Richard Castle - A Brewing Storm

“What’s your Social Security number?” a male voice asked.

“You’ll have to ask the director for it,” he replied.

For several minutes, Storm sat in his car at the now silent speaker, imagining what was happening in the guardhouse, which was about a hundred yards directly in front of him. It was unusual for someone to withhold their Social Security number.

Finally, the male voice said, “Mr. Mason, drive forward slowly.”

Two armed security officers stepped from the guardhouse, both cradling semiautomatic weapons. When he reached them, one of the officers compared his face to a picture. It was an old shot from Storm’s CIA files, only the name on it now was “STEVE MASON.” Satisfied, the officer let him pass.

Storm drove the Taurus through a maze of waist-high concrete pillars designed to prevent motorists from speeding through the main gate. He parked in the visitor’s lot outside the 1960s-era Old Headquarters Building at the top of a gentle hill. Inside, Storm walked across the CIA emblem embedded in the gray marble lobby floor. To his left was a white stone wall inscribed with a quote from the Holy Bible: John, Chapter 8, Verse 32:

“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

To his right were five rows of stars on a wall, each representing a CIA officer who had been killed in the line of duty.

An attractive middle-aged woman dressed in a dark gray business suit was waiting to escort Storm through Security. Storm found Jedidiah perched behind his GSA-issued executive desk, which had been cleared of all papers, a routine practice whenever someone not officially employed by the Agency entered a room.

“Why’d the senator call you this morning? Was he having nightmares?” Jones asked gleefully.

Déjà vu. How many times had Storm sat across from Jones in this office? How many times had they discussed black ops? But that had been then. This was now.

Ignoring Jones’s question, Storm replied, “When were you going to tell me about Ivan Petrov?”

Jones leaned forward and raised his interlocked fingers, placing them directly under his chin with his elbows now resting on his desk. He seemed to be in deep thought. “I wondered when you would identify Petrov. What have you learned?”

It was as if Storm were still in training, being dropped off with only the clothes on his back in a frozen wilderness as part of a survival exercise.

“Ivan Petrov,” Storm said, “was once best friends with Russian President Oleg Barkovsky. It was Barkovsky who helped Petrov become a multi-billionaire by letting him privatize the nation’s largest bank after the collapse of the Soviet Union. He became one of Russia’s first oligarchs. Private jets, a yacht in the Mediterranean — Petrov bought all the toys. He even owns an English castle outside London formerly owned by the Duke of Madison. And then two years ago, Petrov started biting the hand that was feeding him. How am I doing so far?”

Jones nodded approvingly. “Go on,” he said.

“Petrov began publicly criticizing Barkovsky. He developed political ambitions of his own. That’s when President Barkovsky brought down the hammer. He sent the Federal Security Service into Petrov’s bank and seized all its records. He accused Petrov of embezzlement and crimes against the state. He was about to have him arrested when Petrov somehow managed to slip out of Moscow.”

Storm paused and said, “His escape looked like something you might have had a hand in.”

Jones smiled slightly and said, “More likely MI-6. The Brits. They’ve done that sort of thing before, remember? But you’re the one telling this story.”

“Petrov surfaced in London, where he surrounded himself with bodyguards and began a personal crusade to get Barkovsky ousted from the Kremlin. The Russian president didn’t take the attacks well. There was a sensational murder. The poisoning of a top Petrov aide. Radionuclide polonium-210, I believe. Nasty stuff. Next came a car bomb. Petrov decided to come here. Probably felt safer. That’s when he really began showing up on your radar. Correct?”

Jones leaned back in his chair, which squeaked loudly. He rested his hands in his lap. And waited, without comment, for Storm to continue.

“Petrov makes a big splash in Washington. He buys a mansion on Embassy Row. He begins throwing elaborate parties for the city’s political elite. And he continues his verbal attacks on Barkovsky. He continues plotting ways to undermine him. He starts making friends on Capitol Hill.”

“Money and power,” Jones said. “They’re magnets in this town.”

“Petrov has the money. Billions,” Storm said. “Windslow has the power. A perfect marriage.”

Leaning forward, Jones began rapping his right index finger on top of his desk as if he were playing a drum. He was becoming impatient. “That all?” he asked.

“Is there more?” Storm replied coyly.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Cat and mouse. You go first.

Storm shook his head, indicating that he was done.

“You’ve uncovered the basics,” Jones said, taking over the story. “Everyone began getting nervous when Petrov and Windslow became so chummy. Officially, the White House has good relations with Russian President Barkovsky, so the President didn’t like having the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee becoming bosom buddies with an oligarch whose mission in life is to destroy a sitting Russian leader.”

“I’m sure Petrov’s billions made the White House nervous — given Windslow’s light fingers.”

Jones gave Storm an approving smile. “So you do know more. Shall I assume you also know about Agent Showers’s investigation and her recent claim that Windslow was paid a six-million-dollar bribe.”

“Showers said the six million came from London via the Cayman Islands. Petrov was granted political asylum by the Brits after he was forced to flee Moscow,” Storm said. “It’s an easy connection to make.”

“But it’s a circumstantial connection at best. There’s no proof that Petrov paid the bribe or that Windslow got it.”

For a second, Storm considered telling Jones about the six million in cash that Windslow had hidden in a bank safety deposit box. But he decided against it. He wanted to see what else Jones was willing to tell him.

“What was Petrov hoping to buy with his six-million-dollar bribe?” Storm asked.

“We don’t know. At least, not for certain.”

“Could it be the covert operation that you two are fighting about?”

“So you know about that, too,” Jones said. “You are a resourceful student.”

“That’s why you love me, isn’t it? Now, what is it — the covert operation that you are fighting about?”

“It’s a 'need to know’ operation, and you don’t need to know.”

“Is it linked to the kidnapping?”

Jones gave Storm a blank look. “I said you didn’t need to know.”

“Do you think Petrov is responsible for the kidnapping?”

“You tell me,” Jones said.

It was a difficult game to play with someone as experienced as Jedidiah Jones. He knew secrets about secrets about secrets. And he kept them carefully concealed until he needed to use them. Obviously, he was keeping the covert operation and his opinion of Ivan Petrov to himself. At least for now.

“Is Petrov even in the country?” Storm asked.

“He’s in London or on his yacht. It hardly matters. A billionaire can hire anyone to do his dirty work.”

“Why is a car from the Russian embassy tailing Agent Showers?”

“Now, that’s a good question — that you should ask her.”

“I will.” Changing subjects, Storm said, “Senator Windslow suggested this morning that you brought me here as a ruse. He said you don’t really care about solving the kidnapping. He suggested that you wanted me to investigate his relationship with Petrov. He thinks you might even have engineered this whole thing — the kidnapping — as part of some elaborate agency ploy.”