“They need our help, sir.”
“Who needs our help? A man acting illegally to overthrow a lawfully-elected leader?”
“That’s a load of crap and you know it.”
Fleming raised an eyebrow.
“Sir,” Stiletto added.
The General sat back, hands over his stomach. “But how does the rest of the world see Putin? What is our official policy toward Russia? You and I and, hell, half this Agency know the truth. But there’s nothing we can do.”
“What about the murders and the mafia angle? Surely that makes it our business.”
“Not this department’s business. The F.B.I. will handle the investigation and, if necessary, the State Department will open a dialogue on the other matter. I know what you want, Scott. Glinkov is a friend who has done favors for his Agency. But there’s nothing we can do.”
“What about unofficially?”
Fleming leaned forward, raising his voice. “You know damn well what will happen if you are caught on Russian soil trying to interfere. The diplomatic nightmare will set relations back decades. No, Scott. I know this stings after Belgium, but Glinkov knew the risk. He also had no business contacting you, I might add.”
“Except for, maybe, asylum.”
“Which wouldn’t get anywhere, either. Planning a coup is illegal. He can’t claim persecution when the police are only doing their job and arresting somebody with violent intentions against the government. And it’s been forty-eight hours. If he hasn’t already been shot, he’s well away from Moscow.”
Stiletto clenched his jaw. “And his wife and kid?”
“I’m sorry. If it were up to me—”
“I get it, sir.”
“It’s the spy business.”
“It’s politics.”
“That’s too.”
“And it is bullshit.”
“I don’t disagree,” the General said. “But we have to be realistic.”
The two men watched each other quietly, Stiletto feeling like a ball of energy contained in a box and ready to explode.
Fleming said, “Anything else?”
Stiletto rose from the chair. “I guess not.” He started for the door.
“Scott?”
He turned.
“Be here bright and early tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stiletto exited the office.
STILETTO DROVE almost in a trance. As he sat in late afternoon freeway traffic, he started outlining a plan. When he pulled up in the driveway, he knew what he was going to do.
The risks were high. He could lose his life. His job. The job he wasn’t ready to leave yet. He might end up in prison on the other side of the world. He might single-handedly create an international incident.
Part of him wanted to follow orders and leave it alone.
But at his most desperate moment, Glinkov had reached out to him for help.
Scott couldn’t ignore that.
Maybe it was too late for Vlad, and if so Scott could at least get Rina and Xenia out of Russia and to some place safe. He knew what it was like to lose his family. He didn’t want that burden on Glinkov or his wife and daughter. If he could rescue Glinkov and reunite them, he had to try.
Stiletto locked the car and went inside, where he put the kettle on, brewed some very powerful Earl Gray, and got out a map of Moscow.
New York City
“NO! I won’t talk to you! Go away!”
F.B.I. Special Agent Susan Larochelle flinched as the door slammed.
“So much for the first interview,” said her partner Ray Elston.
They had made a list of interview subjects from the names on the Zubarev checks. The house they stood in front of wasn’t the largest in the neighborhood, but it sat at the top of a hill in the gated community with trees surrounding it. The garden in the front yard seemed a little much. The agents couldn’t take a step without bumping into another rose bush or hedgerow, and could barely see the house from the street for all the clutter.
The curtain covering the window next to the door shifted, a face appearing behind the glass. “Go away!”
Susan stepped off the porch first and Ray followed, a wall of rose bushes on either side of the walk.
“Who’s next?” she said as she drove away.
Elston consulted their list. Petukhov “Peter” Igorevich and his wife Galina lived in Forest Hills. A housekeeper answered the door and Susan’s F.B.I. badge startled her. She excused herself while she fetched the lady of the house.
Galina Igorevich was in her sixties and wore a blue dress with a white pearl necklace. She invited the agents inside. The opulent home had marble flooring in the entryway and a sitting room on either side. Mrs. Igorevich led them to the room on the right, and asked the housekeeper to bring coffee and tea. When the housekeeper asked where the silver was, Igorevich explained that the housekeeper was a new hire and excused herself to go and show the woman where to find the silver. Susan looked around. Thick white carpet, fancy decorations. Paintings hung on the walls that looked expensive and also original, either that or very good reproductions. She wasn’t an art expert and couldn’t identify any of the work, but she knew nice paintings when she saw them.
Mrs. Igorevich quickly returned, alone, and yelled for her husband.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Mrs. Igorevich said. “We have a lot to say.”
“You don’t know why we’re here,” Susan said, though she knew full well the woman did. She wanted to hear her say it.
“You’re here because of the murder.”
Mr. Igorevich entered. He was a little younger than his wife with a shock of white hair. He shook hands with the agents. The housekeeper returned with coffee, tea, and a plate of cookies. The housekeeper poured, lifting the tea kettle with her right arm, and Susan couldn’t help but notice how knobby her elbow looked. The housekeeper served everyone and left the room.
The Peter and Galinda Igorevich sat across from Susan and Elston, a glass coffee table between them. Susan held her coffee on a saucer and spoke to the couple.
“What happened on the night of the 17th?” she asked.
Mrs. Igorevich answered.
“We attended a fundraiser for the People’s Freedom Party that opposes Putin.” The couple talked about the meeting and what was said. Susan asked why the party had to raise money in the U.S., and the couple became very animated, raising their voices as they lashed out at Putin and the way he ran their former home.
“Are you suggesting that the Russian government is responsible for the murders?” Susan said.
“He did,” Mrs. Igorevich said. “I don’t know how, but he did. It is shameful and the U.S. must do something to stop Putin, not idolize. Too many Russians died defeating the communists for Putin to be tolerated.”
Ray Elston scribbled appropriate information and made a show of taking notes on the accusations. Susan watched his pen scratch the notepaper. His pretend notes looked like a shopping list for later in the evening. She thanked them for their time and she and Ray took their leave. The couple, all smiles, said they were happy to help. They wanted to get the truth out.
Susan drove away as Ray looked over his notes.
“So you’re out of bananas?” Susan said.
Ray didn’t laugh.
“How many more times are we going to hear a similar story?” he said.
“How many names are left on the list?”
MR. IGOREVICH watched the F.B.I. agents drive away as his wife gathered the cups and saucers.
The housekeeper walked toward him with a stern look on her face. She kept her right hand close to her leg to hide the pistol she carried. When Mr. Igorevich turned, she raised the gun, and he blinked in surprise just before she shot him in the head. He crashed to the floor, staining the white marble red.