The Fall of Moscow Station

by Mark Henshaw

  Barron nodded. “Three years, until the FSB almost killed me,” he replied. “They did kill one of mine. That stupid car accident I told you about a few years ago. The locals here always did play the surveillance game a little too rough.”

  “You don’t have to come with me to Lubyanka. You could stay here, preserve your cover.”

  “Nope,” Barron said. “I’m almost ready to retire anyway and I want to see how this all turns out.”

  • • •

  They stared down at the monitor as the embassy security chief restarted the video from the beginning and watched the replay for a second time. The time index on the screen showed the video was two hours old now. On the screen, Kyra came sprinting into the picture, reaching for the security guard’s outstretched hand as a Russian chased her down, pushed her from behind, and the young woman tumbled to the white concrete. She pushed herself up, tried to get to the gate, only to be tackled. “American!” she yelled, clearly audible on the footage. Then three men were on her, the American guard helpless to step off U.S. territory onto Russian land and do anything. The Russians pinned her arms up, zip-tied her hands, and wrestled her into a waiting van as the U.S. Marine screamed profanities at the smug Russian standing between him and their captive. Then the Russians piled into the vehicle, closed the door, and pulled away. The entire incident had taken less than one minute.

  “The question is which one got her,” Barron said. “FSB or GRU? Any clues?”

  “I gave a copy to some of the FBI special agents here,” the security chief replied. “It’s not much to go on . . . we’re trying to match the license plate or the van, but good luck with that. The FSB would have to cooperate and they won’t tell us jack just on general principles. But my gut tells me they weren’t FSB. Military haircuts, and there are a few frames here where it looks like one of them is carrying a Makarov pistol in his holster, but I could be wrong. And the FSB doesn’t usually play it like this, but I couldn’t prove anything right now if I had to.”

  Cooke nodded. “That’s okay. If the FSB grabbed her, they’ll tell us. If they don’t, we know who has her.”

  “You ready to head out?” Barron asked his superior.

  “Yeah. Let’s get this done.”

  The “Aquarium”—old GRU headquarters

  “Explain, please, why you were in possession of this?” Sokolov asked, his voice loud for the recorders, waving his hand toward the table.

  “I am a diplomat,” Kyra repeated. “I’m not required to answer your questions. You will advise my embassy of my whereabouts immediately.”

  “That answer is tiring.” Sokolov picked up the envelope. The seal was broken, leaving no question that he already knew what was inside. Still he made the dramatic show of pulling out the letter, printed in neat Cyrillic.

  Dear friend,

  We were most grateful to receive your last communication. We have always valued your information and were distressed not to hear from you according to the schedule. Your help in the past has been invaluable and we do not want to lose your friendship.

  We regret the actions you had to take with regard to your friend, but we concur with your decision. While he was valuable to us, you have proven yourself more so and your protection is paramount. Your security means a lot to us.

  As you know, we have sent one of our friends to support the story you had to report to your superiors. This is a difficult assignment for him, as he will be a guest in your country for some months, perhaps longer than a year before his claim that he is disillusioned with life there will be credible. We ask that you assist him in every way possible without endangering your own security.

  Because of the recent troubles, we have found it necessary to alter the emergency travel plans we worked out with you some time ago. In this package, you will find new travel documents and the personal kit you will need to use it. Please keep them somewhere safe.

  We are very concerned with your recent demand to change the terms of our financial arrangement with you. In particular, sending home so many consular officers to demonstrate your influence was unnecessary. As your friends, we are happy to discuss additional compensation for your help and information in the future. To show our sincerity, we have deposited $250,000 in the escrow account in addition to the payment here.

  We look forward to working with you again in the nearest future.

  Your friends

  “For who was this letter?” Sokolov asked. Kyra winced slightly at the man’s stiff accent, but said nothing in response. “We were most grateful to receive your last communication,” he read from the page. “You are trying to reach a spy in our government, and an important one, I’m sure.” He hefted one of the stacks of euros and made a show of flipping through the bills. “A quarter million. Fine wages for a mole, but I suppose a rich country like the United States can afford to pay such amounts for traitors.” It was not a question.

  Kyra held her peace. Sokolov picked up the passport and opened the cover, then shoved the front page at her face. The Russian pointed to the photograph. “Who is this? The Foreign Ministry assures me that they have issued no passport with this number, nor does the photograph match any on file.”

  Kyra just looked at him. Sokolov pushed the disguise kit across the table at her. “There is no reason not to tell me. It is a very good forgery, done by a skilled artist. But the false attachments in this bag—” He held up the ziplock pouch. “They are the same as the beard and glasses and other additions to the man’s face in this picture. Do you think we have no computer experts? One of our best technicians is erasing them from the picture so we can see what the man looks like without them. We will find this man. You cannot save him by refusing to answer.”

  “As I told you, I’m a diplomat and not required to answer your questions,” Kyra said.

  The Russian sighed in mock resignation. “You are very calm,” he observed. “I have seen many people in that chair, where you are now. Few have shown such reserve. You’ve had training, I think. Yes. You’ve been taught how to handle an interrogation. But we understand the way to drive a woman past her limits. You know that as well, I am sure, but I respect your discipline. You have done your duty and this does not need to be unfriendly. We understand the business of intelligence services. You spy on us, we spy on you. We are professionals about this, are we not? In the end, you will answer the questions, so I will not think less of you for choosing to avoid the agony.”

  Nice show, Kyra thought. “I want to speak to a representative from my embassy,” she said.

  “I can make that happen,” Sokolov assured her. “But your refusal to cooperate with me can only delay that process. How can I tell them who has requested their assistance if you will not give me your name? You had no identification with you when you were detained. You must give me some information about yourself or I cannot help you. I do not even know which embassy to contact,” he said.

  Okay, time for a little reward, Kyra decided. “The U.S. Embassy.”

  “So you are American.”

  Kyra fought down the urge to roll her eyes and insult the man’s deductive powers. “Yes,” she said, her voice oozing condescension. The Russian’s English accent was heavy enough that Kyra suspected the man wouldn’t understand the emotion when he heard it.

  “That is a start,” Sokolov said. “And your name?”

  “You don’t need that. Just advise the embassy that you have a U.S. diplomat in your custody.”

  Sokolov turned to his Russian subordinates. “Leave,” he ordered in their native language.

  The photographer moved immediately to the exit, but the escorts stayed rooted, their faces perplexed. “You will leave,” the Russian ordered a second time. “She is uncooperative. I must apply other measures. You will stand the post outside.”

  More hesitation, but the escorts finally obeyed, leaving the Russian alone with Kyra.

  Headquarters of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (FSB)

  1 Bolsha
ya Lubyanka Street

  Moscow, Russia

  The FSB’s current home, strictly speaking, was across the street from old Lubyanka, the home of the KGB before it. If asked, Kathy Cooke would have admitted that the older building was an impressive piece of architecture, a four-story neo-Baroque edifice made of yellow-brick-turned-gray. CIA headquarters was an ugly complex to her eyes, but Lubyanka, originally built to be the home of an insurance company before the 1917 Revolution, had some real old European beauty in its design. It radiated a sense of history to her.

  Not the good kind of history, she thought. The artistry of Lubyanka’s design belied the fact that its ground floor had been a prison where thousands had entered and somewhat fewer had emerged. So much of Stalin’s reign of terror had its epicenter in Lubyanka.

  “Never thought I’d get this close to it,” Barron admitted.

  “Never wanted to,” Cooke replied. “Too many people walked in and never came out. You can feel the ghosts.”

  “I never took you for the type to believe in the supernatural,” Barron said.

  “I’m not,” she told him. “But I’m just religious enough to think that if the dead are walking the earth anywhere, it’s here. You ever heard of Vasily Blokhin?”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “He was the chief executioner of the Soviet Union, handpicked by Stalin himself. It was an actual government position, if you can believe it. Nobody even knows how many people he personally killed, but I’ve seen claims as high as fifty thousand. He oversaw the executions of seven thousand Polish soldiers in one month in 1940,” Cooke recounted. “He set a goal of killing three hundred people every night . . . brought his own briefcase full of Walther pistols because he didn’t think the Soviet sidearms were reliable enough. The man even had an official executioner’s uniform . . . leather butcher’s apron, hat, long leather gloves that ran up to his elbows. A guard would march the prisoner into a little antechamber called the ‘Leninist room,’ which Blokhin had designed himself . . . soundproof walls and a sloping floor with a drain, to make it easier to wash the blood off after each kill. They’d put the prisoner down on his knees and Blokhin would shoot him in the base of the skull. They’d drag out the body and bring in another one. His unit helped him kill them at the rate of one man every three minutes, ten hours every night for a month. Stalin gave Blokhin the Order of the Red Banner for it.” Cooke raised an arm and pointed at Lubyanka. “And he did it all in there. So, yeah, I can believe in ghosts.”

  “You know, the Russians probably believe our predecessors were doing the same thing at Langley.”

  “We’ve had our share of bad men, but we never had a prison in the basement, and we sure never kidnapped our own citizens,” Cooke replied.

  “Yeah, good luck convincing the Russians of that,” Barron said. He felt like the building in front of him had drained the humor from his bones. “How’d Blokhin check out in the end?”

  “Lost his job in ’53 after Stalin died,” Cooke recalled. “Became an alcoholic and went insane. The official record says he committed suicide in ’55.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Barron mused.

  “I’ve never understood how someone can become so indifferent to life.”

  “ ‘That which we persist in doing becomes easier, not that the task itself has become easier, but that our ability to perform it has improved,’ ” Barron said. “Ralph Waldo Emerson. Unfortunately, that applies to evil talents as well as good ones. Do something often enough and it becomes banal . . . ordinary.”

  “Maybe,” Cooke said. “But he committed suicide. Maybe it never really became ordinary to him after all.”

  “You really believe he killed himself?”

  Cooke pondered the question, then nodded. “Actually, yes. Maybe the ghosts of all the people he murdered tortured him until he went mad. That would be justice. A man who kills that many people by his own hand . . . I can’t imagine what that does to your soul.”

  “What soul?” Barron asked. “A man would have nothing left by the end of that.” He shook his head in disbelief. “And we’re going to talk to the successor of guys like that. Makes me think this operation can’t possibly work.”

  “Maybe,” Cooke replied. “The question is who Grigoriyev hates worse, us or Lavrov.”

  “My money’s on Lavrov. Grigoriyev was the FSB director when I was the station chief here, so I got a pretty good feel for him. He’s a professional. He doesn’t like us, but it’s not personal. We’re not trying to put the old man out to pasture. Lavrov is, and the anger between those two runs deep. If there’s one thing the Russians do well, it’s hold a grudge.”

  “You’re right on that score,” Cooke agreed. “You ready to do this?”

  Barron shrugged. “Why not?” he asked. “You know, the Russians never filed the paperwork to PNG me after that car wreck. We’ve always assumed they know I’m Agency, but they never confirmed it. I guess they’re going to find out now.”

  “If you’re going to blow your cover, might as well go big and nuke it hard,” Cooke advised.

  “Like Slim Pickens riding the bomb.” He dismounted the car and held the door for Cooke. Churkin and a Russian security detail got out of their own vehicles and formed a cordon around the Americans, leading them toward the visitors’ entrance.

  They approached the guard post. The Russian officer held up a hand. “Ostanovites’ i identifitsirovat’ sebya!” Stop and identify yourself!

  Barron nodded, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out his CIA credentials. “This is Kathryn Cooke, deputy director of national intelligence for the United States government. My name is Clark Barron and I’m the director of the CIA Directorate of Operations.” Churkin’s head whipped around in surprise at that revelation, proving conclusively that he spoke very good English. “We’re here to speak to Director Anatoly Maksimovich Grigoriyev,” Barron said in Russian. “He’s expecting us.”

  The FSB officer manning the door gawked at the American, took Barron’s credentials, and stared, then picked up the phone.

  • • •

  The conference room to which the escorts delivered them was more ornate than anything Barron had ever seen at Langley. The walls were hardwood, lacquered and polished to a perfect shine, with gold trim around the ceiling. The table in the center had a similar wooden border, the center covered in green leather. The chairs matched the table, with blue-and-white-checked cloth coverings, and Barron thought that the office chair under him was possibly the most comfortable in which he’d ever sat. There was no telephone in the room, no computer, no way to communicate outside. Barron wondered where the cameras were.

  Grigoriyev stared hard at Barron, murder in his eyes. “You have lived in Russia before, Mr. Barron,” he said. “My men retrieved our old file on you. It said nothing about you being a CIA officer.”

  “I lived here for three years,” Barron confirmed. “I’d like to think I was good at the business.”

  “It appears you were. But you were in a terrible car accident,” the Russian noted.

  “Some of your counterintelligence boys were tailing me and one of my officers,” Barron told him. “They got a little aggressive and ran into us . . . flipped our car and killed the young woman who was with me.”

  “They thought they were trailing diplomats and thought they could intimidate you. It was a new team and they were reckless. My condolences, though such accidents do happen from time to time. For their stupidity, the team responsible was reassigned to some very unpleasant duty in our far northeast, if that gives you any satisfaction at all.” Grigoriyev’s tone announced that he could not have cared less about a dead American spy. He turned to the senior U.S. officer in the room. “I was quite surprised to receive your request for a meeting, Miss Cooke. It is rare for American intelligence officers to meet with us at all, and when it does happen, months of planning occur in advance. Rushed meetings are rare things, so you must forgive my suspicions and concerns about
your honesty right now.”

  “Not at all, Director,” Cooke said. “I would feel the same if I was sitting on your side of the table.”

  “So we understand each other,” Grigoriyev agreed. “Then why did you wish to meet with me?”

  “There is a situation with one of our assets here in Moscow that has gone out of our control and we need your assistance to resolve it,” Cooke replied.

  GRU headquarters

  Sokolov leaned in to Kyra, close enough to whisper. “I turned cameras off, so they cannot hear us, before they came in with you. Will look like equipment failure. You know where you are, yes? This building is old GRU headquarters, but GRU does not handle counterintelligence in the Rodina. That is FSB. They don’t know you are here and Lavrov will not tell them or your embassy. FSB would turn you over to your embassy and expel you from country after making you a . . . what is the word . . . spectacle? But FSB does not know about what Lavrov is doing here and he does not want them to know. So if you want me to tell your embassy that you are here so they can tell FSB to come, you must give me your name.”

  Kyra looked at the man in disbelief. “I have wanted to work for your people, long time now,” Sokolov said.

  Kyra stared at him, watching him twitch. The arrogance had disappeared so quickly and completely that she wasn’t sure it hadn’t been an act all along. “I don’t believe you,” she finally said, cautious. He was showing none of the physical signs of deceit, but he was a Russian intelligence officer after all. The GRU trained its men to hide them, she was sure.

  Sokolov saw her expression. “For thirty years, I am interrogator for GRU,” he said. “I am good at it, but I am sick of it. Seeing people brought to me who have done nothing but make angry or insult some senior man. Then our Soviet Union falls and I had hope we would be a better country. We are a better country, for a few years. They do not bring people to me in here for long time. Then Putin takes over and I see him and his friends taking us back, making us again what we were. And then they start bringing people to me again—” He stopped talking, almost in midsentence, choking on whatever he was going to say next.