Washington

When Orlov reached Washington, he checked with telephone information. There was only one Valerie Clurman. She lived on 3499 Newark Street in Washington. Orlov got her telephone number. He drove past her house, between Connecticut and Wisconsin Avenues in Cleveland Park. It was a three story wood frame, freestanding house that looked to be about a hundred years old.

Orlov checked his watch. Four ten in the afternoon. He parked a block away and dialed the number.

“Please leave your name at the tone.” He heard in a woman’s pleasant sounding voice. He hung up without leaving a message.

He’d wait until evening to try again. With time to kill, he found a small Italian restaurant on Connecticut Avenue where he ate pizza. Then he walked along the sidewalk, passing shops and restaurants in this pleasant, upper middle class neighborhood.

All the while, he was thinking about Valerie. She should be fifty-five. She hadn’t seen Kuznov in thirty years. What would her reaction be to a stranger trying to collect on a commitment she made thirty-five years ago as a foolish and impressionable young girl. Anger? Outrage? Denial?

He didn’t care. He was holding all the cards. He had her life in his hands.

At seven thirty, he dialed again. A woman answered. “Yes?”

“Is this Valerie Clurman?”

“Who’s calling?”

“My name is Ivan.”

Silence for a moment. Then the phone slammed down.

He dialed again. It kicked over to the answering machine.

Orlov began speaking. “I received your name from an old friend of yours from Oxford. For your own sake you should talk to me. If not, I’m prepared to…”

She picked up. “Who are you?”

“I want to come to your house and talk to you.”

“What about?”

He detected fear in her voice.

“I think we should do this in person.”

Silence for several seconds. Then she gave him the address, which he already had.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Valerie Clurman was a petite brunette who reminded Orlov of a once beautiful rose which had faded in the summer’s heat and with the passage of time. Her skin was wrinkled; her eyes sad, her walk slow and halting. She was dressed simply in a white cotton blouse and navy skirt.

As she moved away from the door to let Orlov enter, she looked terrified. Fear might account for the trembling Orlov noticed in her hands. Or maybe it was something else.

“Who are you?” she asked as he quickly closed the door.

“That’s not important. I’m a friend of Fyodor Kuznov. That’s all you need to know.”

When she didn’t respond, he left the words hanging in the air and looked around the living room. No pictures of a husband or children. He guessed that she had never married. Probably lived alone.

Prominently displayed along one wall, was a framed certificate commending her for twenty-five years with the Secret Service. It was signed by President Dalton two months ago. She had been married to her job, he decided.

When she didn’t respond to his mention of Kuznov, Orlov added, “You remember Fyodor Kuznov. You first met him at Oxford and you saw him twice after that.”

“Oxford was a long time ago.”

Through the corner of his eye, Orlov saw a picture resting on the mantle above the fireplace next to a beer mug with the word “Oxford” on the front. Orlov walked over and studied the photo. Standing in front of an Oxford banner was a group of six young people, three men and three women. He recognized Valerie in the center. A young man had his arm draped around her shoulder. Had to be Kuznov. The resemblance was striking.

Before Orlov could ask her about it, she walked over, removed the picture and slid it in the drawer of the desk.

“Oxford was a long time ago,” she repeated.

“But promises were made.”

“I was young and foolish. Oxford was a wonderful place. So many intelligent people.”

“Perhaps you were wise beyond your years.”

“What do you want?”

“One small bit of information. That’s all. And we’ll never bother you again.,”

“What is it?”

“Whether President Dalton is going to Camp David this weekend and if so, when?”

She looked horrified. “You’re planning to kill him?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why do you want it?”

“You don’t have to know.”

“And if I don’t tell you?”

“Kuznov recorded all of your conversations. I heard them. The technology in those days wasn’t as good as it is now, but the words are clear. As I’m sure you’re aware, he’s become quite an important man now. president of Russia. If I were to deliver the recordings to the
Secret Service Security Office, there would be repercussions.”

Her face was red with rage. “You’re a bastard.”

“As I said, I’ll never bother you again.”

“You’re asking me to choose between my life or Dalton’s. One of us will be destroyed.”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

He pointed to the computer. “All you have to do is go over to that computer, access Dalton’s schedule, and give me what I want.”

“Oxford was a wonderful place. So many smart people. We used to sit around and…”

Orlov had to get her to focus. “Just go to the computer and give me what I want.”

“Tell me again. What is it?”

Orlov was taken aback. “I want to know whether President Dalton is going to Camp David this weekend and if so when.”

“I won’t give you that information. You don’t have clearance for it.”

“I’ll get you fired. Ruin your life.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m retiring in a month. I’m not well. I won’t end my career by giving out classified information without clearance.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Have you ever been to Oxford?”

“Do it now,” Orlov said in a menacing tone. She walked over to the desk. Orlov was hopeful she’d boot up the computer. Instead, she sat down, removed the Oxford photo from the drawer, and stared at it. “Oxford was a wonderful place.”

He cut across the room, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Hey! You’re hurting me,” she cried out.

Orlov weighed his options. He could torture her, but he was convinced she’d never do what he wanted. He’d have to find another way.

He bolted toward the front door. Behind him, he heard her saying, “Oxford was a wonderful place.”

Orlov spent the night at a Days Inn on Connecticut Avenue.

At ten the next morning, he called Valerie. As he expected, the phone kicked into voice mail. Good. She must be at work.

In a heavy rainstorm, he drove south on Connecticut, turned onto Newark, and parked a block from her house. He was glad for the rain. The sidewalk was deserted. Given the hour, traffic was sparse.

When he reached Valerie’s house, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching him, then went around to the back of the house. Large trees blocked the view from neighbors. Orlov climbed the three cracked cement stairs leading to a small wooden porch with decaying wood. He tried the back door by turning the knob. The lock was in place, but he could tell it was old and weak. He leaned his powerful shoulder against the door. The lock quickly gave way.

One more glance behind. Confident no one had seen him, Orlov went right to the living room. He sat down at Valerie’s desk and stared at the blank computer screen.

Lots of people, he had learned over the years, were fearful of losing the passwords for their computers or the numbers to gain access to a safe, so they write the information down and hide it. Generally, not very well.

Valerie might even have left the paper with the password in the desk drawer. He began with the side drawers. Just pens and supplies. No paper with the password. He opened the center desk drawer. On top, Orlov found a booklet containing a telephone and email directory for the U.S. Secret Service. He recalled Valerie saying last night, “I won’t give you that information.” And not, “I can’t access it from my home computer.” The presence of the directory confirmed what Orlov had deduced from Valerie’s words. Like many people, she used her home computer for work.

Under the directory, Orlov found a medical report from Johns Hopkins Medical Center in Baltimore with Valerie’s name on top. It contained a date one month ago. Orlov pulled it out and began reading.

“Conclusion:

The patient is displaying the early signs of Alzheimer’s disease. At this point, it is difficult to state how rapidly the disease will proceed.”

Valerie knew she had Alzheimer’s. This medical conclusion strengthened
Orlov’s conviction that Valerie had written down her computer password.

He rifled through the rest of the center desk drawer. No password. He tried drawers in a couple of chests. Only dishes and silver.

Orlov looked around the room and asked himself: where would Valerie be likely to hide it that she could get at it quickly.

The beer mug above the fireplace caught his eye. Orlov pulled it down and looked inside. He found a small piece of paper. On it, Orlov saw written in pencil the word Oxford. Then a series of numbers 1-26. The first twenty-five had lines through them.

Orlov was now convinced he had what he needed. Valerie’s password was Oxford and a number. The U.S. Secret Service, like many organizations, no doubt required that people change their passwords periodically. So she had done it by repeatedly changing the number next to Oxford. He placed the paper back in the beer mug. Excited, he returned to the computer and booted it up. “Welcome to the U.S. Secret Service” appeared on the screen. Orlov entered Valerie Clurman for user and the password Oxford26. Then he held his breath. Eureka!

He was in the system.

It took Orlov five minutes to locate President Dalton’s schedule. He went to Friday, three days from now. There, he found what he wanted: “POTUS” will be leaving the White House by helicopter at four ten in the afternoon. POTUS will be flying in the second helicopter.”

Orlov was amused by the American intelligence community’s use of the acronym POTUS for president of the United States. Everyone knew it. Why didn’t they just say Dalton?

Well, never mind. He had what he wanted.

He turned off the computer and tried to make everything in the house look like it had been when he entered.

Orlov spent Tuesday night at a hotel near Baltimore airport. The next morning, he bought hiking equipment in Baltimore. Armed with a map on which he had added a line from the White House to the presidential retreat known as Camp David, he drove northwest into the Catoctin Mountains in northern Maryland.

He saw a parking lot for tourists about twenty miles from Camp David on a line from Washington to the presidential retreat. It was the middle of the week. As he expected, the parking lot was deserted. Orlvo got out of the car and trudged through the thick forest, pushing aside branches which scratched his arms. He was searching for an abandoned or deserted hut or cabin. Any kind of abandoned or empty structure he could use to conceal his Pakistani assassin. If he didn’t find one, he’d have to settle for positioning the assassin in thick trees and bushes—a much less desirable alternative.

He walked for nearly three hours in the increasing heat and humidity. His shirt was wet with perspiration. He’d been bitten by a dozen mosquitoes. He narrowly avoided stepping on a snake. His two large water bottles were almost empty.

He was beginning to despair, when he saw ahead a small wooden cabin.

He looked up into the clear blue sky. No obstructions on the line from Washington to Camp David.

He approached the cabin cautiously. On the side, was one very dirty window. Orlov wiped it with his handkerchief and peered inside. He didn’t see anyone.

Orlov checked the front door. It was locked. With his shoulder, he forced off the lock. Inside, he looked around. He saw a couple of hunting rifles in a case. Above the fireplace, hung a deer’s head with a large set of antlers. Every surface was coated with dust. It must have been months since anyone was here. Perhaps not since the last fall hunting season.

Orlov could hardly believe his luck. A deserted hunting cabin. He needed it only for one night. Thursday. The hunters would never be back on a week day this time of year.

Everything was falling into place. Only one more piece was missing. And it was a large one: the assassin.