Countdown in Cairo (19 page)

“Have a name that you might prefer?” he asked. “For the new IDs?”

“No,” she said. “Surprise me.”

“Really?” he asked. She had just surprised him.

“We’re inclined to give away subconscious clues to a real identity when we choose our covers,” she said. “If someone else picks a name and identity for me, I’ll learn it. But at least it won’t give away anything.”

“Very well,” he said, rising from where he sat. “How’s your arm?”

“Still attached to the rest of me.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” He led her to the door. “Now. There’s something else you should see. Follow me,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“Private TV screening,” he said. “Foreign television, a special show starring one of your favorite people.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Alex and William Quintero walked down a quiet corridor of mostly closed doors, a few with names on them—but primarily numbers. Quintero spoke in a low voice.

“How much do you know about Vladimir Putin?” Quintero asked.

“I know he’s the former Russian president and still pretty much running the country,” she answered. “Sort of a neo-Stalin for our times.”

“That would be Vladimir Putin, yes,” Quintero said.

“Well, I read the newspapers and speak Russian,” Alex said. “So I know more than your basic citizen but less than your experts. Or maybe I know more than your experts when they’re having a bad day. How’s that?”

“Pretty good,” Quintero said. “And I give you an
A
for self-assurance.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be. I like it. Russia and the old Soviet territory are my field,” Quintero said. “I speak the language okay. Could never master it, though. I read it better than I can hear or speak it. Learned it as an adult. You probably learned it earlier.”

“Boarding school. University. A work-study program in Moscow,” she said.

“Boyfriends in Moscow when you were studying?”

“Maybe.”

“There you go,” he said. “Your file says you’re gifted with languages as well as with people.”

“The file flatters me. That, or it libels me.”

“And you
do
deflect a question well. Okay, Brother Putin is one of the dominant figures of our time,” Quintero said as they continued down the hall. “He took a Russia that was bankrupt and coming apart at the seams in 2000 and restored it as a world power. No small trick. Like him or not, and like most Americans I don’t, Putin’s brilliant, cunning, vulgar, occasionally charming, possibly sociopathic, and probably the most cold-blooded bastard on the world stage since Stalin or Hitler. On top of that, he’s much beloved by his countrymen. So he’s here to stay unless we get lucky and some Slavic sorehead shoots him. But I never said that, right?”

“Not to me, at least,” she said.

“Thanks. God knows, power loves a vacuum in Russia. Any ruler who’s soft gets replaced by a dictator within a few months. It’s like the Middle East. How do you hope for democracy where they’ve never had it?”

She let the question fly off into space without a response. She didn’t know a short answer anyway.

Quintero arrived at the door he wanted and unlocked it with a swipe of his ID card. The lights went on automatically as he led her into a small viewing room. There was a large screen on the forward wall and a dozen large chairs. Whatever Quintero had to show her, it was going to be shown on a big screen.

“You’re going to be dealing with Russians again in the near future,” he said. “I’ll get you the proper background files. Electronic transfer. Put it on your own laptop, but be careful to keep it behind your own security wall. Okay?”

“Done.”

“Grab a seat,” he said. “Any seat.”

She did.

“No popcorn,” Quintero said as he went to a control panel.

“I’ll survive.”

Quintero flicked a few controls. The lights went down and the screen came alive with encrypted graphics, codes for what they were about to see. Quintero slid into the chair next to Alex with a control in his hand.

“This is from Russian television. December of 2005. Let me know if you’ve ever seen it before.”

An image came alive on the screen. The colors were faded and distorted, as if from bad video tape. There was an empty conference room on the screen.

“Here’s what’s going on,” Quintero said. “Vladimir Putin appears on television in broadcasts to the Russian-speaking people of the world. That way he reminds people who’s in charge.
He
is.”

On the screen, Alex could see the figures of various men coming into view and taking their seats at a conference table. There appeared to be five men, all in suits. She caught glimpses of faces but didn’t recognize anyone.

She shook her head. “Whatever this is, it’s new to me,” she said.

“It’s fairly new to all of us,” Quintero said.

“These appearances are daily occurrences on Russian TV,” Quintero said. “Putin holds staged meetings in important-looking conference rooms. In reality, the rooms don’t exist. They’re sets built with government money and kept at various points around the country. So wherever he is, Putin can give a fake meeting.”

“When was this again?”

“December 12, 2005. We recognize the conference room. Or the set. This was recorded at Novo-Ogaryovo.”

“Novo-Ogaryovo?” she asked. “That’s a new one to me.”

“Putin’s suburban estate outside Moscow,” Quintero explained. “Notice the Christmas tree. Nice homey touch, huh? The ‘conference room’ is a TV set at Putin’s estate.”

Alex had already noticed the tree. “Seriously. My eyes are getting damp, I’m so moved,” she said. “I’m sure there were cookies baking, also.”

“Right,” he said. “Cookies made out of his enemies, most likely.” On the screen, five men were sitting at a table. Then Putin entered the room, or arrived on set, and all five bolted to their feet. Putin sat as the camera came in close on him. The president addressed the Russian people. Quintero fell silent and Alex tuned in to the Russian. Instantly, she understood at least partially why she had been led into this room.

In Russian, Putin was discussing Russian-Ukrainian relations. At issue was what had at the time been a major international flap over the natural gas pipelines that ran from Ukraine to Western Europe but which the Russians actually controlled.

Alex thought back. From her knowledge of recent political events in Europe, she recalled that the issue had come up right around the time of the so-called Orange Revolution, the events that had propelled a fledgling quest for democracy to legitimacy in Ukraine. These events had transpired more than three years before her own ill-fated trip, but they had also laid the groundwork for the disastrous presidential visit to Kiev.

Putin continued in his crudely accented, clipped Russian. He was thick-shouldered in his dark suit, self-assured, and had a gaze filled with menace. He was stocky, balding, and had the intimidation quotient of a big mean-eyed cat.

“I am sure that the settlement of the complex issue in the gas sector will have a positive effect on Russian-Ukrainian relations,” Putin continued in Russian. Alex understood him fluently, but someone had provided subtitles for the CIA, subtitles which in Alex’s opinion could have been more accurate. But she continued to listen.

“It is important that Russia’s approach to calculating European gas prices is recognized as justified for all free people,” Putin said. “But relations between Ukraine and Russia are assuming a new quality and are becoming a truly transparent market partnership for Russian and Ukrainian natural gas. This is good for all free people.”

“ ‘Free people,’ “ Alex repeated, “there’s a laugh.”

Then the camera drew back. Not everyone listening to the original broadcast had been free, and the agreement Putin referenced was as transparent as a Siberian blizzard. One of the men assembled around the table—identified also by subtitles in Russian and in English—was Aleksei Miller, the chief executive of Gazprom, the state gas monopoly. Another was Viktor Khristenko, Russia’s energy minister.

Then there were two other men identified as members of Putin’s political entourage. The camera panned to the fifth man.

Sharply, Quintero hit a control button.

The frame froze on the fifth man at the conference table. Alex gasped.

“Recognize anyone?” Quintero asked.

Alex answered quietly. “I certainly do,” she said. “I recognized him right away. Yuri Federov.”

“It’s nothing new that Putin would be keeping company with gangsters; he’s a gangster himself. But it’s pretty impressive even for a big-time hood like Yuri Federov to be seated at a staged meeting with Putin. You weren’t invited to that meeting. I wasn’t either. The president of the United States wasn’t invited. The pope was a no-show; so were Brad and Angelina, and so was Santa Claus. But Federov
was
there, and Putin obviously wanted the camera on him. Why? There must have been a reason. And your boy Federov must have had a fair amount of juice to get his butt at that table.”

“I’ll say,” Alex said, still stunned. “Why didn’t anyone show this to me earlier? Before the trip to Kiev, for example?”

“Slowness of sifting and interpreting raw material,” Quintero said. “This clip has been in inventory for two years, but just came out of ‘analysis’ three weeks ago. One of our resident Russian chicks went through it and tagged it with the names of all the people in it. When I knew you were coming over today, I ran Federov’s name through the records and spotted the new entry. I thought you’d be interested.”

“You thought right. Thank you.”

“Next time you see Yuri Federov,” Quintero said, “maybe you can ask him how he happened to be breaking bread at the top table.”

“On the contrary,” Alex answered thoughtfully, “I’ve spent a decent amount of time with Federov. Never once did he ever mention that he had actually met Putin, much less knew him. Doesn’t it surprise you that he’s never mentioned it?”

“Considering we all know that he’s always trying to get you in bed, yes,” Quintero said. “Power. The ultimate aphrodisiac. I’m
amazed
he never mentioned it.”

“For some reason,” she said, “he probably didn’t want me to know. That’s interesting right there. So when I see him, I’ll be sure never to mention it … until just the right time.”

Quintero let his clip roll again. It neared conclusion as the camera panned in on an unsmiling cobra-eyed Putin. Putin finished his statement, then stared mirthlessly into the camera. Then he eased into a hard, cold smile. Not a smile of joy, more like a landlord finally evicting a troublesome old widow.

“S Ro
destvom Khristovym i S nastupayušèim Novym Godom!”
the president of Russia finally said from behind his sinister grin.

Then the clip was finished, the screen went blank, and the lights came up automatically.

“What was that at the end?” Quintero said. “Sounded ominous but I didn’t get it.”

“He wished us all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,” Alex said. “The thing is, coming from Vladimir Putin, it sounds like a death threat.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Before leaving Langley, Alex spent some time with a man named Thomas Meachum in the Technical Resources Division. Meachum was in charge of preparing her documents for her trip. Meachum led her through a photo area where new passport and license photos were taken. In keeping with normal procedure, Alex changed her hair and her expression from shot to shot. Tech Resources also had a variety of women’s blouses and tops to change in and out of. For her driver’s license, she wore a summer tank top. For her passport, an office-style blue blouse with a jacket.

She was equally careful to remove the pendant from around her neck, the one with the praying hands that she had acquired in Venezuela. Then, giving it greater thought later in the day when she returned home, she placed the pendant in her jewelry box. No point in taking extra chances and risk identification through a unique piece of jewelry. For the duration of the case, she would do without it.

The next morning, Alex selected an itinerary to Cairo.

While she would have loved to have chosen a direct nonstop from the United States, she reserved, instead, a seat on an Air Canada flight to Toronto from Washington. From there she found a pair of Alitalia flights that would pass through Rome. She kept her reasons to herself for that specific route. The Agency allowed her to book herself through in business class rather than the dreadful economy class that had recently turned into a form of latter-day steerage.

She left her apartment and went to a newsstand. She purchased fifty dollars’ worth of phone cards. Then she walked several blocks until she found a coffee shop where she had never been before. Making sure no one was on her trail or able to listen in on her cell phone, she used a public phone and called Joseph Collins in New York. With regret, she confirmed that her impending visit to Venezuela would have to wait until early the following year. Collins had no issues with that. She also asked, as a special favor, if she could lodge a close friend at the East 21
^st
Street apartment.