Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

“Meaning?”

“He owns the company. But more to the point, he owns the software .”

“So the Kremlin owns Wheelz.”

“Right.”

“But for God’s sake, why? What’s the big deal about owning another Uber? Why is this so important?”

“Because this is actually all about a secret technology transfer.”

She shook her head. “What’s the technology?”

“Wheelz has a shitload of proprietary technology for autonomous vehicles. They own a lot of significant patents. Big-time military applications. That’s what the Kremlin is after. Valuable intellectual property with significant military uses. The Russian Ministry of Defense wants self-driving tanks and convoys of supply trucks. The future of warfare is autonomous vehicles , man. That’s the next frontier. Autonomous military vehicles are the backbone of next-gen warfare. Tanks, mobile artillery, logistics trucks. And Wheelz’s self-driving car unit is believed to be way ahead of Uber or Lyft. That’s really the crown jewels.”

“Self-driving cars?”

“And if it could be proved that the Russians secretly siphoned off this technology? You’d have Congressional inquiries up the wazoo. It’s a total violation of US export control laws. Starting with the Arms Export Control Act. Plus, apparently Wheelz is in the process of acquiring a Silicon Valley start-up with major defense contracts, and that would certainly come screeching to a halt. Look, we’ve been lax about the Kremlin’s gambits, but a scandal like this would really tip the balance.”

She nodded.

“And yeah, the Kremlin also doesn’t want it known they wholly own an oligarch. They’ve invested a lot in the myth that’s Yuri Protasov, and they don’t want to lose it. So tell me, how did you have the bad luck to preside over the Wheelz sexual harassment case?”

“Luck of the draw. We’re just assigned our cases; we don’t choose.”

“I’m sorry you ended up with it. To me it looks like Yuri Protasov set you up — entrapped you — to ensure he ended up with the right legal decision.”

“To keep the documents from being released, you mean.”

“Right.”

“And I’m alive because — what, I haven’t yet issued a decision?”

“They need you.”

“For now. And when they don’t—” She shrugged and stopped, thought: They kill me. She said, “So this is what I want to do.”

She told him.

“But can you get yourself in a room with him, do you think?” Ashmont asked.

“I think so. Can you help?”

“Okay.” He nodded his head slowly, musingly. The waitress arrived with another drink for Ashmont. He waited for her to leave; then he said, “I’m sure you’re aware that we’re not supposed to get involved in any domestic spy business. Doesn’t exist, we don’t do it, we leave that to the FBI.”

“Right,” Juliana said skeptically.

“I’m not saying it hasn’t happened.”

“Right.”

“Also, by the way, officially this conversation never happened. We never met.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do. Things are different these days inside Christians In Action.”

“Christians In Action?”

“Sorry. A bad joke. It’s what some of us call CIA. Anyway, like I say, the Russia section’s been decimated. Russian operations have been cut way back. A big re-org. And these days, no one’s going to sign off on an op targeting a Russian oligarch, a Putin crony. Especially involving a civilian.”

“A civilian?”

“You. You’re not a professional. So that’s just not happening.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” she said.

“You’re not a trained operative. This is against medical advice.”

“Medical...?”

“You know how when a patient leaves a hospital despite his doctor’s advice to stay, the hospital makes him sign a legal waiver, confirming he’s leaving against the advice of his doctors?”

“Okay, I get it.”

“You would be putting yourself in great danger. First of all, he’s got bodyguards up the wazoo.”

“I get that.”

“Do you? Because if he finds out what you’re doing — well, I don’t want to think about it. Bad news.”

“If I do it right, that won’t happen.”

“You know what the motto of the Central Intelligence Agency is? Shit happens .”

She thought of Hersh and his fatalism. You take every precaution to prevent disaster. But disaster is a cunning beast .

“Let’s put our cards on the table. You’re saying I’d have no backup, no one covering me.”

“You got it. Totally off the books. You do what you’re going to do, and then you come to us with the results. A citizen volunteer. You okay with that?”

He looked at her for a long time, waiting.

Finally she said, “I am.”

“This is going to sound cold, but if anything happens, if it goes south, if it goes to shit — I can’t be connected to it.”

“Understood.”

“If you’re volunteering as a walk-in and willing to assume all the risks and plausible deniability and all that, I may be able to make something happen. But know this: you’re messing with some very dangerous people.”

“So I’ve been told. I understand.”

“I hope you do,” he said.

“So how quickly can this happen?”

“I will make some calls and sound some people out. I know how to reach you. I’ll be in touch soon.”

“No,” she said. “I need to know within twenty-four hours.”

He cocked his head: Why?

“In two days, a meeting is taking place at Protasov’s house on Nantucket. A board meeting of the Protasov Foundation.”

“You know this how?”

“I have my sources. Tell me more about Protasov, about these people. Tell me how they think.”

“How much time do you have?”

“About another hour.”

“Should be enough for a start,” he said. He took a long pull of his bourbon. “You know, it’s interesting.”

“What’s that?”

“This case that pulled you into this whole thing. Wheelz. How strange is it that the thing that unmasked this whole foul affair — the thing that exposed this nest of illegal... manipulations — was a woman employee who refused to put up with a toxic environment.”

Juliana nodded.

“She may have unwittingly ended up exposing more than she realized,” he went on. “But it wouldn’t be the first time that sex led to money.”

“Which led to lies, violence, and power,” she said.

“The usual unholy trinity.” The ice cubes in his glass clinked.

“Surprise, surprise,” Juliana said.

He leveled his gaze at her. “They underestimated you, didn’t they? They looked at you, and they saw a delicate flower.”

“I don’t know what they saw.”

He nodded. “They didn’t see the honey bee inside, though. The bee with the very formidable stinger.”

“Is this supposed to be cheering?”

“Not entirely,” he said. “Bearing in mind that a bee sting is always fatal.”

“That’s not true,” she said.

He drained his glass and put it down on the table with the sound of a banged gavel. “Oh, it’s invariably fatal, all right. To the bee.”

The man from the CIA gave her his mobile number, scrawled on a torn piece of newspaper. He didn’t have any business cards.

On the street she hailed a cab to the airport. Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, she looked at her watch. She would make the last flight back to Boston in plenty of time. She had a number of voice mails — from Martie, from Kaitlyn Hemming, from Hersh. Nothing from Duncan. Kaitlyn was just checking in. Martie wanted to know how her meeting with Paul Ashmont had gone.