Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

“It’s OK,” said Krystal, “he’s with me.”

He’s with me? Wasn’t this HIS headquarters building? Suddenly he was like a new kid on the first day of school, and he didn’t like it one bit.

The dragon selected a button from a console and said, “They’re here, Director Whitehall.”

“Show them in.”

The dragon pointed to a solid-looking door behind her.

Krystal pushed the door open with Ferguson hovering behind her and entered the Executive Assistant Director’s inner sanctum, the very air of which seemed redolent with intrigue. No one knew how long the spectral figure of Enoch Whitehall had been at the FBI. The only hint was a framed black and white photo of a much earlier version of the man shaking hands with J. Edgar Hoover. It was the sole adornment on the wall behind the work table that served as a desk.

Whitehall had not changed since the last time Krystal had spoken with him in this very office. He wore what might have been the same dark gray suit that hung from a cadaverous frame. If he had an aura, it would be gray to the point of disappearing into his surroundings. But when he turned his attention to you, the hatchet face with its blade of a nose and deep-set gray eyes, was mesmerizing, and undoubtedly frightening to evil-doers and subordinates alike.

Whitehall unfolded his body from behind the table and, like Dracula rising from his coffin, stood to greet them. “Detective Murphy, what brings you to see me?” The voice was surprisingly resonant for a man more wraith than substance. Murphy wondered if one day he might just fade into the ether and haunt the halls of the Hoover Building for eternity.

“Well, sir,” Whitehall was the only person she would call sir without hesitation, and now that she stood before him, she wasn’t certain how to begin. She silently cursed Strachey and simultaneously prayed he was not leading her on a wild goose chase. She finally found the words. “You know the case I,” a quick glance at Ferguson, “I mean, we, are working on?”

“The incident at the Clarendon Metro. Of course, but that’s not my turf, Krystal.” An interrogatory eyebrow rose.

Ferguson experienced a small vindication, but then Murphy said, “I received information this morning that might change that.”

Whitehall invited them to a small conference table in one corner of his office. “Go on,” he said.

When she was finished no one said anything for several beats.

“That’s very melodramatic,” said Whitehall. “I understand why you would want to tell me about it, but you haven’t determined whether this alleged Russian woman actually exists.”

The admonition punched Krystal in the gut. Whitehall had never shown her anything but kindness and trust and had actively helped her in some tough situations when no one else was on her side. She had let him down.

Ferguson dropped his head to hide an involuntary smirk.

“But,” the gray man said, “it does present some interest, however bizarre.”

Krystal perked up. Ferguson lost his smirk.

Whitehall frowned slightly as though deciding how much to tell them. “The interest of which I speak centers on one of the victims of the bombing. His name was Mark Lvovich Shtayn, and he was a sharp thorn in the side of the Russians. In the 90’s, Shtayn worked at a rather influential level in the Russian banking sector. Moscow was wild in those days, and Shtayn had an insider’s view of just how absolutely corrupt the system under Yeltsin became, and how it continued and deepened under Putin. Putin was infamous for his loyalty to his former benefactor, Sobchak. The two had become wealthy together by diverting millions from projects in Leningrad. Yeltsin needed someone like this, and sure enough, as soon as Putin was elected, he gave Yeltsin and his family immunity from prosecution. Shtayn knew it all — collaboration with the mafia, graft, you name it. His death can only benefit the Kremlin. The assumption was that he was just unlucky, like the rest of the victims. Islamist terrorists have little interest in Russian defectors.

“But the Russians have kidnapped and murdered their enemies since the Bolshevik Revolution, and they’ve not changed their stripes. Even in their own country they’ve murdered journalists who refused to toe the Kremlin line and delved into forbidden subjects, like Shtayn.”

“There is a lot of interest now in international money laundering, and this was something Shtayn told us about in private — yes, he was a source, but refused any payment. He was going public with what he knew about the dirty dealings of the Office of the President and Putin’s circle of friends. So it’s not surprising that they would target him for assassination.”

Ferguson could not contain himself. “But, sir, isn’t it unlikely they would try something on American soil? And previous assassinations have been carefully targeted on a single individual. This was mass murder. Such a plan would be insane.”

“Yes, it most assuredly would be insane, but we must check it out nonetheless. Don’t forget the Boston Marathon bombing. Despite what they claim, the Russians never warned us specifically, and I for one do not doubt that they were fully aware of the Tsarnaev brothers’ plans.

“From what I’ve seen of late, there is no lack of the kind of arrogance and recklessness in Moscow that would stay a wiser, less desperate hand.” He stood and cast a stern gaze over them. “Until we know more, you are to say nothing to anyone about this. As of this moment I’m declaring this a need to know matter. There are too many ears and too many wagging tongues in Washington to risk such a story getting to the public. I’m sure you must have realized that if true, such an outrage could bring about a crisis the likes of which we haven’t seen since Cuba in 1962 or the Twin Towers in 2001.”

Ferguson commandeered a Humvee from the Bureau’s motor pool, and he and Krystal set out on the 100-mile drive to the Shenandoah Valley less than an hour after the meeting with Whitehall. It was not a pleasant journey. Ferguson was sulky behind the wheel and made occasional snorting noises to indicate what he thought about Krystal’s “lead.” She remained silent, studying the map and instructions Strachey had given her at the Mayflower.

Strachey warned to approach the place carefully. Bob wanted to go with them, but both Ferguson and Whitehall had vetoed the idea. He would call ahead and advise his friend that they were on the way.

U.S. 66 and 81 were mostly clear of snow, and there was little traffic other than trucks as they barreled west and then south into the Shenandoah Valley. Once they got off the Interstate at Woodstock, it was a different story. Much more snow had fallen over the Appalachians. Conditions were worse on the unpaved road that brought them eventually to the cabin. Without the Humvee, the drive would have been impossible.

The entrance to the property was barely visible and barred by a metal gate. Neither Krystal nor Ferguson had boots fit for two-foot deep drifts, but he managed to get the gate open and drive through. Having been a farm girl, Krystal insisted he get out again and close the gate behind them. His face told her he was unenthusiastic about the task, but he obeyed nonetheless. Clearly, the Special Agent was not adjusting well to a subordinate role.

The cabin lay about three-quarters of a mile beyond the gate, around a sharp curve and up a steep grade. Heedful of Strachey’s precautions, Ferguson sounded the Humvee’s horn long before they reached the cabin.

A tall figure in a parka and a fur hat emerged from around the corner of the cabin with an ugly, military-style weapon aimed directly at them. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” Krystal said to Ferguson who was taking male umbrage at having a weapon pointed in his direction and reaching for his own.