Scars of the Past (Dark Web Book 2) Read online

  You look lovely today," he said, totally changing the subject as he appraised her carefully. And she was beautiful. He liked her new hair color, light, coppery red. It suited her skin color and she certainly had the fiery personality of a red head. Not that they fought or even disagreed much, just that she could more than take care of herself. Had proven it, in fact. Other than the hair and new contacts that changed her eyes to green, they hadn't changed her appearance much; couldn't because she was pregnant. Luckily, Arturo died in their escape and Hector slunk off with whatever money he could lay his hands on quickly, so any threat that agents of the Gulf Cartel would try to collect on the debt was muted. New leaders filled the void and were happy to have Arturo and Hector out of the way. They no longer seemed to care about Estella's rescuers.

  He'd built a new life, too. He worked with the FBI; he had his family and friends. He even liked his new look. They'd fixed the dirty blond hair color he'd done himself so it looked more natural. They'd changed his eye color, too. But, they no longer needed to hide. Maybe he'd let his hair go back to its natural dark brown and get rid of the contacts, but the rest was permanent. And, he liked it. His new name helped him fit in more, too. Besides, he was used to it now and couldn't find a reason to dredge up his former identity. That Jaime was the past, Jacob was the future. After two years, the new identities felt more "real" than the identities they were born with.

  "Shall I save you some dinner?"

  "No, I'll get something at the office," he said. She gave him a little sideways glance and wrinkled up her now perfect nose; she'd changed the aquiline nose she shared with her people across the centuries for a more western look after Sarah was born, out of vanity rather than to disguise her appearance.

  He knew what that look meant—dinner better be something healthier than the pizza or Chinese he and his cyber staff frequently ordered on nights when they worked late.

  "You know what the doctor said at your last checkup … your blood pressure … he suggested a low-fat, low-salt diet."

  "You know my blood pressure has nothing to do with what I eat. It's the job, not my diet, that causes my blood pressure issues … thoughts of how easily someone could hack in and what the consequences would be for the people I love. That's what made my pressure go up. Do that enough and the pressure kind of resets at a higher level. It has nothing to do with what I eat. But, for you … anything. OK, I promise. A salad! Are you happy?"

  She answered by kissing him again, a little longer this time. He reluctantly broke the embrace, giving her a quick kiss on the nose as he did.

  "That's for Sarah. Tell her daddy loves her. If I can break away, we'll Facetime before she goes to sleep tonight. Heck, I might even have time to read her a bedtime story. It depends on how much progress we make in this situation."

  "I'll tell her. You be careful," she shouted after him as he walked down the empty hall—a man with a purpose. She saw his persistent limp, the result of a bullet that nicked his knee when they escaped. After months in the hospital and longer in rehab, it still pained him, she knew, but it was getting progressively less noticeable. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

  Chapter 2

  Dima Evancho entered the Ambassador's suite in response to her summons. Alina Wasik was the newly appointed Ukrainian Ambassador to the United States and Evancho, a career diplomat, served as her Chief Intelligence Officer (CIO) with the official title of Defense Attaché.

  Mrs. Wasik was an outspoken advocate for reunification and the widow of an industrialist who contributed lavishly to the campaign of the Ukrainian president. She owed much of her influence and her recent appointment as Ambassador to these factors. She had little experience in the foreign service and less with politics, but, with her husband dead, she collected his due and welcomed a change of scenery.

  Today's events were rapidly becoming a crash course in international diplomacy and several times she felt like a swimmer going down for the third time. But, she had a good staff, especially her executive staff, and she relied heavily on their advice and guidance to handle the situation. In some ways, she welcomed today's events as a chance to evaluate the loyalty of her entire staff to a unified Ukraine. It was for this reason she called them all together for an impromptu celebration. Often body language, especially in times of crisis, was a better indicator of political belief than interrogation.

  She called Evancho personally to invite him to the celebration and asked him to stay afterward to discuss the shooting of Mikhalev, the lapdog of their hated enemy, Putin. When he arrived, he was surprised to see the anteroom full of fellow employees and several high-profile expatriates, or expats, who were frequently at the embassy for events or meetings.

  Wasik noted with disdain that many of the employees obviously rushed from their desks to attend the gathering without bothering to don suit jackets or tighten ties loosened earlier as they worked. In contrast, Evancho was dressed carefully, as usual. Although she didn't know this yet, Evancho never looked unprofessional; never a hair out of place, a scuff on his polished shoes, a spot on his tie.

  At least some men remember the old ways and haven't succumbed to the ways of the Americans, she thought.

  Today he wore what appeared to be a custom-tailored suit in a dark blue that was nearly black, with tiny pinstripes that were almost invisible. She reminded herself she must ask him where he got his suits—the tailoring was expertly done, the fit impeccable. Her current wardrobe was that of a socialite; heavy on cocktail dresses, gold bangles, and ballet flats, so she'd need more suits to look the part for her new role.

  Charitable observers called him thin; others dubbed him scrawny for his slender build and lack of significant muscle tone. And, paleness. Since he rarely emerged from his apartment except for work and to answer the demands of nature for his dogs, his skin had the sallow appearance commonly found in invalids and shut-ins. Adding to this image that was more scarecrow than human, his ears protruded dangerously out from his head, looking like they might fall off all together at any moment. But, the first thing most people noticed about him was the scar running from his forehead to under his left eye. And, just in case they missed it, he had a nervous habit of rubbing it while he thought, which drew further attention to the disfigurement, the result of a saber during an operation that went seriously wrong early in his intelligence career.

  "Ah, Dima, so good of you to come on such an occasion," she said, handing him a champagne glass.

  "A very happy occasion," he replied. As he took the glass from her he noticed how the sunlight caught the cut crystal, causing little rainbows to dance around the room. Many of the Ukrainian Embassy workers and expats filling the room held identical glasses, which were refilled as toast after toast circled the room, causing colorful rainbows that belied the seriousness of today's events. Disney couldn't have created a better fairytale scene, good triumphing over evil.

  He looked around the room, observing the jubilation as everyone celebrated the death of their hated enemy from Russia. Certainly, his death wouldn't cause the withdrawal of Russian troops from Crimea or bring reunification, but it was still good to see the Russian's suffer and Mikhalev's death might speed reunification efforts if it distracted the Russian president enough for Ukrainian forces to mount an insurrection in the region.

  Yaroslaw Fedak was there, too. He stood in the corner talking quietly to another member of their group. He sought Evancho's eyes, exchanging a knowing smile. Fedak ran a successful import/ export business that hid his true revenue stream—selling illegal guns and military equipment. Fedak fancied himself a lady's man and dressed the part, from the expensive, yet obvious, hairpiece he used to cover his nearly bald pate to the $1000 shoes. Unfortunately, his bulging middle strained the Cambridge cloth of his shirts before succumbing to gravity, thus obscuring his belt and destroying whatever playboy image he was going for. No matter, he seemed always to find a woman to warm his bed. Money buys such companionship.

  Ambassador Wasik glanced over at the CIO. Before taking this position, she'd reviewed the dossiers for all her top people, trying to get a feel for their strengths and weaknesses, their competence, and ensuring their loyalty to a united Ukraine. Many were career diplomats, like Evancho, who grew up in a Russian-controlled country, and she feared some might harbor sympathies for the Russians, who wanted to regain control of all of Ukraine, not just the eastern portion around Crimea.

  After all, it wasn't so long ago that Ukraine welcomed Russian patronage. Before WWII, Ukraine was controlled by Poland, which forcibly converted most Ukrainians to Catholicism and exercised control over their country. After the war, Russian leaders offered freedom from Polish oppressors and engaged in brutal ethnic cleansing to remove Poland's influence. But, the Russians were no better than the Poles before them and Ukraine only gained its independence after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Russia, and some Russian sympathizers in the eastern part of Ukraine were determined to bring Ukraine back under Russian influence, probably as a first step toward rebuilding the Soviet Union. The new Ukrainian president was elected as the winds shifted away from Russia and the corruption of their former president. Hence, her position required ferreting out Russian sympathizers within the embassy and sending them home, where they would be interred.

  Evancho didn't appear to harbor sympathies toward Russia and was, in fact, a valuable asset to her staff. He was a dedicated and hard-working diplomat, with extensive training in covert tactics, intelligence gathering, and surveillance. His master's degree in cybersecurity from Oxford complimented his other intelligence skills. He was intelligent, spoke six languages, was well-read, and a strong leader.

  Since her arrival three months ago, she had gotten to know the man and her estimation of him as a loyal Ukrainian grew along with her appre
ciation of his competence. Reinforcing her estimate was his family history; a history that would engender no love for the Russians. In fact, his mother and sister were recently killed by Russians during the technical ceasefire announced six months ago—one in which hundreds of civilians disappeared or were found murdered. The press reported both sides of the conflict violated the peace, but she knew first-hand who was responsible. The Russians. They had no place in a modern Ukraine.

  Once the toasts were finished and celebrants drifted back to their tasks, the room became quiet. Wasik placed her hand on Evancho's shoulder, motioning for him to come to her private office just off the anteroom.

  "What do you know about this assassination?" she asked once the door was securely closed against those who might wish to overhear their conversation. The room was soundproofed and swept for bugs daily.

  "Not much more than the press reported an hour ago," he said as he sat ramrod straight in the indicated chair. Rather than joining him on the nearby sofa, she returned to her chair behind the massive desk carved of Black Walnut, signifying this was an official conversation, not a chat among colleagues.

  Scanning the room, he noticed many changes since she'd assumed the position as Ambassador, although not what he expected for, despite his fears, the room didn't acknowledge the gender of its occupant. When she first assumed the position, he expected to find chintz, frills, and all kinds of knickknacks filling every available space. He was pleasantly surprised to find it sparse and organized. He knew of her history and lack of experience. He had feared she was too soft, too fragile following the unexpected death of her husband, unable to perform the demanding tasks of the Ukrainian Ambassador to the United States. The ambassadorship required a diplomat who could discuss and cajole rather than exert overt force, but must also stand up to the world in support of Ukrainian interests. A challenging balance between strength and compromise was required and he doubted this socialite had the constitution, let alone the skill, to handle the job. Thus far, she had surprised him and he was impressed with her ability to walk that tightrope.

  "I have someone I trust … someone who has access to information, but I must be careful reaching out to that person so as to maintain her usefulness. I suggested she question her contacts at the FBI and expect to hear from her soon, although we're unlikely to learn more than what the agency has already released to the press." He was reluctant to even share this much information with his superior. Plausible deniability. He was talking about espionage, which was technically illegal, at least for his mole. It was also grounds for expulsion from the US, which he did not desire as it would ruin all his plans. "In the meantime, we've increased security around the embassy."

  "A good idea. No doubt there will be repercussions. I've already had a call from State warning that some factions within the Russian community here might blame Ukraine for the incident. Given the recent talks with Canada over responses to Russian aggression, it is understandable that many will point their fingers in our direction. The more we can say about who was really behind the attack, and the faster, the better. Was there any indication or chatter about the assassination from our sources? Do we know who's behind such a fortunate activity?"

  "I am sure everyone involved would like this settled quickly, but to answer your question, we heard nothing before the assassination. To my understanding, no one has claimed credit for the act … yet. Russia has many enemies, including rebels in Syria, angered by Russian support for the administration. Although the assassination might be personal and have nothing to do with his political position. Mikhalev had many enemies, as well," he said as he began ticking off alternative, personal reasons that Mikhalev no longer turned oxygen into carbon dioxide. "I met him several times. A pig. He had an eye for the ladies that was not always appreciated by their husbands. And, when he drank too much, which was often, he was abusive both verbally and physically. Many would want him dead and it was child's play to take advantage of his vulnerability at the American university. I suspect it did not require someone with important contacts, just someone with motivation. Initial reports coming from the FBI indicate the assassin was an Army sniper attending classes at Georgetown. He does not appear to have a connection to the Russians or to us, which supports the notion that this was personal, rather than political. Maybe Mikhalev slept with this man's wife." Like most Americans, this one was foolish, uninformed, easily manipulated. Americans are so ignorant of events outside the US, he thought. So, ego-centric, so sure they have a divine right to lead the world. Their idiot President doesn't even know the Russians already entered Ukraine, let alone that they control Crimea. "The Americans have no clue as to his motive or whether he was working with some political group, based on preliminary reports I received. As I said, I'll know more as the investigation continues."

  After asking a few more questions, to which Evancho added little, Wasik dismissed him with a wave of her hand. She immediately turned her attention to the mound of paperwork on her polished desk. Thus occupied, she missed the smirk that crossed his face as he turned back to regard her before closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 3

  Jacob headed back across campus to the lot where he'd parked his car. As he walked, he thought about his beautiful daughter, Sarah. They would celebrate her second birthday in two weeks, this time with his parents and one of his older brothers joining them. It would be the first time his family saw their youngest granddaughter in person. With everything that happened back in McAllen, the genuine threat of retaliation from the cartel, he didn't get much more than a chance to say goodbye to his family at his brother's funeral. Confirmation that the cartel was no longer concerned with him meant it was safe to re-establish connections with his family.

  Sarah. She was growing up so fast. Over the weekend, they took her to the National Zoo. When she saw the new baby panda, Bei Bei, she clapped her fat little hands and giggled. Only straps securing her tightly to the stroller kept her from leaping out and climbing under the fence to join the real live stuffed animal she saw tantalizingly close.

  "Salla wan' bea'," she said in her high-pitched baby voice that still struggled to be understood.

  It was strange how children used the third person all the time … no personal pronouns. He found himself copying her style, referring to himself as "Dada" instead of saying I. So, it was, "Dada said it's time for bed," which was her least favorite thing to do.

  How that changed over time! What he wouldn't do for a nap right now! Work was stressful and a lot was riding on what they did. No time to waste and no room for fucking up. Taking a page from his friend Pablo, though, he installed a lounge in the cyber offices. Although not as comfortable as those at PQ, the cyber security company Pablo owned, they provided a place for a quick little nap or to think creatively about a problem. The lounge offered a place to let your mind wander, to daydream, which was sometimes just what the doctor ordered. To keep Esther happy, he was considering adding a treadmill synced to a flat screen TV. That way his team could climb the Alps or wander a beach while getting some exercise during breaks from work.

  Boyd emerged from the SPIA building just as Jacob passed the entrance.

  "Hi, bud. Where you been?"

  "I walked over to see Esther before heading back to the office."

  "Oh, I forgot she's a student here. Was she on campus during all this? I hope she's alright."

  "She's fine. A little irked to be stuck in a classroom with a bunch of undergrads going bonkers over the ‘shelter in place', but she's managing. There were a few minor injuries caused by the chaos that erupted, but Esther took charge and got everyone locked in the classroom."

  "She's a strong woman. Some people who were exposed to what she's been through would be crippled by PTSD, unable to sustain a real life … maybe even confined to their homes. Something like what happened today would send them into the fetal position. You're lucky to have her."

  "Don't remind me. Anything new on the situation in there?"

  "No, we haven't found a connection between our shooter and victim. The lab guys are still in there collecting evidence, but there's nothing more we can do for now, so I'm heading back to the office. Our shooter doesn't seem to be a member of any terror group … at least he wasn't on our radar before this. He seems like an average Joe. Dillon is doing background interviews to fill in the blanks and get more depth. And I'm assuming you're heading back to the office to dig into his digital history, so maybe some connection will turn up."