Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

Webb took the papers and started reading. Fleming didn’t rush him. He looked at Stiletto. Scott winked. Fleming shook his head. Stiletto took a drink of beer.

“This is outrageous,” Webb said.

“It’s all true, and that’s just a copy. The rest of the files are stored on the cloud. I’m not kidding about that asylum.”

“Mr. Stiletto,” Webb said, handing the pages to Fleming, “as of this moment, you are no longer an employee of the C.I.A. We cannot allow your breach of protocol to go unpunished. Everybody’s watching to see what I do.”

“May I at least empty my desk?”

“I’ll have somebody clear your desk and deliver your personal items.”

“That’s fine.”

Webb frowned but said nothing more as Fleming read the opening pages. He whistled. The document detailed Vladimir’s Putin’s arrangement with the Russian Mafia to be his proxy in other nations. Activities included the murder of dissidents and those of other nationalities Putin deemed a threat to New Russia.

“This can’t get out, Carlton,” Fleming said.

“No kidding.”

“Do I get what I want?” Scott said.

“They’ll be allowed to settle in the United States,” Webb said. “On the condition that this information is destroyed and I never see you again.”

“Can’t promise either,” Stiletto said. “I’m just getting started. Would either of you like a beer while we discuss this further?”

STILETTO STEPPED into the hospital room with the echo of a hallway announcement behind him.

Vlad Glinkov lay quietly in the bed staring at the wall, his eyes blank. He blinked and turned his head when he saw Scott.

“Hi,” Scott said.

Glinkov nodded.

Stiletto picked up the clipboard at the front of Glinkov’s bed, scanning the information there. He couldn’t understand all of the medical information, but some of the items were easy. Broken ribs, cuts and abrasions, dehydration, starvation, concussion.

“So they beat the garbage out of you,” Stiletto said, “and doped you up.”

The last line suggested evidence of needle injections on Glinkov’s right arm. Stiletto glanced but Glinkov’s arm was under the sheets.

Glinkov stared past Scott.

“There’s no way you could have beaten the drugs, Vlad. We all know that.”

Glinkov only nodded.

“You and your family will be able to stay in the U.S.,” Scott said. “Ravkin’s information guarantees that. I’ve threatened to release it if the government doesn’t cooperate.”

A new voice. “Quite a bold move, Mr. Stiletto.”

Scott turned to see Number One standing in the doorway, dressed in a dark suit, his vest buttoned tight over his belly. He held a box covered with pink wrapping paper. Number One approached the bed.

“This is for your little girl, Vlad.” He set the box on the bedside table.

Glinkov muttered thanks.

“Has Scott told you he’s been fired from the C.I.A.?”

Glinkov blinked in surprise.

“Part of the deal,” Scott said.

“He shouldn’t worry,” Number One continued. “He has a bright future. You too, Vladimir.”

Finally, Glinkov spoke clearly. “I don’t see much of one.”

“You didn’t give up as much as you think,” Number One said.

“They showed me the news.”

“They showed you what they wanted you to see.”

Glinkov frowned.

“Those news reports were propaganda for the public. Most of the anti-Putin cells were able to run or stay undercover and avoided the sweep. The thing is, Vlad, once my people got involved, we expanded the scope of the operations. Without your knowledge, of course. We recruited more people, sometimes deep within the government.” He turned to Stiletto. “That’s how we got you out.” Back to Vlad. “Most of the people arrested were criminals wanted by the FSB, gangsters, other kinds of criminals, that our people used to make the dragnet look good to the Kremlin. In other words, right now they’re making people sweat who have no knowledge whatsoever of a coup.”

“But the others—”

“Yes, those in your immediate network were compromised. But they are still alive. They are far too valuable to kill. We’re making plans to recover as many as we can, one way or another. The only ones we truly lost were Dimitri and Anastasia.”

The mention of those names drove a spike through Stiletto’s chest.

“You all knew the risks, Vlad. You have to be cold about this. About a lot of things. But none of this has been in vain.”

Glinkov nodded.

“The coup will happen. Putin will fall.”

Glinkov blinked and took a deep breath.

Rina and Xenia, Glinkov’s family, arrived. “We heard he’s awake,” Rina said. She and her daughter stepped up to the bed.

“I’ll let your husband share the good news, Mrs. Glinkov,” Number One said. “Mr. Stiletto and I need to have a private chat.”

It was hard not to feel like he was caught up in a whirlwind when Number One was around, Stiletto thought, as he followed the older man out of the room.

“I WASN’T kidding about your bright future, Mr. Stiletto.”

They walked outside the hospital building, near a garden with benches, but neither sat. Number One stopped in a shady spot, the leaves of a tree hanging above them. None of the leaves moved in the still afternoon air.

“I can’t work for you full-time,” Stiletto said.

“Why not?”

“I’ve decided to go free-lance.”

“I wasn’t expecting that at all.”

“I’ll be available if and when you need me,” Stiletto said, “but there are things nobody else will do that I need to give attention to.”

“Well, then this chat will be cut short. However, I’m glad you’ll be available, and we will need you, so we’ll provide the retainer we spoke of. That will help you get started on your own, at least.”

“Much appreciated.”

“By the way, General Ike wants to see you. He’s waiting on a bench near the Lincoln Memorial gift shop.”

STILETTO FOUND the General munching popcorn.

Fleming sat beside the Lincoln Retail Refreshment and Gift Shop, a stone’s throw from the memorial itself, the side of the structure visible from the shop’s outdoor seating area. A cluster of trees ahead stood between the shop and the reflecting pool. Tourists strolled but none made a lot of noise.

Stiletto sat next to his former boss.

“Nice day for a visit,” the General said.

“I’m not sure what to call you anymore.”

“’Ike’ will be fine, Scott.”

“Yes, sir.”

The General laughed and offered Stiletto some popcorn. Scott took a handful.

“Your dismissal is not what I wanted,” the General said.

“Couldn’t be avoided. Webb was right. If I’m the talk of the Agency, everybody’s was going to be watching to see what he did.”

“What’s your plan?”

Stiletto explained.

General Ike nodded. “Fair enough. Just make sure you charge the numerical equivalent of a shit ton if we ever come looking to hire you. It’s only right you get something out of this organization.”

“I appreciate what you did for me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, sir.”

“There is one thing you can do.” The General placed the popcorn bag between them and pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “Open it.”

Stiletto slit open the envelope and drew the paper out halfway. Name and address of a woman named Susan LaRochelle.

“Who is she?”

“My niece,” the General said. “She’s an F.B.I. agent in New York who was covering the U.S. end of the Zubarev shooting. State Department got involved and pulled the plug, but not before she got some information you might like.”