Fatal Conceit (29 page)

That afternoon he'd met Petyr Avdonin, if that was his real name, on a bench at the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park. Just a couple of men enjoying a surprisingly mild early November day while eating a late lunch purchased from the kebab vendor on Fifth Avenue.

Lindsey told him about the tape from Al-Sistani. The man had listened politely and commiserated about the predicament the administration found itself in, but he'd made no real attempt to disguise the smirk that played at the corner of his mouth.

“Have you been able to locate the terrorists?” Lindsey asked between mouthfuls of gyro.

“It has been difficult to locate Daudov,” Avdonin admitted. “We have killed a number of his associates, as well as several other terrorist leaders. But he is . . . how do you say, um, popular among the people in Chechnya. They hide him and refuse to betray him. Our man has had difficulty re-establishing contact since the attack. As for this . . . Al-Sistani . . . we believe he is in Dagestan. We have a man with him who plays both sides—the Islamic extremists and the separatists—when really he is Russian secret police.”

“So why hasn't he reported in?”

“He is in deep cover and must be very careful about how and when he makes contact. Sometimes is weeks before we hear from him. But it has been long time since attack. We should hear from him soon.”

“When you do, we'd like to know the precise location,” Lindsey said, without volunteering anything more, but the Russian guessed what he was getting at.

“Yes, of course,” Avdonin said. “And if something should happen then to the hostages . . . well, it is a dangerous world, fraught with peril. These terrorists have been known to blow themselves and their hostages to pieces, no?”

“Our people will have died bravely for their country,” Lindsey said, ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Ah yes, true patriots,” Avdonin said with a sardonic smile. “The few who must sacrifice all for the many.” He laughed and shook his head. “You Americans . . . you like to portray yourselves as John Wayne, the cowboy in white hat. Maybe that was true a long time ago, but now . . .” he shrugged and laughed again “. . . you are no different from us, except perhaps we are more honest.”

The man's smile disappeared and he looked angry. “We're aware of what your chief of mission was up to,” he said quietly but firmly. “And I'm not talking about arming the Syrian rebels. Although the Assad government is good customer for our military weapons, I'm sure we will sell to whoever takes his place. But we are not happy that you intended to arm these criminals who call themselves separatists. This is blatant interference in the internal affairs of the Russian federation.”

“What do you want?” Lindsey answered, without bothering to deny the allegations.

“You will cease dealing with these people; find another way to interfere with the Syrian government if you must,” Avdonin demanded, “but stay out of Chechnya, or perhaps the American people would like to know the lies they are being told from the White House on down.”

Lindsey didn't respond. There was no need. The Russians would have a free hand in Chechnya and the United States would look the other way no matter what human rights violations might occur.

•  •  •

Except for lights along the aisles and a few high on the walls, the theater was dark when Lindsey entered. “I'm in,” he said quietly, “but no sign of . . .”

Before he could finish his sentence, a spotlight up in the balcony illuminated a desk that had been set on the stage. Sitting on the desk was an open laptop computer.

Lindsey whirled and put a hand in front of his face to shade his eyes, but he couldn't see who had turned on the light. “Jenna Blair?” he called out.

“Go look at my computer,” a female voice replied from the dark. “It's ready; just hit Enter and you'll see.”

Lindsey did as he was told. When he played the recording, he looked back toward the spotlight. “Do you know who the man is?” he asked.

“You tell me. I saw him at Fauhomme's party on the Fourth of July where I first met Sam,” the woman replied. “Then he showed up at my apartment after I called Connie Rae and again up at Sam's cabin in Orvin. He chased me when I was driving away from the cabin. I lost him.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No. Do you?”

Lindsey didn't answer her question. Instead, he said, “Is this the only copy?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course it is. I just want my life back. I want to be left alone. I want that man with the tattoo to leave me alone.”

“You need to come with me, Jenna,” Lindsey said. “I can protect you.”

“How? Sam was a general and he ran the CIA and they still killed him. How are you going to protect me?”

“We'll put you in the witness protection program. You can't keep running.”

“Witness protection? Witness against who? That guy? You know and I know he wasn't acting on his own. Sam told me that people were upset with him because he wasn't going to go along with the ‘official' story on Chechnya.”

“What people?”

“He didn't say. I think he was trying to protect me. But he said he was being blackmailed . . . because of his relationship with me.”

“I wouldn't know about that. What I do know is that you're playing a very dangerous game, and if you don't come with me now, I can't be responsible for what happens to you.”

“What's going to happen to me?”

“Nothing if you come with me.”

“What are you going to do with that recording?”

“We'll find this man . . . and if others are involved, we'll go after them, too. The FBI will.”

“Is that who you're going to give the recording to? The FBI?”

“Yes. It's a bureau investigation now. So are you going to come with me?”

“How do I know there's not a bunch of guys in black suits and black cars outside ready to make sure I disappear?”

“I'm alone, Jenna. Let me help you.”

“Give me a minute to think about it,” the woman said. “I don't know who to trust.”

“Jenna, I speak for the president, and you trust him, don't you?”

Jenna Blair didn't answer. Lindsey gave her a minute to consider. “Jenna? You need to make up your mind.” But still there was silence, and then the alarm went off in his head. “Seal the doors,” he shouted to his colleagues as he ran for the balcony entrance. “And get in here. I want that bitch now!”

Lindsey looked frantically around the balcony area before running down the stairs to join the men in black suits who moments before had screeched to a stop in front of the theater in their black Hummers and now rushed in. “She's running!” he yelled into his microphone.

“We have people on all the exits,” one of his men replied.

However, a half-hour of searching the theater didn't turn up Jenna Blair. They did find a trapdoor in an anteroom off the lobby that led to another trapdoor beneath the stage that performers—or a fugitive—could use to move from one area to the next without
the audience seeing them. Another small door beneath the stage opened into an old coal-supply tunnel with exits into the basements of other buildings in the neighborhood.

Informed that Blair had likely made her escape through the tunnel, Lindsey again felt a knot in his stomach. “Find her,” he told his team over the radio. “And when you do, silence her.”

E
SPY
J
AXON STUDIED THE YOUNG
woman who sat across from him at the internet café in Grozny. Deshi Zakayev was young, beautiful . . . and angrily skeptical after he'd asked her to arrange a meeting with Lom Daudov.

“And why should he meet with you?” she scoffed. “Why should any of us trust the United States government? You betrayed your own people on the night of the attack and left them to die and fall into the hands of Al-Sistani. If Lom had not been delayed that night, he would have been killed or captured, too. As it was, we could only watch from a nearby hill as your drone circled overhead for more than two hours and did nothing!”

Jaxon hung his head. “I am angry about that, too,” he said, looking back up and into her eyes. “Some of those who died were my friends, as well as my colleagues. The young woman who was captured is the daughter of a friend, and I am her godfather.” He nodded at Ivgeny Karchovski, who sat next to him interpreting. “This man here is her cousin.”

Zakayev studied Karchovski for a moment with evident distaste. “I do not trust any Russian,” she said, then shrugged, “but I liked Lucy. She is kind and it is hard to think of her in the hands of that beast.” The young woman's face softened for a moment, but then
hardened again. “But that does not mean you can be trusted. Now we are being hunted by the Russians, who stop at nothing, while your government turns its back and pretends not to see. Our cause cannot afford to lose Lom and be turned over to men like Amir Al-Sistani.”

Jaxon sighed. After crossing the border from Dagestan, they had been staying on the outskirts of Grozny in the dacha of a “Russian businessman,” a former comrade of Karchovski's while they served in the Russian army and one of his partners in his “import-export” business. Now it was Monday evening in Chechnya, and in twenty-four hours and halfway around the world, Americans would wake up and head to the polls to vote. Jaxon wished that his fellow citizens knew more of what really happened in Chechnya so they could take it into account when they cast their ballots. But the administration, or at least its front people, had lied, obfuscated, and diverted attention away from the Chechen debacle.

However, none of that mattered to Deshi Zakayev or the man she was representing. All they saw was the American government's betrayal of its own people and willing complicity in the brutal suppression of Chechen separatists by the Russians. Jaxon needed something more and was glad that he'd brought it with him and his team.

“What if I were to tell you that I have something . . . someone . . . Daudov wants? Someone who could help your cause.”

Zakayev frowned. “Who?”

“Ajmaani.”

A flicker of recognition flitted across Zakayev's face at the name but she shrugged. “I do not know this person.”

Jaxon leaned forward across the table and spoke quietly but earnestly. “I believe you do. I believe that you are aware that Ajmaani, who supposedly was fighting for your cause, is actually a Russian agent, Nadya Malovo. I believe that you are aware that she perpetrated atrocities in the name of your cause to discredit those who yearn for a free Chechnya.”

Zakayev pursed her lips. “Even if I was to know this person, what good is she to Lom Daudov?”

“She is proof that the Russian government, in league with criminal elements who want to use Chechnya for their own profit, staged ‘terrorist attacks' so that they could legitimize the second war against your country. They used these attacks to influence world opinion; instead of Chechen separatists trying to win their independence, you were labeled Islamic terrorists. They lumped you in with Al Qaeda and other extremists.”

The hard expression on Zakayev's face did not change, but Jaxon could see her mind working behind her eyes. “How do I know you are not lying to me?” she said. “Dangling this bait so that you can lure Lom Daudov to expose himself to more treachery. No one we are aware of has seen Ajmaani in several years. We believed she was dead.”

“She is not dead,” Jaxon said. “She is nearby and I am willing to produce her at the time and place Daudov chooses. I will even take the chance that he will not betray me or my people. We do not have permission to be in this country and risk imprisonment, or worse, if we are found out. But Daudov must make up his mind immediately; Al-Sistani has threatened to kill Lucy and the other man unless my government hands over the terrorist Sheik Abdel-Rahman, which it will not do.”

“Because they will not trade with terrorists?” Zakayev asked scornfully.

Jaxon shook his head. “That is the excuse they will use. But the reality is that these people in my government—the ones who stood by and let the mission be overrun and are going along with what the Russians are doing to you—they do not really want Lucy or Mr. Huff to return and tell the truth about what happened. They would prefer that they die.”

Zakayev frowned and seemed to be thinking it over before replying, “Even if Lom agrees to help you, Al-Sistani is a difficult man to locate. He stays mostly in Dagestan among his fellow
extremists there, and out of reach of both the Russians and us. It could take time, perhaps more time than Lucy has, to find him.”

Jaxon smiled grimly. “I may be able to help there. We have reason to believe that Lucy and Mr. Huff are being held in a mosque near the sea. Satellite surveillance has picked up on some unusual activity at a mosque on the outskirts of Kasplysk. Its mullahs are known for their extremist views and ties to various terrorist groups, including Al Qaeda.”

“Have these satellites spotted Al-Sistani?” Zakayev asked.

“No, not him specifically,” Jaxon admitted. “However, a broadcast attributed to Al-Sistani is known to have emanated from the general area. And the satellites have picked up the presence of armed men going in and out of the mosque, as well as patrolling the grounds, which seems a little much for just a place of worship.”

Jaxon decided to play his last card. “If you will help us, I will personally make sure the truth is told about this story,” he said. “But if you do not, and Lucy dies, then I will not care what happens to you, Daudov, or your country. I will remain silent.”

The young woman's eyes narrowed but she nodded. “I will take your messages to Daudov. I do not guarantee what his response will be. But whatever he decides,” she added, “it won't be because he fears your threats.”