The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (30 page)

Tinkov had been waiting for his chance. He was tasked to set the elaborate plan fashioned by his communist brethren into motion, but the banter about the recent Libor scandal had made the climate too intense for him to subtly introduce their scheme. Any abrupt change in the subject would attract unwanted attention. He continued to bide his time as he listened.

The Group’s members were seated around a glistening mahogany conference table in the large rectangular room. All devices capable of recording or transmitting the meeting had been checked at the door.

“Cut off all ties, period,” Sir Oliver Wright demanded. His plump face was still red from his long tirade. The Londoner had emphasized his complete and utter embarrassment by his countrymen who had been at the center of the scandal. His words had put him at odds with The Group’s German contingent. He stared down the tall, slender Berliner in the gray suit who was seated across from him and declared, “Those imbeciles deserve nothing from us.”

“No help whatsoever?” Herr Friedrich Ulrich asked in a snide tone. He stared the Briton down the length of his narrow nose. “They are, after all, your fellow countrymen.”

Wright folded his arms tightly against his barrel chest, projecting the appearance of an immovable object. “No, absolutely none.”

“I’m impressed,” Ulrich said with a sarcastic look. “I suppose that now makes you the senior member when it comes to the United Kingdom’s vote amongst this”—he motioned around the room—“distinguished company.” It was a statement not a question.

Germany and the United Kingdom wielded significant influence over the European Union, since they represented two of its top economies. Ulrich, who had been the President of the European Central Bank since its inception, had made his displeasure with the situation known before an abrupt interruption served to conclude their heated exchange.

“Now that we have that settled,” Bart Stapleton said taking command, “on to our next order of business.” He searched the room for any objections. “The situation with our friends in Iraq.”

The Federal Reserve chairman noted the rumblings around the table and cleared his throat to demand everyone’s undivided attention.

“This is an investment that will start to pay off in just a couple of years.” He smiled tightly as he scanned their faces. “Think of it as the sort of gift that will keep on giving.”

Everyone knew he was referring to Iraq’s oil reserves, and it wasn’t the first time the subject had been raised by an American.

“I don’t like it,” a Belgian member said. “What will become of our investment if the situation with Iran escalates?”

“That is just what we’re going to prevent,” Stapleton said with a hint of condescension.

The Belgian’s face soured. “At some point we have to say enough is enough. We’ve been at this for more than a decade, and the region is as unstable as it’s ever been.”

Andrei Tinkov sat back and watched the two men parry each other’s comments. The semi-smile on his face had gone unnoticed. He had been nervously waiting for the right moment to make his move. The survival of the communist movement he had dedicated his life to, and the immediate resurgence of the Soviet Union, stood squarely on his shoulders. The fact that the situation had presented itself was a sign of things to come. He needed to manipulate the conversation perfectly, since it represented their only chance for an immediate and wide-sweeping success.

The irony wasn’t lost on the Russian. The American was pushing for an action that would deliver the same outcome as the one he had planned. Now, though, Tinkov would be in the clear. There would be nothing to tie their master plan back to any action taken by The Group. He would laugh out loud if he could, and he was certainly bellowing inside. A Frenchman at the other side of the table attracted his attention and two words came to mind:
Carpe Diem
.

“They need an infusion of money to keep the government and basic services running,” Stapleton insisted, “and if we don’t act now you can kiss the world’s largest oil reserves good-bye.” His eyes darted around the room until he had made eye contact with every man. “You might as well put a big fat bow on Baghdad so the Supreme Leader can thoroughly enjoy his present.”

Before the Belgian could jab back, Tinkov injected himself into the conversation.

“Russia will certainly honor the request from The Group’s distinguished American member,” he said.

Stapleton appeared surprised and nodded his appreciation.

Internal fireworks that would rival a Fourth of July display lit up the Russian’s face. Iraq’s secret dealings with the communists had spanned decades. Before the war broke out, they had helped the Iraqi government create an underground network similar to their own. The Americans were ill-equipped to understand the intricacies of the Iraqi power brokers, and had unwittingly empowered a regime that would be quick to turn and support their longtime ally.

“However,” Tinkov probed, “I’m afraid I would take exception to Mr. Stapleton’s proposed structure.”

All eyes were now focused on the Russian.

“I think we can all agree that the actions of his bank are the reason we, for the second time, are having to discuss this point.”

Stapleton’s face turned red, as if he knew where this conversation was headed. Everyone remained silent, but the body language in the room was deafening.

Tinkov raised his eyebrows and surveyed the men who were present. “Had your Federal Reserve not shipped forty billion dollars in cash”—he emphasized the word “cash”—“to Baghdad so carelessly, the rest of us might not be in the position where we must, once again, fund its government.”

Several uncomfortable glances were exchanged. Tinkov had never connected on a personal level with any of The Group’s cliques, so his comments had been a collective surprise. His inclusion in The Group had been deemed necessary after the fall of communism. Russia and its vast resources represented a significant opportunity to increase the wealth they commanded. Tinkov took great pleasure in knowing Stapleton was on the verge of exploding.

“I suggest that our colleague either move to lower the total obligation by forty billion,” he continued, “or increase their personal transfer by that amount.”

Tinkov still had everyone’s attention, so he decided it would be a good time for a dig. He knew ego trumped common sense in this crowd, and there was no way that a reduction by that amount would suffice.

“Perhaps if you decide the latter, your friends here will not have to make this decision to preserve their oil reserves again.”

Stapleton’s eyes were locked on the Russian. “Thank you for bringing that to our attention, Mr. Tinkov,” he said bitterly.

It was clear the man wasn’t used to being challenged, and being embarrassed appeared to infuriate him even more. The Russian had pulled his strings perfectly.

“Of course,” Stapleton continued, “the Fed will happily increase our contribution.”

“Will this be a wire transfer? Tomorrow? Is that your request?” Tinkov asked.

“Yes,” he said, clearly annoyed. His tone turned to mocking. “The first business day following the meeting is tomorrow.” He lowered his gaze. “Standard procedure, Mr. Tinkov.”

The Russian smiled broadly and nodded his head in response. He couldn’t believe everything had fallen into place so easily. The American’s share of the aid to Iraq meant billions would be moved. The communists would soon throw enough chum in the water to start a feeding frenzy on the country’s assets that even America’s closest allies would be unable to resist. There would be an opportunity to climb the ladder of the New World Order. This day had been a long time coming for his motherland.

Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA

CATHY MOYNIHAN WAS despondent when the men brought her back to the room and cuffed her to the railing. The other two women who were being held stared in disbelief. A tense fear thinned the air. Her clothes were soaking wet, and she shivered as she tried to warm herself in the cold, musty basement. It took her several long minutes to recover from the punishment she had just been dealt. Getting her bearings straight didn’t come easy. The last time she’d been in the room, her head had been covered with a hood.

She immediately recognized Melody Millar from the house in Poolesville, but she had no idea who the person secured to the railing opposite her was. The waterboarding had affected her severely at first. She was disappointed that she had broken so quickly but was surprised by how well she had kept to her story. The nasty smell of the soiled canvas stayed with her. It was like the stench had crawled up her nose and camped, but as long as they didn’t put the hood back on, she thought she’d be fine.

“Are you okay?” the girl she didn’t recognize whispered from the other side of the room.

Moynihan looked up and gave her a slight nod and could see they were both afraid of being next.

“I remember you from the house,” Millar said.

The other girl looked over at Melody Millar with surprise and asked, “Who are you?”

Moynihan was still slumped in the chair, weak from the abuse, but the fog in her head was slowly clearing.

“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “You’ll be fine. They’re just not too crazy about cops.”

She heard footsteps coming toward the room, and she drew in a deep breath. She flinched when the door opened and a heavyset man walked in. He avoided eye contact and headed to the other side of the room to sit down at a desk. He plugged his laptop into a jack in the wall and began to type. Moynihan watched the characters on his screen scroll by as he entered commands.

He stopped suddenly, pulled an iPod out of his pocket and began to fiddle with the cord that attached it to his earbuds. Unsatisfied, he fished around in his laptop bag until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a familiar-looking white charger. She noticed movement on the opposite side of the room, and watched as the young woman slowly worked her way toward the desk where the man was sitting. Her movement came to a jarring stop when she met one of the brackets that secured the railing to the cement wall.

The man plugged the charger into a socket above the desk to recharge his iPod. Moynihan’s glance darted between the man and the girl opposite her. She couldn’t figure out what was going on. After what had seemed like an eternity, the man unplugged his laptop and headed out of the room. The girl started to pull on the railing as hard as she could, but it was sufficiently anchored to the wall, so it wouldn’t budge. Before Moynihan could ask her what she was doing, the girl did something as unexpected as it was frightening.

“Hello?” she said. She projected her voice toward the door.

Moynihan’s eyes widened at the volume. She was still coming to grips with what had just happened and wasn’t sure she could handle more abuse.

“Hello?” she repeated. This time she was much louder and started messing with her chair.

Heavy footsteps approached.

Hood Residence, Chevy Chase, MD

IVOR HOOD HAD just returned home from helping his neighbor put together a new shed. It started out as a simple request. He would hold the framing in place while his neighbor secured it to the foundation, but that would never do for the serial do-it-yourselfer. Within an hour he’d filled his neighbor’s backyard with every tool the chore might require. He hadn’t planned on the morning project, but this was the sort of activity that helped a man like Hood to relax.

He had put his tools back in order and cleaned himself up before he headed into the kitchen to get a drink. It was warm outside, so he grabbed a cold bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator and began to chug it down. After his second swig, he decided to check his BlackBerry for messages. He noted nobody had called his cell, but there were several unread emails. He began reading in between sips and noticed one email was a notification from his office phone system. The communication informed him of a voice message that was marked as urgent on his work line. He had set the system up to send an email notification for new messages so he wouldn’t have to waste the time calling into the phone system only to find out there was nothing new.

The time stamp on the email was late, so it piqued his interest further. When he opened the message, he recognized the number, but in the age of cell phones and autodial, he couldn’t place the caller. He dialed into the office to retrieve the message. Within the first sentence, his beaming smile transformed to a look of concern.

“Uncle Ivor, sorry to bother you, but something is going on that I think you should know about…”

As he listened to his goddaughter explain the situation, his expression turned increasingly hard. He was no longer the helpful neighbor ready to lend a hand. He had transformed into the man who rose to the highest level one could achieve at the FBI without presidential appointment.

Ivor Hood earned his place as deputy director in what most would consider the hard way. He was ethical, honest, and forthright, qualities difficult to find in the upper echelons of Washington, DC’s power structure. He found his way into the FBI after practicing law. His physical and mental attributes made him an excellent candidate for an agent, and he battled his way up the chain of command with an unrivaled determination.

On the job he was irascible. He had no patience for excuses; he only wanted facts and lessons learned. He was hard on his staff, but they respected him immensely for his leadership. His hardline approach was complemented by a remarkable sense of humor and genuine concern for his people. His attitude left him with few enemies at the bureau. Although he didn’t always see eye to eye with Director Culder, his success as executive assistant director of the FBI National Security Branch made him an obvious candidate for the job when the position opened up. The fact that his sphere of influence didn’t extend beyond the bureau was what sealed the deal, since that made him a man Culder felt he could control.

He called Cathy Moynihan’s number as soon as the message finished. It rang a few times before he was sent to voicemail.