Agent Rising

by Ethan Jones

  Georgy tried to hide the betraying frown that was furrowing his brow. “I fail to understand how this operation will help your business, Mr. Tupolev … How will what happened more than thirty years ago have any bearings on your … enterprise … today?” Georgy spread his arms.

  “Oh, that’s why you’re reluctant, because you don’t understand.” Tupolev grinned and nursed his drink. “Well, let me explain that. A vital part of my business is anticipating my customers’ needs, assessing and determining what they are willing to pay. Especially for intelligence.”

  “This … this intel and our past is not for sale.”

  “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t buy or sell the KGB’s secrets. I love my motherland just as much as you do, Mr. Azarov. I’m only trying to protect intelligence from falling into the wrong hands.” He leaned forward and placed his glass on the table. “You see, the man who gave me that file, which is so dear to you, he said he has a second report, which has some secrets that even the KGB might have not known … at least not fully.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tupolev, but you’re not making it any clearer.”

  “I’ll be as frank as I can, Mr. Azarov. There is a former KGB agent who’s offering me that second report. Before I pay the outrageous amount of money for the supposedly accurate intelligence, I want you to help me verify some of what I already know, confirm a few facts.”

  “About what?”

  “Like I said, about what happened after you and the CIA woman reached the other side of the wall. About what happened at the hospital, and more importantly, what happened to the baby.”

  “I told everything I know to my superiors at that time, and it’s all in here.” Georgy tapped the file.

  Tupolev offered a mischievous smile and glanced at his wristwatch. “Why don’t you think about it? Perhaps something might come to mind … Then, we can discuss it after lunch. Or after supper. Once you’ve made your decision.”

  “I’m leaving right after lunch, as per our agreement.”

  Tupolev waved a dismissive hand. “Agreements change all the time. And you’re not going anywhere.”

  Georgy cocked his head. “Are you going to keep me aboard the yacht by force?”

  Tupolev returned a look as if the former KGB agent had insulted his mother. “Oh, no, Mr. Azarov, why would I stoop so low as to do that? You are going to stay here by your own will, because of love…”

  “Love?”

  “Yes, your deep and unending love for your wife and your two daughters, Masha and Melania, and their little children, the adorable Vera and Simeon. How sad, how very sad and broken you’d be if an accident happened to one of them…”

  Georgy jumped to his feet and leaned over the table. “If you touched a single hair of—”

  An armed man materialized at the right side of the deck. His submachine gun was pointed at Georgy’s head.

  Tupolev raised his hand toward the armed man. “Relax. My friend is very passionate when it comes to his family. It’s obvious he loves them very much, as we all do.” Tupolev shrugged, then glanced at Georgy. “Look, we both know that Russian drivers aren’t good at all. I wouldn’t rule out the sad event of your daughters being killed on their way to work…”

  Georgy’s hands tightened into fists. He shot a fiery glance at Tupolev, then looked at the armed man. His gun remained trained on Georgy. “If you ever—”

  Tupolev jumped to his feet and slapped Georgy across the face. “If I ever what? Huh, what are you going to do? You’ve tested my patience enough. If you don’t do as I say, every single thing that I demand of you, I will … listen to me… I will kill every single member of your family.” Tupolev spaced the last words evenly. “You got it?”

  Georgy lifted up his head and wiped the trickle of blood oozing from his split lip. He nodded, but the killing look remained in his eyes.

  Tupolev nodded back. “Good. And that evil smirk will get you nowhere. The only way you’re making it back to your dear family in one piece is if you tell me everything. Start with The Faithful pregnant … and tell me all about the baby boy who didn’t die at the hospital…”

  Chapter Two

  Russia’s Internal Intelligence Agency Headquarters

  Lubyanka Building, Moscow, Russia

  A Week Later

  Maximillian Thornichinovich refreshed the screen of his office computer, but no new emails appeared on his inbox. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was only 8:15, and he doubted anyone at the SVR, or the Russian foreign intelligence service would have started to do serious work so early in the morning. But Maxim, as all his friends called him, wanted, no, he needed the SVR to accept his job transfer application. It had been over a week, and today was the deadline for replies.

  Maxim was not a prayerful man, yet he bowed his head, put his hands together, and muttered a short prayer, asking God to provide him a positive answer to his application. When he looked up, he realized his reading glasses had slid to the tip of his nose, so he pushed them back up. Maxim had a nose that belonged to a Rembrandt painting, the one that showed Jesus with long flowing hair and a long narrow nose. Unlike Jesus, though, Maximillian had short, clean-cut brown hair.

  He ran his hands through his hair and looked at the stacks of folders piled up on his desk. His workload for today, and tomorrow, and the rest of this week, and the one after that, and the next … Instead of being out in the field and doing the job he was trained for, the job he loved, the operative was chained to his office desk, condemned to plow through reviews of intelligence reports that had already been combed through by teams skilled in this type of analysis. Maxim was doomed to the boring, repetitious tasks because of the Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport incident.

  He sighed as his mind went back to the events of that fateful day. Along with his teammate, Maxim had arrived at the airport in plenty of time to pick up the high-value detainee. Maxim had worked for the FSB, or Russia’s internal intelligence agency, for the last three years as a “transporter,” a transport and escort agent for high-risk operations. He remembered everything vividly, as if it were yesterday, although it had been over two months ago.

  He had joked with his teammate Sasha about having eighteen minutes to transfer the banker arriving from London to the safehouse on the outskirts of Moscow. It was going to be plenty of time, but then things went the way they went did … And now Max was blamed for the airport mess and its devastating consequences.

  Maxim sighed and glanced at his left-arm gunshot wound he had suffered during the incident. The bullet had left a two-inch-long scar. He shrugged. It goes well with the scar on my face. He ran his fingers along the side of his jawline, then touched his left cheekbone. As they say, women like scars.

  He shook his head. Scars or no scars, he hadn’t been very successful in attracting women’s attention. He had dated when he was in high school and university while pursuing his degree in business management, but those relationships were shallow and had ended in disappointment. Once he had started to work for the FSB, his attention had shifted. He was immersed in the never-ending workload, and his assignments made for an unpredictable lifestyle. The FSB had given him not only the badge of status, the symbol of authority and power that it represented, but also a sense of purpose, belonging, and direction, which he deeply needed at that point in his life. Despite the constant repetition from his adoptive mother that he was a “star ready to shine and brighten someone’s world,” Maxim doubted that would ever come true. What he had gained in work prowess and confidence, he had lost in the matters of the heart. While he didn’t think twice about walking into any prison and escorting the worst terrorist for his day in court, he just couldn’t find the words to talk to a member of the opposite sex.

  Like Helena, or Lena as he imagined calling her, the analyst working on his floor of the building. Lena was about twenty-five, a petite blonde with a gorgeous smile and great taste in clothes and hairstyles. Her hair flowed down her neck one day, was turned into stunning curls t
he next, and was arranged in a bun the day after that. Maxim had worked with Lena on a few assignments when he had needed analysis about buildings, routes, or people assigned to the detainees’ transport. She was smart, resourceful, and kind. Maxim had never built up the courage to ask her out. She’s way out of my league, he kept telling himself, afraid of her rejection. So he was content to only steal glances whenever they’d pass one another in the halls. One of these days, one of these days… But the day hadn’t arrived yet.

  He thought about the true reasons why he thought Lena wouldn’t like him. Is it because I’m letting what others think about me affect the way I think about myself? It was true that FSB operatives, especially covert agents—the ones who liked to call themselves “true spies”—despised transporters, considering them not really agents. But what did Lena think about it? What do I think about it?

  Maxim glanced at the windowless walls of his office. When he had been reassigned, he had lost his office with the window overlooking Lubyanka Square. It was given to another operative, who had also taken to driving a brown-gray metallic UAZ Patriot SUV, the agency-issued vehicle. Now Maxim had to drive his battered 2014 Lada, or take the bus when the car refused to start during subpolar mornings. Maxim could fix pretty much any vehicle, and he had repaired the Lada a thousand times. It was time for a new car.

  He used his finger to push a small toy car sitting on his desk, a gift from Sasha. It was the replica of the UAZ Patriot SUV he used to drive until days ago. Maxim “drove” the toy car across the desk, then flicked it with his finger. The car raced toward the tower of folders, bumped against it, and flipped to one side. Maxim sighed. Like my whole life, turned upside down.

  He returned the car to its place and shook his head. He thought about the cryptic meeting he had had a few days ago with a man who claimed to work as a cultural advisor for the American embassy in Moscow. However, the man had told Maxim, in no uncertain terms, that he actually worked for the CIA. Moreover, the man had offered Maxim help, in the form of compromising material about FSB Director Izhutin of Internal Investigations. He had led the inquiry team that had investigated the airport incident and had proposed Maxim’s demotion. The intelligence, the CIA man had said, would convince Izhutin to change his mind, and Maxim could have his job back.

  Maxim had long contemplated calling the number he had received from the CIA agent. But he hadn’t taken the fateful step. He knew that if he did, there was no turning back. His life might change in ways he couldn’t imagine. He knew that no one played with fire without getting burned. He felt the same way about dealing with the CIA.

  The CIA handler had said that the intelligence came with no strings attached, since it was from a friend. But Maxim had no friends that would come up with such an offer. This had to be a trap. Maybe it’s Izhutin trying to set me up. Or the CIA simply trying to recruit me, luring me into making a mistake, so they can use that against me. No. If the CIA really has compromising material on Izhutin, it would bring about his downfall, sooner or later. But it will be in someone else’s hands. The CIA will try to recruit someone else, a fool that would take their bait…

  Maxim shrugged. He still hadn’t reported the encounter with the CIA agent to his boss, concerned that he might interpret and use it against Maxim. Even before the demotion, Maxim hadn’t been on good terms with his boss and didn’t want to make the situation worse.

  He shook his head again, drew in a deep sigh, and decided to stop feeling sorry for himself. This situation won’t last forever. It can’t; it won’t. He picked up the top folder and began to read the two-hundred-page-long report about potential terrorist threats and the security situation in and around St. Petersburg. Soon, he was immersed in details, highlighting names, data, or figures to double-check against the summary at the end. He detested his job, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give it his best. They will see me excel at anything they throw at me. That will make them change their minds.

  He hadn’t noticed the passing of time or anything else around him—giggles or whispers coming from the hall, the droning of the central heating system, or the repetitious noises of copy machines and printers—so the ringing of the phone on the desk startled him. He glanced at the caller ID screen, and his heart began to pump faster. A three-letter word appeared on the screen: SVR. Is … is this about my application?

  Maxim jumped to his feet, shut the door of his office, and cleared his throat. He picked up the receiver, just as the phone rang a second time. “Good morning, this is Agent Maximillian Thornichinovich, FSB,” he said in a firm tone, but his voice didn’t ring with the confidence he wanted.

  “Mr. Thornichinovich, my name is Oleg Blokhin. I’m Deputy Director of SVR’s Special Operations Division. When can you meet me?”

  Maxim’s heart almost stopped beating. He had submitted his application to the SPD, the innocuous name for the SVR section in charge of espionage and intelligence gathering in Europe and North America. “I can meet you right away, sir. Where?”

  “At the SVR’s HQ. Can you do 10:30?”

  Maxim glanced at the wristwatch. It was almost 9:30. The SVR’s headquarters was located in the Yasenevo district in the southern part of Moscow. Considering the distance from the Lubyanka Building, the time of day and the traffic, it would take at least an hour and twenty minutes at normal speed. But Maxim was nothing like the normal driver. “I can sure do that, sir.” This time, his voice echoed with the determination he desired.

  “Great. See you at that time.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Blokhin hung up, but Maxim held the phone in his hand for another few seconds. Did this just happen? This has to do with my transfer. Why else would an SVR deputy director call a lowly FSB operative like me?

  Maxim muttered a brief prayer as he jumped to his feet and dashed through the hall. He almost crashed into Lena, who was coming out of the kitchen carrying a cup of coffee. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled and gave her a shy smile.

  Lena returned the smile. “Where are you—”

  But Maxim had rounded the corner. He flew down the staircase, jumping the stairs by threes and fours. He prayed his Lada would start without any hiccups. His prayer was answered, and he zoomed out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. He turned onto Bolshaya Lubyanka, then drove as fast as he could without causing a car accident or running into pedestrians. Then he merged onto Sadovaya-Sukharevskaya, hoping it was going to be the fastest route to the SVR headquarters.

  It was.

  This seemed to be Maxim’s day, as the traffic wasn’t as heavy as he expected. He listened on the radio to the traffic incidents and congestions report and avoided a couple of bottlenecked segments. As he zipped through the Mozhaysky District and got on the Moscow Automobile Ring Road, he knew he was making good time and guessed he’d reach the destination with perhaps five minutes to spare. Maxim thought about calling Sasha and asking if he knew anything about Deputy Director Blokhin that might help during the interview. But he doubted Sasha would know. While he was a higher-level SVR operative—“a special operative in training,” as he liked to refer to himself—than Maxim was in the FSB, Sasha did little more than transfer detainees. Moreover, Maxim worried the phone call might slow him down. I don’t have any time to waste.

  He fixed his hair in the rearview mirror, then tightened the knot of his blue tie. He was glad he kept dressing up, regardless of the demotion. My father used to dress up, suit and tie, every single day. I don’t remember any of it, but that’s what they’ve told me. My father … What was he like? He remembered what the adoptive mother had told him, as he never knew his father. He was a great war hero. We know very little about what he did, but he fought to keep our motherland safe, to keep you safe. According to her, Maxim’s father was stationed in West Berlin during the Cold War and was killed the year Maxim was born, in 1989. His job was to secure intelligence and provide it to the KGB, intelligence that, according to Maxim’s mother, first and foremost saved Maxim himself, and man
y, many others.

  A car horn brought him back from his daydreaming. He had slowed down, so he stepped on the gas and waved an apologetic hand to the impatient driver. He peeled off the highway at the next exit and followed the two-lane road leading to the SVR compound. He noticed the high wrought-iron fence that encircled the entire tall-treed area, so the nickname for the SVR compound was les, or the forest. During the Cold War, the SVR was known as the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Did my father actually work for the KGB, or was he only an asset deployed to collect information from local sources?

  He slowed down when he reached the gate and rolled down the window. The armed guard asked for Maxim’s credentials, and he showed him the FSB identification card. The guard waved him through and told Maxim to park in the visitor’s area, then make his way to the main entrance.

  Maxim glanced at his wristwatch. A sense of panic had started to sizzle deep in his gut. He had about five minutes to make it to the meeting room. Then it dawned on him. I never asked about the room … Is it at the deputy director’s office? I doubt it. He sighed as he rushed toward the headquarters’ entrance. Someone at the reception desk will know, or can find out.

  The clerks at the reception desk double-checked Maxim’s credentials, then gave him skeptical glances when he mentioned he had a meeting with Deputy Director Blokhin, but didn’t have a meeting room. Their disbelief increased when one of them checked the deputy director’s schedule and couldn’t find Maxim’s name or that the SVR senior official had even scheduled a meeting at that time.

  Maxim began to grow impatient while the clerks began to grow suspicious. They called a supervisor, who started to ask Maxim the same questions. He glanced at his wristwatch. He only had a couple of minutes and, the way things were going, he would be late.