Audrey was astounded that Anton would take the risk of coming to her room. “Yes, yes. Everything is satisfactory,” said Audrey. “It’s insane coming here like this.”
Anton patted her hand again. “There is no way I could not have spent a few seconds with our most productive friend. We are very excited and expect the best of news regarding the selection process. As we speak, we are working on an enhanced communications plan for you if you are named Director.”
“Communications better be enhanced,” whispered Audrey. “You must not take any shortcuts. You sit here in Moscow reading the intelligence I send you while I run all the risks. And no more Washington meetings with those clods from GRU—I only want to meet with SUSAN from now on.” Too many risks, she thought. What if someone from the American delegation knocked on my door right now?
Gorelikov smiled. “We give you full operational discretion to accept or reject any plan or equipment. If you become Director, even meeting SUSAN will become problematic. We, therefore, are developing a computer-based messaging system that uses an extensive network of international servers, which I believe you know as the cloud. It is utterly undetectable and unbreakable. I’m sure you will approve.”
He paused for a moment. “We were wondering about another aspect if you are selected to the position. I do not mean to pry, but with a twenty-four-hour security detail, we must consider how we can manage your social activities discreetly.” Anton knew the day of reckoning had arrived. He was preoccupied with the security ramifications of MAGNIT’s particular sexual proclivities.
Audrey’s face hardened. She smoothed the sheet over her legs and stared at Gorelikov’s silhouette in the dark room. “I presume you are referring to my love life. Are you are telling me the days of our secret vacations abroad will end?” she said.
“Yes,” said Anton. “I suppose I am. I cannot imagine any other way forward.”
“That would be, in a word, unacceptable,” hissed Audrey in the dark. “I expect you to arrange a suitable alternative.”
The three-star admiral giving orders, thought Gorelikov. We’ve come a long way from the meek physicist with a daddy complex.
Anton leaned toward her solicitously. “Audrey, the security measures required of us if you become Director will multiply tenfold, and with them will come significant personal sacrifice. When your tenure at Langley ends, your personal, permanent vacation begins. You’ll have the money to do whatever you want.”
“Marvelous. And in the meantime? You’ll want me there for as long as possible, right? Some DCIAs have served five years. What do you propose I do all that time?”
“You could tend to your doll collection,” said Anton, using his hammer-and-sickle voice. “Those charming little china faces. They will all look on you from the shelves in your living room with approval of your professionalism and discipline.”
Audrey’s head came up. “You’ve been in my quarters? Tell me you’re bugging my fucking house.”
Prozreniye. Epiphany. It came in every agent’s career, the realization of exactly what the relationship amounted to, who was vassal and who was master. It was Audrey’s turn, tonight, in a pitch-black hotel room. “Whether your quarters are bugged or not is immaterial,” said Gorelikov without emotion. “You are one of the most prolific clandestine intelligence sources in the service of the Russian Federation. You are on the threshold of being Russia’s best American spy ever. What you want and what you do not want is unimportant. I require you to dedicate yourself without reservation and to remember the mission. If that means you must live for three years without putting your fingers in a Buenos Aires prostitute, then that is what you shall do.”
“You can’t talk to me that way,” said Audrey, her voice shaking.
“Of course I can, my dear,” said Gorelikov, pushing back his chair silently. “You belong to me.” He left through the connecting door, his steps muffled by the sour threadbare carpet.
* * *
* * *
Dominika’s new Moscow apartment was in the massive city block–long building on Kutuzovsky Prospekt with two outlandish neoclassical towers. The address—number twenty-six—had been the residence of Premiers Brezhnev and Andropov, and party ideologue Suslov. Building security bristled with cameras, controlled elevators, manned checkpoints, and twenty-four-hour valet and food service. Her black Mercedes was always ready for her in the underground garage. Could I tell my driver to follow a surveillance detection route? The penthouse had been beautifully remodeled in beige and brown, with luxurious bathrooms and a gleaming kitchen that Nate would love to cook in. Dominika looked at the outside private-line telephone on the sideboard. A suicidal overseas call to CIA’s SENTINEL number to blurt out her epiphany about MAGNIT would be recorded (at both ends), and she would be finished, but at least Benford would know. Likewise, crashing the gate of the American Embassy to spill the tale to COS Reynolds would forever burn her bridges. She’d become a permanent exile inside the embassy, living in one of the temporary apartments, a historical oddity like Hungarian Cardinal Mindszenty who took asylum in the US Embassy in communist Budapest for fifteen years. Dominika would grow old, the faded beauty giving Russian lessons to young American wives, unable herself to even walk outside in the chancery compound for fear of snipers. A fine end. She wouldn’t do that. Without time to make a personal meet, and with no SRAC, she had no way to communicate the intel that would save her life.
As she packed for the reception at the cape, she fingered the sports watch Nate had given her, the satellite beacon that would transmit an emergency signal requesting exfiltration. The beginning of a plan started percolating in her mind. Nate’s always trying to get me to defect. Okay, lover boy, come rescue me.
KREMLIN SALAKA
Toast triangles of bread and spread thickly with butter. Lay a boned fillet of smoked herring on the bread, and cover with a soft melting cheese like Russian bryndza. Place briefly under broiler until cheese is melted. Serve with ogrutsky, dill pickles.
33
Exfiltration
When DIVA’s exfiltration signal was relayed by the SARSAT maritime rescue receivers to Simon Benford’s desk in Langley he yelled at Dotty through the door to summon Forsyth, Nash, Westfall, and Gable instantly. She knew he had included Gable as a reflex, and didn’t have the heart to correct him; she saw how deeply he had felt Gable’s death in Khartoum. Benford also bellowed that he wanted Phineas “Finn” Nikula, the extravagant and boisterous Chief of maritime branch—the section in the larger Paramilitary Staff (PMS) that controlled all CIA maritime assets. Along with other ships, Finn Nikula controlled the Agency’s experimental fleet of Unmanned Surface Vessels, and Benford knew he’d need Finn’s cooperation to release one of his precious USVs, stage it on a gray hull in the Black Sea, and program it to retrieve DIVA at Cape Idokopas, even though Benford didn’t believe for a minute that DIVA wanted exfiltration. Her transmission was meant to signal something else, he was sure of it. He just didn’t know what.
Westfall was the first to arrive, then Forsyth, then Nash breathlessly barged through the door, instinctively knowing this crash dive could only mean Dominika was in trouble. Nikula arrived fifteen minutes later, having come from the other side of the Headquarters building where the PMS front office was tucked away as far as possible from the dyspeptic Director and easily scandalized analysts, who were positively allergic to the very notion of paramilitary operations. Nikula was broad shouldered and muscular, and his tweed sport coat strained around the biceps and across the back. He was known to confront people in meetings by neighing like a donkey, implying they were jackasses. He had a wide, rugged face, an ice-blue stare, no eyebrows, and a completely shaven head, which Benford said would certainly make a phrenologist back out of the room in alarm. Gable had once told Finn to his face that he was half a bubble off plumb, and they were firm friends after that. Finn had volunteered to bring Gable’s casket home from Khartoum, but Benford sent Nash instead, certain Finn would bludgeon Gondorf with a to
ner cartridge from an office copier and throw him in the Nile. Benford wanted Gondorf back alive so he could fire him.
“The transmission was received at 1100 GMT, which means 1400 on the Black Sea coast,” said Benford.
“She’s at Putin’s compound for the four-day reception,” said Nate. “We’ve got maps of that stretch of coast, and imagery. I can show you where her dacha is and the beach below the house.”
“She’s got a dacha?” said Finn, rubbing his head. “Whose Mexican corn did she eat the long way?”
Nate’s face colored. “Spare us the knuckle-dragger jokes,” he growled. “They’re bullshit.”
“You think so?” said Finn.
“Let’s finish operational discussions before the two of you go out back and begin a fight,” said Benford.
“Which I’d win,” said Finn, grinning.
“Both of you, shut up,” said Forsyth. “What do we all think? Does DIVA want out? After refusing to consider defecting over and over?”
“She decided to come out,” said Nate. “She changed her mind.”
“Doesn’t seem consistent,” said Forsyth.
“I agree,” said Benford. “The transmission is a signal for something else.”
“Do we even send Finn’s USV to the beach?” said Forsyth. Nate squirmed in his seat.
“We have to,” said Nate. “She sent the exfil signal. She’ll be on that beach in three days.”
“You guys make up your minds,” said Finn. “I don’t want to send a four-million-dollar USV hull into Russian territorial waters if nobody’s gonna be on that beach.”
Nate rounded on him. “She’ll be there,” he said. Westfall characteristically cleared his throat.
“An observation, if I may,” he said.
“Where’s he from?” Finn muttered to Nate, looking at Westfall’s fogged-up glasses. Lucius ignored him.
“We know DIVA was recently promoted to flag rank and that President Putin has named her Director of SVR,” said Westfall. “She is aware of our intense interest in the identity of the mole the Russians call MAGNIT. We know only that MAGNIT is a senior official who possibly is in line for a significantly more senior post. Simon, through a process of elimination, has narrowed the suspects to the three candidates being considered as the nominee for DCIA, based on their respective connections to the navy’s railgun project and their ancillary access to information of interest to Moscow Center.”
“Ancillary? Simon, I thought only you talked like that,” said Finn. “You following the candidates around? Reading their mail?”
“We have done background on them, which is all we can do without potentially alerting the mole. Go on,” Benford said, turning to Westfall.
“I believe it’s logical to assume DIVA’s access has dramatically improved overnight, including knowing some of the unwritten plans and intentions of President Putin. She doubtless has participated in informal conversations during Security Council meetings, and shared confidential asides with her patron, Gorelikov.”
“We’re waiting for the headline,” said Benford, but Westfall would not be hurried.
“DIVA has been without SRAC going on three months,” said Lucius. “We have not seen her since Vienna. She’s at Putin’s compound on the cape with no way to meet a case officer face-to-face in Moscow. I believe it is logical to assume that one, she has discovered the identity of MAGNIT, and two, she has activated the exfil beacon—an inconsistent act given her resolute refusal to defect—to let us know. It was the only option left to her.” The room was quiet.
“So what do we do about it?” said Forsyth.
“You think she wants the USV as a floating dead drop, to send us a message? You know, put a note inside the USV cabin and send it back empty?” said Finn. He was developing smaller USVs—no bigger than a six-foot torpedo—for precisely that use.
“We still cannot discount that, along with all the factors Lucius listed, she’s in jeopardy, and wants out,” said Nate. “That’s the exfil plan we briefed her on. We’ve got to stay on script.”
Forsyth shook his head. “That’s all speculative,” he said. “The gala at Cape Idokopas lasts four days. When DIVA gets back to Moscow we can have the case officer ready to meet her the first night back.”
“It’ll be too late by then,” said Nate. Westfall cleared his throat again. Finn Nikula made him nervous, like Gable used to.
“Based on my research, as Director DIVA now has a two- or four-man security detail, a driver, and at least two household staff. How’s she going to get out alone at night?” said Westfall. “We need to get her Hearsey’s desk lamp ASAP.”
“How about direct her to start an affair with some Russkie movie star,” said Finn. “Her bodyguards’ll stay in the lobby while your girl buries the pump handle where it won’t rust, and she can leave her reports hidden in his apartment, and we go in when he’s not home and retrieve her intel. Simple.”
Forsyth waited for Nate to explode. “Jeopardize the source by getting her involved with an unwitting stranger and have her leave incriminating intel inside a Moscow apartment?” said Nate. “It’s moronic.”
Finn shrugged. “Better than what you got now,” he said, turning to Benford. “I’m not so sure I can deploy a USV if you ladies aren’t sure there will be anyone on the beach.”
Nate leaned forward. “What if I can guarantee there’ll be someone to take aboard?”
“Tell me your thoughts, Nash,” said Benford, “so we can brief the medics on the nature of your derangement when we call them to escort you to the infirmary.”
“Listen, Simon, Lucius is right. Domi knows who MAGNIT is. She may or may not want to defect, but we’ve got to contact her. I can sneak into that compound, get her alone, and see what’s up.”
“How do you propose to penetrate the private preserve of the President of the Russian Federation during an exclusive levee?”
“Domi told me there’s a bunch of young Polish art restorers working in the mansion; they’re always coming and going. We can whip up ID for me as a Polish art student. My Russian will get me through. I can be in and out in two days.”
Benford shook his head. “Implausible, rash, unconvincing, out of the question,” Benford said. “They’ll wrap you up at the front gate.”
“Not if I arrive with other genuine art experts and native Poles.”
“Tell me,” said Benford.
Nate turned to Forsyth. “Tom, Agnes Krawcyk lives in LA. One of your old WOLVERINEs. She’s an art restorer, a real Pole, and she’s bored out of her skull. The two of us will look plausible as hell. She’s still on reserve status and she can handle herself. We fly in as art experts, maybe in a larger group of students from Warsaw, meet Domi, talk for ten minutes, then hide on the beach till your speedboat picks us up.”
Nate looked at Finn. “Can two people fit in your USV?” asked Nate. Finn nodded. “What if DIVA wants out too?” said Forsyth.
Everyone looked at Finn. “Three people will slow her down,” he said, “and it’ll be a little cramped. Two of you will essentially have to lie on top of each other in a moderate chop for forty-five minutes. It’ll mean some bouncing.”
Benford stifled a wan smile. “That will not pose any problem for Casanova, here,” he said.
“So let’s give it a try, Simon, for Christ sake,” said Nate. “Look, if the wrong candidate—namely MAGNIT—gets nominated and confirmed in less than a week, Dominika Egorova is the first name that gets sent back to Moscow. Putin and company will be so scandalized and embarrassed that she’ll just disappear, no show trial, no spy swap. She’ll be headfirst in a wet hole with no marker. I’ll bring back the name, and we keep her alive.” Benford looked at Forsyth who minutely nodded his head. Benford turned to Finn.
“Can you have one of your infernal machines on the beach below Cape Idokopas in three days?”
Finn nodded. “Then, Nash, I suggest you prepare to crash President Putin’s party.” He seemed amused at how dangerous that would be
.
MEXICAN CORN
Combine mayonnaise, sour cream or crema, cotija cheese, chili powder, garlic, and cilantro in a large bowl. Stir until blended. Grill shucked ears of corn until cooked through and charred on all sides. Sprinkle hot corn with cheese mixture. Sprinkle with extra cheese and chili powder. Serve hot with lime wedges.
34
House of Cards
As Nash made crash-dive preparations for the mission to infiltrate Putin’s Cape Idokopas compound, Benford sat alone with Forsyth. Simon was in a foul mood, introspective, troubled, and heartsick. Losing Gable and Alex Larson had affected him in ways he could not have predicted, and the specter of dispatching Nash into Russia with such slapdash cover troubled him. With DIVA in imminent danger, the outlook was even bleaker. He told Forsyth that he thought Nash might not make it even close to DIVA: She would be in the company of ministers, service chiefs, VIP guests, and the president himself, plus ample security. How could Nash or the Polish woman get near her?
“Maybe Agnes can follow her into the ladies room,” said Forsyth, half joking.
“Perhaps, but I anticipate operational ruin compounded by the possible loss of a star asset and two officers,” Benford said.
“Nash is one of the best,” said Forsyth helpfully. “He’ll get through. The son of a bitch has one advantage: he loves her.”
Benford snorted. “I assume it did not escape your notice that he seemed to have kept in contact with your former WOLVERINE, what’s her name? Agnes, yes, well I suppose there’s no reason why this infernal case cannot continue as a ménage à trois.”
It did not help Benford’s state of mind when he received word that he had this afternoon to brief the three candidates a final time before one was selected as the formal nominee by POTUS and appeared before Congress to be confirmed. The process would be faster than usual, because the president was eager to install his hand-chosen replacement at Langley to begin rolling back what he considered the hyperactive operational focus of CIA under the late Alexander Larson. Acting Director Farrell had it right: CIA should be an information-gathering organization, eschewing dirty tricks, and assassinations, and whatever other skullduggery they always seemed to be hatching. Farrell, in fact, had been promised the Deputy Director slot—everyone in Washington knew he was an obsequious toad prone to vapors, but as deputy, he would be an effective ideologue who would advocate for what he described as a more human face of espionage. “Like Mikhail Suslov in short pants,” said Forsyth, referring to Brezhnev’s hard-line politburo chief in the seventies.
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