“So I own an AK-47,” Favorov said. “I was teaching my son to shoot.” Favorov shrugged. “All perfectly legal. Yes, I own an assault rifle, but it has been modified so that it cannot fire in full automatic mode. And, anyway, you don’t work for the ATF.”
“No, no, I don’t,” Chapel said. “I never would have heard about this case, actually, if things hadn’t started getting weird after that. You see, the ATF has some very bright scientists who do nothing all day but study bullets and casings. They found that these casings were an almost perfect match for another one they had on file. One that had been used to shoot an FBI agent about six months ago.”
Favorov dropped his napkin on the table. “So now I am a murderer?”
“Of course not. The man who shot the FBI agent was arrested within days of the shooting. Nobody you would know—a white supremacist out in Idaho.” Chapel waved one hand in the air, dismissing the very idea of a connection between the scumbag killer and the millionaire in front of him.
“Well, good,” Favorov said. “Anyway. This is not exactly a peculiar type of ammunition. The 7.62 by thirty-nine millimeter is probably the most common type of rifle ammunition in the world. Maybe this murderer and I bought rounds from the same supplier. Who knows?”
“Sure,” Chapel said. “So far, you’re right, there’s no connection. No reason for me to get involved, and certainly no reason for me to be bringing this to you. By the way—who did you buy these rounds from, if I can ask?”
Favorov gulped down some more wine. Fiona came around behind him and refilled his glass. He didn’t even look at her. “I have a friend, in the city. I can give you his information, he’ll vouch for me.”
“That would be very helpful. Maybe we can put this behind us, once I track down this friend,” Chapel said. He smiled. “Sorry, I know that was kind of dramatic, but there’s a lot of pressure on us to close this case.”
“Oh?”
Chapel nodded. “Yes. And I, for one, will be glad to be done with it. You know, it’s funny, a case like this—it’s not about running around dodging bullets and fighting bad guys. It’s more like the homework I used to do in school. A lot of reading. I just learned recently about taggants and trace elements in gunpowder. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”
Favorov shook his head and drank more of his wine.
“It turns out—and forgive me, but I find this kind of thing fascinating—it turns out that every batch of gunpowder made, anywhere in the world, is slightly different. A lot of them have what are called taggant chemicals added to them. So that a forensic expert can know where that particular kind of gunpowder was made. For instance, every batch of gunpowder made in the US has taggants added.”
Favorov glanced over at Fiona. Chapel wondered why. He put that thought aside and continued. “The residue of the gunpowder in these casings,” he said, “doesn’t contain any taggants, though. Which is weird. So the ATF looked instead for trace elements. Radioactive isotopes, say, or particles of dust that got into the gunpowder during its manufacture. That turned up a match right away. The trace element profile on these casings is very distinctive, and it’s one that the Pentagon knows a lot about. Now maybe you see why I got called in to this case.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Favorov said.
“The trace elements in these casings only come from one gunpowder mill in the entire world.”
Favorov had been trained by the world’s second-best intelligence apparatus. His face did not shift or change or reveal anything. Chapel had to admit he was impressed. Apparently he was going to have to spell this out.
“The gunpowder in these casings,” Chapel said, picking one up and twirling it in his fingers, “can be traced back to the same mill that used to make gunpowder for the KGB. So could the residue in the bullet that killed the FBI agent. You see why somebody called the Pentagon when they saw that? The KGB. The supposedly defunct Soviet spy service. They have their own mill specifically so they can make gunpowder containing no taggants. Twenty years ago, that would have made this gunpowder untraceable. But not anymore.”
“I think you should say what you came here to say,” Favorov announced. Both of his hands were on the table, where Chapel could see them. Chapel assumed that was intentional. “Say it, and then I will call my lawyer.”
“The bullets you used to teach your son to shoot—the bullets the white supremacists fired at the FBI—come straight from Russia. So did the AK-47 the killer used, and, I’m pretty sure, the one you taught your son with. I’m accusing you, Mr. Favorov, of smuggling illegal weapons into this country. And I’m pretty sure they were supplied to you by elements in the Russian government. That might constitute an act of war. I am one hundred percent certain that makes you a traitor.”
6
Favorov watched Chapel’s face very, very carefully. He took his time before he opened his mouth to reply. “You didn’t come here to arrest me.”
Chapel didn’t reply. Let the traitor sweat for a while, he decided. Let him work it out on his own, if he could.
“No one goes to the trouble of getting invited to dinner just so they can arrest a man,” Favorov said. “You want something from me. You want information.”
Chapel nodded.
“You want names. You want to know my contacts, you want to know where the guns come from, and who I have dealings with.”
Chapel decided to give him a little something. “It’s simpler than that. We need to know if this arrangement you have, this connection, is official or not. If the Russian government is behind this, then we have an international crisis on our hands. If, instead, you got those guns from the Russian mafia, say, or from rogue KGB agents, then it’s just a criminal matter. I need to know whether the State Department or the Justice Department is going to handle this.”
Favorov’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because I’m the last chance you have to be honest,” Chapel said, with a sigh. “I need the truth. I need the truth before lawyers and courts and the press get involved. I need to make sure I know exactly what I’m dealing with. Once you lawyer up you have the right to remain silent. Your lawyer will coach you on what to say. I’ll never know the actual facts.”
“So you’re here to make a deal. A deal, I assume, no one else will ever hear about.”
Chapel nodded. “You worked in intelligence. You know about secrecy, and about plausible deniability. The Pentagon can’t be seen negotiating with traitors. But sometimes we have to do it anyway. I need your information and I need to keep it quiet that we have that information. We’re willing to cut you a break in exchange.” Though if it were up to Chapel, this man would be hanged from the Washington Monument. He hated double agents—and Favorov was something even worse, an actual triple agent. But he knew how to follow orders, and Rupert Hollingshead had been very clear on his orders this time.
Clearly surprised, the Russian licked at his lips with a dry tongue. “You’re going to offer me immunity?”
Chapel shook his head. That was definitely not going to happen. “I’m afraid not. You will be arrested. You will go to jail, or worse. But in exchange for your testimony—testimony that I can verify—I can have you arrested as an illegal arms dealer, not as a traitor and a spy. You’ll probably get twenty years in prison, but that’s better than the alternative.”
A dry, sardonic chuckle came out of Favorov’s throat. “If I give you this information, I’ll be killed by the Russians.”