From a Position of Strength

By Sean Heary

Lying by the pool under a clear Tuscan sky, LORENZO ROSSI, the former head of the Vatican police, receives a surprise visit from his ex-fiancée, CIA Agent, CATHY DOHERTY. Cathy is concerned about Rossi’s safety. Three nights ago, a Russian GRU agent, ELENA TRUSOVA, was critically injured when her car left a remote road leading to Rossi’s family olive farm in Siena, Italy.

Rossi ensures Cathy the proximity of the accident is pure coincidence, but agrees to investigate after Cathy revealed Trusova was a double agent working for the CIA and on her way to see him. For what purpose, she can only speculate. But one thing was for sure: his life was in danger.

With the help of Trusova’s friends and lovers, Rossi and Cathy piece together a gold mine of intelligence that, if authentic, points to another right-wing Conspiracy. One that Rossi is reluctant to involve himself, but has no choice.

As dead bodies pile up around them, Rossi and Cathy couldn’t help but wonder why they were still alive. They concluded the CIA or other state actors were using them to hunt down a piece of red-hot evidence that, if made public, would bring down the US President and perhaps prevent nuclear Armageddon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Sep 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781800466623

Sean Heary

Sean Heary was born in Perth, Australia but now makes Europe his home. He is the author of three conspiracy thrillers: The Concordat, The Circle-A Killings, and now From a Position of Strength. The Concordat was awarded a Kirkus Star and named one of the Best Books of 2020.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

Epilogue

Prologue

The late autumn sun sank behind the rolling Tuscan hills. Elena Trusova, a serious-faced thirty-six-year-old with short straight blonde hair, removed her dark glasses and squinted into the rear-view mirror. It could have been her imagination, but she’d convinced herself that an SUV had been tailing her for the last hour.

Ahead, a roadside sign: Petrol Food 2km. Foot hard on the accelerator, Trusova caught a convoy of slow-moving lorries. Waiting in the outside lane until the last moment, she cut in front of the leading vehicle and darted into the transport café. Screeching to a halt behind a Fiat motorhome that was parked off to the side, she stayed hidden until the SUV had passed.

Trusova blew out a heavy breath. She had reason to be on edge. A week ago, when her boss—GRU Colonel Anatoly Frolov, Moscow Centre’s Rome rezident—was at lunch with his mistress, Trusova had photographed half a dozen classified diplomatic cables lying in Frolov’s in-tray for passing on to her CIA case officer. It was not for love or money. And she wasn’t being blackmailed. Rather, her motivation was ideological. Or at least, that’s how it started. Now, if she was honest with herself, it was also the rush of deceiving those closest to her. Knowing something no one else knew.

Trusova’s life of double-dealing had started four years before, when she cornered a CIA legal at an Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs bash in Rome. Feigning intoxication, she voiced her dissatisfaction with the state of play in Moscow. A clear signal to any spook worth their salt that she was ripe for recruitment.

After a healthy bout of scepticism, the CIA warmed to the idea. A prize asset inside the Russian Embassy in Rome. Who could ask for anything more? A background check, a meeting at an out-of-favour café, and Langley signed on Elena Trusova as their newest star recruit.

Yesterday, the day after passing her latest harvest on to her handler, Trusova sensed she was being watched. All the telltale signs were there. Was Moscow onto her, or did the Americans not like what was being played back to them? She couldn’t be sure. Either way, she felt her life was in danger.

Five hours ago, shamming a migraine, Trusova returned home early to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Before entering, she checked her apartment door for the speck of putty she routinely placed inside the lock cylinder. Gone. A sure sign that someone had broken in. Were they inside set to thrash a confession out of her? Or had they already discovered everything there was to know and booby-trapped the entrance? She wasn’t about to find out.

As a trained agent, Trusova had an escape plan ready. One that didn’t pick sides. She would flee to neutral ground to someone she trusted, although they’d never met.

Trusova scribbled a brief note on a scrap of paper, folded it round her mobile and dropped it into her letterbox. But not before she’d taken a ride on the Metro and powered it down: concealing the phone’s last known location from Big Brother and his ubiquitous surveillance technology. Which Big Brother? Russian or American, it didn’t matter.

Job done: Trusova hurried off. By foot, taxi and bus, she cruised Rome for two hours checking for watchers, then made her way to Termini Station, before taking the Leonardo Express to Roma-Fiumicino Airport. There, she picked up a small, inconspicuous rental that looked like any other car on the road and drove north on the E35 towards Siena, all the time with an eye in the rear-view mirror.

Taking no chances and assuming the worst as the GRU had taught her, Trusova varied her speed and lane to determine whether she was being followed. Passing the Nazzano nature reserve wetlands, the first sign of trouble emerged. A brown-coloured SUV was maintaining a distance of about three hundred metres, no matter her speed.

Now, obscured from the highway, Trusova sat in her rental, smoking a cigarette, waiting to see if the SUV doubled back. A coincidence? she asked herself as she climbed out. Not likely.

Trusova glanced about as she ground out her cigarette under her block-heeled sandals, then entered the café. Ordering a panino con porchetta and a red wine, she sat at a table by the window, staring out at the driveway and the road beyond. Nothing.

Dusk had turned to night by the time Trusova pulled back onto the highway. A check in the rear-view mirror as she sped west. Headlights from the transport café driveway. A vehicle that had been filling up—or was it for her? No way of knowing.

Five kilometres from the Siena city limits, Trusova exited the highway onto a steep, dark road, which was lined on both sides by forty-foot cypress trees. As she approached the apex, without warning, a tractor pulling a trailer packed with men appeared from over the rise. Trusova hit the brakes, sending up a cloud of dust as she skidded on the loose gravel. Fearful of an ambush, she grabbed her pistol from her handbag and flashed a look back over her shoulder for the SUV. Not there. Calm down, she told herself, exhaling a deep breath.

Dust poured in as she wound down the window, ready for a squabble. But when Trusova saw the kind face of the seventy-year-old driver looking down from on top of his tractor, her demeanour changed.

"Buonasera, signora, the old man said in sing-song Italian. Are you hurt?"

Other than my pride, I’m fine.

And the car?

Trusova pulled over onto the grass verge, climbed out and checked the paintwork. The car’s good, she said, hugging herself for warmth. Wearing nothing but a sleeveless cotton shift dress, Trusova had not expected she’d be standing on a cool Siena hilltop so late in the evening when leaving for the Embassy that morning.

Then we’ll be on our way. Arrivederci, signora, the old man said, tipping his wide-brimmed straw hat.

Perhaps, first switch on your headlights, signore, Trusova said, turning her big sooty eyes towards the front of the tractor.

Oh dear! Sometimes I forget. There’s not much traffic on this road after sunset. The old man turned on his lights, lifted his foot off the clutch and the tractor lurched forward, shaking the sleep from his weary-faced passengers as he chugged off.

Trusova stood in the middle of the road smoking a cigarette as she watched the farm workers fade into the distance. A glance at her watch. It was getting late. As Trusova turned towards the car, she did a double take. Down the hill, a vehicle had turned on its headlights. A vehicle that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. The brown-coloured SUV sprang to mind. Butting her cigarette out on the road, Trusova jumped into the car and slammed her foot on the accelerator.

By the time she reached the crest of the hill and started down the other side, the approaching vehicle was upon her. Lacking the horsepower to outrun it, Trusova bumped along the pitted verge to allow it to pass, hoping the driver was simply late for dinner.

A glance right as the vehicle drew alongside. "What the fuck are you up to?" Trusova snarled, her gaze alternating between thick tree trunks and the tinted windows of the SUV as it inched closer. A high-speed game of chicken she knew she couldn’t win.

Ahead, Trusova spotted a gap between cypresses. Two options flashed to mind. Stop and negotiate with her pursuer, who probably wanted her dead. Or thread the small rental at speed between two large stationary trees and bounce down the hill through the field of budding sunflower plants.

With no time to think it through, Trusova stole back a bit of the road and swung a hard left. But it was never going to work. At that speed, the gap was too small. Like a game of pinball, the Peugeot clipped the first tree and bounced off the second, sending her cartwheeling down the hill, cutting a hundred-metre-long swath through the tall, dense crop.

The SUV stopped and backed up. The driver wound down the window and studied the scene below. Trusova’s car lay on its crumpled roof with four wheels in the air, looking like a squashed beetle.

Across the valley, outside lights of a farmhouse came on and faint voices floated in on the wind. Unsure how long it would take for the neighbours to respond, the SUV driver executed a three-point turn and sped off back towards the main road.

1

In a relaxed state of mind, Rossi lay by the swimming pool at the family’s hilltop olive farm. As if mesmerised, he gazed up at the sparrowhawks riding and circling the columns of warm air that ascended from the sun-drenched, somnolent Siena hills. The chainsaws had fallen silent and the smoke from the bonfires of deadwood long dissipated. Pruning was over for another year, and his five brothers had returned home and were back at their proper jobs.

Working on the tan? came a familiar voice from the top of the stairs leading down from the terrace to the pool.

Rossi turned his head to the voice. Christ… Lost for words.

I see you’re still shaving your legs.

What the blazes are you doing here? Rossi sat up and combed his fingers through his thick, long black hair. And before you ask, no, I haven’t forgiven you.

Where is everyone? Cathy asked, descending the stairs. They must have known I was coming.

I’m looking after the place while Mama and Papa take their first holiday in forty years.

Cathy removed her shoes, tucked the ends of her light summer dress into her panties, and sat on the edge of the pool opposite Rossi. You still haven’t found a job, then?

Haven’t decided what to do, Rossi said, determined not to bite. Something more cerebral than law and order this time.

You could go back and teach at Cambridge—now that the hearing’s over.

That boat sailed long ago. Or more precisely, sank with half a dozen souls on board. Rossi glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen. Have you eaten?

Non-stop. First-class upgrade, Washington to Rome, Cathy said, lifting her feet from the water and rising. But I could do with a drink.

Rossi slipped on his light blue polo shirt and deck shoes. They met at the bottom of the stairs with a perfunctory kiss on each cheek. As they ascended to the terrace, Rossi couldn’t help but wonder where all the love had gone. It was as though she could turn and go, and he would feel nothing.

On the terrace, in front of the sprawling eighteenth-century natural-stone farmhouse, they stood for a few minutes admiring the view.

What a peaceful place, Cathy said, breaking the silence.

If you were here last week for the pruning, you wouldn’t have thought so.

Sorry I missed it.

Towing his uninvited guest’s family-size suitcase inside, Rossi led Cathy along a barrel-vaulted hallway through to a cavernous kitchen featuring exposed ceiling beams, pale blue plastered walls, a terracotta tiled floor and twelve chairs set around a long wooden table.

At the butcher-block island, under a dozen copper pots hanging from a rack above his head, Rossi spooned Nocellara olives into a small bowl, then opened a bottle of Chianti Colli-Senesi and poured two glasses.

"Saluti," Rossi said, holding out his glass. A clink.

You’re not pleased to see me, Enzo?

I haven’t made up my mind. A brief pause. Either way, you’re here, and I’m guessing you haven’t come to apologise to my mama.

What for?

As I thought.

While Rossi sliced thin pieces of ham off a leg of prosciutto Cinta Senese attached to a jamonera stand on the kitchen counter, Cathy took the bowl of olives and sat down at the table.

How long are you here for? Rossi asked, setting the slices of ham down in front of him as he took a seat opposite her.

A day or two. No longer. The office doesn’t know I’m here.

It’s business?

More or less.

Good, it’s nothing to do with me, then. What a relief.

Cathy took a long sip of her wine. I wouldn’t be so sure.

A roll of the eyes. Here we go again.

Three days ago, there was a car accident close to here. A woman died.

Sensing he was being drawn into another CIA conspiratorial plot, Rossi popped an olive into his mouth and glanced about the room as if he hadn’t heard.

A Russian. Goes by the name of Elena Trusova. Well, at least, she did.

Rossi held his glass up to the light. Ruby red with a scent of red fruits. An excellent wine for the price. What do you think?

"Personal assistant to Moscow Centre’s Rome rezident. An ex-girlfriend of yours, by any chance?"

Not that I recall.

Going by the address on the vehicle navigation system, she was heading to a vineyard five kilometres west of here.

Not uncommon. Buy a boot full of wine at half the price you’d pay in Rome.

Then what was she doing on the road to here? Don’t tell me, a bag of olives to go with the booze.

Lost. It happens, you know.

Cathy slipped a piece of ham into her mouth. Not likely. She was on her way to meet with you.

Not in my diary.

Assassins don’t ring ahead, numbskull.

Silence while Rossi absorbed the news. I thought the Kremlin had finished with me.

So did I.

Rossi sprang up from the table, snatched the bottle of red from the kitchen island and topped up their glasses. Then it begs the question: was it an accident or murder?

That’s what I’m here to find out. And I’m expecting you to give me a hand.

If someone’s out to kill me, I guess I’d like to know who.

I figure, as the former head of the Vatican Gendarmerie, you’ll be able to get to the truth quicker than I can. Open a few of those disobliging Italian doors.

Rossi shot Cathy a wide-eyed look over his glass. International espionage! That’s more your line of work, isn’t it? What about your CIA chums and their local network? If this woman worked for Colonel Frolov, I’m sure she’s in your little black book.

Cathy furrowed her brow. You know Frolov?

From the old days. Before the Kremlin orchestrated my sacking.

Already embellishing the story, Enzo. A dismissive puff. You quit. I heard you tell Cardinal Capelli, the dean of the Sacred College of Cardinals as much—with my own ears.

It wasn’t as if I had a choice. Rossi rose, disappeared into an adjoining room, and returned moments later, holding his mobile to his ear.

Who are you calling?

Ciao, Christian, Rossi said into the phone. You’ll never guess what just happened… no, worse. Far worse. Laughter. I was tanning myself by the pool when, out of the blue, my runaway bride showed up to block out the sun—

To warn you that your precious life is in danger, Cathy corrected, in a loud voice.

Rossi threw Cathy a teasing wink as he spoke with Christian Waldmann, the commandant of the Corps of the Pontifical Swiss Guard. There was a fatal automobile accident close to my parents’ place the day before yesterday… Elena Trusova… the personal assistant to Colonel Frolov, the Kremlin’s number one spook in Italy.

Tell Christian it’s routine.

He can hear you, Rossi said, hand covering the phone.

Tell him.

You heard Cathy, Christian. Nothing to see here… A snigger. "That’s why we need a copy of the police accident report… as soon as you can… don’t know, but according to Cathy, Trusova was coming to see me… we’re looking for signs of foul play… murder… I don’t know, but it would help to put Cathy’s mind at ease… sì, sì." A chuckle.

Cathy, already standing next to Rossi, leant into the phone. Be discreet, Christian. Best to keep our names out of it for the time being.

You have your orders, Commandant, Rossi chuckled. "Sì, she’s a bit of a bully… I escaped by the skin of my teeth. More laughter. Grazie, Christian. Ciao."

Cathy punched Rossi in the arm as he rang off. "You escaped? I escaped. Remember, it was me who called off the wedding."

And I’m forever in your debt. Pause. So, what now? Rossi asked, picking up his glass, returning to the kitchen and slicing off more prosciutto.

We wait for the police report. Then tomorrow morning we drive to Rome and break into Trusova’s apartment—see what forensics missed and what the Russians left behind.

Where are you staying tonight?

Cathy frowned, as if it was a stupid question. Here with you.

You’re welcome, of course. But do you think it’s a good idea? Two train wrecks are enough for any relationship.

I’ll sleep with my door locked.

And I’ll hang garlic over my bed.

That’ll do it, Cathy said, picking up her glass and the bottle of red. Now let’s go sit by the pool and reminisce about the good times.

Shouldn’t take long.

2

The next morning, they had breakfast on the terrace. Coffee, bread rolls and marmellata. Cathy studied the English translation of the police accident report, which Waldmann had sent through a handful of minutes earlier, while Rossi contemplated the red and yellow hues of the Tuscan sunrise.

A whitewash, or good old-fashioned incompetence? Cathy murmured to herself, reading through the file for a second time, but finding nothing to allay her concerns. With little more than an eyewitness account, the investigating officer had concluded that speed was the root cause of the accident.

Besides this shortcoming, there was something else in the report that had Cathy reaching for her phone. A glaring inconsistency with the communiqué sent by the CIA’s chief of station in Rome to Langley. Elena Trusova was still alive.

Here’s one for the books. Cathy turned the laptop toward Rossi. Says here your would-be visitor survived the crash. Supposedly, a local doctor stabilised her at the scene, then transferred her to an ICU bed in Rome. Does that sound right?

Why would they lie? More likely, your man in Rome caught the wrong end of the stick. Question is, how, or perhaps, why?

Cathy shook her head. I’d like to say sloppy. But it should never have happened. Losing a double agent is a big deal. Someone’s cocked up, I dare say.

"Trusova was a double agent! A CIA mole—is that what you’re saying?"

I’m sure I mentioned it.

Rossi pushed back in his chair and crossed his arms. Like hell you did.

Now you understand why I’m nervous. If it wasn’t an accident, it opens up a slew of possibilities.

Like the Russians discovered Trusova was cheating on them. Which would have pissed them off no end. Pause. Is it possible the GRU has a mole inside your Rome station?

A shake of the head. I doubt it. If someone had tipped off the Russians, Moscow Centre would’ve enticed Trusova home, locked her up in one of their premium basement cells at Lubyanka and tortured her until she provided a full list of the intelligence she’d passed on to Langley over the years.

Perhaps they tried, but Trusova refused to go. She would’ve known what fate awaited her. The Russians like to set an example.

To discourage other traitors from trying their hand.

A moment later, Rossi’s sea-green eyes widened. It’s in the realm of possibility that’s why she was coming to see me? Found out she’d been burned. Needed a bolthole and figured I was as good a chance as any.

Give me a break, Enzo. If Trusova had thought the game was up, she would’ve banged on the front door of the US Embassy in Rome. And by now she’d be in Oregon raising alpacas under a protected new identity. Not eating from a tube in an ICU bed.

Then maybe she had a falling out with her American buddies. More coffee? Rossi asked, already heading inside.

It’s conceivable, Cathy said when Rossi returned with the coffee. Maybe she stumbled onto something Langley didn’t want her to know. Top secret. For born-again neoconservative eyes only. A sip of her Americano. But why run to you?

It took Rossi a moment to think that through. Maybe I’m someone she felt she could trust.

Christ, Enzo. If Trusova knows you, it’s only by reputation. A shining example of what we all should be. A modern-day apostle. Principled and beyond reproach—isn’t that how your Italian newspapers describe you?

Ignoring Cathy, Rossi took his time stirring sugar into his espresso. Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? How can we be sure it was deliberate? Could be as simple as speed and fatigue. Driving too fast, lost concentration and clipped a tree. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Trusova was on her way to see you.

So you keep saying.

That’s too much of a coincidence for my liking. The eyewitness, Cathy scrolled down the screen, Signor Seta. Do you know him?

Mario—he’s a friend of my father.

Cathy rose from the table. Then let’s pay him a visit.

Rossi stacked the plates and cups onto a tray and took them inside to the kitchen while Cathy went to her room and changed.

***

Half an hour later, Rossi pulled his grey-coloured Alfa Romeo Giulia GTA onto the narrow grass verge near where Trusova had hurtled off the road.

Hands on hips, Cathy stood between two scarred cypress trees looking down the path Trusova’s somersaulting Peugeot had cut through the sunflower field. Must have been a hell of a ride.

What do you make of this? Rossi said, pointing to rice-grain-sized fragments of a mirror glistening under the sun.

Cathy’s gaze traced the trail of pixie dust to a shallow roadside drain that ran discontinuously