Bad Faith

11

Waiting in an interview room at the varick Federal Detention Center Facility in downtown New York City, Nadya Malovo opened the buttons on her jail jumpsuit to reveal a hint of cleavage. One of the jail matrons was sure to make her button it up again later, but for this meeting she hoped to make good use of her physical assets. She glanced over at the one-way mirror, nodding at the man she knew was watching from the other side.

Settling back into her chair, Malovo gave her short blond hair a final shake and smiled slightly, satisfied. Everything was going according to plan. But these are only the first steps, and there are many more, she reminded herself.

She knew that even with her meticulous planning, she was walking a razor’s edge; all it would take was one slipup and it would all be over. However, it did not trouble her that her plan was a desperate one; it was simply a fact that she used to keep herself focused. She’d been walking an edge since her early twenties, and if anything she needed that adrenaline rush to feel alive.

Nadya Malovo, a.k.a. Ajmaani, had been an orphan scraping for a living on the cold hard streets of Moscow, where her nascent criminality and her unreal physical abilities as a sometime cat burglar got her noticed by the authorities. But instead of prison they sent her to a “special school for girls” to be trained as a spy and assassin.

Roughly twenty-five years later, she now killed without remorse, and while she would do anything to avoid being killed, she didn’t fear it. Fear of death will get you killed. She could still hear the harsh voice of her old KGB mentor. He’d been a great teacher, though she thought of him without affection. After all, he’d been a merciless overseer of her training who had her brutally raped by some of her male “colleagues” so that no enemy would ever be able to use that degradation to break her down. When it was over, she showered, tended to her wounds, dressed herself, and reported for duty as if nothing had happened.

There was one lesson he’d never been able to get her to accept. A professional has no time or desire for revenge; it is business. Revenge burned in Malovo like the coals of last night’s fire, waiting to be fanned into a sudden flame, and she never passed up the opportunity for it if it fit her plans. Many years later, long after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, when she was working as a freelance assassin and agent provocateur, she found her former mentor in a remote cottage in the Urals, where he’d retired. She castrated him and left him to die slowly in the snow while she sipped a glass of wine and watched from the front porch of his home.

Her current plan was intertwined with the threads of revenge as well. Threads that involved her nemesis, the six-foot-five New York City DA Roger “Butch” Karp and his loathsome family. Just thinking about the man made the coals in her dark soul glow brighter.

The eventual success of her plan depended on her being out of Florence ADX, the maximum-security prison in Colorado, which normally only housed the worst, most violent and dangerous male prisoners but had made a special allowance for Malovo. There was no escaping from “the Alcatraz of the Rockies,” as the prison was known, so she had to scheme to get out as an undercover informant for the U.S. government.

So her part of the “deal” with the Americans was that she would infiltrate so-called sleeper cells of Muslim extremists as her alter ego the Chechen terrorist Ajmaani; learn their plans; and pass the information on to the agencies. She’d been able to convince her captors that according to her sources, al-Qaeda was planning a series of strikes in New York City, culminating with one massive attack on a date and location that were as yet unknown; they only knew it would be within the year and hit Manhattan.

Of course it was all a lie to get out of the prison and back to New York City. Except for the massive attack … That is real, she thought.

In reality, it was Ajmaani who contacted the sleeper cells-which she’d known of prior to her arrest-and with forged documents purported to come from higher-ups in al-Qaeda, or some other extremist organization, planned attacks and set them in motion. Then she turned around and betrayed the terrorists to win the confidence of the Americans, starting with the attack on the Liberty Island ferry.

The attack on the ferry and its aftermath could not have gone better. She’d located Ghilzai and other foreign-born members of that cell, sprinkled in some American jihadis to ruin the cohesion of the group and sow distrust, and then told them that the time had come to “strike a blow for Allah and attack the Great Satan.”

As she had ever since assuming the role of Ajmaani, first for the Russian government trying to destroy the Muslim separatist movement in Chechnya and later for the highest bidder, she found the mujahideen to be extremely gullible, and the one involved in the ferry attack was no exception. It wasn’t that they were all stupid or uneducated or even poor, though some were all three. But whether it was their religious upbringing or dissatisfaction with their lives, or a psychological predisposition to accepting the orders of authority figures as gospel, it didn’t take much to convince them that sacrificing their lives to kill others would earn them a place in paradise.

“Of course their leaders never volunteer to kill themselves for Allah,” she’d laughed cynically when talking to the NIDSA agent Mike Rolles as they drove back from the harbor following the attack. “They have enough fools to use as cannon fodder for God.”

And cannon fodder is what they’ve become, she mused as she waited for her new attorney to arrive. No survivors. No witnesses.

It was all part of the plan to not only escape her captors but live well and on her own terms after that, with each piece of the plot that would win her freedom snapping into the others like a jigsaw puzzle. One piece had been to establish herself as the fearless Ajmaani and take part in the attack. But in addition to wanting to be present in case something went wrong and she needed to intervene, she had to be able to send a message to certain people that she was in charge of events.

Another piece had been to select the most fanatical foreign-born terrorists to be on board the attacking vessel, who were told to avoid capture no matter what the cost to their lives. “If you are stopped from completing your main mission, blow yourselves up; it will still make a dramatic statement in the media, especially Al Jazeera television. You will be heroes and martyrs for Allah,” she’d told the boat leader the night before the attack.

Even then she’d taken no chances. Her appearance on the ferry when the talks with the attackers had stalemated was to send a signal to one of her men stationed in a hotel room on the southern end of the island with a view of what was happening. When it was apparent that at least some of the attackers on board the boat survived the barrage of fire from the police, he’d use a remote-control detonator to set off the bomb that had been planted belowdecks unbeknownst to the attackers.

She tried to consider everything, even making Ghilzai believe that Akhund was the traitor. Ghilzai would never talk, and Akhund would never survive jail. She would also make sure of that.

In return for helping thwart the terrorists, Malovo had worked out a deal in which she would be placed in the federal witness protection program and given a quiet new life in some out-of-the-way community. I’d rather rot in prison than suffocate in suburbia. She had no intention of doing either.

However, she needed to convince the authorities that it was what she wanted, though she knew that the agent Espey Jaxon and U.S. Marshal Capers, who had refused to relinquish total control of Malovo to NIDSA, would be suspicious. She would have to deal with them and made a mental note to file away their obvious personal feelings for each other, information that could be useful later on.

After her arrest, Malovo refused to say much of anything to U.S. interrogators other than the occasional tantalizing tidbit about people she knew, including traitors within the U.S and Russian governments and the supersecretive Sons of Man. It was enough for the feds to send in a stream of agents, men and women, hoping she’d open up to one of them. But not until NIDSA agent Michael Rolles entered the interview room did she begin to “spill her guts.” Of course there was a reason for that.

When he was sure they were alone, he quietly said, “Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh.” It meant “What must be, will be” in Manx, the language of the Isle of Man. It was also the mother language of the Sons of Man, who had grown from a group of pirates and smugglers in the eighteenth century into a clandestine syndicate of powerful and wealthy descendants bent on U.S. and world domination. It was the signal she’d been waiting for; help had arrived … for a price.

Gradually, so as not to arouse the suspicions of anyone watching, she warmed up to Rolles, and in their first two-hour interview “revealed” a smidgeon of information that had led to a bomb-making operation in the Bronx. Her captors, including Espey Jaxon and U.S Marshal Capers, appeared to have final say in where she went and when. But she was NIDSA’s prize due to her relationship with Rolles, as she made it look like he had touched some vulnerable part of her psyche to the point that several months into his appearance, she flirted shamelessly and suggestively with Rolles. The irony was that Rolles wouldn’t have been susceptible to her feminine wiles even if that had been part of her plan.

Testing the waters, Malovo-who had spent a lifetime studying the weaknesses of her enemies, most of whom were men-did “test the waters” with Rolles, just in case seduction would come in handy later. But he just smirked and said, “Don’t bother. I don’t like women, if you know what I mean.”

Just like the SOM hierarchy to send a homosexual as their emissary and close that door for her. But there were many ways to a man’s heart. Sex was one. Power and money were others. Rolles wanted both, and she was his ticket to a seat at the SOM board table.

She told him her plan, or what she wanted him to know of it, and what she had to offer. Something SOM wanted very much, and they were almost blind in their desire to get it.

There was a knock on the door and a young, balding, and paunchy man in a cheap suit entered. She’d been expecting him, knew who he was and even what he looked like; he was the key to her plan.

“Who are you? Where is my lawyer?” Malovo hissed.

“I’m Bruce Knight, your attorney,” the young man responded. “I was retained as an independent counsel by the law firm that was hired to represent you, which is, by the way, my former firm. I’m in … I’m in my own practice now.”

Malovo narrowed her eyes. “I see,” she said. “The evil terrorist is too hot to handle for those fat old men. Pressure from Washington? So they find some flunky to provide some window dressing and forget about her.”

Knight’s face flushed. “I will say that the firm retained by your … benefactors does want to fly, as I was told, under the radar with you regarding the state and New York County charges against you. I mean, true or not, allegations of blowing up school buses, murdering children and police officers, attacking the New York Stock Exchange, and killing a prosecution witness in a Manhattan courtroom make you a public relations nightmare,” he said tightly. “But I’m no flunky. I’ve won my share of tough cases, and I don’t back down from anyone, including the government. However, if you’re not happy with my representation, you are free to find someone else. I’ll inform the firm.”

Malovo gave him an appraising look, as if she might have misjudged him. That took some balls, as it would mean giving back the fifty-thousand-dollar retainer, and if my sources are right he’s already spent a good part of it. “At least you have some fire in you. That’s good.”

Suddenly her head dropped and her shoulders sagged. A small sigh escaped her lips.

“Are you okay?” Knight asked.

Malovo shook her head without looking up. “How can I be?” she moaned. “All of my life, I have been used by evil men toward their own ends. KGB. Russian mob. Terrorists and power brokers. I have been raped and abused, made to fear for my life.” She sighed. “I was just a child; first they told me it was for my country, then for my life and vicious men like Andrew Kane.”

“Andrew Kane?” Knight asked. “The guy who was running for mayor … then he got mixed up in some criminal plot, didn’t he?”

“Yes, that’s him,” Malovo said. She sighed again. “I will not lie to you. I participated in many of these deeds, though the government has greatly exaggerated my role, but I have been searching my soul and I want to make up for these things if I can.”

“And go into the witness protection program,” Knight said. “I was told of your deal with the feds.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied with a shrug. “Who wants to live their life in prison?”

“I understand.”

Malovo leaned across the table, the shadow between her breasts drawing Knight’s eye as she patted him on the hand. “Thank you, Bruce. I am very glad you understand.” She leaned back in her seat. Enough of a show for now. “Yes, I think I’ll keep you.”

An hour later, Knight finished droning on and on about the charges Karp had personally indicted her for in New York County, including multiple counts of murder, for which Karp had already filed the paperwork necessary to pursue the death penalty. As with a life in suburbia, she had no intention of ever facing those charges. She had an entirely different purpose for Bruce Knight, who finished his presentation and left.

The door to the room on the other side of the one-way glass opened and Michael Rolles entered. “I still don’t understand what this guy has to do with your mission,” he said.

“As I’ve told you, you will learn that when you need to,” she responded with a glare. “You have been told to cooperate with anything I need. … And I am not about to give away the ace up my bra; then you will have no need of my services, and I’m sure that would put me in a very dangerous position.”

“Up your sleeve.”

“What?”

“The expression is ‘up your sleeve’ ‘the ace up your sleeve,’” Rolles said, correcting her.

Malovo smiled. “And how would you know where I keep my ace?” she said. “You don’t like women, remember?”

Rolles’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Just remember who you work for,” he warned her.

“How could I ever forget?” Malovo replied. She smiled, thinking about her old mentor dying in the snow. “I never forget.”