Act of Treason

37

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

Facial recognition software was not a precise science. The programs could be tricked, people’s appearances often changed over time, many people shared the same facial features, and in the end the programs were often limited by the quality of the photograph itself. Beyond that you had to actually have a photograph on file that you could compare to the new image. The search for the identity of the mystery man in the converted bomb shelter of Coleman’s warehouse had been complicated by three facts. The first was that the man had easily gained over a hundred pounds since his last official photo, the second was that he had many of the common features associated with the Slavic peoples of Eastern Europe, which dumped him into a large pool of candidates, and the third was that he was not Russian.

Rapp read the dossier thoroughly, as did Coleman and Dumond. An analyst at Langley had made the discovery after talking to his contacts at French intelligence and Interpol. The analyst factored in the weight gain and broadened his search to include intelligence officers in Ukraine, Belarus, Poland, Bulgaria, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, and Romania. The man, it turned out, was Belarusian. He had never worked for the KGB, but he had worked for the Belarusian KGB or BKGB as it was known among intel types. The BKGB was KGB’s little brother. Where many of the former Soviet Republics had gone on to establish real independence Belarus by far maintained the closest relationship with Mother Russia. The man had worked for the state security service for nearly a decade. During that time it was suspected that he also worked on the side for a former high-ranking communist official who was waging a violent war to become the mob boss in Minsk.
His real name was Yuri Milinkavich. French intelligence had started a file on him back in 1996 when he was running a counterintelligence team in Minsk. Three French business executives had traveled to the Belarusian capital to bid on a contract to build a hydroelectric dam. The bids were to be presented in person over a two-day period. The French executives were arrested on the way to present their bid and detained under suspicion of espionage for three full days and then let go with no explanation. French intelligence suspected, but could not prove, that the German company that won the contract had paid to have the French team taken out of the picture. During his tenure with the Belarusian Security Service four more similar complaints were filed. One more by the French, two by the Italians, and one by the Japanese. Interpol eventually started a file on Milinkavich and they now suspected that he was now working for the Belarusian mafia.
Rapp considered all of this carefully. The information fit, which was a big hurdle to get past. Rapp believed without a shadow of doubt that the man in the bomb shelter was in fact Yuri Milinkavich. Now the question was, why in the hell had he been trying to kill Gazich? Rapp ordered Dumond to begin pulling everything they had on the Belarusian mafia. Russia and its former states were far from Rapp’s area of expertise. His was Europe, and more specifically, the Middle East and Southwest Asia. Rapp had followed Russia’s demise nonetheless. With the collapse of the centralized government, former regional party officials became crime bosses overnight, stepping in to fill the power vacuum. The ensuing battles that erupted between vying interests made Chicago’s infamous mob wars of the 1920s look like a schoolyard fight.
Rapp struggled to put it all into context. How brutal was Milinkavich? To some this might seem ancillary at the moment, but for Rapp it was a crucial question. There was no ticking bomb to be dealt with. No lives to be saved by pulling answers out of the large man. The need for torture was not pressing. For the moment Rapp decided he would limit the interrogation to a simple Q&A. Give Milinkavich a chance to tell the truth and explain why he was trying to kill Gazich. He had already proven himself a liar by claiming to have worked for the KGB, but the Russians and the other Slavic people were funny when it came to the truth. Absolutes were a rare thing. There were more often than not degrees of honesty. In Milinkavich’s mind, saying he worked for the KGB might not be a lie. He was more likely to see it as a partial admission. He had worked for the BKGB, but not its better-known big brother. But the bigger distinction was that he claimed he still worked for them. Gazich had been right back in his office when he laughed at Milinkavich’s claim that he worked for the KGB. Gazich had known back then that Milinkavich worked for the mob. That was after spending only a few minutes with him. That meant the two possibly knew each other from a previous job.
The task as Rapp saw it was to give Milinkavich a chance to come clean. To explain what he really did for a living, and then they could move onto the bigger question. Just what in the hell was the Belarusian mafia doing working with Arab terrorists, and who in particular had paid for this operation?
Rapp descended the stairs to the bunker with a general outline in his head of the questions he would ask, and how he would handle things if Milinkavich continued to lie. At the bottom was a small six-by-four-foot landing with a rusty floor drain in the middle. Above the heavy metal door to the right was a small TV. On the screen Rapp could see Milinkavich reclined on the cot. He was a big man. Rapp guessed six foot three and pushing three bills. Rapp, at six foot and a hundred eighty pounds, just might provide a tempting target for the big man and part of Rapp was hoping for just that. As much as Rapp did not like torture, he also wasn’t a patient man. There were too many things to do, and he wasn’t about to waste a week trying to get inside this guy’s head.
There was no handle on the door. Just a bolt. Rapp extracted a key from his pocket and slid it into the bottom of the large padlock. He hung the padlock on a hook next to the door, checked the TV one more time, and then opened the door. Milinkavich instantly sat up on his elbows. Rapp took one step into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving it cracked just slightly. Rapp watched Milinkavich’s eyes register the fact that the door was not locked. Other than the bed, there was a small port-a-potty in the corner, which smelled of disinfectant. A single light fixture was bolted to the ceiling and encased in a protective steel cage. There was no blanket or pillow on the bed. No sheet. Just a thin mattress. Milinkavich would have made a queen-size bed look small. The twin looked ridiculous under his girth.
Rapp moved over to the side of the door, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest. He’d taken off his suit coat and tie and left his gun in Coleman’s office. His dark eyes studied Milinkavich for a second. They’d stitched up his nose and ear and although they hadn’t taken X-rays, they were pretty sure his jaw was broken.
Rapp pointed to a book on the floor and asked, “Have you found time to read?” Rapp had left a copy of George Orwell’s 1984 in the cell in hopes that the prisoner might read some of the torture scenes.
Milinkavich glanced down at the book and shook his head. “I do not need to read this book. I lived it.”
Rapp smiled. “Unfortunately, you were on the wrong team.”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me you worked for the KGB.” There was a doubtful tone in Rapp’s voice. “If you worked for the KGB, you were on the wrong team.”
“Not every person who worked for the KGB was a bad person.”
A true enough statement, Rapp supposed.
“We are not so different, you and I.” The big man placed one foot on the floor and sat up.
Rapp noted that he moved with difficulty. The combination of stress, confinement, and his sheer size would have left his muscles stiff. They had taken his shoes away as well. If he tried to make a move with his socks on he would find it difficult to get traction on the smooth cement floor.
“You know who I am?” Rapp asked with an amused expression.
“American…probably CIA. Maybe Defense Intelligence Agency. Definitely special forces training.”
Rapp was happy to hear that Milinkavich only had a generic guess as to who he was. He was tempted to tell him he worked for the Israelis. It was an old ploy that often put the fear of god into godless communists. Especially Belarusians, who had been cruel to the Jews.
“Maybe…maybe not.”
Milinkavich looked around the room. “Where are we?”
Interrogation 101: Confuse and disorient the subject. Rapp had tried to put himself inside Milinkavich’s head. He’d been drugged for most of the transport from Cyprus to Baltimore. There was a chance he sensed that they had landed midway in between, but there were no windows for him to look out. The most obvious conclusion he would draw was that they were back in America, but he would also think there was a chance that they had taken him from Cyprus to an Eastern Bloc country for interrogation, possibly even Belarus. It was no secret that the U.S. government outsourced some of the less gentile aspects of the war on terror to the former Soviet satellites.
“We are someplace very private. Someplace my own government knows nothing about. Just the two of us. I would prefer, as I’m sure you would, to solve this problem in a very unofficial way.”
Rapp watched as Milinkavich’s eyes darted to the unlocked door and then quickly away. He would be weighing his chances of escape.
“I did not know we had a problem,” Milinkavich said in an upbeat voice. “Our two countries are no longer enemies.”
Rapp seized his opening. “I’m sorry. I forgot. Which country did you say you are from?”
“Russia.”
“And you used to work for the KGB?”
“Yes.”
“And you are sure about that?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“And you want to be my friend?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“And you seek to win my friendship by lying to me,” Rapp said casually.
“I am not lying to you,” Milinkavich said with great conviction.
“I want you to think long and hard about this, because I’ve got a lot of questions for you. You tell me you worked for the KGB, which means you know how this works. There is an easy way to do this and the hard way. If you want to do it the easy way you need to be absolutely honest with me. If you want to keep lying to me we’ll do it the hard way. Which means I’m going to have to string you up by your ankles and play baseball with your nuts.”
The Russian brought his hands together, clapped them, and said, “No problem. I only speak the truth to you.”
Rapp cocked his head to the side and his left eyebrow shot up. “I’m going to say it one last time. This is not a game and I’m not amused by your reassurances. You have two choices. You either tell me the absolute truth, or I will make things extremely painful for you.”
“Absolutely. I speak only the truth.”
Rapp wondered if maybe he hadn’t broken the man’s jaw. He was speaking without too much difficulty. “Where were you born?”
“Moscow.”
Probably a lie, Rapp thought, but not absolutely provable at the moment. “Where did you grow up?”
“Moscow.”
Most likely a lie. “And you work for the KGB?”
“Yes,” the big man said as he slid his other foot off the bed. “I have already told you that.”
Rapp watched him shift his weight and inch toward the edge of the bed. “I guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way.” Rapp turned over his left shoulder and pressed a white button on a gray intercom box. “Bring down the car starter and the alligator clips.”
Milinkavich sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean, car starter?”
“It looks like we’re going to have to run some electricity through your brain and see if it helps jog your memory.”
“No.” The man stood, waving his hands as he took a step toward Rapp.
“Sit back down,” Rapp said in a firm but calm voice.
“I speak only the truth.” He took another step.
Rapp pushed himself away from the wall and got ready. The only question left was whether Milinkavich would go straight for the door or try to take Rapp out first. Rapp was betting that the man would be misled by his size advantage.
“Sit back down right now, or you’re going to get hurt.”
Milinkavich, only six feet away, made his move. He charged straight at Rapp, his left arm out in front of him, reaching to grab hold of something, and his right arm cocked and ready to deliver a forceful blow. Time slowed down for Rapp. Everything so far was expected. Big men always attacked this way. They came in high thinking they could smother their opponent. The only problem was they left their legs and midsection open. Milinkavich had a hell of a tire around his waist. Rapp had noted this and knew that in these tight quarters it would be difficult to get enough force behind a blow to have much effect. That left two knees and two testicles. Rapp decided on the right knee.
The big man’s right arm came in straight like a battering ram. Rapp stepped quickly to his left and swept his right arm up and around in a clockwise motion grabbing Milinkavich’s right elbow. Using the man’s own momentum Rapp pulled him closer and turned him away at the same time. He brought his right leg up and then sent his foot crashing down on the completely exposed outside of Milinkavich’s right knee. There was hideous crunching noise as ligaments snapped and the knee collapsed inward. Milinkavich hopped once on his left leg and then fell to the floor screaming in agony.
Rapp stood over him, ready to strike another blow, his jaw clenched in anger. He was pissed that this idiot had forced them to go down this road. “Where were you born?” Rapp yelled.
“Minsk. I was born in Minsk.”
“And who do you work for?”
“The KGB.”
Rapp kicked him in the bad knee and the Belarusian howled in pain. “You mean the BKGB.”
“We are one and the same.”
“The hell you are.” Rapp kicked him in the knee again. “I’m done f*cking around with you, Yuri.” Rapp bent down and looked him in the eye, noted the shocked expression on his face. “That’s right, you dumb f*cker. I know your name. I know all about you. I know you’re not Russian. I know you never worked for the KGB, and I know you were one corrupt motherf*cker when you worked for the BKGB. My friends at the KGB told me you got fat working for the Minsk mob.” Rapp mixed facts with suppositions to build his case and chip away at Milinkavich’s confidence.
“I need a doctor,” the man wailed in pain.
“You aren’t going to get shit until you start answering my questions.” Rapp stomped on the bent knee, and shouted over Milinkavich’s cries, “Who do you work for?”
“The Minsk mob!”
“And who do you answer to?” Rapp brought his foot up and held it in the air.
“Aleksandr Gordievsky.”
Before this morning Rapp would not have recognized the name, but he’d just read it in the file Langley had sent over. Aleksandr Gordievsky was none other that the former communist party chairman of Belarus and the current mob boss of the entire country.
“And why were you on Cyprus?”
“To kill the man.”
“Which man?”
“Deckas. The Greek.”
“Why?” Rapp yelled.
“I don’t know.”
Rapp lifted his foot.
“I swear.” Milinkavich put his hands up. “I do not know.”
Rapp’s foot came crashing down. “Bullshit!”
Milinkavich screamed in agony and tears began spilling from his eyes.
“You want me to kick you again?”
“No!”
“Then tell me why you were sent to kill him.”
“All I know,” the big man gasped for air, “is he was hired to do something and he f*cked up.”
“He was hired to kill someone,” Rapp wanted to be clear on this.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I do not know.”
“You want me to kick you again?”
“No!” he screamed. “No, please I have no idea.”
“When did your boss start doing business with the Arabs?”
A look of real shock fell across Milinkavich’s face. “Arabs?”
“Arabs…Islamic Radical Fundamentalist…terrorists.”
“Mr. Gordievsky would never work with such people.”
The look on his face was believable, but the words weren’t. “Bullshit.” Rapp stomped on his knee again.
Milinkavich screamed and then began sobbing. “I am serious. He is Eastern Orthodox. Very involved in the church. He thinks Islam is the invention of Satan. He would never do business with them.”
All Rapp’s senses told him Milinkavich was telling the truth, but it didn’t add up with what he already knew. Rapp needed to be careful. If he began asking blind questions, he could end up weakening his position. The better thing to do at the moment was to leave and try to confirm what he’d just been told. Then if he found out the man was lying to him, he would come back and the interrogation would begin with renewed vigor.
“I’m going to call my friends in the KGB and find out if you’re telling the truth. And you’d better hope they corroborate your story, or I’m going to come back in here and things are going to get real ugly. In fact when I come back, you are going to tell me from start to finish everything you know about Deckas. And I mean everything. When you first heard of him. How many jobs he’s done for you. Everything. You do that, and I’ll get you set up with painkillers. You decide to lie to me some more and I’ll snap your other knee.”
Rapp stepped over Milinkavich and closed and locked the heavy door. He climbed the steps up to the main floor and then walked past the break room and up to Coleman’s office. When he entered Coleman was on the phone signaling for Rapp to stay quiet.
“Irene,” Coleman said, “I have no idea where he is.” He listened for a bit and said, “I’ll have him call you as soon as I hear from him. I have to go now.”
“What did she want?” asked Rapp. “She all pissed off about Gazich?”
“No. I asked her that. She said she’s not worried. She knows he’s the guy.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“She says she has something she needs to show you.”
“What?”
“She wouldn’t say. All she said was it was very important that she see you as soon as possible.”
“She didn’t even tell you what it was about?” Rapp asked.
“All she said was that it might cause you to look at something in a different way.”
Rapp took a second to guess what that might be.
“What are you going to do?” Coleman asked.
“I’ll call her back.”
“When? She was pretty adamant.”
Rap looked at his watch. It was almost noon. “This afternoon. I need to call an old contact at the KGB, and then I want to see just how full of shit this Milinkavich is.”
“What about Dr. Hornig?”
Rapp had already thought about getting her involved. She was a shrink the CIA used to interrogate high-value prisoners.
“This guy might be a pathological liar, Mitch.”
“Yeah, I know.” Pathological liars were the most difficult people to interrogate. Plus Rapp didn’t have the stomach to keep kicking the crap out of the guy. “I’ll talk to Irene about it this afternoon, and then I’ll let you know.”