Conspiracy in Kiev (3 page)

FOUR

O
utside, another unusually cold winter evening chilled the city of Washington. In her office, Alex shut down her primary desktop. She checked the email on her secondary computer, the one that carried classified material, and spotted a message that had come in minutes earlier. The sender wasn’t anyone she recognized. She grimaced. “I’m never going to get out of here today,” she whispered to herself. She clicked her mouse to open the email. Hopefully it was something she could dispatch easily.

The correspondence opened. Might have known.

For her eyes only:

THIS IS A CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATION FROM THE GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND IS INTENDED FOR THE ADDRESSEE ONLY. IF YOU HAVE RECEIVED THIS EMAIL IN ERROR PLEASE IMMEDIATELY DELETE THE EMAIL AND ANY ATTACHMENTS WITHOUT READING OR OPENING THEM.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered, slightly louder. She had lately developed the habit of speaking to the computer, usually insultingly, when she was not happy with what was on the screen. The final hours of a long day often brought forth the habit.

But there was no changing the message. She had been summoned to a specially arranged meeting at the State Department the next morning. Main Building on C Street NW, only about a twenty minute walk from Treasury along Pennsylvania Avenue and then down Twenty-first Street. Room 6776 B. No further details. She was to be there at 8:00 a.m.

She stared at the text for a moment. Was this email official or some sort of late hours after work prank? The State Department?

Streamlined and reorganized in 2007, FinCen was a division of Treasury, which interfaced with other American intelligence agencies: the FBI, the National Intelligence Service, the CIA, the recently overhauled Immigration and Naturalization Service. It was through this connection that Alex knew a man named Robert Timmons. Timmons was an agent of the United States Secret Service, assigned to the Presidential Protection Detail at the White House. He was also her fiancé, the wedding scheduled for the following July. On Alex’s left hand, she wore the diamond that Robert had given her.

The Presidential Protective Detail, these days known as “Einstein Duty.” All the presidents had their nicknames among the men and women of the Secret Service who guarded them. Clinton had been “Elvis.” Clinton’s successor, Bush 43, had been the “Shrub.” This president, newly elected the previous November, was Einstein, a tribute to not how smart the president was, but how smart the president
thought
the president was. That, and a certain distracted way with clothing.

A slight smile crossed her lips as she reconsidered this email.

Maybe …

She picked up the phone. She called Robert at the White House.

In addition to being one of the new president’s bodyguards, Tim-mons was also a liaison officer between the United States Secret Service and foreign protective services. He wasn’t above sending her an amusing personal message disguised as a work document. He came on the line. His tone said all business.

“Hey,” she said. “Is this the Black Dog?”

His tone softened and changed as he recognized her voice.

“Hey,” he answered. “That’s what some people call me.”

“Know anything about this meeting I’ve been summoned to tomorrow morning?”

A pause, then, “I know all about it,” he said.

“Why do
you
know all about it and
I
don’t?” she asked. “Or is this a trick to get me to call you so we can have a late dinner?”

“I’ll accept the late dinner,” he said, “but the State Department thing is legit.” A pause, then, “Think Orange Revolution.”

A beat, then she had it. “Ukraine? The old Soviet Republic?”

“Bingo. Presidential visit to Kiev in one month. I hope your passport is current.”

“The passport is current, but
I’m
not. Can’t you scratch my name off the list?”

“I suppose I could have, but I didn’t.”

“After nearly getting blown apart in Lagos, the only place I wish to travel to is the gym. Right now.” She glanced at her watch. Almost 7:00 p.m.

He was silent on the line.

“Then, Greek food later?” he asked.

“Why not?” Her tone was one of resignation. “Maybe I can impale myself on one of the skewers. Or better, I’ll impale you for not knocking my name out of contention.”

“Perfect,” he answered. “I’ll see you at the Athenian at ten.”

“Bring flowers,” she said. “I’m furious with you.”

“I wouldn’t dare arrive without them,” he said.

Alexandra and Robert had first met four years earlier in Washington.

Their respective employers required that they continue their “second language” studies. So both had signed up for advanced Spanish literature at Georgetown University.

They read bizarre but intriguing South American novels in the original Spanish, which they both spoke fluently. Characters could talk directly to angels, demons, and sometimes even God. They sprouted wings and flew. They wore magic rings, mated with wild animals, and slipped in and out of various universes.

Alex and Robert hit it off right away, bonding over shared experiences: rural blue-collar work—Alex had worked on a cattle ranch as a teenager, Robert put himself through college working on a dairy farm during summers in Michigan, feeding the livestock, hauling hay, shoveling manure, and taking the occasional dead calf out for burial. A few weeks after the course ended, the Secret Service assigned Robert to Seattle, then to San Francisco, while Alex worked out of FBI bureaus in Philadelphia and New York. They did not see each other for three years. Later, in 2006, when Robert was assigned to the White House and she had taken a job at Treasury, he tracked her down.

He was a Secret Service agent, but he was also a guy with a golden Labrador retriever named Terminator, whom he referred to as “my kid from a previous relationship.” He was Alex’s chess partner, a guy who wore a Detroit Tigers cap at home while he watched sports on TV, often reading a new book at the same time. He was a four-handicap golfer and an amateur guitarist. Unlike anyone else she knew in law enforcement, he could play the opening riffs from Led Zep’s “Black Dog.” This had given him a great nickname in his class at the Secret Service Academy in Turco, Georgia.

Black Dog.

Many of his peers still continued the nickname. It was often his code name on assignments. Alex though it was funny. In many ways, Robert was as white bread as it got. And he sure wasn’t any dog. Hence the nickname, perfect in its imperfection.

Time out:
Washington insiders knew Secret Service personnel to be very arrogant. Touchy. Showy. Difficult to deal with because they always put agency agenda in front of everything, even personal relationships.

Time back in:
“People ask me what it’s like to date a Secret Service agent,” Alex would tell people. “I always say, ‘I’m not dating a Secret Service agent, I’m dating Robert Timmons.’ ”

Time out again:
Secret Service people were also known to be the best shots in the federal service. According to folklore, they could knock a cigarette out of a chickadee’s beak at fifty feet and still leave their little feathered pal chirping. The bird shouldn’t have been puffing on a butt anyway.

Time back in:
On the pistol range, Alex was better than Robert, something he grudgingly admitted and admired.

So the relationship worked. He was everything to her and vice versa. He was also something that no one else had ever been, the one person who was always there for her and accepted her exactly the way she was. He was also the guy she went to church with on the Sunday mornings when he wasn’t on duty, which was something very special to her.

They were completely compatible.

He set up a chessboard at her apartment. He liked the figures from the Civil War and they always had a game in progress. Sometimes when he would stop by they would do two moves each or four or six, the game ongoing day-to-day.

He loved leaving affectionate or funny notes for her to find, nestled into towels, under a piece on the chess board, in the medicine cabinet, in the freezer, on a window.

Anywhere.

Then, while away, he would send her emails suggesting where to look for the notes. “Look inside the Rice Chex box,” said one. “You might want to look behind the television,” said another.

He could not travel without calling her. If they could, and they always managed some way, they always had a last kiss before he went out of town on an assignment.

They both shared a soft spot for country music, to the horror of many of their eastern friends. Heartfelt white soul music by people whose names could be reversed and they’d still work just fine-and-perfect, good buddy: Travis Randy, Tritt Travis, Black Clint, Paisley Brad, Gill Vince.

Even Chicks Dixie.

“Waffle House music,” Robert called it. But he admitted that he liked it too, with particular attention to early Cash Johnny.

Waffle House music. Robert always made her laugh, but they had had their serious talks, too, both before and after deciding to get married. Robert had talked with her once about dying young.

“If I’m going to go to my grave early, ‘in the line of fire’ isn’t a bad way,” he said. He told her that if something should happen to him after they married, she should allow a new husband to find her. It was all hypothetical, of course. Neither of them ever thought disaster would really strike. Horrible things like that only happened to other people.

FIVE

A
lex drove to the gym on Eighteenth Street and Avenue M.

In the women’s locker room, she changed from her office attire—“the monkey suit,” she called it—into trim dark shorts with a Treasury Department insignia, a sports bra, and a loose-fitting white T-shirt with the likeness of U2—the Irish band, not the Ike-era spy plane—across the front.

She went to the second floor and spotted some friends shooting hoops, including a close friend, Laura Chapman, who worked at the White House as a liaison between Secret Service and other protective agencies. Laura, a former Secret Service agent herself, now had her own agency and department.

Alex and Laura worked their way into a co-ed game, along with two other women. The gym was warm, noisy but not deafening. Two other games were in process on nearby courts. Runners thundered around the track overheard, and somewhere in one of the side rooms a martial arts class was in session. A local George Washington University kid carried the whistle, wore a striped shirt, and reffed the pickup hoops. He called a good game.

Recently, two new guys had worked into the rotation. She didn’t know much about them. A wiry guy named Fred, who looked like a banker: all arms and elbows and jerky movements. The other players called him, “Head and Shoulders.” Another new guy was Juan, a muscular Latino who was a law student at GW. At five foot six, he was a tall dwarf in basketball terms—shorter than both female players. But he made it up in speed and court savvy. The star of the game this night, however, was another regular gym rat, a strapping big guy from North Carolina named Benjamin.

Alex liked Ben, though she knew him only from the gym. He’d been a marine gunnery sergeant in Iraq where a remote control roadside bomb in Anwar Province had taken off his leg below the knee.

Now he had a prosthesis for a right leg. He was in the process of getting his life back together.

Ben was the slowest guy on the court, but at six four was also the tallest in more ways than one. He played center for Alex’s team and played it with a huge heart. From her guard position, Alex loved to feed him quick high passes that he’d pick off with his huge hands and slam into the hoop. The half-court helped him.

On this night, Alex’s team won 29–25. Ben had a dozen. Alex had five, including a swished trey from the corner.

After the game, she toweled off, went to the weight room, worked out, ran laps, and was finished. She grabbed her stuff, headed back to the lockers and showered quickly. She changed into casual clothes and joined Robert for dinner, arriving a few minutes after ten at the Athenian in Georgetown.

The Athenian was a small, dimly lit Greek seafood place, red and white checkered tablecloths with a small candle on each table. The place was owned by a hulking mustached guy named Gus.

Gus was an émigré from Cyprus, a moody quick-tempered sort but an admirable host. Gus liked to pour free glasses of ouzo for his favored guests, which included anyone who displayed a reverence for Maria Callas, the Aegean, or a knowledge of soccer.

Gus was a fervent DC United man, but also followed, for reasons known only to himself, Barcelona FC and Chelsea via Gol TV. There were team photos and other colorful regalia around the place to bear witness.

Gus liked straight-arrow law-enforcement people. When Robert or Alex called ahead for a reservation, Gus always had a quiet table waiting and made sure the wine was chilled and the fish was cooked perfectly with the right herbs and a generous plate of rice and vegetables on the side. And so it went on this particular evening.

Robert had remembered the flowers, which Alex received with a kiss and a smile. Still, however, the idea of another high-anxiety trip abroad was something about which she was less than enthusiastic. The discussion went there quickly.

“And more language lessons?” she asked. “What’s this? My penalty for already speaking five fluently?”

“I hear Ukrainian is similar to Russian.”

“Similar but different. Like a tiger to a mountain lion.”

“Look, tomorrow morning you’ll get a briefing. If you want to say no, you’ll get the chance.”

Alex and Robert split a sea bass that Gus had grilled to perfection. Midway through the meal, Alexandra looked up and saw a man at the end of the bar whom she thought she recognized.

She caught him watching her. Rather than smile or acknowledge her, he looked away.

She was always noticing details: where someone stood, what they wore, who was present, who wasn’t. She knew the man at the bar hadn’t been there when she came in. She remembered that the far end of the bar had been empty.

So he had come in after her. Or had followed her.

Her hand went to Robert’s. She was about to give him a signal, to ask him to check the guy out. But Gus wandered to their table to chat.

Gus embarked on one of his tamer political rants, something to do with a Michael Moore film. Alex nodded and refrained from joining in. Robert listened patiently. Alex watched the man at the bar while Gus was speaking, using the mirror above the bottles. The man kept watching her.

It wasn’t her imagination, she decided. He was watching her and she had seen him before. But where? When their eyes hit head-on a third time, he finished his drink and hurried out.

Gus talked them into the baklava for dessert. Alex was glad she had spent the time in the gym. Gus’s baklava was delicious but portions were huge. Gus left their table. Alex turned to her fiancé. “There was a man at the bar watching me,” she said.

“Can’t say I blame him.”

“This isn’t funny, Black Dog.”

Robert looked to the bar. “Where is he?”

“He just left.”

“Okay, if he comes back in, I’ll pull the jealous boyfriend thing and shoot him. We might have to delay the wedding for twelve years while I serve the manslaughter charge.”

“That’s not where I’m going with this.”

“Okay,
you
shoot him.”

“Not funny,” she said. “He was watching me as if he had a reason. He just left. Fifteen seconds ago.”

His eyes slid to the doorway. “Okay,” he said. He got to his feet, went quickly to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the cold.

He was back in a minute. He sat down.

“Sorry. No one,” he said. “Just the usual muggers, junkies, and car thieves.”

“Not in this neighborhood,” she said.

“Okay. I didn’t see anyone.”

She settled slightly. “Thanks for looking.”

Being with Robert relaxed Alex, but through the whole evening there was only one thing she could think about.

Ukraine. She began to ask more questions.

“Look, normally they’d leave you alone after the Lagos trip,” he said. “But you know how the government works. Turn down the mission they want you to do and you don’t get the next one that
you
want to do.”

There was another quiet moment as she simmered. “Next you’ll tell me it’s not dangerous.”

“It’s
very
dangerous.”

“So why don’t they get one of those big six-foot-six guys in your department, the ones who block the view of the president when the prez is dumb enough to go shaking hands in hostile-action places like New York and Philadelphia?”

“They need a woman for this and all of the six-six ones are currently playing pro basketball.”

“Very funny,” she said. “Look, what do they want me to do? Go undercover at a night club in Odessa, swing around a pole, and listen in on gangsters?”

“I’d love to see that,” he said.

“Well, you won’t. And neither will anyone else.”

“Presidential visit,” he said. “That makes it top priority. The personnel computer spit out your name as someone who spoke Russian as well as the other major European languages. I saw your name because the list went by the Secret Service. They’re probably going to want you to learn some Ukrainian too.”

She groaned. “I was planning to spend the next few weeks planning a wedding, sitting around with my husband-to-be, going to movies, and maybe reading a trashy novel or two.”

He shrugged. “Sorry,” he said.

The more she thought about it this evening, the more the concept bothered her. She made a mini-decision. She would listen politely at State the next morning and then give them a firm but polite, “No way!”

There. That settled that.

Who was in charge of her life, anyway?

Her or them?