And while wary of hurting his friendship with Elliot, he added, “And as for her, you shouldn’t really trust her, if truth be told!” He cocked his head to the side with his warm grin, as if to say “Sorry friend, but those are the hard facts!” He continued. “Kostrinsky’s got ties to the FSB, so don’t underestimate the Russians.” Chaseman was subtly implying that the girl could conceivably be working for FSB.
“There’s a connection between us,” he said nodding his head up and down, convincing himself it was true. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a good date.” But he knew enough to question why a drop-dead gorgeous girl was wasting her time with a man fifteen years her senior. He could imagine his friend, Colonel O’Connel in DCA security back in Washington asking if this beautiful woman’s situation is so pathetic that all she’s got going on is a guy who lives 5000 miles away! He smiled at the thought.
Chaseman’s comments did get Parovsky thinking. Maybe it was the excitement factor without all the complications of a commitment. This actually suited Parovsky just fine since he couldn’t maintain a relationship if his life depended on it. Two shrinks as parents had done their fair share in ensuring that he was thoroughly fucked up, over- analyzing the world to the point that he couldn’t be happy. Maybe she was simply enjoying being in the company of a mature foreign man. And why not? He knew he was good-looking, sporting a full head of hair--albeit with some grey streaks sprouting on the sides, clean shaven, dark skinned, with straight white teeth, and stylish frameless glasses. He dressed well and was well-mannered, pushing in her chair for her when she sat at a table, and standing up when she excused herself to the ladies room.
“Remember, the Russians discovered Stuxnet and Flame, so they’re not just an antivirus company, but a cyber counter-espionage organization that has outed covert activities. Know who you’re dealing with...” Chaseman’s comments startled him from his introspection.
“Don’t worry,” Parovsky dismissed him, waving his hand at Chaseman.
“Kostrinsky himself is very much associated with the Russian regime. There’s a fine line of separation.”
“I bet any company wanting to succeed here must cooperate with the security establishment,” Parovsky reasoned.
“It goes beyond that, Ell. Some call Kostrinsky Labs a virtual arm of Russian intelligence. The FSB can even assign officers to work at private companies in support of the state’s security activities, so you can bet they’ve got people on the inside.” He restrained himself from pointing an accusatory finger at his friend as he spoke.
Beginning to accept that Chaseman might be right, Parovsky offered half questioningly: “And if you don’t play along with the authorities, you might wind up in jail on trumped-up charges?”
“You got it right.” Chaseman shook his head up and down. “It’s not even a secret. Kostrinsky admits that he supports the security establishment when they need it. If that’s what he’s admitting, you can be certain it goes far beyond that. In short Ell, just don’t be so naive about the girl.”
Chaseman was seriously concerned about the potential for a security breach but didn’t want to overdo the preaching that might alienate his friend. “I hope she’s good in bed!” he added with a wink of an eye, getting back at Parovsky for his earlier embarrassing sexual reference.
16. SWIFT JUSTICE
In all his years in government, Parovsky had never seen the wheels of government turn so quickly. From the time he conveyed the Russian offer of sanction relief in exchange for Snowden, it took only a few days before a special CIA team converged on Moscow from multiple points of origin on different travel itineraries. Authorization for an action of this magnitude had to have come from the highest echelons of government, probably the Oval Office itself. Even with the official nod from Moscow, the U.S. preferred to keep the identities and methods of its operatives from the Russians, who were nevertheless documenting the entire American operation for their own counter-intelligence purposes.
Surveillance details were set up across from the apartment building where Snowden lived, and he was tailed to learn his daily routine and patterns. An agent tracked Snowden‘s departure each morning, and another followed him, revealing the location where he worked in technical support for VKontakte, or simply VK—the Russian Facebook-like social network website, He was tailed again on his commute back to his flat. After several days’ reconnaissance determined the target rarely ventured from his routine, the team was ready. A four-man hit squad broke into his flat using basic lock-picking equipment and looked around while they awaited his return home.
The one-bedroom flat was sparsely furnished. There were dirty dishes in the sink, with half a piece of uneaten toast left on a plate on the counter. A small table was built into the wall, with one simple wooden chair that looked like it was far older than its thirty-something year-old current owner.
Not a single picture or other decoration brightened the plain, white painted walls, and the room was dimly lit by simple incandescent light bulbs dangling from wires protruding from the ceiling, without proper fixtures. The salon was mostly empty save for a bean-bag chair on the floor and a cardboard box-cum-coffee table. The small bedroom also had a cardboard box as a makeshift nightstand that held a small battery- powered travel alarm clock, an issue of TIME magazine and a photo of his parents. A pair of slippers were neatly aligned next to his bed. The wardrobe contained only a few button-down shirts and trousers, some white undershirts, underwear and socks. Clearly he hadn’t stocked up on anything, suggesting that he wasn’t certain about the length of his sojourn in Moscow.
When the team surveilling the apartment building saw Snowden approach, they radioed the “tail” via encrypted radio to break off and gave notice to the hit squad that its prey was on its way home.
There was hardly a struggle as the four men pounced on their unsuspecting victim when he entered his apartment, subdued him and then injected him with some drug that apparently induced a heart attack. They removed his shoes, socks, pants and shirt, and put him into his bed, which was disheveled to appear slept in.
The Russians took video footage of the entire American operation. They had installed high resolution micro and pinhole cameras and high- fidelity microphones in light switches and power outlets throughout the apartment long before.
The perpetrators quickly exited the building, careful to be sure they weren’t seen by anyone, except for the bank of cameras filming them unbeknownst. One pair left by foot and headed to the nearest Metro station while the second two men entered the back of a delivery van parked nearby, which nonchalantly drove off. All four men made their way to for departing flights.
Snowden‘s body was later discovered in bed by his Russian lawyer Anatoly Kucherena, who hadn’t heard from Snowden in several days and became very suspicious when he contacted VK and learned that Snowden hadn’t been to work. The police were called in, but an official autopsy revealed nothing out of the ordinary; the coroner pronounced that Snowden had died of natural causes, possibly heart attack, opining that it was likely due to the intense stress he reasoned Snowden had been under for some time. The Russians were fully honoring the secret agreement hammered out in subsequent discussions. A death certificate was duly issued and the case was considered closed, the Moscow Police denying allegations of foul play and rejecting calls from international groups like Amnesty International to cooperate with the International Criminal Police Organization (Interpol) to open an investigation, all of which they declared with straight faces as only the Russians could do. While it all seemed suspicious, the fact that this had all transpired in Moscow added credibility to the story, despite the cynics’ and conspiracy theorists’ claims that the CIA had tracked him down and killed him in the heart of Moscow.
No, Parovsky thought as he lay in bed at the Radisson. Even with Russian complicity, it still seemed too obvious. It was bound to boomerang on the U.S. Government. He imagined the headline “SNOWDEN-GATE” and
the reports of Oval Office complicity in the murder of a U.S. citizen purely out of spite, rather than bringing him to justice. Pressure would build and the Russians would be forced to say something, and ultimately it would come out that it was a trade for sanctions relief, providing yet another embarrassing example of Washington’s flexible “red lines.” It wouldn’t end well for Washington, and of more immediate concern, probably not for the U.S. government official who first received the Russian offer...
So what about grabbing him and spiriting him back to Washington for a proper trial? Parovsky played that scenario out in his mind as well.
Snowden didn’t pay much attention to the car blocking his street’s entrance when its driver began unloading large boxes from the trunk, nor the white van parked across from his apartment building. For someone his lawyer described as “the most wanted man on planet Earth” who should have been well-aware of his precarious security situation, Snowden had become complacent and had clearly let his guard down, paying no notice to suspicious activities a trained eye would have seen.
Parovsky imagined himself as part of a team sent in to capture the fugitive. Slipping into a restroom at a busy shopping mall or crowded restaurant to disguise himself with a mustache, wig and eyeglasses, and shorts, t-shirt and backpack-clothes, very different from the business attire or slacks and button-down collared shirts which he always wore, a la news reporter Clark Kent going through his metamorphosis into Superman. Checking his trusty Rolex, he would calmly and inconspicuously head off to the pre-coordinated rendezvous point to meet up with the other team members.
Parovsky found it ironic that Snowden—a crusader for individual privacy in the face of what he saw as government encroachment of freedoms—became more surveilled and observed than he could ever have dreamt. As a former NSA employee, Snowden should have been more astute to the art of the possible in surveillance tactics and gear. Parovsky wondered whether or not Snowden knew his apartment was so wired, but figured it was irrelevant; as an international fugitive there was absolutely nothing Snowden could do about it, least of all criticize his patrons.
Returning home at the regular time from his job at VK, Snowden might be distracted when the side door of the white van parked across from his apartment building slid open suddenly, and startled when a burly pedestrian on the sidewalk smashes into him with a broad shoulder, knocking him off balance and into the arms of two men emerging from the van. It would be over so quickly and easily that there would be no need to intimidate by flashing weapons when they seized him. Snowden certainly wouldn’t see it coming, and the shocked victim would have no opportunity to offer resistance or chance of escape. The American team would quickly drag their target into the van, driving off even before its sliding door had closed completely. An instant DNA test would confirm that the now-bound and muffled man jerking around the back seat of the van was indeed their target.
The U.S. Government would release a statement that Edward Snowden was in lawful detention of the U.S. in a secure location where he would ultimately be brought to face criminal charges including espionage. To distance themselves, the Russians came out with feeble criticism calling the act a “kidnapping” and an affront to Russian sovereignty, but stopped there, with no call for censure or even a request for an explanation.
The capture was the easy part. How could the sides maintain their charade when the Americans still had to get Snowden out of Russia? Parovsky wondered with enjoyment as he continued playing this whole scene out in his mind.
It appeared obvious the two countries were in cahoots, potentially embarrassing both governments. So while the U.S. might get their man, world public opinion—already unhappy about the information revealed in Snowden‘s leaks—would become even more anti-American. Winning the battle yet losing the war.
So despite the incredible offer made to him just a few days earlier which he imagined might make a name for himself and shift his government career into high gear, Parovsky began to realize that in reality it would probably be far less dramatic than the Hollywood versions he imagined. Snowden’s demise would probably take the form of a simple notification from the FSB that his asylum in Russia was coming to an end and would not be extended. It was easy to imagine the panic that would overcome him upon hearing the news, his face turning white as the blood drained. The sudden empty feeling in his gut. The nights lying awake wondering when he would be expelled, where he could go to next, and with his U.S. passport voided, a bigger question was: how? As feelings of helplessness and uncertainty overwhelmed him, he would sink into inescapable depression.
17. WHATEVER WE HAD ONCE WAS GONE
Parovsky was at home listening to Harry Chapin when he heard Skype’s distinctive ring. He glanced at the screen: Video call from Alexandra Iserovich. He had told her that he could be found on Skype, and she had easily tracked him down. He glanced at the clock on the wall: 9:30pm. If Moscow is 8 hours ahead, she’s up awfully early. Just to give me a call?
For a moment he contemplated not answering, but then he manipulated the mouse and clicked on “Answer with Video.” Alexandra’s image came on screen, a bit fuzzy with occasional digitized squares. The conversation was strained, with both struggling to find subjects to talk about. When they were together, they had so much to talk about, but that made sense since they shared the common present. Back in their regular worlds, they lacked that luxury.
Alexandra looked at him with a big smile, but there was silence.
“I am very busy at work,” he said, feeling obligated to say something. Harry Chapin crooned “Cat’s in the Cradle” in the background.
“Yes, me too.”
“I’ve been fighting to catch up on all the emails that accumulated while I was away. Even for such a short trip, you wouldn’t believe how much work I missed and how much catching up I have to do now.”
“What? I’m sorry. I don’t understand all you say.”
“I’ve been busy,” he summarized. “What’s going on with you? You are up awfully early, aren’t you?”
“I get up for work, so I call you.” Between her accent and the imperfect connection quality, it was hard to make out everything she said.
He smiled at her. “Thank you. Spaceba!” he added in Russian.
“Spaceba for what?”
“For thinking of me and calling me.” He was being nice.
“I miss you.”
He almost rolled his eyes instinctively, forgetting for an instant that she could see him. Aw shit. What does she want from me? Can’t a man and woman have a good time together without one getting attached to the other? What does she think, that we can live happily-ever-after with a 5000-mile long-distance relationship? He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’ll let you know next time I’m coming back to Moscow.”
“You come back?” she asked, her eyes lighting up expectedly.
“No!” he responded with some annoyance. “lf I need to come back to Moscow, I’ll let you know. Just like this time.”
“You can come for me!” she said, regretting it after the words slipped off her tongue.
He half smiled a closed-mouth smile—not the real smile she had seen when they were together—and said nothing.
She added, “You can come vacation, you know.”
He smiled at her persistence. “I need to work. No time for vacations right now.”
“Don’t work too hard. That not good.”
“No, a lot’s going on.” And then to blame her side, he added, “A lot of action because of what’s going on with Estonia.”
“I see.” That cut her short.
They hung up saying they would stay in touch, but it was clear to both that that wasn’t likely. He fast-forwarded to the Chapin song “Taxi” and smirked as Chapin sang:
There was not much more for us to talk about,
Whatever we had once was gone.
So I turned my cab into t
he driveway,
Past the gate and the fine trimmed lawns.
And she said we must get together,
But I knew it’d never be arranged...
He heard the familiar sound of an incoming email.
From:Alexandra Iserovich
To:Elliot Parovsky
Subject:Call
Hope OK I called you.
Alexandra
This had been fun while he was in Moscow, but had lost its luster now that he was back home. There were also the risks raised by Chaseman to consider. He might let her know if he traveled back to Russia, but it was clear from her Skype call that keeping in regular touch wasn’t to be.
He breezed over an email from Loretta in Intel—one of her request- cum-demands, this one asking for information on Ed Snowden. Annoying bitch. Snowden’s not a cyber- threat actor. Here she goes again, reinventing the wheel on more wasted efforts. She doesn’t realize that there are other TLA’s with massive dossiers on this guy? He deleted it and moved on.
He glanced through his Inbox and this one caught his eye.
From:Reunion Committee
To:Elliot Parovsky
Subject:Reminder! AmericanUniversity Class of
1990 Reunion
Dear Class of 1990,
The reunion is fast approaching! Be sure to register and take part in what promises to be an unforgettable weekend with your friends and classmates!
The rest of the email had various details of the event which didn’t interest him. But it got him thinking about Lippnow again.
18. LIPPNOW
The reminder email about Parovsky’s college reunion triggered a cynical self-reflection of his accomplishments in life when compared to college classmates, chief among them Darrel Lippnow. Twenty-five years after graduating college Parovsky was still single, and certainly not in a true leadership position professionally. He felt he had languished in grad schools for many years and then faced rejections from one federal agency after another before finally being hired by DCA. Though his work was fulfilling, he was under constant stress from never-ending attacks on the government networks that required non-stop vigilance and response, probably oblivious to his boss who cared only about social engagements and promoting herself. His work responsibilities weighed down on him while he was plagued by destructive self-doubts about his abilities and lingering disappointment at not being hired by one of the cool three letter agencies. Social pressure from his parents that insultingly questioned his sexual orientation didn’t help either. The storm of emotions raging in his head made Parovsky restless. He watched some porno videos on the web, but his mind wasn’t into that at the moment. He couldn’t get Darrel Lippnow off his mind.
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