Politika

TWENTY-THREE

Wearing a gray sweatsuit, a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap, and Nikes, Alex Nordstrum jogged west through the Mall, a look of quiet concentration on his features as his long legs carried him over the path with unbroken rhythm. He was past the midway point of his run and his blood felt pumped with oxygen and the muscles of his thighs and calves were pleasantly loose.

Arms moving in smooth coordination with his feet, he ran on toward Constitution Gardens and the conspicuous marble shaft of the Washington Monument, where he would ordinarily swing back east to complete his regular two-mile circuit. Today he might have to wait around a bit, depending on whether Blake was on time… which Nordstrum doubted would be his good fortune, considering the assistant secretary of state, Foreign Affairs Bureau, was someone whose internal clock had seemed to have its workings irreparably gummed up even when he was Alex’s top poli-sci student at Georgetown.

Nordstrum trotted along at an easy pace, seeing no reason to hurry. North of the park, the massive cluster of Federal Triangle buildings extended continuously to Fifteenth Street, their red rooftops visible through the winter-bare treetops. To the south, Nordstrum could see the white colonnades and porticoes of the Department of Agriculture Building. Vapor puffed from his mouth with each measured breath but his metabolism was up and he was hardly aware of the cold Potomac gusts snapping moisture off his cheeks and forehead. The back of his sweatshirt was dark with perspiration between his shoulder blades, a good, healthy sweat, the kind that always seemed to wash the tension from his pores.

To his right, well-dressed men and women swept past in expensive cars, most turning north or south on Seventeenth Street for the downtown museums and government buildings, a smaller percentage of the traffic continuing past the Reflecting Pool to where Constitution Avenue became Route 66 and spooled on out across the bridge to Arlington. Maybe a mile behind Nordstrum, morning sunlight fanned over the Capitol dome in golden spokes that had already begun to glance off the red brick turrets of Smithsonian Castle. In the broad stretch of landscaping he’d covered on his way down the Hill, walkers and joggers were strung out along the paths at various stages of their exercise routines, squirrels and pigeons were squabbling over sparse winter pickings, and vacationing college kids dressed in goose-down jackets and long elf-like knit caps were strolling toward the small round skating rink next to the Museum of Natural History, carrying their ice skates over their shoulders by the laces. The kids seemed about as traumatized as the squirrels and birds by what had happened in Times Square just one week before, which was not at all.

The resilience of youth? Nordstrum wondered. Or perhaps the inurement of a generation that had been born in an era when terrorism was an ever-present threat, something on a par with environmental calamities like earthquakes and hurricanes? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and could only hope it was the former. For him, anyway, the grandeur of the Capitol was always enough to fill his head with refrains of “Stars and Stripes” and rouse a tremendous sense of obligation to his adopted country.

He reached Fourteenth Street, jogged in place while waiting for a break in the flow of traffic, then crossed out of the Mall proper onto the monument grounds, where the lawn began its gentle rise to the base of the towering obelisk.

He had started up the knoll when he heard the slapping of feet against the pavement behind him, and looked back to see Neil Blake following only a few yards downhill. An athletic man of thirty-five with handsome features and longish — for Washington — brown hair, he was wearing a black Speedo running suit with an electric blue stripe down the side, looking exactly like what he was, a member of the smart and spirited power elite.

“Neil,” Nordstrom said, slowing a little, “how long have you been stalking me?”

Blake nodded his head back toward Fourteenth Street. “I came in from over by the Ellipse, saw you crossing the road,” he said. “I’d’ve caught up to you sooner, but there was a nice young lady on the path who needed directions, and I sort of had to stop. Besides, I thought I’d let you get in a few extra minutes of peaceful exercise.”

“Such a considerate fellow,” Nordstrum said. “Did you take her phone number? In case she needs more help getting around.”

Blake patted his pocket.

“It’s already tucked away in a safe place,” he said.

Nordstrum smiled. They ran side by side awhile in silence, cresting the knoll and then heading down toward the Reflecting Pool. The water sparkled in the morning light.

“I’ve got something for you,” Blake said. “It wasn’t easy. Anyone finds out I leaked it, I can open up that bagel joint my cousin Steve in Chicago always wanted me to go in on.”

Nordstrum nodded but said nothing.

“You know the Lian Group?” Blake said.

“Of course.”

“They made the goods,” Blake said.

Nordstrum nodded again. His face was serious and thoughtful.

“What about the end purchaser?” he asked.

“The trail leads to a Russian distributor. After that, it’s an open question.”

There was a long pause.

“Crap,” Nordstrum said finally, shaking his head.

“I didn’t figure you’d like my news much,” Blake said.

Nordstrum was quiet another moment.

“Is that all of it?” he said.

“So far, yeah,” Blake said. “I’ll let you know if I dig up anything more.”

“Thanks,” Nordstrum said. “I’m glad I gave you an A in class.”

“I earned it,” Blake said.

Nordstrum looked over at him.

“Insolent pup,” he said.

“It’s looking more and more as if you were right the other day, Gord,” Nordstrum said into his telephone.

Freshly showered and wrapped in a bathrobe, he was back in his Pennsylvania Avenue townhouse after his jog, and had just gotten through telling Gordian what he’d learned from Blake.

“I’m almost wishing I’d been wrong,” Gordian said. “This Lian Group… I’ve heard of it before. Didn’t the name come up in the Thompson campaign finance hearings a few years ago?”

“Right again,” Nordstrum said. “The evidence that it was involved in funneling Chinese government funds into our election wasn’t as conclusive as it was for Lippo, among other foreign contributors… but it was strong nonetheless. In my opinion, Lian money gave at least two senators a considerable edge against their opponents, and may very likely have won them their seats.”

“I’m still pretty much with Megan insofar as being confused. What’s the connection between Lian and the Russians? And specifically which Russians?”

Nordstrum sat forward on his living room sofa, absently winding the telephone wire around his fingers.

“The best I can do is speculate,” he said. “I mean, I’d need to look into my files, do some research, before I could expect you to bank on this information.”

“Go ahead, I understand.”

“There are circumstances that would point toward Russia’s Agricultural Minister, Yeni Bashkir, being knee-deep in this affair. He and Lian have a long relationship. As do members of the Chinese regime and Bashkir. Also, Bashkir’s family held commercial interests throughout Asia until after the Bolshevik Revolution.”

“And his motive?”

“Bashkir’s hardly an Americanophile… is that the proper term?”

“I’m not sure,” Gordian said, “but the meaning’s clear enough.”

“Be that as it may, he distrusts capitalism and democracy, and like many in his generation would have preferred to save the old Communist system by fiddling with it, rather than see it dismantled. Also, while not an extreme nationalist in the Pedachenko vein, he’s unquestionably something of a cultural chauvinist.”

“So you’re saying he might have wanted to disrupt Starinov’s pro-U.S. initiatives, make him look ineffectual.”

“In essence, agreeing with what you suggested at our meeting,” Nordstum said. He realized he’d gotten his phone cord hopelessly tangled and worked to extract his fingers.

Gordian sighed at the other end of the line.

“Doesn’t the fact that Bashkir helped negotiate the assistance package undermine our hypothesis?” he said. “Look at any photo of Starinov when he was at the White House back in October, you’ll see the minister at his side.”

Nordstrum made a sound in his throat that was the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

“Gord, I know you’re a glass half-full sort of person. But you’re as aware as I am that Russian politics hasn’t come very far from the imperial courts of Catherine or Nicholas II. There’s a long, cherished tradition of back-stabbing intrigue in the capital, whether you’re talking about modern-day Moscow or St. Petersburg in the nineteenth century.”

There was a brief silence. Nordstrum struggled to untangle the knotted up wire, letting his friend think.

“Okay,” Gordian said finally. “Can you put together a brief for Nimec, get it to him via e-mail by tonight?”

“Might be a bit thin on detail… but yes, I can do it.”

“Send copies to Blackburn and Megan in Kaliningrad. And to Vince Scull, for that matter. Let’s see what our combined brain trust can accomplish.”

“Right,” Nordstrum said. He was getting hungry for breakfast. “Anything else?”

“Only one small favor.”

“Shoot.”

“You ought to work on that habit of playing with the telephone wire while you’re talking, or at least get a cordless,” Gordian said. “I’m hearing all kinds of static here at my end.”

Nordstrum frowned.

“For you, boss, I’ll certainly do my best,” he said.