These three were well aware that the Russian Federal Security Service was home to many a ruthless bastard.
Harrison asked, “Any thoughts on comrade Boris?”
Reeder shrugged. “Only that he considered Putin a weak sister and Stalin the consummate Russian leader. Some men lead with an iron fist. Krakenin heats up that iron fist in a forge till it burns a nice bright orange.”
The President was nodding. “He’s a hard-ass of the first order, little doubt of that. But do you think he really wants war?”
Reeder smiled thinly. “Mr. President, with all due respect, you have access to far more worthy analysts than some lowly security-outfit exec.”
“With all due respect, Joe,” Harrison said, with his own restrained grin, “false modesty doesn’t suit you. For decades you’ve stood at the sides of Presidents, in this very office, and seen and heard so very much. Don’t they call you the People Reader? So based on your observations of Boris Badenov, years ago and in his on-air appearances of more recent times... what do you think he’s up to?”
“Not war.”
Vinson’s laugh was both immediate and bitterly derisive.
Harrison gave his Chief of Staff a quick sharp look, cutting the laugh off, and Vinson looked on in surly silence.
“What makes that your opinion, Joe,” Harrison asked, “considering the man recklessly invaded a sovereign nation, and got four of our agents killed?”
Reeder’s tone could not have been more matter-of-fact. “He doesn’t want war — he wants portillium.”
Vinson frowned and growled, “What the holy hell is portillium?”
Quietly the President said, “The element that lends stability to Senkstone as a plastic explosive.”
They all knew what Senkstone was — the most versatile and dangerous munition of its kind yet developed.
Harrison said, “Boris wants the rich veins of portillium, known only to that region, found underneath the otherwise unimpressive surface of Azbekistan.”
Reeder said, “Taking over that pimple on the face of the planet is the most expedient way to acquire that scarce element in quantity.”
“Science fiction,” Vinson muttered.
“Is it?” the President asked. “All of this came to classified light when the Special Situations Task Force discovered the existence of Senkstone.”
Reeder nodded. “Boris’s people go in, mine as much as they can, until a truly serious United Nations threat comes along... which after all could take decades... and then retreat to the border with all the portillium they can carry, and generously let Azbekistan have its ravaged land back.”
The President, looking rather sick, said, “And with the ability to contrive that much Senkstone, Boris can do...”
“Pretty much anything he wants,” Reeder finished.
Thanks to portillium, Senkstone’s best quality as a plastic explosive was that it was stable enough to use in a 3D printer, and could be molded to mimic anything. Like to match some world leader’s eyeglasses for an assassination. Or, shaped in some manner that disguised its purpose, blow up the White House.
Or the Kremlin.
“So,” Vinson said, squinting in thought, “the Azbekistan invasion is just a cover for... a strip-mining operation?”
“More to it than that, Timothy,” Harrison said. “The Russian hard-liners will be ecstatic to see Boris flexing his muscles, making it a political win at home... and with the Azbekistanis under the Russian boot heel again, maybe, just maybe, the world would let him hold onto that little excuse for a country.”
“Okay,” Reeder said. “Now — do you want to hear the really bad news?”
“For Christ’s sake,” Vinson said, “what could that be?”
Harrison knew. He said, quiet again, “That someone on our side knew the exact time of that invasion and sent four American agents to die in it, in hopes of starting a war with Russia — a war that doesn’t really seem to suit Krakenin’s agenda.”
Rising, the President gestured toward the informal central meeting area of couches and chairs, and the three men repaired there. Reeder and Vinson took the couch and the President an overstuffed chair opposite.
“Mr. President,” Reeder said, “at the risk of impertinence... there’s a question I must ask.”
“Ask it, Joe.”
“Someone on our side knew when the invasion was going down. Agreed?”
“That would appear so.”
“Which means that someone had the ability to send our agents into harm’s way.”
“Yes.”
Reeder locked eyes with the President and asked, as if wondering what time it was, “Was that person you, sir?”
Vinson exploded, turning to Reeder, spittle flying his way. “What in the hell...! You have no right to—”
An upraised hand from the President cut Vinson off.
“Joe is a citizen I called upon for a mission, Tim, which gives him every right to question his president.”
Reeder said, “And the question stands, sir.”
Next to him, Vinson was turning shades of red — suffering succotash...
The dark eyes in the auburn face met Reeder’s unblinkingly. “Isn’t the real question, did I go after the portillium for the benefit of the United States, using those CIA agents as an advance team? And have I been using you to cover my tracks?”
“That’s two questions, Mr. President. But that sums it up.”
Harrison’s smile was a weary one. “If only I were that smart, Joe... but the truth is, I never even saw this coming. Satisfied?”
Reeder worked to detect every micro-expression, every body nuance, but nothing led him to think that the President was lying. Of course, US presidents were among the most skilled liars in history.
Just the same, Reeder said, “Yes, sir, I am. Thank you for your frankness.”
The Chief of Staff next to Reeder on the couch half-turned to him, agape.
“Now it’s my turn for a question,” Harrison said. “Are you any closer to finding our traitor? Director Shaley is either stalling or genuinely flummoxed.”
Reeder let out some air. “I think with Director Shaley, sir, it’s the latter. Of course, he might be taking care of the problem in-house, to protect himself and his domain... but I can’t honestly say I’m really any closer on that front, Mr. President. Not directly.”
Harrison frowned. “Then you haven’t got a thing for me?”
“I know more than I did, when we spoke yesterday... but not the name of the mole. I have learned something that’s... troubling.”
“Which is?”
Reeder had held this back because of Vinson’s presence; but there was clearly nothing not shared between these men.
So Reeder said it: “Secretary Yellich was assassinated.”
In a soundproofed room, silence can be surreal. And the three men breathing was the only sound any of them could discern in the uncomfortable stillness.
“But that... that was an accident,” Vinson said, absent of any of his usual bluster. “A tragic—”
“Murder,” Reeder said. “So was the hit-and-run death yesterday of CIA agent Len Chamberlain. I was there and I saw it.”
Then Reeder handed over everything that Rogers and Hardesy had turned up in their investigation thus far, leading up to and including the murder of Tony Wooten/Evans. He left out only the information Rogers had gleaned from the Wooten family in Pennsylvania — until Miggie Altuve traced the source of the family’s money in the Caymans, reporting that would be premature.
And he also stopped short of outlining the potentially absurd-sounding concept of a shadow government.
When Reeder had finished, President Harrison stared at the floor, shaking his head.
“Five CIA agents down,” he said, “the Secretary of the Interior assassinated, her assassin himself liquidated... and if I put the pieces together correctly, you’re telling me this could all be a plot by the Russians, with help from someone in our government, for a land grab? All to acquire the resources to make an unlimited amount of an undetectable plastic explosive... with World War III in the offing.”