Capitol Spy Read online

  Table of Contents

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  Capitol Spy

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

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  ***

  TO PROTECT MY SOURCES AND NATIONAL SECURITY,

  CERTAIN NAMES AND OPERATIONAL PROCEDURES

  HAVE BEEN CHANGED.

  ***

  “Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.”

  - Niccoló Machiavelli

  Garfield Heights, Washington, D.C. – Friday, 6.33am

  Andrei Rublov had been awake for nearly two days straight, but sleep was the last thing on the thirty-year-old Russian’s mind. He had more than enough caffeine gunning through his system to keep him sharp, and he was still feasting on an adrenaline rush after meeting his anonymous source the previous night.

  The files the source had supplied him with were comprehensive to say the least. But it was one file in particular – just three pieces of paper slipped into a cream manila folder – that Andrei knew would change everything.

  It would unquestionably be the biggest story of his career, and have serious consequences for some very powerful people.

  Now he had to get out of D.C. as soon as possible.

  It didn’t take him long to pile his things into a backpack: only small daily essentials like his toothbrush and dirty laundry needed to be packed. In the two weeks he’d been in the rented apartment, he hadn’t allowed himself to get too comfortable. He had been in the journalism game long enough to keep a go bag ready on such a story.

  As he took the bag to the window he did a quick scan of the studio apartment, checking he wasn’t leaving anything relating to the story behind.

  If his source’s file proved right, the apartment would surely be turned over soon enough.

  Now he had to stay alive for long enough to get on a plane. He hadn’t decided yet on Ronald Reagan or Dulles. Wherever had a flight leaving for a non-extradition-treaty country in the next hour.

  Going home to Moscow wouldn’t be an option for quite some time. Maybe ever again.

  Andrei didn’t even want to risk getting cornered in the stairwell, so he went out the bedroom window of the flat-roofed two-storey, ducking and weaving his way down the metal fire escape with panic-filled footsteps.

  Now he was out in the open, a sense of dread seeped through his stomach. He felt the unmistakable paranoia of being watched. A feeling he had grown used to in Moscow.

  In the darkness he couldn’t see far. A grab team could have been parked around the corner for all he knew. There would be a time for euphoria about the size of his story, and that would be once he was safely on an airport runway.

  There wasn’t much going on in the Garfield Heights district of the nation’s capital. Somewhere in the distance a solitary dog barked, followed by the sound of a trash can being kicked over.

  It was too late for the dealers, and too early for everyone else, leaving the dark, pre-dawn streets deserted.

  As Andrei’s breathing quickened, the thick bursts of fog from his mouth came out faster. It was barely thirty Fahrenheit out, but there wasn’t enough space in his head to contemplate the cold.

  He pointed the key at the Chevy Impala rental he’d been driving – looking all around, expecting someone to appear from the shadows at any moment. The sound of its perky assertive beep as it unlocked seemed to ring out around the surrounding buildings. Much louder than Andrei wanted.

  He set off so quickly the back wheels spun on the cold tarmac. He fumbled with his phone as he raced through the endless, identical blocks, managing to get connected to the car via Bluetooth. He tapped “Ronald Reagan Airport” into his Sat Nav.

  Ronald Reagan was the closer of the two D.C. airports: Andrei didn’t want to be on the road a minute longer than he had to.

  He merged swiftly onto Suitland Parkway that took him to I-295, then the Anacostia Freeway.

  There were quicker ways to get through Capitol Hill, but this kept him on major roads which were better lit and more liable to have other drivers on them.

  The proximity to other cars provided little sense of security though as he caught sight of a black van slowly but steadily progressing up the slow lane, sitting some four cars back.

  Andrei crooked the rear-view mirror to get a better angle on it. As the road gently curved right, he could see a tall silhouette in the driver’s seat, no passengers.

  Andrei pressed the call button on his phone, then said aloud in Russian, ‘Call Natalya.’

  It was nearly two p.m. in Moscow, which Andrei hoped would make it likely she would answer. After a few rings it went to voicemail.

  His voice cracked with a mix of triumph and fear. ‘Talya! It’s Andrei.’ He took a beat, long enough for a calming breath. ‘I’ve got confirmation. I know who it is. And they’re right here in Washington. I met my source last night and they know everything. They gave me a dossier...’ He shook his head. ‘I think I’m being followed. They could be after you too. Listen to me, Talya: you’ve got to get out of Moscow right now.’ He glanced in the rear-view mirror, noticing the black van creeping forward, overtaking. Now just two cars back. ‘If anything happens to me...You know what to do.’

  He hung up, then put his foot to the floor, using all the power his 3.6-litre V6 engine had to offer, taking him up to seventy miles per hour. The van was soon far back and seemingly uninterested in following.

  Andrei exhaled. Panic over.

  In a bid to stay on roads with some kind of CCTV coverage he took a left off Anacostia onto East Capitol Street, taking him over the Anacostia River. In no time he was on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Wanting to zoom in on the Sat Nav map, Andrei pinched his fingers across t
he phone screen. ‘Weird,’ he said to himself, as the screen went black, then seemed to reload.

  The directions told him he was only ten minutes away from Ronald Reagan National Airport. He checked his rear-view mirror again. It was still clear.

  For a newcomer to Washington, it was easy not to realise you were on a road leading to the epicentre of American political power. The east side of Pennsylvania Avenue coming through Dupont Park was so unassuming, it was like driving through some little Midwest town, with its modest storefronts and tidy hedgerows.

  Then something magical started to happen around the intersection of 13th and 11th Street: in the distance the illuminated white dome of the Capitol Building slowly emerged. The sight of it made Andrei’s heart swell, as the scale of what he was about to go public with truly hit home.

  The stakes didn’t get any higher.

  What didn’t help was the sudden reappearance of the black van. It was being driven more aggressively now, swinging right out of Potomac Avenue, and following much closer. Its lights were on a purposely hostile full beam, which also made it impossible for Andrei to make out the face of the driver.

  Andrei flicked his rear-view mirror aside, but the Impala’s interior was flooded with the van’s headlights.

  Andrei cursed to himself, ‘Shit.’ He knew he was in it now.

  He wasn’t going to take any chances, and keyed ‘911’ into his phone screen. All he had to do was hit the green call sign if he got rammed.

  The black van was all over his back bumper, but made no move to take him off the road. It was just following malevolently close.

  Andrei knew he had to lose the tail somehow or else he’d be followed into the airport and his destination spotted: he’d be starting all over again at the other end. The sort of people that were after him had assets all over the globe. He needed a clean break or he was as good as dead.

  He used every inch of the road to make the tight left turn onto Constitution Avenue, touching forty-five as he clipped the apex.

  As the road straightened - heading west past the Smithsonian Museums and other grand white buildings that lined the road – Andrei’s speed crept up.

  Fifty...

  Fifty-five...

  Sixty...

  His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The buildings to his left a blur in his peripheral vision. He only had eyes for the black van.

  Arlington County Emergency Communications Centre – same time

  Marcy Edwards was on hour seven of her night shift. Apart from restroom breaks, she hadn’t left the 911-police group pen. Dinner had been a large bag of tortilla chips and guacamole.

  Such were the demands on emergency call workers in Virginia: the combination of stress and emotional anxiety had left the state with a crippling shortage of operators like Marcy. Even if starting salaries of $35k a year managed to entice qualified applicants, hardly any of them hung around longer than a few months. Having to listen to calls from crying children asking for help because “mommy’s been asleep for four days,” or talking someone through a call while someone’s house was robbed.

  Operators couldn’t afford a ‘bad call’, or be off their game even once. Lives depended on it.

  Marcy’s call line lit up. She answered, ‘Nine one one, what’s your emergency?’

  She heard the sound of a car engine before a voice.

  ‘My name is Andrei Rublov,’ the caller said, voice raised. He sounded scared. ‘I’m a reporter for Russia Now. I’m in a silver Chevy Impala going west on...Constitution Avenue. I cannot control my car.’

  Marcy asked routinely, ‘Are you under the influence of alcohol or drugs, sir?’

  ‘No! The car is not under my control.’ Frustrated at his inability to explain, he tried again. ‘The car is...’

  In the background the engine could be heard getting louder.

  Marcy said, ‘Andrei? Are you there?’

  ‘It’s the Arlington bridge,’ Andrei cried. ‘I’m going to go off it...’

  Marcy shot a look out the window. Her building was just half a mile from the bridge. ‘Andrei, listen to me. No matter how bad you might be feeling, take your foot off the gas and slowly pull over to the side of the-’

  ‘I can’t! Aren’t you listening to me? I’m not suicidal but my car is going to go off the bridge...’

  Marcy raised her voice. ‘Andrei, there’s no reason for you to go off the bridge. Just listen to me-’

  Two of Marcy’s colleagues, off-call, turned to see what was going on, thinking she had a jumper.

  Andrei’s heart sank. He knew what was going to happen. It was inevitable. ‘Are you recording this?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I need to say something...’ The thought of what he was about to say put a lump in his throat. ‘...for posterity.’

  Marcy, trained in keeping despondent callers in a positive frame of mind, said, ‘You’re not going to die, Andrei, just keep talking to me, stay with me.’

  Nearly drowned out by the engine, he said, ‘There’s a mole in Congress.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘There’s a mole!’ he yelled. ‘There’s a Russian spy in Congress. Senator-’

  The line went dead.

  Marcy pressed her earphone in harder. ‘Andrei? Andrei talk to me...’ Seeing the line was definitely dead, she hit a speed dial on her keypad. ‘D.C. dispatch, this is ECC. I need a vehicle response to Arlington Memorial Bridge. I need a visual on a silver Chevy Impala.’

  Arlington Memorial Bridge

  The black van pulled up just short of the bronze statues of men on horseback – the Arts of War - marking the start of the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

  Traffic came to a standstill in a matter of moments.

  Drivers on the bridge hurried out their cars and ran towards the gaping hole in the concrete balcony. Down in the river, a silver Impala sank below the surface.

  Seconds later at ECC, an operator beside Marcy Edwards took a 911 call.

  ‘Oh my gosh...’ the female caller said, struggling to keep her composure. ‘He just went off the side of the bridge. He was going so fast...’

  There was a conversation in the background of someone having to be dissuaded from jumping in after the car. ‘It’s already under water. You’d freeze in there before you even reached him...’

  Back at the Arts of War, the black van calmly set off again across the bridge.

  The man in the driver’s seat sent a text message: “Done. Who’s next?”

  Theodore Roosevelt Federal Courthouse, Brooklyn, New York City – Friday, 11.07am

  Judge Pierce Buckley Ellison III said sharply, ‘Speak up, Mr Novak.’

  Pierce Buckley Ellison III, Tom Novak thought. Only the stock of a federal judge would be crazy enough to give three males in their family such a name. Novak couldn’t help but wonder if giving your children crazy names was the key to success in life: you never encountered someone with a name like Pierce Buckley Ellison III flipping burgers.

  Novak, sitting in the witness box of Courtroom One, pulled the microphone a little closer. ‘I’m thirty-six years old, and I’m the security correspondent for The Republic.’

  Novak had seen the inside of a few courtrooms in the past, but none like this one in its current state. The public gallery had been cleared on the grounds of national security, relating to the testimony Judge Ellison expected to hear from Novak. There were no press, no photographers, no static, unmanned cameras. Not even any police were allowed entry . All nine people in the chamber had clearance under the emergency powers of the Patriot Act: disclosing so much as a syllable of what was uttered during the case would be a federal offence.

  Outside, the national news media huddled together on Cadman Plaza, a narrow walkway outside the courthouse blocked off to all vehicles by anti-terror concrete roadblocks at either end.

  Many times over the years Novak had been on the other side of a perp-walk: the normally solemn walk of the accused towards a courthouse, surrounded
by news photographers - camera shutters clapping – and TV crews doing their backwards walks while they got their shots; the accused’s lawyer leaning in to insist they had ‘no comment at this time.’

  As the accused, Tom Novak had become used to this scenario over the last year. Now he positively relished it. Novak did his perp-walk with a big smile on his face, stopping to archly check his hair in the reflection of a CNN camera lens, or attempt to chat up the cute redhead from the Pittsburgh Fox affiliate.

  It was the kind of scenario Tom Novak was most comfortable with: namely, being the centre of attention, and the biggest story of the day. The question on everyone’s lips: was he about to become the first American journalist to be convicted as a spy under the Espionage Act, for disclosing items of national security in a story? And not just any story. The NSA Papers that had made his name nearly a year earlier.

  Back in the chamber, Novak looked out at the court stenographer, who appeared tiny in the vast, empty courtroom behind.

  Novak missed the adoring eyes of the public gallery. The murmur of appreciation after a pithy political point. Or the barely restrained giggles from a witty comeback. There wasn’t even a jury: the intense secrecy of the material that formed the government’s case against Novak made it impossible for civilians to sit in on it. It was a bench trial: Novak’s future would come down to one man’s judgement. With a potential ten years in jail.

  Novak’s lawyer, Kevin Wellington, got to his feet and fastened the top button of his suit jacket - which Novak had earlier noted as an exquisitely cut Brioni three-piece pinstripe suit. It was an upgrade from his usual Hugo Boss, which Novak took as a sign that Kevin was close to being named partner. It was impossible not to strut a little wearing a Brioni. And Kevin needed every little boost he could get if he was going to keep his client out of jail.

  Kevin began his questioning, ‘Mr Novak, this is a clear case of First Amendment rights, which the Espionage Act has long made provisions for. Let’s be clear: what’s on the line here is potentially setting a legal precedent for prosecuting journalists as spies. As my client, the court must surely recognise your protection under the constitution as a whistleblower regarding classified records being published in your magazine, rather than you facilitating the removal of the records from federal computers. And that is the distinction-’