Page 38 of Shadow of Doubt

“They claim to have sources inside Ukrainian military intelligence,” said Maggie. “Which sounds like bullshit to me. I don’t think the sources or the intel exists. I think they’re making it all up.”

“Why?”

“Because they did something similar at the beginning of the war. Remember when they spread disinformation that we were helping the Ukrainians develop bioweapons at U.S. government–funded labs over there?”

Conroy nodded. “Beyond insane. Not only have we signed a treaty with Ukraine assuring both of our nations will never develop or use biological weapons, but the labs over there the U.S. was helping were involved in farming. They dealt with anthrax, plague, hemorrhagic fever… all of which can infect birds and pigs. The idea was to make sure none of that stuff spreads to humans.”

“And it’s not just the United States who backed Ukraine’s efforts. It was Canada, the European Union, and the World Health Organization. Practically every nation in the world studies these diseases, but the Russians wanted to make it seem like something nefarious.

“We’re talking about public health and veterinary labs, all working alongside the Ukrainian health and agriculture ministries. Not only were none of them involved in biological warfare, but their only contact withthe Ukrainian military was to provide mobile rapid-testing labs in case of emergency. All of it was out on the internet, open-source. Nevertheless, Russia began spinning tales of secret, U.S.-backed bioweapons labs in hopes of painting itself as a ‘truth teller’ with valid reasons for its invasion, Ukraine as a sinister country engaged in biological weapons development, and America as an evil force whose support of Ukraine was totally suspect.

“It was prime Russian propaganda, which unfortunately found a home in certain corners of the American citizenry. It didn’t matter that the claims were easily disproven with a modicum of research. For some people who were angry with the world, their government, or whatever—it fit a predetermined narrative that was simply too good to challenge. And that’s what continues to get me—the angrier people are, the more they are susceptible to malign foreign influence.”

Conroy had been around long enough to know how effective Russian propaganda could be. And right on their heels were the Chinese. The billions of dollars those two nations were spending to impact the cultural conversation and harm the United States was mind-boggling.

He longed for a return to the days when Americans realized that there was more that united than divided them. He prayed the country wouldn’t have to live through another 9/11 just to get to the national unity that arose on 9/12.

“Okay, let’s say they’re making the whole dirty bomb thing up,” said Conroy, steering them back to the matter at hand. “What’s the point?”

Maggie didn’t need any notes for this part. This was the part where her analytic skills shone best. “I can think of three reasons,” she said. “First of all, it raises the psychological stakes. It refocuses the world on Ukraine and makes the Ukrainians appear desperate. Russia must be winning and the Ukrainians must be losing if the Ukrainians are going to resort to something so damnable.

“Second, it makes the Russians appear more reasonable. By calling out such bad behavior, the Russians are attempting to place themselves above it. Look at us, we’re so much better than those guys. The world should be on our side in this. Especially the United States. This is terrorism. How could anyone have as neighbors monsters who would use dirty bombs?”

When, after a lengthy pause, Conroy didn’t hear Maggie articulate her third reason, he cocked an eyebrow and asked, “What’s number three?”

Taking a deep breath, she replied, “That’s my worst-case scenario. It’s the Russians prepping the public relations battlefield. By pointing to anticipated bad behavior by Ukraine, they’re trying to create a permission structure, which would allow them to engage in even worse behavior. In other words, we’re justified in doing X because Ukraine is going to employ dirty bombs.

“If I’m right and it is number three, the Russian defense minister will be making several other phone calls to his NATO contemporaries. I think he’s trying to purchase top cover. The Kremlin wants to be able to say it informed NATO members of the threat and that NATO did nothing to rein Ukraine in. Because of NATO’s inaction, Russia was left no choice but to strike first.”

“Meaning a nuclear strike.”

Maggie nodded. “If those devices are in Belarus, I don’t think it’s for show. If the Russians put them there, it’s because they intend to use them.”

Conroy didn’t waste a moment responding. Reaching for his phone, he buzzed his assistant. “I need five minutes with the Director. Maggie will be coming with me. We need to see him ASAP.”

CHAPTER 18

PARIS

Ray Powell lived in a small but elegant apartment in the heart of the Latin Quarter on the Rue des Écoles. Had he been willing to travel further out, his salary as the Paris station chief would have secured him more space, but he preferred to be in the center of the action. The Sorbonne, Notre Dame, the Luxembourg Gardens, and the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore were all within a five-minute walk.

It had taken Brunelle a series of after-hours phone calls to arrange the meeting. Her section chief had called the deputy director of the DGSI, who in turn had reached out to the director general herself, who was in the middle of dinner atop the nearby Peninsula Hotel at L’Oiseau Blanc.

A no-bullshit woman, Audrey de Vasselot had asked for Brunelle’s cell number so she could speak with her directly. De Vasselot wanted to know what Brunelle had learned, why a face-to-face meeting was necessary, and why it couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Brunelle made her case as professionally and succinctly as she could.

Ten minutes later, the director general texted her with Powell’s address and his invitation to discuss her case at his apartment.

Gibert was able to secure one of the Shangri-La’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes and after tipping the waiter and barman, they headed out.

It was still raining as they crossed the Pont des Invalides and headed down the Quai d’Orsay. At Boulevard Saint-Michel, they headed away from the Seine and deeper into the Latin Quarter.

Two blocks after Boulevard Saint-Germain, they turned left onto Rue des Écoles and soon arrived at Powell’s building. It was nineteenth-century Haussmann-influenced architecture—creamy Lutetian limestone with wrought-iron balconies and a four-sided, steeply slanted mansard roof. Inside was a large, atrium-style staircase where you could look all the way up to a skylight in the roof.

As the station chief lived on the sixth floor and, as neither Brunelle nor Gibert were keen on that many flights of stairs, they climbed into the uncomfortably small elevator and rode up together.

A cordial man in his late fifties, Powell greeted them at the door in jeans and a gray V-neck sweater over a white oxford shirt. Along with his calfskin loafers and tortoise-shell glasses, he looked more like an architect or a stockbroker than a spook.

“Let me take your coats,” he offered as he gestured his guests inside.

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