Dr. Benjamin Goodley arrived at Langley at 5:40, five minutes earlier than his customary time. His job largely denied him much of a social life, which hardly seemed fair to the National Intelligence Officer. Was he not of marriageable age, possessed of good looks, a man with good prospects both in the professional and business sense? Perhaps not the latter, Goodley thought, parking his car in a VIP slot by the cement canopy of the Old Headquarters Building. He drove a Ford Explorer because it was a nice car for driving in the snow, and there would be snow soon. At least winter was coming, and winter in the D.C. area was wholly unpredictable, especially now that some of the eco-nuts were saying that global warming would cause an unusually cold winter this year. The logic of that escaped him. Maybe he’d have a chat with the President’s Science Adviser to see if that made any sense talking with someone who could explain things. The new one was pretty good, and knew how to use single-syllable words.
Goodley made his way through the pass-gate and into the elevator. He walked into the Operations Room at 5:50 A.M.
“Hey, Ben,” one said.
“Morning, Charlie. Anything interesting happening?”
“You’re gonna love this one, Ben,” Charlie Roberts promised. “A big day in Mother Russia.”
“Oh?” Narrowed eyes. Goodley had his worries about Russia, and so did his boss. “What’s that?”
“No big deal. Just somebody tried to whack Sergey Nikolay’ch.”
His head snapped around like an owl’s. “What?”
“You heard me, Ben, but they hit the wrong car with the RPG and took out somebody else we know— well, used to know,” Roberts corrected himself.
“Start from the beginning.”
“Peggy, roll the videotape,” Roberts commanded his watch officer with a theatrical wave of the arm.
“Whoa!” Goodley said after the first five seconds. “So, who was it really?”
“Would you believe Gregoriy Filipovich Avseyenko?”
“I don’t know that name,” Goodley admitted.
“Here.” The watch officer handed over a manila folder. “What we had on the guy when he was KGB. A real sweetheart,” she observed, in the woman’s neutral voice of distaste.
“Rasputin?” Goodley said, scanning the first page. “Oh, okay, I have heard something about this one.”
“So has the Boss, I bet.”
“I’ll know in two hours,” Goodley imagined aloud. “What’s Station Moscow saying?”
“The station chief is in St. Pete’s for a trade conference, part of his cover duties. What we have is from his XO. The best bet to this point is that either Aveseyenko made a big enemy in the Russian Mafia, or maybe Golovko was the real target, and they hit the wrong car. No telling which at this point.” Followed by the usual NIO damned-if-I-know shrug.
“Who would want to take Golovko out?”
“Their Mafia? Somebody got himself an RPG, and they don’t sell them in hardware stores, do they? So, that means somebody deeply into their criminal empire, probably, made the hit— but who was the real target? Avseyenko must have had some serious enemies along the way, but Golovko must have enemies or rivals, too.” She shrugged again. “You pays your money and you takes your choice.”
“The Boss likes to have better information,” Goodley warned.
“So do I, Ben,” Peggy Hunter replied. “But that’s all I got, and even the fuckin’ Russians don’t have better at this point.”
“Any way we can look into their investigation?”
“The Legal Attaché, Mike Reilly, is supposed to be pretty tight with their cops. He got a bunch of them admitted to the FBI’s National Academy post-grad cop courses down at Quantico.”
“Maybe have the FBI tell him to nose around?”
Mrs. Hunter shrugged again. “Can’t hurt. Worst thing anybody can say is no, and we’re already there, right?”
Goodley nodded. “Okay, I’ll recommend that.” He got up. “Well,” he observed on his way out the door, “the Boss won’t bitch about how boring the world is today.” He took the CNN tape with him and headed back to his SUV
The sun was struggling to rise now. Traffic on the George Washington Parkway was picking up with eager-beaver types heading into their desks early, probably Pentagon people, most of them, Goodley thought, as he crossed over the Key Bridge, past Teddy Roosevelt Island. The Potomac was calm and flat, almost oily, like the pond behind a mill dam. The outside temperature, his dashboard said, was forty-four, and the forecast for the day was a high in the upper fifties, a few clouds, and calm winds. An altogether pleasant day for late fall, though he’d be stuck in his office for all of it, pleasant or not.
Things were starting early at The House, he saw on pulling in. The Blackhawk helicopter was just lifting off as he pulled into his reserved parking place, and the motorcade had already formed up at the West Entrance. It was enough to make him check his watch. No, he wasn’t late. He hustled out of his car, bundling the papers and cassette into his arms as he hurried inside.
“Morning, Dr. Goodley,” a uniformed guard said in greeting.
“Hi, Chuck.” Regular or not, he had to pass through the metal detector. The papers and cassette were inspected by hand— as though he’d try to bring a gun in, Ben thought in passing irritation. Well, there had been a few scares, hadn’t there? And these people were trained not to trust anybody.
Having passed the daily security test, he turned left, sprinted up the stairs, then left again to his office, where some helpful soul— he didn’t know if it was one of the clerical staff or maybe one of the Service people— had his office coffee machine turning out some Gloria Jean’s French Hazelnut. He poured himself a cup and sat down at his desk to organize his papers and his thoughts. He managed to down half of the cup before bundling it all up again for the ninety-foot walk. The Boss was already there.
“Morning, Ben.”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” replied the National Security Adviser.
“Okay, what’s new in the world?” POTUS asked.
“It looks as though somebody might have tried to assassinate Sergey Golovko this morning.”
“Oh?” President Ryan asked, looking up from his coffee. Goodley filled him in, then inserted the cassette in the Oval Office VCR and punched PLAY.
“Jeez,” Ryan observed. What had been an expensive car was now fit only for the crushing machine. “Who’d they get instead?”
“One Gregoriy Filipovich Avseyenko, age fifty-two—”
“I know that name. Where from?”
“He’s more widely known as Rasputin. He used to run the KGB Sparrow School.”
Ryan’s eyes went a little wider. “That cocksucker! Okay, what’s the story on him?”
“He got RIF’d back in ’93 or so, and evidently set himself up in the same business, and it would seem he’s made some money at it, judging by his car, anyway. There was evidently a young woman in with him when he was killed, plus a driver. They were all killed.”
Ryan nodded. The Sparrow School had been where for years the Soviets had trained attractive young women to be prostitutes in the service of their country both at home and abroad, because, since time immemorial, men with a certain weakness for women had often found their tongues loosened by the right sort of lubrication. Not a few secrets had been conveyed to the KGB by this method, and the women had also been useful in recruiting various foreign nationals for the KGB officers to exploit. So, on having his official office shut down, Rasputin— so called by the Soviets for his ability to get women to bend to his will— had simply plied his trade in the new free-enterprise environment.
“So, Avseyenko might have had ‘business’ enemies angry enough to take him out, and Golovko might not have been the target at all?”
“Correct, Mr. President. The possibility exists, but we don’t have any supporting data one way or the other.”
“How do we get it?”
“The Legal Attaché at the embassy is well connected with the Russian police,” the National Security Adviser offered.
“Okay, call Dan Murray at FBI and have his man nose around,” Ryan said. He’d already considered calling Golovko directly— they’d known each other for more than ten years, though one of their initial contacts had involved Golovko’s pistol right in Jack’s face on one of the runways of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport— and decided against it. He couldn’t show that much immediate interest, though later, if they had a private moment together, he’d be able to ask a casual question about the incident. “Same for Ed and MP at CIA.”
“Right.” Goodley made a note.
“Next?”
Goodley turned the page. “Indonesia is doing some naval exercises that have the Aussies a little interested….” Ben went on with the morning briefing for twenty more minutes, mainly covering political rather than military matters, because that’s what national security had become in recent years. Even the international arms trade had diminished to the point that quite a few countries were treating their national military establishments as boutiques rather than serious instruments of statecraft.