The Ganymede Project

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  * * *

  Later that day, Katrina and Pavel Voschchanov joined crowds along Moscow’s main streets. They cheered as a 3-mile-long column of armor retreated to bases outside the city. They watched as teen-aged girls tossed flowers to smiling soldiers, who seemed victorious in their retreat.

  In the weeks that followed, Katrina worked on several communications-related projects for Yeltsin’s office. She established secure backup voice and data networks that could be accessed from several points in and around Moscow. It was hectic work, because Yeltsin’s advisors weren’t sure if or when there might be another coup attempt. Once the systems were in place, things slowed down to a more normal pace.

  Then one day, Pavel called her into his office.

  It was a spacious, well-appointed suite, suitable for a high level bureaucrat. Katrina sat in a waiting area until the secretary called her in. Pavel stood up, his large frame matching the scale of a massive and polished wooden desk. The Kalishnikov assault rifle lay near the edge—a paper weight evoking memories of near chaos.

  “You still have the gun!” she exclaimed, shaking his hand.

  “A reminder that we can’t play it safe anymore. When government arrogance exceeds my level of tolerance, I will pull it out again. I keep my powder dry.”

  “One person with a gun? There is only one outcome.”

  “Sometimes one person with a conscience is enough.”

  His secretary interrupted. “Mister George Gens to see you.”

  “Let him wait!” His face became a reddened mask. “This building is filled with people who caught the diplomatic flu when we were under the gun. Today everyone condemns Yanayev’s gang because it is safe to do so. The play-it-safe politicians have become legends in their own minds. We must remember our enemies, Katrina, and we must not forget our friends. You are a friend. I want to reward you. Tell me what you want—within reason.”

  Katrina did not hesitate. “I want to go to America. I want to take my brother, Vladimir, with me.”

  * * *

  She pushed her way out of the Russian parliament building, through an excited throng of people. She wore a broad smile. Pavel Voschchanov had promised a position at the Russian Embassy in Washington, D.C. She was to modernize intelligence collection efforts in the U.S.

  Above Katrina, on a sunlit balcony of the Parliament Building, a gray-haired man waved.

  Two hundred thousand Russians raised their fists, shouting “Yeltsin! Yeltsin! Yeltsin!”

  Later that day, Yeltsin dispatched a squad to Dzerzhinsky Square to remove a monument that stood like a jackboot on Russia’s neck. Amid a cheering crowd, they tore down the statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Soviet secret police.

  22. NIGHT MUSIC

  July 1992

  Annapolis, MD

  Somewhere between sleeping and waking, beneath the covers of his father’s old bed, on a summer’s night choking with heat and humidity, a dead face re-animated dim memories of a theatrical setting. Yuri’s unconscious mind searched for an exit, but there was none. His body was paralyzed, unable to act. The face drew nearer. Shadows fell away, revealing sharply chiseled features and stiff, formal dress. The soft woodwinds and strings of an orchestra were attacked by the boldly assertive warnings of crashing symbols and trumpets. A moment in time played back in his head.

  “The madness—” Alexander Sverdlov said, with an intimate whisper and a smile, leaning close to Yuri’s ear. “Sometimes, you can hear it in the music, like the oboe’s theme, fading in and out.”

  “Was he really mad, father?” Yuri asked in a high-pitched, nine-year-old voice, looking down at the stage as lithe dancers blurred motion and music.

  His father knitted eyebrows and pressed a forefinger against his lips. “Stress,” he said, in a hush. “That’s what started the hallucinations. Tchaikovsky’s visions began after his First Symphony. They affected him continuously, his whole life. He never escaped them.”

  Yuri nodded, listening to the music swell, carrying his mind like a leaf drifting across a pond that rippled with the interplay of human and animal, reality and sorcery. The drama unfolded in graceful arabesques and hypnotic orchestration. Yuri leaned into his father’s ear. “I think madness made him pick the subject.”

  Alexander’s lips spread in amusement at his son’s intellectual spark. “How is that?”

  “Well,” Yuri said, thinking it through, trying out a big word, “the story is schizophrenic. You have a prince that isn’t a prince, a swan that isn’t a swan, and an evil magician making things happen.”

  Alexander winked and nodded, returning a whisper. “You’re right.Swan Lake is really about what’s below the surface. A year after composing this, Tchaikovsky tried to commit suicide. His work was an inward journey. It was also his salvation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because work tamed his wildness. By writing down the music that played in his head, he could control both his inner chaos and the chaos of the external world—the world of musicians, dancers, patrons and friends.”

  “Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you thinkI will I ever go crazy?”

  Alexander Sverdlov seemed to resonate, struck by a common chord, as the oboe wove its soft theme. Alexander’s eyes rapidly traced features on his son’s face, finally settling on the darkness at the core of Yuri’s pupils. His answer was barely audible. “Not if you have control, my Prince Siegfried. Not if you have control.”

  The next day, as Agent Yuri Sverdlov pondered an FBI assignment involving the surveillance of Russian agents, words vaguely remembered from a dream took his thoughts in a new direction.

  The idea of control became a passion.

  PART TWO: “ANIMUS”

  “But the main thing was that all this did not seem to occur in me accidentally, but as though it had to be so. As though it were my most normal condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that finally I even lost the desire to struggle against this depravity.”

  Dostoyevsky,Notes From Underground

  23. INQUISITION

  February 1993

  NSA Headquarters, Fort George Meade, MD

  “I want to get inside their heads. I want to know what they know—when they know it.”

  Jack Dugan saw the excitement in Yuri’s eyes—a burning, messianic look. A wildness. Maybe a madness. He’d seen it before—in Florida—and knew he should proceed cautiously. He rubbed his fingers along the textured cover of the carefully prepared document, and read the title:Operation Inquisition . It was stampedConfidential . “You’re serious?”

  “You know me Jack,” Yuri deadpanned, “there’s not a humorous bone in my body.”

  “That’s true. I’ve been meaning to tell you to get a life. And you’re coming to me with this idea because—”

  “It’s got to be a partnership. I’ve seen what the technology can do. We put Louis Weddell away by working together. We can do it again—on a bigger scale.”

  “How?”

  “I want to set up a permanent surveillance center using NSA technology.”

  “How would it be different from the National Counterintelligence Center?”

  “Less bureaucratic. Focused only on the highest payoff intercepts.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We’ll bug the Russian intelligence collection system.”

  Jack whistled. Shivers rippled up his back in a wave that tickled his neck hairs.

  Yuri smiled. “If it works, we’ll expand to other systems—the Chinese, the Japanese...”

  “I dunno. It’s the kind of thing that could easily backfire.”

  “No guts, no glory.”

  “I like to consider the other prevailing motto in this town—’Trip and you’re dead.’“

  “Look, you’ve read the wires. The Russians are ramping up their Signals Intelligence system. They brought in some top talent to do it. They’re desperate for economic intelligence as well as military intelligence. Operation Inquis
ition could neutralize that effort.”

  “Yeah, I know. This is where you start spouting ‘Duty, Honor, Country.’“ Jack looked down at his lap a long moment.

  “Spill something?”

  “No. I’m just thinking about what kind of protection I need to keep them from cutting off my pecker when things go wrong. Maybe an athletic cup...”

  “Ifthings go wrong. They won’t. This is a noble goal, Jack. A lot of people will support it.”

  “You know I’m a sucker for noble goals. Sure, I’ll help you push this thing, Yuri. I’ll help you sell it.”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  “I already do. By the way, do you know anything more about the Russian team? Like who’s leading it?”

  “Yeah. A communications engineer with a lot of political clout. Katrina Fontanova.”

  “Find out all you can. We’ll need it for background.”

  24. EAST VERSUS WEST

  March 1993

  Washington, D.C.

  I’m not very good at this, Yuri thought, pushing into the crowded metro car, hoping the bulge of heavy iron under his coat would go unnoticed. He grabbed at a pole for support, locking an elbow around his shoulder holster.Trailing people is a real art form. You have to look distracted, like you’re not watching. Like you don’t care.You have to melt into the background.

  He tried reading a newspaper—someone else’s newspaper—lifting his chin above a bald head, eyes stealing furtive glances around the car. Act natural, he thought .

  The man turned, feeling warm breath on his bald pate. He glared at Yuri, who quickly looked away—toward Katrina Fontanova.

  * * *

  Why do they all have to dress like gangsters? Katrina thought.Every man on the train wears a suit and tie—like Al Capone. This is so deceptive !

  Intellectually, she knew it was simply the custom—a peculiarity of western culture. She had watched American movies, read American books, and was not bothered by observing such customs in a fictional setting. Up close, it was different. In Moscow, if you dressed in a very formal or lavish way, people thought you were Russian Mafia. Most of the time, they would be right.

  It is naive, she thought,to believe that the men on this metro car are all criminals. And yet —

  The car rounded a curve. She watched a particular man—tall, dark, muscular, and dressed immaculately (like a gangster)—lean into the turn, slightly stumble, then catch himself. She skipped a breath.

  He has something under his coat.

  The man slowly turned his gaze around the car, as though trying to observe without being observed. His eyes eventually locked onto Katrina, who stared back. Then, appearing flustered, he quickly looked in a new direction, over the head of a seated bald man.

  This started a chain reaction.

  The bald man, reacting to warm breath on a sensitive spot, angrily snapped his newspaper and shifted position. The woman next to him, who now felt the bald man pressing against her side, verbalized her discomfort. “Sir! Will you please?” The man scooted away, overcorrecting, slamming a leg into the standing, well-built man, causing him to lose his balance and reel backwards.

  There is definitely something under his coat, Katrina thought. She watched the well-built man straighten his tie and glance quickly in her direction.Stop being so paranoid, Fontanova!

  The metro finally slowed, arriving at her destination—the shopping mall at Pentagon City. She got out, gripping a large handbag, easing her way through a mass of humanity, leaving the gangster behind.

  Or so she thought.

  * * *

  Yuri pushed through the crowd, his height and bulk now an obstacle to the pursuit. He could see Fontanova slip away, as men cleared a path in deference to the striking, auburn-haired woman.

  She’s probably on her way to a dead drop or brush contact,he thought—passing reports to other agents.

  Yuri knew the Russians worked like the CIA—never doing their own dirty work, managing a network of traitors to do it for them. The agent is the person at the end of the line. He or she is the one with the most to gain or lose, and may be working with one or more sub-agents in a spy ring.

  He thought he could read Fontanova’s body language.She’s not dallying. She knows exactly where she’s going. She’s on a mission.

  He felt helpless as he saw Fontanova ride the long escalator toward the top, leaving him floundering in the human herd.

  * * *

  The little wooden mouse rocked back and forth, walking under the pull of a long string, making cute, chirp-like sounds that caused two pedestrians to reach for their pocketbooks.

  Katrina saw it above her, at the top of the escalator, watched it toddle away as her head approached street level, and followed its course with her eyes as she pushed off the moving metal step.

  Another amazing American invention, she thought, moving toward the kiosk that sold it.

  “How much for the wooden mouse?”

  “You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?” the vendor said with a gold-toothed smile. He straightened a pince-nez and corrected the cock of his beret. “Ahem... The price depends on what you want. We have the cheap, little kind, which sort of croaks and crawls, like this one, or the more expensive, hand-painted, self-propelled variety, guaranteed for a year, which—”

  “Excuse me!” someone yelled. “Coming through.”

  There were muffled sounds of bodies colliding, then Katrina heard the quick stamp of feet climbing the metal escalator. She turned to see the person who would run rather than ride all the way to the top.

  It was the man with the bulge under his coat, now out of breath and wet with perspiration. He stumbled shakily from the last elevator step, saw her, silently mouthed the word,shit , and walked briskly to a hotdog cart, where he ordered a foot-long bratwurst.

  She meant to ask him if he was okay, but he avoided eye contact, acting nonchalant as he bathed the bratwurst bun in a thick layer of brown mustard. Between deep, racing breaths, he inhaled a bite, choked, then coughed for nearly a minute, tears streaming from his eyes, mustard streaming from his nose.

  A small poodle without a leash yapped at him from the pavement, apparently spooked by his violent actions. The man, still in a coughing fit, tried to wave it away, but the dog nipped the bratwurst in the process, then scurried into the mall with its meaty treasure.

  Katrina decided not to get involved.

  * * *

  “Like a drink? To help with...”—the vendor waved his hand broadly—”the problem?”

  “Yeah,” Yuri rasped, grabbing the offered soda, gulping it down.

  “Wouldn’t drink so fast if I were you,” the vendor said. “Ain’t good for ya’. When I do that, I always get—”

  “Hic!”

  “See what I mean?”

  Yuri now saw what he meant, but could do nothing about it, even though he understood the technical mechanism: his throat was seized by involuntary, spasmodic closures of the glottis.

  He paid the vendor and entered the mall to search for Fontanova.

  * * *

  Adult ‘techies’ crowded the mammoth phone store in the Pentagon City mall, touching, trying, talking. It was a dizzying array of cordless phones, PA systems and mobile communications, interconnected in various test configurations.

  Yes, Katrina thought, marveling at the spectacle,here is some of the equipment we need .

  She picked up a cellular phone, began examining the features, and was startled when it ‘talked’ to her.

  “Can I help you?”

  Across the room, beside a telephone-shaped helium balloon tethered to a ‘TALK TO ME’ sign, a young attendant held a handset and stared in her direction. “Me,” he mouthed, pointing to himself. She walked to the counter, carrying the device.

  “Do all the cellular phones work the same way?” Katrina asked, with a smile.

  “Pretty much,” the salesman said, straightening his tie and brushing back scraggly brown hair with a hand. “Just punch in
the number you want to dial.” He wrinkled his nose in a cute way and smiled back. “Easy.”

  “No,” she said. “I mean the wireless transmission protocols. Are they all the same within the city? And does the equipment come with engineering specifications?”

  The salesman screwed his face into a troubled expression and stepped back from the counter. Katrina smiled again, batting her eyes.

  “Well,” the salesman finally said, “all the cell-phone equipment is interoperable with base stations throughout the city, if that’s what you mean. And no, you don’t get much in the way of engineering specs when you buy a phone. But we do have tech manuals in the back...”

  Katrina wrinkled her nose. “Could you bring them out?”

  * * *

  Yuri Sverdlov, in a moment of recognition punctuated by a violent hiccup, spotted Fontanova on the other side of the display window, where she and a salesman pored over thick tech manuals next to a telephone-shaped balloon.

  He moved casually through the crowded store, hiccuping, finally settling near a ‘Touch-N-Talk’ booth where he could watch the Russian while appearing distracted by the technology. Two children—a ten-year-old blond-headed girl and her eight-year-old tow-headed brother—played with equipment next to him, and giggled whenever he hiccuped.

  An idea came to him. “You seem to know a lot about the equipment,” he finally said to the little girl. “Is there a way I can listen in to someone else in the store?”

  “Without them knowing?”

  “Yes...Hup !”

  She giggled, then said, “Just pick upthat phone.”