Finally, Kaufmann reached across the table and placed a meaty hand behind Bogdanov’s head, then smashed his face into the table. Bogdanov sprung back up with a glazed look as blood oozed from his nose. His eyes cleared, then hardened.
“I’m not saying another word.”
Bogdanov seemed rather smug considering the circumstances, blood running down his face, his fingers interlaced as his hands rested on the table before him.
Khalila suddenly stood and approached Bogdanov. She flexed her left wrist, releasing one of her knives into her hand. She reached over Bogdanov’s shoulder, driving the knife through his left forearm, pinning it to the table.
Bogdanov shrieked in pain as she stepped beside him, releasing the second knife into her other hand. She placed it against Bogdanov’s neck.
“You had better start talking, or I’m going to fillet you like a fish.”
Bogdanov looked up at her with a terrified, but otherwise blank look on his face, and Khalila apparently remembered that Bogdanov spoke only Russian. She looked toward Kaufmann and Harrison.
“Would someone translate for me!”
Kaufmann shot Khalila an irritated look. “Do you mind!” he said in English. “I’m doing the interrogation here!”
Harrison stood and grabbed Khalila by the arm, then pulled her into the passageway between the two interrogation rooms where they could talk in private.
“You can’t do this kind of thing.”
“I don’t need your permission, Jake.” She yanked her arm away. “I should’ve known you’d get in the way again.”
Harrison keyed on the usual wording. “Again?”
“I read Mixell’s file,” she said. “I know what he did, and that you helped put him behind bars.”
“So you think it’s okay to execute unarmed prisoners?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation, “if they deserve it.”
“Who gets to decide? Are you going to be the judge, jury, and executioner?”
“If necessary.”
A short silence ensued before Harrison asked, “It’s okay to execute partners too?”
This time, she hesitated before answering. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated at all.”
“Let it go,” Khalila hissed. She moved toward the interrogation room, but Harrison grabbed her arm again.
“When your partner almost puts a bullet in your head, you don’t just let it go.”
Khalila turned back to him. “Did you ever stop to think about how we got here? Why we’re tracking down someone who assassinated the UN ambassador and six agents, and paid sixty million dollars for something that could end up killing thousands?”
She poked her finger into Harrison’s chest. “It’s your fault. You put Mixell behind bars. You set him onto this path. If you had let it go, we wouldn’t be here today.”
Harrison was momentarily at a loss for words. Khalila was right. Turning Mixell in had started a chain of events leading to today. Still, he had done the right thing, and he wasn’t going to let Khalila twist it around, especially in light of what she’d almost done a few hours ago.
“Does the DDO know you’ve killed some of your partners? If not, I’m sure he’d like to know.” It was only a supposition that Khalila had been responsible for some of the deaths, but he figured it was a good guess.
Khalila stepped closer to Harrison, stopping a few inches from his face. “Don’t you dare threaten me.”
“I’m just asking a question,” he said, keenly aware Khalila still had a knife in one hand.
“We made a deal a few hours ago,” she replied. “You don’t reveal anything you’ve learned about me, and I don’t kill you. If you break your end of the bargain, I’ll break mine.”
“I’d like to point out that there’s no reciprocal agreement,” Harrison said. “That I won’t kill you.”
“I already know you won’t kill me. I’ve met your type before. You’re an idealist, constrained by an inflexible definition of right and wrong, convinced that you’re better than the rest of us. The truth is, you don’t have the guts to do what’s necessary.”
Khalila’s words cut into him, and he fought the urge to slam her into the wall. “That’s a bold statement from someone who’s never been in combat. You have no idea about what I’ve done; what I’m capable of doing.”
“You don’t know what I’m capable of either.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
Khalila had put on a good act in Damascus and Virginia, but her true colors had emerged in Sochi. She was a sociopath.
Khalila leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “Then stay out of my way.”
“That won’t be a problem. I don’t plan to work with you again.”
“That would be best,” she said as she pulled back, offering a disingenuous smile.
She turned toward the interrogation room again, but this time Kaufmann was standing in her way, his arms folded across his chest. He said nothing, but the unpleasant expression on his face, combined with his imposing physical presence, said enough.
Khalila took the hint and slid past him, returning to her seat.
One of the men in the interrogation room had removed Khalila’s knife from Bogdanov’s forearm and wrapped a towel around the wound, stopping the bleeding. He wiped the blood from the knife, then tossed it to Khalila, who caught it midair.
Maxim Anosov entered the room.
“Good news,” he said. “We found Bogdanov’s partner, Morozov, and he’s singing like a canary. We’ve got everything we need now.”
He glanced at Bogdanov, then turned to Kaufmann. “Kill him.”
Kaufmann pulled the pistol from his shoulder harness, aiming it toward Bogdanov.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Bogdanov shouted, placing his hands in front of him. “Morozov doesn’t know everything. Only I know all the details!”
With his pistol pointed at Bogdanov, Kaufmann said, “Then you better start talking.”
The words spilled from Bogdanov like a waterfall, and Kaufmann took notes along the way. After a while, he pulled a sheet of paper from his satchel — a copy of the Swiss account dendrite that had been displayed at the NCTC — and placed it before Bogdanov.
“Let’s make sure we’ve got everything correct.” He pointed to the top level of the dendrite, showing a picture of Mixell, along with his name and two known aliases: Mark Alperi and Irepla Kram. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes,” Bogdanov replied. “An American named Mark Alperi.”
“His real name is Mixell,” Kaufmann said. Then he pointed to the next level, showing Mixell’s four payments, along with a picture of each beneficiary: Plecas, Bogdanov, Morozov, and Futtaim.
“Mixell made four payments: $2.5 million U.S. to Protek for the drug treatment for Captain Plecas’s daughter, $20 million each for you and Morozov, and $14 million to Futtaim.”
As Bogdanov examined the dendrite, a confused expression spread across his face. “I do not know this Futtaim, but Morozov is not correct. I paid Morozov using the money from Mixell.”
Kaufmann scribbled on the chart, drawing an arrow to move Morozov beneath Bogdanov. “How much did you pay him?”
“Ten million, U.S.”
“Then who was this twenty-million-dollar payment to?” Kaufmann pointed to Morozov’s original spot.