by John Weisman
Vacario ran a hand through short-cut red hair. “Next week sometime. You and Mr. O’Neill will need official passports. That’s two days, if I can wring the paperwork out of State. Russian visas—another twenty-four hours minimum. Country clearance, appointments in Moscow, hotel reservations—three, four days, maybe more. Of course, that’s if everything falls into place.” She looked at Rand Arthur. “Senator, you’re going to have to call Nick Becker and notify him.”
Sam broke in. “I don’t think that’s advisable.”
“Protocol,” Rand Arthur said. “Has to be done, my boy.” He paused. “I won’t be telling him our real intentions, of course.”
“There’s something else,” Sam said.
Vacario looked up from her notepad.
“We need to elicit some information. I want to know where Ed Howard lived. Address, phone number, that kind of stuff. I may need directions to his dacha.” He paused and saw the quizzical look on Vacario’s face. “Sometimes dachas don’t have regular street addresses—you know—'it’s the second cabin past the clump of pine trees two kilometers outside Popelkovo.’ “ He paused. “And Ed Howard’s file. I’d like to see the latest material Langley’s got.”
Virginia Vacario said, “A lot of red flags will go up if I start pressing those buttons, Mr. Waterman.”
“Sam, Ms. Vacario,” Sam said. “Please—just Sam. It’s an old Agency tradition to be on a first-name basis when you go operational.”
She offered her hand. “Sam it is, then. And I’m Ginny.”
Sam took her hand. And held it.
Michael O’Neill watched the two of them as their eyes locked. “Perhaps you two should post the bans,” he said, laughing as Vacario reacted. “Still, if you’re Ginny and you’re Sam, that officially makes me Michael.” He struck a heroic pose. “So here we are. MIG-1.”
Vacario raised an eyebrow. “MIG? Like the plane?”
“Moscow Insertion Group.” O’Neill tapped his vest with a thumb. “I’m See No Evilovich.” He pointed at Vacario. “You’re Speak No Evilovska.” He tapped Sam on the shoulder. “And he’s Hear No Evilovich.”
“What about me?” Rand Arthur said.
“You, Senator? You’re just Evil.”
There was another awkward pause. O’Neill cleared his throat. “About the Howard stuff …”
Sam said, “Yes?”
“Let me handle Langley, Sam. I’ve still got a few friends in low places out there.”
Sam said, “I never thought of you as a penetration agent, Michael.”
“Obviously, Sam, you never kept track of me when I was single.”
PART III
MOSCOW
CHAPTER 11
NOVEMBER 6, 2002
SAM SQUINTED through the windshield of the embassy sedan. It had started to snow as they’d pulled onto the M10 shortly after passing Sheremetevo’s perimeter fence. Not quite a blizzard, but enough to make the drab city picture-postcard attractive. Out of habit, he glanced left as the Volvo flew down the divided highway that was still called Leningradski Prospekt, just able to make out the hulking outline of Sportkompleks Dinamo through the blowing snow. During his Moscow tour, Sam had become a fervent Dinamo fan and had gone to many of the soccer team’s home games.
Of course he had. He genuinely enjoyed watching the team play. But he had a professional interest in soccer as well. During the Soviet era, Dinamo had been sponsored by the KGB, and its stadium still contained the offices of several former high-ranking KGB officials. Moreover, the huge stadium had dozens of entrances and exits, multiple ramps, tiers of staircases, and long tunnels. There were two nearby metro stations and numerous bus stops close by, as well. The Sportkompleks made it possible for him to slip away during the tumult of a game in case he had a meeting to which he didn’t want to be followed.
Sam snuck a quick look at the driver’s stoic profile, wondering if he was FSB. It was madness, he’d always thought, to hire foreign nationals17 as embassy drivers and maintenance workers. After a while, you simply forgot they weren’t cleared, and you spoke openly in front of them.
Quickly, the snow-covered parkland surrounding the soccer stadium gave way to a residential neighborhood of towering apartment blocks. Some had been built in the 1930s by Stalin as rewards for the Communist Party’s top cadre. In a matter of minutes they’d be coming to the Garden Ring—roughly two kilometers from the Kremlin—and a block or so farther on, their hotel. Thankfully, there was nothing on the schedule for tonight. There’d be a meeting at ten tomorrow morning at the embassy, followed by a session at the Russian Foreign Ministry, followed by a lunch with the deputy chief—the COS was on home leave through the end of the year.
Sam had been riding in silence since they’d left the airport. It wasn’t a matter of security so much as that he was caught up in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and memories. Now, as they neared their destination, he felt compelled to say something. So he swung around and caught Michael O’Neill and Ginny Vacario peering openmouthed at the sights.
“Impressed?”
Vacario’s eyes were wide. “The buildings are so huge. The scale is quite incredible.”
“Stalin believed the bigger the building, the grander the political movement.”
“Really?”
“So the story goes. Still, it takes getting used to. It seemed a lot bigger before there were so many cars.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
O’Neill asked, “How far are we staying from the Kremlin?”
“About a mile and a half.”
“I hope we have time to see Red Square.”
“We’ll make time,” Sam said. “And visit the Arbat so you can buy matryoshkas and icons.”
“I’d settle for one of those big Russkie hats—the fur ones,” O’Neill said. “God, it’s cold.”
Sam laughed. “It’s only late autumn, Michael. Just getting chilly.”
O’Neill extracted a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. “'Scuse me.” He wedged the big white square back into his pocket. I don’t think I’d like to spend the winter here.”
Sam grunted in response. He rubbed at his face, which was bristly. He wanted a shower and a shave and a couple of shots of good vodka in the bar just off the Marriott’s big atrium.
They’d been traveling for almost twenty-four hours now, and he was getting tired. Because they were flying on government tickets and at least one leg had to be on an American carrier, they’d flown a joint Delta/Air France flight to Paris. They’d arrived in the middle of a cold downpour, climbed aboard a crowded tram, and chugged from Terminal F through the rain to Terminal B. There, while O’Neill and Sam snagged a quick breakfast of petits pains and cafés au lait at the cleaner of two crowded, greasy-spoon coffee bars, Virginia Vacario tested her new GSM cell phone by checking in with her deputy back in Washington. It was way past midnight in the nation’s capital, but she guessed he’d be up watching election returns—and if he wasn’t, he should have been.
She returned to the table elated. The Republicans were going to take back the Senate. The current ranking member of SSCI was going to become chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, which meant Rand Arthur was moving up two notches. When the session started, he’d become SSCI’s new chairman. His ascension meant Vacario would become the committee’s chief counsel as soon as the new Congress convened.
To celebrate, Vacario and O’Neill hit the duty free. He bought a box of Cuban Punch double coronas and a liter of twenty-one-year-old Irish whiskey. She snagged a half ounce of Chanel No. 5 and an Hermès scarf. Sam didn’t feel much like a party animal. The thought of Rand Arthur in charge of SSCI made him uneasy. Still, he bought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two cartons of Marlboros out of habit. He’d put them to use in Moscow.
They’d hustled through security and then, when they’d arrived at the departure lounge—and were unable to go back through security into the terminal proper—they’d discovered the Air France f
light to Moscow would be delayed two and a half hours.
So, instead of arriving in Moscow just after 3P.M., they’d touched down at five-thirty. The tarmac was clustered with knots of security troops, dressed in bulletproof vests and carrying automatic weapons. Armored personnel carriers sat adjacent to the terminals. The customs and baggage areas were heavily patrolled. Bomb-sniffing dogs checked every incoming suitcase.
The embassy driver, whose name, appropriately enough, was Boris, had been waiting impatiently just outside the customs area. They knew he was from the embassy because he was holding a foot-square sheet of cardboard on which had been written usCONGRES DEL. “Nothing like great OPSEC,” O’Neill commented drily.
BORIS SWUNG LEFT down a side street, then veered right, accelerated past a squat yellow taxicab, slid to the curb adjacent to the Marriott’s marquee entrance, and popped the trunk lid. He jumped out and opened the rear door for Vacario with a flourish. “Pazhalsta, Mrs.” he said, beckoning.
Vacario slid out into the cold night and peered through the snow at the brilliantly lit facade, atop which sat a huge sign that despite being in Cyrillic, obviously saidMARRIOTT in four-foot-high, red neon letters. O’Neill followed, shivering and sneezing. Boris unpacked their suitcases and set them on the sidewalk, where they were picked up by a pair of uniformed bellmen.
The driver turned to Sam, his hand brazenly outstretched. Until now, Sam hadn’t used his Russian. Now he turned on the FSN. “Shto? What? You’re looking for something extra? The embassy doesn’t pay you enough already?” He knew how much embassy drivers made, which was more than Russian generals. Embassy drivers even got paid in dollars. It was just another scam. Boris was greedy.
Boris shrugged. “I waited so long,” he said. “The plane was late.”
Sam was having none of it. “Then put in for overtime.” He raised his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Atyebis', Boris, get lost.” Then he turned and followed the others into the hotel.
The embassy had booked rooms for them on the eighth floor. The bellman led them through the huge atrium to one of the elevators, then showed them how to insert their room key cards into a reader next to the floor-selector buttons. Sam machine-gunned some Russian at the young man, who smiled and launched into a fifteen-second monologue.
Vacario gave Sam a quizzical look.
“He was explaining the security procedures,” Sam explained. “You can’t ride these elevators unless you have a room key card. There are readers, which compare your key card with your room number. You can’t use the elevator to go to any floor except the one your room’s on. He says they put them in after 9/11.”
At eight, the bellman pushed the luggage gurney into the hallway and turned left. The three Americans followed. They were lodged in adjoining rooms. Sam watched from the corridor as his bag went onto the bed, then tipped the bellman as he came out. “I’m going to grab a quick shower. What say we meet for a drink in an hour and then go out and have some dinner?”
“I’ll take a pass on drinks and dinner if you don’t mind, Sam.” O’Neill sneezed messily. “I think I caught a bug in Paris, or on the damn flight. I’m gonna take a pill and try to sleep it off.”
“Counselor?”
“Count me in.” She turned and followed the bellman down the brightly lit hallway.
“An hour, then—in the bar,” he called after her. “It’s in the lobby—opposite where we registered.”
SAM WAS WAITING at a table in the rear, his back to the back wall, as she came through the door, her fur coat folded across her arm. She’d changed into a knit skirt over which she’d layered a thick, patterned turtleneck sweater. And she wore calf-high boots. He rose and held a chair for her. “Ginny.”
“Thanks.” She seemed to hesitate just slightly before sitting down, then smiled brightly as she scrunched her chair closer to the table. “How’s Michael?”
“I knocked on his door just before I came down. He sounds dreadful.”
“I hope he’ll be better in the morning. We have a hellish day. I had a message from the embassy moving our first appointment back to nine.” She let Sam order—which he did in Russian. She shifted slightly in her seat, craning her neck to look around the bar.
“Nice hotel. We could be in New York or Chicago.”
“The hotel is new. It was finished just before I left.”
She gestured around the room. “Who comes here?”
‘To this bar? Guests—businessmen mostly, and of course tourists. Plus locals: the new Russian entrepreneurs who do beeziness. And, you know … others.”
“Others?”
He grinned. “Mafiya. Hookers. Take a quick peek to your left—about ten o’clock …” Sam waited as she twisted around, then turned back to face him. “Those two bald guys with the bottle of Dom Pérignon are Vory—mafiyosi.”
“How do you know?”
“Look at the three tables surrounding them.”
She did. “You mean the seven bodyguards drinking Chivas by the bottle who look like they’re all named Cheech?”
He smiled. “Exactly. They call them byki here. It means bulls.” He paused as a waiter in a Cossack-style tunic placed a hundred gram tin of caviar set into shaved ice, a platter holding a stack of warm blini, and a pile of buttered black bread in front of them. Next, he set a half-liter bottle of vodka, which had been frozen into the center of a milk-carton-size block of ice then wrapped in a starched napkin, in the center of the table.
The waiter unwrapped the napkin so Sam could see the label through the crystal-clear ice. When Sam nodded, he unscrewed the cap and poured the syrupy liquid into two delicate crystal shot glasses.
Sam said, “Spaciba.”
“Pazhalsta.” The waiter withdrew with a flourish.
“The traditional welcome to Moscow, Virginia Vacario: caviar, vodka, vory, and byki.” Sam lifted his glass and inclined it toward Vacario. “Za vashe zdarov’e, Ginny.”
She returned the toast, touching the rim of his glass with her own. “Your health, too, Sam.”
Sam took the vodka down in one gulp. He caught the waiter’s smile as the man watched Vacario sip tentatively from across the room. “Dadna, Ginny. Drink it to the bottom, or you’ll embarrass me.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that.” She drank it all down and slapped her glass onto the tablecloth. “Da svidanya!”
“Good-bye?” Sam was confused. “You’re leaving already?”
Vacario laughed. “It’s the only expression I remember from the guidebook I read on the plane.” She leaned forward, scooped beluga from its tin, spread it on a pair of blini, and placed them on the small plate in front of Sam. “They don’t serve chopped eggs or onions here the way they do in the States.”
“The good caviar is so fresh you don’t need anything except a squeeze of lemon—if that.” Sam waited until she’d served herself, then ate with relish. He hadn’t had any caviar since returning from Moscow, and this stuff was just as good as he remembered it could be. He wiped his mouth with the starched napkin and poured them another round of vodka.
They finished the second round, and Sam was just pouring a third when he felt the ping. The signal was so strong in Sam’s head as to be almost audible. He stopped short, the bottle held immobile in midair.
Vacario sensed his unease. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He tilted the bottle, filled her glass to the rim, set the bottle down, and then lifted his glass. “To absent friends.” He drank, his eyes panning slowly across the room, unable to identify who might be watching.
“Something’s wrong.” Ginny said. “Sam—”
He smiled at her, then opened his mouth wide and laughed. He put his glass down and took both of her hands in his. He inclined his head toward her, still smiling. “Let it alone, Ginny,” he said, his voice low and serious.
She blinked. But she didn’t pull away. And then she realized what he was saying. She stroked the back of his hand tenderly, looked into his eyes soulfully, leaned across th
e table, smiled, and mouthed, “We’re being surveilled, aren’t we?”
He squeezed her hand and winked. “This is an official visit.”
She let go of him, sat back, spooned beluga onto a blini, leaned across the table, and fed it to him. “This bar is so Western I almost forgot.”
“You can’t forget,” he said, wiping at his mouth. “Ever. And believe me when I tell you old habits die hard.”
She nodded. “Understood.” She spread the last of the caviar on a piece of buttered black bread, took a delicate bite, chased it with vodka, and sat back in her seat. A satisfied, alcohol-amplified smile spread across her face. “I could get used to this—if I didn’t have to work ever again.”
“But work we must.” Sam finished his vodka and signaled the waiter to bring the check. “So, what would you like for dinner? Shashlik? Herring? Borscht?”
She watched as he pulled four twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet, folded them around the check, and handed everything to the waiter. “To be honest, Sam, after all this rich food, I’d like something plain. A steak and a salad would be fine with me. We could probably eat here in the hotel.”
“Nah.” He stroked his chin. “I know a place. It’s about a ten-minute walk. If you’re up for it, that is.”
“Lead on, Macduffski.” She folded the big napkin, stowed it on the table, and raised the fur coat high enough off her lap for him to see it. “I came prepared.”
“Well, I didn’t,” he said. “Let me run upstairs and grab my coat.
CHAPTER 12
THEY LEFT THE HOTEL and turned northwest along Tverskaya Street, their chins buried in upraised collars against the wind. It had stopped snowing, but the wind was fierce, and there were still flakes blowing. Ginny tucked her arm through Sam’s and stayed close, the cold far more bitter and penetrating than she’d expected. Even in her fur she was chilled clear through by the time they’d walked a hundred yards past shuttered stores that made her think of Howard Avenue’s Gold Coast. Off to her left she saw the lights of what was obviously a metro station. Just beyond it, a huge ornate arch was bathed in floodlights. “What’s that?”
