Moscow Sting f-2

by Alex Dryden

  Anna stayed silent.

  “There are some things we can’t know until you both meet,” Logan said. “And even then, Vladimir isn’t just going to throw his hands in the air and defect, just because he loves you.”

  “There are two things the first meeting needs to achieve,” Burt summed up. “The first thing is a second meeting. The second is the most accurate assessment you can make of his feelings towards you.”

  “Vladimir’s not like one of the mindless apparatchiks who fill my old organisation,” Anna said.

  “And yet he’s got the top spot at the UN in New York and, we believe, is the KGB’s resident here,” Logan said. “He must be trusted a great deal.”

  “Let’s play to his known differences with the KGB,” Burt said.

  “Appeal to his personal courage,” Marcie said.

  “What do you think, Logan?” Anna said. For a reason she didn’t fully understand, she wanted his reaction.

  “You fooled him once with your pretence of love,” Logan said. “Maybe you can do it again.”

  Anna looked at him questioningly, and saw a broad smile break across his handsome face.

  “Only joking.”

  Anna found herself smiling back at him, as if they had some implicit secret.

  “You should be wired, of course,” Logan said adamantly.

  “Why?” Marcie, once again contradicting Logan at every turn.

  Anna decided to wait while the others had their say.

  “It’s too much,” Marcie said. “We’ll know from Anna what takes place.”

  “Certainly we will,” Burt said supportively.

  So she was to be trusted to convey what took place between her and Vladimir.

  “What about you, Anna?” Marcie said.

  “In my opinion it’s unnecessary,” Anna replied. “Besides, I want to be able to demonstrate to Vladimir that I’m not wired. There are ways I can show him fairly conclusively that I’m not. He can search me if he likes. He’ll do what he has to do. But if he even thinks I might be wired, we lose everything with him.”

  “You?” Burt shot a look at Logan.

  “Okay,” he said.

  But Anna saw that he didn’t agree.

  “That’s four of us then,” Burt said.

  Outside the control room, Burt took Marcie aside. They withdrew into one of the smaller rooms in the labyrinthine apartments, and Burt shut the door.

  “What’s with Logan?” he asked without preamble.

  “I think he’s getting too involved with Anna.”

  “He’s behaving badly. Is she getting to him?”

  “I think so. She doesn’t take him as seriously as he wants her to take him.”

  “He’ll need watching,” said Burt. “I don’t want him fucking things up over some juvenile infatuation.”

  The meeting between Anna and Vladimir had now been sanctioned by four National Security committees. There had even been a special note in the morning White House intelligence briefing.

  Marcie and Logan returned with files on Vladimir’s activities, his known contacts and preferred New York hangouts—all the minutiae of his life since his arrival in America a year before.

  A round-the-clock spot team was put on to Vladimir, provided by the CIA but reporting to Burt’s headquarters. “We’re working together,” Burt said grimly. Vladimir was photographed wherever he went outside the UN and the Russian compound. Logan and Marcie returned with recorded conversations, tapped phone calls, even satellite images of Vladimir’s movements, as well as the surveillance on the ground.

  The vast array of American technology had been brought to bear. The WorldView-1 military satellite that invisibly circled the earth on a daily basis was tasked to pay special attention to Vladimir and anyone he came into contact with. The satellite was capable of mapping 300,000 square miles a day, with definition that could read a car licence plate anywhere in the day’s field of view.

  This overkill, as Burt called it, was, he believed, running the risk of itself being spotted by the Russians. But it was justified at the CIA by the fact that the entire state intelligence community now needed Mikhail more than ever. It was firmly accepted that the first step in drawing Mikhail out into the open—if indeed he proved to be in America at all—was for Anna to present herself at the heart of the KGB’s presence.

  The Russian agent the British had detected through their source in Moscow’s defence ministry was now given critical status. And finding Mikhail had become more important than ever.

  As a piece of valuable bait, Anna discovered that those around her had become more courteous than ever. She was now a most prized piece of meat, the lure without which the endgame could not be reached, let alone won. And she accepted her role, not just because there was no choice, but also because in her mind she was personally curious to see if Mikhail would contact her. It would lift the burden of the previous months, of the two years since Finn’s death. Mikhail’s anticipated approach to her would be the real beginning of the end—a new life.

  All of these preparations took weeks of grinding slowness to approach the moment of contact itself, and it was now just a few days before Christmas. Burt insisted they all take some time off—Anna to reunite with Little Finn, and Marcie to stay with her. They were all invited to Burt’s ranch for Christmas itself. It consisted of half a million acres of New Mexico wilderness, and Burt took Little Finn on tours to find the herds of bison and elk. They even spotted a mountain lion on the day after Christmas. “A cougar,” Burt proudly said, and smiled.

  But for the three days of the vacation Anna was loaded with boxes of photographs of Vladimir and transcripts of conversations covertly obtained. Recordings of Vladimir’s voice were also included, as well as several lists of his favourite New York shops and cafés. She memorised them all, the cafés, bars, shops, parks—and anywhere else he liked to spend his free time.

  Finally, details of the routes he habitually took to and from the Russian compound and the UN building were marked with refinements, detours, and inconsistencies, all updated daily.

  Chapter 21

  ON THE THIRD DAY after they returned to New York, Burt took a call from the leader of his team of watchers in the city. The Russians at the UN had celebrated their Russian New Year on the night before, in a Russian restaurant on Sixty-third Street. They were expected to return to their offices at the UN building in two days’ time.

  On the morning of January 8, Burt, Anna, Marcie, and Logan, as well as four members of Burt’s company staff, listened to a running commentary from the spot teams on the ground.

  That morning, as every morning on Vladimir’s working days, they picked him out leaving his apartment block on the west side of Central Park, which the Russian diplomatic mission had colonised in the previous ten years, and saw him step out into the cold, snow-driven street to a waiting car.

  On some mornings, he took the subway downtown, out of choice, it was assumed, but this morning the weather clearly drove him into the ease and warmth of one of the pool cars the Russians used. It gave them less chance, Logan observed. If the weather didn’t improve, Vladimir would go straight back the same way without stopping at any of his usual haunts.

  But the skies cleared at lunchtime, the snow disappearing to the north, and at 2:37 in the afternoon the team, alerted by other watchers inside the UN building, reported Vladimir now leaving on foot and turning towards midtown. He finally took a taxi on Fortieth Street.

  Burt placed Anna in one of three yellow New York cabs that seemed to be part of his own inventory, and she and the stubbornly sullen driver waited for instructions.

  A report came through that Vladimir had got out of the cab on Broadway near Washington Square and walked a few yards up the street into a Barnes and Noble bookstore. Anna’s taxi drove downtown for six streets and waited again, a block away from the store.

  “He’s looking at books,” a watcher said unenthusiastically.

  Then they heard that he had exited the st
ore and was walking back two blocks towards a secondhand bookstore off Washington Square itself. Over the car’s speaker phone, she heard he had walked inside.

  “He’s browsing,” another watcher announced over the car’s speaker phone. “He looks like he’ll be some time.”

  Burt came on the line. “Could be the opportunity,” he said.

  “He used to spend hours in bookstores in Moscow,” Anna agreed.

  “Let’s go,” Burt said.

  She could tell from his voice that he was nervous now that control was slipping from him to her.

  She didn’t need to look at the map she had with her. Stepping out of the cab, she walked briskly for one block, until she saw the huge store on the corner of the square. She crossed the street and walked to the right, towards the entrance.

  Inside, she tried to catch sight of where he was, but the store was too big. Racks of books stretched away into the back and spilled out over the sidewalk on a side street. She walked in with her head slightly lowered, but keeping it facing straight ahead. But she took in as much of the store as she could without breaking pace.

  Stopping and browsing with unseeing eyes, she tried to cover the whole store without turning her head away from the racks. Above all, it was important not to catch his eye first.

  Eventually she saw him and breathed a sigh of relief. He was right at the back. If she stayed near the front of the store, he would pass near her on his way towards the exit. She picked up one or two books, not letting her eyes leave him now.

  At the apartment, Burt and Logan were silent, listening tensely to the commentary of the team.

  “He’s picking up a book with a yellow cover,” one lookout who had followed Anna into the store reported.

  “We think it’s The Interrogation by Le Clézio,” came through a moment later.

  Burt sucked his teeth and temporarily switched off the speaker going out. “Training gone out of control,” he hissed at Logan. “They should be looking out for anyone tailing him, not at the damn book titles! Tell them.”

  Logan sent out the order. Then he and Burt left the apartment for a waiting car.

  At just after three thirty, the street team jabbered over the lines that Vladimir was heading towards the exit of the store. They fixed Anna’s position at a rack in the centre aisle of three, one of which he would have to take.

  “He’s heading for the left-hand aisle,” a voice said. “He hasn’t seen anyone.”

  “Nobody tailing him from their side,” another voice came through.

  Anna saw him from the corner of her eye coming from the gloomy recesses at the back of the store into the better-lit front area and then stopping again at a rack about twenty yards away from her. He thumbed through several books, eventually picked a fourth, and, without looking inside the covers, turned to the left and headed for the pay counter.

  There was a queue of three people in front of him, a man and two women. He waited in line. She watched him looking around as he waited. He didn’t look at the book. It was a book he knew he wanted. His gaze followed the counter up to the right, then left. Was he watching? she wondered. No, just bored, just filling time. She was too far behind him for his gaze to light on her without turning.

  Finally, he reached the front of the queue, took out an old leather wallet, and paid the young assistant, who put the book in a brown bag, handed it back to him, and spoke some cheerfully perfunctory words. Then he turned and tried to fit the book into the pocket of his coat, but it wouldn’t quite go. He took some gloves from his pocket.

  “He’s intending to leave the store,” came through on Burt’s car speaker. “He’s putting his gloves on.”

  “Where is she?” Burt said.

  “Right by the door. But it’s a broad exit. He won’t necessarily walk by her.”

  Anna watched the gloves go on. Vladimir took the book in his right hand and walked back into the centre of the shop to the rack where he’d found the book, then turned right towards the exit. He was coming down the central aisle, where she was standing.

  She didn’t turn, but made sure her profile was clearly visible as she looked down at a copy of something by Stendhal—she had no idea of the title. She was holding two other books underneath it, as though she’d decided on buying them.

  He was just yards away now, closing and glancing to the left and right, walking slowly but not stopping. He seemed in no hurry despite his intention to leave. At that point she stopped looking at him and became engrossed in the book in her hand. She didn’t want to be tempted at the last moment to be the one to make the discovery.

  In a few seconds, when she realised she was holding her breath, she became aware of a presence next to her. She didn’t look up, but saw his feet about two yards away. He’d stopped. She turned away from him slightly, as if she were annoyed that someone was looking at her. Then she felt a hand on her arm and looked up.

  When she saw his face, the first of several expressions that crossed it in rapid succession was fear.

  She stared back at him, her own face empty of everything except complete shock.

  Then she looked around, in apparent fear herself, hunting for anyone with him. She looked back at him and took a step away from him, removing his hand from her arm. “Vladimir! What are you doing here!” she breathed.

  He looked at her steadily. The fear was still in his eyes, but now alternated with uncertainty.

  “It is you,” he said.

  “Why are you here?” She sounded frightened even to herself.

  “I’m alone,” he said. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”

  “Why are you here?” she repeated. “Why are you following me?”

  “I’m not following you,” he said, and she saw the uncertainty in his eyes recede and a sense of calm take over for a moment.

  She didn’t reply, but glanced around the store anxiously, looking for anyone else who might be with him.

  “I’m alone,” he repeated. “Anna, I’m alone.”

  She focused her eyes back on him. “You’re looking for me,” she said. “They’re looking for me. Please, Vladimir. I have a small son.”

  He seemed stung by the remark, but recovered quickly. Then he spoke very fast. “There’s a café on Third Street. West of Park Avenue. If you want to see me, I’ll be there. The café’s called Mendoza.” He turned away from her and walked to the exit and left.

  “What’s happening?” Burt asked harshly from the car.

  “He saw her,” came back over the speaker. “They talked. Briefly. He’s left the store.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She’s standing there.”

  “Which way’s he headed?”

  “He’s turned left out of the store and is walking fast. Now he’s stopped. He’s looking for a cab.”

  “Anyone with him? Any tails?”

  “None. Almost sure of that.”

  “Be sure. Watch if anything follows his cab. Watch if he’s on a phone.”

  Anna stepped out of the store onto the sidewalk and turned to the right. She walked twenty yards north of the store as they’d agreed, stopped, then recrossed the street when the pedestrian sign came up. The cab was waiting for her on the corner of the street, closer to the store than where it had dropped her. She stepped in.

  “Where to?” the driver said with complete lack of urgency. It occurred to her he was playing his role too well, and she almost laughed out loud.

  “Third Street,” she said. “On Park. A café called Mendoza. Drive past it and drop me about a hundreds yards farther on.”

  “Hear that?” the driver said into the speaker.

  “Check.” It was Burt’s voice.

  There was silence.

  The cab pulled out and waited for the light, then turned right as soon as it was green.

  “What’s up, Anna?” Burt said through the speaker.

  “We’re meeting.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He seemed as close to being co
nvinced as we can expect.”

  “Good. You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “I hear you looked completely terrified,” Burt said and chuckled. “You got the part.”

  “And a raise, I hope,” she replied.

  She heard Burt’s laugh, but he said nothing.

  As the cab took her steadily downtown, the speaker blared again. One of the watchers.

  “He’s been in a cab for five blocks. Seems to be heading for the venue.”

  “Give him time to get inside before getting close,” Burt ordered.

  Anna’s driver usefully lost time by turning right instead of left and doing three sides of a square around two blocks, away from Park Avenue. Then they heard he had entered the café.

  “Follow,” Burt said.

  The cab took her across the street again where it had picked her up and headed fast towards Third Street. They passed the Café Mendoza. There were traffic lights fifty yards beyond.

  “Before the lights?” the driver asked.

  “Take me just beyond them,” she replied. She wanted a good walk in.

  “The target has entered the café,” the speaker droned.

  There was a pause of two or three minutes as the cab waited at the red lights.

  “The café’s about half full,” the speaker reported. “Mostly students from the university.”

  “I don’t want any comms in there,” she heard Burt say. “Get out of there and stay clear from now on.”

  Anna walked the two blocks from the east of the Café Mendoza. She suddenly felt a feeling of freedom, unexplained. Perhaps it was because it was the first time she’d been free for nearly six months. Just this short walk, alone, raised her spirits. And Vladimir had been compliant.

  She thought what it might be like one day to walk down a street like this, without the catalogue of aims and secrets, the needs of others, in just the freedom of her own mind.

  It was a busy street, lined with tourist stalls and cheap restaurants and cafés. Pedestrians wrapped against the cold stopped only briefly or dashed inside, more for warmth than with any intention of buying anything. There were chestnuts roasting in a metal barrel. The vendor was stamping his feet and warming his gloved hands over the heat. He was wrapped in layers of clothing and a balaclava so that she could just make out a black face and a pair of eyes.