A Raging Storm

“Isn’t it a dangerous for you to appear at a public rally,” Storm asked, “considering there have been attempts here in England to kill you?”

“Especially,” Showers added, “since your security detail is not allowed to carry weapons anywhere outside your estate.”

Petrov replied, “I have full confidence in Ms. Nad’s ability to keep me safe. She is an excellent marksman.”

“Besides,” Petrov said, “I’m not going to let that miserable bastard in the Kremlin keep me from speaking about atrocities being committed against my fellow oppressed Russians.” He stood from the table and said, “Thank you for coming this afternoon. I will leave you to work out the arrangements for tomorrow.”

“Before you leave us,” Storm said. “I’d like a word in private with you.”

Showers gave him a surprised and irritated look.

“I’m sorry, but this is impossible. I always include Mr. Lebedev in my private conversations.”

“Then maybe the three of us can step into the main house,” Storm offered. “It’s a State Department matter, not related to the FBI’s investigation.”

“If you insist,” Petrov said.

“Just a minute,” Showers said. “I’m not entirely certain what my colleague has to say, but please know that he doesn’t speak for the FBI or the Justice Department.”

“Thank you,” Petrov said. “This is rather unusual.”

Lebedev fell in behind them as did Nad, leaving Showers alone at the table. She was furious.

“Do you really need a security officer with you?” Storm asked.

Petrov said, “You’re right. I have nothing to fear from our guest. Please keep our FBI friend company in the courtyard.”

As soon as the three men entered the house, Storm removed an envelope from his pocket and offered it to Petrov.

“A mutual friend asked me to give you a personal letter.”

Petrov made no effort to accept it. Instead, he asked cautiously, “And does this friend have a name?”

“Jedidiah.”

“You can give it to Mr. Lebedev,” Petrov said.

“I’d rather give it to you.”

“I will take it,” said Lebedev, reaching up.

Storm flipped it aside, stopping him from snatching it.

“Jedidiah wanted you to take it personally,” he said to Petrov.

The Russian hesitated and then took it from him.

Before Storm could say another word, Petrov turned and started to walk away.

“After you read it,” Storm said. “We can discuss the gold.”

Petrov stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Perhaps. After I read it. Tomorrow then.”

“Only this time in private — just you and me,” Storm said. “Jedidiah believes you might have a leak in your organization.”

A concerned look appeared on Petrov’s face. “I see, and did he identify this leak for you?”

“Not by name,” Storm said.

Petrov left him and Lebedev alone.

“I’ll show you and Ms. Showers to your car,” Lebedev said, opening the door to the courtyard.

Showers stood and Nad fell in behind as Lebedev guided them through the mansion to their parked rental outside.

“I will telephone you later tonight, Ms. Showers,” Lebedev said. “Perhaps you can fax us your written inquires. Will you be attending the protest in the morning at Oxford?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

As soon as Storm and Showers were in the Vauxhall, Storm said, “Well, I thought that went just dandy.”

Showers was so angry she couldn’t speak until they had driven down the cobblestones and exited through the gated entrance. When they reached the main highway, she exploded.

“You rotten son of a bitch! I knew I couldn’t trust you. How dare you pull that stunt. You embarrassed me. You went behind my back again. Every time that I think you’re an actual human being, you prove me wrong.”

“I was only following orders,” he said.

“Oh, so now you’re the one who suddenly is following rules. When it suits you. And what was all that macho crap with the vodka. I think this glass is the one, oh no, I think it was this one. My god, I felt like I was in some old spy movie.”

He started to reply, but she held up both of her hands. “Just don’t speak to me,” she said. She reached for the radio. “The last thing I want to hear is your voice.”

CHAPTER TEN

s soon as their guests were gone, Georgi Lebedev hurried to the manor house’s extensive library, where Ivan Petrov was sitting behind an enormous, hand-carved desk reading the letter that Jones had sent him. The CIA director had written a personal note on a copy of the photograph that showed Jones, Windslow, and Petrov holding the gold bar: “We accept your proposal. Mr. Mason is my envoy and will handle all arrangements.”

Lebedev said, “What did Jedidiah write? Is the CIA going to help us get the gold?”

“As we suspected, Mr. Mason is not a State Department liaison,” Petrov said, avoiding the question. “Has Nad been able to identify him?”

“Not yet. She is taking his fingerprints from the shot glasses as we speak. She should have an answer shortly. But what of Mr. Jones and the CIA? Is it going to help us?”

Petrov said, “I will learn more tomorrow, but today, it is enough for me to tell you that Barkovsky’s days are limited, and when the time comes, I will be the one who puts a bullet into the back of his head.”