Private Moscow

Chapter 42

Two hours later, I was finally shown into the office of the US Ambassador to Moscow, Thomas Dussler. He was from old Wall Street money and it showed in the traditional furniture and dark bookcases that lined the walls of the room. The décor was out of keeping with the rest of the contemporary nine-story building, which lay in a heavily fortified compound a few miles west of the Kremlin. There was the obligatory photograph of Dussler with the President, and framed artwork that dated from shortly after the Revolutionary War. The antique furniture was designed to impress, as was the view, which took in a few snow-capped high-rise hotels and the Moscow River, but I wasn’t much interested in the trappings of power: it was Dussler’s life that concerned me.

Master Gunnery Sergeant Marlon West had taken the threat very seriously, but hadn’t been able to convince the ambassador to change his schedule in light of the intelligence, and I got the impression I was West’s last hope at convincing Dussler to recognize the danger.

“Ambassador,” I said.

“Mr. Morgan,” he replied, rising from behind his large desk. “I know your firm by reputation. You have quite a record.”

“Thank you,” I responded. “This is Dinara Orlova, the head of Private Moscow, and one of our investigators, Leonid Boykov.”

We’d stopped at the Private Moscow office en route from the airport, so both of them could shower and change. Dinara was in a dark trouser suit, and Leonid wore chinos and a tweed jacket.

“Pleased to meet you,” Dussler said, shaking our hands. “Have a seat.”

He ushered us toward a long conference table.

“This is my security adviser, Carrie Underwood.” He introduced us to a somber woman in a formal navy blue dress. “And you know Master Gunnery Sergeant West.”

I nodded at the Marine as Dinara, Leonid and I took seats at the table. West had a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Master Gunnery Sergeant West tells me you’re the source of the intelligence report indicating there might be a threat on my life,” Dussler remarked with a smile.

“That’s right, sir,” I replied. “I got the information from a device we found on a man who was involved in the assassination of Elizabeth Connor.”

“Tragic,” Dussler observed.

“We believe Miss Connor’s death is also linked to the shooting of Karl Parker,” I said.

“Ah yes, the Ninety-nine,” Dussler remarked.

“No, sir,” I replied. “I don’t think so. The man I apprehended, well, he was Russian.”

“And you found my name on this device?”

I hesitated, imagining how this conversation had played out with West. “No, sir,” I replied at last.

“Then you don’t know I’m the target,” Dussler countered.

“You fit the profile, sir,” I said.

“Thomas, for the last time, we need to revise some of your engagements.” Carrie Underwood’s concern was palpable. Another person taking the threat very seriously.

Dussler smiled like a parent indulging a child. He had the superior air of someone who didn’t think the world’s mundane concerns should trouble him. “And should we jump every time a ghost goes bump in the night?”

“If that ghost is leaving a trail of bodies,” I replied.

“What was on this device?” Dussler asked.

“Coordinates,” I said. “The coordinates for this embassy.”

Dussler sat back and his indulgent smiled widened.

“Hundreds of people work here. Even if this information is reliable, the target could be any one of them.”

“Mr. Parker, Miss Connor, these were powerful, well-protected people. They were hard targets, just like you, sir,” I protested.

Dussler wavered and the confident smile fell for a moment before returning with a fresh shine. “I don’t have the luxury of being a private citizen,” he said. “I have duties, Mr. Morgan. America is counting on me. I’m sorry, I can’t change my schedule because you found the embassy’s address on a bad guy’s Nintendo.” He grinned at his own joke. “Besides, I have my Secret Service detail and Master Gunnery Sergeant West to keep me safe.”

“Sir,” West began, “there’s only so much—”

Dussler interrupted him. “Only so much you can do to protect me. Don’t worry, Master Gunnery Sergeant, I won’t hold you responsible.”

West shook his head with resignation.

“Listen, Mr. Morgan,” Dussler said as he stood. “You share what you’ve got with my chief of staff, Ernie Fisher, and if he recommends changes, I’ll listen.”

“OK,” I said, exchanging a look of defeat with West and Underwood. Dussler was giving us the brush-off.

“Where is Ernie?” the ambassador asked. “He should be in on this.”

Dussler crossed the room and opened his office door.

“Where’s Mr. Fisher?” he asked the nearest of his three assistants.

“He said he had to go home, sir,” the assistant replied. “Mr. Fisher said he’d forgotten something important.”

“When was this?” I asked, my hackles rising.

“About an hour ago,” the assistant replied. “He should have been back by now.”

I turned to West. “Where does Fisher live?”

“About ten minutes away,” he replied. “Near Russian Federation House.”

“What’s going on?” Dussler asked.

“Conspirators fearing exposure often run,” I told him.

“Are you serious? Ernie Fisher a conspirator?”

“Or a target,” I conceded. “Either way, we’ve got to check anything out of the ordinary. Can you take me there?” I asked West.

He nodded.

“I’m going to put you in lockdown, sir,” Underwood said. “Until we know what’s going on.”

“Leonid, alert the Moscow police. Send them to Fisher’s home,” I told the former cop as I got to my feet. “Dinara, you’re coming with us.”