"East Past Warsaw"

CHAPTER 1 

A Ford Explorer trailed me into Dulles Airport's newest and most remote satellite lot.

I parked my Rabbit.

The Ford continued prowling between the lines of cars.

I was a woman.  Alone.  Armed with only a rolling suitcase.

I tracked the moving vehicle as I made my way to the molded concrete shelter marking the bus stop.  The Ford headed toward the far edge of the lot.  Away from me.  Good.   I yanked my cell phone from my pants pocket and checked the time.  6:10.  The next shuttle bus was due in three minutes.

I reached the jaundiced light pooling around the stop and stayed on my feet in full view of the security camera.  I punched in a call to my father in Oregon, where he resided in a facility for Alzheimer's patients.  I was making my weekly contact later than usual and he was upset.

I tried to soothe him.  "They told me you were making an excursion to Newport today.  You weren't scheduled to get back before five."

"I didn't go," he replied.  "Had to talk to you."  He went on about how urgently he needed to speak with me, how long he'd been waiting for my call.

He often imagined emergencies and I only half-listened.  I was more worried by the still-roving Explorer and the possibility of missing my plane.  Check-in time was no later than 6:25 for my flight to Berlin.

It was late October—only ten days to Halloween—but a temperature inversion had settled over northern Virginia and the muggy air was as oppressive as August.  Heat radiated from blacktop so recently poured it smelled like fresh tar.  My blonde hair felt damp against the back of my neck and I paced with the phone pressed against my ear.  My gaze flicked from the Ford to the entrance on the west side of the lot.  No shuttle bus neared the neon-topped booth housing the attendant.  He wasn't visible either.  Probably asleep.  Saturday was a slow travel night in Washington.

I lowered the hand holding my cell phone to check the time.  6:13.  Damn.  I had to get to the terminal.  I shifted my weight restlessly from one foot to the other and clamped the phone to my ear. 

My father's tone was tinny with panic.  "You're in trouble," he was saying.  "You, Kathryn.  That's what the guy told me:  'Something major's going down,' he said.  'Your daughter could be hurt bad.'"

"What guy?" I asked.

"The one you sent—"

The engine whine of sudden acceleration wiped out his next words.  I swung toward the car sound.  A vehicle with no lights roared from the darkness at the north edge of the lot.  It gunned straight for me.

My breathing jumped.  My night vision sharpened as the adrenaline rush dilated my pupils.  I made out the Ford's boxy shape fifty yards away, closing fast.

And reacted.

Night became day as all of the Ford's lights came on full power.

But I'd turned and the blinding illumination swept harmlessly along my back.  I plunged left and crouched with my spine pressed against the smooth concrete backside of the bus shelter.

The Ford thundered across the pavement where I'd been standing a second before.  A spotlight topped its roof, that glare blending with the high beams to cut a swath of blue-white light to the south edge of the lot.  The driver's window was open and I made out pale skin on a flat face as big as a pie tin.  The ugly snout of an assault rifle stuck out the rear window.

The Ford rolled on and I strained to read its rear plate.  Virginia tags.  Beside the plate, the distinctive logo of a northern Virginia dealership.  A local car.  

Engine noise gave way to the screech of brakes and the driver whipped his vehicle into a skidding turn, high beams scything the darkness for ninety degrees until they pointed east.  The spotlight kept swiveling north toward me.  In ten more seconds that piercing light would pin me against the concrete, a condemned woman waiting for the executioner in the Ford's rear seat.

I dashed to the other side of the shelter.  I heard the first burst of automatic fire as I rounded the end.  Bullets ricocheted shrilly off concrete.  Cement dust powdered down on me.  Someone kept the spotlight trained relentlessly on the bus stop, and I saw the shattered carcass of my cell phone ten feet from me.  The driver slammed the Ford into position for another approach and high beams added their dazzle to the spot.  The engine growled louder.  I raised myself like a runner in starting blocks, poised to move fast.  But which direction would let me escape?

Light vanished as the Ford raced by my bus stop barrier.  The driver was heading for the exit.  I saw the shuttle bus entering the lot, its interior lights turning the windows to ivory rectangles.  At least a half-mile back on the access road, blue flashers of airport security patrol cars lit the sky.

The Ford crashed out through the barrier gate and raced away from the flashing lights.

I straightened up and glanced fondly at the security camera.  Lucky for me, somebody watching the video had called in the cavalry.

An overdue shiver shook me.  Why had the pale-faces attacked?  Who had sent them?  And how—how—could my father possibly have known they were coming?

Franklin Botts had no answers.  "We don't know why.  We don't know who.  And we don't know what your father was talking about."  A State Department security officer, Frank's eyes were the color of chocolate syrup and he usually spoke in a matching liquid tone.  Tonight, his voice was brittle.  "And you, Kathryn Collins, are not going anywhere until I get a handle on this."

The cold, formal Kathryn instead of the friendlier Casey.  Letting me know his verdict was not subject to appeal.

I tried, anyway.  "I have a job to do in Berlin," I said again.

Frank shook his head.  He was a threat assessment expert in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security and I'd been on his caseload for the past year.  As required, I'd phoned him from the airport cop shop to report the attack.  He arrived forty minutes later and spent the next hour interviewing me and the parking lot attendant and reviewing the security videos and photo printouts.

He frowned at his yellow pad.  The walnut-brown skin on his skull glistened under the fluorescent lights.  He'd told me at our first meeting he was a competitive swimmer and I suspected he removed all of his body hair to improve his time.  He was three inches taller than my five-foot-nine and he had muscular shoulders and narrow hips.  I liked to imagine his sleek frame covered only by a Speedo.  Of course, I'd never mentioned my fantasy.  Frank was junior to me in age and rank and he took all rules seriously.  He'd have reported me to the Department's sexual harassment counselors immediately.

I wished he'd lighten up.  "You don't need me," I cajoled.  "I've told you everything I know."

"Trouble is, I don't know enough."  He tapped his pen on the desktop and wrinkled his forehead at me.  "And you don't think your father will be any help?"

I shook my head.  "I know the timing makes his warning seem relevant.  But it's likely he's gotten confused again.  Gary James, the police chief, is a family friend.  He knows what I do.  And that my work has made Dad vulnerable in the past.   I phoned the chief 90 minutes ago.  He promised to check out Dad's story."

"You should talk to your father," Frank said stubbornly.  "Before you leave the States."

"Which would hold me up another twenty hours."  Frustration made my voice tight.  I'd tried to reach Dad before I called Gary.  I got no further than the Duty Nurse.  She told me he'd been so agitated by our aborted conversation, she'd had to sedate him.  He wouldn't be lucid enough to answer questions before tomorrow afternoon.  We agreed I'd phone him at three o'clock his time.  He couldn't dial me himself—he'd lost his phone privileges in March.  By tomorrow afternoon, I expected to be in Germany.  I promised the nurse I'd call him from Berlin.

I added, "Dad can't help us.  Waiting to talk to him is no reason for me to stick around.  I'm at no greater risk in Berlin."

"We don't know that," Frank retorted.  "I don't have enough data.  The Ford was stolen from the Vienna Metro lot, so the tags tell us nothing.  The two guys we got on video are both Caucasian.  I see no obvious connection to the most likely suspects."

He didn't name the terrorist groups which had sworn revenge against American targets, but I knew he'd been looking for Middle Eastern faces.

"Two white men," he continued, "but nothing ties them to the biker gangs, either."

"You said yourself bikers weren't a serious threat," I interjected.  Last year, while working on a missile-recovery project in Denmark, I'd disrupted a lucrative weapons deal among Scandinavian outlaw motorcycle clubs.  The Hells Angels and the Bandidos had jointly put out a four-figure contract on my life.  Frank had assessed the situation and concluded so long as I was in the U.S., I didn't need to modify my behavior in response to such a penny-pinching bounty.  I added, "Nothing's happened to make biker hit men more interested in me.  And drive-by shooting isn't their typical assassination method."

"No, more of a gang war tactic."  Frank passed a video print-out across to me.  "So what'd you do to piss off these white-boy gang-bangers?"

"Beats me."  I studied the blurry photo.  It matched the impression I'd gotten from my glimpse of the driver's face.  "Wheel man looks like Alexander Lebed."

"Lebed?"  Frank scratched the name onto a yellow pad.  "Who's Lebed?"

"The Russian general who negotiated the original cease-fire in Chechnya."  Frank tossed down his pen in disgust and I hurried to cut off his sarcastic comment.  "I don't mean Lebed was driving.  Only that the guy has a Slavic face."

"Slavic.  For sure, those Russian gangs up in Brighton Beach like this type of hit.  So what are you doing to make them mad at you?"

"Nothing.  All I have going is this conference.  And I'm only a staffer.  I'm not part of the official delegation.  My Berlin activity doesn't connect in any way to Russian gangs in the U.S.  Come on, Frank.  I'll be Bella Hinton's house guest.  You know she's good.  She can guarantee my safety."

"Don't try your flim-flam on me.  Bella's a damn fine security officer, but she's in no shape to look after you.  Remember, I saw her last month."  He cupped his hands in the air, a foot in front of his stomach.  "Her belly was out to here.  A forty-year-old pregnant woman is not my idea of a bodyguard."

"You wouldn't dare say so to her face.  She'd draw down on you before you touched your weapon."

Frank frowned at me.  "This was a serious attack.  Until I get a handle on who was behind it, I'm not clearing you for travel.  In D.C., I can make damn sure nobody gets another shot at you.  I'll tell ALERT to upgrade your code and add you to the mobile unit's cruise list.  And you better start varying your routes and procedures."

My home security system was wired to a private service under contract to the Department.  Frank was making me a harder target to hit.  And he was telling me to take the same precautions I routinely did overseas.  Someone had been watching me carefully enough to predict I'd leave my car in Dulles long-term parking.  I hadn't spotted the surveillance.  I stiffened my spine, willing away my fear.

"You can trust me to be careful in Berlin.  I have to go.  I have work to do."

Frank blew air through his nostrils, a sarcastic snort of disbelief.  "Work which doesn't officially begin until Tuesday night."

So, he knew when the conference opened.  And he also knew—and disapproved—of my relationship with a former foreign agent.  Wouldn't take him long to deduce my reasons for hurrying to Berlin were personal.  I couldn't win this argument.

He added, "If I uncover some good intel on this, I might be able to get you to Berlin by mid-week.  So you can do your job.  You won't get a better offer from me."

I sighed heavily.  "Guess I have to take it."  I shoved myself to my feet.  "I need to let Bella know you're holding me up.  I'll drive into the Department and phone her."

"Good."  Frank stood and gave me an approving smile.  "And be sure to keep your guard up.  Don't use your home phone until we check out the line.  I'll cover your back on the way in."

And he did, riding my bumper for the half-hour drive to D.C.  The sight of his Chevrolet in my rearview mirror should have comforted me.  Instead, it reminded me a hit team had tried to kill me.  I gripped the wheel tighter to stop my hands from shaking.  I couldn't let fear freeze me.  I had too much to do.  And I'd be fine, with Frank backing me up.

But I wasn't fine with him bossing me around.  As a senior intelligence analyst for the Secretary's Coordinator for Counterterrorism, I'd been following a complicated paper trail for the past three months, painstakingly adding critical links to the chain of evidence in a thwarted attack on the U.S. embassy in Kuwait.  I had counted on time with the man who could make me feel human again.

When I was in hot pursuit of bad guys—on paper—I worked seven-day weeks without hesitation.  But I'd tied up the Kuwait case this morning.  I wanted—I needed—to be with Stefan Krajewski.  He was in Poland, where we'd met during the Cold War.  Then, he'd been working for the Danish Defense Intelligence Service.  A couple of years ago, his right leg was damaged during a mission.  The injury healed and his limp wasn't visible to anyone except the doctors at DDIS.  They canceled his contract.  He'd taken a position in Warsaw with a Danish insurance company, tracking down cars stolen from the streets of Copenhagen and sold to Poles.  The job plus unspecified personal business kept him busy and we met less frequently than I wanted.  For once, he'd shoved it all aside for me.

He'd promised to be at Tegel by 8:00 A.M. to meet my flight.  I had to find a way to tell him I wasn't coming.  It was too late to reach him via the high-tech scrambler phone in his Warsaw office.  I had no other number for him.  He refused to carry a cell phone.  When I didn't show, he'd be alarmed.  I had to assure him I was safe.

My dashboard clock read 9:25 P.M. when Frank and I parked side-by-side in the garage beneath the State Department Building.  He glowered at me as we rode upstairs in the elevator.  "Don't leave alone.  You call me when you're ready to go."

"You don't have to bother escorting me."  I leaned back against the polished metal wall.  "I'll drive over to the kennel and collect my trusty German shepherd guard dog.  I'll be fine with Blondie riding shotgun."

Frank snorted.  "You leave your beast right where she is.  No way I'm clearing you to run around on the streets of D.C. with a house pet and a pooper scooper."

"Don't you think maybe you're overdoing this security bit?"

"I sure as hell don't.  Forget the dog.  Like it or not, I'm watching your ass tonight."

I imitated his snort.  "Ass is not appropriate security terminology."

"Precisely appropriate and professional," he said as I exited onto the second floor.  When I glanced back, I caught the ghost of a smile and a very definite wink.

I shook my head.  Franklin Botts could not be flirting with me.

I phoned Bella from my office.  It was cruel to wake a pregnant woman in the middle of the night.  But I had to, if I wanted her to send someone to intercept Stefan.

I knew she'd do it.  We'd been counting on each other ever since we'd met at the Warsaw embassy.  I was godmother to her son and I'd be godmother to the daughter she was expecting next month.

Three months ago, she'd been assigned to Berlin to handle embassy security.  Her firstborn, Woody, had stayed behind in D.C. so doctors could monitor his recovery from the bone marrow transplant which effectively cured his leukemia..  He was fourteen years old and boarded at a private high school.  I saw him as often as my schedule allowed—three quick dates so far this fall, indulging our mutual passion for egg rolls.

I was ringing Bella's bedside phone at quarter to four in the morning, her time.  As soon as she answered, I said, "Don't panic, this isn't about Woody."

"So it must be about you."  I heard no sleep in her voice.  "You're not in Berlin?"

"No.  I'm calling from the office.  A couple of guys attacked me in the Dulles long-term lot.  Franklin Botts won't let me travel while he checks it out."

"Frank grounded you?"  Bella's surprise raised the pitch of her voice.  "Wasn't a simple mugging, I take it?"

"No."  I told her what little we knew.  "Frank isn't sure what to make of it.  He doesn't think they were bikers or terrorists.  In fact, the driver was Slavic—I'd put money on it."

For the next fifteen seconds, the only sound I heard was the click and buzz of the secure line until Bella said in an off-hand voice, "Will Holger Sorensen be in Berlin during this conference?"

The abrupt switch startled me.  How had Bella gotten from the attack on me to the colonel from Danish intelligence?  "He's a member of Denmark's delegation," I replied.  "He's the one who suggested I get the Department to send me."  I waited for her to explain why she'd asked.  When she didn't, I said, "I need a big favor."

"You got it," she replied.

"Stefan's headed for Tegel to meet my flight.  You think Pope could intercept him?"  Pope was Bella's Polish lover and father to Woody and her daughter-to-be.  Pope and Stefan had grown up together and it was no fluke Pope was doing contract work for Danish intelligence.  He was based in Warsaw but Bella had told me he'd be spending this weekend with her.

"He's not in Berlin.  I don't know what's going on.  Pope canceled at the last minute, which isn't like him.  He tried to keep it light, but he told me in six different ways to be careful.  Like he was clicking me up to a higher state of alertness.  Warning me."  She hesitated.  "And somebody tries to kill you."

I linked those facts to her earlier question.  "What, you think I was attacked in the U.S. because of something the Father-Colonel has going in Eastern Europe?"  I used my nickname for Holger Sorensen, who was not only an Army officer, but also an ordained Lutheran minister.

"You have to admit, your attackers did stop you from joining him."

Circumstantial evidence, not proof.  Yet, it was enough to silence me.  When Holger first mentioned the conference, I'd asked if he was recruiting me for an operation.  He'd sworn not.  I believed him but maybe my attackers didn't.

"You better make Holger explain what's going on," Bella said.  "I'll go out to Tegel myself and find Stefan.  He won't like this."

I'd wanted Bella to send someone to reassure Stefan I was in no danger.  Instead, she'd be sharing her own suspicions with him.  I sighed.  "Tell Stefan not to worry.  I'll probably make it to the conference by Wednesday.  We can still get together for the weekend."

"I'll tell him," Bella said.  "In the meantime, you be careful."

"You too.  How are you feeling?"

"Still kicking.  And so is our girl."  She proceeded to give me a report on her last OB/GYN exam.  Sixty seconds into it, Franklin Botts appeared in my open doorway, eyebrows raised.  I cut Bella short and said good-bye.

Frank and I convoyed from the Department to my condo on upper Connecticut Avenue.  He was all business and I wondered if I'd imagined his earlier wink.  He did a quick inspection before he ushered me inside, warning me to set the alarm as soon as he left.

After I did, I went to the kitchen and took a St. Pauli Girl from the refrigerator.  The glass bottle felt unnaturally cold in my palm.  The chill spread up my arm, across my shoulders.  I shivered so hard, I needed three tries to pry the cap from the bottle.  When I raised it to my mouth, the glass clicked against my teeth.

The attack, my father's agitated warning, Bella's ominous words—the combination threatened to overwhelm me.  I set my beer on the counter and stumbled from the kitchen to the bedroom.  I pulled the down comforter from my bed and wrapped it around me.  Cocooned in the feathery warmth, I put the physical brakes on my shaking slide into shock.

Damn Frank.  Cutting me off from Stefan.  Denying me Blondie.  I wanted to bury my face in the hair on her doggy-smelling neck.

But I couldn't.  I'd have to pull myself together without help from man or canine.  To lessen the menace of anonymous terrors, I had to give them names.

I felt calmer as I went through the drill.  Review the facts, talk to my contacts, run down leads, arrange the info in a way that made sense.  I could start by checking a couple of databases when I went into the Department on Sunday to call my father.  I'd phone him precisely as planned.  Six o'clock, my time.

But at five-thirty on Sunday, as I was strapping on a wristwatch to replace the cell phone clock on which I usually relied, my land line rang.  I recognized the voice of Police Chief Gary James.

"It's Vic,” he said.  "Your dad's gone, Casey.  He vanished."

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©2011 by Diana Deverell