When the embassy came into view, Slaton felt like a weight had been lifted. The complex looked different at night, luminous and festive, belying the vital work being done within the bastion-like walls.
He went straight to the visitors’ quarters, and at the entrance were two security men he hadn’t seen before. They both spotted him immediately, and one said something into a throat mic. The pair seemed alert and competent, no quarter given for the fact that they were already established in what was effectively a fortress. Once vetted and sent through to the suite, Slaton saw two guards outside in the courtyard. His wishes had so far been respected. Security was tight.
He found Christine in the bedroom. She was chatting up the housekeeper, a woman of roughly sixty whose name was Bella. Slaton was introduced, and Bella began talking. She was full of good humor and authentic Italian recipes, and claimed an encyclopedic knowledge of the embassy. She professed to be the longest-serving embassy employee, and it might have been true. She knew the history of the building and who worked in what department, and claimed to be privy to scandals going back to the Reagan years. She said it all with openness and enthusiasm, as well as a judicious lack of details that bolstered her case.
It was nearly Davy’s bedtime, and in the burst of energy all children display at that hour, he’d taken to running circles around an ornate oval rug as though it were a track in a stadium. Slaton played along and began giving chase. Soon the two women were cheering, and in a flurry of giggles Dad lost the race despite his rampant cheating. There was a brief wrestling match on the floor, followed by a well-orchestrated chase with a toothbrush. Bedtime rituals took fifteen minutes, and soon after Davy was fast asleep on a daybed. In happy disarray on the floor around him were makeshift toys acquired from the embassy kitchen: plastic bowls, wooden spoons, and a colorful assortment of nested measuring cups.
“All is well on the home front,” Slaton said, having caught his breath after the whirlwind.
“Is that what this is?” Christine responded as she pulled off her shoes.
“For one night, at least. I’ve got to go back upstairs. Anna wants to show me a few things.”
“I’ll bet she does.” A wry smile. “Guess I’m not invited?”
“Not specifically. But I’ll ask if you want.”
“Actually, I’ve got plans.” She tipped her head toward the bathroom. “There’s a claw-foot tub in there that looks glorious.”
“Okay, enjoy.”
“After a month at sea—are you kidding? How long will you be?”
“Not very.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“I promise.”
* * *
Slaton found Sorensen in a briefing room that was every bit as high-tech as the visitors’ suite was antiquarian. There were banks of computers and monitors, and a technician whose name was Mike—Sorensen professed him to be a magician with information.
Slaton shook his hand, and Mike the Magician began working a keyboard while Sorensen talked.
“You asked me back in Vieste why we considered Ivanovic’s death important. The first reason, as I alluded to then, was that the FSB seems to think it is. The latest message traffic suggests they still think an assassin-for-hire is responsible.”
“Yours truly.”
“From what we’ve gathered, you seem to be the primary suspect.”
“Maybe that’s what they want you to gather.”
She stared at him quizzically. “Care to expand on that?”
“My name has come up in some high-profile incidents in recent years. That said, I doubt the FSB has any hard evidence that I’m still alive.”
“I’ll grant you that—what they know about you is probably more speculation than fact.”
“So there’s my point. What better way to divert attention from the real assassin than to point your finger at a ghost?”
“Meaning what? That the FSB itself is responsible?”
“The FSB? Not necessarily. Let’s just say someone on the Russian side of the fence.”
Sorensen shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a theory. But the FSB’s involvement could be a natural response. One of the president’s friends was murdered. That’s personal.”
“Did Ivanovic have a close relationship with Petrov?”
“Nobody in Russia amasses the kind of wealth Ivanovic did without the president’s seal of approval. Petrov dresses his little gang of crooks in a cloak of sovereignty, and they effectively control Russia. It’s gotten so brazen, we actually have a new desk dedicated to tracking these oligarchs—only a few dozen have real influence in the Kremlin, and it’s helpful to know who they are. Ivanovic was close to Petrov for a number of years, but according to our analysts their relationship had cooled recently. There was a dispute over development rights to a gas field in the Arctic.”
Slaton took a seat at a small conference table. The chair was comfortable and artfully designed. It had probably cost a thousand dollars. He leaned it back on two legs. “Okay, so there’s no way to be sure why the FSB is interested in Ivanovic’s death.”
“No … not really.”
“Then fill me in on the other side—why is the CIA interested?”
Sorensen nodded to Mike, and a photograph appeared on the front-and-center monitor. Slaton studied the image in silence. Four men stood together on the deck of a large house. The forest at the margins of the shot implied a remote location, deep woods and steep terrain. It did not escape Slaton’s notice that the picture had been taken from a very high angle, implying an aerial shot. The resolution was spectacular, leading to two possible conclusions: it had either been sourced from a drone at medium altitude, or U.S. satellite surveillance had come a long way since his last Mossad briefing. A time and date stamp in the lower right corner had been electronically redacted, and in the lower left was another blacked-out field, most likely lat/long coordinates.
“Where was this taken?” he asked.
“Russia.”
Slaton leveled a hard look on Sorensen.
“Sorry, but I can’t be more specific. The level of classification is very high.”
He studied the faces of the four men. Slaton recognized Ivanovic immediately. Sorensen had already briefed him on two of the others, but he didn’t know which was which. “Who’s the one on the right?” he asked.
“That’s Alexei Romanov. He’s in Ivanovic’s league in terms of wealth. He owns the biggest mining company in Siberia, a telecom, and substantial natural gas holdings. He keeps a high profile, which is probably why you recognized his name earlier. He recently bought a second-division soccer team in England, and owns choice real estate in both London and New York. Next to Romanov, of course, is Ivanovic. I’ve already given you his background. The older man on the far left is Vladimir Ovechkin.”
Slaton saw a paunchy man in his fifties. He was pink-skinned, going bald, with a pronounced stoop in his posture.
Sorensen continued, “Financially, he’s nearly on par with the others. Interestingly, Ovechkin is one of the few surviving players from the nineties. He was at the front of the line when the old Soviet state-held companies were parted out to Yeltsin’s cronies. Today his corporate profile is centered around oil and gas infrastructure—a pipe and pump guy.”
“Okay. And the fourth man, center-left?”
“That’s the kicker. He had us stumped for a while. We ran his facial profile through every matching database we have. At first we assumed he was a businessman like the others, maybe a new guy Petrov had brought in to take over a company that got reclaimed from someone who’d fallen out of favor. That’s how it works these days. The president giveth, and the president taketh away. It keeps everyone in line.”
“I’m sure it does.”
Mike zoomed in on the fourth individual. Slaton saw a man in his mid-forties with a regulation haircut, lean build, and square features. In the captured frame he was practically standing at attention, spine rod-stiff and chin tucked. He was wearing what looked like khaki trousers and a dark polo shirt—a virtual uniform for soldiers when they were off duty.
“He’s military,” Slaton said.
“We eventually came to the same conclusion. But that’s a wide net to cast. And unfortunately, when it comes to the facial profiles of Soviet military personnel, our database is pretty limited.”
Slaton pinned his gaze on Sorensen. “But you figured out who this guy is.”
“We got lucky, the old-fashioned way. A sharp-eyed analyst recognized him.”
“Recognized a soldier? What are the chances of that?”
“Pretty high in this particular case. You asked me why the CIA is interested. Well, this guy is the reason. When I found out who he was … that’s when I booked the next flight to Rome.”