Page 62 of The Night Of
“What do you mean?”
“They were…” His voice trailed off. I heard rustling, then a door creak and close. Nguyen’s voice dropped. “They were young guys. New. You hadn’t worked with them. When they came in, I put them on the First Lady’s detail. They seemed to do all right at first.”
“At first?”
“They’re good agents. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with their work. They were never late, never skipped shifts, never showed up drunk…”
Not the kind of behavior you’d expect from the Secret Service, but, hey, it was a stressful job. Shit happened. It had before, and it would again. Burnout was a bitch, and some guys went off on a wild tear before they asked for help. “So what was bothering you?”
“Rumors,” Nguyen said. “Way, way too many rumors. Gossip. I was afraid I couldn’t keep a lid on that shit for much longer.”
“Rumors about what?”
“Rumors about how close those two had gotten with the First Lady. You know her, man. She’s a babe. She’s gorgeous, and she’s a great woman. Friendly, attentive, welcoming. She makes everyone on the detail feel like they matter. You know what I mean. I saw how you were with her.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I think maybe these two took it the wrong way. Or were taking it to mean something it didn’t.”
“Like they were special little pricks or something, cause they had the First Lady’s attention?”
“Exactly,” Nguyen said. “I was getting ready to pull them and send them back to headquarters. Let them get some time under their belts running Treasury cases. Now…”
“They’ll turn up. We’ll find them.”
“Hope so.”
“Got another question for you. What can you tell me about the Russian president’s aide? Some guy named Morozov?” The Secret Service checked and rechecked everyone who breathed the air around the president. I wasn’t involved on the intelligence side anymore, but Nguyen, as detail lead, would have received a brief on every one of the foreign agents coming to Camp David with their delegations and leaders.
“Georgi Morozov?”
“Yeah.”
“Odd choice, I thought, for the Russian president’s right hand at Camp David. Morozov is a local, first of all. Works out of the Russian embassy in DC. CIA says they’re up there in the FSB. Part of a unit that reports only to the president. Might take their orders only from him, too. In the past, FSB guys from that unit have been accused of things like polonium poisoning and assassinating Russian dissidents in the UK and Europe.”
“And you let him go to Camp David?”
“Morozov has never been implicated in anything like that. Our hands were tied. Plus, Morozov hasn’t been back to Russia in… years. Some of our guys were starting to wonder about that.”
“Apparently not an issue if Poletov hand-picked him to be his right hand at Camp David.”
“Yeah. Oh, and. Georgi Morozov is a woman.”
“What?” I damn near slid out on the highway, jerking the wheel in my shock, and the SUV responded as if I’d executed a tactical escape maneuver. I righted the vehicle, cursing. “Georgi is a woman?”
“Like I said, an odd choice for Poletov. Morozov is about a buck twenty, soaking wet. Looks like a supermodel. She’s definitely one of those smoking hot arctic babes. Like a Swede, but one that might kill you instead of knit you a sweater. I dunno, maybe it wasn’t an odd choice. Maybe Poletov was looking for some action on the side, and Camp David was the place to get it. What do I know?”
Stepping outside for a cigarette.
A woman on the pool deck, meeting a man, shrouded in darkness.
Fuck.
“Why did you want to know about Morozov?”
“Just checking on a few things.”
“Yeah?”
