Rasputin's Shadow by Raymond Khoury
“Right here. Watch this,” Aparo said as he hit the Pause button. “This guy right here,” he added, tapping the screen.
He was pointing out a figure—adult, male. I couldn’t really tell much more because the image was grainy due to the jittery cinematography. The man had appeared behind some of the people who had congregated around the body.
“Keep your eye on him,” he told us before resuming the playback.
The guy looks over the shoulders of the first row of bystanders. He lingers there for a beat. Then he looks up, toward Sokolov’s apartment, which is where the body obviously fell from. Then he looks at the body again, and turns away and drops out of view behind the wall of people.
“He disappears for a while,” Aparo explained. “But watch this.”
Cuppy gets bored of his gruesome shot and goes around to try to get a more comprehensive reportage of what had happened. So he steps out onto the street and tilts the camera up, taking in the building before zooming in on the sixth-floor window that, from way down there, you can just about tell is broken. Cuppy has a good eye. Then a car surprises him, there’s a nudge of a horn that makes him jump, and Cuppy’s camera angle drops away from the window and goes all over the place as he hustles out of the car’s way. Clearly, this doesn’t go down well with Cuppy, who lets rip with some colorful language directed at the impatient driver before following him down the street with his zoom.
Which is when Cuppy captures the bit that caught Aparo’s eye.
The guy he’d pointed out is also in the frame. We see him come around a parked SUV, get in, and drive off. In a hurry, just charging out and almost colliding with a passing car. Like he just wanted to get the hell out of there.
Which I thought merited closer inspection. Not because he was leaving in a rush. He could well have been distraught, freaked out by what he’d seen. Anyone would. That would be a healthy response. But it was his body language that made us take notice. He was all business, focused. Not distraught. More like furtive. Which wasn’t as wholesome, response-wise.
“Nice,” Kubert chortled. “Maybe the guy’s squeamish. Maybe he wet himself.”
“Very likely,” I said. “On the other hand, maybe he was waiting for Yakovlev and decided to bail fast when the diplomat took the shortcut down.”
“If he was with him, why not go upstairs and get whoever did it? Or at least call the cops?” Kanigher asked.
“Maybe their little visit wasn’t official,” Aparo speculated.
“Maybe.” I nodded. “Anyway, we’ll know more if the lab can get a decent close-up of the guy’s face and his license plate. And we need to try and marry it up with traffic-cam footage and see if we can get a fix on which way he went.”
“I’ll ship it down to them,” Aparo said. “Oh, and get a load of this. The couple who live just below the Sokolovs in 5C? Seems their dog went loco that morning and bit the husband. Like, mangled him, got him in the forearm and wouldn’t let go. Right about the time Yankovich—”
“Yakovlev,” Kubert corrected him.
“—took his swan dive.”
“Did they hear a fight?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Just a small thud, maybe the vase hitting the floor, then the screams from the street.”
“So what are they doing with the dog?” Kubert asked.
“Nothing. She’s back to normal. They’ve had her for years, never bit anyone before.”
Kubert’s face took on that familiar, pensive expression, like he was about to reveal another great secret of the universe to us. “Dogs sense things, you know. They have these powers . . . what we know about how their minds work doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.”
And before Kubert segued into another fascinating episode of his Twilight Zone take on the animal kingdom, I decided to take my leave.
The lab had some work to do on our little YouTube clip, and I had a date with a large man and a whole lot of maple syrup.
***
ABOUT A HUNDRED BLOCKS uptown from Federal Plaza, Larisa Tchoumitcheva stepped out of her boss’s office on the third floor of the Russian consulate and pondered the crisis that had been thrust upon her unexpectedly.
It was a crisis, but it was also an opportunity. A chance for her to make a difference, which is why she had taken that job in the first place. But this situation had been sprung on her without warning. She hadn’t had a chance to prepare, to think things through. Which meant she was vulnerable to something going wrong. In her line of work, that carried some serious health implications.
Further complicating matters was that her boss at the consulate, Oleg Vrabinek—officially the vice consul, unofficially the city’s senior SVR operative—wasn’t sharing. She’d been frozen out of what he and the now-deceased Yakovlev had been up to. All she’d been told before heading off to Sokolov’s apartment was to deny, to deflect, and to report back. After what she’d seen, she’d decided this had to be her first priority: to get inside Vrabinek’s circle of trust. She needed to know what was going on if she was going to have any chance at making that difference—to say nothing of staying alive.
One thing she did know, however, was that Sokolov was important. To her people, and to the Americans. They were both desperate to get hold of him. And Vrabinek had been less than forthcoming about Sokolov when Larisa had asked who he was.
“That’s not relevant here,” was all Vrabinek had said.
When she’d prodded him—gently, deferentially, as was expected—he’d added, “You’ll get more information if and when it becomes necessary. Right now, it isn’t.”
Which gave Larisa her next priority: to find out who Sokolov was and why he was so important. She needed to get access to his file, but she had to do it without Vrabinek or anyone else at the consulate finding out.
Easier said than done. And not great on the health-implications front.
Then there was the FBI agent, Sean Reilly. She’d been told he’d be like a Rottweiler in tracking down Sokolov, and in that sense he’d be very useful. She’d been ordered to get close to him and report back about his progress on everything he was working on. She’d also been warned about his intuitiveness. In the flesh, though, she found that he was different from the adversary they’d made him out to be. She sensed something else in him. An honesty, a decency that surprised her. Which was dangerous.
She had her orders. Her superiors knew what they were doing, and they had their reasons for setting her those tasks, regardless of what she saw in him. She needed to stay on target and see things through.
Vrabinek hadn’t been any more forthcoming in the meeting she’d just had with him. She hadn’t learned any more information about Sokolov. He had, however, generously bestowed one new piece of information on her, but it wasn’t in any way reassuring.
He told her they were sending someone over. A special operative, flown in to deal with the situation.
That didn’t sound good.
It sounded a lot worse when he told her it would be Koschey.
She’d never met him. Very few had. And though the little information she had about him was sketchy, one thing was certain: his involvement was seriously bad news on the health-implications front.
For her, and for everyone else involved.
11
An hour after leaving Federal Plaza, I was in Newark, New Jersey, seated in a booth at a bright and cheerful IHOP, facing a leviathan of a man, still amazed that he’d managed to lever himself onto the double-seat bench.
He hadn’t been too happy to see me when I’d showed up at his place—well, his mom’s place, technically—and told him I needed a powwow. An invitation to join me for a bite—I use the word purely figuratively here—helped lower his defenses. Cheap trick, I know, but hey, I’m a firm believer in taking the path of least resistance whenever you can. And who doesn’t love IHOP?
The triple-XL Weyland Enterprises T-shirt stretched against the folds of his wobbling flesh as he grabbed the menu and started eating the
Kurt Jaegers was thirty-two, weighed at least three-hundred-and-fifty pounds, and lived with his mother, a divorced psychotherapist who worked from home and specialized in addiction. That was cute enough. But Kurt was also number seven on the FBI’s cybercrime watch list. Kurt fascinated me. In his dreams, he probably had a string of glamorous girlfriends and a large yacht, Kim Dotcom–style. The reality was probably online porn and his mother’s beat-up Volvo whenever he could heist the keys. But for some reason, I liked him. He had an inner honesty that I found weirdly admirable. And right at the moment, I didn’t really care what his domestic arrangements or louche hobbies were. I just needed his help, which is why I decided to play nice.
“I said whatever you like and I meant it, but I may need to leave you after the first couple of rounds.”
“No worries, dude.” He’d finally finished ordering and sent the waitress on her way. “You must try the stuffed French toast. It’s incredible. But you’ll need to order some of your own. I only got two.”
“I’m good, Kurt. But thanks anyway.”
His expression turned quizzical. “So . . . you’re going to give me a get-out-of-jail-free card? Is that for real?”
“Something like that. Unless you’re really naughty—NSA or NCIS or even NASA for that matter, anything with an ‘N’ or an ‘S’ in it and you’re on your own.”
He chuckled. “Hey, no sweat. JWICS is tight as a cat’s butthole since Bradley Manning downloaded the whole enchilada. Even Anonymous have mostly packed up and gone home when it comes to SIPRNet. There’s no more fun to be had with those guys. I spend most of my time playing WoW nowadays.”
Clearly, my face telegraphed what I was missing.
“World of Warcraft, dude. You don’t know that?”
I shrugged. “I’m a Neanderthal, what can I tell you.”
He waved it off. “I’m really into my female Pandaren at the moment. She’s called Chiaroscuro. Cause she’s black-and-white, you know? Lately, though . . . I think I want to do her. I know it’s wrong, I mean she’s a fucking panda, right? That’s like zoophilia or something.”
“It’s something all right, I’m just not sure I want to think about it.” My head was already spinning, and the plates hadn’t even landed yet. “At least, it’s good to hear you’re playing safe these days.”
Kurt drank some coffee and grinned. “There’s fun to be had. Like sometimes, I’ll add extra items to Mom’s credit card bill just to mess with her. Last week, she spent an hour trying to work out how she’d bought sexy lingerie from a store in Paris.”
“Well, that’s the kind of blowback I can help you with.”
“Understood, dude.” His eyes took on a sad countenance. “I know you’re mocking me in your head, but . . . thanks for not throwing it back at me. I appreciate people who can keep it off their face.”
I shrugged. “Come on, Kurt. We’re all screwups in our own way. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I’ve done.”
“Don’t say that, dude. Now I’ll have to hack your file.” He smiled, then laughed nervously and started to rearrange the first wave of dishes that our waitress was delivering to the table. “Joke, man. Joke.” He looked up, finally happy with the positioning of the plates. “So what do you need? And I assume it’s you personally, otherwise you’d be talking to one of your in-house cyber squads or—shudder—the stormtroopers from DC3.”
He was referring to the Department of Defense Cyber Crime Center down in Linthicum, Maryland. These guys knew what they were doing, and they knew Kurt. They had forensic, counterintelligence, and training divisions and were on tap to us and to all the other law-enforcement agencies. We’d crossed paths a couple of years back, when Kurt had slipped inside the United Nations’ server farm, which was how I’d first met him.
I took a bite of my omelet and decided to come right out with it.
“I need to find someone. Someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
His eyes widened with interest. “Where’s he hiding?”
“Some file locked away in Langley.”
Kurt sputtered on a mouthful of French toast and raised his hands defensively. “Whoa, dude. I’m not going there. Not for any kind of free pass.”
“I’m not going to ask you to, not directly anyway,” I said. “I know you need to be careful and so do I. Thing is, I only have a cover ID for this guy. And yes, it’s personal. Deeply personal.” I held his gaze for a breath, then I added, “I just want you to find someone on the inside that I can lean on. Someone with the necessary clearance. Someone who works there and who I can visit in person and,” using his parlance, I went with, “convince of the righteousness of my quest.”
Kurt held up his hand as he finished devouring plate one of his syrupy odyssey. Finally, he swallowed.
“What’s his game? The guy you’re looking for. It’s a guy, right?”
“It’s a guy. And I’ve got some threads to pull on. DEA, Black Ops, Mexico, South America. I’m sure there’s a lot more besides.” I had already decided not to mention MK-ULTRA. It was important that I at least appeared to be the sane one in this relationship.
“You’ll need someone with at least a Level Two clearance, no lower than a 2-C.” He thought about it for a moment. “There’s got to be a few hundred CIA staffers with that level of clearance. A couple hundred of those are analysts.”
“So find me one who’s not the fine, upstanding citizen he or she appears to be.”
His mouth widened into a grin that was disturbingly juvenile. “Now, that could be fun.” His mind was almost visibly churning through various scenarios. “I could go in through a government employee database. Health care, pensions maybe. Cherry-pick the departments we want. Cross-reference that with clearance-levels data sitting on a black-hat site I use. Should be able to get you name, gender, age, address, Social Security, time on government’s payroll, pension, medical, dental, disciplinary, sexual orientation—”
I cut him off with, “I get it.” Too harshly, maybe. But listening to him, I was starting to wonder if I was taking the whole thing too far. Delving into the personal lives of people who had nothing to do with me or Alex and never would.
“Don’t be squeamish, dude,” he said, reading me. “Information wants to be free.”
“Unless it’s the identity of hackers.”
He chuckled. “Touché. But let’s try not to dwell on that particular contradiction. Anyway, difference is we’re not meddling in the affairs of sovereign nations or monitoring every single action performed by the citizens of a supposed democracy.”
I wanted to hit the ball back at him, but I didn’t have time to get into a big Orwellian debate, so I just took another bite out of my omelet, slid the plate across the table, and followed it with a big sip of coffee instead.
I put the mug back on the table. “Okay. Good. Get me all that. Then go deeper and do your thing and find me stuff that doesn’t stack up. Anything I can use to apply pressure.”
“You got it, dude. In my limited experience, the more upstanding you appear, the more screwed-up you are behind closed doors. At least I appear screwed-up.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that. He knew himself pretty well, but that still didn’t stop him from diving into a plate of blueberry pancakes.
I dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table, then slid out of the booth. “Call me when you have something.”
“Sure. It’ll be from a VPN’d fake Skype account billed to an entirely random Japanese woman’s credit card. You sure you don’t want to get yourself a burner?”
“One phone’s enough. Just k
“Wilco, my friend.” Then he paused the trajectory of fork to mouth, and his face took on a rare, serious sheen. “Must have been something bad for you to be doing this. Like, risking your career and all that. You sure you don’t want to just let it go?”
I shook my head. “Funny how everyone keeps telling me that. But if I was going to drop it, I would have already done that. I guess we’re the same in that way. Neither one of us knows when to stop.”
He shook his head, smiled, and deposited a mini-stack of syrup-drenched pancakes into his mouth. “Yeah, but at least this stuff tastes great.”
At least, I think that’s what he said.
***
AS I DROVE BACK into the city, two interesting tidbits landed on my phone: a face, and a license number.
The face I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t expect to. It was the blow-up of the guy from the YouTube clip. They were running it through facial recognition software at that very moment. The license number was from his car. Again, no hits. The car was a maroon Ford Escape that was leased to a New York LLC. Records were being tracked down to find out more about the company, and a tristate-wide APB had been put out on the car, with both Aparo and me, as well as Detectives Adams and Giordano, listed as investigating officers.
I thought it might be interesting to ask Ms. Tchoumitcheva if the YouTube guy’s face rang a bell, but I decided to wait until I had a bit more to go on—a name, or a Russian link to the company that had leased the car—before I made that call.
My thoughts glided back to my meeting with my favorite hacker, and thinking about it imbued me with a mixture of low-level fear and energizing satisfaction. I knew the balance of power between the hackers and the military-industrial complex was close to shifting dramatically in the favor of the latter. The next-generation encryption we’d been briefed about was supposed to be all but impossible to break into. Which meant that hackers like Kurt would find it increasingly difficult to boldly go where they weren’t welcome. But at the moment, one geek with limitless time to burn and no sense of privacy other than his own could still beat the best firewalls out there. Which suited me fine. Finding the names of a few analysts shouldn’t be too much of a problem for him—not yet.