desk and computer on it.
He examined every room, shoving her ahead of him. Finally they were back in the kitchen. “Hands on the table, wide apart. Lean forward.”
She assumed the awkward position without comment. Derek patted her down, retrieved a man’s wallet from her jacket pocket.
“Do you carry a purse?”
“When I need to.”
He flipped through the wallet. She started to stand up, but he said, “Eh, eh, eh. Stay right there until I tell you differently.” The wallet contained unfamiliar ID written in Russian and an ID that appeared to provide her access to the Russian embassy.
“Have a seat,” he said, and poked around in the kitchen, finding it to be reasonably well stocked. Otherwise the apartment looked barely lived in. In fact, the toiletries in the bathroom appeared nondescript, as if from an inexpensive hotel. The whole place appeared to be exactly what the Russian claimed it to be: a safe house, a bolt hole.
Derek sat at the table, dumped the ammunition from Khournikova’s gun and slid the weapon across the table to her, keeping the full magazine. He holstered his Colt.
“Okay,” Derek said. “Talk.”
“Satisfied?” She slipped her gun into her shoulder holster and shot him an irritated look.
“Not hardly, lady. I’m very pressed for time today. You have exactly five minutes to convince me you’re not wasting my time, so start talking.”
“I need your help.”
“If the Russian government wants help from the United States, there are proper channels to use. I’m not one of them.”
She shrugged. “You are looking for a man called Richard Coffee.”
“What makes you think that?”
“My people have ways of knowing certain things. One of those things is when and if someone is checking Richard Coffee’s records on computer.”
“Then I’ll recommend the Pentagon double-check their computer security. Okay. I might be looking for information about Richard. So what?”
“Why are you looking for him?” She sat perfectly still, forearms resting on the table in front of her. She seemed to be working very hard to appear nonthreatening.
“ What? Your people don’t have ways of knowing that? ” He imitated her accent, sarcasm dripping off every word.
“Are my five minutes about up, Doctor Stillwater? Do you wish to play games or do you wish to obtain information?”
Derek closed his eyes. He opened them and glared at her. “Why does Russia’s antiterrorism unit want to keep tabs on a dead U.S. soldier?”
“Richard Coffee is not dead.”
Derek felt his heart thud harder in his chest. Confirmation.
“U.S. military records indicate he is,” he said. “As you know.”
Khournikova smiled a hard, tight smile. “Richard Coffee died in Iraq in 1991. He was reborn a short time later as Surkho Andarbek. The name, by the way, is Chechen for ‘strong warrior .’ This was shortly after Chechnya declared their independence. We did not become aware of his presence for some time.”
Derek thought the timing and the Russian language skills would have been perfect. He said, “The military doesn’t run spies like that.”
She snorted in derision. “Really, Doctor? How interesting. Let us not argue that point. As you said, you are pressed for time. We are convinced that Coffee was working for your Central Intelligence Agency at the time.”
“Okay,” Derek said. “Let’s say I go along with your premise.”
“It is not a premise. It is a fact.” Her voice carried a harsh, bitter tone. She leaned forward, fingers stabbing the Formica table top. “Richard Coffee was inside Chechnya for the CIA.”
“Whatever you say. That’s nice. So?” Derek glanced at his watch.
“Richard Coffee’s mission,” she snarled, “was to foment revolution on the part of the Chechen rebels, to filter money and military weapons—U.S. money and weapons—to the Chechens. It was the express policy of the CIA to increase Russia’s internal problems by supporting a known domestic
He examined every room, shoving her ahead of him. Finally they were back in the kitchen. “Hands on the table, wide apart. Lean forward.”
She assumed the awkward position without comment. Derek patted her down, retrieved a man’s wallet from her jacket pocket.
“Do you carry a purse?”
“When I need to.”
He flipped through the wallet. She started to stand up, but he said, “Eh, eh, eh. Stay right there until I tell you differently.” The wallet contained unfamiliar ID written in Russian and an ID that appeared to provide her access to the Russian embassy.
“Have a seat,” he said, and poked around in the kitchen, finding it to be reasonably well stocked. Otherwise the apartment looked barely lived in. In fact, the toiletries in the bathroom appeared nondescript, as if from an inexpensive hotel. The whole place appeared to be exactly what the Russian claimed it to be: a safe house, a bolt hole.
Derek sat at the table, dumped the ammunition from Khournikova’s gun and slid the weapon across the table to her, keeping the full magazine. He holstered his Colt.
“Okay,” Derek said. “Talk.”
“Satisfied?” She slipped her gun into her shoulder holster and shot him an irritated look.
“Not hardly, lady. I’m very pressed for time today. You have exactly five minutes to convince me you’re not wasting my time, so start talking.”
“I need your help.”
“If the Russian government wants help from the United States, there are proper channels to use. I’m not one of them.”
She shrugged. “You are looking for a man called Richard Coffee.”
“What makes you think that?”
“My people have ways of knowing certain things. One of those things is when and if someone is checking Richard Coffee’s records on computer.”
“Then I’ll recommend the Pentagon double-check their computer security. Okay. I might be looking for information about Richard. So what?”
“Why are you looking for him?” She sat perfectly still, forearms resting on the table in front of her. She seemed to be working very hard to appear nonthreatening.
“ What? Your people don’t have ways of knowing that? ” He imitated her accent, sarcasm dripping off every word.
“Are my five minutes about up, Doctor Stillwater? Do you wish to play games or do you wish to obtain information?”
Derek closed his eyes. He opened them and glared at her. “Why does Russia’s antiterrorism unit want to keep tabs on a dead U.S. soldier?”
“Richard Coffee is not dead.”
Derek felt his heart thud harder in his chest. Confirmation.
“U.S. military records indicate he is,” he said. “As you know.”
Khournikova smiled a hard, tight smile. “Richard Coffee died in Iraq in 1991. He was reborn a short time later as Surkho Andarbek. The name, by the way, is Chechen for ‘strong warrior .’ This was shortly after Chechnya declared their independence. We did not become aware of his presence for some time.”
Derek thought the timing and the Russian language skills would have been perfect. He said, “The military doesn’t run spies like that.”
She snorted in derision. “Really, Doctor? How interesting. Let us not argue that point. As you said, you are pressed for time. We are convinced that Coffee was working for your Central Intelligence Agency at the time.”
“Okay,” Derek said. “Let’s say I go along with your premise.”
“It is not a premise. It is a fact.” Her voice carried a harsh, bitter tone. She leaned forward, fingers stabbing the Formica table top. “Richard Coffee was inside Chechnya for the CIA.”
“Whatever you say. That’s nice. So?” Derek glanced at his watch.
“Richard Coffee’s mission,” she snarled, “was to foment revolution on the part of the Chechen rebels, to filter money and military weapons—U.S. money and weapons—to the Chechens. It was the express policy of the CIA to increase Russia’s internal problems by supporting a known domestic
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