Steve Martini - The Rule of Nine

“You’re going to get in over your head,” he says.

“I already am.”

“Try not to get in any more trouble, and call me when you get back.” Thorpe hangs up.

The second he got off the phone with Madriani, Thorpe grabbed his jacket and was out the door. One agent held the elevator for him while another waited for them in a car down in the garage. Thorpe was pressed for time, and what he was dealing with couldn’t wait.

It was Victor Soyev, a Russian arms merchant who had been arrested in Los Angeles. The FBI had received an anonymous tip as to Soyev’s whereabouts and had taken him into custody at LAX just as he was getting ready to jump on a flight to Asia. Immediately, they hustled him off to Washington on a government jet.

For two days agents had been moving him around, from one location to another, trying to keep him out of the news and away from the clutches of defense lawyers. If the honchos at the Justice Department found out, Thorpe would be looking for a new job.

Based on the anonymous tip, the FBI checked Soyev’s voice against the NSA voiceprints from the telephone conversation between North Korea and Cuba. The Russian’s voice was a match. Soyev’s was the voice on the North Korean end of the conversation. He was one of the operatives moving the massive thermobaric device that got grounded in Thailand. Thorpe wanted answers, and he wanted them before Soyev had a chance to lawyer up.

The problem was the constantly changing rules for interrogation laid down by the White House. The guidelines were as clear as mud, and designed with enough political wiggle room so that members of Congress and the White House could run for cover and point the finger at underlings the minute anything went wrong. Everything was on a case-by-case basis. The minute Thorpe told the White House he had Soyev and what the case involved, the Russian would be put in a holding pattern, and the FBI would be told not to question him until a decision had been made by a higher authority as to the process to be used.

It was fashionable to quote Truman as to where the buck stopped, but in reality, every White House since had become increasingly expert in the art of plausible deniability. And every one of them could spin like a weather vane when it came to the blame game.

For the moment, Soyev was in a hotel room six blocks from FBI headquarters. Transported in a blacked-out van and taken up to the room in a service elevator with a hood over his head, the Russian had no idea what city he was in. He would be in the hotel for no more than two hours before they moved him again. Interrogation was captured on multichannel microphones and video in case they missed something the first time through. At night they held him in a safe house just across the Maryland state line, where questioning continued. Thorpe would devour the interrogation transcripts each morning.

So far Soyev wasn’t giving up much. He denied that he was ever in North Korea. He claimed he was a Moscow businessman dealing in heavy industrial equipment. He demanded to see the nearest Russian consul, and when that failed, he asked for a lawyer.

Thorpe had his people giving Soyev only the best when it came to food and drink. They would give him Stolichnaya vodka whenever he asked for it. It was available only through one importer in the States. The agents told him if he wanted a lawyer they would get one, but that if they did, Soyev would have to be locked up in a federal facility pending trial, and the booze and steaks would all go away. The Russian withdrew his request for a lawyer. Thorpe knew he couldn’t keep the movable feast going forever. He was running out of time.

When Thorpe arrived at the hotel that afternoon, interrogation had already started. The room had been sanitized to remove everything that might tell Soyev where he was. The curtains were pulled and only a single light from a lamp illuminated the room.

It was the third time Soyev had seen Thorpe, though the two men had never talked. All questioning was conducted through a set of three interrogators. But the Russian seemed to know that Thorpe was someone important. Like a bitch in heat, he could smell an alpha male.

“Mr. Soyev, why don’t you tell us what we want to know?” said the interrogator. “We have the tape and the transcript of your telephone conversation from Pyongyang to Cuba. We know that it was your voice coming from North Korea based on voiceprint identification.”

“So you say,” said Soyev. “And I tell you I have never been to North Korea. Check my passport if you don’t believe me.”

“We are well aware that an arms merchant of your stature can avoid the normal processes of customs and immigration in places like North Korea. Let’s stop playing games. Tell us who the man was on the other end of the telephone conversation. The man in Cuba.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am a Russian citizen and I demand to see the Russian consul. Also I would like a drink if you don’t mind. I’m getting thirsty. How long is this going to go on? I am very tired. As you know, I haven’t been able to sleep in two days. You keep waking me up every few minutes to ask more questions.”

The interrogator nodded toward one of the other agents, who immediately opened an attaché case and came up with the bottle of Stolichnaya.

“I hope you have ice?” said Soyev.

“Stop,” said Thorpe. “Enough.” Thorpe reached over and flipped on the switch for the overhead lights in the room.

Soyev looked at him, squinted, and shaded his eyes.

“Mr. Soyev, I am Zeb Thorpe, executive assistant director for the National Security Branch of the FBI. We’ve carried on with this as long as we can and I’m putting an end to it right now. Upon leaving here, you’re going to be transported to a federal detention facility for maximum-security prisoners. You will be charged with numerous crimes, including violation of international weapons embargoes, terrorism, conspiracy to commit terrorism, and arms smuggling for starters. I’m sure that there will be superseding indictments with other charges that will be added in the coming weeks. Suffice it to say that there will be enough charges and convictions that you are almost certain to spend the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary in this country. That is, unless one of these thermobaric devices that you’re dealing in goes off in a major metropolitan area, killing a number of people, in which case we will be seeking the death penalty. Do you understand?”

Soyev just looked. He didn’t say a word.

“There will be no more vodka and no more rich meals. Now, the only way you are going to change any of these circumstances is by cooperating with us. And to do that, you have a very brief window of opportunity. You see, your compadre, your comrade, the man on the other end of that telephone conversation with you, the one in Cuba…”

Soyev followed every word.

“… he not only ratted you out and turned you in…”

Soyev’s brow furrowed, and his eyes turned to little slits.

“… he is also, I assume, operating on some kind of a timetable, a schedule,” said Thorpe. “That means that the minute he uses any of the weapons that you shipped to him, the window of opportunity for you to cut a deal with me is going to come down on the back of your neck just like a sharp blade. That means that you will be charged as an accomplice with any and all of his deeds. You will be subject to the same penalties as he is. Since he did you the favor of landing you here, why don’t you do the same for him?” Thorpe stood there, looking straight at the Russian.

“You know this?” asked Soyev.

“As a matter of fact, we do. The phone call that gave us your name and flight number came into our field office in Los Angeles. It was taped. Voiceprint analysis confirms that the voice on that telephone conversation is the same voice as that from Cuba during your telephone conversation from North Korea.”