Craig Kreident #2 Fallout (9 page)

“So you’ve got the murder of a Russian national on Federal property.
 
I appreciate the political ramifications.”
 
Craig sipped the coffee, trying to maintain his calm.
 
It tasted bitter.
 
“But you don’t appreciate how serious things are here.
 
We were lucky to find that bomb before it went off, and there’s strong evidence the Eagle’s Claw intends to do more acts of terrorism before Friday.
 
Friday,
June.
 
The Hoover Dam was just a warmup act.”

June’s voice remained firm.
 
“I don’t intend to slack off on the Eagle’s Claw for a minute — we’ll keep the entire team cooking at high heat.
 
I’m just pulling
you
from it, Craig.
 
Your abilities are better utilized elsewhere.
 
Some more agents are coming in, and the Secret Service advance team is there if you need help.”

He had a difficult time keeping his temper in check.
 
He set down the coffee, afraid he might accidentally clench his fist and smash the Styrofoam cup.
 
“What about Bill Maguire?
 
The Eagle’s Claw killed him, June — I know it.
 
There’s too much at stake to take me off this case for a simple murder.”

“Nothing simple about Ambassador Nevsky’s murder,” she said, unwavering.
 
“And that was a low blow about Maguire.
 
I felt his death as much as any of you field agents did.
 
But I set the priorities here — do I have to call you back to Oakland so I can explain this face to face?
 
According to airline schedules I can get you here and back there by eleven o’clock tonight.
 
The result will be the same, but you’ll waste a lot of hours on the plane.”

Craig opened his mouth to retort, but saw Jackson, Goldfarb, and three other agents watching him.
 
Heaving a deep breath, he tried to block the thrum of machinery in the background by putting a hand over his free ear.

“June,” said Craig, “I still think it’s a mistake —”

“You’re the best agent I’ve got, Craig. “
 
She sounded calm now, persuasive.
 
“That previous case you solved at Lawrence Livermore proved it.
 
You have experience working in government facilities, and I know I can count on you.”
 
She fell quiet for a moment.
 

“This is coming straight from the top, the Attorney General herself.
 
We’ve only known for a few hours that the ambassador’s death was not an accident.
 
The U.S. has not yet released that information because there’s so much riding on completing the disarmament process.
 
We’ve got to hold this coalition together and not give the Russians any reason to back out.
 
We cannot afford to have this fail.
 
By Friday, the disarmament team will have completed their mission, the President will have personally expressed his congratulations, and
you,
Craig, will have solved the case.”

“How am I going to conduct this investigation without letting on that we know there’s been a murder?”

“Because of the political nature of this death, the FBI must be called in.
 
You’re here, a proven expert in cases involving scientific facilities.”

Craig rolled his gray eyes.
 
“Are they going to buy that?”

“Besides, Paige Mitchell is also involved in this case.
 
The two of you worked well together in Livermore.
 
Do it again.”

“
Paige
is out here?
 
What is she doing in Nevada?”

“Protocol liaison for the disarmament inspectors.
 
It’s a temporary assignment for DOE.”

Craig fell silent — that put a whole new spin on things.
 
But still he chewed on his lower lip, unconvinced.
 
“This militia problem could turn out to be the tip of a much bigger iceberg.”

“Goldfarb and Jackson can handle it for the next three days, Craig.
 
They’ll have help.”

“Three days is all we’ve got until the Claw’s deadline.
 
October 24.”

“Get over to Las Vegas tonight.
 
Find a room somewhere.
 
Miss Mitchell will be your NTS security escort, and she will brief you on the details.
 
Until then, unless you can talk over a secure phone, the true nature of your investigation remains classified.
 
Understand?
 
Or do I have to fly out there and explain it to you face to face?”

Craig tried to keep his voice steady.
 
He answered crisply.
 
“No, ma’am.
 
That won’t be necessary.”

CHAPTER 9

Tuesday, October 21

6:30 P.M.

Caesar’s Palace

Las Vegas

Trying to maintain his patience and keeping an open “American hospitality” mood, Mike Waterloo drove with his station wagon crammed full of Russians.
 
Six members of the disarmament team rode with him as he fought through the evening traffic clogging the Las Vegas Strip.
 

After their days in the DAF, he had come to know all the inspectors by name, though now they treated him like a mere chauffeur, talking among themselves in guttural Russian, excluding him from the conversation.
 
He clenched his jaws so that a ripple of muscles stood out on his gaunt cheeks, making no comment as the Russians guffawed, sharing a joke — possibly at his expense.
 
He would never know.
 
Their humor struck him as forced, with a slightly hysterical edge, still shocked at the messy death of their comrade.
 

General Ursov had remained behind in protest, going to his room at the Rio where he was no doubt contacting superiors back in Russia . . . or possibly just documenting the information he had collected from NTS.
 
Waterloo wouldn’t be surprised to discover that Ursov worked as a spy for the KGB, or whatever the state intelligence organization called itself these days.
 

Despite Ursov’s protests, the others had overwhelmingly voted to see Copperfield’s show.
 
They would hear nothing about changing those plans — dead comrade or no dead comrade.

As Waterloo drove, the Russians marveled at the dazzle of Las Vegas — the epitome of American commercialism.
 
The foreigners acted more excited about seeing a stage magician than about global nuclear disarmament.
 
Maybe if Copperfield could just make the entire stockpile disappear. . . .

Waterloo pulled into the first roundabout parking lot of Caesar’s Palace.
 
The palatial building’s smooth arches, splattering fountains, and alabaster statue reproductions recalled the golden age of Greece, complete with lovely Corinthian columns, gilt edgings, and shapely curves.
 
He let a valet take his vehicle to the free parking while the Russians boiled out of the front and back seats, gawking at the architecture, the opulence.
 

This place was very different from what Waterloo had experienced in Russia three years ago. . . .

Following the breakup of the USSR, the Russians and the U.S. had agreed to a bilateral monitoring of nuclear dismantlement.
 
Hence Waterloo’s long stay in Russia, and the return visit of this team to the Nevada Test Site.

Waterloo had been one of twelve inspectors arriving in Moscow, a year after the death of his wife, only a few months after Gordon Mitchell had succumbed to cancer.
 
It had felt good to get away.
 

He and the others had worn badges that sported a bright U.S. flag, which elicited many stares in the airport.
 
Protocol prevented the Russians from physically touching the inspectors, but Waterloo and his teammates were scanned for metal objects.
 
He removed every electronic item from his suitcase, while the customs official studied it to make sure he had not attempted to smuggle any recording devices.
 
His electric razor received particularly rigorous scrutiny.

During the creaking bus ride into Moscow city center, Waterloo had seen few cars on the road.
 
The air was filled with smog, making the gray clouds seem even drearier.
 
He saw no individual houses, only massive state-built apartment complexes.
 
Whole sections of building fronts had fallen away, slumping into disrepair as if no one cared.
 

Vastly different from the glamour of Las Vegas. . . .

Inside Caesar’s Palace, the Russian team wandered through the dizzying maze of lights, blinking slot machines, and video poker games.
 
“We play slot machines here, friend Mike,” said Nikolai Bisovka, sucking on another Marlboro.
 
He seemed determined to get lung cancer before he returned to his own country.
 
“You will pick up our tickets please?”
 

Waterloo dreaded they would scatter like wild chickens the moment they were out of his sight, but when he returned with the tickets, he was surprised to find the Russians glued to a bank of nickel slots.
 

Alexander Novikov bubbled with excitement.
 
“I won jackpot, friend Mike!
 
Jackpot!”
 
He rattled a plastic cup of coins, and Waterloo saw that he had collected about four dollars in nickels — the handful of coins must have seemed like a fortune.
 
Novikov took great pride in jingling as he walked.

Waterloo ushered them up the lighted stairs toward the Circus Maximus auditorium.
 
He handed them their tickets as if they were school children, afraid they would lose their stubs or forget to go to the bathroom before the show started.
 
Filing dutifully to their booth, the group sat back and waved for cocktail waitresses so they could order several rounds of drinks at once.

Waterloo tried to convince himself to enjoy the experience.
 
He had never seen Copperfield’s show, though the magician had been playing in Vegas for much of his long career.
 
He and Genny hadn’t been to shows in years.
 
As the foreigners spoke in Russian around him, the lights dimmed — and his thoughts drifted back to when the lights had gone out in his Moscow hotel room. . . .

The Hotel Ukraina looked impressive, but old.
 
The walls of the cavernous dining room had been painted with idyllic peasant scenes, huge dancers, farmers, happy musicians.
 
Waterloo went with his companions to a feast of beef pot pies served steaming hot in individual crockpots.
 

A broad-hipped waitress bustled up and removed the cloth that covered a serving table to reveal an array of trinkets she had smuggled there — nesting “matrushka” dolls, painted eggs, tins of caviar, lacquered boxes.
 
She insisted her under-the-table prices were much better than the Americans could expect to find in the hotel store.

Waterloo had gone to his room exhausted, anxious to be alone.
 
Though meant to be ostentatious, the decor unsettled him — pink walls, green curtains, a pair of chipped end tables sporting small lamps.
 
An empty desk, a tiny black-and-white television in a plastic case, a single hard-backed chair.

While assuring them that there was no crime in Moscow, the senior Moscow escort had insisted they keep their room doors locked, and warned them never to wander around the hotel alone.

Waterloo had been sitting on his bed considering this, when the power went out, cold darkness sweeping down like a Valkyrie — merely one of the frequent power outages that plagued Moscow.
 
On his first day in Russia, he began to count down the hours until he could return home to his own beloved country. . .

Dry-ice fog poured along the Circus Maximus stage as spotlights stabbed across the vacant space.
 
Electronic rock music blared, a pulsing rhythm in time to the light show.
 
Near-naked dancers swept out from behind the curtains as an empty cage descended from the rafters, dangling on a chain.
 

The dancers came forward, hinting at more skin than they actually showed, to place translucent white screens around the empty cage.
 
As the music reached its crescendo, fire exploded in the background.
 
The cloth screens fell away, and the lean dark-haired magician appeared out of nowhere.
 
To thunderous applause, David Copperfield took a bow.

Through the stage lights, Waterloo looked to see the Russians delighted at the lights, the spectacle, the
sex.
 
Gauzy wisps of costumes and flesh-toned leotards made the beautiful assistants look nearly nude as they swirled around Copperfield’s dusky handsomeness.
 

This
was why the Russians had come to America in the first place — not to work, not to go through the tedious requirements of the disarmament routine, not to prepare for a summit meeting.
 
But to experience the American flash and dazzle.

Waterloo recalled how the Russians had been displeased with Nevsky staying behind to work in the DAF.
 
If he had only gone with them back to the Rio for the international buffet, rather than putting in extra hours, Kosimo Nevsky would be alive today.
 
It seemed ironic that the only inspector actually interested in the
job
had suffered for that fact, paid with his life.