The Warren Omissions Read online

“Haiti, Germany, France, Yugoslavia, Cuba, Mexico—you name it, my father was meeting officials from all these countries.”

  “What about the Russians?”

  “Oh, yes, he met with several Russians—” Alexei then paused. “But they weren’t with the Russian government. It was a funny Russian name. Oh, what was it?”

  Flynn sat there helpless, praying that of all the brain cells Alexei killed while drinking for years that she hadn’t killed the ones carrying that name.

  “I can’t remember. Something like Cuckoo Clocks or Kooky Cods. No, that’s no it.”

  Flynn patiently awaited the answer to find its way to Alexei’s tongue.

  “Kuklovod! That’s it—the Kuklovod. He was always meeting with them. Especially when we lived in Haiti. I only remember that because he would say their name in Russian since we didn’t speak it. But I just always started giggling whenever I heard it.”

  She smiled at the fond memory, unaware of its implications.

  “Do you know anything else about them?”

  “Not much—but I do know they left us a lot of money. And I mean a lot of money.”

  “Did your father ever talk about what it was for?”

  “No. He never spoke of them at all once we left Haiti and returned to the states.”

  Flynn asked Alexei a few more questions, but it didn’t go anywhere. And within ten minutes, Flynn concluded there was no more information to extract from his gracious host. She showed him to the door.

  Once inside his car, Flynn dialed one of his few remaining friends at the CIA, Todd Osborne. They spent a few minutes catching up on personal life details before Flynn finally got around to the nature of his call.

  “So, I’ve got a question for you. Have you ever heard of the Kuklovod?”

  Osborne said nothing.

  “Osborne? Are you there?”

  More silence.

  “Osborne?”

  Finally, Osborne spoke. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m just in shock, that’s all.”

  “About what? What can you tell me about the Kuklovod?”

  “Honestly, I can’t tell you much—but I can tell you that they were once one of the most formidable terrorist groups in the world. Their operatives were better than ours, if truth be told.”

  “Is that all?”

  “One last thing: if you’re following a lead on a story that points to them, stop right now. You don’t want to get mixed up with them.”

  Flynn thanked Osborne for the information and hung up.

  He pumped his fist in the car as he drove toward the airport. He wasn’t about to stop now, no matter how dangerous Osborne claimed they were. No journalist stops this short of the finish line. He was prepared, no matter what the cost.

  Yet Flynn had no idea just how costly it could be.

  CHAPTER 13

  IVAN LOOKED AT HIS WATCH. It was noon on Thursday. Just over 24 hours down and just over 24 hours to go. By two o’clock tomorrow, it will all be over. He smiled at the thought.

  Believing in a cause—doing something that mattered with his life—meant doing unpleasant things at times. This was one of those times. His back ached from sitting in a cramped position. After spending months studying the schematics of the U.N.’s general assembly hall, he knew there was only one place he could hide and not be seen by the Secret Service’s obligatory sweep of the building. For years, his organization—the Kuklovod—knew the President’s Secret Service created a false sense of security. They served more as a deterrent for undisciplined terrorists than a true line of defense. While imposing, the Secret Service was far from infallible, a point he was going to prove very soon when the President addressed the U.N.

  The worst part of his hiding spot high above the general assembly meeting hall was that he could only move minimally for just over two days. With a couple of bottles of water jammed into his coat pockets, Ivan felt even more restricted by the Elite Catering uniform. A dark jacket, white dress shirt and black slacks propagated the idea that he was there to serve food and nothing else. It was uncomfortable but necessary for when impending chaos reigned in the building. He would walk out and disappear into the turbulent city streets.

  With his phone in one coat pocket and his Bluetooth earpiece securely fastened, Ivan placed a call. He wanted to check in to let everyone know the plan was running smoothly.

  “What’s Flynn up to?” the man on the other end of the line asked.

  “As far as we can tell, nothing that would derail us from our plan. We haven’t been able to listen in on his calls, but I got a report that he flew to Dallas earlier this week and is still there.”

  “And that doesn’t concern you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “Dallas is home to many secrets.”

  “And most of them are buried now.”

  “Don’t be so confident. I’ll dispatch another operative to track him. We don’t want to get surprised by anything he does.”

  “Just relax. You’ll get what you want soon enough.”

  “Do what you’re supposed to do and get out of there. We have plenty of work to do here yet.”

  Ivan knew he was right. Removing President Briggs solved nothing in and of itself. Starting a world war wasn’t easy. The fuse needed to be set ever so delicately. The reward needed to outweigh the risk. The players needed to have sufficient motivation to cast off all restraint.

  The poor little people of the United States, thinking they live in such a safe place. They’ll never see us coming.

  For the plan to be a guaranteed success, Ivan needed to kill President Briggs. It was worth the momentary discomfort. It would all be over soon enough.

  CHAPTER 14

  FLYNN CHECKED HIS VOICE MESSAGES on the way to the airport. Theresa left a message telling Flynn she needed him in New York City on Friday to cover the President’s speech at the U.N. about the growing famine crisis in Central Africa. Apparently not one but two staff writers had come down with a nasty illness that required the change. Theresa sounded apologetic in her message, but it didn’t change the fact that Flynn would have to put his investigation on hold and reroute his flight. Oh, boy, I get to partake in the joys of airline customer service!

  There was also a message from Natalie. She said she found something very interesting that might make for a good story. In an attempt to stimulate Flynn’s interest, Natalie didn’t reveal any of the details or the nature of her findings. She knew a cryptic message would garner a return phone call. Flynn laughed as he deleted her message. He knew she just wanted to talk and wondered if she’d even found anything at all.

  Still twenty minutes out from the airport, Flynn tuned into one of Dallas’ 24-hour news radio stations to catch up on what was happening in the present. Spending all your time living in the past can lead to an unhealthy view on life. So can spending all your time investigating conspiracy theories. Both practices took their toll on Flynn. If his mother were still alive, Flynn doubted he would trust her. She would’ve probably been some double-agent spy grooming him to gather some highly sensitive intel so she could sell it to the highest bidder. Somehow he doubted she would’ve been making him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and taking him to school every day.

  Yet it was his cynicism and suspicion that made him a rock star in his field. No story was too unbelievable, nor was it ever believable on its surface. Lies weave the tapestry of a world people want to live in, not a world they actually live in. Sometimes lies are told to them; other times people lie to themselves. Ultimately, the truth ends up hidden in a dense fog of deceit. Just understanding the level of dishonesty in the world was enough to make any man cynical. But it was that understanding that also drove Flynn to relentlessly pursue the truth until he’d exposed every lie. His cynicism served him well, yet he hoped it wouldn’t destroy him either. He wanted to believe every word out of Natalie’s mouth, but he just knew better. People rarely say what they mean—that’s what he learned in his CIA training on understanding body language and t
he art of deciphering the truth. It was a class that served as the foundation for gathering intelligence and determining its usefulness, not to mention its authenticity. As difficult as it might be to gather enough plausible evidence to reveal the truth about who ordered the assassination of JFK and why, Flynn possessed the resolve necessary to bring it to light .

  Flynn turned his attention back to the radio, listening intently to a report about the growing tensions between the U.S. and Russia. What year is this? 1984? He struggled to believe that after all the goodwill engendered between the two super powers over the past twenty years that suddenly they would go right back to saber rattling with threatening rhetoric.

  Russia scared Flynn like no other country could. While serving as a CIA operative, Flynn went behind the curtain to learn about the terrible atrocities being committed by ruthless leaders all over the world. Some of the tyrants in Africa even possessed chemical weapons. But the CIA ignored them, knowing Africa had more to lose by using a chemical weapon against the U.S.—if they even had a delivery method. The CIA didn’t hesitate to turn a blind eye to such activity. They wanted plausible deniability if somehow one of these leaders ever figured out a way to deploy a chemical weapon in the U.S. But that was not the case for Russia. Threats emanating out of Russia were taken seriously. It’s one thing to dismiss a threatening country with a disorganized, untrained, and ill-equipped army and no air or naval support. But Russia is in far better shape to carry through on a threat. What the CIA—and everyone in the Department of Defense—feared were the ideological leaders within the Russian government. If Russian leaders ever felt they could unequivocally launch an attack on the U.S. leading to its demise and conquer, they would do it. And that’s why Flynn shuddered when he heard the news reports .

  Fortunately, President Briggs was a dove, determined to exhaust all diplomatic efforts rather than join in a refrain of threats. Yet the President’s advisors seemed happy to talk tough through the media. It made Flynn uneasy about the situation and what might happen should one pro-war advisor make an impassioned plea for the use of force on Russia. All someone had to do was light the fuse .

  Flynn’s phone buzzed, snapping him out of all his dark “what if” scenarios. It was Osborne. He had been expecting his call. Flynn called The Liaison in Washington and asked if they could pull a good screen shot of him and the man who approached him with a package earlier in the week. With the estimated time and location of their meeting, it was easy. The security guard emailed the image to Flynn’s phone—The Liaison staff would do anything for one of their favorite customers. Flynn then forwarded the image along to Osborne to get an ID on the mystery man. Hopefully, Osborne had an answer for him.

  “OK, I don’t know what you’re doing, Flynn, but you’ve got to seriously consider stopping,” Osborne pleaded.

  “So you’re saying I’m on to something?”

  “I’m not saying you’re onto something, but I am saying they’re on to you.”

  “Who?”

  “The Kuklovod.”

  “That guy works for the Kuklovod?”

  “Not only does he work for them, but he’s also their top assassin, according to intelligence reports. They don’t call him Ivan the Terrible for no reason.”

  “What does he want with me?”

  “He probably doesn’t want you poking your nose into their business. It’s best you lay low for a while so you don’t suffer the same fate as that poor girl you met with.”

  “What am I doing that’s making them so nervous?”

  “That’s not a question I can answer, Flynn. You have to ask yourself that and determine what’s going on here. Over the past few years, the Kuklovod remained inactive according to our sources. If they were doing anything, it wasn’t on our radar. But somehow you’ve gotten on theirs.”

  Flynn lied. “I just don’t know what would make them come after me.”

  “Just be careful, OK?”

  Flynn agreed to be more careful before hanging up. The truth was he had no such plans. His ruthless pursuit of the truth didn’t stop with some possible assassin trying to throw him off the trail. Now was the time to press on. He could take care of himself. Who does Osborne think I am? Some weak-kneed journalist? Pulling the shroud off conspiracies took determination. Being trained to kill another man with your bare hands didn’t hurt either. Flynn hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he would be ready if it did.

  CHAPTER 15

  GERALD SANDFORD EYED THE PICTURE on his screen, struggling with which emotion to unleash. He could cry or shove his fist through the wall. Either response would be deemed appropriate given the circumstances of the image staring back at him.

  It was Sydney with today’s newspaper.

  The fact that the newspaper she held was The Pravda made Sandford angry. For a long time, he believed he had lost his daughter because of the Russian government’s ineffectiveness to ward off Chechen rebels. Now he wondered if he had simply lost sixteen years because of their ineptitude. Or maybe Russia planned this all along, waiting for the right time to use his daughter as leverage. If it was the latter, they had severely underestimated him.

  While the American government had a long-standing policy of not dealing with terrorists, Sandford scoffed at that clumsy language proffered by White House spokespeople. “I will deal with terrorists,” Sandford used to tell his constituents. “I’ll deal with them in ways that will make them regret ever raising a finger against our great nation.” It was a line that went over well, solidifying his position as a politician who was serious about protecting the American people. In all his years in office, Sandford never actually had a chance to follow through on his tough talk on terrorists. But now he might. He just needed to figure out who the real terrorists were: the rebels or the Russian government. Someone was going to pay.

  Sandford forwarded the image from his phone to his email account. He first needed verification that the image was authentic. Then he needed to know where it came from. And he needed it all done off book. Sandford danced uncomfortably close to the line that divided moral from immoral, ethical from unethical, legal from illegal. He didn’t go there often, but he didn’t have to think twice when it came to his daughter’s life. Anybody would do what I’m doing . He reasoned away his questionable behavior that would surely get a closer look from some Senate ethics committee—if they ever found out. However, Sandford took the necessary precaution to ensure they never would.

  There was only one person he trusted at the CIA: Todd Osborne. Sydney and Todd were friends in college, attending Princeton at the same time. One spring break, Sydney brought Osborne to their family beach house in Naples, Florida. She had spoken of him, but only in terms of a platonic friendship. It didn’t take Sandford long to realize why he had been invited: Osborne wanted her friend’s Senator father to help him get a job with the CIA. At the time, majoring in Russian didn’t make him a likely candidate on his own merit, but Sandford gladly pulled some strings. But he did it with the condition that Osborne would be his guy in the agency.

  It took Osborne a while to move up the CIA’s security clearance level to become useful to Sandford. But once he did, Sandford didn’t mind asking for favors. It had been a while since he asked for one, but he was sure Osborne would oblige his request. Though Osborne had played coy when asked about the extent of his relationship with Sydney, Sandford could tell the young man had been fond of his daughter.

  Sandford dialed Osborne’s number. After a few minutes of small talk, Sandford made the purpose of his call clear.

  “Look, Todd. I need your help on something here.”

  “Sure, Mr. Sandford. What do you need?”

  “I need something done off book—and it has to do with Sydney.”

  “Sydney? I thought she died years ago. Are you saying she is still alive?”

  “Maybe. That’s what I need you to verify for me. I’m going to send a picture over to you and I need you to get this done without this image getting into the CIA sys
tem—or anyone else finding out her identity. If it’s real, it’s going to dictate some decisions I need to make.”

  “I understand, Mr. Sandford. I’ll handle the matter with complete discretion.”

  Osborne gave the Vice President an email account that couldn’t be easily traced back to him before vowing to get a quick answer.

  ***

  WHEN THE WHEELS TOUCHED DOWN at JFK Airport in New York, Flynn pulled out his phone and began reviewing his itinerary for the next day. Theresa had her assistant forward him a schedule that was already waiting in his inbox. He couldn’t believe the rigorous demands. In the morning, he was set to interview an environmentalist about a simple water purification system his organization was installing throughout Africa. Theresa wanted him to file a short piece for The National’s blog before attending the President’s speech on Central Africa’s famine at the U.N. in the afternoon. The link between the two made sense to Theresa. Flynn was just irked that his day was so packed. We’ll blow ourselves up before we ever save the earth. No one ever accused Flynn of being an optimist.

  He called the office to check in and let them know that he would be where they asked him to be. Then he dialed Natalie’s number, hoping to catch her before she left the office for the day. She answered.

  “So, I guess we’re off for tonight?” Natalie said.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I’ve got a busy day ahead tomorrow. Maybe I can catch a train to Washington this weekend.”

  Natalie perked up.

  “I like that idea. What did you have in mind?”

  “Not sure yet, but I’ll think of something.”

  “You always do—but it better be good.”

  Flynn laughed and promised it would be. I have no idea what to do for fun in Washington. Who am I kidding?

  He then collected his carry-on and exited the plane.

  Suddenly, he felt his burner phone buzzing. Who could this be? The number was blocked.

  He answered. “Hello?”