Once Upon a Grind (28 page)

G
ARDNER
grabbed my arm. “Boss, maybe we should call 911 now.”

“No. Not yet. I want a word with him first.”

“You know this guy?”

“I know his name,” I whispered. “It's Wilson. What I don't know is whether he's friend or foe.”

While my night manager watched and waited, I moved toward the white-haired intruder. He looked harmless enough, sitting there, calmly sipping his espresso while he tapped his smartphone.

I was a few steps behind him, and getting closer, when he suddenly said—

“Hello, Ms. Cosi.”

I stopped moving. “You know my name?”

He turned, smiling. He was still in evening clothes—though his tie was gone and his collar open—and he didn't bat an eye at the sight of my metal bat.

“Now that we're properly introduced, may I call you Clare?”

“That's the problem. We haven't been properly introduced.”

He feigned disappointment, and then rose to protest. “I did give you my card.”

“Not another step, buster!”

He spread his arms. “I'm not here to harm you. I'm here to talk. Believe me, if I were going to prick you with a poisoned needle, you wouldn't have seen it coming.”

“I'm dialing!” Gardner called from behind the counter.

“No, don't!” I shouted when I realized Wilson was simply standing there, patiently waiting out our panicked reaction.

“I can't prove a negative,” he quietly told me. “But I can assure you that I had nothing to do with the poisonings of Anya Kravchenko or Rozalina Krasny. And I can prove my credentials are real. Will you sit down and let me do that?”

“How are you going to
prove
your credentials are real, short of introducing me to the director of the CIA?”

He smiled again. “Very good, Ms. Cosi. I would have been disappointed if you hadn't figured out the riddle. Tell you what. If Michael Ryan Francis Quinn confirmed my credentials, would you believe me then?”

I stiffened at his mention of Mike. “It's after midnight. I shouldn't bother him.”

“You talk to Lieutenant Quinn every other night of the week. Why should tonight be any different?”

I cringed, remembering Esther's NSA joke.
Edward Snowden warned us there'd be days like this.

“Fine, sit!” I commanded—and like Penny on a good day, he sat.

Eyeing him warily, I shifted the bat from one hand to the other before tensely perching myself on the chair across from him.

“Don't move.” I placed my phone on the tabletop, set it to speaker, and pressed speed dial.

“Hi, sweetheart—” Quinn answered on the first ring. “You're calling early. But I'm glad, because I wanted to talk to you about something important—”

“I want to talk, too, Mike, but I need your help first.”

“Help with what?”

Wilson put an index finger to his lips, and slid a second business card across the polished marble. I recognized that number again, the one that wasn't a phone number. He pointed to it.

“I'm going to read a number to you. Would you mind telling me what it is?”

“I'm listening.”

I rattled it off.

“That's a cross-agency protocol number,” Quinn said.

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It's from an ID database. When federal law enforcement agents are in the field, they use it to verify officers from other agencies or operatives working undercover.”

“Like a Yellow Pages for spies?”

“More like a driver's license. Sometimes agents can be compromised if they carry a government badge on them. This number is a way to confirm their identity. Now, sweetheart, while I'm logging on to the office computer to confirm what's probably semiclassified information—
you
can tell me how you came across this code.”

I gave Quinn a highly truncated version of my sleuthing with Franco, telling him “a source” gave me a lead on our case. (And yes, I left out the fact that his ex-wife was the source and his son helped me find the key to corner her because, frankly, I didn't need more drama tonight.)

Needless to say, Quinn was less than thrilled about my underground adventure—even the truncated version. On the other hand, Wilson appeared to be thoroughly entertained, so much so that it wasn't a stretch to believe the guy's true vocation was glorified eavesdropping.

“Okay, that's a real number,” Quinn confirmed. “For someone in the CIA.”

“What can you tell me about this person?”

“Caucasian male, age sixty-two. He's an expert on the former Soviet Union and Eastern Bloc. In the field, he goes by the name
Wilson
.”

Across the table, Wilson gave me a gallant little half bow.

“Listen, Clare,” Quinn continued, voice hard. “The next time this guy shows up, I want you to let Franco deal with him. Promise me, okay?”

I let out a breath. “Okay, Mike. I promise. The
next
time
Wilson shows up, I'll do that.”

Wilson's eyebrow arched.

“Good,” Quinn said. “That makes me feel better. But you sound tired.” His voice turned softer. “I wish I was there to tuck you in. Or you were here.”

“Me too.”

“Of course, if we were together, sleep's not something I'd imagine we'd be doing—”

I felt my cheeks begin to flame. “Er, Mike, I'm still in the coffeehouse. Can I call you in an hour?”

“Only if we continue where we left off. Fun on the phone is better than no fun at all.”

“Sure,” I hurriedly replied, ignoring Wilson's silent chuckle.

“Oh, wait! Before you hang up, I wanted to know how things were going, with the move to DC. Have you told Allegro yet?”

“I'm still . . . in the process, you know?”

“Well, I have good news, something that might speed up your transition. I found this great coffeehouse near the Federal Triangle. They're looking for a master roaster. If it works out, we'll be working within walking distance, like we did in Manhattan. Maybe you and I can even heat up the roasting room on my lunch break, just like the old da—”

“Gotta go!”

I ended the call and locked eyes with the far-too-amused Wilson.

“Okay, I believe you. Now why are you here?”

“In New York City or in your coffeehouse?”

“Both.”

“I'm in New York because I received an anonymous tip about a cold case that's grown suddenly hot. I'm in your coffeehouse because I think we can help one another. Perhaps share intelligence.”

“About?”

Wilson leaned across the table. He wasn't smiling anymore.

“About the person who poisoned those poor Russian girls, Ms. Cosi. About the cold-blooded murderer I've been hunting for over twenty years.”

W
HILE
Wilson and I talked, Gardner locked the front door and brought over two Americanos and a plate of the shop's new Silver Dollar Chocolate Chip Cookies—my thin-and-crispy recipe, perfect for late-night snacking.

“You claim an anonymous tip brought you here,” I said after Gardner returned to the counter (with my Louisville Slugger). “What tip was that?”

“The drug was the tip, Ms. Cosi. The drug that put Anya Kravchenko into a coma and killed Rozalina Krasny is extremely rare, but not unheard of. It was used exactly once before on US soil. Twenty-five years ago it killed one of my agents, right here in New York City.”

“Okay, you've got my attention. Why exactly was your agent killed, Mr.—”

“Wilson. Just Wilson. Most people think the Soviet Union crumbled when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989. But it really didn't end until the August Coup in the 1990s.”

“Were you there? In Russia?”

“For most of the eighties.” Wilson paused to sip his coffee. “Then I was brought stateside for a delicate mission—to find and follow the activities of a Russian Intelligence officer who had set up shop in the place you call the Prince Charming Club.”

“You're joking.”

“Not at all. To get a lead on him, I planted three of my own agents in the club. Tonight you visited one of the front lines of the Cold War. It may not be the kind of battleground with a memorial or souvenir shop, but it's historic nonetheless.”

“I thought the CIA wasn't permitted to operate on US soil.”

“It's not. But that unmarked black door you used to enter is on a building that also houses an annex to the Consulate General of the Kingdom of Morocco. Technically it's foreign soil.”

“And part of the Prince Charming Club is underneath that address?”

“That's the way we got around our domestic restrictions—with select members of Congress anyway . . .” He dunked a crisp little cookie into his cup, popped it in his mouth, and reached for two more. “The club was a lucrative field for counterintelligence, in close proximity to the United Nations, packed with foreign nationals—and not your average tourists and immigrants. These were well-heeled, well-connected businesspeople, cultural leaders, politicians, even military officers.”

“Then it really was Casablanca down there.”

“Actually, that's the op name we used to reference the club. And we weren't the only ones placing agents in there. The British, French, and—as I mentioned—the Russians were as busy as we were. Sexpionage mostly—”

“Sexpionage?” I suppressed a shudder. “Is that what it sounds like?”

“If it sounds like the seduction of targets to elicit classified or restricted information, then yes, sexpionage is what it sounds like. We were all chasing trade secrets, government intel, defense plans—”

“All those spies must have been tripping over one another.”

“As I said, it was a Cold War. No violence, no exposure of assets. It was simply about collecting intelligence—knowing where the other players were planning to move their pieces. Nobody likes surprises about the future, especially not heads of state.”

“Sounds like you were doing the same thing as my nonna back then.”

“Excuse me?”

“My grandmother read the future with coffee grinds.”

“And I'll bet we would have used her, too. Anyway, things changed with the Soviet's August Coup.”

“I don't remember much about that.”

“I'm not surprised. It was the 1990s. The Berlin Wall was gone, and in the Soviet Union
glasnost
was the order of the day—”

“I do remember
glasnost
. It means openness, doesn't it?”

“That's right, Ms. Cosi. It was a blanket term to describe reforms that led to personal freedom in the Soviet Union.
Glasnost
also meant establishing ties with Western democracies, including the USA.”

He shrugged. “Those new freedoms didn't sit well with the communist hardliners. So one August morning, the Committee staged a coup in Moscow.”

“What Committee?”

“The Committee for State Security, Ms. Cosi. You probably know them better by their acronym—the KGB.”

“O
F
course I've heard of the KGB! It's the Soviet counterpart to the CIA.”

“
Was
our counterpart,” Wilson said. “The KGB doesn't exist anymore. After two violent days, the coup fell apart, the conspirators were arrested, and the KGB dissolved, eventually replaced by the FSK, then the FSB and SVR. But within a year of the KGB dissolving, the Soviet Union dissolved, too.”

“Excuse me, but what does all this have to do with the Prince Charming Club?”

“I'll tell you. Once upon a time, there was a KGB operative named Petrov, who went by many names, spoke perfect English, and was easy to trust. He was handsome, charming, and highly intelligent. Those virtues helped him recruit several agents here in New York. He placed them in the underground club.”

“For sexpionage?”

Wilson nodded. “I was tasked with finding out who his agents were—and who they were compromising. If those targets involved US citizens, I had an FBI contact ready to assist. To accomplish my mission, I ran my own agents. My very best was a young American woman.”

Wilson sounded almost wistful. “Her name was Faith. Newly graduated from Brown. Whip smart. Spoke three languages. She was very beautiful and very good at her chosen profession.”

“What happened to her?”

“One of Petrov's agents murdered her. A cold-blooded execution, using the very same drug that was used on Anya.”

Wilson's anguished expression said it all.

“You cared for Faith, didn't you?”

He laughed, but there was no humor there. “I loved her, Ms. Cosi, from the day I met her—and through every one of the four hundred and forty-nine days she lingered in that coma before she finally let go. I still love her today.”

“You must have wanted to catch her killer?”

“There's an understatement.”

“Why didn't you?”

“After the coup in Moscow failed, a lot of hardliners with connections to the conspirators were called on the carpet. Petrov was summoned back to Russia for questioning—and possibly trial. After that, the Agency closed the file on Faith, blaming Petrov for her murder.”

“But you don't think Petrov was guilty?”

He leaned forward. “Petrov was guilty of turning young Americans against their country. He was guilty of teaching them tradecraft, of making them ruthless. But he did not drug Faith. One of his agent's did that, which means he or she got away with it.”

“If the CIA doesn't agree, why are you so sure?”

“Faith successfully uncovered the identity of two of Petrov's agents and she was working on a third. She was poisoned because this third American feared exposure and prosecution as a traitor.”

“If the murderer was a member of that club, why didn't you have the place shut down? There's unlawful activity going on down there. Illegal gambling, for one.”

He shook his head. “Technically the club is running a perfectly legal gambling
school
for members who want to become better gamblers. High-stakes games do take place in the side rooms, but those are private matters. The house takes no share of the winnings.”

“Okay, but there must be other things going on that aren't entirely—”

“The club is a useful asset to the intelligence community, Ms. Cosi. We didn't want to shut it down then, and we don't want it compromised today.”

Wilson leaned across the table. “Until now, Faith's was the only murder connected to that club. Rozalina Krasny is the second. The Agency would like this case wrapped up as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“That's what the Agency wants. But what do you want?”

“Call it closure. Or vengeance. After Faith's murder, my superiors sent me back to Eastern Europe. They said I was too close to Faith's case. Well, I still am.”

“I can see that.”

He drained his cup and set it aside. “Then see this—Faith's death was officially recorded as a drug overdose. Her family never knew the truth: She didn't die a junkie. She died a hero. And the use of that drug on two young women connected to that club is not a coincidence. I want to find Rozalina's killer because I'm sure—in my bones—it will help me finally resolve the murder of my Faith.”

“Okay,” I said on an exhale. “How can I help?”

“Tell me everything you know, Ms. Cosi.”

“If we're going to work together, you better call me Clare.”

He extended his hand, and I shook it.

Then I told Wilson everything I knew—about Anya and her connection to Red; about how the police were trying to pin the crime on Matt. Lastly, I revealed how Leila fingered Dwayne Galloway for murdering Red and drugging Anya, and that Franco and I were planning to pay the former pro-football player a visit.

“But does Galloway hold up as a suspect?” I asked. “Given your theory on the killer's Cold War activity, does that make sense?”

He nodded. “After you spoke with Leila, I did a little research on Mr. Galloway—”

“But I
just
told you about Leila. How did you have time to do any—wait, you were eavesdropping on my conversation in the club, weren't you?”

“What I picked up from your little broadcast was certainly more interesting than the conversations on my own listening devices.” The man was back to smiling.

“You know what, Wilson? I think you enjoy being a snoop.”

“Well, it takes one to know one, Clare, and from what I've seen so far, you would make a fine intelligence agent—”

“Let's talk about Galloway,” I said, cutting off any windup for a CIA recruitment pitch. “Could he be involved?”

“It's possible. He started out like many spies do, growing up wealthy, confident, and capable. In his case, he was raised by a horse-breeding family in Hunterdon County, New Jersey—”

“Wait! I read online that Galloway took gymnastics in college, taught by some famous Russian defector.”

“Rolf Tamerov,” Wilson said with a nod. “And here's something you won't read online. Tamerov defected for show. He was really here to recruit young Americans to the Communist cause.”

“Then Galloway might have been turned?”

Wilson nodded. “Not only that. Galloway attended school in upstate New York, but he spent his summers in and around New York City, including the summer of the August Coup.”

“And we know Galloway is a member of the Prince Charming Club. Leila told me so. Was he a member back then, too?”

“That I can't confirm, although Galloway certainly could have joined. He was wealthy enough to afford it, even then.”

“But we don't know for sure?”

“No, we don't, but I think you and that young detective Franco are the perfect pair to find out.”