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The old man’s eyes looked haunted. “You’re asking why the FBI is after you,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you. I’m out of the swim.”

“You know the FBI.”

“Yes, yes, but . . . Look, taking someone’s Social Security number, as you did, is identity theft, and that’s either a misdemeanor or a felony, depending on where you live, where it’s prosecuted. It’s a wobbler. And it’s never going to require a field team to bring you in. If what you’re telling me is accurate, and there was a team waiting to grab you in New Hampshire, that doesn’t sound right. That’s way too overblown an operation for identity theft. And you’re not a fugitive from justice. When I was director, I never would have approved an arrest in your case. No, there’s obviously something else going on.”

“Like what?”

“It might well be your connection to a Russian oligarch and your subsequent disappearance.”

It also might be that I’m wanted for murder , Paul thought. For the murder of a man who came to kill me.

“Look,” Paul began again, “five years ago, I found an entire FBI office massacred by Russian agents. Probably to protect an oligarch. Now it looks like the FBI is after me ! I want to know what the hell is going on. I mean, I suppose I could turn myself in, but not before knowing what they want me for.”

“Well, I don’t have the slightest . . .”

“Can you make some phone calls?”

“I suppose I could, yes.”

The fire crackled much like the one in the woods the night before, but this was much bigger, and the flames painted Gillette’s face in shades of orange. The room smelled, comfortingly, of woodsmoke. Like a badly needed fire on a cold night in the wilderness.

“Does the name ‘Phantom’ mean anything to you?” Paul said.

The ambassador shook his head. “Besides what it usually means, no. Not that I can recall.”

Paul was disappointed but he persisted. “That thumb drive I just showed you—what do you think’s on it?” A few minutes ago, he’d plugged the drive into the ambassador’s computer, showed him the junk that came up on the screen, explained where he’d found it.

“You’re asking for a guess.”

“Correct.”

Gillette smiled. “Obviously, I have no idea. I’m not very tech savvy, as you might imagine. But I have a hypothesis. You know how the Mafia always keeps ledgers detailing whom they’ve paid off and how much?”

“You think it may be financial records of who Arkady Galkin owns and how much he’s paid them?”

“Perhaps. That would be useful as kompromat—that’s Russian for ‘compromising information used to blackmail or control people.’”

“I know.” It was getting hot sitting in front of the fire, and Paul felt a rivulet of perspiration course down his neck and then his back.

“Which is how Galkin controls people. My hypothesis is that this thumb drive you have—is that what you called that thing, a ‘thumb drive’?—holds evidence that Galkin has paid off high-ranking agents in the FBI. Names of FBI special agents or directors he has on his payroll. In his pocket. Bank account numbers. And somebody wants it back. Someone whose name may be in those files.”

“And the corruption may extend farther than the FBI?” Paul said. “Other intelligence agencies, maybe?”

“Quite possibly. Why not? CIA officers can be corrupted just as easily as FBI agents.”

“And politicians?”

“Absolutely. Just as the oligarchs have done in England.”

Ambassador Gillette shifted in his wheelchair. “The Russian oligarchs in Great Britain own so much of London, it’s now called ‘Londongrad.’ They own most of Knightsbridge. So many oligarchs own property in Eaton Square, they call it ‘Red Square.’ These Russian billionaires give millions of pounds to the Tory Party. I mean, my God, the son of a KGB spy sits in the House of Lords !”

He continued: “Before the war in Ukraine, these oligarchs used to arrive from Russia carrying bags of cash and plunk them down to buy a fancy house, and then they’d hire attorneys to launder their billions, and they’d hire a British PR firm to launder their reputation and buy them friends in Parliament. They’d give huge gifts to universities and charities. Or set up a foundation. They still own some of England’s biggest newspapers. And they own some of London’s most prominent political figures. That’s how they gain access to the ruling class. Even to Buckingham Palace. Their children are admitted to the most prestigious private schools. Put down ten million pounds, and you’re a permanent resident. They dazzle us with their mansions and their superyachts, but look closely, and you’ll see marionette strings.”

“That go right to the Kremlin.”

The ambassador nodded. “If they dare to speak out against Moscow, they’ll be assassinated. And Number Ten Downing Street does nothing about it. Did you know that fourteen Russians have been assassinated on British soil so far? And more to come. The oligarchs also provided the funding that made Brexit happen, severing the U.K. from Europe. A disaster for England.”

Paul watched the ambassador, impressed. He was as sharp as a man half his age. “They own politicians in London and Paris and Berlin and, my God, everywhere.”

“Here, too, I bet.”

Gillette nodded. “Oh, God, yes. Using dark money, they secretly own a number of U.S. senators and congressmen.” He named a few names, and Paul’s jaw jutted open.

“But since the war in Ukraine started,” Paul said, “I thought most of the oligarchs were sanctioned. Their mega-yachts seized and all that.”

“True.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Let the FBI arrest me? I guess that would probably be better than being found by one of Galkin’s agents.”

“Neither a happy outcome.”

“Who else can help me, do you know? Is there anyone who might know about what’s going on?”

Ambassador Gillette was silent for a long moment. “Do you know the name Philip Horgan?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I think you should talk to him. If he’ll talk. No guarantee he will. Philip Horgan is an ex-CIA officer who was fired for attempting to leak classified information. He’s sort of a renegade. A bit of an oddball. Lot of ink on him in the Washington Post . He lives in Manassas, Virginia, and he’s kind of a kook, but he knows a lot. Up to the highest levels. Which is why it worried so many people when he quit and started speaking out.”

“Can I use your name?

Gillette chuckled. “Better not. He probably considers me part of the deep state that fired him. Probably hates me on general principle.”

“Well, can you talk to someone inside the Bureau and call them off?”

“Oh, I can talk to ‘someone,’ all right,” he said with a crooked smile, making air quotes with two fingers on each gnarled hand. “Hold on.”

Gillette wheeled his chair over to his desk, a massive hulk of oak, and picked up a landline phone. He punched in a series of numbers. Then he said into the phone, “Tell the director that it’s John Gillette.”

A few seconds went by, and then Gillette said, “As well as can be expected, Bill, thank you for asking. I’m here with a gentleman who says he’s wanted by the FBI, and we’re trying to determine the best course of action.” He paused to listen. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. The name is Paul Brightman. I know him and can vouch for him.”

Paul was immediately filled with alarm. Why was the old man saying this to whoever was on the other end of the line? Why was he giving out his name? Was it deliberate; was it merely sloppy?

“Yes, he’s right here with me. He—is that right? Is that right? . . . And who’s running the unit? . . . Ah. And she is . . . ? Aha. Aha. CIA, you say?” He jotted something down on a yellow pad. “Yes, that was a word he mentioned. All right, talk to you soon. Aha.” He hung up the phone and wheeled back to Paul, his yellow pad in one hand.

“Strangest thing,” the old man said, shaking his head. “Normally if I ask Bill for help, he’ll fall all over himself to help me . . . Not that I call him often. He tells me you’re a cunning fraudster and a danger to national security. There’s an arrest warrant out for you.”

Paul laughed incredulously. “Me? Seriously?”

“I’m afraid so. I don’t believe a word of it, but that’s the official word from the Bureau. Obviously, something’s rotten in the state of Denmark. The director’s clearly been misinformed by someone. Unless you’re bulldozing me right now.”

Paul shook his head. “What’s the arrest warrant for?”

“Alleged theft of classified national defense information.”

“ What? And how did I allegedly gain access to classified information?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” The ambassador held the yellow pad up, at a distance in front of his rheumy eyes, and read it silently.

“So you’re not able to call off the dogs?” Paul said.

“Afraid not. You obviously have something they want.”

“The Phantom flash drive.”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

There was a long silence. Paul heard the ticking of a clock.

Ambassador Gillette seemed to be debating what to say next. Finally, he said, “‘Phantom’ is the name of a secret project at CIA.”

“Then why did Galkin have this thing?”

The old man exhaled, shook his head. “Why don’t you leave it with me, and I’ll make sure it’s safe and it gets to the right people?”

Paul looked at Gillette for a long moment. He had once trusted the man, but certainly no longer. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“I have a terribly good safe. A Class-Six, GSA-approved. A Mosler, er, SecureSafe Five Thousand. You don’t get more secure than that, I’m told.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You see, the director of the FBI now has to answer to the DNI, the director of national intelligence. Been that way ever since 9/11. That’s the level this is at. I don’t think Bill could call it off if he wanted to.”

“You gave him my name.”

“I’m not as quick-thinking as I once was. Age will do that to you.”

But Paul didn’t think the ambassador had slipped. He’d known what he was doing. The man was still sharp after all these years. He just felt bad about it.

The exterior lights of Colworth Hall started snapping on, blazingly bright.

The ambassador looked ill at ease. He gave Paul an apologetic glance. “You really should leave now. I—they’ll be flying in a SWAT team from FBI Springfield as we speak. And they know they can land on my property. Plenty of room.”

“Okay,” Paul said. Ambassador Gillette had revealed his whereabouts but seemed conscience-stricken about what he’d done. He appreciated the warning. “Goodbye.”

“Paul,” the old man cried out.

“What?”

The ambassador was about to say something, but instead he looked anguished. “Just—just go.”

Paul hurried out of the house, down the stone steps, onto the path, and then out the service entrance gate. In the distance, he heard the chopping of an approaching helicopter.

He kept walking, as much as he wanted to run.