The Blind Spy

by Alex Dryden

  ‘That is the weakest point,’ he told them, but he didn’t explain the significance of their other discoveries of Russian infiltration into other parts of the country.

  ‘They’re all secondary to Sevastopol,’ Burt stated emphatically. ‘In my opinion, they’re anyway just diversions,’ he added vaguely.

  Then, three days before her departure, when they were meeting at a safe house of Cougar’s in the mountains of North Carolina, Burt laid out the operation itself and its background.

  There were five of them in a long room in the huge, woodboarded attic of a clapboard house that overlooked the sea: Burt, Anna, Mikhail, Larry and Bob Dupont. Logan was explicitly excluded from the meeting. ‘He’ll join us later,’ was all Burt said. ‘When we’ve discussed what we need to discuss. Logan is involved only in one aspect of the Ukraine operation. What I’m about to say is for our ears only. And most importantly, Balthasar is for the ears of only those of us in this room.’

  They sat at a polished oak trestle table that was more than thirty feet long. It was covered in maps, three dimensional terrain models, maritime charts, air, train, ferry and bus schedules for the Crimea, long-range weather reports in the northern Black Sea area; there were real-time TV screens on the walls that followed events in the Kiev parliament and news channels from Odessa and Sevastopol; and there were full moon and new moon tables and times and dates of the low-range Black Sea tides – though these last were left unexplained by Burt and, it was assumed by the assembled company, they were there just to provide any and every piece of information that could be extracted from the region.

  Then Burt looked around the long room. It was illuminated by windows at either end, with strip lights tracked along the length of the ceiling. A coffee machine bubbled in a corner, there was a wine rack and cooler, and one of the staff below had laid out plates of sandwiches and biscuits, fruit bowls overflowing with every kind of fruit that would never be touched, and at the far end of the table near where Burt sat there was a modest humidor with a full selection of his favourite cigars. Burt placed his chubby hands on the table, the palms down, and commanded the attention of all of them.

  ‘On the twenty-second of January, three months ago,’ he began, using no notes, ‘Anna retrieved a set of naval department blueprints secreted from the Russian Defence Ministry that show Moscow’s plans for a modest enlargement of the port facilities at Novorossiysk, on the Russian side of the Kerch Straits from Crimea. Some days later, a severed head was delivered to a US embassy staff member in Kiev. The head belonged to a man who was a recent, and unidentified, Russian informant of the CIA station in Kiev. This informant reported what the CIA calls – using the informant’s words – a “terror ship” that had recently left the port of Novorossiysk. It left the Black Sea, changed its name twice and returned with what was apparently a secret cargo. It now lies fifty miles off the port of Sevastopol.’ He reached for a cigar, but used it merely as some kind of prop, stabbing the air with it, waving it as if he were drawing a picture in the air. Then he continued. ‘A week after the ship appears on our mental screens, Anna captured a reinforced steel canister on the Russian-Ukrainian northern border. It was one of several batches being smuggled into Ukraine by Russian special forces troops. From our sources in Russia, we believed it to contain toxic substances.’ Burt paused. ‘And then, to cap things off perfectly, we received, from usually reliable sources in Moscow, stories of a Moscow-backed plan to implicate an Islamic Tatar group in the Crimea, by the name of Qubaq. The idea – apparently – was to create a set of circumstances that would destabilise the Crimean region and then blame this group.’ He looked around the room. What he then said surprised his audience. ‘What – if any of this – do we believe?’ Burt stated with the majesty of a judge in the summing-up of a long case.

  But without waiting for an answer – as everyone around the table was accustomed after one of Burt’s rhetorical flourishes – he continued again. ‘The general background to all this is that Russia has been agitating in Ukraine since the country’s independence. This has been the case mainly since 2000, when Putin came to power. In more recent years, agitation has developed into what might be called a concerted subversion of Ukraine’s political, military and intelligence structures. That began in earnest in 2004 when Moscow tried to fix the elections there and was only defeated by the Orange Revolution. Today, Moscow’s candidate is in power, the revolution has failed, and Ukraine’s future is undecided; whether it is to be part of Western democratic culture or fall back under the influence – perhaps more than that – of Russia.’ He waved the cigar then pointed it like a weapon. ‘So far this has been largely a propaganda war instigated by Russia against Ukraine. But is it just propaganda? In this case – as in most others – we should always listen to what the world’s leaders actually say. In the twentieth century that would, perhaps, have avoided several catastrophes. And what did Putin say about Ukraine? In April 2008, he said to President Bush, “Ukraine is not even a state.” He described how large parts of it were a “gift” from Russia. My belief is that we should listen to what our leaders say, particularly those who don’t have to appeal to a fully democratic electorate. What I believe is that Putin wishes to take back this so-called “gift” of Russia’s. The question is, How will he do so?’

  Burt leaned back in his chair, finally placed the cigar into his mouth and, with his head tilted slightly back, lit a long match that ignited the end of the cigar until he eventually sat blowing clouds of blue-grey smoke towards the ceiling. Then he looked down again at the table.

  ‘So let me begin by assessing what we can be expected to believe of the recent events I’ve just described,’ he said. ‘And, of course, what we should not believe. First of all, the plans for the enlargement of Novorossiysk’s port are negligible in terms of the facilities that the Russian Black Sea fleet needs to operate. In other words, despite Moscow’s assertions at international conferences and private meetings that it is planning to relocate its fleet to the Russian port and away from Ukrainian territory, no such intention exists. It plans to remain in Sevastopol, come what may. I call this Russia’s Strategic Aim One. From the plans themselves, I think we can believe this aim.

  ‘Second, the canisters, which arrive on Ukrainian soil backed by rumours and some evidence of Russia distributing its passports to Ukrainian citizens in the north of the country, and by stories of weapons caches there.’ He looked up at the watchful faces of the group at the table to indicate something momentous. ‘For weeks now our labs have been conducting tests on the canister you brought back from Ukraine, Anna,’ he announced. ‘Now, at last, we have the results. It’s taken so long because they couldn’t quite believe it. What the canister contains is a mixture of Georgian mineral water, iodine, camphor and a small amount of sulphuric acid. The mineral water was the hardest ingredient to identify.’ He paused again to let this sink in. ‘In other words, there is no poison, no secret weapon, no threat to Ukraine – at least from these canisters,’ he added darkly.

  This revelation seemed to throw all of the party into confusion except, mysteriously, Burt.

  ‘Then why did the Russians spend so much time and subterfuge smuggling them into the country in the first place?’ Bob Dupont asked reasonably.

  ‘Exactly,’ Burt said. ‘Why?’

  Mikhail looked up from his usual position of staring at the table, as if in some form of deep meditation, and said in a level voice: ‘So they wanted us to think it was important. They hadn’t anticipated that Anna or anyone else would actually capture any of the canisters. What they were expecting – requiring, in fact – was that our satellites and any other observation would pick up their movements, the military vehicles, even the special forces personnel involved. They wanted us to see the smuggling operation, without knowing that what they were smuggling was harmless.’

  All around the table pondered this for a moment before Burt spoke.

  ‘When all this began,’ he said, ‘it was against a background of R
ussia ramping up its hostilities towards Ukraine in the northern sector of the country. Handing out Russian passports, the so-called weapons caches and planned strike action and revolution. Then came the canisters in a highly-organised, obviously subversive smuggling operation across the border. All these things were taking place in the north-eastern sector of the country along the borders with Russia. But if the canisters can be shown to be a charade – a lie, effectively – then may we assume that all these actions in the north-east of the country are so much chaff the Russians are throwing up in order to divert our attention?’

  Nobody replied.

  ‘I think we can assume that,’ Burt said. ‘Which is what makes Sevastopol and the Crimea all the more relevant. The Crimea is where any action the Russians are planning will take place. That’s where the tipping point is.’

  ‘What about the terror ship?’ Dupont said. ‘That’s off the Crimean coast. They’d know we could see it from satellites too.’

  Burt looked up at him and studied him for a long time. ‘The so-called terror ship,’ he said, emphasising his distrust of identifying the Pride of Corsica as such, ‘that’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Yes. Where did we learn to call it a terror ship? From the man with the severed head. Who was this source? The CIA didn’t know. Yet the CIA have always believed what he told them. The CIA now talk of this “terror ship” as if they’d discovered it themselves. It is now a fully fledged terror ship, simply because it’s called a terror ship. Not for any other reason. No other reason exists.’

  ‘We need to know what’s on board,’ Larry interjected. ‘We can’t assume anything until we know.’

  ‘I agree,’ Burt said. ‘And I’m arranging a little trip to view it. Logan, as it happens, will be in charge.’

  He looked at Anna.

  ‘Tell us about the CIA’s source, Anna,’ he said. ‘The severed head.’

  ‘He’s an occasional the KGB sometimes uses,’ she replied. ‘An ex-convict, drug addict and sometime assassin.’

  ‘Whom the KGB used to plant this terror ship information,’ Burt completed for her. ‘And then they got rid of him. A criminal. An occasional. One job only – but one vital job. After that he’s surplus to requirements. They kill him and they make his death look like a Chechen killing. Yes?’

  ‘Maybe, Burt,’ Anna answered.

  ‘The ship may be a double bluff,’ Mikhail said. ‘They may actually intend for us to find out the identity of the source. That he was KGB. When we know who the dead man is, we see the CIA’s source is likely to be a fraud. And then we don’t take the ship seriously. But perhaps the ship is a real threat.’

  ‘That is true,’ Burt said. ‘The ship could be a double-bluff. It might indeed contain dangerous substances, weapons ... God knows what. And we need to know, as Larry says, what’s on board before we write it off.’

  At this point, a telephone by Burt’s elbow rang. He picked it up.

  ‘Send him up,’ he said. ‘Logan has arrived,’ he announced to the room.

  Through the windows in front of where she was sitting, Anna could see Logan talking into a phone in the driveway. It was the first time she’d seen him for two years. But there he was, exactly the same: the cream suit, the long, lanky gait and, though she could only see him briefly, the shoulder-length hair. The hair was the only difference. It was a lot longer than it had been the last time she’d seen him.

  Earlier in the day, Burt had taken her aside to tell her that Logan was coming here – and that he’d been doing some ‘special work’, as he called it, also in Ukraine.

  ‘You want us to work together,’ she’d asked him. ‘I can’t do that, Burt.’

  ‘He’s been in Ukraine for three months already.’

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him anywhere near what I’m doing.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Burt had said. ‘You’ll be working in parallel, both of you in Ukraine. Different assignments. You’ll only meet by your arrangement, or not at all.’

  ‘You know he’s not to be trusted, Burt. Why do you give him so much rope? He’s a danger. Larry knows, you know, Bob ... we all know. Why do you trust him?’

  But Burt hadn’t given her an explanation.

  As she watched him now, Anna recalled the last time she had seen Logan. It had been at the ranch in New Mexico where they’d last met, two years before. She had discovered that Logan, the disgraced ex-CIA officer and now Burt’s man, was the snake who had almost got her kidnapped by the Russians. Logan had been working as a freelance before Burt had hired him, selling secrets to the highest bidder. He’d sold her location in France to the British, the Americans and the Russians. And then she’d discovered what he’d done. She’d vowed to kill Logan then. But he’d disappeared and, it later turned out, had gone to Russia and killed the man who’d murdered her husband, Finn. It was his attempt to atone for what he’d done.

  That was an incredible feat – even she had to admit it – to kill a KGB-trained crime boss in Moscow and get back alive. But if he’d thought it was an atonement, he’d been wrong. At the ranch after his return, he’d told her he loved her, and she’d told him to get out of her sight. Two years ago – it was their last conversation and back then she’d watched his tail lights disappearing across the mesa. She’d hoped never to see him again.

  Now Logan entered the room. She watched him walk across it, avoiding her eyes – the sloping walk she remembered, as if one foot slightly dragged behind the other. It was a laziness rather than any injury that his walk originated from. She thought Logan cultivated an attitude and a physical presence that betrayed a sort of concealed narcissism, one that he hid behind his sloppiness, tangled hair, distressed clothes and dragging feet. She could think of nothing about him that didn’t distance her from him and it surprised her normally steady consciousness.

  He nodded to her. ‘Anna,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Logan,’ she replied.

  Then he nodded to the others in the room without speaking.

  ‘Please sit down, Logan,’ Burt said.

  Logan took a chair next to Anna.

  ‘Seen Theo?’ Burt asked.

  ‘Yes. And he sends news.’

  ‘What’s he got for us? More news of the terror ship? Do you call it the “terror ship” too, Logan? Have you fallen into Theo’s ways?’

  Logan looked completely relaxed. ‘You know I have access to Theo,’ he said. ‘It was you who sent me under his auspices to the embassy in Kiev.’

  Burt looked away and left his question and Logan’s answer hanging in the air.

  Then his face changed from its usual soft amiability. ‘I don’t think the so-called terror ship is worth a twopenny fuck,’ he said in an unmistakably aggressive tone of voice.

  ‘But we have to know,’ Logan said levelly.

  ‘We do, we do,’ Burt replied. ‘So what have you brought us from Theo?’

  ‘News from Ukraine. According to our embassy in Kiev, President Yanukovich has just signed a deal with Moscow. The Russians get to keep Sevastopol as a base until 2042. It’s been extended from 2017 for another twenty-five years. In return the Russians are giving Ukraine cut-price gas. In addition to the lease’s extension, there will be no expulsion of Russian intelligence officers from the area. The cause has been removed, Burt. The Russians are getting what they want in Ukraine without having to lift a finger.’

  There was a breathless pause in the room. ‘So,’ Burt said. ‘Ukraine is saved,’ he added sarcastically. He turned the sound on for one of the television screens on the wall. They all listened to the Ukrainian announcer relaying the news live.

  ‘There were violent scenes in Kiev’s parliament, but the deal’s gone through, yes,’ Logan replied, ignoring Burt’s sarcasm. ‘Street demonstrations are expected, but they don’t anticipate much trouble.’

  ‘So Russia has got what it wants,’ Burt said, turning the sound off again. ‘And why would they ask for more now? Why would they exacerbat
e a situation further, since they have what they want – Sevastopol?’ He looked around the room, taking in those present one by one. Larry first, to his right, then Bob Dupont, Logan, Anna next to Logan, and finally Mikhail. ‘The Ukrainian president has given the Kremlin a gift.’ He looked back at Anna. ‘You said once, dear Anna, that when someone rejects a part, it’s because they want the whole.’ He refrained from looking at Logan, who was the context of her remark. ‘But what if someone – in this case a spy elite in Moscow driven by an overriding desire to recapture its old empire – what if they do get a part of what they want? Does that mean they’re satisfied? Does that mean the game’s off?’

  Anna didn’t respond.

  ‘No,’ Mikhail answered for her.

  ‘So are the CIA going to stand down in Ukraine?’ Dupont said.

  ‘Yes. But there’s more,’ Logan said.

  ‘Tell us,’ Burt commanded.

  ‘Theo says there’s evidence that the Pride of Corsica – the terror ship – is under the command of Qubaq in the Crimea. Also evidence that the bomb that blew up the Odessa nightclub is their work.’

  ‘Evidence from where?’ Burt asked.

  ‘From Moscow. The CIA and the Russians are going to work together. Once we’ve had a close look at the ship, assessed its potential, we, the Russians and the British are going to make an assault on the ship.’

  ‘Evidence from Moscow, you say,’ Burt said. ‘And you call the ship a “terror ship” now too, Logan?’

  ‘That’s what she’s being called.’

  ‘By the CIA and the Kremlin.’

  Logan didn’t respond.

  ‘Ah,’ Burt continued. ‘So it’s all very neat, isn’t it? All the focus now from the White House is on your terror ship, Logan,’ he said, and looked hard at Logan. ‘Theo says that the terror ship is under the control of Qubaq,’ he intoned, making Theo’s voice appear like an oracular prophesy. ‘Theo says that the bomb that went off at the Golden Fleece nightclub in Odessa the night before the elections was also a terror attack by Qubaq.’