The Export J.K. Kelly (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

the time and energy to fly all night to Moscow. But in all reality, this is political, cut and dried,” he explained. “I’m not sure if I have the leverage or authority, actual or implied, to solve this one, boys. Looks like another one of those classic screw-ups that someone really high up at State or perhaps Defense needs to fix.”

“They’ve already tried, believe it or not,” Wilson stated. “It’s not happening.”

“So why me?” Matt asked. “Of all the assets at your disposal, why am I sitting here with you two?”

Both men seemed surprised by the question, and Matt enjoyed watching them fumble for the right answer and, perhaps, figure out just who would deliver it.

“Well,” Wilson began, “you’re not an employee. You also know Moscow very well and have a reputation for getting to the bottom of things.”

Matt nodded. As a contractor there were things he could say and do, places he could go, people he could meet, without the restrictions, red tape, or accountability a government employee or an elected official might be tied down by. He also knew Moscow. He’d been there before and had friends and associates in the area if he needed their help or cover.

“And,” Adams continued, “you get the right kind of results and don’t care if you ruffle feathers.”

Matt sat back in his chair.

“We’ll need a Hail Mary to fix this one,” Adams said. “And your number’s been called.” Matt looked at the recurring photos on the video screen and then glanced again at the eight-by-ten of the mistress they had given him.

“Who is the point of contact on our side and from the Russian side, and how are they communicating?”

“It’s all secure, untraceable email, directly between Ambassador Wilkerson’s private email account and someone with a Russian name that means Old Goat.”

“That’s even better, some old prick with a sense of humor.” Matt thought for a minute. “You are sure this is a Russian, in Russia, screwing with Wilkerson? Not some dipshit scammer sitting at a keyboard in Kazakhstan or Burbank, right?”

“Yes, we can’t track to the sender’s physical address or IP address, but we know it’s within the city limits of Moscow. It’s not being rerouted from other locations.”

“Does Mrs. Wilkerson know about the mistress?” Matt asked.

“Not sure,” replied Adams. “I don’t think anyone’s had the balls to ask her.”

“We think it’s best that you use your diplomatic credentials on this one and just go spend some time over there, boots on the ground, as they say,” Wilson interjected.

“Yes – just go there, meet the people, buy some drinks, take them to strip clubs, slide them money, whatever it takes,” Adams said.

Matt sat quietly, staring at one of the blank walls, and then turned his attention back to the two briefers. He studied them. To him, they seemed uncomfortable, as if neither had done anything like this before. Not including anyone of higher stature from the CIA, State, Defense, or NSA in this briefing meant this truly was a super-hot potato. Anyone with rank would want plausible deniability if the whole thing went south.

“Which one of you is going with me?” he asked, wondering how they might respond. Both men went from appearing awkward to outright scared. One was fidgeting in his chair while the other flicked the edge of the file folder. Matt smiled. He knew they were far from field agents.

“Come on, there’s nothing like endless vodka, endless strippers, and a hard-boiled egg baked into the center of your lasagna!” he quipped. “Just joking, boys. I’ll do it. But with a few conditions,” said Matt, before listing out exactly what they were.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Matt loved to fly, as long as it was in comfort, and the quick post-rush hour ride to Reagan International was taken in near record time. He’d booked the flight, ordered the car service, packed his clothes, and selected the appropriate credentials from seven different versions he kept locked in a safe and left his condo behind, again. Matt took his window seat in the front cabin, the business class section of the United Airlines jet, and settled in for yet another adventure. The overnight flight would stop in Zurich, where he’d have time for a quick shower and change of clothes in the First Class lounge and then hop back aboard a connecting flight to Moscow’s Domodedovo airport, arriving just before five o’clock the next afternoon, Moscow time.

The black diplomatic passport he’d chosen to use allowed him to bypass the visa requirement and sail past the customs desk in short order. With bags in hand he boarded the commuter train to downtown Moscow. At this hour, or seemingly any hour of the day, traffic in and around the Russian capital would add over an hour to his travel time to the hotel. It didn’t take long for the train to stop close to his preferred hotel. As he exited the car, he admired the familiar marble floors, walls, and ceilings of Moscow’s famed underground.

A short time later, he moved quickly up the stairway that led onto the street level. Motorbikes, cars, trucks, and a steady flow of pedestrian traffic kept the noise at a level much like Times Square in New York – crowded and loud. The Russian air hovering just above 75 degrees Fahrenheit, Matt walked the three blocks to the Sheraton Palace hotel. After checking in and dropping his bag in his suite, he headed straight to the bar for a long-awaited date with an alcoholic beverage. Meeting with Dale had brought back many good memories, but the bad ones had come as well. He was sad, tired, and lonely, and it was time to drink. Work would start in the morning. He checked his watch. And that was a long 12 hours away.

The vodka was flowing throughout the hotel’s brightly lit bar. So much for ambiance, he thought. An international assortment of patrons attended quiet business meetings, discreet rendezvous, and boisterous selfie sessions (a sports team from