One of the safe house condominium flats had been converted into a small detention center: several single-person cells, plus two interrogation rooms, each with an observation booth along one wall, separated by a one-way mirror. Bogdanov was seated by himself in one of the interrogation rooms while Harrison and a few others had filed into the observation booth, awaiting the arrival of a CIA interrogator. They were sending the best, Anosov had said, who would arrive shortly.
Khalila entered the observation booth and sat beside Harrison as if nothing untoward had happened three hours ago. After their discussion in the gutted building, when they had made the deal, she had walked off into the darkness. Harrison had called for a ride back to the safe house, and as he made his way to the main boulevard paralleling the Black Sea shoreline, Khalila had appeared by his side. Neither spoke during the short ride to the safe house.
As he sat beside her, several emotions swirled inside; mostly anger and curiosity. What secrets was she keeping, and what kind of experiences produced someone who could kill her partner simply for having gleaned a tidbit about her? He suddenly realized that when Khalila convinced him to bring her to Sochi, it had been a setup. She’d been planning to kill him all along. In Damascus, after the jump into the Barada River, Khalila had lost her pistol. If she had retained it, he doubted he would have made it out of the culvert alive. When the trip to Sochi presented another opportunity, she had taken it.
The door to the observation booth opened and Anosov entered, accompanied by a large, barrel-chested man well over six feet tall and north of 250 pounds. Anosov made the introduction—CIA interrogator John Kaufmann—who asked everyone in the booth if they had any information about Bogdanov that might prove useful. Harrison and Khalila, plus the two men who had hauled Bogdanov into the van, were the only ones who had interacted with him, but their contact had been brief and none seemed to have anything to offer.
Kaufmann entered the interrogation room and sat across from Bogdanov at the small wooden table. He placed a leather satchel beside him, from which he pulled a manila folder. He flipped through its contents in silence, ignoring Bogdanov. The Russian was unrestrained, but he wasn’t near as large as Kaufmann, plus it was obvious the larger man was carrying a weapon: there was a slight bulge near his left shoulder beneath his sport coat.
When he finished reviewing the file, Kaufmann pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his satchel. He offered a cigarette to Bogdanov, who shook his head.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Kaufmann said. “What were you paid 1.2 billion rubles for?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s a 1.2 billion ruble deposit to an account in your name that says otherwise.”
“That’s a lie. I don’t have that kind of money.”
Kaufmann pulled a sheet from his folder and slid it toward Bogdanov, then pointed to the first transaction. “A man named Lonnie Mixell—you probably know him as Mark Alperi—deposited 1.2 billion rubles to an account owned by Matvey Petrov.” Kaufmann pointed to the second transaction. “Petrov then withdrew ten million rubles, which was deposited on the same day into an account owned by Danil Andreyev, which is the name you’re currently using.”
“Of course it’s the name I’m currently using. It is my name.”
“We’ll go with that for now,” Kaufmann said. “So who is Matvey Petrov?”
“He’s an old friend of mine.”
“Why did he transfer ten million rubles to your account?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“That’s the thing,” Kaufmann replied. “I kinda am. Your real name is Anatoly Bogdanov, a former ordnance supervisor at Gadzhiyevo Naval Base, who is using two aliases to prevent being tracked down while you spend 1.2 billion rubles into your twilight years.”
Bogdanov didn’t immediately respond, but Harrison noticed the Russian swallowing hard.
“If you don’t want to make things more difficult for yourself, you can start by telling me what the payment from Mixell was for.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone named Mixell or Bogdanov, nor why Mixell paid Petrov.”
“You are in serious trouble,” Kaufmann said. “If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life behind bars, I suggest you be more forthcoming about who you are and what you were paid to do.”
“I’m done talking,” Bogdanov replied. “Either charge me with a crime and provide a lawyer, or release me.”
Kaufmann kept up the pressure, providing more evidence that the man across from him was indeed Anatoly Bogdanov, who had been paid 1.2 billion rubles by Lonnie Mixell. Bogdanov refused to acknowledge the obvious, steadfastly sticking to the story that he was Danil Andreyev.
After staring at Bogdanov for a while, Kaufmann pushed up from the table and left the interrogation room, then stepped into the observation booth. He spoke quietly with Anosov for a moment, who then left.
Kaufmann announced, “Time for plan B. Everyone into the interrogation room.”
There were several wooden chairs along the sides of the room, and Harrison and Khalila sat on one side, while the two men who had stuffed Bogdanov into the van took seats across the room. Kaufmann removed his sport coat, revealing his pistol in a shoulder harness, which immediately caught Bogdanov’s attention.
Kaufmann resumed the interrogation, bringing Harrison and Khalila into the conversation, asking Bogdanov why he had tried to evade them. Bogdanov concocted a story of how he thought they were going to mug him, and had tried to run away. Kaufmann tried several tactics, which produced the same result. Bogdanov remained resolute. He was Danil Andreyev, and had been his entire life.
Finally, Kaufmann reached across the table and placed a meaty hand behind Bogdanov’s head, then smashed his face into the table. Bogdanov sprung back up with a glazed look as blood oozed from his nose. His eyes cleared, then hardened.
“I’m not saying another word.”
Bogdanov seemed rather smug considering the circumstances, blood running down his face, his fingers interlaced as his hands rested on the table before him.
Khalila suddenly stood and approached Bogdanov. She flexed her left wrist, releasing one of her knives into her hand. She reached over Bogdanov’s shoulder, driving the knife through his left forearm, pinning it to the table.
Bogdanov shrieked in pain as she stepped beside him, releasing the second knife into her other hand. She placed it against Bogdanov’s neck.
“You had better start talking, or I’m going to fillet you like a fish.”
Bogdanov looked up at her with a terrified, but otherwise blank look on his face, and Khalila apparently remembered that Bogdanov spoke only Russian. She looked toward Kaufmann and Harrison.
“Would someone translate for me!”
Kaufmann shot Khalila an irritated look. “Do you mind!” he said in English. “I’m doing the interrogation here!”
Harrison stood and grabbed Khalila by the arm, then pulled her into the passageway between the two interrogation rooms where they could talk in private.
“You can’t do this kind of thing.”
“I don’t need your permission, Jake.” She yanked her arm away. “I should’ve known you’d get in the way again.”
Harrison keyed on the usual wording. “Again?”
“I read Mixell’s file,” she said. “I know what he did, and that you helped put him behind bars.”
“So you think it’s okay to execute unarmed prisoners?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation, “if they deserve it.”
“Who gets to decide? Are you going to be the judge, jury, and executioner?”
“If necessary.”
A short silence ensued before Harrison asked, “It’s okay to execute partners too?”
This time, she hesitated before answering. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated at all.”
“Let it go,” Khalila hissed. She moved toward the interrogation room, but Harrison grabbed her arm again.
“When your partner almost puts a bullet in your head, you don’t just let it go.”
Khalila turned back to him. “Did you ever stop to think about how we got here? Why we’re tracking down someone who assassinated the UN ambassador and six agents, and paid sixty million dollars for something that could end up killing thousands?”
She poked her finger into Harrison’s chest. “It’s your fault. You put Mixell behind bars. You set him onto this path. If you had let it go, we wouldn’t be here today.”
Harrison was momentarily at a loss for words. Khalila was right. Turning Mixell in had started a chain of events leading to today. Still, he had done the right thing, and he wasn’t going to let Khalila twist it around, especially in light of what she’d almost done a few hours ago.
“Does the DDO know you’ve killed some of your partners? If not, I’m sure he’d like to know.” It was only a supposition that Khalila had been responsible for some of the deaths, but he figured it was a good guess.
Khalila stepped closer to Harrison, stopping a few inches from his face. “Don’t you dare threaten me.”
“I’m just asking a question,” he said, keenly aware Khalila still had a knife in one hand.
“We made a deal a few hours ago,” she replied. “You don’t reveal anything you’ve learned about me, and I don’t kill you. If you break your end of the bargain, I’ll break mine.”
“I’d like to point out that there’s no reciprocal agreement,” Harrison said. “That I won’t kill you.”
“I already know you won’t kill me. I’ve met your type before. You’re an idealist, constrained by an inflexible definition of right and wrong, convinced that you’re better than the rest of us. The truth is, you don’t have the guts to do what’s necessary.”
Khalila’s words cut into him, and he fought the urge to slam her into the wall. “That’s a bold statement from someone who’s never been in combat. You have no idea about what I’ve done; what I’m capable of doing.”
“You don’t know what I’m capable of either.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
Khalila had put on a good act in Damascus and Virginia, but her true colors had emerged in Sochi. She was a sociopath.
Khalila leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “Then stay out of my way.”
“That won’t be a problem. I don’t plan to work with you again.”
“That would be best,” she said as she pulled back, offering a disingenuous smile.
She turned toward the interrogation room again, but this time Kaufmann was standing in her way, his arms folded across his chest. He said nothing, but the unpleasant expression on his face, combined with his imposing physical presence, said enough.
Khalila took the hint and slid past him, returning to her seat.
One of the men in the interrogation room had removed Khalila’s knife from Bogdanov’s forearm and wrapped a towel around the wound, stopping the bleeding. He wiped the blood from the knife, then tossed it to Khalila, who caught it midair.
Maxim Anosov entered the room.
“Good news,” he said. “We found Bogdanov’s partner, Morozov, and he’s singing like a canary. We’ve got everything we need now.”
He glanced at Bogdanov, then turned to Kaufmann. “Kill him.”
Kaufmann pulled the pistol from his shoulder harness, aiming it toward Bogdanov.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Bogdanov shouted, placing his hands in front of him. “Morozov doesn’t know everything. Only I know all the details!”
With his pistol pointed at Bogdanov, Kaufmann said, “Then you better start talking.”
The words spilled from Bogdanov like a waterfall, and Kaufmann took notes along the way. After a while, he pulled a sheet of paper from his satchel—a copy of the Swiss account dendrite that had been displayed at the NCTC—and placed it before Bogdanov.
“Let’s make sure we’ve got everything correct.” He pointed to the top level of the dendrite, showing a picture of Mixell, along with his name and two known aliases: Mark Alperi and Irepla Kram. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes,” Bogdanov replied. “An American named Mark Alperi.”
“His real name is Mixell,” Kaufmann said. Then he pointed to the next level, showing Mixell’s four payments, along with a picture of each beneficiary: Plecas, Bogdanov, Morozov, and Futtaim.
“Mixell made four payments: $2.5 million U.S. to Protek for the drug treatment for Captain Plecas’s daughter, $20 million each for you and Morozov, and $14 million to Futtaim.”
As Bogdanov examined the dendrite, a confused expression spread across his face. “I do not know this Futtaim, but Morozov is not correct. I paid Morozov using the money from Mixell.”
Kaufmann scribbled on the chart, drawing an arrow to move Morozov beneath Bogdanov. “How much did you pay him?”
“Ten million, U.S.”
“Then who was this twenty-million-dollar payment to?” Kaufmann pointed to Morozov’s original spot.
“That’d be Mikhail Korenev.”
“And who is he?”
Bogdanov explained that Korenev worked at Russia’s Northern Fleet Joint Strategic Command in Severomorsk.
“What was he paid for?”
“He provided me with the arming code.”
“The arming code for what?”
“The nuclear warheads.”
Kaufmann stopped taking notes mid-stroke. He looked up slowly. “He did what?”
“He provided the arming code so I could arm the twenty Kalibr missiles scheduled for Kazan’s loadout. Morozov and I swapped conventional and nuclear missiles one night, then I armed the nuclear variants and exchanged the serial numbers and nose cones so the swap wouldn’t be detected.”
After a long pause, Kaufmann asked, “What are the targets?”
“I don’t know. Mixell didn’t share that with us. Only Plecas knows.”
Kaufmann turned to Anosov, who was already stepping from the interrogation room, pulling his cell phone from its holster.
It was silent in the room as Bogdanov cleaned the blood from his face with the towel wrapped around his arm.
Anosov returned to the room, directing Kaufmann to wrap things up.
“Once we find Morozov or Korenev,” Kaufmann said to Bogdanov, “we’ll confirm the details. You’ve been very helpful.”
“What? You haven’t found Morozov?” It suddenly dawned on Bogdanov that Morozov’s capture had been a charade. “You lied!”
Kaufmann smiled, then turned to Anosov. “Well done.”