by Greg Wilson
Hartman broke away from the Ambassador’s gaze and let his eyes trail back to the monitor.
AUTHORIZATION DENIED.
What the fuck was this? What were they talking about? The material Aven had brought them was exactly what they had discussed. Exactly what Gaines and the DDO wanted.
His thoughts tracked to Nikolai Aven sitting out there somewhere with his wife and daughter, hanging on his call, and he felt the stone cold shiver that always told him when an operation was about to turn to shit. Anger welled in his gut but he held it in, making sure his face gave away nothing. He looked up again, his eyes settling on Powell, tripped the receiver closer to his lips and spoke into it in a calm, measured voice.
“I’m sorry, Kel, something’s come up. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
9
Two cases. That had been Hartman’s instruction. Anything that wouldn’t fit in two cases had to stay.
So how did you fit three fives into two suitcases?
It sounded like one of those stupid jokes… how many Poles does it take to change a light bulb?
From where he lay on the bed Nikolai could see them, set together beside the door, in the exact same spot where Gilmanov’s surprise package had laid waiting for him last night.
Natalia murmured in her sleep and nestled closer to him. He turned aside and looked at her, running his fingers gently through her hair.
She had remained remarkably calm as he had explained it all to her.
She’d sat opposite him at the dining table, taking it all in, her fingers steepled to her lips, her intelligent, dark eyes searching his as he spoke. Then, when he had finished – when he had told her everything – she looked down, sitting quietly in her own world, coming to terms with the reality of their situation. Finally she raised her head and stared at him.
At first he was afraid to look back at her – more afraid of the rage he might find in her eyes than he had been of anything else that had happened in the last twelve hours – but he needn’t have been. There was no anger there. None of the recrimination he deserved for having somehow blindly led his family into this labyrinth of horrors. Just a resolute equanimity.
After that she began asking questions and testing the answers, suggesting options that perhaps he may not have considered, but he had of course. In those moments when he’d had the time to think – in the tunnels of the Metro, making his way from Revolution Square to his rendezvous with Hartman, even walking up the darkened stairway to the apartment – he’d considered and reconsidered them all.
When she realized that, she sighed. “Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured.
His eyes questioned her.
“My grandmother used to tell me that.” She repeated the words. “You must be careful what you wish for, Natalia. I always wished we could visit America one day. I just never thought it would happen like this.”
Then she forced a smile, rose from her chair and calmly set about preparing dinner.
While they had been talking, Larisa had been playing quietly with her toys on the living room floor. Now they sat down together as a family and while they were eating Natalia explained to their daughter how tomorrow they would all be going on an exciting trip. That she must go to sleep quickly tonight since they would be leaving early and it was going to be a very big day.
Nikolai watched, marveling at the way his wife and daughter seemed able to communicate as equals in a world where age had no definition. Larisa serious and attentive, halfway an adult; and Natalia tonight, despite everything, still light-hearted and playful, halfway a child.
When dinner was finished they went off down the hall together, Larisa clutching her mother’s hand and skipping at her side, demanding to know why Boris couldn’t have a bath, where they were going, and whether Raisa could come with them. Nikolai watched with a smile he couldn’t help, then started clearing the dishes. Part way through the task it occurred to him that there was actually no need for what he was doing. If they were never returning, what did clean dishes matter? But then his sense of order rejected the proposition and he continued on as if this were just any other night. As if their world would be the same tomorrow.
He finished and flicked off the kitchen fight. Along the hall Natalia was backing quietly from Larisa’s room, pulling the door softly closed behind her. She turned and slipped off her shoes, hooking them in her fingers and tiptoeing back along the carpet runner. When she reached him she put the shoes aside and took his hand in their place, pressing her fingers into his palm. Her eyes were luminous with a strange intensity. Nikolai stared into them, letting himself be drawn into their liquid darkness, then she was leading him. Clasping his hand and drawing him with her along the hall as she edged slowly backwards towards their room.
They made love with a frantic energy. One way first, then another and another, their bodies driven together by a desperate passion until finally Natalia shuddered and froze above him, letting out a fractured cry. He let go then, bursting into her with an intensity he had never before experienced and she cried over and over as he did, moving with him, taking it all and then collapsing into his arms.
They had lain like that in silence, wrapped in each other for what seemed like an eternity but wasn’t nearly long enough, until at last she had stirred and opened her eyes, leaned up to kiss him without smiling and then slipped away, leaving him alone, staring at the bedside clock, wondering when Hartman was going to call.
From along the hall he heard the sound of the shower and smelled the fresh fragrance of peach-scented shampoo. A few minutes later she returned, her body wrapped in a toweling robe, her skin glowing, her thick dark hair combed back, still wet and gleaming. She looked at him and smiled in a way he would always remember then went to the wardrobe, took down their bags from the top shelf, laid them out on the bed and began to pack.
“You just don’t understand, do you Jack?”
Malcolm Powell closed the door firmly behind him and sank into one of Hartman’s visitors’ chairs, loosening his black tie. Hartman eyed him, considering responses, trying to work out what role Powell was playing in whatever was going on. He took a breath.
“With all due respect, Mr Ambassador –” he started, but Powell cut him off, slicing through his protest with a slash of his hand through the air.
“Spare me the due respect crap, Jack. You have no respect for me so don’t insult me with the pretense.” Powell sat perfectly still, staring at him, his presence dominating the room. Despite the implied authority of his own position behind the desk, Hartman recognized that the axis of power had shifted to the chair opposite. The Ambassador leaned forward.
“What the hell did you think you were trying to pull with this Aven thing?”
That was what Powell’s outburst was about. Hartman’s eyes flickered to the computer screen, to the email response from Langley he still hadn’t had a chance to read… How come Powell was wired in to something that should have been strictly four walls within the Company? And how was it that he’d been brought into the loop on whatever was going on, even before Hartman himself?
As if reading his thoughts Powell nodded at the computer. “I presume you’ve received instructions.”
Hartman’s eyes narrowed. Any previous allowance of deference was stripped from his tone. “I don’t know what the fuck I’ve received. I haven’t had the fucking time to read it!”
Powell held his ground. “Then I suggest you do, Jack. I’ll wait.”
Hartman glared back at him then turned away to the screen, his eyes tracking the text.
Sender: Thomas J. Gaines
Subject: Exfiltration Authorization Request – Aven, Nikolai.
The bold type:
AUTHORIZATION DENIED.
Then the text below:
This matter referred to Dept. of State in response to Administration directive that all RUS issues of potential political sensitivity be reviewed there prior action. In response, Company advised that POLITICAL ISSUES at st
ake here override potential benefits of support for subject, Aven, and proposed exfiltration. You are instructed to hand all material in your possession re this matter to FBI Legal Attaché, Moscow, for liaison with FSB and Interior Ministry.
What fucking POLITICAL ISSUES?
Hartman swerved back from the screen to face Powell. “I assume you know what’s going on here, so maybe you’d like to explain it to me?”
Their eyes locked across the desk. Eventually the Ambassador blinked.
“It’s ten years since you were last here, right?”
Powell leaned forward, not waiting for an answer.
“You’re pretending it’s the same place. It’s not, Jack. I’ve tried to explain that to you. You were here, what? Four years? So you think you know it all, but the time you put in then doesn’t mean squat because you know what, Jack? You were on another planet. When did you leave, ‘85? Perestroika didn’t even start until ‘86. You have no conception of this place now. The war of ideology is over. The Russians aren’t a political threat to us any longer. The risk, now, is that the goddamned place may implode!” Powell paused a second for emphasis. “The country’s an economic basket case. There are people starving out there, Jack, and they’ll steal and sell anything to survive. What we’ve got to do is help them through the upheaval. Encourage them. Keep the right people on side. Make sure no one tries to sell a nuclear missile, or worse, to someone we wouldn’t want owning it.
“This is all about alliances, Jack. Political alliances.” Powell attempted a smile. “We need the right people working with us, here.” He paused, his expression turning back to serious. “There’s a price we have to pay for that, and you know what it is? It means cutting those people some slack. Doing them some favors.”
Hartman listened with incredulity. It occurred to him that anyone overhearing this conversation a decade ago would have thought Powell was CIA, all twists and turns and expediency and compromise and rationalization. Maybe this was a different planet.
“You know what the goal is here, Jack?” Powell’s voice drew him back. “The goal is to build a strong market economy as quickly as possible. The faster we do that, the sooner we’ll be able to cut back on the billions of dollars of aid we’re having to pour into the place just to help them keep their heads above water. If we can get this country on its feet and tap them into our way of thinking then we’ve solved the problem. Any threat is neutralized for good and our bonus is that we end up with a huge new market of some hundred and fifty million people for everything American. You get it, Jack? Is it coming through?”
Hartman’s brow furrowed in disbelief. What was this? Did Powell want to sew another star on the flag? Russia the fifty- second fucking state! He glanced back at the response from Langley, still floating on the screen:
This matter referred to Dept. of State in response to Administration directive that all RUS issues of potential political sensitivity be reviewed there prior action.
Administration directive. This wasn’t just Powell! His head began turning slowly from side to side. Small movements at first, the arcs getting longer and bolder the more time he gave himself to think. He looked back again, meeting Powell’s gaze. He was probably going to lose his pension for this, but what the fuck! He leaned forward, dragging the power back to his side of the desk.
“You know what, Mr Ambassador? You’re fucking crazy!”
A flush of color rose in Powell’s cheeks but Hartman ignored it. He replayed Powell’s theme.
“So how long have you been here? A year? Two? Well let me tell you, pal, you don’t know squat about these people. What was it you said? “If we can tap them into our way of thinking…” I don’t know whether that’s your line or whether it came from one of your pals back in Washington. I don’t know who sold the goods to whom, but neither do I give a monkey’s fuck, because it’s absolute crap! These people are fucking Russians, pal. They’ve been around for over a thousand years.” He stared at the Ambassador, measuring his discomfort, deciding to go for broke. “In case you can’t count, that’s seven hundred years longer than we have. Underestimate that at your fucking peril!”
Hartman tossed his hands apart, “Don’t get me wrong. They’re nice people. I like them. But you give them an inch and they’ll take everything you flicking own. You start cutting deals with them like you’re suggesting…” He drew a breath, casting round for an analogy. Found one that suited and gave a grim smile. “You ever see that movie Alien?”
To his surprise, Powell gave an involuntary nod.
Hartman pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Stepped around the desk and stood above the seated figure in the dinner suit. “Well think of that creature that gets inside you and starts growing in your gut, because that’s what happens when you start cutting deals with these people, Mr Ambassador.” He snared a breath. “You remember that.” He stepped away, returning to the desk, stacking papers, opening drawers, continuing to speak without bothering to look up.
“As surprising as it may seem, Mr Ambassador, they’re not all corrupt. This Aven guy is trying to do the right thing. That’s the kind of person we need on our side, but thanks to your interference you know what’s going to happen to him?” He stopped and looked up. “Yeah, you know, don’t you?” he threw the line away derisively. “You know and you don’t give a shit.”
Powell drew himself together. He climbed to his feet and took a step forward, grabbing the edge of Hartman’s desk in both his hands. His voice was brittle with anger.
“Listen to me, Hartman. No one talks to me like that. Least of all someone who works under me!”
Hartman stopped what he was doing and looked up.
“News for you, pal. I don’t work for you. I never worked for you. And you know what?” He slammed the last desk drawer, scooped up a handful of papers and the half empty pack of cigarettes. “I don’t work under anyone anymore, because I just fucking quit!”
10
I’m sorry… Even in Russian the message was the same. Jack Hartman thumbed the cell phone number again, came up with the same recorded voice.
The person you wish to contact is out of range.
Wrong!
Nikolai Aven was within range. Totally within range and that was the whole problem!
Hartman checked the number again. Definitely the one Aven had given him, so why the hell wasn’t he answering?
He glanced around the apartment he’d been allocated on his arrival back in Moscow six weeks before, across the mound of still unpacked cartons corralled into the living room corner. At least he hadn’t wasted his time putting it all away. All he had to do now was pack his bags, call the Embassy removalist and leave – and he would. But not quite yet. He might have told Powell he was quitting but that was just theatre. Until he did it officially, through channels, he was still Moscow Chief of Station and as long as he was, fuck the POLITICAL ISSUES. He was going to play this his way.
There was no point in trying to argue the toss on Aven with Langley; he’d been around long enough to know that.
By now Tom Gaines and Allan Bennel, the DDO, would be feeling guilty as hell –the Deputy Director and Director as well, probably – but once State and the Administration had got in on the act, forget it! Bennel, the DDCI and the Director would have already argued their case: the proposition that Aven’s material and the knowledge he would bring with him could be of enormous value in developing strategies to deal with the advancing Russian threat. But that’s all it was: a proposition. The Company was still trying to convince the Administration that there actually was a threat, and that it needed to be taken seriously while, meantime, Ambassador Malcolm Powell had gotten there before them, stringing up his system of tripwires and alarms to ensure he got an early warning of any operation that might get in the way of his own agenda. Presuming, of course, it was Powell’s agenda. Presuming he wasn’t just carrying out orders.
Hartman poured himself a scotch from the bottle of J&B on the kitchen counter and walked acr
oss to the window, considering options. The apartment complex lay at the edge of the Embassy compound. To the south-west, the Russian White House shimmered above the edge of the Moskva River. Beyond it, on the opposite bank, the towering Soviet-gothic Hotel Ukraine stood bathed in golden light, its thrusting spire piercing the blue-black night.
He drank and swallowed.
He should never have come back. He was tired of all this bullshit and duplicity. For almost thirty years he’d managed to put up with it, driven on by the crazy notion that right would eventually prevail, but it never did. Every now and then right won a round, but that was as far as it went.
He’d come to the CIA straight out of college, eyes wide open, after the fiascos of Budapest and Cuba and the hanging question over Kennedy’s assassination, so he knew what he was getting into. But he’d come in with optimism and kept the faith. Maintained the belief that they could make a difference, and they could… if they were just left the hell alone to get on with what they were good at!
But they never were left alone. There was always interference. Always the other agendas. The POLITICAL ISSUES that crawled across the path like scorpions forcing procrastination and delay, necessitating diversions and concessions.
It was inevitable that, over time, his idealism had begun to crumble but he kept on anyway, because by then he knew that to stop would be to admit defeat. Then suddenly Nance was gone, and what was left of his optimism just evaporated.
In the past he’d been able to justify the compromises by convincing himself that something more important was always at stake, but that didn’t cut any longer. At some indeterminate point over the last year he had tripped over the understanding that there was nothing more important than how you acted today.
He took another mouthful of scotch, holding it, letting the alcohol deaden his taste, swallowing, consulting his glass. Which was why he wasn’t going to stand by and let this happen.
