A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short by Richard Castle Read Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Castle
main gate. He parked in the visitor’s lot outside the 1960s-era Old Headquarters Building at the top of a gentle hill. Inside, Storm walked across the CIA emblem embedded in the gray marble lobby floor. To his left was a white stone wall inscribed with a quote from the Holy Bible: John, Chapter 8, Verse 32:
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
To his right were five rows of stars on a wall, each representing a CIA officer who had been killed in the line of duty.
An attractive middle-aged woman dressed in a dark gray business suit was waiting to escort Storm through Security. Storm found Jedidiah perched behind his GSA-issued executive desk, which had been cleared of all papers, a routine practice whenever someone not officially employed by the Agency entered a room.
“Why’d the senator call you this morning? Was he having nightmares?” Jones asked gleefully.
Déjà vu. How many times had Storm sat across from Jones in this office? How many times had they discussed black ops? But that had been then. This was now.
Ignoring Jones’s question, Storm replied, “When were you going to tell me about Ivan Petrov?”
Jones leaned forward and raised his interlocked fingers, placing them directly under his chin with his elbows now resting on his desk. He seemed to be in deep thought. “I wondered when you would identify Petrov. What have you learned?”
It was as if Storm were still in training, being dropped off with only the clothes on his back in a frozen wilderness as part of a survival exercise.
“Ivan Petrov,” Storm said, “was once best friends with Russian President Oleg Barkovsky. It was Barkovsky who helped Petrov become a multi-billionaire by letting him privatize the nation’s largest bank after the collapse of the Soviet Union. He became one of Russia’s first oligarchs. Private jets, a yacht in the Mediterranean—Petrov bought all the toys. He even owns an English castle outside London formerly owned by the Duke of Madison. And then two years ago, Petrov started biting the hand that was feeding him. How am I doing so far?”
Jones nodded approvingly. “Go on,” he said.
“Petrov began publicly criticizing Barkovsky. He developed political ambitions of his own. That’s when President Barkovsky brought down the hammer. He sent the Federal Security Service into Petrov’s bank and seized all its records. He accused Petrov of embezzlement and crimes against the state. He was about to have him arrested when Petrov somehow managed to slip out of Moscow.”
Storm paused and said, “His escape looked like something you might have had a hand in.”
Jones smiled slightly and said, “More likely MI-6. The Brits. They’ve done that sort of thing before, remember? But you’re the one telling this story.”
“Petrov surfaced in London, where he surrounded himself with bodyguards and began a personal crusade to get Barkovsky ousted from the Kremlin. The Russian president didn’t take the attacks well. There was a sensational murder. The poisoning of a top Petrov aide. Radionuclide polonium-210, I believe. Nasty stuff. Next came a car bomb. Petrov decided to come here. Probably felt safer. That’s when he really began showing up on your radar. Correct?”
Jones leaned back in his chair, which squeaked loudly. He rested his hands in his lap. And waited, without comment, for Storm to continue.
“Petrov makes a big splash in Washington. He buys a mansion on Embassy Row. He begins throwing elaborate parties for the city’s political elite. And he continues his verbal attacks on Barkovsky. He continues plotting ways to undermine him. He starts making friends on Capitol Hill.”
“Money and power,” Jones said. “They’re magnets in this town.”
“Petrov has the money. Billions,” Storm said. “Windslow has the power. A perfect marriage.”
Leaning forward, Jones began rapping his right index finger on top of his desk as if he were playing a drum. He was
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
To his right were five rows of stars on a wall, each representing a CIA officer who had been killed in the line of duty.
An attractive middle-aged woman dressed in a dark gray business suit was waiting to escort Storm through Security. Storm found Jedidiah perched behind his GSA-issued executive desk, which had been cleared of all papers, a routine practice whenever someone not officially employed by the Agency entered a room.
“Why’d the senator call you this morning? Was he having nightmares?” Jones asked gleefully.
Déjà vu. How many times had Storm sat across from Jones in this office? How many times had they discussed black ops? But that had been then. This was now.
Ignoring Jones’s question, Storm replied, “When were you going to tell me about Ivan Petrov?”
Jones leaned forward and raised his interlocked fingers, placing them directly under his chin with his elbows now resting on his desk. He seemed to be in deep thought. “I wondered when you would identify Petrov. What have you learned?”
It was as if Storm were still in training, being dropped off with only the clothes on his back in a frozen wilderness as part of a survival exercise.
“Ivan Petrov,” Storm said, “was once best friends with Russian President Oleg Barkovsky. It was Barkovsky who helped Petrov become a multi-billionaire by letting him privatize the nation’s largest bank after the collapse of the Soviet Union. He became one of Russia’s first oligarchs. Private jets, a yacht in the Mediterranean—Petrov bought all the toys. He even owns an English castle outside London formerly owned by the Duke of Madison. And then two years ago, Petrov started biting the hand that was feeding him. How am I doing so far?”
Jones nodded approvingly. “Go on,” he said.
“Petrov began publicly criticizing Barkovsky. He developed political ambitions of his own. That’s when President Barkovsky brought down the hammer. He sent the Federal Security Service into Petrov’s bank and seized all its records. He accused Petrov of embezzlement and crimes against the state. He was about to have him arrested when Petrov somehow managed to slip out of Moscow.”
Storm paused and said, “His escape looked like something you might have had a hand in.”
Jones smiled slightly and said, “More likely MI-6. The Brits. They’ve done that sort of thing before, remember? But you’re the one telling this story.”
“Petrov surfaced in London, where he surrounded himself with bodyguards and began a personal crusade to get Barkovsky ousted from the Kremlin. The Russian president didn’t take the attacks well. There was a sensational murder. The poisoning of a top Petrov aide. Radionuclide polonium-210, I believe. Nasty stuff. Next came a car bomb. Petrov decided to come here. Probably felt safer. That’s when he really began showing up on your radar. Correct?”
Jones leaned back in his chair, which squeaked loudly. He rested his hands in his lap. And waited, without comment, for Storm to continue.
“Petrov makes a big splash in Washington. He buys a mansion on Embassy Row. He begins throwing elaborate parties for the city’s political elite. And he continues his verbal attacks on Barkovsky. He continues plotting ways to undermine him. He starts making friends on Capitol Hill.”
“Money and power,” Jones said. “They’re magnets in this town.”
“Petrov has the money. Billions,” Storm said. “Windslow has the power. A perfect marriage.”
Leaning forward, Jones began rapping his right index finger on top of his desk as if he were playing a drum. He was