Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (37 page)

Leroux
gathered himself for a moment, Morrison always like a father figure to him, though
rarely one to give fatherly advice. “Well, actually we’ve made a lot of
progress in the past twenty-four hours. We were able to trace the hack in New
Orleans to the same Dark Web jump-off point as several emails routed through
Mr. Mashkov’s server.”

“So that
confirms the New Orleans incident was committed by The Assembly.”

“Yes,
sir, it appears so. Mr. Jones came clean to the Delta operative, telling him
everything in an effort to solicit his help.”

“I read
that in the briefing notes,” said Morrison, tapping a file on his desk. “
Very
interesting idea. It could work. When is the leak scheduled?”

“It will
be hitting several news desks within the hour. We should be seeing it on the
six o’clock news. Mr. Jones has a news conference scheduled at eight p.m. which
should mean his speech will be on the eleven o’clock.”

Morrison
pursed his lips. “It’s too bad, he was a good man. An honest man.”

“Too
honest, it would seem.”

“What do
you mean?”

“Well,
if he had been after the power, he could have agreed to Quaid’s terms in the
hotel room instead of forcing their hand. And it was his idea to do what he’s
about to do. He could have done nothing, continued his campaign, and no one
would have been the wiser. The New Orleans incident might have actually got him
even more votes.”

“I see
your point. And the Titanic thing?”

“Well,
we know it’s definitely an Assembly thing as well. But here’s the thing.
We’ve been combing through Echelon intercepts of the emails and think we may
have identified at least two other Assembly members.”

“How?”

“The
emails never use names, just numbers, but they don’t bother encoding things
like locations or meetings. It’s almost as if the number system is to protect
their identities from each other.”

“Makes
sense. What did you discover?”

“Well,
there’s been a lot of emails that reference different conferences or meetings
that some of them will be attending. We’ve begun checking out guest lists for
those conferences and looking for overlap where the same person shows up at
multiple events, matching the emails.”

Morrison
smiled, leaning forward. “And you found two that match?”

Leroux
nodded, grinning. “Yes, sir. And once we knew who we were looking for, we were
able to pull their files. They both inherited massive corporate empires and
both do business not only with each other, but Mashkov as well.”

Morrison
shook his head. “All because some idiot was lazy and wanted to be able to check
his email at home.”

Leroux
rapped his knuckles on the arms of his chair. “Yup. But I think we have an
opportunity here.”

“What?”

“Well, I
had a crazy idea on how we could use our newfound knowledge as leverage.”

Morrison’s
eyes narrowed slightly. “Leverage? For what?”

“To
protect the Professors’ lives, and the others.”

Morrison
smiled slightly.

“And
yourself.”

Leroux
blushed slightly.

“And
myself.”

Moscow, Russia

“Turn that up!”

Ilya
Mashkov leaned forward, his butler Dimitri doing as requested, the CNN
simulcast over his car’s satellite radio suddenly cranked up, leaving Mashkov’s
heart pounding at the announcer’s words.

“In a
stunning revelation earlier today, it’s been revealed that the widely perceived
front runner for the presidency, Christopher Jones, has received extensive
campaign financing from questionable Russian sources. Leaked campaign documents
show multi-million dollar donations from several individuals and companies
linked to Russian President Vladimir Putin. Campaign insiders, speaking on
condition of anonymity, confirmed reports that Jones was kidnapped two days ago
in New Orleans by possible members of the Russian mob, demanding he tone down
his recent rhetoric regarding increased Russian sanctions. That kidnapping resulted
in the deaths of at least six individuals including one of Jones’ largest
financial contributors, Peter Quaid, CEO of Silidev, a large multi-national
with significant operations in Russia. A spokesperson for the Jones campaign
said he will be holding a press conference later this evening. We will bring
that to you live when it happens. In other news—”

Mashkov
waved his fingers in front of his throat and Dimitri muted the broadcast, leaving
him alone with his thoughts.

It’s
a disaster.

There
was no other way to describe it. And it was bullshit. He had made certain that Jones’
backers were all American. Quaid himself was American. Most large businesses in
the United States now had some ties with Russia. To claim that this meant the
financing came from there was ridiculous.

Then
again, the press today never seemed to be interested in the truth, just
clickbait that would drive their ratings.

Presidential
Hopeful Christopher Jones’ Financing all Above Board.

It was a
headline that wouldn’t grab anyone’s attention. Claim the Russian mob was
involved and all hell would break lose. He had no doubt the 24-hour news
stations were talking about it fulltime, bringing in questionable experts to
discuss the implications, Jones already guilty in their eyes as it made for the
most sensational newscast. And if it were proven false, it would only get
airplay if they could make a story out of Jones being the victim of someone. If
they couldn’t, it would be a buried story, simply dropped by the press, leaving
the majority of those who got their news in sound bites to wonder what had ever
happened, ignorant to the man’s innocence.

The
others aren’t going to be happy.

He was
already on their radar for some reason.

Perhaps
this was why!

It made
sense. If someone was looking into the Jones campaign’s finances, they would
definitely have found Quaid. Quaid did have business dealings with several of
his companies here in Russia and abroad. The link would be easy to make.
Chances were that anyone connected to Quaid was being looked into.

He
breathed a sigh of relief.

It
makes perfect sense!

He
frowned.

Then
why was it the CIA?

The West
hated the Russian leadership, that much was obvious. Even he, a loyal Russian,
hated the Russian leadership. It was a dictatorship run by a testosterone
junkie with a Napoleon complex. Nobody wants to see their leader with his shirt
off, whether he thinks he has abs or not.

It’s
just not presidential.

That
hatred for what Russia had unfortunately become meant the propaganda machines
on both sides were in full gear, churning out their preferred message to the
populace. It was unfortunate that here in Russia the message was quite often so
absurd it reminded him of the Soviet Union. And in Mother Russia, where almost
the entire press was controlled by the state, its citizens too often believed
the rhetoric.

Morons.

The
greatest gift they had was access to information, yet too many of them believed
their government when that information contradicted the official message.

Lies
from the corrupt Russian-hating West!

But that
same propaganda machine was working on the other side of the Atlantic as well,
and it made sense that the CIA, masters at psychological warfare, would be
involved.

Which
would be why it was
them
that were looking into
me.

He smiled.

Surely
my associates will come to the same conclusion.

These
things always blew over, and so would this in time, especially with the short
attention spans of the populace.

He
frowned.

But
what about New Orleans? What about Jones?

He
might be clear, but his operation with respect to Jones appeared to
be a disaster. Even with the stories not true, it could be enough to destroy
the Jones campaign, especially with the anti-Russian sentiment sweeping
America.

What
will Jones say?

He had
been listening to the conversation between Quaid and Jones in New Orleans after
they had kidnapped the man. Brett Jones’ past had been revealed and the threat
made, Jones capitulating in the end.

He
agreed to cooperate under threat of death to his entire family.

There
was no way he was behind the leak. The question now was what Jones would say at
his press conference. Would he deny the allegations? He would have to, wouldn’t
he? After all, they weren’t true.

Then
Mashkov had a thought, his jaw dropping.

“He
wouldn’t!”

Walter E. Washington Convention Center, Washington, DC

“Ready?”

Jones
looked at Kitty Carmichael in the mirror, her head poking through the door.
“Give me a moment.”

“Okay.”

She
disappeared and his wife clucked at him, pushing herself up from the couch and
walking over. She gently turned him and adjusted his tie, giving him a pat on
the chest when she was done. “There you go.”

He
looked down at her, smiling. “What would I do without you?”

“I don’t
know, but I
do
know you’d never be presentable in public.”

He
laughed then sighed, all happiness draining from him. “After tonight, I don’t
think it will matter.”

“You
don’t know that.”

He took
her by the shoulders and leaned in, giving her a gentle peck. “Oh, I think we
do.”

He
sucked in a slow breath, took a final look in the mirror, then held out his
hand. “Shall we?”

She
smiled, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We’ll get through this together.”

He
nodded, the urge to cry barely held at bay, his lifelong dreams about to be
shattered, his entire way of life about to be completely upset, all because of
something his grandfather did a century ago.

It’s
not fair.

They had
struggled over the past two days with their decision, though it was the right
one, Agent “White” helping them with the covert side of things. It was
essential that no one know he himself had been the source of the leak. It had
been handled expertly. And with the latest revelation from the CIA that they
had identified at least three Assembly members, he had rewritten his planned
speech, it now much more final than what he had planned. It was something he
had wanted to do from the beginning, but until what he had heard only two hours
earlier, he hadn’t felt safe enough to do so.

But that
had all changed.

Tonight
he would go out with a bang, not the planned whimper.

Then
leave the public eye.

Permanently.

He
opened the door, White and his three partners in the hall.

“Sir.”

Jones
nodded. “Agent. How about we get this over with?”

“Sounds
good to me, sir.”

Agent
White and his Asian partner, Agent Green, led the way, security heavy with
local police and Secret Service providing security. There was no way there was
going to be a repeat of what happened in New Orleans.

Nobody
would be kidnapped tonight.

Assassinated
maybe.

He could
live with that, if it meant his family was left untouched. His wife probably wasn’t
long for this world—it was his children and grandchildren he worried about.
They deserved long, happy lives. And if that meant sacrificing his, then so be
it.

Somebody
announced him and the partisan crowd roared, none aware of the bombshell he was
about to drop. He cleared the side curtains and raised his hand in the air, his
wife doing the same. He glanced at her, her smile mixed with sadness, something
the cameras would catch later as the talking heads picked apart the entire
evening.