The Warren Omissions (10 page)

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.

He called the office to check in and let them know that he would be where they asked him to be. Then he dialed Natalie’s number, hoping to catch her before she left the office for the day. She answered.

“So, I guess we’re off for tonight?” Natalie said.

“Unfortunately, yes. I’ve got a busy day ahead tomorrow. Maybe I can catch a train to Washington this weekend.”

Natalie perked up.

“I like that idea. What did you have in mind?”

“Not sure yet, but I’ll think of something.”

“You always do—but it better be good.”

Flynn laughed and promised it would be.
 
I have no idea what to do for fun in Washington. Who am I kidding?

He then collected his carry-on and exited the plane.

Suddenly, he felt his burner phone buzzing.
 
Who could this be?
 
The number was blocked.

He answered. “Hello?”

“Be careful what you do, Mr. Flynn. We’re watching you.”

The voice, the accent—Flynn recognized none of it.

“Who is this?”

The line went dead. He hoped it was a silly prank.

Flynn looked around to see if he noticed anyone suspicious. Suddenly, the entire airport appeared suspicious to him. He collected all his personal items and hurried toward ground transportation. He wanted to get out of there—and fast.

CHAPTER 16

IVAN ENJOYED SPOOKING FLYNN. It wasn’t a game by any means, but the monotony of always being ahead of the people he sought to destroy, ruin, or embarrass grew old. Besides, he wasn’t just having fun. He really did have eyes on Flynn. From the moment his plane landed, Ivan began receiving updates with pictures every few minutes, detailing all his movements. Yet for the moment it was pure sport, anything to distract his mind from being tucked tightly into a corner of the rafters in the U.N. general assembly hall.

His phone buzzed again.

“How are our plans coming along?” asked the voice on the other end.

“Splendidly. You have nothing to worry about,” Ivan answered.

“Good. Let’s keep in that way. I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow after you complete your task.”

“Don’t worry. It will be a good report.”

“Just in case you run into trouble, I wanted to let you know I’ve dispatched a team to give you some added leverage.”

“Excellent. And what might this leverage be?”

“I’ll send you a picture.”

The man hung up as Ivan awaited the image to appear on his phone.

Still careful to be quiet and discreet, Ivan chuckled to himself.

“
 
Ideal’nyy
 
.”
 
Perfect
 
.

Everything was falling into place.

CHAPTER 17

WHEN FLYNN FINALLY CHECKED into the Wyndham Midtown 45 hotel just a couple blocks away from the U.N., he wondered if another coherent sentence would come out of his mouth the rest of the evening. In less than four days, he had gone from checking out a lead in Washington related to the JFK assassination to seeing footage of the elusive second gunman to receiving threats from an underground Russian extremist group he’d never heard of. It was moving too fast. He needed to stop and think. He needed a drink.

Meandering down to the hotel bar, Flynn hoped he could find a quiet table where he could mull the recent events. But there wasn’t one available. And at the bar, there was just one lone seat. He reluctantly sat down and ordered a beer. If he had one request, it was to be left alone.

The portly gentleman seated to his left dashed that dream when he recognized Flynn almost immediately.

“Hey! I know you! You’re James Flynn, aren’t you? That conspiracy theory guy on television,” he announced. The whole bar heard him.

As much as Flynn wanted to lie, he promised that he would never deny his identity to people in the public. They were lied to enough already.

“Busted. In the flesh,” Flynn responded, mustering up as much personality as possible.

“Yeah, I saw you last night talking about that lady who wrote a memoir claiming she was a spy in Germany while cleaning houses. I bet she wishes she made up another fake biography now.”

Flynn winced, remembering that he desecrated the woman’s vulnerability. It was for her own good, but he still regretted the fact that people like the large gentleman on his left would call her a liar for the rest of her life.

The man continued to babble on about something, but Flynn tuned him out, straining to hear the latest news report on the situation brewing in Russia over the missile sites being erected. Suddenly, Flynn realized what was happening. The picture became clear in light of all the recent events. He needed to call Osborne.

Flynn threw a ten spot on the bar and left his glass of beer half full. He remembered hearing his fellow patron protest and offer to buy him another round if he stayed for a few minutes. But Flynn ignored him.
 
This is big. Osborne is going to thank me for this.

“Are you sitting down?” Flynn asked Osborne the moment he picked up.

“Flynn, what are you doing calling me at home?” Osborne responded, ignoring the question.

“I figured it out. I know what’s going on.”

Osborne decided to ignore the fact that Flynn contacted him at his personal residence. It was a breach of protocol at the very least.

“OK, I’ll humor you. What did you figure out?”

“Who was behind JFK’s assassination, why I’m being followed and why I think something big is going down tomorrow at the U.N.”

“Whoa, there, Flynn. Slow down. I know you’re good but you’re not
 
that
 
good.”