A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short (4 page)

“What about Agent Showers and the Bureau?” Storm asked.

“I’ve already answered that. No FBI. Period.”

“Even if Agent Showers and the Bureau are your best shot at saving Matthew Dull’s life?”

Windslow’s face was now turning red with both frustration and anger. “You’re supposed to be my best shot. But, so far, all you’ve done is flap your jaws and question my integrity. I’ve destroyed men much more powerful than you are. I crushed them like bugs under my boot heel. If you want out of this, then get the hell out of my house and go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under. But you’ll keep your damn mouth shut about the six million—if you know what’s good for you. Either way, I need to know if you are in or out.”

Storm rose from his seat and stood directly in front of Windslow’s age-lined face. “Don’t threaten me, Senator,” he said calmly. “The last guy who did didn’t survive his 'heart attack.’”

For a moment, neither flinched, and then Windslow broke into an odd smile. “Fair enough,” he said. “In Texas, we admire a man who stands his mud. But while the two of us are having this little pissing contest, time is wasting.”

Common sense told Storm to walk away. The kidnappers had an inside source. The fact that they wanted him to drive tonight was suspicious. Was he being set up? Ever since Tangiers, Storm had trusted Jones completely. He still did. But was it possible that Senator Windslow was right about the CIA’s involvement? People were expendable. Storm had learned that early on. And that applied to him, too. For the good of the country, he could be sacrificed.

From the beginning, Storm had been curious about why Jedidiah had brought him back to help solve a kidnapping. There had to be more involved here. Jedidiah had admitted that to his face. But what was being hidden in the shadows? What was the game that he was being drawn deeper into?

During his overnight Internet investigation, Storm had learned about Ivan Petrov. The Russian was another suspect that he’d added to the long list of suspects identified by Agent Showers. She had told him that the senator and Jedidiah were involved in a nasty dispute about a covert operation. Windslow had reacted violently when questioned about that operation and about Petrov. Showers had mentioned a six-million-dollar bribe from a foreigner. The kidnappers were demanding a six-million-dollar payoff. Were they the same six million, and if so, was that significant or a coincidence?

Only one thing was perfectly clear—the longer Storm stayed, the more he discovered, the more difficult it would be to walk away. Senator Windslow had just offered him an out. To the world, Derrick Storm was still dead. He could catch a flight back to Montana that afternoon and disappear. He could be fly-fishing at sunrise tomorrow. The big trout was still there waiting for him.

It really could be that simple. That easy. All he had to do was walk away now, which is what anyone with any shred of common sense would do.

“I’ll drive tonight,” Storm said.

“What about Agent Showers?” Windslow asked. “Are you going to tell her about what’s happening—about the money and the four bags?”

“No,” Storm said. “I’ll deliver the money tonight with Samantha Toppers on my own. Without backup—either from the FBI or Jones.”

Chapter Six

Storm had gone about a mile from Windslow’s Great Falls estate, when the cell phone that Jedidiah Jones had given him began to ring.

“Out on an early morning drive,” Jones said when Storm answered. “How’s our friend this morning?”

Jones was tracking him. Was the FBI, too?

“He’s a bit rattled,” Storm said.

“Why don’t you drop into my office? The exit is clearly marked.”

Jones was referring to a green exit sign on the George Washington Parkway that read: “George Bush Center for Intelligence CIA, Next Left.”

So much for secrecy.

Storm took the exit and soon reached a stoplight where Georgetown Pike intersected with the entrance to the CIA’s vast compound in Langley. Someone had placed freshly cut flowers next to two wooden crosses in the median. The sight of them brought back a memory.

It had been cold in January 1993 when an Islamic fundamentalist from Pakistan stopped at this intersection and casually stepped from his Isuzu pickup. He’d lifted an AK-47 rifle to his shoulder and started shooting motorists and passengers in the vehicles that had stopped behind him at the stoplight, waiting to turn into the CIA compound. They were employees on their way to work. The shooter had spared the women because he’d considered murdering them a cowardly act. In all, the Pakistani killed two CIA employees and wounded three others before he returned to his truck and drove away. It had taken a special CIA team five years to track down the gunman. They’d caught him while he was asleep in a three-dollar-a-night Pakistan hotel. The terrorist had been brought back to the U.S., put on trial, and executed in Virginia’s electric chair. The flowers were a reminder of the nation’s many enemies out there.

When the red light changed, Storm turned into the CIA entrance and out of habit stayed in the left lane as he approached a large guardhouse. Suddenly, he caught his mistake and swerved into the right lane. The entrance on the left side was for employees. As directed by signs, Storm stopped at a speaker and announced that his name was Steve Mason and he was coming to see the director of the NCS.

“What’s your Social Security number?” a male voice asked.

“You’ll have to ask the director for it,” he replied.

For several minutes, Storm sat in his car at the now silent speaker, imagining what was happening in the guardhouse, which was about a hundred yards directly in front of him. It was unusual for someone to withhold their Social Security number.

Finally, the male voice said, “Mr. Mason, drive forward slowly.”

Two armed security officers stepped from the guardhouse, both cradling semiautomatic weapons. When he reached them, one of the officers compared his face to a picture. It was an old shot from Storm’s CIA files, only the name on it now was “STEVE MASON.” Satisfied, the officer let him pass.

Storm drove the Taurus through a maze of waist-high concrete pillars designed to prevent motorists from speeding through the main gate. He parked in the visitor’s lot outside the 1960s-era Old Headquarters Building at the top of a gentle hill. Inside, Storm walked across the CIA emblem embedded in the gray marble lobby floor. To his left was a white stone wall inscribed with a quote from the Holy Bible: John, Chapter 8, Verse 32:

“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

To his right were five rows of stars on a wall, each representing a CIA officer who had been killed in the line of duty.

An attractive middle-aged woman dressed in a dark gray business suit was waiting to escort Storm through Security. Storm found Jedidiah perched behind his GSA-issued executive desk, which had been cleared of all papers, a routine practice whenever someone not officially employed by the Agency entered a room.

“Why’d the senator call you this morning? Was he having nightmares?” Jones asked gleefully.

Déjà vu.
How many times had Storm sat across from Jones in this office? How many times had they discussed black ops? But that had been then. This was now.

Ignoring Jones’s question, Storm replied, “When were you going to tell me about Ivan Petrov?”

Jones leaned forward and raised his interlocked fingers, placing them directly under his chin with his elbows now resting on his desk. He seemed to be in deep thought. “I wondered when you would identify Petrov. What have you learned?”

It was as if Storm were still in training, being dropped off with only the clothes on his back in a frozen wilderness as part of a survival exercise.

“Ivan Petrov,” Storm said, “was once best friends with Russian President Oleg Barkovsky. It was Barkovsky who helped Petrov become a multi-billionaire by letting him privatize the nation’s largest bank after the collapse of the Soviet Union. He became one of Russia’s first oligarchs. Private jets, a yacht in the Mediterranean—Petrov bought all the toys. He even owns an English castle outside London formerly owned by the Duke of Madison. And then two years ago, Petrov started biting the hand that was feeding him. How am I doing so far?”

Jones nodded approvingly. “Go on,” he said.

“Petrov began publicly criticizing Barkovsky. He developed political ambitions of his own. That’s when President Barkovsky brought down the hammer. He sent the Federal Security Service into Petrov’s bank and seized all its records. He accused Petrov of embezzlement and crimes against the state. He was about to have him arrested when Petrov somehow managed to slip out of Moscow.”

Storm paused and said, “His escape looked like something you might have had a hand in.”

Jones smiled slightly and said, “More likely MI-6. The Brits. They’ve done that sort of thing before, remember? But you’re the one telling this story.”

“Petrov surfaced in London, where he surrounded himself with bodyguards and began a personal crusade to get Barkovsky ousted from the Kremlin. The Russian president didn’t take the attacks well. There was a sensational murder. The poisoning of a top Petrov aide. Radionuclide polonium-210, I believe. Nasty stuff. Next came a car bomb. Petrov decided to come here. Probably felt safer. That’s when he really began showing up on your radar. Correct?”

Jones leaned back in his chair, which squeaked loudly. He rested his hands in his lap. And waited, without comment, for Storm to continue.

“Petrov makes a big splash in Washington. He buys a mansion on Embassy Row. He begins throwing elaborate parties for the city’s political elite. And he continues his verbal attacks on Barkovsky. He continues plotting ways to undermine him. He starts making friends on Capitol Hill.”

“Money and power,” Jones said. “They’re magnets in this town.”

“Petrov has the money. Billions,” Storm said. “Windslow has the power. A perfect marriage.”

Leaning forward, Jones began rapping his right index finger on top of his desk as if he were playing a drum. He was becoming impatient. “That all?” he asked.

“Is there more?” Storm replied coyly.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Cat and mouse. You go first.

Storm shook his head, indicating that he was done.

“You’ve uncovered the basics,” Jones said, taking over the story. “Everyone began getting nervous when Petrov and Windslow became so chummy. Officially, the White House has good relations with Russian President Barkovsky, so the President didn’t like having the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee becoming bosom buddies with an oligarch whose mission in life is to destroy a sitting Russian leader.”

“I’m sure Petrov’s billions made the White House nervous—given Windslow’s light fingers.”

Jones gave Storm an approving smile. “So you do know more. Shall I assume you also know about Agent Showers’s investigation and her recent claim that Windslow was paid a six-million-dollar bribe.”

“Showers said the six million came from London via the Cayman Islands. Petrov was granted political asylum by the Brits after he was forced to flee Moscow,” Storm said. “It’s an easy connection to make.”

“But it’s a circumstantial connection at best. There’s no proof that Petrov paid the bribe or that Windslow got it.”

For a second, Storm considered telling Jones about the six million in cash that Windslow had hidden in a bank safety deposit box. But he decided against it. He wanted to see what else Jones was willing to tell him.

“What was Petrov hoping to buy with his six-million-dollar bribe?” Storm asked.

“We don’t know. At least, not for certain.”

“Could it be the covert operation that you two are fighting about?”

“So you know about that, too,” Jones said. “You are a resourceful student.”

“That’s why you love me, isn’t it? Now, what is it—the covert operation that you are fighting about?”

“It’s a 'need to know’ operation, and you don’t need to know.”

“Is it linked to the kidnapping?”

Jones gave Storm a blank look. “I said you didn’t need to know.”

“Do you think Petrov is responsible for the kidnapping?”

“You tell me,” Jones said.

It was a difficult game to play with someone as experienced as Jedidiah Jones. He knew secrets about secrets about secrets. And he kept them carefully concealed until he needed to use them. Obviously, he was keeping the covert operation and his opinion of Ivan Petrov to himself. At least for now.

“Is Petrov even in the country?” Storm asked.

“He’s in London or on his yacht. It hardly matters. A billionaire can hire anyone to do his dirty work.”

“Why is a car from the Russian embassy tailing Agent Showers?”

“Now, that’s a good question—that you should ask her.”

“I will.” Changing subjects, Storm said, “Senator Windslow suggested this morning that you brought me here as a ruse. He said you don’t really care about solving the kidnapping. He suggested that you wanted me to investigate his relationship with Petrov. He thinks you might even have engineered this whole thing—the kidnapping—as part of some elaborate agency ploy.”

A look of disgust came over Jones’s face. “Please, do you think I would put this agency at risk by abducting a senator’s stepson in broad daylight in Georgetown and then jerking his teeth out? My hands are clean. But he’s right about me wanting you to find out more about his relationship with Petrov. The White House also wants to know more.”

Storm asked, “Is that why Agent Showers’s bribery case against Senator Windslow has been put on ice? The White House doesn’t want the public to know that Petrov bribed Windslow?”

“Let’s just say everyone believes it is prudent to wait right now until we know for certain that Petrov bribed Windslow and, if he did, what Petrov expected to get for his money. The White House wants to know the answers to that before it’s made public. There could be international consequences.”

“And the covert mission—the one that you don’t want to discuss—could that be something that Windslow got you and the agency to do for Petrov? Are your hands really clean?”

Jones raised his palms in front of him. It was a gesture that was intended to show that his palms were washed and also to stop this line of questioning. “Let’s focus on the kidnapping,” he said.

“'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,’” Storm taunted.

“Sometimes too much truth is not a good thing when it comes to international politics,” Jones replied. “Find out who’s behind the kidnapping. And do it without causing the White House or this agency embarrassment.”

“One last question,” Storm asked. “Where’d you hide the bug? In the rental car or are you using the cell phone?”

“You’re the private detective,” Jones said. “You figure it out.”