Hashimi wanted to keep the meeting as short as possible and got right to the point. “Do you have word on the weapons?”
A low-flying chopper made them go quiet, while they followed the sound with their eyes.
Zubarev rested a hand on his Makarov in his side holster. “I am expecting them in several days.”
“What about the type of weapons? What makes them top secret?”
Zubarev shook his head. “That I still do not know. But with that classification, you can be assured they will be like nothing either one of us has ever seen.”
“And when will you tell me the price, Major?”
“As soon as we receive word they are safely aboard our ship. The weapons must be inspected and tested before we turn them over to you. You understand, of course.”
Hashimi’s distrust in the Russians had steadily increased, but he was willing to do anything necessary to obtain the weapons. All he could do was wait, and not cause a rift between himself and Zubarev.
Chapter 9
Driving around for nearly thirty minutes, trying to ensure he wasn’t being followed, Nicolai Kalinin had time to reflect on the incident. Where the hell did he go wrong? What mistake did he make? How’d the Americans find him? Maybe he shouldn’t have left the message in the newspaper. But that had been the plan, confirmed by Vazov. When it came to options for leaving messages, there weren’t many. And he sure as hell couldn’t just walk into the embassy.
He had to put his thoughts in order. His first task was to wipe down everything inside the house and Camaro, removing any evidence that could lead to him — or the embassy. He wasn’t concerned about the name on the car’s registration. But fingerprints were a different matter altogether.
Once the task was accomplished, he’d park the car in the garage, then take the truck and head to the safe house. The safe house. He gritted his teeth. Having to use the place was something he hadn’t planned on. It was too soon for his strategy to turn to shit.
He pounded the steering wheel in anger, until a sudden thought flashed through his mind. Was it possible? Could it have been the American, the traitor, who had turned against the U.S. and now Russia? Was he a double agent?
Very little was known about him — only what he wanted Russia to know. He told them just enough to confirm he had legitimate top secret information. Kalinin surmised he must be working somewhere in the Pentagon for the Department of the Navy, considering the document had a DoD logo.
If the American was a double agent, would it mean plans had to be altered? Would flying the weapons to Moscow be out of the question? He couldn’t think of how the American would know about the plane, but assumptions were always possible.
Working under diplomatic cover, Kalinin felt confident he could handle it. Moscow was anxious for those weapons to arrive.
He glanced at his watch. He’d stalled enough. Whether it was daylight or not, he had work to do. He made a snap decision and decided to hold off on moving the last of the weapons for at least another day or two. Even though the Americans didn’t know who he was, they’d be watching airports and probably the embassy.
Weaving in and out of traffic, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Calming down, he eased off the accelerator, chastising himself for losing control. He couldn’t afford to call attention to himself.
Thinking clearly again, a picture of the American traitor came to mind. But what if it wasn’t him? What if there was someone else who had the ability to process information, no matter how little there might be? Someone who, like himself, had the intelligence, natural instinct… He cut himself off. The idea was remote. The odds were pointing toward the traitor.
He turned down the alley behind his house, then parked by the garage. As he unlocked the garage door, he glanced down the alleyway. All clear. He got in the truck and backed up close to the house.
Once the Camaro had been parked inside the garage, he tucked his Makarov in his waistband, removed all papers, then wiped down everything, inside and out, then locked it, taking the keys with him. With the car and garage locked, he hurried to the house.
Ever since he met with the ambassador, he was ready to evacuate hastily. Two suitcases were always packed. Clothes he needed for a week were in drawers and hanging in the closet.
He put the suitcases and clothes by the kitchen door, then started a wipe-down of light switches, light bulbs, faucets, door knobs, toilet seat cover — everything he could have touched. He was thorough. He had to be.
After everything was loaded in the truck, he did one more walk-through of each room, letting his eyes settle on every object, confirming each had been cleaned.
Stepping slowly backwards out of the living room, he continued looking around, until he was in the kitchen. Using a corner of his jacket to grab the door knob, he went outside, locked the door then wiped the knob. He kept the key. His rent was paid for the month. He’d contact the landlord to let him know he was leaving the area. A new job offer in Houston seemed as good a reason as any. ZXR would confirm he had resigned.
Driving back downtown, he remained vigilant of his speed and all traffic laws. Every once in a while he’d glance in the rearview mirror, not looking for vehicles that might be following, but at one crate stashed in the bed containing top secret weapons. His misstep this morning was a thing of the past, a mere blip in the road.
Driving along Nineteenth, he slowed then turned on L Street. About five blocks later he was at the parking garage, had a ticket stamped, and drove to the second level. Spotting the silver Pontiac at the end of the row, he pulled behind the car, ensured no one was around, then got out. As he dug a key from his pocket, he confirmed there was a black check mark on the pillar.
As he raised the trunk lid, he saw a tag hanging from the rearview mirror. Ambassador Vazov paid a monthly parking fee.
Not wasting any time, he grabbed the cardboard box from the trunk, slammed the lid, then wiped the edge with the bottom of his jacket. A second later he was driving out.
The two-story house, barely twelve hundred square feet, was in need of maintenance, inside and out. Paint was peeling off clapboard siding, shingles were old, tree roots had lifted and cracked a section of sidewalk. The house was perfect for a Russian mole to lie low.
Kalinin drove the truck along the grass- and dirt-covered driveway, then stopped in front of the single car garage at the back of the lot. Unkempt boxwood shrubs were growing on three sides, two small windows had been blacked out. The structure was in worse shape than the house.
He got out of the truck, unlocked the padlock, then pulled the doors open. As he returned to the truck, he stopped momentarily, listening for any unusual sounds. All he heard was the heavy traffic on the main road, and a commercial jet flying low, making its approach to Washington National Airport.
Once he parked in the garage, he checked the contents inside the cardboard box: official documents, an official seal, a rubber stamp and ink pad. Under cover of darkness, he’d come back and prepare the pouches. Each pouch was made of heavy, plain canvas, with two leather handles and two zippers that met in the middle. The zipper pulls and handles would be secured together with a length of wire. A metal seal would then be crimped around the ends of the wire.
Securing the garage doors, he carried one suitcase and his jacket to the house, trying to absorb everything about the building and property. He didn’t plan on staying long, but being familiar with his surroundings could be critical to his survival if it came down to that.