Page 196 of Secrets Beneath the Waves
“Was he planning to run with someone?” I press.
“He said he needed a passport for a woman as well.”
Mariam.
“I’m not sure what you expect me to do,” Rourke says.
I hold his gaze in the semi-darkness. “I told you we were here for an exchange of information, and I always keep my word.”
Rourke lets out a low laugh. “And you actually think you have something to bargain with?”
“Do you remember Mikhail Drovic?”
I pause, waiting for the expected reaction from Rourke. It’s subtle, but there, in the slight twitch of his lip. The theory we worked up with Hawke is simply that. A theory. And one that in reality doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. All we need is enough facts sprinkled with speculation to hook Rourke and get him to do what we need him to do. A theory so plausible Rourke can’t walk away.
“Colonel Mikhail Drovic was a former Soviet military intelligence officer who defected years ago after the collapse of the USSR,” I begin. “He never appeared in public after his defection, but there are rumors that he was trafficking weapons throughout several conflict zones in North Africa. Then the speculation is he got greedy. He started selling intelligence to multiple buyers, including enemies of the US, trying to play both sides. But I’m assuming you know all of this.”
Rourke’s frown deepens. “What’s your point? That was years ago. Drovic is dead. He was killed in a plane crash in Siberia.”
I pause again for effect. “What if he’s not dead?”
This time, Rourke’s surprise is less subtle. “You have proof?”
“You aren’t the only one who wanted to stop Drovic back then,” I say, making my words slow and deliberate. “Who warned US intelligence he was playing both sides? Who never believed he died in that crash?”
Rourke frowns. “Chapel.”
I nod. “Drovic didn’t die in the plane crash.”
“That’s not possible.” Rourke’s fingers tap against his leg—an unconscious giveaway that we’re getting under his skin. “They found fragments of human remains and identified partial DNA matches.”
“Enough to satisfy authorities who were under pressure to close the case,” I say. “From what I’ve seen, the only record of his death was a line in a partially redacted file. No body. Nothing truly verified.”
A cool night breeze rustles through the garden, and I can hear the muted strains of music from the party, but my focus is on Rourke, who’s clearly trying to process the information.
“Where is Chapel?”
“Unavailable at the moment,” I say.
“You have proof?” he asks.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Russian arms syndicate run by Ivan Kozlov and his rising coalition of West African warlords. The interesting thing is, we’ve discovered he’s using the same channels. Same tactics. Old Soviet routes are lighting up like they did back in the nineties.”
Rourke doesn’t even try to mask his concern. “If he really is alive, then this is bigger than you realize.”
“Which is why we’re here, talking to you.” I smile inwardly, knowing I’m winning this round. But it’s still far from over. “You know his playbook better than anyone else. You used to run part of it.”
“And Oumar’s connection?” Rourke asks. “Why take him for ransom?”
“I don’t know other than I believe Oumar found out he was still alive and tried to shut him down.”
“Or, more than likely, they’re trying to draw you out. What’s five million to the CIA? It’s something Drovic would have done,andexplains why Oumar needed my services.” Rourke lets out a sharp breath. “I can make a few phone calls. See what I can come up with, but remember this— If Drovic does have your asset, there will be no negotiation. Only a slow, brutal extraction of whatever it is he wants.”
I hand him a card with a number on it, then a moment later, I watch Rourke disappear down the path and into the darkness.
“It worked,” Graham says, turning to me, “though I’m not sure I feel much better.”
“Me either.” I glance behind me toward the party. “We could go back in. The food looked pretty good, and we didn’t get our gift bags.”
