The Blood of Patriots and Traitors

By James A. Scott

A Russian Defector—A Worldwide Dragnet—A Looming Assassination—Max Geller is back in Moscow

Former CIA Russia expert Max Geller is recovering from an intense mission while lying low in Australia, enjoying his sudden wealth in the company of his new girlfriend. But his beachy bliss is short-lived when Max, while relaxing by the ocean, is ambushed by the CIA.

He soon learns that his girlfriend, Vanessa, is being used as blackmail by his former CIA boss, Rodney, to convince Max to go to Moscow. His mission? Smuggle out a defector with knowledge of a secret Kremlin war plan. Max is wanted by the Russians, so the defector could be bait to lure him into the hands of his old enemy, FSB Colonel Zabluda. But it's either Max or Vanessa who must go, so Max takes the bait and heads off.

When Max is spotted in Moscow, Zabluda launches a manhunt, pursuing him and the defector across country lines. Max and the defector race to evade countless attacks and attempts at capture as they escape to the United States.

Will they make it in time? And what happens when the defector reveals crucial information that indicates U.S. democracy could be in peril? Max must figure out a way to avoid capture and halt imminent attacks—before it's too late.

Perfect for fans of Daniel Silva and Nelson DeMille

While the novels in the Max Geller Spy Thriller Series stand on their own and can be read in any order, the publication sequence is:

The President's Dossier
The Blood of Patriots and Traitors

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
• Release date: Feb 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781608095278

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Thursday morning, January 2020

Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia

I SAW HIM coming from way down the beach. I reached into the folds of my towel and thumbed the safety off my Colt .45. It’s a big gun. When you point it at ’em, they pay attention. When you shoot ’em, they go down and they don’t get up.

Next to me, Vanessa was lying facedown on the blanket. With my left hand, I gently squeezed her tanned thigh just below her skimpy, yellow bikini bottom.

Van!

She sat up with a start, responding to the urgency in my voice. What?

A hundred yards at our ten o’clock. The suit walking in the surf, carrying his shoes.

Van shaded her eyes against the morning sun. What’s he doing on the beach in a suit?

Exactly.

Her instincts were sharp. Van stood, stretched, and used the opportunity to check our backs. She warned, Another suit at your five o’clock, seventy yards out, headed this way.

Go to the car. There’s a gun in the glove compartment. Use it for your protection. I can handle these two. If there’s any trouble, drive yourself to the consulate.

Van put on her sunglasses and big straw hat, and sauntered across the sand toward the carpark on the rise behind the beach.

British intelligence hoods—MI6—wanted to question me about a London burglary, a couple of blown operations, and a warehouse massacre. The Russians wanted me for bank robbery, murder, and skyjacking. With all those angry spies after me, I should have made myself harder to find. But everybody needs a relaxing day at the beach once in a while, and Thursday was mine—until the suits showed up.

As I turned to watch Van’s shapely figure move toward the parking lot, I stole a glance at the suit coming from my right rear. He had shoes in his left hand, and his eyes were locked on me. He stopped, removed his coat, draped it over his shoulder, and held it there with his right hand. I glanced at the guy walking in the surf. He had removed his coat, too. Obviously, they had been warned about me. Both were signaling they weren’t armed and their hands were full. That was the signal they were sending, but it didn’t mean they weren’t armed.

I stood and walked in Van’s tracks back to the lifeguard tower, so that both suits had to approach me from my front. A couple of surf-boards were propped against the two-by-four latticework that supported the tower. I stood with my back to them, in case there was a sniper somewhere behind me. The long beach towel draped over my shoulder hung down far enough to cover my right hand and the .45.

The two suits came together a few feet in front of me. The one I had spotted first wore a blue-and-white-striped seersucker suit. The other man wore a tan tropical worsted.

The tan suit said, We come in peace.

Lucky for you. I moved the towel a little so they could see my gun.

They smiled.

It doesn’t take two of you to declare peace. Which one is the spokesman?

The tan suit lifted his loafers.

I turned to the seersucker suit. Go down to the water’s edge and stay there.

As you wish. He turned and headed for the surf, swinging his shoes.

I asked the tan suit, What do you want?

Max Geller.

You’ve got him. Who are you and why do you want me?

We’re from the Company. Rodney sent us. He needs you to come back for a job.

I laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. Maybe he shouldn’t have fired me. Screw him.

Rodney warned us you’d say something like that.

If Rodney knows me so damned well, you wouldn’t be here. I’ve got money in the bank, the woman I love on a beach in Australia, and the wound in my back where Rodney stuck his bureaucratic knife. Why in hell would I ever go back to the CIA?

Rodney hoped you’d do it for your country. There’s a Russian in Moscow with information vital to our national security. He wants to defect and he wants you to bring him over. He won’t trust anyone else.

He’s one smart Russian. I wouldn’t trust you either, and I don’t trust this defector. He could be a dangle to lure me back to Moscow. I’m a wanted man there.

Yeah, we heard you robbed a bank in Moscow. Is that true?

Yes.

Man, that was some serious badass. How much did you get?

Enough evidence of corruption to ruin careers in Washington. True. And ten million dollars. Not directly from the robbery, but it doesn’t hurt to feed my legend.

He whistled in admiration. Did you keep it?

Every penny. Minus taxes.

When the moment of awe passed, tan suit remembered his errand. Well, we don’t believe the Russians are setting a trap for you. One of our Moscow assets vouched for the defector.

I don’t care if Mother Teresa vouched for him, I’m not going back to Russia.

The tan suit smirked. Rodney said you’d probably say that, too. If you did, he wanted me to tell you that he’ll be forced to go to Plan B, and you won’t like it.

What the hell is Plan B?

Ask your girlfriend, Vanessa … next time you see her.

My first emotion was concern for Vanessa. Before I could wrestle with the sinister possibilities of Rodney’s Plan B, survival instincts in my reptilian brain went on alert. The trigger was two other men carrying beach gear approaching us from the direction of the surf. They were wearing ensembles right out of the Are You Kidding Me? Beach-wear Catalog: sunglasses, gold chains, and crotch-grabbing swim trunks. Their outlandish flowery shirts were open, exposing chests that were hairy, beefy, and white, white like this was their first day at the beach since birth. They were striding toward us with a little too much purpose.

They must have seen my attention shift to them, but for sure they knew the game was up when I said to tan suit, Get down, now! and he dove sideways, landing facedown in the sand. The two hairy guys dropped the beach junk—blankets, towels, umbrella, cooler—and out came the guns.

It was easy to decide who to shoot first, the guy with the sawed-off shotgun. I had to put him down for good. If he got off a blast, that might be the end for me. Even as I fired two shots at the place where his heart was supposed to be, I knew it was one bullet too many. His partner was going to get off one—maybe two—shots at me, before I could even look at him. I dove to my left so I wouldn’t land on my shooting arm. When I landed, he had me covered, and smiled.

A hole the size of a golf ball appeared in his chest. He screamed and did a moonwalk backwards and collapsed in front of a third man who had dropped to his knees in the sand. The kneeler was unmoved by this little display of mayhem. He was holding his pistol in both hands and aiming at me.

Before either of us could shoot, his head exploded. It was obvious that I had a friendly shooter somewhere behind me—maybe it was Van shooting from our car. But with a Glock at that range? No way. The two Agency suits had vanished into the panicked, scattering sun-bathers. I raced across the sand and up the steps to the parking lot.

When I got to my rental, Van was gone, the driver’s door was ajar, key in the ignition. Panicked, I scanned the street. No sign of her. My spare gun was still in the glove box. There was a note under the windshield wiper, driver’s side. It read, Go home and wait. Unsigned. The note was typed, which meant that Rodney had anticipated my refusal to go back to Moscow, or not. It could have been left by friends of the shooters who died on the beach. I started to sweat as a wave of concern and fear washed over me.

On the beach below, there was pandemonium. Women were screaming. Gawkers had formed a wide circle around the three dead bodies. Of course, tens of cell phone cams were recording the scene as visions of viral internet mayhem danced in the sick minds of the photographers. The cops were a wailing siren away. I had to be gone when they arrived.

I drove to the apartment I had rented for our week of sun and sand. Van wasn’t there. I couldn’t call the police. I would have to admit I was at the beach. If Rodney had Van, I wasn’t worried. She worked for the Agency. On the other hand, if she had been taken by friends of the men who had just tried to kill me, they would use her to get to me. That meant they would be showing up at the apartment soon. I got out of my swim trunks and into jeans and a polo shirt. With a shot of scotch and a couple of spare clips for my .45, I settled down to wait.

Whoever had taken Vanessa let me stew until early afternoon before I heard a key in the lock. To my great relief, she entered the apartment. I wrapped my arms around her. Are you okay?

I’m fine. Van didn’t look distressed; she looked pleased. I knew you were worried, Max. They wouldn’t let me call. Sorry.

I didn’t care. I was relieved that she was with me and safe. What happened?

When I went to the car, a couple of people from my office scooped me up and took me to Rodney.

"Did you see what happened on the beach after you left me?’

She was concerned. No. What happened?

Tell you later. Where’s Rodney?

In a house nearby. He wants to see you. The car that brought me here is waiting for you.

What did Rodney say to you?

He offered me a new assignment.

I got an uneasy feeling. Can you tell me about it?

Rodney wanted me to tell you. He’s sending me to Moscow to plan the exfiltration of an important defector.

Son-of-a-bitch! That’s his Plan B!

Van looked puzzled. What are you talking about?

The suits on the beach this morning, they said Rodney wanted me to bring out the defector. When I refused, they told me to ask you about Plan B. Rodney’s using you to blackmail me into doing the job.

Van pushed me away. No!

Yes! The defector asked for me.

She got defensive. Well … you refused, and Rodney asked me. I’m going to do it.

Van, listen to me. Moscow is the toughest operational environment in the world for a spy. Before the CIA sends people to Russia, they get months of training specifically for that assignment.

I know that. Rodney’s going to give me a crash course in Moscow tradecraft.

"Crash is the right word."

Her lips went thin and her hands went to her hips.

I needed a more persuasive argument. Let’s assume you attended the yearlong Moscow prep course—you didn’t. Let’s assume you speak fluent Russian—you don’t. And suppose you have trusted Moscow contacts—you have none—who can verify the existence of this defector. Let’s assume you have all these tools. What happens when you go to meet this defector and he turns out to be a squad of FSB thugs? What happens then?

After a thoughtful pause, Van said, I’m not you. They’ll harass me and expel me from the country.

No! That’s not what happens. They saw us together in Australia. They know you’re important to me. So, they have a bargaining chip. They’ll throw you into a cell at Lubyanka. Then, they’ll call Langley and offer to trade you—a serving CIA officer—for me—a disgraced former employee, wanted in Russia for murder and bank robbery. That, I pointed my finger at her, is a five-minute-decision meeting on the Seventh Floor, and I’m on my way to Moscow in handcuffs and leg irons.

There are times when people see only what they want. That was Vanessa’s time. What if the defector is real? Getting him out is a career-maker, if I pull it off. I want my shot. You took yours. You got rich. Don’t deny me mine.

"Okay. I get it; you want your shot, but in an op like this, you plan for the worst case. Worst Case 1: You go to Moscow. It’s a trap for me. You become an embarrassment to the Agency and it’s a black mark on your career. I get traded for you and executed after a show trial.

Worst Case 2. I go to Moscow and it’s a trap. They have me. I get executed after a show trial. I leave you enough money so you can have any life you want. Your career is intact. You get another shot at that career-maker, if you still want it.

She went defensive. What about the best case, if I go to Moscow?

If you go to Moscow, I have to gamble my freedom that you’re right and there is a real defector. I’m not willing to make that bet.

Van folded her arms across her chest and glared at me. I had seen that stance and look before. She was through listening. I went to see Rodney.

CHAPTER 2

Three months earlier, October 2019

Moscow’s Defense Military Management Center, the Russian Pentagon

WHEN LIEUTENANT COLONEL Alexi Petrov left the top-secret briefing, he knew he had to defect.

Key military commanders involved in the operation were present in the auditorium. The Minister of Defense spoke to them from a ceiling-high screen at the front of the room. In front of the screen, generals and admirals sat at a circular table—the inner circle—in high-backed, white captain’s chairs, their computers arrayed before them. Further away from the screen, three ascending sections of seats, separated by two aisles, rose from the floor to the back of the room in movie theater configuration, each row higher than the preceding one. These seats were filled by the staff officers of the brass down front. From the screen, the minister told them how, in a year, they would change the world. Petrov’s thoughts turned to Putin, the ego behind this plan. It occurred to him that those who didn’t fight wars never tired of starting them.

The auditorium was air-conditioned, but Petrov was on fire and perspiring. When the briefing was over, he zombie-walked through the security checkpoints and out of the building. On the steps, he leaned against the wall and coaxed a cigarette from the pack with shaking hands. He lit it, inhaled deeply, and let the cool air wash over him. With luck, none of the two thousand cameras in and around the complex would record his apparent distress and trigger an inquiry.

Petrov pushed himself off the wall and straightened his spine, as a squad of four black-clad security guards passed in the street that separated the building from the high spiked fence that circled the complex. He tried to appear in control, but fear clawed at his gut and depression had seized his mind, blotting out all but images of the dead. Petrov wanted to scream and run. Colonels do not run screaming through military compounds, if they want to remain colonels … and free. He had to see Sergei. Who else would talk to a suicidal army officer and not report him to the security services?

The next morning, Petrov watched from across the street as Sergei Golovkin exited the school where he deposited his daughter each morning, before walking to the corner café for coffee. When Sergei was settled with coffee and a newspaper, Petrov approached his table.

Looking up, Sergei said, Alexi! He rose with a smile and gave his friend a bear hug and aimed two cheek kisses that intentionally missed their marks. Sit with me. How are things on our invincible general staff?

Hell.

It’s better than eating sand in Syria. Two more years on the staff and you can retire.

I won’t be in Moscow for two more years. Can we talk in your car?

When they were seated in the car, Sergei asked, What’s wrong?

I’m to be promoted and they’ve ordered me to take a brigade … into combat.

They’re sending you back to Syria?

No. They’re opening a new front. That’s all I can say.

Oh, Alexi … Sergei gave his friend a sorrowful look.

Petrov looked away and shook his head. Chechnya, Crimea, Syria, he turned back to his friend, I can’t wade in any more blood, Sergei. Before I let them send me into combat again, I would—

Don’t say it, warned Sergei. Don’t even think about harming yourself again. Next time, I may not be there to stop you. Think of your family.

I think of my family all the time. I think about killing them, too.

His voice tense with concern, Sergei said, You need to get help. Talk to a professional about those feelings.

Where would I get this help, from our patriotic psychiatrists, trained to think that citizens who disagree with the state are crazy? Petrov chuckled grimly. The irony is their diagnosis would be correct in my case.

Then, get away from the pressure of the job. Retire.

And live on a lieutenant colonel’s pension … the way Olga spends money?

Retire and take the bank job Olga’s father offered you in Cyprus.

Petrov sighed. It’s just another government job, with duties related to the security services. I might as well be working at the ministry.

The Cyprus climate is mild and the salary generous. You and Olga can maintain your lifestyle. What more do you want?

I want to be free of this government.

Sergei exhaled heavily. We’re Russian, my friend. We were not meant to be free.

Petrov looked forlorn.

Sergei said, There must be someone in Moscow who can help you.

There is. That’s why I’m here. Petrov leaned into his companion. You are my best friend. I love you. You know my secrets. I would never reveal yours. Do you believe me?

Sergei said a wary, Yes … of course.

I hope so, because I know one of your secrets. Last December, I had that nightmare again. I needed to talk. I came here to catch you before you went to work. I saw you sitting in this car, talking to a man. Days later, I saw his face on television. They said he was Maxwell Geller, a CIA agent who robbed a bank and killed several employees.

Alexi—

Petrov raised his palm. You don’t owe me an explanation, Sergei. I assume it was FSB-CIA business and none of mine. All I want from you is the name of a CIA contact. I want to defect. I have to get out of Russia. I can’t go into combat again. I can’t!

After a pause, Sergei said, This is a very dangerous time to contact the CIA. I wouldn’t trust anyone at their Moscow Station. Anything you tell them could end up on Ted Walldrum’s desk in the White House, along with your name. If it gets back to the Kremlin, you won’t have to fantasize about killing yourself. The state will do it for you.

You are dealing with the CIA. Don’t you have that same worry?

Yes, but I made my commitment long before the current Washington leadership came to power. Either the CIA can protect my identity or it can’t. It’s out of my hands.

How do you live with that threat?

I assume that I’m already a dead man. I just keep trying to fool myself and everyone around me that I’m not. I wake up. I kiss my wife. I hug my child. I carry on … and watch for signs that the FSB is onto me. It’s stressful. I haven’t contacted the CIA for months.

What about Maxwell Geller? You talked to him. You trusted him.

I knew Max years ago when he was stationed in Moscow. When you saw us talking last year, he was no longer with the CIA. They fired him for saying unkind things about his president. That should be a lesson to you.

Do you still trust him?

Yes.

I want him to get me out. How can I contact him?

I have no idea. Last year, he came out of nowhere to question me about a couple of murders and Ted Walldrum’s alleged activities with prostitutes at the Riga-Ritz. That was our only conversation. I never saw him again. I don’t know when he came to Moscow. I wouldn’t have known when he left, had he not robbed the bank and hijacked a plane to France. When I heard of him again, one of our front companies in Panama had paid him five million dollars for a video that would have implicated the SVR—the Russian foreign intelligence service—in wet work.

Petrov was animated. This man has courage, Sergei. I want him to get me out. There must be some way to contact him. Think.

Sergei sipped his cold coffee and searched his memory. There was an American woman in Moscow with Max, Sherri Layton. She owns a private security firm outside of Washington, D.C. Layton might know where Max is, but how would you contact her? Even if you could, I doubt she would put you in touch with him, and Max would have to be insane to return to Moscow.

CHAPTER 3

Days later, November 2019

FSB Headquarters on Lubyanka Square, Moscow

LIEUTENANT COLONEL KONSTANTINE Zabluda accompanied Colonel Dragonov to General Orlov’s office. FSB headquarters was a new posting for both men and this was their first meeting with the general.

The general asked, What progress have you made on the surveillance of the suspected traitor, Sergei Golovkin?

While Dragonov, the senior of the two, took the lead and droned on, giving details of surveillance schedules, and the placement of microphones and cameras, Zabluda examined the simplicity of the general’s office. It contained little of the usual memorabilia of a senior officer’s career. There were only three photographs. One was the obligatory official portrait of the Russian Federation president hanging behind the general’s no-frills desk. The second was a recent picture of the general and his extended family on the credenza behind the desk. Beside it stood a decades-old, framed photograph of the current Russian president in his KGB uniform, taken at the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. Standing next to the president was a younger version of the general seated before Zabluda. The general-to-be was in the uniform of a KGB lieutenant. This man has no need for the trappings of power, Zabluda thought. He is wired directly into the power source.

Dragonov was saying, During the period we have been surveilling Sergei Golovkin, he has taken no questionable actions and made no suspicious contacts.

The general said, Let me see the contact list.

Dragonov handed it over and waited while the general scanned it.

Zabluda, you’re my army expert on this project, said the general. Who is this Lieutenant Colonel Petrov? He met with Golovkin last week?

Sir, Petrov and Golovkin have been friends since childhood. They grew up together, attended the same university, and joined the army together. Golovkin went into military intelligence. Later, he was recruited by the FSB. Petrov joined the tank troops.

What is Petrov’s job?

He’s a war plans officer on the general staff.

Eager not to be left out, Dragonov said, As a precaution, I think we should alert the GRU—military intelligence—that Petrov is meeting with the traitor, Sergei Golovkin.

"Suspected traitor, corrected the general. And why don’t we take out a television ad that Golovkin is under suspicion. Then, we could sit on our hands for years while our suspect breaks contact with his CIA handler and goes underground … if he is a traitor and if there is a CIA handler."

General Orlov gave Dragonov a chilling glare. It was rash decisions that cost you your command in St. Petersburg. Only the intervention of the deputy director saved you from a harsh fate. You need to be less impulsive and more circumspect, Dragonov. Lose another American spy and that fate may find you.

Zabluda allowed himself a brief smile.

The general continued to address Dragonov. The next time Petrov meets Golovkin, put a team on the colonel. Let’s see who he talks to after he meets with our suspect. That’s all.

Dragonov saluted and shot an envious look at Zabluda on the way out.

When he had gone, General Orlov turned to Zabluda. Tell me about Petrov. What sort of officer is he?

Very heroic on the battlefield and highly competent on the general staff. A hard worker and a hard drinker, according to my sources.

The general sat back. Vodka problems?

No.

Married?

With two grown children, girl and boy. University graduates. Both are FSB officers.

Mistresses?

No, sir.

How would you characterize the key element of his personality?

Aggressive. He produces results regardless of obstacles.

With sarcasm, the general observed, A genuine hero of the Russian Federation. Our Colonel Petrov is an aggressive tank troops commander, hard fighter, hard drinker, and handsome. Tell me, Zabluda, what do you think are the chances of finding that combination of traits in one man … and no mistress?

I’ll look again, sir.

The general grunted. "Build a dossier on this hero. Be discreet. Incorporate the results of Dragonov’s surveillance."

The general looked toward the window and paused before he spoke. Be wary of Dragonov, Zabluda. The man is ambitious, arrogant, and a fool with a powerful patron. In my experience, those are the ingredients of an incompetence time bomb. The only questions are, ‘When will it explode?’ and ‘Who will be caught in the blast radius?’ You’ve been singed once. Make sure you’re not at ground zero the next time.

The general left his chair, went to the window, and looked out, hands clasped behind him. He turned and gave Zabluda a hard look. You found my warning to Dragonov amusing?

Zabluda immediately regretted the smile.

The same admonition applies to you. Both of you are here on probation. Both of you bungled the surveillance of Maxwell Geller when he illegally entered Russia last December. Your job was to find him, kill him, kill his Russian informants, and destroy the evidence he collected on the American president. You failed. To put the icing on your fiasco, you stole—attempted to steal—money we used to lure Geller into your trap. Those circumstances would have been a death sentence for most men. Do you know why you are still alive?

Zabluda replied, No doubt because the evidence Geller collected has disappeared.

No, said the general. You’re alive because our president prevented your execution.

Zabluda was shocked. He knew someone had intervened, but Putin? Why did he do it?

The president was impressed that you killed the traitor Bogdanovich and his MI6 protectors in the heart of London last year, and for uncovering the spy, Kulik, in our London embassy. He forgave you your larcenous tendencies and for letting Geller get away with the evidence he collected. Lucky for you, that evidence hasn’t surfaced. Why do you think that is, Zabluda?

Maybe Geller is using it to blackmail his president.

"Maybe? I don’t like maybes. This is an intelligence organization. You are paid to bring me facts. Let me give you two. One, if the evidence Geller collected is used to remove the President of the United States from office, you are a dead man. Two, if you and that fool Dragonov make a cockup of the Sergei Golovkin investigation, both of you are dead men. Those are not maybes."

The general continued. The president was impressed with you. I am not impressed by a thief who couldn’t keep what he stole or an assassin who, with all the resources of the Moscow security services at his disposal, couldn’t find Maxwell Geller before he robbed a bank and hijacked a plane to make his escape. The president can afford to be forgiving. I cannot. So, you had better impress me with the Golovkin investigation.

General Orlov returned to his desk. I don’t approve of what you were doing with your revenge unit. I think killing old spies and traitors is not a deterrent to treason. Do you know why, Zabluda?

No, sir.

You’re a combat veteran. Have you ever fought men who were outnumbered and knew they were going to die?

I have, many times.

How would you characterize their mindset in those circumstances? Were they inclined to give up or … ?

They tried to kill as many of us as they could before we killed them.

In other words, they were dead men, they knew it, and their goal was to cause as much damage as possible before the reckoning.

Yes, sir.

So it is with traitors. I have studied them. Most don’t become traitors for money or for a flat near London’s nightlife or a condominium in some Washington bedroom community. They become traitors for ideological reasons. They betray us because they despise our system of government, a colossus so vast they have little chance of changing it. They know this, but like your outnumbered and outgunned former adversaries, they try to do as much damage as possible before they die. Aside from the ill will of other nations, nothing is to be gained by pursuing these traitors once they have fled Russian soil, because killing them will never deter like-minded men. I have so advised the president. Obviously, he does not agree with me. So, here you are.

Sir, I don’t understand why I’m here. If you disagree with what I do, how can you certify me for return to those duties?

"You’re not here for me to re-certify you as an assassin. The president is well