by D S Kane
DD expected the Russians to believe the offer was legitimate. If they accepted it, the Russians would be blamed for terminating one of DD’s nagging problems.
DD had often posed as spymasters in intelligence services. This was just another move on its enormous internal chess board.
* * *
Hu Wan worked at the Beijing Technology Research Center on the northwest side of the Fifth Ring Road. Although the smog made it unhealthy to be outside, she carried her lunch from the building to the far edge of the compound’s brick walls. It had nearly been two decades since Walter Southerton had turned her when he worked at the British Embassy in Beijing. Her call sign in MI-6 was “ZC” and Walter remained her handler.
For two decades Hu Wan had worked at the facility. She functioned as a low-level member of the Chinese Secret Intelligence Service and served as a watcher at the research facility.
Hu Wan had once been married. Southerton had managed to smuggle her daughter to relatives in California in exchange for Hu Wan’s work as a mole. But when her masters at CSIS had discovered that her daughter was missing, they used her daughter, whose name in the United States was Samantha Trout, to control them both. In effect, now she was a triple agent.
Wan had recently been contacted by two other spies who had claimed they worked with Walter. They claimed they were a married couple. She wasn’t sure she could believe anything anyone told her in her twisted world.
She took a short walk toward its guarded gate. Smiling and nodding to one of the men wearing a military uniform, she exited through the gate and walked another two hundred meters to a shade tree, where she sat. Wan pulled a char siu bao from her pocket and ate the doughy pork-filled pastry.
She often took her lunch under this very tree. It was one of the few spots within the compound where the security cameras weren’t working. Of course, it was Wan who had disconnected the camera during those few times she needed to do a “blind date” drop. She’d have to reconnect it within fifteen minutes or the guard monitoring the feeds might be awake enough to notice that one of the cams had stopped working.
Minutes after she sat under the tree, a short Asian man wearing eyeglasses as thick as fish bowls appeared in front of her. “Do you have the thumb drive?” he asked.
She nodded as she swallowed the last bite of her lunch treat. Wan handed the man the drive, and he handed her an envelope. She pointed in the direction from which he’d come. “Go now, and quickly.” She peeked into the envelope and restrained herself from giggling. She pocketed the envelope and acknowledged that she’d need a lot more money before she could plan her escape from China. But, trades like this one yielded more cash than she could make in five years.
The man nodded back and disappeared. She watched him walk away, and as he neared the forest’s edge, she saw him meet a short, thin woman. They both climbed over the far wall.
Seeing the couple, Wan suddenly recognized them. She’d seen their photo on a poster in the laboratory. They were wanted by the state police. William Wing and Elizabeth Brown were not British spies, but worked instead for the Mossad. She laughed at their brazenness.
She wondered if it would take the Mossad as long as she thought it would take MI-6 to discover that the forged plans had originated in Israel.
* * *
Walter sat in the chair across from C. The office was furnished to resemble part of an exclusive British men’s club from the 1800s: dark wood paneling, overstuffed chairs, and a large bar filled with bottles of scotch.
He found the formality of the office disturbing. It was all he could do to keep from shifting in his seat. Perspiration formed on his forehead. Am I that nervous? The answer was obvious.
“So, Southerton, you claim they have plans to build an advanced missile?”
“Yes, sir, my asset told me that the Chinese do, and I can have the plans for you if we pay the hacker.”
C stroked his chin in silence. “Well, Southerton, I have a problem. You see, one of my other case officers has produced a report stating that the Russians are also in development. How do you account for this?”
“Sir, I would be disappointed if these missiles weren’t in development by every player.”
C showed just the crack of a smile. “Good. I agree. And what would you recommend we do with the intelligence, should we be able to confirm it?”
“Share it with the Five Eyes.”
C could no longer conceal his smile. “What about Her Majesty? And the large defense corporations?”
“Dunno. We’d need to be very careful.”
“You say your asset offers a non-exclusive copy of the plans for one-point-five million sterling?”
Southerton nodded.
“Right, then. Negotiate them down a tad, if you can. Southerton, you’re dismissed.”
Walter felt his knees wobble as he rose and walked out the door from C’s office.
* * *
Walking across the Stanford campus quad, Ann felt the buzz from her cell.
“Hi, Jon. What’s going on?”
“Haven’t heard from your parents and I called to tell you that I’m on my way out of the office. Serious problems. I’ll be gone for at least a week. Can your parents wait?”
Ann stopped still. “Sure. Can you tell me anything?”
“Not much. I have two operatives who need exfiltration and right now it’s looking dicey.”
“Good luck, then.”
“Right, love. Soon then. I adore you.”
“Back atcha.” She heard the click as he terminated the call. I’ll be up to my hip boots in this kind of stuff after we’re married. Soon. Very soon.
* * *
Dmitri Sarkov left the Kremlin through its main exit onto Red Square. It was warmer today than any day in the previous week, a sign that the seasons were changing. But snow covered his overcoat. He got into the back seat of the waiting limo and signaled the driver. “Research lab.”
The limo pulled away from the curb. Sarkov thought of how his life had changed. There was a time, twenty years ago, when he’d been married. But without warning, his pregnant wife fled from Russia. When state security discovered that she’d taken classified intelligence with her, it almost cost him his life. Until then he’d not known that she was spying for the Americans. The pain in his heart remained. It’s what drove him to become a spy himself, and then from being just a low-level functionary to one of the Kremlin’s top spies. He thought of the son his wife had borne, now a student at Stanford University. He had followed his son’s exploits, but knew he would never be able to see him without exposing them both to extreme danger.
Once settled in the back seat, he removed his gloves and rubbed his hands together. Then he opened his attaché case and reread the research report. According to the spies he’d sent to China, the Beijing lab was also working on the invisibility cloak, just as his own research scientists were. But there was one additional comment that made him frown. The Americans were also in the mix for development of this new tech, and they were leading the pack of nations. Michael Ashmel built a can of worms and now all the birds are feeding.
Dmitri slammed the lid of the case. He knew that whoever reached the point of a successful development would be able to command the best terms at the next economic summit, scheduled for December in Oslo. And, of course, that country would have less to fear from each of the other contenders.
He had to make sure it would be Russia. And his boss in the Kremlin had just approved the budget for him to make this happen. He’d have kill teams operating in the United States, China, and Israel. Would that be enough? No, to be safe, he decided he’d also need to terminate the one in the United Kingdom.
* * *
Ann dressed in another navy pants suit and placed two copies of her résumé in her attaché case. Her final interview this week was with one of the tech giants located near the Stanford campus. She examined herself in the full-length mirror of her apartment and nodded. After a single sip of black coffee, she wa
lked toward campus.
She passed by Emerson Street and ignored her stomach growling for breakfast. After the interview, dim sum brunch at Dynasty. That’ll be my reward.
As she passed the quadrangle, she looked at her wristwatch. She was less than five minutes early for her interview with Intel Corporation.
She thought about the questions they might ask, and her well-thought-out answers. They might seem rehearsed. But they are good truthful answers.
* * *
Hu Wan sat in the open air vestibule of the ancient building that served as the group home for impoverished workers of the Communist Party. It was the first day in the last six months with little air pollution in Beijing. She breathed deeply and drew in the clean air.
As a spy, her daughter Mou Chu had been a disappointment. And Hu Wan was afraid that if she pushed Mou Chu too hard, the girl would be discovered. There were so many ways that failure might evolve. Mou Chu might just tell her to leave her alone. The pressure of having to deliver for her mother might cause Mou Chu to make a mistake big enough to be visible to the Americans, and she could be unmasked as a double. And there were other, even worse, possible fates that Hu Wan didn’t even want to consider. The very worst one would lead her daughter to inform her handlers that her mother had tried pressuring her to become a double, and the handlers might decide to use Mou Chu to deliver useless or, even worse, deceptively false information.
She longed to hear her daughter’s voice again, but suspected that if she was to call her, it would put more distance between them.
She hated what her superiors had forced her to become.
* * *
Glen Sarkov unknotted the necktie he’d worn to his interview with the NSA. He suspected that both Samantha and Ann had already interviewed with them and wondered just how many graduates they would offer employment to.
He doubted he’d be one of the lucky ones. With a deepening recession—according to the news—he thought his situation might soon be desperate. With that in his mind, working for the NSA or the CIA looked doubly attractive right now. And, considering that his mother had been murdered by the Russian agents, Glen grimaced. He wanted some way to get revenge at them for what they’d done.
He rolled the tie up and stuffed it into one of his business suit’s outside pockets. As he passed one of the classroom windows, he glanced at his reflection. Damn! My hair isn’t properly combed. I went through that entire interview with a cowlick popping out the back of my head. He shook his head.
But, if I did get an offer from them, I could double on the Russians with the NSA. After all, the main mission of every spy organization is to spread disinformation. Wouldn’t that be a hoot! Unless, of course, the Russians discovered what I was doing. Damn. It’s so confusing. I need help deciding how to handle this. From the many conversations I overheard between Ann and her parents, I think maybe her parents are former spies. Could Ann help me decide what to do?
He scratched his chin and wondered if she could still be his friend.
CHAPTER 6
Stanford University Quadrangle
March 6, 2:56 p.m.
Six hours ago, just after she woke, Ann heard her cell buzzing.
Glen Sarkov, her former boyfriend asked if they could meet and she had somehow fumbled her way into agreeing.
Now, she sat at on one of the benches at the north end of the quad. It was after lunch, before their afternoon classes started. He’d refused to tell her what he needed to speak with her about.
She hadn’t wanted to meet with him because she had assumed he still wanted to restart their relationship. After he cheated on Ann with Samantha Trout, he’d wanted her friendship, but Ann knew she could never trust Glen again.
Ann scanned her watch while she sat. He was late. She rose off the bench and started walking back toward her next class when she heard his voice.
“Ann. Sorry I was late. I only need a few minutes.”
“What do you want?”
Glen’s face was full of pain. Ann tamped her anger.
He took a breath. “I’ve not been honest with you, and now I need your advice to figure out what to do.”
“I already know you’re a liar.”
He shook his head. “No. Not about us. It’s about my past. My mom and I left Russia when I was two years old. I thought we were safe, but last year a bunch of Russian hoods kidnapped her and threatened her life if I didn’t help them.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Just listen. They wanted my team’s code for DARPA’s AI contest entry. Now, I’m a candidate for a position at both the CIA and the NSA. When the Russians find out, I know they’ll want me to give them everything I find out.”
Ann looked like the wind had been knocked out of her.
“Ann, I may be a liar, but I don’t want to become a traitor. I need to tell my employer, but if they hire me anyway, I know they’ll want me to double for them. The Russians murdered my mother, and I want them to pay. But, if I offer them intelligence, I’m sure they’ll know I’m giving them crap. What should I do? Weren’t your mom and dad spies? What would they do?”
Ann’s jaw had dropped wide open midway through his confession. “Shit on a marshmallow stick. You never fail to surprise me, Glen. And that isn’t really a good thing.”
“Please, please, help me. I don’t know what to do.”
Ann frowned. “Glen, I’m not in any position to offer you a suggestion. After all, I’m just your former girlfriend. This situation isn’t like anything I’ve ever had to cope with.”
“Ann, you don’t trust me, and for good reason. But I still trust you. Give me something. Anything! What would you do if you were me?”
She stood motionless, eyeing Glen intently for a few moments. Then, slowly, she said, “If I were you, I’d find some way to hide the fact that the Russians ever used your mother to leverage you. If those intelligence agencies already know, if they ever find out, they’ll use you in ways neither of us can even imagine. I think you might be better off choosing a different employer. Google, Intel, Facebook. Anyone else.”
Glen’s expression was filled with pure heartbreak. He simply shook his head, then nodded. “Thanks.” He turned and walked away.
Ann watched him disappear into a crowd of students. She felt his sorrow and bewilderment. What if that had happened to me? She felt a tinge of sympathy for him.
CHAPTER 7
Stanford University Quadrangle
March 10, 8:46 a.m.
Karl Nesmith sat on a bench in the quad, enjoying the sunshine. He had his eyes closed and his face tilted toward the glowing orb in the sky. But his brain was busy, thinking about the fifty-three candidates he’d interviewed for the CIA. When he’d read the original list, three weeks ago, there were over three hundred names, but by now he’d narrowed it down by three-quarters. He’d been directed to return with just three from Stanford University, but there were eleven he thought equally qualified. He was sure a few of those he made offers to would decline, taking higher salaries from the tech giants to start their careers, with dreams of someday becoming startup CEOs. He figured he’d have to make each offer separately, and wait for a decision, stopping the process when he had captured a “yes” from the three best.
His task now was to reconfirm the rankings he’d assigned the candidates after their interviews. He pulled the list from his pocket and reviewed each one’s grading, using parameters for basic intelligence, ability to blend into a crowd, physical agility, and observational awareness. He remained in the quad until noon, and by then he was more than halfway through the list.
When the sun was too much for him, he walked to shade. He knew he’d be suffering from a bad case of sunburn. The cafeteria near where he stood looked like a good place to complete the task.
Having this second look at the candidates he’d evaluated so far reassured him that his original top four were still his top picks: David Nordman, Ann Sashakovich, Glen Sarkov, and Samantha Trout. He was confident that, given h
ow much better they were, they’d probably remain his tops picks when the task was finished.
* * *
Bertram Nescomb sat in his motel room, sipping from a cup of black coffee. The NSA recruiter considered the thirty-two candidates he’d interviewed at Stanford. All were from northern California. Two-thirds were white and three-quarters were male. He grimaced. This would interfere with his directive to be “more inclusive.”
His task was to make solid recommendations on who to pursue as future case officers. He had ranked each candidate after their initial interview, and thought about who could combine long-term potential and raw talent, and still be malleable enough to be a solid candidate. After about three hours of indecisiveness, he selected Samantha Trout and Glen Sarkov as his best choices. He already knew he wanted Dave Nordman, but decided to offer him a consulting position to start off. He wasn’t sure Nordman had the stamina it would take to stay with the NSA.
He’d need a third, and after nearly another hour, wondered if he’d rejected Ann Sashakovich too soon. But, once a rejection letter was sent, he felt he could no longer change direction. He went through the pile of candidates he still hadn’t rejected, looking for his third choice. If he couldn’t find a suitable candidate, maybe he’d move Nordman into that third slot.
* * *
Ashish Abdul Muhammad packed his overnight case and checked out of the Stanford Arms Hotel in Palo Alto. He had his short list and had emailed it to Gargantuan Micro headquarters. He’d received over three hundred requests for interviews from Stanford seniors, and regretted that he’d only had five openings to fill. He’d interviewed twenty-five candidates and selected his short list of four. He was looking for those with a larger-than-life entrepreneurial view of business, but still had a firm grasp of how tech was changing with the tighter economy. His list consisted of Ann Sashakovich, Glen Sarkov, and Dave Nordman. And, he also had a backup candidate, Samantha Trout. But what if they all accepted jobs somewhere else before he could finish the interview process?
