The Russian

by Saul Herzog

  Any failure was paid for in blood.

  Osama Bin Laden started out bombing embassies. The CIA thought the solution was to protect the embassies.

  The only solution was to kill Bin Laden, a lesson they learned when two jets plowed into the World Trade Center.

  Getting every single conspirator in a plot was not easy. It was a dangerous game of watching and waiting, and at any moment, a bomb could go off in your face.

  But if you didn’t do it right, well, look at the newsreel from 9/11.

  Lance had to find the right person in the embassy, someone willing to play the long game, to sit on the information and wait. That was how you caught and killed the plotters. Ordering an evacuation of the embassy would only kick the problem to a later date.

  Finding someone willing to think like that was hard enough. For Lance, it would be next to impossible. They’d never listen. His current status was AWOL, and for all he knew, he was a wanted fugitive. He was hiding out from the agency and had zero wish to be pulled back in.

  He sighed. The front door was not an option.

  Across the street, an armored truck drove by and stopped at the lights. It was marked like the vehicles Russian banks used to transport cash. It waited for the green light, then turned into the embassy’s Garden Ring security gate. The guards waved the driver through without even checking his ID.

  The guards looked formidable with their Kevlar vests and assault rifles, but Lance knew who they were.

  Two weeks ago, that gate had been manned by US marines. Now the guards were employees of a Russian security contractor called Diamond Logistics, a company wholly owned by a former KGB officer with close links to the Kremlin.

  How had the US embassy’s security been put in the hands of a former KGB officer?

  The answer to that question, as always, was politics.

  In response to the latest round of US sanctions, the Kremlin had recently ordered the US embassy in Moscow, and the consulates in Saint Petersburg, Yekaterinburg, and Vladivostok, to reduce personnel by seven hundred. That meant pulling out the marines usually charged with protecting the embassy. The Russian government then refused to license a single US company to provide the security, and a no-bid contract worth three million dollars was awarded by the State Department to Diamond Logistics.

  It was a travesty. A joke. Putting security for the embassy in the hands of the very people who were most likely to attack it. Lance had already hacked the Acquisitions Office network and tried to read the congressional oversight report for the contract, but someone had deleted it.

  You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know something wasn’t right. He waited until Larissa fell asleep, then left her alone in the apartment and came down here.

  He waited until the truck entered the compound then paid for his drink.

  He walked across the street to the embassy entrance and flashed his badge. The Russian guards gave it a cursory glance, barely looking at him before waving him through.

  He walked into the compound and scanned the area. He was in a large square surrounded by buildings. The old, original embassy building was on the south side of the square, visible from the street. Next to it, further from the street, was the much larger and more sophisticated new building. Around the square were the many administrative and support buildings. Lance had just entered through the main gate, but there were other, smaller entrances to the compound for state department staff, diplomatic visitors, and deliveries. There was also a separate entrance to the old embassy for members of the public needing consular services. Lance had no doubt security was even worse at all those points.

  He scanned the high perimeter wall and the entrances to each of the buildings, including the new embassy building. There wasn’t a single marine on the premises.

  The only security was Diamond Logistics rent-a-cops in their civilian uniforms. On their sleeves was a small patch of the Russian flag.

  If someone was going to attack, they couldn’t have asked for better circumstances.

  Lance spat on the ground and kept walking.

  There’d been a time when this embassy was the most secure overseas diplomatic facility in the world. There’d been a time when the federal government cared even about the purity of the water being used in the concrete.

  Those days were gone.

  26

  Sergey stepped out of the jet onto the tarmac at Teterboro Airport. It was a small facility in New Jersey that catered mostly to private jets. The Russian Consulate made heavy use of it.

  He put a cigarette in his mouth and shielded it with his coat as he lit it. The sky was overcast, the clouds low. He walked to the customs building, where he was required to show his passport and sign in. The Russian government had arranged diplomatic clearance for the flight, and Sergey was traveling under false diplomatic credentials.

  He went through the modest customs process and lit another cigarette on the terminal’s front steps.

  A black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up in front of him, and he got in.

  “Mr. Sergeyevich,” the driver said in Russian.

  “Take me to the Consulate,” Sergey said, opening his window.

  The Russian Consulate was on the Upper East Side just off Fifth Avenue. It was a beautiful limestone house, originally built by a New York real estate mogul as a wedding gift for his daughter. Its transfer to the Russian government had been a sensitive process.

  Back in the thirties, the Russians had a consulate on Sixty-First Street. The Soviet government made a habit of snatching up dissidents and holding them there against their will. When one of these unlucky people, a young English teacher from the Ukraine, leaped from the fourth-floor window to her death, there was public outrage. The New York Attorney General’s office was forced to step in and shut it down.

  For forty-seven years, there was no Russian consulate in the city, until this one received permission to operate in the nineties. Already, there were multiple claims it was being used in ways that contravened the agreement signed with the city.

  Sergey didn’t like being in New York. Everything was bigger and brighter than Moscow. The buildings were taller, the restaurants were more expensive, the cars were newer, and the women were better dressed. It fired up his inferiority complex.

  “First time in New York?” the driver said.

  “No,” Sergey said.

  The driver nodded.

  “How’s your English?”

  Sergey lit another cigarette and blew the smoke in the driver’s direction. He caught the man’s eye in the rearview mirror and looked at him.

  “What about me gave you the impression I wanted to make small talk?”

  The driver looked ahead.

  Sergey chain-smoked in the backseat as they navigated the evening rush hour, and when the car pulled up outside the consulate an hour later, he made the driver get out and open the door for him.

  He was escorted through security and taken in a private elevator to the fourth floor. He exited into a carpeted hallway where a lady at a desk told him to take a seat. He sat by her desk and read the name on the door behind her.

  It was the door to the office of the Consul-General, Jacob Kirov.

  “Can I smoke?” he said in Russian to the woman at the desk.

  “Of course,” she said.

  She got up from her seat to bring him an ashtray, and he noted the curve of her thighs under her skirt.

  A few minutes later, the Consul-General appeared at the door and beckoned him in. Sergey stubbed out his cigarette and entered the office, which had an ornate desk facing an expansive view over Fifth Avenue and the park.

  “Sergey Sergeyevich,” Kirov said, taking his seat. He indicated for Sergey to do the same and said, “You come very highly recommended.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Medvedev says you’re his best man.”

  “He’s too kind,” Sergey said.

  “Well, I hope you’re as good as he says because the top brass
is watching this job.”

  Sergey nodded. “Whatever they want, sir, I’ll get it done.”

  “What they want,” Kirov said, “is leverage over their American counterparts.”

  “A little leverage never hurts.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Kirov said,

  Kirov pressed a button on his phone, and the woman from the lobby appeared at the door.

  “Yes, sir?” she said.

  “Bring us something to drink, my dear.”

  She left and returned with a bottle of vodka on a tray. It was accompanied by two Bohemian crystal glasses and a matching ice bucket. She placed the tray on the table and left.

  Kirov poured them each some vodka and offered Sergey the ice.

  Sergey shook his head.

  Kirov waited for the woman to shut the door then took a sip of the vodka. Sergey did the same.

  Kirov then reached into a drawer in the desk and pulled out an envelope. He reached inside it and took out a black and white surveillance photograph.

  “Do you know who this woman is?” he said.

  Sergey shook his head. He’d never seen her before.

  “This is the sitting director of the US National Security Agency.”

  “The NSA?” Sergey said.

  “Her name is Sandra Shrader.”

  “I see,” Sergey said, looking at the photo.

  The woman wasn’t bad looking, early fifties, although she had that smug look American women got when given too much power.

  “I think,” Sergey said, then remembered where he was and held his tongue.

  “Think what?” Kirov said.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Relax,” Kirov said, pouring more vodka. “This isn’t a job interview. You’re still Medvedev’s man. I’m just borrowing you for a few days.”

  Sergey shook his head. He let out an embarrassed laugh. “I think,” he said, “maybe she buys her clothes at the same store as Hillary Clinton.”

  A smirk crossed Kirov’s face. “It’s a sign of decay when you see so many women wearing pants,” he said.

  He held out his glass, and Sergey clinked it.

  “You want me to take care of her?” Sergey said.

  Kirov shook his head. He took another photograph from the envelope and slid it across the desk. It was a girl. She looked to be about fourteen, was dressed in a school uniform.

  “This is her daughter,” Kirov said.

  “I see,” Sergey said, letting his tongue wet his lips.

  “We want you to kidnap her.”

  “I can do that.”

  “She attends a fancy school in Annapolis. You shouldn’t have too much trouble getting to her.”

  “I’m sure I won’t.”

  “Discretion is paramount. You have to take her in a way that no one knows.”

  “They’ll realize she’s gone soon enough,” Sergey said.

  “You leave that to me,” Kirov said. “She lives with her mother. There’s no father in the picture, but they do receive Secret Service protection.”

  “So get her without the Secret Service noticing?”

  “Exactly,” Kirov said. “Have you been to Annapolis before?”

  Sergey shook his head.

  “It’s a small town near Fort Meade, where the NSA is based.”

  “I see.”

  “Fancy neighborhood. Nice houses.”

  Sergey nodded.

  “We’ve had the girl under surveillance. If you take her after school on Friday, no one will know she’s missing except the mother.”

  “I see.”

  “The mother will keep it secret. I’ll see to that.”

  “And the father is dead?”

  “Yes,” Kirov said.

  “What about staff?”

  “Staff?”

  “Rich people have housekeepers, nannies, drivers.”

  Sergey shook his head. “Not in Maryland,” he said. “The mother’s Secret Service detail is the only thing you need to worry about.”

  “How long will we keep the disappearance off the radar?”

  “For as long as the president tells us,” Kirov said.

  Sergey nodded. “Fair enough.”

  They finished their drinks, and Kirov put the photos back in the envelope. He handed it to Sergey.

  “You’ve got a room at the Four Seasons tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow, you can get to work.”

  It was Wednesday. They wanted him to grab the girl on Friday after school. “I’d prefer to go to Maryland tonight,” he said.

  Kirov nodded. “Eager to get started?”

  “Familiarize myself with the neighborhood,” he said.

  “There’s a house in Baltimore,” Kirov said. “It’s where you’ll be bringing the girl. You can stay there.”

  Sergey nodded. He made his way to the door and stopped.

  “Is there something else?” Kirov said.

  “This girl,” Sergey said. “Is she …,” he paused, searching for a way to put it. “Is she off-limits?”

  Kirov looked at him. He said nothing for a moment, discerning Sergey’s meaning. Then he said, “What limits are you talking about?”

  Sergey shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.”

  Kirov looked a little pale, like the vodka wasn’t agreeing with him.

  “You better get going,” he said.

  27

  Tatyana sat across the desk from Roth. They were in his office on the second floor of the house. Bookshelves lined the wood-paneled walls, filled with attractive, leather-bound tomes. She wondered if they were his books or if they’d come with the house but didn’t ask.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t make it last night,” Roth said. “Something detained me.”

  “I understand,” Tatyana said. “Laurel took good care of me.”

  “I trust you were comfortable.”

  “Very,” Tatyana said, and she wasn’t exaggerating.

  The third floor contained three guest suites, each with a luxurious king-sized bed and its own bathroom, complete with a jacuzzi bathtub and walk-in shower. At the back of the house was a large balcony overlooking the pool, as well as an outdoor dining area and cedar sauna.

  The rooms each had their own door to the balcony.

  “It’s not a bad set up we have here,” Roth said.

  “It’s very nice,” Tatyana said, “but who’s paying for it?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Laurel said you made her head of the Group.”

  “That’s correct,” Roth said.

  “If this is some glorified security agency you’re setting up on the government’s dime to provide services to corporate clients, I’m not interested.”

  “It’s not that,” Roth said.

  “Then what is it?”

  “You know what it is,” Roth said. “You know what Lance did for us.”

  “He was more than an assassin,” Tatyana said.

  “Exactly,” Roth said.

  “And you want me to be that?”

  Roth looked at her. “If you’re willing,” he said.

  Tatyana looked out the window. A pigeon had landed on the iron lamppost. “I discussed all this with Laurel last night,” she said.

  “And she said you had a price you wouldn’t name.”

  “And that’s why you’re here?”

  “The US government doesn’t sign blank checks,” Roth said.

  “Sure it does,” Tatyana said.

  “Well, if you don’t want to tell me what you want,” Roth said.

  Tatyana shook her head. “I want to tell you,” she said, “but I need to know you’re not going to use it against me.”

  “That’s not what this is,” Roth said. “I’m not going to force you to do this job. You really are free to say no.”

  “That’s a first.”

  “This isn’t the Kremlin, Tatyana. We’re different here.”

  “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

  Roth spr
ead his hands helplessly. “We’ve both been around the block,” he said. “I think you know the parameters of what I can offer you.”

  Tatyana nodded. She looked at him closely. Being in this room with him said a lot. He was one of the longest-serving spies in Washington, the puppet-master who pulled the strings, the man who whispered in the ears of presidents and assassinated tyrants.

  He was a patriot, but he would always be a spy first. He’d never sell his services to the highest bidder. He believed in something, had an idea of the world as he saw it, and that idea was what he pursued in his actions.

  To some, Tatyana might be seen as just another Russian doll with expensive taste. The fact Roth was here said he saw her as more than that. She had an ax to grind against the system that killed her family.

  In Russia, they had a saying: When the devil himself failed, he sent a woman.

  Tatyana aimed to be that woman.

  “Laurel’s operation here,” Roth said, “answers to me and the president. No one else.”

  “Who knows it exists?”

  “So far, only the three of us.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For now.”

  “Your first recruit is a Russian?”

  “Everything I built at Langley was compromised. The assets are dead. I don’t want a repeat of that.”

  “What about Spector?”

  “I don’t have him yet.”

  “But you want him?”

  Roth said nothing. He wasn’t going to get into that.

  “If I join,” Tatyana said, “what protection do I have if things go south?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I can never go back to Russia.”

  “We’d never send you back.”

  “I’ll need some sort of guarantee.”

  “You’ll have citizenship, a new identity, birth certificate, the works.”

  “The president authorized that?”

  “The Attorney General already signed off.”

  “That was presumptuous.”

  “Was it?”

  She looked at him and shook her head. “You know I’ll join you,” she said.

  “You’re not going to regret this,” he said.

  “We need Spector.”