Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (8 page)

Writing reports took
a couple days. Once he turned them in, he planned to leave, but the State Department guy wanted to go over it with him.

“No,” Derek said. “I’m not.”

“You’re an employee of the State Department. It’s protocol.”

Derek spun on him, stepping into his space. “No,” he growled. “I’m not. I’m officially with Homeland Security. I don’t answer to you, asshole. File the reports and go away.”

That evening he
was called to the secure communications room.

In a private room with a flat-screen monitor hanging on the wall, Secretary of State Robert Mandalevo waited for a video chat. Mandalevo was in his sixties and reminded Derek of a skeleton. About six-feet-three, Mandalevo was so thin he looked like he was ending a hunger strike. He was bald and his complexion was dark, his skin rough. Some of his critics called him Skeletor.

“How are you, Derek?”

“Fine.”

Mandalevo sighed and leaned forward so his elbows rested on the desk, which Derek thought might be in his office in Foggy Bottom. “You need to cooperate with Brandon.”

“Do I?”

“He’s just doing his job. I read your report. It’s thorough, but I feel like maybe some things were left out, Derek. Like when you say you were taken to a room and interrogated at length. Let’s talk about that.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

The Secretary sighed. “Derek. Listen to me for a minute. I think of you as my friend.”

Derek stared. They had been thrown together a couple years earlier at a G8 Summit. Then later he had needed a favor and ended up doing some work for Mandalevo in return. He didn’t know if he would have classified Bob Mandalevo as a friend. Maybe. For a brief time he’d dated one of Mandalevo’s daughters, though nothing had come of it.

With a laugh, Mandalevo said, “Okay, that caught you off guard. But I do, Derek. I know we don’t socialize, but I have nothing but the greatest respect for you, what you do and your opinions. You’re a straight shooter and I value that you don’t kowtow to the position. Jim Johnston told me the same thing.”

“What do you want?”

“Derek, I want to make sure you’re okay. Physically, mentally and emotionally.”

“I’m fine.”

The Secretary stared at him. He glanced off-camera and held up a sheaf of reports. “I read the preliminary reports by John Hammond. He indicates you were dragged off and waterboarded multiple times. That you were later tortured with electric shock. He also reports that your escape attempt killed several people, including a twelve-year-old boy. You didn’t mention this in your report, Derek.”

Derek said nothing.

After a long silence, Mandalevo said, “I understand you’re heading to Russia.”

“Yes. No favors this time.”

“No. Spend some time with your son. Relax. When you get back to the U.S., make an appointment. We need to talk.”

“Sure.”

“Goodbye, Derek. And thank you for your mission.”

The connection cut out and Derek sat for a long time in the communication room before hunting up the Blue Angel bar. Six hours later he staggered back to his quarters and passed out.

Sheikh Nazif knelt on a
rug facing Mecca and prayed. He prayed for vengeance. He prayed for the life of a man who called himself Bill Black. Standing, he chanted, “
Sam’I Allahu liman hamidah, Rabbana wa lakal hamd.
” God hears those who call upon him. Our Lord, praise be to you.

He raised his hands. “Allahu Akbar.”

Back to his prayer mat, he chanted, “
Subhana Rabbiyal A’ala
” three times. Glory be to my Lord, the Most High.

But his mind was on the two Americans. And on his son, Abdul.

Prayers finished, he looked over at Ebo, who was finished his prayers. “You have the photographs?”

Ebo nodded.

“Is the website ready?”

“Yes.”

“Start it up.”

Edo nodded. “Allahu Akbar.”

Nazif smiled. “Allahu Akbar.”

Moscow, Russia

Derek was met at the
Shereyetmevo Airport by Konstantin Nikitinov. Konstantin was average height, broad-shouldered, with a black beard and thinning hair. He reminded Derek of a bear. They embraced and Konstantin squinted at him. “How is the shoulder?”

“Better every day.”

“What happened this time?”

“Syria happened.”

“Come. Let’s go. You can tell me in the car. What the hell were you doing in that godforsaken place, Derek?”

“You know damn well what I was doing there.”

Konstantin’s car was a black
BMW
, new since the last time he had visited. “The short version,” Derek said, “is I and another guy were dropped into Syria to look for very specific
WMD
and got caught between the
FSA
and the
SAA
. And things went to hell. How are things with you?”

Konstantin sighed. Konstantin Nikitinov had been a legend in the
FSB
, the
Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti,
or Federal Security Service, what had once been the
KGB
. Many in the intelligence world found very little difference between the
FSB
and the
KGB
. Konstantin’s particular area was counterterrorism, making he and Derek counterparts. They had been thrown together a year earlier, started out as antagonists and ended as friends. In addition, Konstantin was the adopted father of Derek’s son, Lev. Eight months earlier Konstantin and Irina Khournikova, Lev’s mother, had married. “It’s complicated.”

Laughing, Derek said, “It always is.”

“Politics, politics, politics. Irina has gone back to school. She’s heavily into computer security now.”

“A booming business with a lot of options.”

“That’s what she says. What are your plans?”

“I’ll be here a few days. It’s just a visit. I want to see Lev. How’s he doing?”

“Since you saw him last? Growing like crazy. His English is good, his Russian is better. He keeps us busy.” Konstantin hesitated. “He might be getting a brother or sister.”

Derek grinned. “Might be?”

“It’s early, but yes.”

“Congratulations.”

“You’re okay with this?”

“Of course.”

And he was, that was the thing of it. He and Irina had spent two weeks together cruising the Caribbean on his boat after a particularly horrible international incident they had both been involved in. She was with the
FSB
, he had been with Homeland Security. She had gotten pregnant and not told him. Derek had found out when Irina disappeared during an investigation into a Russian terror group and was presumed dead. Luckily, he and Konstantin had broken the group and recovered Irina. He had no particular claim on Irina and was happy that things were working out the way they were.

Konstantin and Irina and Lev lived in a lovely neighborhood called Frunzenskaya on the banks of the Moscow River. Gorky Park was nearby on the opposite bank. It was a four-story building, elegant, eighty or ninety years old but in excellent condition. “How is Raisa?” Derek asked as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. Raisa Belov was sort of Raisa’s grandmother, although Derek had never quite gone to the effort to figure out what her actual title would be, relationship-wise. She was Irina’s sister’s husband’s mother. Irina’s sister and brother-in-law had been murdered by the terrorist organization that Derek and Konstantin had brought down. Murdered in this very apartment.

Derek had been surprised when Irina and Konstantin decided to stay in the apartment, but agreed that it was a beautiful neighborhood in which to raise Lev. Raisa, who had been living with her son and daughter-in-law at the time, babysitting Lev, had been there when they were murdered. Perhaps not surprisingly, she had declined to live there.

“Traveling,” Konstantin said, grinning. “South of France and Italy.”

“Good for her.”

Konstantin pushed open the door and a solid three-year-old in blue jeans and a red and white striped shirt shouted, “Derek!” in English and flung himself at Derek. Picking him up with one arm, Derek groaned. In Russian he said, “You’re killing me, little man! When did you get so big?”

“
Nana
says I grow like a magic beanstalk!”
Nana
was Russian for daddy—Konstantin. Derek was Derek, which was an improvement over when Lev’s pronunciation was
Dork
. Although Lev calling Konstantin daddy sometimes gave him pause, it was a discomfort he could live with.

Irina appeared in the living room. She was heavier than Derek remembered, her auburn hair worn long, her cheekbones pronounced beneath just a touch of makeup. Perhaps it was the pregnancy showing. Wearing a white collared shirt and black cargo pants, feet bare, she padded over and kissed Derek on the cheek. “Got yourself banged up again?”

“I’ll heal.”

“What was it this time?”

“Mortar.”

Cocking an eyebrow, she said, “For God sakes, Derek! Where were you?”

Konstantin said, “Syria.”

“Oh dear God! Well, come on in. Dinner will be in a couple hours. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure.”

She smiled and said, “Let Derek put you down, Lev.”

Reluctantly Derek set his son on the floor, but Lev grabbed him by his free hand and said, “Want to see my fish?”

“Absolutely.”

Lev dragged him into his bedroom to visit with Sasha, his goldfish, which swam in a bowl on the end table next to his bed. It was all so normal. He gave Lev his undivided attention as the little boy talked about his fish and his friend Vlad, who lived in the building next door. Some of the tension Derek had been holding since Syria seeped away. Not all of it. But some of it.

He let Lev show him all the things he wanted to show him, and then took a wrapped present from his bag.

“For me?”

“Of course, for you. Go ahead, open it.”

Lev tore into the package, ripping it aside to find half a dozen Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars. In seconds he had sprinted into the living room to show Konstantin and Irina. Konstantin picked up one of them, a Toyota Tundra. “Now that’s a truck!”

“Better believe it,” Derek said with a laugh. “Just what you need for pushing through a Moscow winter.”

He spent a companionable afternoon playing with Lev and chatting with Irina and Konstantin. A year earlier Konstantin, along with Derek, had been caught up in battles between the Russian military and the government. Although in the end Konstantin had come out a hero, he found that not everyone in the
FSB
appreciated his involvement.

Sipping a glass of vodka at the kitchen table, Konstantin shrugged. “It’s gotten very difficult to know who to trust. And the president and the prime minister send decidedly mixed messages.”

“And you?” Derek asked Irina. “Konstantin mentioned you were taking computer classes.”

“With Lev and, well, the kidnapping and everything, I decided I no longer wanted to be in the field. Also, there are still people in the
FSB
and the army and the government who think that I was a member of the Red Hand.” The Red Hand was the terrorist organization backed by a general in the Russian Army that had attempted to overthrow the government the year before.

Derek had gone through several behind-closed-doors congressional investigations in his career and appreciated the problems they were facing. Leaning back in his chair, he fingered his own glass of vodka.

Irina continued. “I was consulting, which mostly involves providing security for international business people here. But again, that involves a fair amount of travel. But there’s a lot of business in online security and cyber espionage issues, so I’m working on that. What about you, Derek? Aren’t you getting a little old for missions like this one in Syria?”

He took a gulp of the vodka. “I don’t know about too old, but I do wonder about pressing my luck. I also felt it was a stupid mission from the beginning. It’s not as if it’s a secret that Syria has chemical weapons. That’s well established and they refused to sign the Chemical Weapons Convention. And although I’m not privy to it, if Assad’s regime actually intentionally used them in this civil war, then the
NSA
has probably intercepted some communications showing that. So there was definitely a lot of politics in dropping Hammond and myself in there.”

“So you can provide physical evidence?” Konstantin asked.

With a shrug, Derek said, “Either that or so the White House of the Secretary of State can trot John and I in front of a senate intelligence committee to testify about what we saw in order to support whatever actions they already plan to make.”

“Feeling a little manipulated, Derek?” Irina asked. She wasn’t drinking due to the pregnancy, but she nibbled at a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

He shrugged. “I’ve never been comfortable with politics, but I still feel strongly about controlling bio and chemical weapons and trying to keep them out of the hands of terrorists.”

“To civil service,” Konstantin said, raising his glass of vodka.

“To pawns in the great chess game,” Derek said, clinking glasses and taking a swallow.

His phone rang. Checking it, he frowned. It was an unidentified Russian number.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Stillwater. This is Sergei Gulin.”

Derek’s heart missed a beat. Sergei Gulin was the chief political advisor to Russia’s president, Pavel Eltsin. “How are you?” Derek said automatically, giving himself time to think.

“As well as can be expected. I hope you’re enjoying your visit with your son.”

“I am. Why are you calling me?”

“Direct as always, I see. That’s fine. You should have received word from Secretary Mondalevo.”

“Of?”

“You have not heard from him?”

“What is this about, Mister Gulin?”

“You are staying at the Golden Ring, correct?”

“Apparently you already know that.”

“A driver will be around tomorrow morning at eight to take you to the Kremlin.”

“To what end?”

“After we end this conversation I suggest you check your email or call Secretary Mandalevo, Doctor.”

“I have plans. I’m going to spend the day with my son.”

“We should have you back to your son by the afternoon. Perhaps a
VIP
tour of the zoo for the both of you? For the trouble.”

Derek went silent for a moment. “Fine,” he said.

“Good evening, Doctor.”

Staring at the phone in his hand as if it were a rattlesnake, Derek said, “Huh.”

“Are you okay?” Irina asked.

“I’m not sure.” He brought up his email, punched in the code and waited for the encrypted email to download.

There were two dozen emails, but none was from Mandalevo. Standing up, he said, “I need to take a short walk, if that’s okay with you?”

“What’s this about, Derek?”

“I’ll tell you after I find out.”

Once out on the street, walking along the Moscow River, Derek keyed the phone number of the U.S. Secretary of State. It wasn’t Mandalevo’s direct number, but did take him directly to Mandalevo’s chief of staff, Joe Moore.

“It’s Derek Stillwater,” he said.

“Yes. The Secretary was expecting you to call.”

“Joe, a little head’s-up would be appreciated. I just got a call from Sergei Gulin.”

Moore’s chuckle came through the phone. “That’s probably a little higher than expected. But the Secretary is counting on your relationship with Gulin and Eltsin to pave the way.”

“I don’t have a relationship with them. It’s a miracle they even let me in the country.”

“You did them a huge favor and they know it. Are you on a secure phone?”

“Basically.”

“Fine. The Secretary wants you to start putting together a file on Syria’s chemical weapons capabilities in general with a multi-step plan on what you would recommend be done about it.”

“Now I’m a policymaker?”

“You’re as knowledgeable about this topic as anybody in the world, Derek. And secondly, he wants you to start investigating Sheikh Hussein Nazif and his group.”

“Well,” Derek said slowly, “with the second part, I think I know where to start. Why are we suddenly being cozy about Syria with Russia?”

“Because if we want to stay out of Syria—and we do—we’re going to need to cooperate with Russia. They’re Syria’s most important ally—”

“Iran might argue about that.”

“Worldwide, Derek. Russia might drive us all crazy, but they have influence and want more.”

“Well, when you’re sitting on top of a huge oil and natural gas reserve, that gives you a fair amount of influence. But I wouldn’t trust Russia to ever be on pals.”

“We don’t. Is that all you need?” Moore asked.

“Probably not, but at least I know what’s going on.”

“Good luck.”

Derek pocketed his phone, pushing aside the urge to pitch it into the gray waters of the Moscow River. On the other side of the river was Gorky Park. A Ferris wheel spun, visible just above the trees, lit up in the mellow Moscow evening. A warm breeze blew, ruffling his thick hair. With a sigh he headed back to Lev, Konstantin and Irina.

The Russian Syrian
expert’s name was Boris Chaadayev, a tired-looking man with thinning gray hair, a wispy mustache and round wire-rimmed glasses. He looked to Derek like a college professor who’d just been passed over for tenure. His English was excellent.