Fortunately, President Briggs was a dove, determined to exhaust all diplomatic efforts rather than join in a refrain of threats. Yet the President’s advisors seemed happy to talk tough through the media. It made Flynn uneasy about the situation and what might happen should one pro-war advisor make an impassioned plea for the use of force on Russia. All someone had to do was light the fuse .
Flynn’s phone buzzed, snapping him out of all his dark “what if” scenarios. It was Osborne. He had been expecting his call. Flynn called The Liaison in Washington and asked if they could pull a good screen shot of him and the man who approached him with a package earlier in the week. With the estimated time and location of their meeting, it was easy. The security guard emailed the image to Flynn’s phone — The Liaison staff would do anything for one of their favorite customers. Flynn then forwarded the image along to Osborne to get an ID on the mystery man. Hopefully, Osborne had an answer for him.
“OK, I don’t know what you’re doing, Flynn, but you’ve got to seriously consider stopping,” Osborne pleaded.
“So you’re saying I’m on to something?”
“I’m not saying you’re onto something, but I am saying they’re on to you.”
“Who?”
“The Kuklovod.”
“That guy works for the Kuklovod?”
“Not only does he work for them, but he’s also their top assassin, according to intelligence reports. They don’t call him Ivan the Terrible for no reason.”
“What does he want with me?”
“He probably doesn’t want you poking your nose into their business. It’s best you lay low for a while so you don’t suffer the same fate as that poor girl you met with.”
“What am I doing that’s making them so nervous?”
“That’s not a question I can answer, Flynn. You have to ask yourself that and determine what’s going on here. Over the past few years, the Kuklovod remained inactive according to our sources. If they were doing anything, it wasn’t on our radar. But somehow you’ve gotten on theirs.”
Flynn lied. “I just don’t know what would make them come after me.”
“Just be careful, OK?”
Flynn agreed to be more careful before hanging up. The truth was he had no such plans. His ruthless pursuit of the truth didn’t stop with some possible assassin trying to throw him off the trail. Now was the time to press on. He could take care of himself. Who does Osborne think I am? Some weak-kneed journalist? Pulling the shroud off conspiracies took determination. Being trained to kill another man with your bare hands didn’t hurt either. Flynn hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he would be ready if it did.
CHAPTER 15
Gerald Sandford eyed the picture on his screen, struggling with which emotion to unleash. He could cry or shove his fist through the wall. Either response would be deemed appropriate given the circumstances of the image staring back at him.
It was Sydney with today’s newspaper.
The fact that the newspaper she held was The Pravda made Sandford angry. For a long time, he believed he had lost his daughter because of the Russian government’s ineffectiveness to ward off Chechen rebels. Now he wondered if he had simply lost sixteen years because of their ineptitude. Or maybe Russia planned this all along, waiting for the right time to use his daughter as leverage. If it was the latter, they had severely underestimated him.
While the American government had a long-standing policy of not dealing with terrorists, Sandford scoffed at that clumsy language proffered by White House spokespeople. “I will deal with terrorists,” Sandford used to tell his constituents. “I’ll deal with them in ways that will make them regret ever raising a finger against our great nation.” It was a line that went over well, solidifying his position as a politician who was serious about protecting the American people. In all his years in office, Sandford never actually had a chance to follow through on his tough talk on terrorists. But now he might. He just needed to figure out who the real terrorists were: the rebels or the Russian government. Someone was going to pay.
Sandford forwarded the image from his phone to his email account. He first needed verification that the image was authentic. Then he needed to know where it came from. And he needed it all done off book. Sandford danced uncomfortably close to the line that divided moral from immoral, ethical from unethical, legal from illegal. He didn’t go there often, but he didn’t have to think twice when it came to his daughter’s life. Anybody would do what I’m doing. He reasoned away his questionable behavior that would surely get a closer look from some Senate ethics committee — if they ever found out. However, Sandford took the necessary precaution to ensure they never would.
There was only one person he trusted at the CIA: Todd Osborne. Sydney and Todd were friends in college, attending Princeton at the same time. One spring break, Sydney brought Osborne to their family beach house in Naples, Florida. She had spoken of him, but only in terms of a platonic friendship. It didn’t take Sandford long to realize why he had been invited: Osborne wanted her friend’s Senator father to help him get a job with the CIA. At the time, majoring in Russian didn’t make him a likely candidate on his own merit, but Sandford gladly pulled some strings. But he did it with the condition that Osborne would be his guy in the agency.
It took Osborne a while to move up the CIA’s security clearance level to become useful to Sandford. But once he did, Sandford didn’t mind asking for favors. It had been a while since he asked for one, but he was sure Osborne would oblige his request. Though Osborne had played coy when asked about the extent of his relationship with Sydney, Sandford could tell the young man had been fond of his daughter.
Sandford dialed Osborne’s number. After a few minutes of small talk, Sandford made the purpose of his call clear.
“Look, Todd. I need your help on something here.”
“Sure, Mr. Sandford. What do you need?”
“I need something done off book — and it has to do with Sydney.”
“Sydney? I thought she died years ago. Are you saying she is still alive?”
“Maybe. That’s what I need you to verify for me. I’m going to send a picture over to you and I need you to get this done without this image getting into the CIA system — or anyone else finding out her identity. If it’s real, it’s going to dictate some decisions I need to make.”
“I understand, Mr. Sandford. I’ll handle the matter with complete discretion.”
Osborne gave the Vice President an email account that couldn’t be easily traced back to him before vowing to get a quick answer.
When the wheels touched down at JFK Airport in New York, Flynn pulled out his phone and began reviewing his itinerary for the next day. Theresa had her assistant forward him a schedule that was already waiting in his inbox. He couldn’t believe the rigorous demands. In the morning, he was set to interview an environmentalist about a simple water purification system his organization was installing throughout Africa. Theresa wanted him to file a short piece for The National’s blog before attending the President’s speech on Central Africa’s famine at the U.N. in the afternoon. The link between the two made sense to Theresa. Flynn was just irked that his day was so packed. We’ll blow ourselves up before we ever save the earth. No one ever accused Flynn of being an optimist.