Interviewer: “I’m sure your family would love to hear you’re just a cog in a machine when you simply disappear, never to be heard from again.”
Evgheni Smolin: “I have no other family than Mother Russia. She will mourn my loss and call me a hero. She’ll give me a hero’s funeral when I’m gone.”
Interviewer: “Russia is nothing these days… you should have picked a better employer. This one’s in rags and starving.”
Evgheni Smolin: “You — you don’t know what you’re talking about! How dare you talk about Russia like that? You bastard! Russia will rise again and shove your faces in your own smallness and insignificance. Russia has the greatest leaders it’s had in decades, united, ready to fight, ready to wipe you off the face of the Earth. There’s no greater mission that I’d rather sacrifice my life for, than the glorious future of my country. Nothing else matters.”
Interviewer: “You’re just one little cog in a machine, you know? What difference could you possibly make?”
Evgheni Smolin: There are hundreds just like me, already here, working to restore Russia’s greatness in ways you can’t even comprehend. There are hundreds of thousands more back home, getting ready to strike at a moment’s notice. You, and the rest of the arrogant Western assholes who insulted our president, are doomed. Say your prayers and get ready to die.”
[end transcript]
…78
Alex checked the time nervously. Her appointment was late, and she wasn’t even sure if she was going to show. She went back to reading her notes to refresh her memory, getting ready for a conversation that might not even happen.
“You have some nerve, Ms.… Hoffmann,” a woman’s voice articulated coldly right behind her. She turned and saw a tall woman dressed in a brown business suit, wearing her hair tied in an unpretentious ponytail.
“Ms. Marino?” she offered and extended her hand. The woman ignored it.
“My first instinct was to blow the whistle on you and have you picked up,” the woman continued, the coldness in her voice feeling like a slap to Alex’s face.
Alex felt her anger take over.
“So why didn’t you?” she asked. “After all, someone like you lives their life under the rule of logic and procedure, right?”
“Don’t be presumptuous with me. Yes, I could’ve had you arrested for a number of things, but that wouldn’t have gained me easy access to the information you said you could provide. Your note, although unusual, was quite intriguing.”
“Then… can we start over?” Alex said and smiled, offering her hand again. “I’m Alex Hoffmann.”
“Henrietta Marino.”
“Want some coffee or anything?”
“I’m good, thanks. So, what do you have?” Marino pressed on.
“I read your report. It was very interesting, yet incomplete,” Alex said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper.
Marino frowned, then asked quietly, “What do you mean?”
“Your analysis covers the strategic level really well, describing President Abramovich’s intentions, and profiling him in detail. Then you analyze the Russians actions and speculate about potential plans of attack. I can give you a glimpse into the type of plans they could be weaving, and an idea about the second layer of command. Well, at least partially.”
“What do you mean, partially? What second layer?”
“Have you wondered who helps Abramovich reach his goals?”
“He has a government,” Marino said a little hesitantly. “Why? What do you know?”
“There are two other men. One is Mikhail Dimitrov, the minister of defense. He and Abramovich are very close.”
“I was wondering about that, seeing that Dimitrov was first ‘resigned’ by Abramovich, then brought back. The bastard actually spoke the truth for once when he announced Dimitrov’s resignation for health reasons.”
“Yes and no. Well… maybe,” Alex said.
“Could you make any less sense?” Marino asked sarcastically.
“I have another theory. Dimitrov’s resignation coincided with the American elections, and the result of those elections was what caused Dimitrov to have his heart attack and temporarily fall out of grace.”
“You’re saying he did fall out of grace with Abramovich? Why?”
“Well, let’s say, hypothetically, that there could have been a conspiracy to thwart the elections, and that failed.”
“So it is true.”
“What?”
“That you have been involved in a black ops case of sorts… that’s the rumor out there,” Marino said.
“Hypothetically,” Alex said and winked.
Marino rolled her eyes in disbelief. “Jeez…”
“When the plan failed, Abramovich got mad, and Dimitrov had his heart attack, so Abramovich ousted him. But a few months later, he brought him back.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“Because it’s only Dimitrov and this other man who can orchestrate plans of significant strategic importance, and execute them really well.”
“Who’s this other man you’re talking about?”
“I don’t know, unfortunately, no matter how hard I’ve tried to find out. MOSSAD doesn’t know either. But we haven’t stopped looking for him.”
“MOSSAD? Jesus Christ… Who the hell are you?” Marino asked.
“Oh… I’m just a corporate investigator who’s had an interesting choice of cases to work on, nothing else, I promise.”
“Then how do you know this man even exists?”
“He does. His name starts with the initial V, and he’s a brilliant strategist.”
“First or last name? And how sure are you about the letter V? Where did you learn that?”
“From the lips of a dying man. And yes, he’s real, but we just couldn’t find him, not yet.”
Henri Marino sat quietly for a few seconds, then asked, “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing, really. Just wanted you to know about these two people, and what their roles could be in one of your scenarios. If V has his hand in any of those plans, expect them to be big, dramatic, of epic proportions and impact.” She paused, taken aback by the incredulity reflected in Marino’s eyes. “I thought this information might be helpful.”
Marino stood, ready to leave. “It might be,” she said, reluctantly, then shook Alex’s hand again.
“Oh, and if you ever find out who V is, please let me know,” Alex asked.
Marino didn’t reply, but her cold gaze wasn’t very promising.
“Damn,” Alex muttered to herself, watching Marino leave. “She must think I’m some sort of nut job.”
…79
The familiar driveway was already filled with cars. Steve’s matte black M6 was already there, and so were Brian’s Lexus and Richard’s Benz. Along the curb, there was a rental sedan, most likely Jeremy’s. Sam had arrived two days earlier, and his rental SUV was the first car on the driveway.
“Late again,” she grumbled, then got out of her car and went straight to the backyard, using the side gate.
She was a little embarrassed to face Tom, considering the last conversation they’d had, and how she’d taken a case without consulting with him first. She felt uncomfortable thinking of seeing Brian; she’d abandoned him mid-engagement and had gone to Norfolk for the Walcott case, a case that wasn’t even on the books. Finally, she dreaded seeing Steve, the man she still loved, but couldn’t forgive.