Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) Read online

  “Traveling,” Konstantin said, grinning. “South of France and Italy.”

  “Good for her.”

  Konstantin pushed open the door and a solid three-year-old in blue jeans and a red and white striped shirt shouted, “Derek!” in English and flung himself at Derek. Picking him up with one arm, Derek groaned. In Russian he said, “You’re killing me, little man! When did you get so big?”

  “Nana says I grow like a magic beanstalk!” Nana was Russian for daddy—Konstantin. Derek was Derek, which was an improvement over when Lev’s pronunciation was Dork. Although Lev calling Konstantin daddy sometimes gave him pause, it was a discomfort he could live with.

  Irina appeared in the living room. She was heavier than Derek remembered, her auburn hair worn long, her cheekbones pronounced beneath just a touch of makeup. Perhaps it was the pregnancy showing. Wearing a white collared shirt and black cargo pants, feet bare, she padded over and kissed Derek on the cheek. “Got yourself banged up again?”

  “I’ll heal.”

  “What was it this time?”

  “Mortar.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, she said, “For God sakes, Derek! Where were you?”

  Konstantin said, “Syria.”

  “Oh dear God! Well, come on in. Dinner will be in a couple hours. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Sure.”

  She smiled and said, “Let Derek put you down, Lev.”

  Reluctantly Derek set his son on the floor, but Lev grabbed him by his free hand and said, “Want to see my fish?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Lev dragged him into his bedroom to visit with Sasha, his goldfish, which swam in a bowl on the end table next to his bed. It was all so normal. He gave Lev his undivided attention as the little boy talked about his fish and his friend Vlad, who lived in the building next door. Some of the tension Derek had been holding since Syria seeped away. Not all of it. But some of it.

  He let Lev show him all the things he wanted to show him, and then took a wrapped present from his bag.

  “For me?”

  “Of course, for you. Go ahead, open it.”

  Lev tore into the package, ripping it aside to find half a dozen Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars. In seconds he had sprinted into the living room to show Konstantin and Irina. Konstantin picked up one of them, a Toyota Tundra. “Now that’s a truck!”

  “Better believe it,” Derek said with a laugh. “Just what you need for pushing through a Moscow winter.”

  He spent a companionable afternoon playing with Lev and chatting with Irina and Konstantin. A year earlier Konstantin, along with Derek, had been caught up in battles between the Russian military and the government. Although in the end Konstantin had come out a hero, he found that not everyone in the FSB appreciated his involvement.

  Sipping a glass of vodka at the kitchen table, Konstantin shrugged. “It’s gotten very difficult to know who to trust. And the president and the prime minister send decidedly mixed messages.”

  “And you?” Derek asked Irina. “Konstantin mentioned you were taking computer classes.”

  “With Lev and, well, the kidnapping and everything, I decided I no longer wanted to be in the field. Also, there are still people in the FSB and the army and the government who think that I was a member of the Red Hand.” The Red Hand was the terrorist organization backed by a general in the Russian Army that had attempted to overthrow the government the year before.

  Derek had gone through several behind-closed-doors congressional investigations in his career and appreciated the problems they were facing. Leaning back in his chair, he fingered his own glass of vodka.

  Irina continued. “I was consulting, which mostly involves providing security for international business people here. But again, that involves a fair amount of travel. But there’s a lot of business in online security and cyber espionage issues, so I’m working on that. What about you, Derek? Aren’t you getting a little old for missions like this one in Syria?”

  He took a gulp of the vodka. “I don’t know about too old, but I do wonder about pressing my luck. I also felt it was a stupid mission from the beginning. It’s not as if it’s a secret that Syria has chemical weapons. That’s well established and they refused to sign the Chemical Weapons Convention. And although I’m not privy to it, if Assad’s regime actually intentionally used them in this civil war, then the NSA has probably intercepted some communications showing that. So there was definitely a lot of politics in dropping Hammond and myself in there.”

  “So you can provide physical evidence?” Konstantin asked.

  With a shrug, Derek said, “Either that or so the White House of the Secretary of State can trot John and I in front of a senate intelligence committee to testify about what we saw in order to support whatever actions they already plan to make.”

  “Feeling a little manipulated, Derek?” Irina asked. She wasn’t drinking due to the pregnancy, but she nibbled at a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

  He shrugged. “I’ve never been comfortable with politics, but I still feel strongly about controlling bio and chemical weapons and trying to keep them out of the hands of terrorists.”

  “To civil service,” Konstantin said, raising his glass of vodka.

  “To pawns in the great chess game,” Derek said, clinking glasses and taking a swallow.

  His phone rang. Checking it, he frowned. It was an unidentified Russian number.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Stillwater. This is Sergei Gulin.”

  Derek’s heart missed a beat. Sergei Gulin was the chief political advisor to Russia’s president, Pavel Eltsin. “How are you?” Derek said automatically, giving himself time to think.

  “As well as can be expected. I hope you’re enjoying your visit with your son.”

  “I am. Why are you calling me?”

  “Direct as always, I see. That’s fine. You should have received word from Secretary Mondalevo.”

  “Of?”

  “You have not heard from him?”

  “What is this about, Mister Gulin?”

  “You are staying at the Golden Ring, correct?”

  “Apparently you already know that.”

  “A driver will be around tomorrow morning at eight to take you to the Kremlin.”

  “To what end?”

  “After we end this conversation I suggest you check your email or call Secretary Mandalevo, Doctor.”

  “I have plans. I’m going to spend the day with my son.”

  “We should have you back to your son by the afternoon. Perhaps a VIP tour of the zoo for the both of you? For the trouble.”

  Derek went silent for a moment. “Fine,” he said.

  “Good evening, Doctor.”

  Staring at the phone in his hand as if it were a rattlesnake, Derek said, “Huh.”

  “Are you okay?” Irina asked.

  “I’m not sure.” He brought up his email, punched in the code and waited for the encrypted email to download.

  There were two dozen emails, but none was from Mandalevo. Standing up, he said, “I need to take a short walk, if that’s okay with you?”

  “What’s this about, Derek?”

  “I’ll tell you after I find out.”

  Once out on the street, walking along the Moscow River, Derek keyed the phone number of the U.S. Secretary of State. It wasn’t Mandalevo’s direct number, but did take him directly to Mandalevo’s chief of staff, Joe Moore.

  “It’s Derek Stillwater,” he said.

  “Yes. The Secretary was expecting you to call.”

  “Joe, a little head’s-up would be appreciated. I just got a call from Sergei Gulin.”

  Moore’s chuckle came through the phone. “That’s probably a little higher than expected. But the Secretary is counting on your relationship with Gulin and Eltsin to pave the way.”

  “I don’t have a relationship with them. It’s a miracle they even let me in the country.”

  “You did them a huge favor and they k
now it. Are you on a secure phone?”

  “Basically.”

  “Fine. The Secretary wants you to start putting together a file on Syria’s chemical weapons capabilities in general with a multi-step plan on what you would recommend be done about it.”

  “Now I’m a policymaker?”

  “You’re as knowledgeable about this topic as anybody in the world, Derek. And secondly, he wants you to start investigating Sheikh Hussein Nazif and his group.”

  “Well,” Derek said slowly, “with the second part, I think I know where to start. Why are we suddenly being cozy about Syria with Russia?”

  “Because if we want to stay out of Syria—and we do—we’re going to need to cooperate with Russia. They’re Syria’s most important ally—”

  “Iran might argue about that.”

  “Worldwide, Derek. Russia might drive us all crazy, but they have influence and want more.”

  “Well, when you’re sitting on top of a huge oil and natural gas reserve, that gives you a fair amount of influence. But I wouldn’t trust Russia to ever be on pals.”

  “We don’t. Is that all you need?” Moore asked.

  “Probably not, but at least I know what’s going on.”

  “Good luck.”

  Derek pocketed his phone, pushing aside the urge to pitch it into the gray waters of the Moscow River. On the other side of the river was Gorky Park. A Ferris wheel spun, visible just above the trees, lit up in the mellow Moscow evening. A warm breeze blew, ruffling his thick hair. With a sigh he headed back to Lev, Konstantin and Irina.

  The Russian Syrian expert’s name was Boris Chaadayev, a tired-looking man with thinning gray hair, a wispy mustache and round wire-rimmed glasses. He looked to Derek like a college professor who’d just been passed over for tenure. His English was excellent.

  “So, Dr. Stillwater. We are to share information about Syria. What would you like to know?”

  “Do you know if the Syrian government has actually used sarin gas on the rebels?”

  Shoulders slumped, Chaadayev peered at him over the rim of his glasses. “Well, you don’t mess around, do you?”

  “It would simplify our lives a great deal if you had evidence and just presented it to the world.”

  Chaadayev tsked. “Yes, well, if we knew that, and as far as I know, we do not, I suspect my government and your government would use that information in different ways.”

  “I imagine.”

  “You have been to Syria, Doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Recently?”

  “Last week.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Chaadayev crossed his arms over his chest. “In what capacity?”

  “Trespasser.”

  Chaadayev chuckled almost soundlessly. “Where specifically?”

  “Aleppo.”

  “A beautiful city at one time.”

  “Pretty much a wreck right now.”

  “I spent several years in our embassy in Damascus.”

  “What do you know about al-Qaeda in Syria?”

  “I known they are there. That cells have aligned themselves with the rebels.”

  “What about splinter groups?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, all al-Qaeda cells are splinter groups.”

  Derek knew what he meant. Part of the genius of al-Qaeda was how individually each cell operated. Derek had been one of the authors of the State Department’s Global Terrorism Assessment and for the most part he agreed that the core of al-Qaeda had been significantly degraded. He also, unfortunately, agreed that although most of the core AQ leadership was on the run, there were plenty of opportunities around the world for independent cells to operate. He and most terrorism experts felt that there was a vacuum to fill and there were plenty of Islamic extremists itching for the opportunity. Kill the bad guys, create the environment for worse guys.

  “Well,” Chaadayev said, “if you’re referring to the an-Nusrah Front, that’s basically al-Qaeda in Iraq working under an alias.”

  “I’m interested in an Egyptian group.”

  “I’ve heard rumors. What do you know, Doctor?”

  Derek provided a sketch of his experience in Aleppo. For the first time since being introduced, Chaadayev seemed to come alive. “The Nazif Brigade?”

  “Named after Hussein Nazif?”

  “Yes. That would be the one. But I have very little information about them. Hussein Nazif is Egyptian, although that’s about all we know. I am not an expert on Egypt. Russia’s relationship with Egypt is, shall we say, weak.”

  “I’d like anything you do know about him.” Derek leaned back in his chair, tipping it back on legs.

  Picking up his phone, Chaadayev texted someone then turned back to Derek. “Tell me more about him.”

  “Quid pro quo?” Derek said.

  “Of course, Doctor. I do not believe the United States, the Russian Federation, or the Assad government have any desire for the Nazif Brigade to gain too much power in Syria or the Middle East.”

  They spoke for three hours, drinking black coffee and focusing on what they both knew about the Syrian government’s chemical weapons capabilities, which were significant.

  “But why use them?” Chaadayev said. “They are killing plenty of people using traditional weapons.”

  “They are an excellent weapon of terror,” Derek said. “And because they often contaminate medical workers, NGOs and other aid workers become less likely to want to provide assistance.”

  Chaadayev sighed. “I am not sure I understand the moral distinction between poisoning innocents with chemical weapons and blowing them to pieces with bombs.”

  “Low-hanging fruit,” Derek said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Derek shrugged. “From a practical point of view, I’m mostly concerned about keeping biological and chemical weapons out of the hands of terrorist organizations. From a military point of view, chemical weapons are ineffective and biological weapons are ineffective and difficult to control. But you deal with them. But in terms of low-hanging fruit, it’s a lot easier for governments to give up use of them. They had no particular plans to use them anyway. So they become something governments are willing to

  negotiate with.”

  “Except Syria.”

  “Syria has limited military weaponry. Chemical weapons are cheap and easy to make. They become strategic rather than tactical.”

  “The threat is more important than the actual use.”

  “For governments. But when it comes to terrorists, they can do an enormous amount of damage to civilian populations and create a lot of panic and death using chemical weapons.”

  “And you think that is what the Nazif Brigade was doing?”

  Derek hesitated. “It’s complicated. But yes.”

  “It’s always complicated, isn’t it?”

  A knock came at the door and a tall angular woman with black hair pulled into a bun stepped into the room. “Ah,” Chaadayev said. “Ogafia. Thank you for coming. Dr. Derek Stillwater, this is Dr. Ogafia Pac.”

  Derek shook her hand. She was probably about sixty years old with a long, lined face and dark brown eyes. She wore reading glasses around her neck on a silver chain. Her suit was black, unflattering, and severe.

  “You’re American,” she said in English with a British accent.

  “Yes.”

  “And you have a question about an Egyptian terrorist?”

  “He encountered Sheikh Hussein Nazif,” Chaadayev said.

  Her gaze sharpened. Sitting down opposite Derek, she folded her hands in front of her. She had not brought in anything with her—no computer, no files, not even a cup of coffee. “Tell me,” she said.

  So Derek ran through it again. She nodded along, but asked no questions. When he was done she said, “We have a name, but no photograph or image. Could you help us produce an image?”

  Glancing at his watch, Derek said, “I need to spend some time with my son, but yes. I can come back tomorrow and wo
rk with you on that. What do you know about Nazif?”

  “Almost nothing. Except he was thrown out of the Muslim Brotherhood for being too radical.”

  “He has a brother. He’s at Guantanamo Bay. I don’t know much more than that yet,” Derek said.

  “Perhaps your government knows more about the Nazif Brigade than we do, then. Here is what I do know. We are worried about them. They are very radical. They seem to have resources. They appear to be intent on destabilizing Syria, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Iran, with the additional goal of destroying Israel. And for Egyptians, they seem to be very hostile to Egypt.”

  “That’s fairly standard AQ dogma,” Derek said.

  “We haven’t proved it yet, but there have been a number of bombing attempts on the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan and Druz oil pipelines in Azerbaijan. We think the Nazif Brigade may be involved. No proof, but we think so.”

  “That explains many things,” Chaayadev murmured.

  Derek shot him a questioning look. The Syrian expert said, “Many European and Middle Eastern countries have offered to pay the United States to intervene militarily in Syria. That’s somewhat unusual, but Syria not only has promising gas fields around Homs, but it’s an important energy transit route to Europe. There was talk of a gas pipeline through Syria that would run from Qatar to Turkey and the Mediterranean. From here, all over Europe.”

  “It always come back to oil,” Derek muttered.

  They talked a while longer, then Derek left, promising to return the next morning and produce an image of Sheikh Hussein Nazif. Meanwhile, he had a little boy to take to the zoo.

  16

  Derek spent most of the flight back to the U.S. working on a report for Mandalevo. He slept for a while, but woke up gasping for air, heart racing, drenched in sweat. The flight attendant bent over him. “Sir, are you all right?”

  Clutching the armrest, he struggled to catch his breath. “Water,” he croaked.

  She returned quickly with a bottle of water. Twisting it open, he knocked back a swallow, closing his eyes and visualized performing a tai chi form. Over the years he had studied a lot of different martial arts and received his black belt in several of them. Tai chi wasn’t one of them, but he found the movements relaxing. Concentrating on the movements and focusing on the controlled breathing slowly brought his panic attack under control.