The Kremlin's Candidate

by Jason Matthews

  “How does this work, the possible nominees for Director all being briefed, and all being interviewed by SSCI?” said Gable. “Whatever happened to POTUS picking his man—one person—and nominating him? What the fuck is this, a beauty pageant?”

  “The Acting Director suggested it,” said Forsyth. “This way he can push forward different candidates, all of whom will dismantle Alex Larson’s policies, placate Congress, and keep the Agency focused on the environment instead of the kiloton yield of the uranium device the Nokos detonated underground two months ago.”

  Benford shook himself, pushed his plate away, and looked at Forsyth. “What did you say before?”

  “The Acting Director wanted it this way.”

  “No, before that,” said Benford.

  “That we vet our own directors before putting them forward.”

  “Exactly,” said Benford. “And the Russians had Alex killed, and we’re looking for a mole.”

  “Who’s gonna get a big-ass job in the exec branch,” said Gable.

  “Which vacancy is the Director of this Agency. It’s clear now. The Kremlin’s candidate is for DCIA,” said Benford, pounding the table.

  Forsyth looked at Benford over the top of his glasses. “You better be sure before you pull the fire alarm. Not even Putin could pull this off.”

  “Maybe not,” said Benford, “but that Gorelikov mastermind could if what DIVA says about him is true.”

  Gable stopped picking his teeth. “You saying one of the three nominees for DCIA is the mole? Could they swing that?” he asked.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” said Benford. “But we can’t sit by and do nothing.”

  “We have to brief them all before one’s confirmed.” Forsyth groaned.

  “Too obvious,” said Benford. “Let us consider how to pour some blue dye down a pipe.”

  Gable started picking his teeth again. “If you’re talking barium enema, I got a turkey baster in my office.”

  BENFORD’S LEMON PASTA

  Sauté anchovy fillets in olive oil with finely diced leeks until the fillets dissolve and the leeks soften. In a separate pan, toast bread crumbs with a little olive oil, garlic, and dried red chili flakes until the crumbs (pangrattato) are golden brown. Cook bucatini, drain, and toss with the anchovy oil and leeks. Sprinkle with chopped parsley, bread crumbs, and a generous squeeze of lemon juice. Serve immediately.

  14

  Expedient Amorality

  DIVA’s handwritten report meticulously documented the Security Council debate in the Kremlin regarding the GRU military covert action in Turkey encrypted OBVAL, put forth by Major Shlykov, who argued that Turkey was in chaotic transition: Fundamentalist Islamic political parties were eroding the secular military Atatürk traditions. The country had, since 1984, been struggling with a prolonged, low-intensity armed urban insurrection by the socialist Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) in their bid for political rights and self-determination. Current US military aid to the Kurdish Peshmerga in Iraq had discommoded the Turkish government (even though the Iraqi Peshmerga had no political connection to PKK terrorists). Ankara moodily conflated this military support in Iraq with American endorsement of Kurdish desires to secede from the country and to claim a substantial swath of sovereign Turkish territory as their hereditary homeland. Recognizing a developing bilateral schism and subsequent opportunity to drive a wedge between Washington and Ankara—something Putin and his coterie of valets knew how to do best—GRU planners had developed a plan for Turkey.

  DIVA’s narrative—printed in Russian in space-saving letters so small that translators had to use magnifying glasses to read the text—reported that the aggressive Shlykov had laid out his plan by which Moscow would supply PKK cells in Istanbul with RPG-18 “Mukha” antiarmor rockets, MON-200 antipersonnel mines, and larger PMN-4 pressure-fired blast mines, for use in urban terror attacks in Istanbul, designed to create a crisis in the government, exacerbate tense relations with Washington, and ultimately to destabilize Turkey, the traditional southern bulwark of NATO.

  Russian Naval Special Forces would support the operation. The matériel would be delivered in a series of nighttime forays by small boats disguised as fishing vessels to PKK members waiting at a deserted out-of-season picnic grounds on the banks of Riva Creek, four navigable miles inland from the Black Sea coast of Turkey. PKK would then truck the weapons into Istanbul, stage them in a number of warehouses, and distribute them among cells. Despite objections to the covert-action plan from the civilian intelligence services, President Putin had approved the operation. He was willing to undertake this foreign adventure and run the risks—which the GRU assessed as minimal—to weaken NATO, and especially to destabilize the only Muslim member state of the coalition. After that, no one objected any longer. DIVA concluded her report by writing of Shlykov: “This Golden Youth intends to provide enough explosives to PKK to set Istanbul ablaze on both sides of the Bosphorus, from Europe to Asia.”

  * * *

  * * *

  DIVA’s reporting triggered a hasty meeting in CIA Headquarters in Langley.

  Benford recently had designated Gable as DIVA’s primary handler.

  Benford, Forsyth, Gable. These three veteran officers were as different in temperament and style as imaginable. But they had come together as a team when Nate Nash recruited DIVA in Helsinki, and under their subtle tutelage she had developed into a world-class reporting source. Nash, the fourth and most junior member of the coterie, was absent from this meeting: he had recently been posted as Chief of Operations in CIA’s London Station, on the face of it a plum assignment in a solidly advancing career, but really designed to keep him busy and away from DIVA. Forsyth—arguably the best case officer among them—had called Nash “a magician” on the street, working against hostile surveillance in denied areas. Forsyth had been Nate’s Chief of Station twice before, and he knew what a good officer he was, despite the sex-with-DIVA problem.

  “I seem to remember your unapproved infatuation twenty years ago with a certain safe-house keeper in Rome,” Forsyth had once reminded Gable while discussing Nash. “You knew it was against the rules, but you used to run over there bowlegged to see her every week.”

  “That was different,” growled Gable. “We were young, she used to cook carbonara for me, and I was helping her out.”

  Forsyth looked at him deadpan. “Carbonara? Did she use pancetta, guanciale, or some other pork product?”

  “Very funny. If it was such a big fucking deal, why didn’t you kick me in the balls?” said Gable, red faced.

  “Maybe I knew you could handle it, or maybe I knew you had the discipline to keep her safe,” said Forsyth. “Like maybe we give Nash the same slack. I’m not saying he’s a choirboy, but Domi’s half to blame. Godammit, they’re in love with each other, you said so yourself.” Gable shook his head, but agreed.

  Today, Forsyth had included Lucius Westfall, who, as Benford’s new assistant, was cleared for DIVA material, and thus was on the very small BIGOT list for the case, the abbreviated roster of officers who had been read in to her file, and who were cleared for the RH (restricted handling) compartment. Westfall sat quietly in a chair in the corner—he knew his place on the food chain in this room.

  “The facility these Russians have for mayhem is awe inspiring,” said Forsyth. He looked up from DIVA’s reports about Istanbul, and pushed his half-moon glasses to the top of his head.

  “They’re fuckers,” said Gable, “but we take this to Turkish liaison and help them, they’re gonna kiss our asses for a decade.”

  “I agree,” said Forsyth. “But not to TNIO, the intel guys. They don’t trust us. We take it to the TNP, Turkish National Police; they’re serious and accessible.”

  “And when you say ‘help them,’ ” said Benford, turning to Gable, “you mean exactly what?”

  “Interdict the shipments, wrap up the gomers waiting in the swamp for the delivery, let the TNP sweat ’em, and clean out the rest of the cells,” said Gable.
>
  Lucius Westfall cleared his throat and scraped his chair. Gable looked over at him. He liked the young guy, but as with Gable’s protégé Nate, he would never say so. “If you have something to say, say it,” said Gable. “Don’t keep us squeezing our legs together.”

  “I was thinking,” said Lucius. “Istanbul’s population is over fourteen million. The Kurds in the city number about four million.”

  “Admirable command of the facts, which I trust will soon be shown to be relevant to this discussion,” said Benford, rubbing his face.

  “The point is that we’ll never be sure of taking out one hundred percent of the PKK cells with a couple of raids and a score of arrests,” said Westfall, swallowing. “The city’s too big, the Kurdish population is too diffuse. We have to consider this in three parts.”

  “Tell us,” said Benford. He liked linear thinking, which, he frequently raved, was uniformly absent in the US government.

  “We have to interdict all the Russian matériel without exception,” said Lucius. “We can’t let even one mine get through. We then have to identify as completely as possible the PKK organization in the city. Finally, we have to neutralize the source of the problem: GRU Major Valeriy Shlykov.” The men in the room shifted in their seats.

  “You’re a regular Alfred Einstein,” said Gable. “Keep going.” For all his gruffness, Gable knew how to draw young officers out, make them think, stick up for what they believed.

  “To stop the whole thing I think we have to beacon the weapons before they get to Turkey,” said Westfall. “That way we track them from inland creek, to warehouse, to backyard potting shed, to safe-house cellar, so we get them all.”

  “Before they get to Turkey?” said Gable. “As in Russia?” The others were quiet, thinking the same thing.

  “Out of the question,” said Benford. “DIVA’s already in jeopardy as it is, reporting this unique intelligence. We fuck up in Istanbul, she’s one of twenty Council members in the room—not even a full member yet—who know about the PKK covert action. Trying something with the shipment when it’s still in Russia would be doubly suicidal for her.”

  “Maybe not,” said Westfall. “DIVA told us the crates were going to be trucked to Sevastopol and staged in a warehouse, then ferried across the Black Sea to Turkey in small fishing boats when they get the green light from Shlykov. It’s a GRU covert action; they’ll keep this quiet, and they’ll stay away from official Russian naval installations. It’ll be a commercial warehouse, an easy target.”

  “Okay, hotshot, you take the responsibility for invading Russia and starting World War Three?” said Gable. Westfall kept quiet.

  Benford got up from the couch and started pacing, looking at Westfall sideways. “How would you propose to break undetected into a warehouse in Russian-controlled Sevastopol and install beacons on a dozen crates?” he said.

  “We could use the WOLVERINEs,” said Westfall.

  Heads around the room came up. “Ain’t they all retired?” said Gable.

  “They’re on reserve status,” said Forsyth. “They didn’t like to be sidelined. I kept them busy for as long as I could.”

  “I heard they were pretty effective,” said Westfall. “The file is fascinating.”

  “Cold War throwbacks,” said Benford, head cocked to the side, thinking.

  “Forget it,” said Gable. “They were crazy anticommie Polaks, out of control. Who’s going to handle them?”

  “We’d need a Russian speaker, strong operator, denied-area expert,” said Westfall.

  Everybody was thinking of the same name. “And who, pray tell, might that be?” said Benford.

  “Nate Nash,” said Westfall. No one said anything. Westfall didn’t know about Nash’s penalty-box status.

  “Put that aside for now,” said Forsyth. “What do we do with Shlykov?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Westfall, swallowing. “DIVA says Gorelikov wants to sink Shlykov. What if we give him a reason to do it, make it appear that Shlykov himself is responsible for the collapse of the entire covert action in Istanbul?”

  “Keep going,” said Gable. All three seniors were listening hard now.

  “I believe you ops officers call it ‘burning’ someone,” said Westfall. “What if we make it look like Shlykov is double-dipping—taking money from CIA and not reporting it? The Russians are so suspicious, they’ll believe it.”

  “Tall order. It would have to be convincing,” said Forsyth, already calculating. “Bank account, spy gear under the mattress, signals.”

  “It really doesn’t have to be one hundred percent convincing,” said Westfall. “DIVA and Gorelikov will have enough to ruin him: implicating and convicting innocent people are Russian art forms.”

  “And the lead investigator gets credit for catching a rat,” said Forsyth.

  “A blue-eyed Chief of Line KR,” said Gable. “It protects her and gives her another CI scalp.”

  “It’s still a risk. Shlykov is supposed to be very good and popular,” said Benford, looking around the room. They were thinking of the same name . . . again.

  “I’ll call London,” said Forsyth. “He can be here in two days.”

  “I want to see him personally,” said Benford. “We all should reconvene when he gets here. If we are going to unseat this GRU ruffian, Nash must be brilliant about it.” Benford stopped pacing. “Tell Nash specifically from me that Benford says he should endeavor to be brilliant.”

  “And I’ll send the re-activation call out to the WOLVERINEs,” said Forsyth. “They’ll be pleased.”

  “Pleased?” snorted Gable. “Who’s gonna tell them Stalin died?” Westfall swallowed twice.

  * * *

  * * *

  Nate walked into Benford’s office at noon of the second day, having taken the early-morning flight from London. The cable from Chief EUR Forsyth recalling him to Headquarters had mentioned only that he was required for “consultations,” which in the patois of cablese could mean he was in trouble for an unknown transgression, or had been chosen as the sacrificial goat for assignment to a liaison billet in FEEB headquarters—a nightmare exile that no ops officer wanted; or there was a spectacular operation that Benford wanted him to handle. Nate the case officer studied Benford’s French bulldog face for a clue, but the mole hunter was inscrutable. Benford pointed to a chair beside his littered desk—his whole office looked like Pompeii after Vesuvius—opened a restricted-handling file and read silently. Like any astute operator, Nate read the block-letter title upside down on the RH title page: GCDIVA. What was this? Were they going to discipline him over the spat he’d had with Dominika in Athens? That was weeks ago.

  Nate knew his stock with Benford, Gable, and Forsyth had taken a hit over the years since Helsinki because of his relationship with DIVA. He also knew very well that he had not been summarily separated from the Service only as an accommodation to keep the agent in harness. As it was, he was hanging by a thread. Nash’s mind raced back to the beginning.

  The hiatus in contact with Dominika between meetings in Europe always cooled things down, but these officers were not dummies. Benford expected recidivism; Forsyth ruefully understood him; Gable was the worst: he knew both Nate and Dominika as protégés, could read them like the carny who guesses your weight at the country fair. Worse, he could smell coitus from across the room. The tear-filled and disastrous conclusion to the contact in Athens had not helped.

  Nate fretted over the futility and unprofessionalism of their love affair—it was besperspektivnyak, a hopeless situation, a fruitless exercise. Dominika loved him passionately, and didn’t care about the rules. Dominika would tease him for acting like a dour Russian while she soared like a liberated American love child. The issue of her defection and resettlement was the tinder that always started the arguments.

  How do you feel about her now? he thought to himself, thankful that among Benford’s other vampiric skills, mind reading was probably not numbered. That was fortunate, since Na
thaniel Nash at this minute knew, had always known, that he loved the beautiful Russian with the serious scowl that would melt into a dizzying smile from across the street when she saw him approach. He loved the way she breathed his name—Neyt, with the broad Russian vowel—when they made love and how her head went back, eyelids fluttering and chin trembling, groaning Ya zakanchivayu, I’m finishing (Russians never say “I’m coming” in bed).

  The bubble popped when Benford looked up and spoke. “Are you jet-lagging now, Nash?”

  “No, Simon, I’m fine. It’s an easy flight,” said Nate, trying to blot out the image of Dominika’s face on the pillow.

  “We have something in mind for you, something rather important,” said Benford.

  “Just don’t tell me I should buy a twelve-month meal plan for the cafeteria at the J. Edgar Hoover building.” Nate had meant this as a joke, to establish bonhomie, and corporately to suggest—or plead—that he mustn’t be sent over to the FBI to work on the joint task force. Joking with Benford was like lion hunting on horseback with a spear: you could in theory do it, but odds were it would not turn out well.

  Benford stared at Nate for ten seconds. “Do you know anything about science, Nash?” Benford asked. “I mean apart from the fluid mechanics of nocturnal emissions, of which I am sure you are a longtime student.” Nate shrugged, already regretting his joke.

  “Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak,” said Benford. “Endeavor not to be one of those people. A good place to start is not to speak unless spoken to.”

  “Okay, Simon,” said Nate.