The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

15th Street, he decided to walk off the adrenaline until he could catch a cab for his next meeting. He hadn’t gone far, though, before he realized he was being followed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Matt had made it three blocks when he suddenly heard Michelle call out, “Wait up!” The frustration on Matt’s face was clearly evident to the young woman, but that didn’t deter her from approaching the hero who had just saved her friend from a beating. Just as she began to speak, a large delivery truck was cut off by a speeding motorcycle and the driver blared his deafening air horn, causing Michelle to jump as Matt cringed. In the distance, sirens could be heard getting closer and closer. No doubt from one of a hundred daily motorcades of one dignitary or another rolling across D.C.

“I wanted to give you my card,” she said, handing one to Matt, who took it quickly and read the information out loud. “Michelle J. George, Research & Analytics, United States Treasury.”

“A numbers cruncher, I see,” Matt said, acknowledging the woman’s role within the department. “Better you than me. That crap puts me to sleep.”

Michelle laughed. “They’ve always come naturally to me since I was a kid. I can compute just about anything you throw at me without a calculator.” Matt looked back to the front entrance to the grill. There was no sign of the attacker, which surprised him.

“I just wanted to let you know how to reach me. We all work at treasury,” Michelle said. “If there’s anything I can ever do, any of us can ever do to help you, don’t hesitate to ask. We owe you big time.”

“Stay out of trouble, kid. And always be aware of your surroundings.”

“Will do.”

Matt checked his watch and saw it was time to grab a cab and head over to the CIA for the meeting Dale had scheduled for him. He waved down a taxi and gave the driver instructions, then turned back and extended his hand to shake Michelle’s.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mathew Christopher,” he responded. “Friends call me Matt.”

Michelle let go of the door and watched as the cab pulled away, disappearing

into the sea of cabs and cars that flooded Washington’s streets every day.

*

“CIA, I knew it,” she whispered to herself, as she headed back to the party.

When Michelle returned to the grill, she saw the man who had assaulted her friend sitting at the far end of the bar and holding a cloth napkin full of ice to the left side of his face.

“Guy slipped in the bathroom,” one of Michelle’s buddies commented as she rejoined the celebration. Michelle checked her friend, who was still a bit shaken from the experience, and then looked back to the bar to make sure the man was still there. Their eyes connected through the reflection in the mirror. The man glared angrily at her, but his drooped shoulders indicated the fight was out of him, at least for today, and he went back to nursing his wounds. Not enough, she thought, he’ll just beat up someone else, probably worse now, after all this. She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed 911.

*

Matt had been waiting for nearly 10 minutes in a small conference room admiring the framed photos of the last six CIA directors when two men entered and introduced themselves. Everything in the room was grey. The walls, the chairs, the table, the vinyl floor tiles. The only color came from the round CIA insignia mounted on the far wall. They were mid-level staffers – Josh Wilson, a CIA intelligence officer, and Thomas Adams, a specialist in Russian affairs. These two need to get out in the sun more, Matt thought, they could use some color, too.

After brief introductions and small talk about the weather, Wilson read Matt into the situation they needed his help with. Adams used a remote to start a short slideshow that showed photos of the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, the U.S. ambassador and his wife, Russell and Susan Wilkerson, and their 20-year-old son Raymond, an employee of the Embassy. Finally, a photo came up of a 22-year-old female Russian citizen named Misha Doronin.

“Okay, so what’s the issue?” Matt asked impatiently. He’d been involved with investigating bad behavior, or at least the alleged bad behavior of Embassy families and staffers before. “Who screwed who?”

“If only it was that simple,” Adams responded. “Here’s where it gets messy.”

Adams and Wilson laid it out for Matt in very clear detail. Doronin was the niece of a high-ranking Russian military official, and she was pregnant. She alleged that the ambassador was the father. But the son had thrown himself on the sword, claiming the child was his. So far, Doronin had refused to take a paternity test unless both men supplied their DNA.

“Guys, I’m going to fall asleep unless you tell me something interesting,” Matt insisted. “I can’t go over there and stick a needle in her uterus, for Christ’s sake.”

Adams and Wilson looked to each other. From their expressions, Matt wasn’t sure whether they actually thought that was an option or they were about to burst out laughing.

“So, like I said, what do you think I can possibly do to help you guys out of this? Why not just fly Wilkerson and his family out of Russia under diplomatic immunity and be done with it?”

“Because the Russians are holding someone tied to the ambassador,” Wilson said, sitting back in his chair. “And they won’t let her loose until the ambassador goes public, acknowledges that he’s the father, pays the mother $250,000, and resigns his post.” He widened his eyes at Matt. “More interested now?”

“I see.” Matt leaned forward in his chair. “So who the hell are the Russians holding?”

Wilson opened a file folder and passed an eight-by-ten color photo of the subject across the table.

“Hubba, hubba,” Matt said with a laugh. “Now, that’s a mistress.”

“That’s Anika,” Adams said through a smile.

“Okay, she just might be worth