74

It was half past eleven in the morning in Washington, D.C., and they were back at the White House, in the Woodshed meeting room. Leo Horabin wanted an update on the investigation. The story was told from the beginning, with Kady Jones screening Henry Wong’s photograph of Vermulen and Francesco Riva, and explaining the potential significance of their meeting. Tom Mulvagh then described his investigation into Vermulen’s movements in Europe and the death of his personal assistant Mary Lou Stoller.

“I began a detailed analysis of Mrs. Stoller’s replacement as the general’s assistant, Ms. Natalia Morley, in conjunction with Ted Jaworski. Ted, perhaps you’d like to present the findings of that analysis.”

The CIA man took over.

“Certainly. The bottom line is, Natalia Morley does not exist. It’s a false identity, prepared well enough to stand up to the level of investigation an employer makes into a secretarial hiring. There was a birth certificate, marriage license, and divorce papers, references from prior employers, credit-card records, and so forth. But the moment I started looking deeper and wider, it all fell apart. I could find no trace of her supposed husband, Steve Morley. The couple’s home addresses in both Russia and Switzerland were phony. Ms. Morley had given a name and number for the human-resources department of the Swiss-based bank that had employed her, but when I called that number it had been disconnected and no one at the bank had ever heard of her.

“So if this woman isn’t Natalia Morley, who is she? Since she claimed to be Russian, that was the first place to look. I had my people secure security footage from Dulles International the day she and Vermulen left for Amsterdam, and compare it with known KGB and FSB operatives.”

He called up a picture, covering half the screen at the far end of the room.

“Okay, then, this is ‘Natalia Morley’ a month ago at Dulles. And this…”

The other half of the screen was filled by a second shot. The two faces on the screen had been taken many years apart, but they unmistakably showed the same woman.

“… is former KGB agent Alexandra Petrova. She is age thirty. She was born in the city of Perm, several hundred miles east of Moscow, and began work in Moscow about nine years ago. The KGB used her in honeytraps. Her specialty was seducing powerful, middle-aged Western males. She’s not been involved in any intelligence activity that we know of in the past five years. But it looks like she’s gone back to work.”

“You’d think a man as experienced as Kurt Vermulen might know better,” Horabin said. “Do we warn him he’s been compromised?”

“No, sir,” retorted Jaworski. “On the contrary, I propose we find out why the Russians have gone to so much trouble to compromise him. They think General Vermulen justifies their attention. We think he may be involved in some kind of project that involves miniaturized nuclear weapons. Put those two things together and what you get looks very much like Russian suitcase nukes. We’ve been tasked to find those nukes. I think this is the lead we’ve been waiting for.”

“Dear Lord,” muttered Horabin. “What’s Vermulen doing now?”

Jaworski grimaced.

“That’s the problem. We don’t know. We don’t believe he’s still in Rome. He left his rental car at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, but he hasn’t taken a commercial flight out that we know of, and there’s no record of him chartering any private aviation. There is one other possibility, though. Da Vinci’s located at a place called Fiumicino, about eighteen miles out of town. It’s right by the coast and there’s also a harbor there, with a yacht marina. It’s possible he could have departed Italy by sea.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s possible’?” rasped Horabin. “Are you telling me you don’t know?”

“ ’Fraid so,” said Jaworski. “I haven’t had the resources to uncover that information. For security reasons, and frankly for political reasons, too, our investigation of this matter has been limited to a very small number of people. General Vermulen is a decorated war hero who has never been suspected of wrongdoing, let alone arrested or indicted.”

“I’m well aware of that,” snapped Horabin.

Jaworski kept going.

“My view, and I think I speak for Tom, too, is that if we’re going to commit ourselves fully to this investigation, with the resource allocation that would entail, and the strong possibility of political fallout, we need authorization… from the top.”

Horabin was about to speak, but was interrupted by a cough from halfway down the table. It came from the uniformed colonel representing the Defense Intelligence Agency.

“Excuse me, sir… but before anyone makes that determination, there’s something else you should know. It’s a matter whose relevance only became apparent once I’d heard today’s briefing.”

“Go ahead.”

“Thank you. It concerns a former Czech military intelligence officer named Pavel Novak. Back in the day, Novak was a double, worked as an agent for us. Late last night, Novak fell to his death from the roof of his apartment building in Vienna. Now, Tom mentioned General Vermulen had been in Vienna recently. I don’t know-maybe it’s just coincidence. But when the general was attached to the DIA, he was Novak’s handler.”

Tom Mulvagh muttered, “Holy shit,” under his breath. There were similar murmurings right around the table. Leo Horabin brought the meeting back to order.

“Thank you, Colonel,” he said. “I will take all this under advisement. And yes, Ted, it will go right to the top.”

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