Dead Man's Rule (32 page)

Oleg nodded, but remained silent. He was normally an analyst, not an investigator, and therefore had nothing to contribute on this point. “Do you think we will be able to get any additional information from Anthony Simeon?”

“Maybe. When we interviewed him before, we were primarily interested in finding Sergei Spassky. We knew there was a chance that his clients were involved because of Sergei’s work on the
Ivanovsky
lawsuit, but that’s all we knew. Of course, we didn’t know about the link between the Chechens and the Brothers, so we didn’t ask him about that.”

“And now he is probably the only one left that we can ask.”

When they had returned to the Dirksen Building after Ben’s failed interview with Dr. Ivanovsky, they had found two overseas transmissions waiting for them. One was from an FBI legat and the other from the CIA station chief in Moscow. Both reported the same information: all three of the remaining Brothers had been killed in nearly simultaneous attacks inside Russia. Their lawyer was now the last lead.

Tony Simeon watched across the conference-room table as Agent Oleg Ignatev and Special Agent Elena Kamenev opened their briefcases and took out notepads and documents.

So both the FBI and the CIA were sending agents to talk to him. That must mean that whatever they wanted to talk about had both domestic and international ramifications. Interesting.

He had generally found that, in interviews and depositions, he could learn more by listening to questions than by asking them. Even the body language and—as here—the identity of the questioner could be revealing.

“How long have you represented the Brothers?” Special Agent Kamenev asked.

“Since they formed their LLC about seven years ago.”

“Then you may know the answer to a question that has bothered me for a while: Are any of them actually brothers?” she asked.

He chuckled. “No. They met in a Soviet prison and became blood brothers there. They went into business together when they got out and called their company
Bratstvo
. When they got to the US, they changed it to ‘the Brothers.’”

“What exactly did their business do?” asked Agent Ignatev.

Did?
Tony took note of the past tense, but his response betrayed nothing. “Import/export trade with Russia—beluga caviar, vodka, little wooden dolls. That sort of thing.”

“And what would they send back to Russia?”

“I know they exported computer equipment, because we handled a legal matter once regarding it. I’m not sure what else they sold.”

“Did they ever buy or sell weapons?” asked Special Agent Kamenev.

Tony noticed that both of them tensed very slightly as they waited for his answer. “Not to my knowledge.”

“You also represented a gentleman named Nikolai Zinoviev,” she said, switching subjects. “How did he come to employ you?”

Tony paused for a moment, considering what he could say. “He was referred to me by the Brothers, who pay my bills for representing him and his estate. I can’t tell you more without getting into confidential information covered by the attorney-client privilege.”

She jotted down a note. “When did you start representing him?”

“On the day that the
Ivanovsky
case was filed.”

“What did he and the Brothers tell you about that case?” asked Agent Ignatev.

“I’m sorry, but that’s privileged.”

“We have very good grounds to believe that they were using your services as part of a conspiracy to commit extremely serious crimes,” countered the CIA man.

“Really? What crimes?”

“We’re not at liberty to say,” said Agent Ignatev.

“Would they happen to involve illegal ownership of biological weapons?”

Yes,
said the stunned looks on both of their faces. Elena Kamenev recovered first. “Why do you ask?”

“Because during Dr. Ivanovsky’s deposition testimony, we asked him about his background. He mentioned that he had done classified microbiology work for the Soviet Union. I thought there might be a connection.”

“Did you have any other reason to believe that biological weapons might be involved?” she asked.

“No.”

“When did you last speak to any of the Brothers?” asked Agent Ignatev.

“On the day that the
Ivanovsky
trial ended.” That didn’t seem to surprise them, and they didn’t ask any follow-up questions—both of which reinforced his suspicion that the agents thought his clients had met untimely ends.

“Have you ever had any contact with the person or persons who planned to buy the contents of Mr. Zinoviev’s safe-deposit box from the Brothers?” Agent Ignatev asked.

“I was on a conference call with one of them about a month ago, and we sent some documents back and forth, but that’s all.”

“Do you have any contact information for them?” Elena Kamenev asked. Tony caught the undertone of urgency in her voice and saw that both agents were looking at him intently.

“They never gave me their names, phone numbers, or street addresses. We probably have their e-mails somewhere in our files. I could have my secretary look for it.”

“Could you do it now?” she asked.

“Certainly,” he replied, a little surprised. The FBI and CIA must have had no idea where to find the people the Brothers had dealt with. Otherwise, the agents wouldn’t have been so excited about e-mail addresses that were over a month old.

He dialed his secretary from the conference-room phone. “Rosa, could you find the correspondence file from the Brothers/Zinoviev transaction matter and bring it in here? Thanks.” He hung up the phone. “She’ll be up with it in a few minutes. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Not at the moment,” replied Special Agent Kamenev, “but we may want to talk to you later. In the meantime, we can provide you with protection if you like.”

Tony was silent for a long time. The situation was worse than he had thought. Whatever had been in that box was dangerous enough to get the attention of both the FBI and the CIA. And whoever now had it was systematically killing anyone who might know where they were. It seemed to be working. The government apparently had no idea where to find them.

And now the killers might be after him. No,
might
was an understatement. If they were smart, they would almost certainly come after him. He had represented the Brothers for years, had been involved in the sale of the safe-deposit box, and had ostensibly attempted to defend that sale in court. The killers would assume that the Brothers had told him everything—or at least they couldn’t safely assume otherwise. So they would try to kill him, and they would do it soon. It was the only rational thing for them to do.

And now he needed to decide what the rational thing for him to do was. He saw only one choice, though he didn’t like it. He sighed.

“Mr. Simeon?” prompted Special Agent Kamenev.

He looked at her and smiled, his decision made. “No. Thank you. I won’t be needing protection.”

Elbek sat at a small table with his squad commanders, discussing recent events and planning strategy. They huddled in a corner of what had once been the shipping room of the brewery building they now occupied. Twenty feet away, Dr. Umarov was hard at work cooking his deadly brew in converted fermentation tanks and turning it into particles finer than bath powder.

The bioweapons expert had not been happy when the small army of Chechens had suddenly arrived on his doorstep twelve days ago.
Well, too bad.
Elbek had not been happy about losing his headquarters building, but there was nothing he could do about it. Once the interrogation facility had been compromised, Elbek knew that it was only a matter of time—and likely not much time—before the FBI found the Elk Grove Village building. So they’d had to evacuate and sterilize it, and fall back to their weapons-production lab.

The portion of the old brewery building they could occupy without being exposed to Variant D was small and uncomfortable: a poorly heated, concrete-floored storage/shipping room, a tiny office, and a bathroom. The men grumbled, but not much. This might be a step down from their prior accommodations, but it was several steps up from the icy and drafty caves of the Chechen mountains. Besides, it would be only for two weeks.

And now those two weeks were almost over. In two days, they would move. It was time to make their final plans.

“Squad One will cover Milwaukee, Grand Rapids, Columbus, Indianapolis, and Minneapolis,” Elbek informed his lieutenants. “Squad Two will take Hartford, Boston, Pittsburgh, Nashville, and Atlanta. Squad Three has Fresno, Boulder, Austin, Anaheim, and Salt Lake City. Squad Four will deliver the weapons to our contacts in England, France, Germany, and Chechnya.”

The four squad leaders took rapid coded notes. This was the first time their general had given them their operational targets.

“You all have the training and expertise to pick your targets once you arrive,” Elbek continued, “and you’ll probably be able to make better choices than I can now. I trust your judgment. I will leave the operational details to your discretion. Hit shopping malls, train terminals, indoor sporting events—anything with a large concentration of people, a ventilation system, and light security. Any questions so far?”

“Why aren’t we attacking New York or Los Angeles or Chicago?” asked the leader of Squad Two, a young man who had only been with the Vainakh Guard for about a year and had not taken part in their initial strategic discussions.

“For two reasons,” Elbek explained patiently. “First, the security is tighter in the bigger cities. Second, remember our goal: we want to disable these countries so that they can no longer keep Islam in a cage. That means spreading disease, but it also means spreading fear. Most Americans and Russians don’t live near a big city like New York or Moscow, but most of them do live close to a small or medium-size city. Knowing that New York is under attack will not affect the lives of most Americans. They will continue going to jobs and drinking their Coca-Cola as they did before. But if Columbus and Fresno and Pittsburgh—and maybe the city where they work and shop—are under attack, then they will cower in terror. The great American machine will grind to a halt.”

The squad leader nodded. “And at the same time, the Russian and European machines will also grind to a halt. And we will be free.”

“Exactly,” said Elbek. “But we cannot begin our attack for two more days, and during that time we must remain undiscovered.” He turned to the leader of Squad Three, a former
Spetsnaz
captain and professional assassin. “Ibrahim, you said you had news?”

“Yes, sir. I just received a report from Grozny. All three of the Brothers have been located and eliminated.”

Elbek nodded. They had been watching the Brothers for some time, so it had not been particularly difficult to track them to their bolt-holes in Russia. After that, it had merely been a matter of finding the right moment to liquidate them.

“Most of the remaining targets are under FBI and police protection and are therefore too dangerous to hit,” Ibrahim continued. “But I’m not sure it matters. We have removed all significant threats.”

“Are you sure?” asked Elbek. “What about the lawyer? He knows a lot about this. Does he have guards?”

“Actually, he doesn’t.”

“Curious.” Elbek paused, wondering whether the attorney was bait in a trap. Ibrahim should be good enough to spot a trap, though. He weighed the risks for a moment, then made up his mind. “Kill him. Take care of it personally.”

“Yes, sir.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

T
HANKSGIVING

The day before Thanksgiving is not the best time to find a contractor for an emergency home-improvement project. Tony Simeon had to call in a favor before he managed to secure the services of Pierre LeGrand, a retired cat burglar who now worked as a security consultant. LeGrand’s main client was a group of high-end art galleries primarily owned by Frank Krause, a friend and client of Tony’s. Last year, Tony had cancelled a Hawaiian vacation so he could (successfully) defend Krause against charges of tax fraud.

Krause had repeatedly said he “owed Tony one,” and today Tony collected. He called Krause, who called LeGrand, who was willing—but not particularly happy—to do the job, no matter what day it was.

Operating on the assumption that his home and office phones were both bugged, Tony had called LeGrand from a pay phone to discuss the new security system he wanted installed. LeGrand couldn’t do it that day, but he was willing to work on Thanksgiving in light of the urgency of Tony’s request. Tony did not say why the system needed to be installed immediately, and LeGrand did not ask. He respected his clients’ privacy, and he had been in business long enough to know that unrevealed security concerns are often the most pressing.

Tony knew better than to return home. He spent the evening in public but inaccessible places. He arranged a long dinner at the Metropolitan Club and arrived early. While waiting for his table, he used the club phone to call the Lyric Opera ticket office and order a ticket to that evening’s six-hour performance of Wagner’s
Götterdämmerung
. He then called the Palmer House and reserved a room for the night.

After the opera, the streets and sidewalks were deserted, so he took a cab the few blocks to the hotel. He checked in, made a point of telling the desk clerk that he was
not
expecting any guests, and retired for the evening. He left the lights off as he got ready for bed. He also stayed away from the windows. When he lay down on the comfortable bed, he did not sleep.

“Hi, Mom,” Ben said into the phone. “I’ve got some bad news. We won’t be able to make it to Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Mrs. Corbin replied. “What happened?”

“I’ve just got too much going on right now. Sorry.”

“You can’t even take a break for Thanksgiving dinner?” she asked, sounding hurt.

“Sorry, no. I wish I could.”

“Will Noelle be coming, at least? I don’t want her to have to spend Thanksgiving alone, and her family is all the way in Minnesota.”

“Noelle is busy too, unfortunately.”

“You two have been busy a lot recently. I thought things were going to calm down after that trial a couple of weeks ago.”

“I did too, but some things came up.”

“What kind of things came up?” she demanded.

He quickly evaluated whether he could tell her anything without violating the rules laid down by Deputy Director Alexander—and decided he couldn’t. “I can’t talk about it.”

“You can’t even tell your own mother?”

Ben squirmed with guilt. “No. It’s a . . . uh . . . a national-security matter. I’m sorry.”

“Oh my! How did you get mixed up in something like that?”

“I can’t talk about that either.”

The line was silent for a moment. “Are you in any danger?”

Ben struggled with conflicting impulses. On the one hand, his mother was a champion worrier, so he didn’t want to tell her anything that would upset her further. On the other hand, she could usually tell if he was being evasive or misleading.

“The government is providing us protection,” he said at last.

Another pause. “And you’re protecting us by not coming to our house for dinner tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Don’t worry, Mom. Everything will be fine.”

Ibrahim Hasiyev drove slowly through Wilmette, getting a feel for the town. The streets were narrow and some were still brick-paved, making a loud thrumming noise under his tires that startled him at first. Stately elms and maples stood in sentinel rows on both sides of most roads. Wide, manicured lawns edged the streets and surrounded the houses like protective moats. A swirling breeze blew in from nearby Lake Michigan, making the few fallen leaves that had escaped the lawn services dance and race over the grass. The homes were mostly old and large—the type built in the early twentieth century by prosperous, but not quite wealthy, professionals with good taste. The kind of homes with good security systems.

A high-quality American residential security system normally meant sensors on downstairs doors and windows and pressure sensors in the entryways and on the stairs. It might also mean outdoor security cameras and possibly pressure sensors under the windows. None of these could be easily disconnected without triggering alarms. However, the police did not always respond quickly to automatic alarms, particularly during the day. They generally assumed the alarms had been set off accidentally. Ibrahim figured that he probably had at least ten minutes between the time he triggered an alarm and the time the police would arrive. Of course, that was a worst-case scenario. He had no intention of setting off any alarms.

Tony Simeon met Pierre LeGrand at the house on Thanksgiving morning. The retired burglar was a small, wiry man about the same age as Tony, with short gray hair and a professional manner. He had already briefly surveyed the house from the outside and had a preliminary opinion.

“You’ve already got a good off-the-shelf system, at least on the exterior,” he said as they walked down a long hedgerow along one side of the backyard. Tony avoided the front of the house. It was too exposed. “Did you have any particular changes that you’d like me to make?”

“Yes, but I would like your professional opinion on something first. If you were going to break into this house, how would you do it?”

LeGrand chuckled and looked around with a calculating eye. “I would come up the driveway,” he said, gesturing to the long, winding strip of asphalt that ran up from the street. “Driveways never have alarm sensors, because pressure pads don’t work under asphalt or concrete, and alarm companies figure that having sensors on the doors is enough. And I would drive, since you don’t have a gate.”

“Why wouldn’t you walk? I’d be more likely to notice a car than someone coming on foot.”

“Maybe, but your neighbors wouldn’t. It would look odd for someone to walk thirty yards up the driveway, especially if that someone was staying in shadows and trying not to be seen from the house. Besides, if it were me, I would come when you weren’t here, so it wouldn’t matter what you could see from the house.

“No, it makes more sense to drive. I would drive a pickup or van with some sort of logo on the side: window washers, yard service, house cleaners. Everybody around here has at least one of those services, so those kinds of vehicles are invisible. Most security systems don’t have sensors on the second floor, so I would wear work clothes, put up a ladder, and go through a window.”

“What if all the windows were locked?” asked Tony.

“Then it would take me an extra twenty seconds. Window locks are easy to pick if you have the right tools. Anyway, I would have a lookout climb the ladder after me and look busy while I was inside. I’d be inside for no more than fifteen or twenty minutes, and I’d be careful to leave everything just as I found it. It might be weeks before you know you’ve been robbed by a professional. A really good burglar will only take a few very valuable items—the kinds of things that are usually kept in wall safes or in the backs of jewelry boxes and only come out once a month or less. By then, no police department in the world could catch me.”

“I see,” said Tony. “What would you do differently if you weren’t here to steal?” He paused. “What would you do if you were here to kill?”

“Thank you, Lord, for all the blessings you give us,” said Ben as he sat with his head bowed at the head of the dining-room table. “Thank you for the food set before us. Thank you for the guests who have joined us for this meal. And thank you especially for being a mighty fortress, protecting your children from evil. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Noelle, Elena, Sergei, and Will Conklin together. Will was one of two FBI agents guarding the Corbins. Elena had volunteered to fill in for the other agent, who had a family and was grateful to be able to spend Thanksgiving at home. The Corbins had invited Sergei because he was otherwise likely to spend the holiday in his apartment with his FBI detail. He had accepted gladly, and his protectors had been happy to take the day off.

Sergei had been out of the hospital for over a week and was doing well. Bandages still covered some of the worst burns on his back and legs, but he was fully mobile and had no pain—unless he momentarily forgot his injuries and leaned back in a sofa or chair. He would then be instantly and intensely reminded that he was not completely healed.

Elena and Noelle—mostly Elena—had put together a respectable turkey dinner on short notice, and Sergei had brought a good bottle of Napa Valley Chardonnay. Soon they were all talking, laughing, and coming as close as they could to putting Variant D and the Vainakh Guard out of their minds. The FBI agents didn’t drink any wine, and one of them was always looking out the front window or strolling through the backyard, but otherwise a casual observer would not have thought this was anything but a group of good friends gathered for an informal Thanksgiving dinner.

It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving in the Midwest without the traditional Detroit Lions game on TV. They were hosting the Bears this year, and the game actually meant something. After several years in the wilderness, both teams were winning again and the Bears led the NFC North. The Lions’ running game was weak, but they had a strong-armed young quarterback and two playmaking receivers. The Bears had their trademark smashmouth defense and a pounding running game that wore down opposing defenses.

The game started with a seventy-five-yard touchdown pass for the Lions, delighting Will (who was from Detroit) and drawing groans from Ben and Sergei. After that, the game settled into a bruising defensive struggle, during which the Lions’ quarterback became intimately acquainted with the turf of Ford Field. Bruised and dazed by the third quarter, he threw a pair of wobbly interceptions that led to two touchdowns and a four-point Chicago lead.