“Look, perhaps you did not hear who requested this information. I am here on the highest authority of the FSB. This authority can make sure that you will never see the light beyond the bulbs you sit under. If you think that such things ended when we stopped calling one another comrade, you are mistaken. Take me to where I need to go.”
Arkady made sure that his voice carried far down the vast aisles and put fear into anyone within earshot.
“Mr. Gomenko, I am sorry you’ve encountered such difficulty,” said one older man who suddenly entered the area. “My name is Sergei Kleinkorn. I will assist you.”
“Thank you.”
There was something about Kleinkorn that instilled some trepidation in Gomenko. His age, his manner. His tone? He was at least in his mid-seventies, though still fit. He had a full head of gray hair and dressed in a perfectly ironed blue suit, white shirt, and a red tie. His attitude. A commanding attitude.
“I appreciate your help. I am on an assignment from Deputy Director Ranchenkov, acting on orders from the Kremlin.”
“May I see the papers so I can be of greater help.”
It was not said as a question; more as a military request. A former Soviet military request. Without thinking, Gomenko answered, “Yes, sir.”
Kleinkorn read the authorization. He raised an eyebrow upon reading the last paragraph.
“This is ancient history. What is the need for this today?”
“My need is to prepare a report. Beyond that I cannot say.” There were multiple truths in the last statement.
“There are those who would not want the information you seek known.”
“Mr. Kleinhorn,” he stated with authority. “I have a job to do. Will you please lead me to the correct files so I can conduct my research?”
Kleinkorn appeared put out, but waved Gomenko to follow.
Arkady Gomenko rethought how easy spying was.
Helena, Montana
Roarke had all the details Perez could remember. Make and color of the other car, basic age of the driver, and a verbatim of everything that was said on the ride to Montana. That was the easiest part. It consisted of yes, no, and stop at next exit.
He’d gone as far as he could without a sketch. Like clockwork, there was a knock at the motel door.
“Mr. Roarke?” It was SGT Barnes. “Can you come out please?”
Roarke excused himself again. A few steps down the hall the recruiter stood with a young woman, who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. Before Roarke even dared ask, SGT Barnes said, “Mr. Roarke, this is Cheryl Gabriel. She’s a junior in high school here. The art teacher recommended Cher for your,” he paused, “portraits.”
Roarke nodded to the teenager and gave Barnes a troubled look. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe SGT Barnes really explained things.”
“Oh yes he did.” The teenager offered her hand to Roarke. He took it noting her poise and confidence. “I’m pretty good at drawing people. Wanna see?”
“Yes, but it’s not a portrait of someone in the room, it’s drawing someone, two people, from a description.”
“Oh,” the girl said.
The Secret Service agent was about to dismiss her when she added, “Well, I’d be happy to give it a try. I love to draw. It’s what I’d like to study in college.”
Roarke did like her spunk. She was pretty in a natural way, about five-seven with wavy brown hair. Going to college might be a problem, though. He came to that opinion because her coat was ragged and her winter shoes appeared to be seasons old. He surmised that Cheryl’s family had very little money.
“Maybe I should talk to your parents first and explain what this is all about.”
“I live with my aunt. She’s working at the truck stop. I can try to get her, if you really need.”
“You’re pretty confident.”
“The sergeant told me I could earn some money. How much?”
“You are confident, Miss Gabriel.”
“It’s Cheryl or Cher.”
“Well, Cher, what art school do you want to go to?”
She laughed. “Well, I’ve been looking at Savannah. It’s a lot warmer there in the winter. But really far away.”
“Yes it is. Tell you what, let’s see how you do, then we’ll talk. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Moscow
Gomenko worked under the watchful eye of Kleinkorn. Less than optimum circumstances. It seemed very old school to him. More Soviet than contemporary. But Gomenko chose not to raise eyebrows; not to turn what was reported as a mere government assignment into a suspicious activity worth an archivist’s questions. So the more Gomenko appeared bored and annoyed, the more disinterested his watcher became.
An amazing history began to reveal itself box by box. Later material referred back to early files deeper in the vault. It kept Kleinkorn busy. Since the request was based on the specific name, The Andropov Institute, Gomenko stayed with particular items from the era in question. The mid-1960s until whatever the last box would reveal.
This was Russia pre-computer, born from an era full of enemies real and propagandized, foreign and domestic. It was the Cold War, which Gomenko reasoned would have been more accurately described as the Overkill War. Each side had more weapons than humanly necessary. The vast numbers of nuclear weapons researched, developed, tested, built, and stockpiled in Russia and America created unfathomable power, incredible wealth, and a spy network that concocted elaborate plans. Arkady Gomenko quickly learned that The Andropov Institute was one of them. He also discovered that the Institute had another division as well, with an inspiring, patriotic name: Red Banner.
Red Banner was a school, with teachers, classes, assignments, homework, and a rigorous curriculum, but not one found at any other Soviet academic program.
Gomenko read with disbelief. How could such a thing exist? Yet it did with great promise and incredible graduates. They were not identified by anything more than a number, but trained over years. They offered an immense expanding level of influence for Soviet politik and perhaps the collapse of America’s infrastructure without anyone actually pressing “the button.”
Of course, so much of it became obsolete with the end of the Soviet dominion and even more irrelevant when terrorists targeted American buildings with self-guided missiles—commercial aircraft.
Kleinkorn always remained nearby begrudgingly fulfilling requests for more specific boxes. By now, Gomenko dismissed him as a relic of the authoritarian era who still believed he was serving Mother Russia.
Helena, Montana
It took Cheryl Gabriel some time to feel comfortable in the room with Ricardo Perez. She was an innocent country girl. He was an El Salvadorian gang member. A killer. But he was already softening with Roarke’s coaxing and discovering that not everyone was as awful as his brother and leaders portrayed. So, he opened up. The more he did, the easier it was for Cheryl to capture the character of the men he described.
A dozen discards were crumpled on the floor and pencil eraser shavings made the bed itchy to the touch. However, in time, as she replaced initial pencil outlines with chalk, real faces emerged with very distinctive features.
This girl is good, Roarke said to himself. Ricardo Perez said it aloud. “That’s him! That’s the guy I drove.”
“Are you sure?” Roarke asked.
“It’s like she took a picture of him.”
The teenager smiled. “Okay, one down, one to go.”
“Either of you need a break?” Roarke asked.
They simultaneously said, “No.” They were actually enjoying the creative process and working together.
“Okay then. Go for it.”
Roarke then snapped a smartphone picture of her very detailed drawing and immediately forwarded it via e-mail with a short note of explanation.
Hey, Touch. Run this through the system.
See what comes up. No hints!
Oh, and give LT Walker a kiss for me.
Priority on both. Roar
ke.
Moscow
Every page, every memorandum, every evaluation contained another window to the hell-freezing-over reality of the Cold War. Red Banner offered a variety of courses that couldn’t be found anywhere. Red Banner 101 was the introduction. A multi-year introduction. In the most simplistic terms, students enrolled as Russians and graduated as Americans.
Gomenko surmised the program aimed for total immersion. Young men and women were taught to become Americans, to integrate into American life; many fulfilling duties as active spies, others as sleepers awaiting wakening.
Drilling down into the details, Gomenko gathered that students never knew or used each other’s actual names. Many never saw one another again unless they were sent into the field as couples.
The program was established based on field research. For a long time, the Russians were inept at getting the basics of American life. Prior to Red Banner 101, spies who operated outside of the protection of embassy cover might master an accent or drive an automatic shift car properly, but the little things could blow their cover—things that are so typically American and definitely not Russian. Buying the right sneakers, toothpaste, or jeans. There were too many choices. Frustrating choices. More frustrating than negotiating, bargaining, or, worse yet, arguing over the price. Confused, they’d opt for one product not understanding the other is really what they needed.
Red Banner sought to correct this. It was designed specifically to teach Russians the practical fundamentals of American life. Men and women enlisted. The best became great actors performing on a grand global stage or in small-town America. The student spies lost their Russian accents, learned how to correctly work American idiomatic expressions into their speech, and became respected members of their communities.
Some were even encouraged to marry, have a family, and raise their children to continue their life’s work.
Over the years, hundreds of Russians infiltrated American society waiting to be activated.
The plans of such sleepers read like movie scenarios. Graduates were trained to become titans of industry, court justices, and college presidents. By the end of the Cold War, most found capitalism more personally beneficial than totalitarianism and daytime success more rewarding than remaining a sleeper.
Once the Soviet Union fell, it became a moot issue unless the sleeper had other, personal reasons for continuing. Gomenko read the case of one such spy, placed within a family as a result of deadly circumstances. His mission—to become a leading political figure in American life.
Gomenko wondered how close he had gotten. Then he found a notation that made him sit up. In a history full of no names, there finally was one. Colonel Aleksandr Dubroff. The man his CIA contact wanted.
Gomenko decided to research Dubroff further. For that, he’d use his own computer and his own contacts.
Helena, Montana
The three of them were actually laughing. Roarke was convinced that Perez hadn’t done that in a long, long time. He was enjoying the moment when he received two text messages in quick succession.
“Fuck you!” from FBI photo analyst Duane “Touch” Parsons. Then another, with the exact same, “Fuck you!” from army intelligence officer Penny Walker.
They were together because of Roarke. He had played matchmaker between the sexy army intelligence officer and the geeky FBI computer expert. It was working.
The two e-mails made Roarke laugh even more.
“What’s that all about?” Cheryl asked.
“Oh, my friends are having a little fun with me. And I guarantee you’ve given them a great challenge.”
Indeed, Roarke was quite certain, though the text didn’t say it, that Parsons was already deep into the search at his Quantico office computer station, and Penny would be backing him up.
A minute later Roarke got another text message from Walker.
BTW. He’s better than YOU!
Roarke laughed again. “Okay, back to work you two.”
“Coffee, coffee, coffee,” Perez said playfully.
Barnes made sure they were fully stocked. Roarke grabbed a refill for Perez and paused, cup in hand. Coffee. A memory flashed in his mind. Before it was fully shaped it was gone. He hated when that happened.
The next portrait took more back and forth because Perez only briefly saw the second man. After ninety minutes, longer than Roarke had hoped, Perez said, “It’s getting close. It’s his nose. Still not right. And his chin is too long.”
They worked widening the man’s nose, shortening his chin, and adding a few days growth of beard, which ultimately could come on or off in Photoshop. A few collaborative finishing touches resulted in another staggeringly realistic sketch of a man, likely early 40s with a distinct Middle Eastern look.
Syrian? Egyptian? Palestinian? Even Israeli? Roarke was unsure. He snapped a photo and sent it on to Parsons. It would be up to the FBI’s most creative and dynamic “picto-criminologist,” Parsons’ own invention, to tell him more.
“I think that’s enough for one day,” Roarke said, thanking both Ricardo and Cheryl.
Cheryl stood up and Roarke saw the most amazing thing. The gang member did the same and extended his hand. “Hope I didn’t scare you too much.”
“No, not at all,” she said, shaking his hand. “It was really nice working with you.”
“Me, too. Good luck.”
“You as well, Ricardo. Will you be around for a while?”
Perez looked at Roarke. The agent shook his head.
“Leaving soon.”
“Like I said, good luck.”
Perez was visibly moved.
Roarke watched and realized he must be feeling like the policeman who had helped him many years ago.
Outside the room, the teenager asked, “Why do you really need these, Mr. Roarke? What did those two men do?”
“I don’t really know.” Roarke honestly answered. “But, thanks to you, we have a good chance of finding out.” Roarke took out two crisp new $100 bills from his wallet. “This is for you, Cher. You have real talent. And I promise, this won’t be the last you hear from me.”
The girl’s eyes lit up. The money would be very helpful, but the compliment meant even more.
“But before you go, I have one very important request.”
“Yes?”
“Even though we don’t know who they are, or what they’re up to, they are dangerous. They, or people associated with them, tried to kill Ricardo.”
She gasped.
“And you have to really listen to me now. As far as they know, they succeeded. We have to keep it that way. You have to help us keep it that way.”
Cheryl Gabriel nodded, but Roarke felt he needed to go further.
“You can’t tell anybody. I need your absolute promise.”
She wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“Do you know what national security means?”
It was a tough question for a teenager who lived in rural Montana. “The country?”
“Yes, the country. I work for the government. Pretty high up.”
“How high?” she asked with great curiosity.
“Let’s just say—very. And I will report to my boss how wonderfully you did today. But you have to keep exactly what you did a secret.” Roarke took her hands to make sure he had Cheryl’s complete attention. “No one else can know. Not even your aunt.”
“But I have to tell her about the money.” She clutched the bills.
“You’re right. Say your art teacher recommended you do some drawings for the army. That works, doesn’t it? It’s true.”
“Okay.”
“But nothing else. It’s that important to the country. Can I have your promise?”
With a combination of fear and excitement Cheryl Gabriel proclaimed, “Mr. Roarke, you have it. Now a request from me.”
“Oh?” he said surprised.
“Make sure Ricardo does okay.”
“Trust me, I will.”
Roarke returned
to the motel room. There was more to go over.
“Let’s talk about the head of your gang.”
“Estavan.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. What he’s like. Who he sleeps with. What sends him into a rage. Is he ever alone. What he’s afraid of. Everything.”
They talked for three straight hours. Roarke took it all down.
Outside again, Roarke phoned the White House. After he downloaded the basics, Roarke added a few personal requests regarding Ricardo Perez and Cheryl Gabriel. Taylor agreed to follow up. After ending that call, Roarke saw that he’d received a text message from Touch Parsons.
Do you have any idea the shit you’re into?
Roarke called the photo analyst back in seconds. “Whatcha got?”
“Better in person. When can you be here?”
“Five, six hours. Depends on the winds. But you have to give me something.”
Parsons scanned two computer screens. A third was whizzing at light speed through the FBI’s Facial Recognition Technology databases, nicknamed FERET.
“You gave me some great stuff to work with.”
“And…”
“Solid imagery on eyes, nose, mouth; great work.”
“Cut to the chase.”
“Matches. Solid ones. Scary ones.”
Roarke took a deep breath. “Start with scary.”
“Like name, occupation, and best of friends.” Parsons enlarged an image on his left computer screen. He enhanced the picture, removing grain and adding sharpness. “I have a positive ID for you from a photo shot in Berlin about eighteen months ago.”
“Keep going.”
“Mana Al Bushanain. Forty-seven. Saudi Chemist. ID’d right next to the formerly alive Abdul Hassan, who was put to rest by a Homeland Security agent in Houston. His death was kinda front page news, short of some key details.”
“I saw it.”
“This warrants immediate action Roarke. I can’t sit on it. It’s got to go upstairs.”
Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Page 21
