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“I’m caught on the two-hundred-and-fifty thousand,” Kennedy focused on Finley. “At retirement, McMahon would have a cushy pension and would be paid high dollar to give speeches and advice. Does just over a quarter million sound like a reasonable amount to risk a soft retirement versus the potential for a hard cot in a supermax cell?”
“It sounds like the amount of money you offer someone as a carrot,” Finley said. “And the stick is exposure. The timing for the ask makes sense. McMahan’s last polygraph test would be in his rearview. They only do a thorough security check every five years, so he was cleared through retirement. He wouldn’t have to lie, and he wouldn’t have to thwart the technology.”
Kennedy turned to Finley. “This hasn’t been in the papers. There haven’t been any arrests.” He wiped a hand over his mouth, then turned to catch Nutsbe’s gaze. “You didn’t tell the FBI?”
Covington leaned forward. “We handed it off to the DOJ. They’re investigating.”
Kennedy’s voice was painted with sympathy, “Brother, the communications we intercepted make all the sense in the world. Russia knows we—the US government—know about their McMahan asset. And Russia knows we know because of you. So it looks like you’re the key that might end up locking out at least some of Russia’s ability to bring in revenue to fund their war effort against Ukraine.”
“Lucky me.” Nutsbe felt his face blanche as his blood pooled in his stomach. It was a body’s technique to send all the nutrients to the vital organs in a survival crisis. Obviously, he felt exposed and vulnerable.
“I’m sure you understand,” Kennedy said quietly. “That there’s no quick fix here. Investigations take time. Then there’s the possible trial where you’re called to testify against McMahan.” Kennedy paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I want you to know this isn’t going away. You’ll be dealing with the ramifications for years to come. It’s going to be a low hum in your world for the foreseeable future. Of course, with Hoxha dead, you’ll be okay once McMahan’s behind bars and out of the picture. Time.”
“How did Russia and Albania land on his name?” Covington asked.
Nutsbe nodded. “I need to know if they just have the name or if they have more. Can they find me and trace that back to my family?”
“When did you hand this information to your commanders?” Finley asked.
“First week of August after they found the Hoxhas’s bodies. Why?”
“There was an email that McMahan retired,” Finley glanced at Kennedy. “August, right?”
“That sounds right. Let me—” Kennedy pulled out his phone and did an Internet search. “August first.” He looked up as he slid his phone back into his suit pocket. “McMahan no longer has access to our data banks and can’t do a search of our security clearance files. Even if Russia asked McMahan to reach out to a colleague to do it for him, I’d find out who used their login code. There’s no way to hide that. I have your file tagged looking for just that. I did that search as soon as Prescott mentioned your name. So far, there’s nada from the FBI’s direction.”
“Good timing with this coming to a head after that retirement, I guess,” Nutsbe said.
“Small favors, right?” Finley asked. “In fact, Kennedy and I are here asking you questions because nothing is popping up with your name on it from any direction other than Russia. I’m glad, for your sake, that Iniquus runs a tight ship and keeps everyone’s personal information undiscoverable.” Finley stood. “Kennedy and I will keep looking into this thing with Russia.” Seeing Nutsbe’s startled reaction, he added, “We’ll do it quietly.” He reached out a hand to Nutsbe. “In the meantime, stay frosty.”
Kennedy stood. “We’ll keep close tabs on the players in the Eastern Europe station. We'll keep you and Covington advised if there’s any chatter about you going forward.” He shook hands first with Covington and then with Nutsbe, holding it just a moment longer. At the same time, he said, “Just keep an awareness for anything out of the ordinary and report it to Finley immediately—anything at all that makes you think that you’ve been lined up in their crosshairs.”
Chapter Six
Nutsbe
Nutsbe strolled into the Team Alpha wing of Cerberus Headquarters to find it empty. Sticking his head into the locker room, he called out. “You there, Bob?”
“On my way,” echoed from the shower room shared by both the K9s and their handlers.
Nutsbe wandered over to the conference table, pulled out a captain’s chair, and took a seat. Here we go. The first step on a painful Achilles heel.
There was a clatter of nails against the tile, and a beast of a dog stopped in the doorframe. His broad chest puffed out, a challenge in his eyes. The draping jowls surely hid sharp teeth along his powerful jaw. The image of a circus performer sticking his head in a lion’s mouth came to mind. “You just gonna stand there, buddy?” Nutsbe asked with a friendly, easy-going tone. “Or do you want to come over and give me a sniff?”
The stranger-danger posture shifted, and Beowolf trotted forward with Bob trailing behind him, drying his hands on a white terrycloth towel.
Nutsbe slowly stretched curved fingers towards the K9’s scruff and scratched. “Beowulf, huh? I guess that makes sense now. Epic and monstrous.” Since Beowolf accepted his scritches, Nutsbe felt safe to bend and put his forehead against the velveteen folds of the dog’s forehead.
“O, as in wolf, not U. He’s a big boy, all right,” Bob said. “But he’s not hurting anything.”
Beowolf took a step forward, shoving himself between Nutsbe’s legs and giving him a thorough sniff from belt to chin. Nutsbe tipped his head back to receive the doggo kisses on his neck rather than his lips. “This guy looks like he could eat an entire village.”
“Yeah, well, never say never.” Bob moved away from them and sat behind his computer at the top of the table. “Though it would be uncharacteristic. It’s not what they’re bred for. Their job was to thwart poachers. If the poacher got hurt or even killed, that could cause big problems for the landowner. So they developed a dog that could knock someone down and trap them.”
“Yup. If he leans on me any harder, I’m going to tip over.”
“Nah, you’re not the enemy. While trapping was their job, they’re also bred to be docile around a family—a manor dog. They’re especially good around kids. Hence their reputation for being gentle giants.”
“Such a sweet guy, aren’t you?” Nutsbe rubbed Beowolf’s sides, feeling the soft caramel fur and thinking this was exactly what it would feel like to pet a lion. “Okay, he’s not a biter. How about the risk of getting dragged when I walk with him? These muscles are no joke,” Nutsbe said, patting along Beowolf’s sides. “How much does he weigh?”
