Wall of Night

18

Nochenko knew Bulganin to be an early riser, so he wasn’t surprised to see his boss’s entourage already posted at the entrance to the RPP’s headquarters when he arrived. As he passed the receptionist, she gestured him over. “He’s been here all night.”

“What’s happening?” Nochenko asked.

“No idea. Everyone’s been racing around like the world’s on fire.”

“Okay, thanks.” Nochenko walked to Bulganin’s door and knocked. He got an “enter” and walked inside. Bulganin was staring out the window. Uncharacteristically, he had the drapes drawn back and the room was flooded with sunlight. “Vladimir?” Nochenko said.

Bulganin turned. “Ivan! Ivan, my friend, have you heard?”

“What? What’s happened?”

“See for yourself!” Arrayed across Bulganin’s desk were half a dozen newspapers. Nochenko scanned the headlines: IRKUTSK MASSACRE … PROTEST TURNS BLOODY … SLAUGHTER IN SIBERIA …

Nochenko grabbed a copy of hvestia and scanned the story. “Good God! This is awful.”

“What? This is wonderful!” Bulganin countered. “It couldn’t be more perfect. This … fracas in Irkutsk is perfect! It will be our watershed — just as you said!”

“Vladimir, people are dead!”

“Yes, of course, it’s a tragedy. But, Ivan, think what it means for us!”

It couldn’t be, Nochenko thought. From a corner of his subconscious, another thought: Coincidence is the mother of deception … It had been one of his mentor’s favorite maxims, embodying the essence of successful propaganda. And what is coincidence, Nochenko thought, but the favorable confluence of timing and events?

Could Bulganin have anything to do with this? No, of course not. How could he?

Vladimir was right: Tragedy though it was, the incident could turn the election for them. They must be very careful, though. All of Russia would be waiting to see how Bulganin reacted. One hint that he was anything but devastated and it could all backfire.

“You see, don’t you?” Bulganin said. “You see the momentous opportunity before us.”

“Yes, Vladimir, but golden opportunity or not, we can’t afford to come off as opportunists. Nearly sixty people are dead — sixty fellow Russians, including children—”

“Yes, yes,” Bulganin droned. “Citizens who simply wanted fair treatment, a better life for their children … and what do they get for their trouble? A rain of bullets.”

He’s already rehearsed the speech. “Vladimir, when did you hear of this?”

“Late last night.”

“From where?”

“Pyotr. He happened to be in Ulan Ude.”

Ulan Ude was less than fifty miles from Irkutsk. “What was he doing there?”

The phone buzzed and Bulganin picked up, listened, then said, “Put him through.” He hung up and turned to Nochenko.’ “The dogs come to beg for scraps, Ivan.”

“Pardon me?”

“They’re panicked, Ivan. Watch and learn.”

The phone rang and Bulganin picked it up. “Bulganin here … yes, good morning. Certainly, but be quick, if you would. I have a brunch engagement.” Bulganin listened for a few seconds then said, “Very well. I can make time for you … this afternoon at four. Please be prompt.” Bulganin hung up.

Nochenko asked, “What is it?”

“The president’s domestic affairs advisor is paying us a visit.”

Now Nochenko understood. Aware of Bulganin’s growing influence with voters, the president was hoping to blunt the RPP’s attack before it began. “Irkutsk,” he murmured.

“Yes, Irkutsk! We have them, Ivan!”

Within hours of Samantha Latham’s accident, every member of Charlie’s team had pledged their support. As Oaken arranged a safe house for Latham’s family, agents shuttled between Washington and Williamsburg to help any way they could.

Hesitant to involve them in an endeavor that could easily end their careers, Latham ordered everyone back to work. Janet Paschel and Tom Wuhlford, the two that had been with him the longest, refused, and along with Randall they began rotating guard shifts at the hospital.

Latham was spending his days in Williamsburg and his nights in Washington, brainstorming with Dutcher and Oaken. The cornerstone of their plan was Latham’s conviction that Baker had been killed by the Guoanbu. Everything flowed from that. Accordingly, their approach would be three pronged.

Oaken searched for a motive behind the murders. What was the connection between Baker and the Guoanbu! If he’d been working for them, what had he been supplying?

Next, Latham and Randall would pursue the Mary Tsang and Hong Cho angle. However obliquely, Cho’s methods in New York tied the Baker murders to the Guoanbu; similarly, unless she was in fact nothing more than a pen pal, Tsang was Cho’s link to the outside world.

And lastly, upon his return, Cahil would begin hunting for Mike Skeldon. To understand the whole picture, they had to know why Baker had hired him.

Somehow this disparate group of people were connected to a larger whole — something so important to the Chinese government that it had ordered the slaughter of an entire family.

Oaken felt certain Baker had had more on his place at Commerce than a simple hearing aid. To confirm this, he proposed a scheme that got an enthusiastic smile from Latham.

The next day Charlie returned to Commerce for another meeting with Baker’s supervisor and the department’s director. “So what brings you back, Agent Latham?” asked Jenkins.

“How common is it for your employees to take home classified work?”

“It’s against regulations,” Jenkins replied.

“Closely monitored, I assume?”

“Of course.”

“Then maybe you can tell me why Baker’s computer was full of Commerce material.”

“That can’t be,” Knowlton said. “There’s got to be a mistake.”

“At last count, Baker had material from twenty-three case files on his hard drive.”

“Do you have the case numbers?” asked Jenkins.

“They’re being transferred to a warrant as we speak. If I don’t start getting some cooperation, that warrant will be on the desk of the U.S. attorney within the hour. After that, I’m coming back with a couple dozen agents and start digging through your documents vault.”

“You can’t—”

“Depending on what we find, I may start looking into obstruction charges.”

“Agent Latham, this is unnecessary—”

Latham stood up and started toward the door. “I’m done being nice, Mr. Jenkins. You’ve just bought yourself and your department a world of heartache.”

Jenkins bolted out of his seat. “Wait! Wait, please!”

“What?”

“You have to understand: This is very difficult.”

Time to let them breathe. “Look, if Baker was up to no good, that’s on him. Unless you were aiding and abetting him, the worst you’ll face is some embarrassment. Be smart.”

Jenkins looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded. “I’ll have what you need in ten minutes.”

An hour later Latham was back at Holystone with four large boxes of manila folders.

“Wow,” Oaken said, helping him carry them into his office.

“Baker was a workhorse,” Latham agreed.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I figured it was a toss-up whether they’d fall for the bluff. I half expected him to pick up the phone to the Bureau. I was trying to figure out how we were going to post bail for you.”

“Very funny, Walt. Jenkins is a bureaucrat down to his socks. I just spoke his language.”

“Well, whatever you did, it worked.” Oaken reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a file. “Now, get outta here — I’ve got some reading to do. Time to see what the late Mr. Baker was up to.”