense contract, but it turned out he was in DC.
When she had told him what she needed, he replied as if she was asking for a loaf of bread from the supermarket, ‘Yeah, I should be able to do that.’ Harry had retained his high-security clearance from the military to Congress to the private defense sector. His combat and political background made him a high-worth consultant with an income many times more than hers. Stephanie had left Harry and he had left Congress about the same time, and he had concentrated on identifying fault lines in the government’s intelligence apparatus. After Nine-Eleven, the government smashed down the protective agency silos that had compartmentalized classified information so much that no one saw Bin Laden coming. War in Iraq, where Harry served, saw the outsourcing of war to defense contractors who could go into areas government was banned from reaching. Then came WikiLeaks and Snowden, and the silos got built all over again, except in different ways, off the books and deep in the Web. By now, war had changed and money, cyber and social media were superseding guns and bombs. The upshot was that Harry had better access than government to a lot of stuff, and he employed people with better skills at processing it.
Harry led her to a side room from which came soft jazz music and the smell of coffee. He poured two cups, black, handed one to her and turned off the music.
‘Whatever Russia’s planning, it doesn’t stop in Little Diomede,’ she said. ‘I can’t nail it. But I sense it.’
‘What is the President’s view?’ Harry took her coat and folded it over an office chair.
‘Swain’s playing catch-up. Holland’s snapping at his heels. Half the intel community still thinks it’s fighting in the Middle East.’
Three computers stood on a workstation that ran the length of the wall. ‘We could agree to something over Little Diomede,’ Harry said. ‘We can’t allow the bombing of the Fed. Whoever is behind it knew they were crossing a line. But you’re not here for my analysis. You have a thousand experts within a square mile of here who will give you their take on it.’ He fired up his computers. ‘You want my database.’
Stephanie smiled coyly. ‘Right.’
‘And I can’t even remember if we’re divorced yet.’ Grinning, Harry sat down and opened the software with a fingerprint and iris scan.
‘I’m interested in Alexander Vitruk and Sergey Grizlov,’ she said.
At the mention of Grizlov, Harry grimaced, as she suspected he would. At the lows of their worst arguments, he used to bring up her fling with Grizlov as if the affair were still alive.
‘Do you think Grizlov’s involved in the Fed attack?’
‘I hope not. But never say never.’
‘Clever girl.’
She felt a spinal shiver at the thought of sleeping with a man who could have ordered anything so brutal. Harry looked at her, lips drawn in, brow furrowed in a familiar expression of concentration. His screens flared to life. ‘After you called, I did some checking.’
He showed Stephanie files on Sergey Grizlov, much of which she already knew: the story of a clever businessman who had manipulated his way to the top through the minefields of the Yeltsin and Putin years. She was astounded at Harry’s ability to dig deep and wide. He accessed an encrypted network of databases shared by defense and security contractors. Its search engine was more powerful than anything Stephanie had seen on clumsy government systems. The quality of its raw intelligence was exceptionally high.
Harry had found that Grizlov did have a private project that involved Little Diomede. One of his companies had a large stake in a scheme to build a tunnel across the Bering Strait linking Russia and Alaska. It involved Chinese, Russian, and Japanese money.
‘But that’s business,’ said Stephanie. ‘Not terrorism.’
‘Business and politics. Exactly. Military hostility would set the tunnel project back for decades.’ Harry brought up the file on Vitruk. ‘Compare it to this.’
The screen showed two sets of pictures side by side. On the left were documents of mugshots and dates. On the right a video showed a younger Vitruk standing outside a low-rise building that looked like an apartment block as his men dragged people out. The date was October 15th, 1999, the city of Gudermes in Chechnya.
‘The second Chechen war,’ said Harry. ‘Putin crushed an Islamic insurgency. These are civilians. Now watch.’ Vitruk drew a pistol. He shot dead two women who looked like mother and daughter and then two small boys. A middle-aged man was left alive. Vitruk pistol-whipped him, left him lying in the rubble with the corpses of his family, and walked off. Harry slid to another video with an almost identical scene. Vitruk shot two women and three children and let the man live. By executing mothers, wives, and children in front of their men, Vitruk stripped out the spirit of whole communities. The men’s guilt at failing to protect their families would have an effect for generations. Simple and effective. He was cutting the balls off the place.