The Backup Asset (11 page)

“And I want to know all about it,” Smolin confirmed.

“Suit yourself. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“N–no,” he replied, a little hesitant.

“Look, I’m stuck here at your mercy. I can’t spill your secrets, but I might help you better if you tell me exactly what you need. Then maybe, I am hoping, you can let me go?”

“We’re not there yet,” Smolin replied dryly, “you’ll have to earn that freedom. I want you to look for any activity that signals an edge we could have against individuals. Are they cheating on their spouses? I want to know. Have they stolen anything? I want to know. Do they have an unpaid parking ticket? I want to know.”

“Got it, I think,” she replied.

“How soon can you get it done?”

“I’ll need two to three days after I have all the equipment, and I need a place to stay if I can’t go home.”

“No, you can’t go home, but I’ll place you under supervised house arrest at a safe house of ours. And you only discuss this assignment with me, is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re done here. See? It wasn’t that bad,” Smolin said, leaving Interrogation Room 9.

He reached the ground floor and headed for the exit.

An aide caught up with him and asked, “Will you need anything else, Major Smolin?”

“Yes. Keep me posted as soon as the American State Department offers a reward for one of our hackers. Make that a standing order. Apparently it knows better than we do who’s our top cyber talent.”

Alex came out of the shower wrapped in a huge towel and headed for the living room. She turned on the TV, then walked toward the bedroom to get her hair dryer. Absentminded, she almost missed the announcement on the news, yet somehow the familiar name caught her attention.

“ . . . Minister Dimitrov’s reinstatement comes as a surprise to the international community. Analysts had initially believed that his departure from Russia’s Ministry of Defense last November had been a disguised ousting, considering Dimitrov’s moderation and President Abramovich’s belligerence,” the TV announcer stated.

“What?” Alex exclaimed, rushing toward the coffee table and grabbing the remote. She was able to rewind the newscast and watch it all from the beginning, word for word.

She sat on the couch, not minding the dripping water from her soaked hair. What did that mean? She’d always thought that Abramovich had removed Dimitrov, or maybe even imprisoned or killed him, for having failed the most daring mission in the history of black ops.

How was Dimitrov’s reinstatement going to play out? What did it mean to the already tensioned relations between Russia and the United States? What value did it bring to Abramovich’s plans? What did it mean for her chances to find X?

She went into the blue bedroom and grabbed a new Post-it note. She wrote Dimitrov’s name on it in green marker and hesitated a little before placing it on the corkboard. Where did it belong? Definitely at the top somewhere . . . She made her decision and placed the Post-it right next to the one marked “X.”

Evgheni Aleksandrovich Smolin wasn’t stressed at all, lining up for immigration documents control at Toronto Pearson International. He was good at his job and he knew it. His documents were all in order, prepared by one of the best support teams in the world. He wore the typical business travel attire for an eastern European: brown slacks; a sport jacket; and a white shirt, top button undone; all a little wrinkled. His blond, silvered beard and hair completed the image of a middle-aged business traveler, a little tired from too much time spent on a commercial jet.

Happy to deplane after the long flight from Zurich, he stretched his legs and walked in place, waiting his turn.

“Good evening,” he greeted the passport control officer as he approached the desk. The Canadian greeted him back with a nod and a professional smile and took his passport.

“Mr. Rudnitsky?” the officer probed.

“Yes,” Smolin answered.

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

“Mostly business, but some pleasure too, I hope,” Smolin answered unperturbed.

The officer scanned his visa under a reader.

“How is that?” the officer asked.

“I am here for a series of business meetings during the next couple of weeks. But I hope to make it to the CN Tower and see Niagara Falls,” Smolin answered with the candid smile of a naïve tourist.

“When are you planning to go back?”

“At the end of two weeks, on the twenty-second.”

“Are you flying back to Russia?” the officer questioned, looking him in the eye.

“No, back to Zurich, I’m afraid.”

“Why is that? You are Russian, right?”

“Yes, but my employer has business offices in Zurich, and that’s where I spend most of my time lately. Far from home, too far.” Smolin put just enough sadness in his tone to sound natural.

The officer typed something in his computer, scanned the passport again, then stamped it with a loud bang.

“Welcome to Canada, Mr. Rudnitsky; enjoy your stay,” he said, handing him his passport and customs declaration form.

“Thank you,” Smolin replied, and walked briskly in the direction indicated by large signs marked “Ground Transportation.”

He didn’t go straight to ground transportation. First, he went through customs and then entered the first men’s room he could find. He fidgeted with his luggage until the last remaining traveler left, then placed the “slippery when wet” sign outside in front of the door, and locked it from the inside.

He shaved his beard quickly and changed his clothes. The slacks, jacket, and shirt were replaced by worn-out jeans and a canary yellow T-shirt, marked “Le Tour De France.” He packed everything carefully, and extracted a new set of documents from the double bottom of his suitcase. As a finishing touch, he put on a baseball cap and Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses before leaving the lavatory.

A few minutes later, a courteous car rental employee greeted him at the VIP counter.

“Welcome to Enterprise, Mr. Duncan, we have your car ready for you.”

Smolin smiled. With a little bit of luck and a few cups of Tim Hortons coffee, before breakfast he could be in Norfolk. He was ready.

Quentin’s day had been once again remarkably annoying, irritating, and endless. The minutes had dragged by slowly, making the day seem eternal.

He wasn’t feeling all that great. His hands were shaking a little, very unusual for him. A migraine had clouded his brain for the better part of the day, and now was impairing his vision, making it blurry, unfocused. He stopped a little to analyze what was going on with his body, why it was betraying him. Then he realized he was deeply upset; he’d gone way past the typical workday irritation with the idiotic boss and with everyone else who wouldn’t let him be. He was upset to the point where his entire being struggled to compensate and failed miserably.

He went for the bourbon bottle and filled a glass with almost double his usual serving, then fired up his personal laptop and logged in to the Rat Olympics
chat room; maybe talking about it would make it better. Maybe hearing how other people struggled just as badly would make him feel less battered.

DespeRatt:
Hey guys . . .

LostGirl:
Hey stranger, it’s been a while.

I was thinking maybe you got another job and forgot all about us.

DespeRatt:
I wish
.
No, I’m still there, and today it’s been worse than usual.

LostGirl:
Why? What happened? Someone gave you shit?

DespeRatt:
Sadly, that’s almost the norm, but no. They gave me a fucking free lunch!

Slave19:
And why is that bad? What am I missing?

DespeRatt:
Ah . . . where do I even start . . . I need a break from them to survive my day. Today they gave some of us a mandatory working lunch, which to me it means they squeezed another hour of work out of me for $10.50, the price of that salad. Huh . . . if they even paid that much for it. I could barely hold it together the whole time.

LostGirl:
Some folks like it, you know. I don’t think anyone wanted to offend you or anything.

DespeRatt:
I know they didn’t want to offend me, but they did want to get more work out of me for free, and that’s hard to swallow.

LostGirl:
You sound like an hourly employee. Aren’t you salaried?

Quentin rubbed his hand through his hair. Today it was hard to find sympathetic ears even here, where he’d always found kindred spirits.

DespeRatt:
I am salaried, but this is nonsense, IMHO. Time is time, for everyone, salaried or not. Every hour is a tiny little sliver of our lives that they rob us of. So what if I’m salaried? I shouldn’t want to have a life, or need rest—a fucking break, like I am entitled to? I have to go nonstop, like some nightmarish automaton, for eight, nine hours in a row without needing a fucking break? Yes, LostGirl,
I am salaried, but so the fuck what?’

LostGirl:
I am sorry, dear Ratt, I really am. Didn’t mean to upset you even more. I totally see your point.

DespeRatt:
I apologize too. I know you mean well, you always have.

Slave19:
Even with cars you have to stop the engine when refueling, right?

DespeRatt:
Right. Didn’t think of that, but yeah, absolutely.

Slave19:
Because they could blow up otherwise. 

DespeRatt:
Very true. This is precisely what happened to me today.

LostGirl:
Are you in management? Are you able to influence these decisions?

DespeRatt:
No, and no. I’m an engineer, LostGirl. I never wanted to be in management, still don’t. I . . . I’m not really a people person. Ideally, I wanna be left the fuck alone to do my work. A good workday is a day in which I interact with people remotely, not face to face. Oh well . . . nobody’s perfect, right?

LostGirl:
Are you socially anxious?

DespeRatt:
I guess you could say I am, although I’d call it much more comfortable alone. Plus my work doesn’t get interrupted by others every minute or so.

Slave19:
I know an exercise that can help wipe that frown off your face. Let’s plan revenge.

LostGirl:


DespeRatt:
Huh?

Slave19:
Just virtually, of course. If you had all the power in the world, what would you do with the offenders at your job?

Quentin caught himself smiling, the first time in countless hours.

DespeRatt:
Ahh . . . let me think. The asshole with the working lunch—I’d prevent him from having a non-working lunch for at least a month. But he might like that. Huh . . . What would you suggest?

Slave19:
How about having him serve lunch to people as a career? Wouldn’t he look just great as a waiter in some cheap diner?

DespeRatt:
Totally. You’re so much better at this than I am. Let’s continue; my migraine started going away.

Slave19:
Glad to hear. Who else is on your shit list?

DespeRatt:
My boss, of course. The biggest idiot who ever walked on this planet with an MIT degree. Entitlement meets arrogance but fails to meet any superior brain function with this guy.

Slave19:
Thinking . . . Arrogant, you say?

DespeRatt:
And then some.

Slave19:
How about street vendor, selling hot dogs right in front of your corporate office?

LostGirl:
ROFL.

DespeRatt:
Gotta give it to you, you have talent! If I’ll even be in a position to think of real revenge, I’ll know who to ask.

Slave19:
You will. Life circumstances change every day. Soon, your time will come. Just hang in there.

DespeRatt:
I will. Thanks, you guys, you’re awesome.

Quentin closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. Yeah, this was fun, and helped him forget the miseries of the day, but it was definitely not progress. His résumé still needed a little tweaking, and that’s where he should have spent his time instead.

He rubbed his forehead for a minute; his migraine was returning with a vengeance.