Mueller indicts 13 Russian nationals over 2016 election interference.
I wrote the book. Excerpt from, The Hunt For Red November.
AT SEVEN PM, Eastern Standard Time a black Chevrolet Impala eased through the front gates of Senator McRae’s house instead of his usual black Lincoln Navigator. It turned left and headed east on O Street and ambled slowly down the prosperous street until it reached Wisconsin Avenue.
“Black Impala,” Alvarez radioed The Team.
Inside the Impala the viral seventy year old senator from Alabama waited for an opening in traffic so that he could turn left onto Wisconsin Avenue NW.
“Rabbit is signaling a left turn onto Wisconsin,” Kaslowski radioed back.
While McRae waited, he switched on the car’s radio. It was already set to his favorite country and western radio station. Garth Brooks’ ‘The Dance’ was playing. And the Senator tapped his foot to the beat as he swung the Chevrolet into heavy Friday night traffic.
He was uplifted knowing that Sergei Ivanovich had in his top inside jacket pocket an envelope with his name on it containing five hundred thousand dollars. And all he had to do to earn it was tell him where President Khamis was scheduled to hold his next few campaign rallies. Simple. It wasn’t like he was giving away top military secrets. He was just giving Sergei something that in a few days would be public knowledge, anyway.
Behind the Impala, Kaslowski noted that traffic was till heavy and brisk even at this hour. And McRae was cruising along at about forty-five mph confident of where he was going. Within minutes, he’d passed the Artist’s Proof Gallery without slowing.
“Looks like the Brits after all,” radioed Kaslowski.
McRae turned up the music tuning out that little nagging voice that something wasn’t quite right. But he had no choice. If he didn’t play along with the Russians he’d never get enough money to pay Shaquita to keep her mouth shut. He smirked at the irony of that thought. It was that damn wonderful mouth of hers that had gotten him into this mess. She had pictures.
He was thinking about Shaquita and almost missed his exit. He took a sudden hard right onto R Street cutting off a bus full of tourist heading to the Dunbarton Oaks Museum for a night of partying under the stars.
“Bastard!” yelled Kaslowski as he watched the tour bus nearly get rammed from behind as the driver slammed on the brakes trying to avoid hitting McRae’s vehicle.
“Johnson! I can’t make the turn without him noticing me.”
“I got you Big Guy,” answered Johnson who quickly weaved through traffic and made the turn onto R Street staying two car lengths behind McRae’s Impala. But when McRae drove passed the Museum and parked across from Lover’s Lane, he handed off to Madison and continued down the street. He slowed down and watched as McRae got out of his car and walked casually into the park.
“Chief,” said Johnson into his mike, I guess we’re going to need you and that Harley. The Rabbit is out of the hole. Walking west into the park at Lover’s Lane.”
“Lover’s Lane?” Madison asked.
Madison pulled the Harley to a stop at the junction of R Street and Lover’s Lane behind McRae’s car. He pushed the visor of his helmet up, jumped off the bike, and hurried into the park after McRae.
McRae seemed in no particular hurry Madison noted. His steps were springy and light for an old man in his seventies. Madison treaded lightly trying not to alert McRae to his presence. He was sure Johnson was somewhere near keeping his eyes on McRae, too, from a different angle. And Kaslowski had, by now, turned the Mercedes around and was making his way back to them. But he dared not speak for fear McRae would hear. He had to trust his men and their training.
It was growing dark as McRae walked passed the Lovers Lane Pool and Pavilion before wandering off the concrete footpaths and heading deeper into the park.
As Madison watched McRae wander through the heavily overgrown area that was thick with Box Elder trees, Roundleaf Greenbriars, New York ferns, and fallen leaves, he realized that this was not McRae’s first time meeting with The Russian. He wondered how many times McRae had done this.
Madison’s earpiece came alive with Alvarez’s voice.
“Chief. If you’re hearing me. You’re getting close to Rock Creek. On the other side is Embassy Row.”
McRae came to a stop. He turned looking behind him and Madison ducked behind a large tree. As Madison held his breath, he heard the rustle of leaves coming from north of where McRae was standing.
“Welcome, comrade. So good to see you, again.”
It was Sergei Ivanovich. In the flesh. Madison pulled out his phone and started recording.
“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” McRae scolded.
“Comrades. Co-conspirators. What is in a name? Ivanovich smiled. Do you have what I need?”
“Why do need to know where Khamis is holding his campaign rallies?”
“You leave that to me. Do you have the list?”
“Are you planning on assassinating Khamis?”
“Questions. Questions. So many questions. Why do you need to know? Are you planning on assassinating him?”
“Of course not!” Ready snapped.
Ivanovich laughed and pulled a fat envelope from his jacket pocket and waived it at McRae.
“The President is kicking off his run with a rally in Des Moines, Iowa in three days and from there, he’s headed to the Four Corners refugee camps to show his support to the survivors.”
“Good, comrade,” insulted Ivanovich before hovering the envelope above McRae’s hand. “And the plans?”
McRae reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Ivanovich who in turn dropped the envelope into McRae’s waiting hand.
Ivanovich turned and walked in the direction of Rock Creek. McRae bent over and threw up all over the bright green box tree plants. When he’d finished, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth before reversing his steps back toward his car.
Madison followed discreetly behind.
Eliza D. Ankum