A year earlier, Yergi had been approached by a Russian student in one of his political science classes. The student was friendly, bright, and engaged in his studies, but that was just a ruse. In reality, the young man wanted to know if the professor would be interested in earning a little extra money. All Yergi would have to do is slip him some details about the political persuasions of some of the more radical professors and wealthy students on campus. Yergi was old enough to have lived through the KGB and their successor, the secret Russian Federal Security Bureau. So he knew what they were asking of him; to be their informant. He really wouldn’t be hurting anyone, he rationalized, just passing along little innocent bits of information. Besides, the extra money would come in handy.
As an unintentional side effect, this new arrangement actually brought Yergi a newfound sense of confidence. Always trying to impress his wife’s younger friends, he’d let it slip a few times after several drinks that he was a man who knew things, a man with connections. He might have even jokingly referred to himself as a spy. Yes, he even privately entertained the idea he was an Eastern block equivalent of James Bond.
But then, three weeks ago, Yergi received a strange phone call. A man who claimed to be an Algerian had learned of him through an associate and asked if he might be able to provide information about a certain American defense contractor. At first, Yergi was suspicious. Why would this man think he could get this information? Did he know about Yergi’s connections with the FSB? And who was this “associate” who had recommended him?
Then he became more practical. The Algerian was offering twenty thousand euros for the information, half now, half upon delivery. It was more than enough money for him and Elena to move away and start a new life together somewhere else. So he turned to the young FSB agent he’d been working with and offered him a deal—to exchange half of his upfront payment for any information that could be found pertaining to the American, Joshua Jordan. But did the young FSB agent have access to that? He said he would see what he could turn up.
A week later Yergi received a copy of the FSB’s comprehensive dossier, which included pictures, biographies, personal data, and all manner of classified details on the American in question. This should make the Algerian happy, he thought. Yergi allowed his imagination to drift about freely once again. Perhaps he and Elena could move near the sea. She loved the sea. And she would love him.
As he turned the corner and the Athenee Palace Hotel entrance came into view, Yergi’s dreams of his future abruptly morphed into nervousness. Shaken, he concluded it was the promise of wealth that had his nerves jangling, and not any potential danger. Certainly he could trust the Algerian. After all, the man had already paid ten thousand euros in advance, half of which was secure in Yergi’s small apartment near the university. And he was moments away from being handed another ten thousand. Yes, the transaction would go smoothly. He had exactly what the Algerian wanted.
FOURTEEN
At 9:35 a.m. there was a knock at the door of room 417. Zimler opened it to reveal the slightly rotund, bespectacled Romanian with the small satchel under his arm.
“I am Yergi. You are…the Algerian?”
Zimler nodded and ushered him in. Pointing to a coffee table in the living room area, he persuaded the currier to set his package down.
The professor was clearly nervous. His eyes scanned the room, then his host.
“Funny, y-you don’t really look Algerian…,” he stammered.
Zimler smiled, then walked over to the balcony’s French doors and swung them open to let in some fresh air.
He began with a question. “The information you have in the package,” he began, pointing to the satchel, “is it up-to-date?”
“Yes, very much so. The Russian agent whom I obtained it from vouched for its authenticity. I have quite a bit of information here for you, including the basic research and development agreement between Mr. Jordan and the Pentagon in reference to his work on the Return-to-Sender technology. Of course, no one has the actual schematics for the system…but this should provide you with an excellent starting point…” Yergi was hoping this would all be over soon. “So, in regards to my payment—”
“Did you bring your passport, as I requested?” Zimler responded.
Despite the cool morning Bucharest breeze flowing into the room, the Romanian was nevertheless starting to feel the first signs of sweat beading on his forehead.
“I need to verify you are who you say you are,” Zimler continued.
“Of course.” Yergi fumbled a little and then removed his passport from his coat pocket and offered it to Zimler, who proceeded to flip through it.
“You haven’t been to America then?”
The already uncomfortable professor now added confusion to his growing list of anxieties.
“No, why?”
“I was hoping you could tell me a little something about any experiences you might have had there. I plan on going there myself someday.” Zimler smiled, handed the passport back, and turned toward the balcony.
“A good view of the Piata Revolutiei, wouldn’t you say, Yergi?” He motioned the professor over toward the open French doors.
Yergi, of course, was already familiar with the view. In fact, he had taken Elena to the restaurant located on the same floor of this very hotel on their first date. He’d wanted to impress her, and it had obviously done the trick. What she didn’t know was that Yergi had a student who worked at the restaurant who had offered up a free meal in exchange for a passing grade.
Still, the view was spectacular, and it was indeed turning out to be a beautiful day.
Then Zimler added something unexpected: “Oh, look over there, is that your car…being towed?”
Yergi scurried toward the open doors and glanced in the direction of the street on the north side of the square.
“No, I don’t think…I’m afraid I don’t see what you are talking about—”
Before Yergi could turn around, Zimler, now behind him, looped a garrote over the man’s head and around his neck—like a noose.
Yergi’s first reaction was to grab at the steel cord constricting his throat and try to dislodge it. Panic set in instantaneously. He desperately wanted to breathe, but couldn’t. He then reached back and seized the arm of the Algerian. It was like steel. He was beginning to lose consciousness in the grip of his assassin.
Zimler knew from years of experience that the process of extracting life from a body in this manner would take less than two minutes.
Vainly the Romanian attempted to cry out to the people below who were within earshot of the room’s open balcony doors, but he could only manage a few faint gurgles. He continued to grab futilely at his neck and the Algerian’s arm.
Zimler pulled harder.
Yergi’s knees buckled.
The waves rolled gently toward the shore under the Adriatic sun. The day was very still. Yergi could smell the sea air; feel the warmth on his skin. And there she was, Elena, with her American baseball cap, waving at him and smiling. It would be the last image to cross his mind.
A moment later, the struggling stopped…along with his breathing. Yergi’s lifeless body slumped to the ground.
The assassin calmly rose to his feet, brushed off his wrinkled linen pants, straightened his silk shirt, wound the cord in a loop, and placed it back in his pocket. He then plucked the passport from the Romanian’s hand and grabbed the satchel from the table.
Again, making sure the hallways were clear, Zimler hooked the Do Not Disturb sign around the doorknob before closing the door firmly behind him with his latex-protected hand.
Quickly returning to his own room, Zimler stripped off his shirt, pants, and shoes and shoved them into a plastic bag, which he then stuffed into his Louis Vuitton suitcase. He dressed in another set of clothes and headed downstairs to the lobby to check out.
“Pleasant visit?” the hotel clerk inquired in a thick Romanian accent.
“Very,” Zimler responded, smiling br
oadly.
The assassin calmly walked out of the hotel and down the street. In an alley three blocks away, behind the Calea Grivitei, he slipped the plastic bag from his suitcase and placed it in a trash dumpster just as a garbage truck turned onto the street for its weekly pickup.
Minutes later, in the back of a cab heading south on the Blvd. Dimitrie Cantemir, the Algerian opened the satchel and removed a portion of its contents. The photo resumé of Joshua Jordan was the first item to catch his attention.
Zimler’s eyes narrowed into laser-sharp focus as he studied the target.
He then put the resumé and other papers back into the satchel and closed it up.
“Please hurry,” Zimler remarked to the cab driver, “I have a rather busy day ahead of me.”
FIFTEEN
Washington, D.C.
Inside the White House, the violent images flashing across the panel of Internet television screens deeply troubled President Virgil Corland. He shook his head and wondered exactly how much PR damage was going to result from the coverage of heavily equipped riot police overpowering unarmed truckers in the heart of the nation’s capital.
Corland fidgeted uncomfortably in his swivel chair like a man with a bad back problem.
“I don’t like what I’m seeing here, Hank. You’d think this was Somalia, not Washington.”
Chief of Staff Henry Strand was seated near the president on a white leather sofa, nodding in agreement. He too was concerned with the fiasco taking place down the street and over the airwaves, but he wasn’t about to let it show.
The president’s eye was then drawn to the third screen from the left where a young female reporter, standing with a mic along Constitution Avenue, was about to go live. With his remote, Corland selected that particular screen’s volume and pumped it up.
“The protesting truckers,” the reporter announced, “are angry with the administration’s recent decision to allow the four-month-old federal gas-rationing initiative to remain in place for the trucking industry. Last month, President Corland sent special envoys to OPEC and Russia to try and resolve the oil crisis that has been escalating since August of last year. The administration’s resolution to lift the rationing order for some industries and not others has been controversial, particularly with our continuing financial crisis. Most Americans realize that a crippled trucking industry will lead to even higher prices for goods. And with the president’s approval rating dwindling in recent weeks due to…”
Corland huffed as he squeezed the mute button quite a bit harder than necessary. “Who is this woman? I don’t recognize her. She must be new.”
“A recent hire,” Strand responded. “I’ll have Finley talk to her boss this afternoon. As you know, Mr. President, it’s sometimes difficult to control these kinds of media events when they’re happening live. I wouldn’t get worked up too much over this. By seven p.m., after all the network anchors have signed off from their nightly newscasts, the majority of the American people will believe that you are the hero and that these foul-mouthed truckers are the bad guys. Because that’s what they’ll have been told to believe.”
Corland glanced over at Strand, who simply smiled. Both men recognized that to make such a statement was the height of arrogance and elitism. Yet both men also knew it was true.
Strand continued. “I don’t know how heated this thing is going to get, but we’ll make sure our PR people get us booked on the Sunday shows just in case. We can send our assistant secretary of commerce, Bud Meyerling, over to handle the TV stuff. He’s great on the talkinghead shows. Two weeks from now, no one will remember any of this. The streets will be clear.”
“Hank, I hope you’re right. But you and I both know nobody watches those Sunday shows,” Corland replied with a slight laugh. “Heck, they’re not even watching the nightly news anymore. Who knows? Maybe the conservatives are on to us.”
Strand paused for a moment before reacting, unsure whether or not Corland was trying to be funny. “I’m sure some of them are, Mr. President.”
“So what’s the latest timetable for keeping this inflation business going?” Corland asked. “Remember, I’m the one who’s taking the brunt of the blame for it.”
“Sir, as you know, this economic crisis is actually helpful in moving our global agenda forward. We can get a lot more things pushed through when the American people are sidetracked with concerns over their finances. Obama’s guys proved that a few years ago. The conservatives out there would want our hides if they knew what we were doing, just like they wanted to with Barack. But it’s to everybody’s benefit that we go global, even if the pick-up truck crowd in the Bible Belt does’t recognize it.”
“Hank, you’re stalling. How long?”
“Till the end of next year.”
“What? That’s cutting it awful close!” Corland retorted.
“It still gives us ten months before the November elections to get the economy back on track, which, of course, will be a direct result of your policies. You’ll easily win reelection. In fact, I predict a landslide,” Strand reassured.
“And what if the economy doesn’t respond in time?”
“Sir, I like being in the White House. I want to be here for another term just as much as you do. We won’t let that happen.”
“Okay, keep me posted.” Satisfied, Corland paused, then turned his attention to another challenge. “Now, let’s talk about national defense for a moment. Is the secretary of state going to be at the briefing?”
“I believe so, Mr. President.”
“And the fellow from the Joint Chiefs?”
“Yes, sir. The Pentagon is sending over the vice chairman.”
“What’s his position on the North Korean incident?”
“The Joint Chiefs have been informed of the secretary’s suggestion that we share our Return-to-Sender weapons technology with several other nations. However, several people at the Pentagon are opposed to the idea,” Strand reported. “Hopefully we can get around them.”
“Well, the Return-to-Sender technology would be a great leveraging tool. It’d be nice to get some more oil flowing in our direction. And more credit. We can never have too much of that. So what’s their objection?” Corland asked.
“They still have national-security concerns about other nations having the technology. You know, the risk of it being leaked to rogue nations or terrorists. Unfortunately, these Pentagon guys are really dug-in on this. They’re even arguing that the congressional committee ought to ease off a bit on Joshua Jordan. They don’t want him pressured into giving up his documents.”
Just then Hank Strand’s digital memopad buzzed.
“Excuse me, Mr. President. Madam Vice President is here.”
“Okay. Let’s get her take on all this.”
The door to the Oval Office swung open, and Vice President Jessica Tulrude confidently strode in. The forty-six-year-old brunette ex-senator had helped Corland take the swing states in the last election—aided by the media’s palpable love for this outspoken feminist.
“Mr. President…Henry,” she began, smiling politely.
“Jessica, let’s talk about this briefing.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Tulrude responded, charging ahead without waiting for a wider opening. “It’s critical that we back up Secretary Danburg. He wants to begin immediate negotiations with the EU, Russia, India, and, of course, China, who, after all, remains our biggest financial creditor, to try to do something in terms of a swap—their economic chips to us in return for the RTS technology.”
“How do you suggest we broach the subject?” the president inquired.
“Well,” Tulrude offered, “the peace conference in Davos, Switzerland, is coming up soon. We haven’t responded to their invitation yet. We have a lot of nations outraged at us over this North Korean incident. The president of the European Union has called us ‘warlords’ because of our use of the RTS system.”
“Is he still asking for proof that we didn’t provoke t
he North Korean navy into firing their nukes?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Tulrude responded with eyebrows raised. “So this conference would provide an excellent platform for the administration to address the issue.”
“Would you say this would be a good opportunity for me to start laying out some of our global agenda?” Corland asked.
“Actually,” Tulrude replied, “I would counsel against that, Mr. President. This peace conclave is not a high-profile-enough venue for a personal appearance by the president of the United States. I feel, frankly, that Vance Danburg should be there. Let’s have our secretary of state make a short speech. Drop the hint that we might be willing to share our weapons technology. Open up some dialogue…that sort of thing.”
“All right.” Corland paused to think it over. “Any other suggestions, Jessica?”
“Yes, Mr. President…about the congressional hearings.”
“Yes?”
“It is an international embarrassment that this Joshua Jordan, a private defense contractor, is creating the impression that he’s holding the president and the U.S. Congress hostage by refusing to release information on his weapons technology.”
“That’s valid,” Corland agreed. “One single private citizen can’t be allowed to direct our national defense policy.”
“Send a message to Congress,” Tulrude continued, “that they had better do their job. Don’t tolerate this man’s defiance. You must pin Joshua Jordan to the ground.”
Tulrude then turned to the flickering TV screens, which were filled with images of truck drivers with zip-tied wrists being hauled off by riot cops.