Sarah’s message continued: “The director has requested the names of the Russian sources from his staff. Already a lot of grumbling from career types, but no way the director can refuse POTUS demand. Best guess is he’ll be turning names over to Stokes within the next twenty-four hours.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:
Moscow
Steve managed to get to Moscow by midnight that evening. After Sarah’s alarming message, he’d quickly packed an overnight bag and secured a seat on the afternoon BA flight from Heathrow to Sheremetyevo. Luckily, on his previous trip, he’d requested a multiple-entry visa for Russia.
He tried to sleep during the flight, but couldn’t. He was obsessed by the sense of failure. Beaten by Stokes at every turn. And now the American president had the gall to characterize the cold-blooded killing of Charlie Doyle as a blow against international terrorism. Equally outrageous was the full-throated support of Stokes’s claims by so many in the media. They were led by Fox News, with its mindless array of “terrorism experts.” They parroted Stokes’s outlandish charges and tweets as if they were gospel.
But it wasn’t just the media. Steve still couldn’t get over the tremulous voice of Senator Gurd on the phone a few hours ago, claiming that even the most influential Republicans in Congress were powerless to do anything to reign in Stokes. Eyes wide open, Americans were repeating a process some compared to the rise of the Nazis in Germany in the 1930s. Unless someone had the guts to stand up to Stokes and take him down, the country was lost. Was there no way to do it?
While such cataclysmic thoughts roiled Steve’s mind, slowly, over the last couple of hours, an idea began to take form, a way out. It was crazy, like throwing a Hail Mary pass in the last seconds of a football game. Could it work? Who knew? But now his immediate priority was to rescue Maya and her children.
Before leaving the Belgravia bunker, Steve had sent an encrypted message to Maya asking for an urgent meeting at her mother Anna’s apartment early the next morning in Moscow. It was the site they’d used for several of their previous meetings. “It’s a question of life and death,” he wrote, “for you and the family. Be there by 7:00 a.m.”
He’d decided to stay again at the Four Seasons. He could have chosen a different hotel, but he figured, as far as Russian security was concerned, they’d pick him up just as quickly as a repeat visitor to Moscow, no matter which hotel he checked into. He attempted to sleep for a couple of hours, but his thoughts were too agitated.
He turned on CNN just in time to catch a report from the UK about the killing of Charlie Doyle. Many Brits were up in arms about the U.S. carrying out a deadly drone strike in England. “Stokes Affront to Our Nation,” the Times headlined.
Stokes, however, had defended the strike by a series of tweets: “We are all together in this war against terror! No one can opt out. NO ONE! @PresStokes”
Indeed, one of The Guardian’ s very perceptive columnists, Robert Slazenger, did some sniffing around and wrote a column entitled, “A whiff of hypocrisy?” The young, goateed Slazenger was now being interviewed on CNN. “It was our MI5 and GCHQ that played the lead roles in locating and tracking Mr. Doyle for the Americans,” he said. “Our intelligence services knew full well, or should have known, what the end game would be. The CIA Predator also was operating out of a U.S. airbase in England with full knowledge of local authorities. And so,” he concluded with a slightly condescending smile, “the question comes down to this: If it’s okay for our great ally – the U.S. – to hunt down and kill terrorists in Afghanistan and Somalia and Yemen without always getting the consent of the local governments, and at great risk of collateral damage to the civilian population then why the dickens can’t they do it in the U.K.?”
That should provoke a storm, thought Steve. He took a long, hot shower, put on a shirt and jeans, and left the hotel at 5:00 a.m. Changing taxis three times, he crisscrossed the city before heading for Maya’s mother’s apartment, alert as always to the patterns of cars and people on the early morning streets. He arrived shortly after 7:00 a.m. and buzzed the apartment from the street. Anna, Maya’s mother, answered. “Who is it?” she asked in Russian.
“It’s Doug Robb.”
“Doug who?”
“The American friend of Maya. You remember?” Without answering, she buzzed him in. He walked up to the third-floor apartment. Anna was waiting by the open door in a light blue housecoat, her gray hair disheveled. She seemed more confused than usual. It was obvious she didn’t recognize him. “Who are you?” she began to close the door.
“No, please wait,” Steve blocked the door with his foot. “I have a meeting with Maya and the children.” He was afraid Anna might do something to wake the neighbors.
“No, I can’t let…” she began to say.
Suddenly Maya came clattering up the stairs with the two children behind her. “Mama, it is okay,” she said.
“I got here as quickly as possible,” Maya said breathlessly, as she opened the door to admit Steve and the children. Though it was Saturday, the children were wearing their khaki school uniforms and backpacks. The young boy, Evgeny smiled shyly at Steve; Sonya eyed him curiously. “The children usually have extra study on Saturday,” Maya explained., “I’ve told them they’re not going to be going to school today, but, in case any of the neighbors got curious, I wanted to make it look as if this were a normal day.”
She looked up at him with startled blue eyes. He couldn’t resist. He took her in his arms. She at first resisted, but she then quickly returned his embrace. Anna and the two children stood there staring at the couple kissing. When Maya finally pulled away, her face was flushed.
“Steve and I are going into the kitchen to talk,” she said, trying to recover her composure. The children continued to look at her wide-eyed. “I told you it is a very important day today,” Maya said. “Mama and Sonya, get some cookies and milk and take Evgeny into the living room. You can play or watch television. Steve and I have to be alone for a few minutes.”
Steve followed Maya into the kitchen and took a seat across from her at the wooden breakfast table. There was a white doily on the table and a bowl of apples and pears. “What has happened?” she said. “You wrote that this is a ‘life and death’ emergency.”
Steve took her hands. “It is,” he said.
“I’m sorry about your TV program,” she said.
“You heard what happened?” said Steve. “They even wiped us off all the social networks. It was devastating. Stokes probably coordinated that attack with Kozlov.”
“He did,” she said. “My own unit was involved. We’ve been developing that tactic for years. There was no way I could warn you.”
“But Stokes has gone further,” said Steve. “He’s demanded that the CIA director give him the names of the Russians who were sources for the hacking investigation.”
“And the CIA would obey?” Her eyes were suddenly filled with fear and incredulity. “Give me up just like that?”
“The director has no choice,” said Steve. “The president is his boss. In theory, if he had the guts, he could refuse to obey, but he’d be out the next day. They’d simply replace him with someone who would comply with the order.”
“But Stokes would give that information directly to Kozlov.”
“Exactly,” said Steve.
Maya glared furiously at him. “How could I have been so stupid to believe in you and your country,” she said bringing her fist down on the table. “And you, of course, can do nothing.”