Stiletto had contacted the office and asked the General and DCI Webb to be at his hotel at four o’clock. It was two in the afternoon. He had time to prepare.
IKE FLEMING heard the heavy footsteps of the guard behind him and Webb as they walked down the quiet hallway to Stiletto’s hotel room.
They stopped short when they reached the door. It was already open a crack. The linebacker-looking guard pushed between them, drawing a pistol as he pushed the door open and took two steps inside.
Stiletto sat at the table, legs crossed, holding a bottle of beer. “You’re late,” he said.
The General and Webb entered and told the guard to stand by the door. They approached Scott and stopped halfway into the room.
Fleming said, “Hello, Scott.”
“General. Director Webb.”
DCI Webb said, “This is highly irregular, Stiletto.”
Scott gestured to the two empty chairs near the table. “Have a seat and we’ll talk.”
“I don’t think you’re in position to do much demanding,” Webb said.
“I get the sense that you’re upset with me, sir.”
Webb and Fleming sat down. Fleming kept his mouth shut as Webb sounded off.
“You’ve broken Agency rules and regulations; you’ve violated the sovereign space of another country; the Russians want you for murder; there are all kinds of reasons I’m upset.”
Stiletto placed the beer bottle near a thin stack of paper Fleming judged to be about 100 pages long. Webb kept his eyes on Scott.
“Have anything to say for yourself?”
“I deserve what I get, according to Agency disciplinary procedures,” Scott said. “The murder charge isn’t true. An accessory charge, maybe. The woman who killed Pushkin died at the refinery.”
“That’s a whole separate issue. I don’t even know where to start on taking you apart for that one.”
“I don’t care.” Stiletto pushed the stack of papers their way. “This government will extend asylum to the Glinkov family, or that information goes public.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Yes.”
A red flush crawled up Webb’s neck. He opened his mouth but Fleming silenced him by placing a hand on his arm. “Sir, let’s see what he has.”
Webb snapped to Fleming. “Are you on his side?”
“I’m on the side of the truth, Carlton. Let’s see the document.”
Webb took the papers and started reading. Fleming didn’t rush him. He looked at Stiletto. Scott winked. Fleming shook his head. Stiletto took a drink of beer.
“This is outrageous,” Webb said.
“It’s all true, and that’s just a copy. The rest of the files are stored on the cloud. I’m not kidding about that asylum.”
“Mr. Stiletto,” Webb said, handing the pages to Fleming, “as of this moment, you are no longer an employee of the C.I.A. We cannot allow your breach of protocol to go unpunished. Everybody’s watching to see what I do.”
“May I at least empty my desk?”
“I’ll have somebody clear your desk and deliver your personal items.”
“That’s fine.”
Webb frowned but said nothing more as Fleming read the opening pages. He whistled. The document detailed Vladimir’s Putin’s arrangement with the Russian Mafia to be his proxy in other nations. Activities included the murder of dissidents and those of other nationalities Putin deemed a threat to New Russia.
“This can’t get out, Carlton,” Fleming said.
“No kidding.”
“Do I get what I want?” Scott said.
“They’ll be allowed to settle in the United States,” Webb said. “On the condition that this information is destroyed and I never see you again.”
“Can’t promise either,” Stiletto said. “I’m just getting started. Would either of you like a beer while we discuss this further?”
STILETTO STEPPED into the hospital room with the echo of a hallway announcement behind him.
Vlad Glinkov lay quietly in the bed staring at the wall, his eyes blank. He blinked and turned his head when he saw Scott.
“Hi,” Scott said.
Glinkov nodded.
Stiletto picked up the clipboard at the front of Glinkov’s bed, scanning the information there. He couldn’t understand all of the medical information, but some of the items were easy. Broken ribs, cuts and abrasions, dehydration, starvation, concussion.
“So they beat the garbage out of you,” Stiletto said, “and doped you up.”
The last line suggested evidence of needle injections on Glinkov’s right arm. Stiletto glanced but Glinkov’s arm was under the sheets.
Glinkov stared past Scott.
“There’s no way you could have beaten the drugs, Vlad. We all know that.”
Glinkov only nodded.
“You and your family will be able to stay in the U.S.,” Scott said. “Ravkin’s information guarantees that. I’ve threatened to release it if the government doesn’t cooperate.”
A new voice. “Quite a bold move, Mr. Stiletto.”
Scott turned to see Number One standing in the doorway, dressed in a dark suit, his vest buttoned tight over his belly. He held a box covered with pink wrapping paper. Number One approached the bed.
“This is for your little girl, Vlad.” He set the box on the bedside table.
Glinkov muttered thanks.
“Has Scott told you he’s been fired from the C.I.A.?”
Glinkov blinked in surprise.
“Part of the deal,” Scott said.
“He shouldn’t worry,” Number One continued. “He has a bright future. You too, Vladimir.”
Finally, Glinkov spoke clearly. “I don’t see much of one.”
“You didn’t give up as much as you think,” Number One said.
“They showed me the news.”
“They showed you what they wanted you to see.”
Glinkov frowned.
“Those news reports were propaganda for the public. Most of the anti-Putin cells were able to run or stay undercover and avoided the sweep. The thing is, Vlad, once my people got involved, we expanded the scope of the operations. Without your knowledge, of course. We recruited more people, sometimes deep within the government.” He turned to Stiletto. “That’s how we got you out.” Back to Vlad. “Most of the people arrested were criminals wanted by the FSB, gangsters, other kinds of criminals, that our people used to make the dragnet look good to the Kremlin. In other words, right now they’re making people sweat who have no knowledge whatsoever of a coup.”
“But the others—”
“Yes, those in your immediate network were compromised. But they are still alive. They are far too valuable to kill. We’re making plans to recover as many as we can, one way or another. The only ones we truly lost were Dimitri and Anastasia.”
The mention of those names drove a spike through Stiletto’s chest.
“You all knew the risks, Vlad. You have to be cold about this. About a lot of things. But none of this has been in vain.”
Glinkov nodded.
“The coup will happen. Putin will fall.”
Glinkov blinked and took a deep breath.
Rina and Xenia, Glinkov’s family, arrived. “We heard he’s awake,” Rina said. She and her daughter stepped up to the bed.
“I’ll let your husband share the good news, Mrs. Glinkov,” Number One said. “Mr. Stiletto and I need to have a private chat.”
It was hard not to feel like he was caught up in a whirlwind when Number One was around, Stiletto thought, as he followed the older man out of the room.
“I WASN’T kidding about your bright future, Mr. Stiletto.”
They walked outside the hospital building, near a garden with benches, but neither sat. Number One stopped in a shady spot, the leaves of a tree hanging above them. None of the leaves moved in the still afternoon air.