The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale Page 8

  The subliminal message to its citizens: No one is strong enough to save you from your dictator and his political cronies.

  There is just so much footage Abu can take of the passing battalions of goose-stepping soldiers. Thank goodness that, after ninety minutes, the pièce de résistance comes into view: rows of Topol-M nuclear missiles.

  The blast of just one will incinerate tens of millions of victims. Terror comes in many forms.

  Once again, I get in front of the remote camera and espouse the details of yet another chess piece in the sensitive war games between Russia and the democracies it despises.

  After the parade, press members will be shuttled into a large exhibition hall known as the Moscow Manege, right off the parade route, where it promises a different kind of show: a movie showcasing weapons prototypes. It is being billed as “a glimpse of Russia’s military future.”

  I’m sure it ain’t pretty; more like pretty frightening.

  Like the other reporters, Yegor, Abu, and I are escorted to seats that match the numbers on our manifests. Luuk’s chair is conspicuously empty.

  The Russian president’s head appears on a giant floor-to-ceiling screen. “He could be Big Brother in the novel 1984,” Emma whispers through my earbud. Through the transmitter on Abu’s camera, she sees and hears it too.

  For the next two hours, Putin harrumphs about his nation’s growing weapons arsenal. A surreal film created with computer-generated-imagery, supports his bellicose claims. It features a small-scale nuclear-armed cruise missile that can travel at unlimited ranges and outwit antimissile systems.

  “It is invincible!” he exclaims.

  In the next animation, a hypersonic cruise missile is launched from a jet. If, as claimed, it moves at blinding speeds, it should easily evade any interceptor rockets sent to chase it.

  “It sounds like a video game in the making,” Abu says to me.

  Another toy is a nuclear-powered submarine torpedo. Its awesome sauce is its supposed unlimited range. Once it’s in the water, it can travel forever.

  Or until it hits its intended target.

  In the film’s finale, a Hypervelocity Glide vehicle is launched into space, only to fly back down into earth’s atmosphere at such a high speed that it outwits the United States’ defense systems.

  In the video, it detonates right over Hilldale. It’s Putin’s joke on POTUS: He knows Lee loves the few times a year that he can visit what the media calls the “Western White House.”

  As far as what Putin has to say about Russia’s lagging economy, his one quasi-mea culpa is a vow to cut poverty in half and increase the average Russian’s life expectancy rates to those similar to Japan’s.

  “It might help if he doesn’t put his country in the middle of a nuclear war,” I mutter to Abu.

  Abu frowns. “He just said that Russia is spending three hundred and sixty million dollars on all these toys in the coming decade and a half. Could you imagine if he put it toward growing his economy instead? Russia covers eleven percent of the Earth’s land mass. Twice as large as Canada! And yet, its economy is just half of that of the state of California.”

  He’s right. A society is only as strong as its economy.

  NATO nations have a reason to be skittish. This goes double for the United States, which would rather unite the world through innovation and commerce than fear and treachery.

  Finally, Putin gives credit to his youthful team of tech scientists from the Russian Federal Nuclear Center, the entity that is overseeing its weaponry innovations. “Russia’s military brains have made America’s response obsolete,” he declares.

  With that, he cedes the microphone to the project’s head scientist, Timur Orlov.

  We’ve been told that should we be called on, we are to state the name of our organization first. We will only be allowed one question.

  Practically every person in the room raises their hands, including me. A stern-looking woman who seems to be in her twenties walks up and down the aisle. She holds a clipboard and taps the reporters who will be lucky enough to get airtime before they hustle the scientist off the stage.

  Luuk wrote his interview question in his manifest. It is thought-provoking, so I’ll stick with it:

  How long do you feel it will take China and the United States to catch up with the technology you’ve shown here?

  I’m about to think I won’t be called upon when Ms. Clipboard taps me on the shoulder.

  Abu may be manning the camera, but since I have to ask the question in Russian, he whispers the translation into my earbud, which I repeat in the microphone verbatim.

  Timur Orlov stares at me. I guess he’s trying to come up with an answer that won’t get him in trouble with his superiors. Finally, he states, “U nas byla roskosh’ nachal’nogo starta. No chto boleye vazhno, nashe intellektual’noye prevoskhodstvo ne imeyet sebe ravnykh.”

  I listen as Abu recites the translation: “We have had the luxury of a head start. But more importantly, our intellectual superiority is second to none.”

  I nod, thank him, and sit down.

  As he walks off, I realize I was Orlov’s last question. It may piss Luuk off, but I'll score brownie points with Rolf.

  Getting out of the auditorium with the other reporters is akin to a scrimmage. As the crowd maneuvers into their coats before grabbing their gear and rushing out the doors, someone bumps into me: It's Ms. Clipboard. Without saying a word, she slips something into my hand: a thumb drive. When our eyes meet, hers reflect her fear.

  She’s wondering if she’s doing the right thing. I slide it into a hidden pocket in my coat then I blink to assure her that she is.

  Well, this is certainly an interesting turn of events. I can’t wait to see what’s on it.

  When we get back to the office, Abu goes into the editing bay. He will download the digital footage into the editing system. But since it has already been transmitted to Acme ComInt, within an hour, television and radio news packages will have been created and uploaded to his computer.

  I too have work to do. I must download the two news articles that Acme has already put together based on the parade and press conference.

  They are excellent in their tone. Saber-rattling isn’t needed. The pieces lay out the facts without editorializing on the ferocity of Putin’s hawkish stance.

  After downloading them, I take another twenty minutes to look busy with the chore of “writing” them. I then transmit it to Yegor for distribution to Hart Media. I wait a moment for him to email back:

  In receipt of your articles. Will transmit now.

  Now for the real work: open the thumb drive, analyze it, and transmit it to Acme—something I can’t do on my company-issued computer.

  I stop by Nikolay’s office. “The time lag has caught up with me. I think I’ll go upstairs and take a nap.”

  He gives a nonchalant shrug. We both know he’ll be watching me anyway.

  I take the elevator up to my apartment floor. As it rises, I take off my heels. Nikolay will think it’s because my feet hurt. In truth, it’s because I want to slip by Luuk’s door as quietly as possible.

  When I get into my apartment, I turn on the radio, standard operating procedure to deter prying ears and inquiring minds.

  The place is nice enough: a large studio with a fully stocked galley kitchen and large modern bathroom with a tub, a separate double shower stall, and a double-sink with a marble bathroom counter. It also has a toilet and a bidet.

  Before heading to the bathroom, I pass my closet to grab a robe. I place my computer under it.

  By leaving the bathroom door open, the view of the toilet, shower, and tub are concealed from the vanity, affording me some privacy in case the GRU installed a two-way mirror. I suspect the light fixture over the vanity holds a mic.

  It's possible that Nikolay searched my things while I was out, including my computer. Its memory holds just the litter planted by Emma: the fake email correspondence with my old bosses or my boyfriend; photo
s of Gwendolyn while on her various journeys; and a substantial number of electronic travel receipts.

  What they don’t know is that I'll bypass the building’s Wi-Fi signal by accessing the CIA's secure SATCOM connection when I'm ready to upload the content from the thumb drive.

  As I do so, I’m shocked at what I see: diagrams of the small-scale nuclear-armed cruise missile that was showcased at the press conference.

  Through my earbud, I connect with Ryan. “Intercepted something of interest. Check the cloud soon.”

  “Will do,” he replies.

  I slide the thumb drive into one of the computer’s USB ports. While it’s uploading into Acme’s secure cloud, I change into my robe.

  I’d love to tear off my wig, but I can’t since I’m moving from room to room as if going on with my usual routine. The only place it comes off is in the shower, where prying eyes can’t see me.

  God, I can’t wait to be Me again.

  Just as the intel upload is completed, I hear the click of my door. Quickly, I take out the thumb drive and hide it in the closest thing I can find: one of my discarded heels. I tuck it into the toe of the shoe then toss it into the closet. I’m about to throw the other heel in there, but it’s too late.

  Luuk stands in the doorway.

  He still looks pale, but he’s forced himself to stand ramrod straight. He shuts the door. In a few strides, he is next to me. Before I know it he’s shoved me into the shower stall, slamming me up against a wall.

  As the frosted shower door clangs shut, he presses himself against me. His hand moves to my throat.

  I don’t know if Nikolay can see us in here. If so, he might assume this was a pre-arranged tryst. I wonder what he’ll think if Luuk strangles me to death? I guess it won’t matter if Luuk is GRU anyway.

  “Where is it?” Luuk growls in my ear.

  “Where is what?” I ask. I’m shocked at how calm I sound.

  “You were given something that belongs to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I hiss.

  He slaps me across the face. Instinctively, I raise my knee, but when I try to put it between his knees, he grabs it and lifts it high so that I’m standing only on one foot. Before I can shove him away, he takes my head and bashes it against the wall. I’m still too stunned to fight him as he twists the wrist of my free hand behind my back. I groan from the pain. To make matters worse, he leans into me, pressing my folded leg against my backside until I’m flat against the wall.

  “Tell me where it is,” he hisses in my ear, “or I will kill you now.”

  Like hell, you will.

  It’s not like I can defend myself with the only thing within reach, which happens to be a loofah. But then I remember that my free hand is still holding my stiletto heel.

  I stab him in the neck with it.

  He backs away, dazed.

  One good stab deserves another. I’m about to hit him again when Emma frantically hisses in my ear: “Donna, don’t kill him! Luuk is on our side! He’s an operative with the Dutch intelligence agency, AIVD—the Algemene Inlichtingen- en Veiligheidsdiens!”

  Now she tells me!

  Luuk’s hand goes to his neck. Yes, there is some blood, but thankfully it’s only a flesh wound. Now that he sees I’ve missed the carotid artery, he charges at me instead.

  “Our contact there suggests using the code: “De winterregens stoppen niet in maart!” Emma screams.

  As he pushes me up against the wall, I say it out as best as I can, “De…de winter-raygens…stoppen nite in maht!”

  Luuk freezes. Warily he whispers, “Who the hell are you?”

  “U.S. covert ops.” I gasp. “Acme. I’m a CIA contractor.”

  He relaxes and lets go of me. In fact, he's smiling even as he rubs his wound. “Acme, eh? Well then, you must know Dominic! How is the old boy?”

  “I presume you won’t mind sharing the intel with us,” I say as I pour Luuk another glass of bathtub gin.

  Actually, it’s vodka, stolen from the office liquor cabinet. If we don’t need a drink, I don’t know who does.

  Because the bathroom door is still open, it blocks any view of us from the vanity mirror. We’re sitting on the edge of the tub. We aren’t undressed, but the water is running, and I’ve turned up my iTunes mix of Barry White love songs to tune out audio surveillance.

  Every now and again we let loose with a few sighs, slaps, grunts, and some heavy moaning in the hope that our voyeurs’ imaginations are running wild.

  Luuk chuckles at my question. “In any event, it’s too late now, since it’s already been transmitted.” He then groans loudly and exclaims, “Ach! Gwendolyn! I…love it when you do that!”

  I try my damnedest not to burst out laughing. When I get control of myself, I whisper, “Last night, when we were attacked by those thugs, were you just going to let them beat us up?”

  He shakes his head. “They too are AIVD operatives. It was a test.” He grins. “By the way, you failed miserably. No frozen fear or girly squeals from you! Poor fellows! The way you roughed them up put me on alert.”

  “Which is why you hid the extra press pass,” I reason. I then shout, ecstatically, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  Luuk shows his kudos for my performance by throwing me a kiss. “A question: How did you make me ill?”

  I shrug. “Oleander petals in your coffee.”

  He frowns. “It could have been fatal.”

  “Sure, had I used more,” I admit. “Next time, think like a woman and don’t ask a stranger to get you a drink.”

  He stifles a laugh then follows up with some loud naughty talk.

  I answer with a few choice words of my own.

  “Were you sent here for the same intel?” he asks.

  “No. Acme is investigating Hart Media. We feel it may be laundering money for…” I point in the direction of the vanity mirror.

  He gets it. “I’ll do what I can to help. What specifically are you looking for?”

  “That’s just it. We don’t know. Perhaps it’s using the bureau’s reporters as unwitting couriers, or for that matter, our two babysitters, wittingly.” I let go with a passionate moan.

  As Luuk slaps the water to indicate we’re in the throes of aquatic ecstasy, he whispers, “Ja, this is possible.”

  “Who was your inside contact?”

  “The lead scientist who was onstage. His wife is also on the team. She made the brush pass to you. Next, I must arrange their exfiltration. Needless to say, she was surprised that ‘Luuk Jansen’ was a woman.” He raises a brow. “No matter. My superiors don’t mind sharing the intel with your country. Sometimes the stench from our discretionary bankers is quite foul and needs airing out.” His smile fades. “Speaking of which, a scandal has broken in the States regarding your president.”

  I freeze when I hear that.

  He motions for me to groan in unison with his slaps. As I accommodate, he adds, “It seems that one of the companies in his blind trust has been linked to an offshore account being laundered by one of our banks. It was a client of Wagner Klein.”

  Ouch! That will garner some bad publicity for Lee. It couldn't have happened at a worse time. He’s about to start campaigning for re-election.

  The other party’s candidates will be sure to jump all over that. And since it has control of both the House and Senate, it’s sure to be quite a sideshow.

  “Who broke the story?” I whisper between loud sex yelps.

  “Believe it or not, it was one of Hart Media’s other new hires: Jeanette Conkling. She’d been given the position of special correspondent, reporting from Berlin. She got the tip from a Wagner Klein employee and followed it from there.”

  He yodels ecstatically in unison with my moans. We’ve reached “climax.”

  With a sigh, Luuk slaps the bathwater one last time.

  “Interesting,” I reply. “I’ll read Hart Media’s take on it the moment we, er, get out of the tub.”

  Luuk lifts a foot
out of the water. “I’m feeling a bit waterlogged anyway. Still, I appreciate that you are willing to help burnish my cover as a drunk and heartless lothario—not that you’ll be doing it for much longer.”

  I frown. “Oh no? Why is that?”

  “I got an email from Rolf. You’re being transferred stateside. Hart Media is putting a lot of manpower behind this story about your president. Rolf says it has legs.”

  “Why didn’t they ask for you?”

  “They did, but I was adamant that I wanted to head up the Moscow bureau. It’s the best way for me to serve my country. Besides, I don’t think my accent would go over too well on American talk radio.”

  “The position is with Hart Radio Network?”

  Luuk nods.

  I’m surprised, but I’m also pleased. On radio no one will recognize my face.

  The transfer means I’ll be going back to the States. And working at headquarters will make it easier to snoop around the Hart family’s corporate lair.

  “In any regard, Rolf is happy that you’re willing to go. He was impressed with your coverage of the parade and on getting in a question for the scientist.” He grins. “I’m glad you asked one I’d written. Otherwise, our countries wouldn’t have this intel.”

  Nodding silently, I rise.

  Of course, Hart Media wants to stick it to Lee. He’s following the money. They want to bring him down before it leads to Hart Media, and for that matter the Quorum.

  I’m dressed only in a towel when I walk Luuk out. For any viewing audience, we linger in the doorway wrapped in a stage kiss.

  At that moment, Abu passes. A raised brow is his way of showing that he can’t wait to hear what I did with my spare time.

  He waits until Luuk closes his apartment door before declaring, “It was a pleasure knowing you, Gwendolyn. By the way, I just got word that I’m being transferred stateside. Hart Media wants me to work in the D.C. bureau. I guess the U.S. election season is already heating up, among other things.”