Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

Kane shook his head. “Save me from true believers,” he said.

“So she has no idea it was a near thing,” Malovo said, “the attempt on the old man. His son recognized me, and that woman-”

“Marlene Ciampi,” Kane filled in helpfully.

“Yes, Ciampi,” Malovo said, “…a dangerous woman. She recognized Azzam. She chose first to kill your man, otherwise she might have shot one of us.”

“Hazards of war, I guess.” Kane smiled.

Malovo didn’t return the smile. “Be careful, Mr. Kane,” she said coldly. “I am not one of your toys. I represent very powerful people who can put a stop to this little plan and turn you over to your friend, Mr. Karp.”

Kane blanched but then laughed as he regained his color. “Don’t threaten me,” he sneered. “Your people want my plan to succeed as much as I do. You need to blame this on the Chechen nationalists so that you can keep your little army in place, while your puppets supply you with oil and fat bank accounts. It is a good thing for both of us that others want us to succeed for their own reasons, isn’t that right, Mr. Ellis?”

Malovo looked up to see the compact, dapper figure and face of Jon Ellis of Homeland Security. “Yes, Mr…. Hodges,” Ellis said. “But enough of these little sideshows-we’ve gone along with your little personal vendetta, and now we want you to focus on the real task at hand.”

Ellis sat down at the table and ordered a double-malt Scotch on ice. He hated drinking with the psychopath Kane and the Russian agent almost as much as he was revolted by the idea of helping Islamic extremists accomplish another act of terror on U.S. soil. However, he and certain others-rich and powerful men and women from many walks of life and areas of the country-were dedicated to protecting the United States of America from enemies within and outside the borders. They were concerned that the American public was growing complacent about the dangers of international terrorism. Safe in their little homes with their big cars and big-screen televisions, they second-guessed actions that men such as Ellis needed to take if they were to win the War on Terror. Hell, they didn’t really get that it was a war…they saw bombings and beheadings as unrelated criminal acts by some shadowy, deranged people, not a battle of Armageddon proportions of Western civilization against the mongrel hordes of the third world. Even September 11, 2001, had been reduced to a three-digit call for help, 9-11, and the subject of anniversary specials on television.

The citizens of the United States just weren’t scared enough anymore. Which made them harder to control and manipulate.

So the rich and powerful people Ellis worked for had decided that the American public needed a new wake-up call. When the Russians had broached the idea that Kane had come up with, it seemed the perfect vehicle for the lesson plan. After this, Americans would realize just how dangerous these Islamic maniacs were and quit questioning the money spent on Homeland Security and the use of the American military to “stabilize” certain parts of the oil-producing world.

Of course, there was the side benefit of keeping the Russians involved in the War on Terror. Sooner or later, as soon as they quashed the pesky nationalists, they’d have to take on the Islamic extremists in Chechnya. And they could hardly complain about the use of the American military while occupying another country themselves.

“As you wish,” Kane said. He raised his glass. “Here’s to focusing on the ‘real task at hand.’ ”

“Good, then it’s settled,” Ellis replied, raising his glass. “To the real task.”

They all drank, then Ellis looked thoughtfully at Kane before asking, “I’m curious. What’s with the expensive chess pieces? It almost got you nailed by Ciampi, who I bet got it from Karchovski. If Jaxon didn’t have to run everything through me, your ass might be on its way back to New York attached to a U.S. Marshal.”

Kane frowned. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

September

“The People call Zachary Stavros.” Guma looked to the side door panel through which the young man entered. He smiled in encouragement as his witness passed looking pale and shaky.

Sitting to Guma’s left, Karp watched his old friend, searching for signs of how he was holding up. The month preceding the trial had been particularly grueling as they prepared, searching for weaknesses, plugging gaps, working on witness prep and preparing their opening and closing statements.

After one particularly long weekend, Karp asked Guma how he was feeling. He said it lightly but was concerned as the circles under his friend’s eyes seemed more pronounced every week, and at other times, he didn’t seem to be quite in the same room, though he was well prepared for the trial, his opening remarks simple, to the point, and powerful.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to kick off during my opening or fall asleep, unless it’s during your closing, Guma had replied with a smile.

Hey, I didn’t say anything about your obtuse opening, Karp laughed. And to be honest, I’m probably more likely to keel over than you. It’s been a long month.

Master of the understatement, Karp thought. Hell, it’s been a long year, although maybe the worst of it is finally over. Ever since the debacle at Aspen, in which eight law enforcement officers had been killed and a half dozen others seriously wounded, there’d been no sign of Kane. The official view, according to a briefing he got from Ellis, was that he’d died in the blast.

Crime scene technicians had found very little in the way of identifiable human remains, particularly from inside the house. Bits and pieces, blood splatters, that’s about it, Ellis had said. However, a single Gucci loafer with enough blood inside to be tested had turned out to be a positive match for a blood sample taken from Kane when he was incarcerated.

It was better than nothing, but Karp would have preferred a body-something along the lines of the Old West days when the local sheriff would pose next to the coffins and corpses of deceased outlaws. Not usually the bloodthirsty type, in Kane’s case, he’d been willing to make an exception.

The Saudi embassy had registered a complaint with the U.S. Department of State alleging that “law enforcement cowboys had, through their precipitate actions, negated the possibility of a peaceful resolution to the hostage situation, resulting in the tragic deaths of innocent members of the royal family.” The State Department, according to Jaxon who had a friend at State, had essentialy told the Saudis to “stick their complaint where the sun don’t shine” considering that the “innocent” royal family had been harboring armed terrorists and a fugitive on the FBI’s “Ten Most Wanted” list.

Still, even the assumed death of Kane did not necessarily mean the long year was over. There was a chance that whatever plan he was working on was still in place. After all, Azzam had last been seen in New York, running away from a bombing at Brighton Beach, and there’d been no report of her having been in Aspen during the siege. Jaxon had told him that his agency, the FBI, and Homeland Security were going forward as if there were still a threat against the United Nations during Russian President Putin’s visit toward the end of the week.

When Karp told Jaxon that his source, “the same one that gave me the photograph of Azzam,” believed that the second woman accompanying Azzam was in fact a Russian agent named Nadya Malovo, the FBI agent grimaced. “Christ, that’s all we need,” he said, “Russians plotting with Islamic terrorists to commit crimes on U.S. soil. A little tough to believe considering the enormous ramifications, even for the former KGB, but not without merit either. Without going into areas that I’m not allowed to discuss, the concept that the Russians are looking for reasons to remain in Chechnya has been discussed in the highest circles.”