The Whole Truth (14 page)
He swept past her without waiting for an invitation. As Wolfgang joined her the fellow said, “I think both of you should sit down.”
R
USSIA AGAIN DID SOMETHING
utterly foreseeable, much to Nicolas Creel’s delight. Isolated and pushed to the edge, it flexed its muscles by dropping from a Tu-160 aircraft the granddaddy of all non-nuclear bombs. Its thermobaric explosive yield was equal to 120,000 pounds of TNT, or over five times that of a similar bomb the United States had previously dropped, leaving a crater with radius of fifteen hundred feet and painting the sky with a terrifying but fortunately nonradioactive mushroom cloud. The detonation was termed part of a routine readiness drill by President Gorshkov, who immediately thereafter put the Russian military on the highest alert. He also declared in the strongest possible terms that when Russia found out who was behind this smear campaign, it would be considered an act of war.
“I pity the country or organization behind it, whoever they are and however powerful they might be,” Gorshkov added ominously, verbally lifting a middle finger to the United States, which had strenuously denied any connection to the anti-Russia campaign. However, in diplomatic circles this was considered almost an admission of guilt, for who else had enough money or motive to do such a thing other than the Americans? they reasoned.
Nicolas Creel laughed as he read this latest report. He was in the conference room of his Boeing jet thirty-nine thousand feet over the Atlantic. Caesar sat across from him. Creel spun the paper around so Caesar could see the headline about Russia dropping the bomb and Gorshkov’s threats.
Creel scoffed. “An act of war? To fight a war you need an army, and the Russians don’t have one. They’re sitting on a mountain of oil revenue but by presidential decree, the idiocy of which strains credulity, they can’t spend more than three and a half percent of their GNP on the military. That comes out to twenty-two billion U.S. a year, and only eight billion of that is earmarked for arms purchases. You can’t build major weapons systems for that kind of chump change. Look at the Americans. Including supplemental budgets they spend over seven hundred billion a year on defense, over twenty percent of the federal budget. The Yanks outspend every other country in the world
combined
on weapons. And that’s the way it should be. Superpower status doesn’t come cheap, but it sure as hell is worth it. Because when you want to kick ass, you can kick ass, my friend.”
Creel pointed to a statistical graph on the paper detailing Russian troop strength.
“The Russians may have five army divisions combat ready,
five
, if they’re lucky. They used to build a third of the world’s naval ships. Now they can’t even construct an aircraft carrier because the idiots don’t have a single shipyard dock in the country large enough to do the work. Some planning that was, comrade. And since their own government won’t use their money to buy anything, the Russian arms manufacturers have to export their junk out to India and China and any other suckers looking to buy cheap and not sweat the specs too hard. The Yanks, Brits, Germans, and French wouldn’t think of putting a single penny down for the Russians’ crap. And the reformed communists haven’t added any new aircraft to their frontline defenses in fifteen years. They’ve got over three thousand planes but they’re nowhere near the standard of the West and half their military bases don’t even have fuel for them. Their latest-generation combat fighter never even got funded. They’ve still got nukes, but they can’t use them. If they fire one off, the Yanks will send ten back in retaliation.
“Their vaunted navy consists of twenty creaky ships, including one decades-old carrier, but not counting the subs that tend to find their way to the bottom of the ocean with regularity and stay there. The Americans have
three hundred
ships including ten nuke-powered
Nimitz
class carriers. And that doesn’t even take into account the dozen or so
Ohio
class ballistic subs. Each one of those suckers can take out an entire country. I should know because one of my subsidiaries built them. Hell, the Yanks could wipe out the Red Menace in a week without breaking a sweat.” Creel chucked again. “But still I’m a happy man.”
Caesar finished reading the article. “Why? The Russians obviously won’t be buying what you’re selling.”
Creel took a moment to light up a cigar. “Last year, President Gorshkov, in a rare moment of sanity, implemented a new eight-year state armaments program worth nearly five trillion rubles, that’s $186 billion U.S. That’s over and above the current defense budget.”
“Okay, I see your interest.”
“That’s what I thought when I had my people over there get the plan pushed through. But sorry, that doesn’t get me excited. It was only a start.”
“Excuse me saying so, but I just don’t get you, Mr. Creel.”
The billionaire smiled. “Join the rest of civilization. So let me explain. The bulk of those dollars are going to Russian outfits. But if the Russians would match the U.S. in defense spending as a ratio of GNP, that would mean an extra seventy billion per
year
on top of what they’re spending now
plus
the new armaments program. There is no way the homegrown war machine over there can do that amount of work. And the buildup they need would take about ten years. That means they have to look to the West, to me actually, to get it done. In inflation-adjusted dollars that’s nearly a trillion dollars U.S. Let’s say Ares gets seventy percent of that work. That’s seven hundred billion dollars U.S. Now,
that
gets my blood pressure going.”
“But why would they do that, match the U.S?”
“They would if they feel they have to.”
“Konstantin? This publicity campaign you’ve put together? Think that’ll force them to become like the old Soviet Union and fill your coffers?”
“Not that simple. The Red Menace campaign has isolated them from the rest of the world, sure. And right now you could claim that Gorshkov eats babies for breakfast and half the world would believe it. But for my plan to work I’ve got to raise the stakes. The Russians are not fools. If they’re going to pay for the best, they need a damn good reason.”
“So how do you raise the stakes?”
“That’s where you come in. I need a dozen men all Russian, or at least Russian-looking.”
“No problem. Unemployment’s high over there, so I’ve got Russians coming out of my ass. They’ll kill with guns, knives, or their bare hands, it doesn’t matter to them.”
“I didn’t think it would. I also need some of them to be computer whizzes.”
“Again, not a problem. Russia leads the planet in world-class hackers.”
Creel leaned forward and drew out a file. “Good, now here’s the boots on the ground.”
A
NNA FISCHER WAS JUST ABOUT
to open the door of her flat in London when the man walked up behind her. Sensing someone’s presence, and always on guard after her mugging in Berlin, she whirled around, her fingers clasping the pepper spray that was attached to her key ring.
The man already had his badge out.
“Ms. Fischer? I’m Frank Wells. I’d like to talk with you about Shaw.”
She stared at his badge and then up at him.
“I do not recognize that agency,” she said.
“Most people wouldn’t. Can we go inside?”
“I don’t have strange men to my flat. You
say
you know Shaw. You could be lying.”
“Should’ve known. A lady with all your degrees isn’t stupid.”
“All my degrees? How do you know that?”
“I have a two-inch file on Anastasia Brigitte Sabena Fischer. Your parents, Wolfgang and Natascha, live in Wisbach, Germany, where they run a bookshop. You’re an only child. A champion swimmer. Advanced degrees from, among others, Cambridge. A stint at the UN and now employed at The Phoenix Group here in London.” He eyed the ring on her finger. “And currently engaged to Shaw.” He looked away from her astonished face and glanced at the front door. “Now can we go up to your flat? It’s important.”
They sat in her small front room overlooking the street. Frank looked around her apartment.
“Nice place.”
“Why have you come here?”
“Like I said, to talk to you about Shaw. Just like my men have done with your parents.”
“My parents! No, you’re wrong. They would’ve called . . .”
“We told them not to, so I’d have a chance to see you first.” He eyed her keenly. “He proposed to you in Dublin, didn’t he?”
“I can’t see why that’s any business of yours.”
Frank ignored this. “And he told you he was retiring from his job.”
Anna found herself nodding in spite of herself.
“Let me tell you the truth. Would you like that?”
Tears gathered in Anna’s eyes. She whisked them away with her hand and composed herself.
“If you have something to tell me, say it. But I will determine for myself if it’s true.”
Frank chuckled, then nodded. “Fair enough.” He leaned forward and cocked his head so she could see the sunken hole in his scalp. “See that little divot? That was courtesy of a round Shaw fired into my brain when I was trying to arrest him.”
Anna eyed him coldly. “Arrest him? For what?”
“That’s classified. But it wasn’t for not paying a parking ticket, I
can
tell you that. After I recovered and we caught up to him again, he started working for us.”
“
Working
for you? After he almost killed you? You said you wanted to arrest him. If he’s a criminal and you say he shot you, why isn’t he in jail?”
Frank held up a cigar. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Yes.”
He put the cigar away. “My world doesn’t strictly involve good and bad, right and wrong. Shaw would be in prison right now, but for one thing.”
“What’s that?” she said fiercely.
“Your
fiancé
possesses some pretty incredible skills. No one I’ve ever worked with in the field can touch him. He can walk into a room full of terrorists loaded for bear, con the turbans off them, take ’em down, and walk out alive. Pretty much one-of-a-kind stuff. And for that we make exceptions.” He tapped the dent in his head. “Even if the exception almost killed me.”
“So he works for you. He told me he worked for a law enforcement agency.”
“He did, huh? And that he runs around the world never knowing if he’s going to come out alive?” He studied her closely.
Anna nervously twisted her fingers. “He said . . . he said he worked behind a desk now.”
“A desk?” Frank grinned. “And he said he was retiring too.” He leaned so close she could smell his tobacco breath. “Let me tell you something. People like Shaw don’t retire. He goes until he either dies or we don’t need him anymore. He tries to leave before that, his ass goes right to the scummiest prison I can find.” He leaned back.
“Why did you come here to tell me this?
“Because I thought you needed to know the whole truth.”
“The man you have described to me is not the man I know. He saved my life in Germany. He is the most kind, most wonderful man I have ever met.”
“He kills people, Ms. Fischer. They’re bad people, for sure, but he still kills them. I do too. Or did. See,
I
actually have the desk job. Your fiancé is a brave man, I’ll give him that. Nerves like I’ve never seen before. But I’ve also seen him gut a man, here to here.” He drew his finger from his navel to his neck. “Guy deserved it, but Shaw doesn’t bake cookies. When the man’s on the hunt he’s an alpha with a capital freaking A! You know what I mean?”
He stopped and studied her again, a smile edging across his face. “You know, I have to tell you, I’m impressed. I figured you’d have started crying five minutes ago.”
“Have you ever loved anyone, Mr. Wells?” Anna said suddenly.
Frank’s eyes narrowed and his jocular manner faded. “What?”
“You seem to think all of this is funny somehow. Do you so enjoy the pain of others? Is that what your agency looks for in its employees? No soul? No compassion?”
“Look, I came here to tell you the truth.”
Anna went to the door and opened it.
Frank stood stock-still for a moment and then shrugged. “Okay, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As he passed her Anna said, “Why do you hate him so much?”
“He shot me in the head, lady!”
“I don’t think that’s the real reason.”
“What are you doing, playing shrink?”
“You’ve never had anyone in your life, have you? That you really cared about? Or that cared about you.”
“This isn’t about
me
!”
“I guess you’re the only one who can really answer that truthfully. Good night, Mr. Wells.”
As she closed the door behind him, Anna clutched at her face, stifling a sob.
Her phone rang. She almost didn’t answer it.
The voice said, “Anna Fischer, please.”
“Speaking,” Anna said a little hesitantly. “Who is this?”
“Do you know someone named Shaw?”
Anna stiffened. “Why do you ask?”
“He’s a big man, dark hair, blue eyes?”
A lump formed in Anna’s throat.
Please, God, don’t let it be . . . This is all too much.
“Yes, I know him,” she managed to say.
“Then I think we need to meet.”
“Is he all right?” Anna gasped.
“He was when I left him. But that’s not to say he’ll stay all right.”
“What do you mean? Who are you?”
“My name is Katie James. And I believe Shaw is in serious trouble.”
T
HE TWO WOMEN SAT
opposite each other at a café on Victoria Street. It was a cold, dank afternoon of intermittent rain; the kind of day that Londoners knew all too well.
Katie James swirled her spoon in her coffee while Anna Fischer stared out the window where a flock of umbrellas paraded past. A single tear slid down her face. Katie pretended not to notice.
“You told me what happened in Edinburgh with Shaw, but you never really explained how you found me,” Anna said.
“Several years ago you delivered a paper at The Hague about the balance of preserving civil liberties with the fight against terrorism. I covered it for my newspaper. I was doing a stint in the Middle East at the time and the subject matter was certainly relevant to that part of the world. Then I found a sales receipt that Shaw had. He’d purchased a copy of your book. I recalled that you discussed it at your lecture. It was a brilliant discussion.”