Humming quietly to herself, she tapped the keyboard space bar, kicking Zentner’s flat-screen display out of sleep mode. A page topped by the BKA’s logo—a stylized German heraldic eagle with outstretched wings—appeared, welcoming her to the State Security Division’s local-area network. She slid the special CD-ROM into the appropriate drive. The computer whined softly, rapidly transferring information from the disc to its main hard drive. The default screen vanished.
For nearly a minute, Randi held her breath, waiting. Suddenly a small text box flashed onto the blank screen in front of her: DOWNLOAD COMPLETE. SYSTEM READY.
Her shoulder muscles tightened. Her eyes narrowed. Now to find out whether the Agency programmers who had written this code were worth more than their very modest government salaries and pensions. If not, what she was about to do would set off top-level computer security alarms from here to Wiesbaden and back again.
Frowning now as she concentrated, Randi leaned forward and carefully typed in a command of her own: ACTIVATE JANUS.
JANUS, code-named for the Roman god of gates, doors, and beginnings was a top-secret program devised by the CIA’s technical experts to surreptitiously break past or bypass the defenses and alarm systems of a targeted computer network. Once inside those defenses, it was designed to identify, retrieve, and decrypt all of the user identities and passwords stored in the system. And then, by allowing her to masquerade as any BKA staffer—from the lowliest file clerk right up to the agency director himself—the JANUS software should make it possible for Randi to snoop through any file contained in the Bundeskriminalamt’s most secret archives.
Or so ran the theory anyway.
But to the best of her knowledge, this was the program’s first operational test. If there were any bugs in the JANUS code, Randi Russell knew she was about to find out about them the hard way.
For what felt like an eternity, the machine only seemed to whir and click and beep softly to itself. JANUS was busy spreading itself through the entire BKA computer system, rummaging first through the servers and workstations in this building and then rippling outward to those in the rest of Berlin, to Bonn, and the headquarters complex in Wiesbaden.
Randi fought the urge to stand and pace off some of the nervous energy she felt building up inside her. Though she understood the need in this case to rely on the competence of the CIA’s technical people, she did not enjoy the sensation of dependence. She had always resented not being fully in control of her own fate and this was not a personality trait she had been able to hide. There were several memos to that effect in her Agency personnel file noting, with appropriate bureaucratic concern, both her “lone wolf” tendencies and willingness to bend rules and regulations whenever she believed it to be necessary.
A new text box flashed onto the display: SECURITY PENETRATION COMPLETE. ALL FILES ACCESSIBLE. NO ALARMS DETECTED.
She sat back with a soft sigh of relief, feeling her shoulders and neck starting to unkink. She was safely inside the BKA system. Then she leaned forward again, intent on the necessary next step in this operation. Her fingers flashed over the keyboard, sending her next commands to JANUS. She ordered the program to retrieve every single report, dossier, and piece of correspondence that so much as mentioned Wulf Renke’s name.
Again, she was forced to sit waiting for JANUS to work its black magic, matching the required passwords to classification levels and then sifting through hundreds of thousands of archived files, some of them digitized copies of paper records dating back as far as thirty years. One-line summaries of the relevant documents began crowding the screen, scrolling upward at a faster and faster pace. Most were from the BKA itself, but others appeared to be classified East German government documents obtained after German reunification.
Randi waited until the enormously long list came to an end and then punched in another order: COPY ALL TO DISC. Controlled by the imperatives laid down in JANUS, the Bundeskriminalamt computer system complied, obediently duplicating every file involving Renke onto the blank CD-ROMs she inserted one after another. With that done, one last command purged the system of the CIA spy program, effectively erasing the most obvious traces of what she had done.
As soon as the BKA default screen popped back up on Zentner’s display, she stood up, slid the various discs into her case, and headed for the door. Once she was away from this building, she could head to an Agency-owned safe house and get out of this disguise. The man-hungry Computer Specialist Petra Vogel would vanish forever, to the certain dismay of the unfortunate Otto Fromm.
Randi would then take the discs to the CIA’s Berlin Station, where intelligence analysts would begin hunting for anomalies or for other clues. For anything that might explain Wulf Renke’s mysterious ability to evade arrest by the German authorities.
One hour later, a small subroutine hidden deep inside the software which managed the Bundeskriminalamt’s computer systems began its regular daily scan through certain tagged files, examining them for any signs of tampering or unexpected access. Almost immediately, the scan detected significant anomalies and began recording them. The information it collected activated previously unused sections of code within the concealed subroutine, triggering an emergency alert that was e-mailed to a personal computer outside the official BKA network.
From there, the encrypted e-mail went racing eastward, shunted through a succession of Internet servers until it reached its final destination—the Moscow offices of the Brandt Group.
Gerhard Lange read through the auto-generated report in worried silence. He pursed his thin lips, thinking through the implications of the information it contained. Coming as it did right on top of tonight’s total failure to capture Smith and Fiona Devin, this latest development was deeply disturbing.
The slim ex–Stasi officer picked up his phone and dialed Brandt’s direct cell number.
“Yes?” Erich Brandt snapped, answering on the first ring. “What is it now?”
“Someone is sniffing around the Renke files,” Lange warned him quietly.
“Who?”
Lange sighed. “That is the difficulty. According to the sentry subroutine we planted inside the BKA computer system, several hundred separate files concerning Herr Professor Renke were just accessed by more than twenty different users, including the director himself, and all within a ten-minute period. What is more, all of those document requests were made from the same workstation, one assigned to the system administrator for a local-area network in Berlin.”
For a moment, there was silence on the line. Then Brandt growled, “That’s impossible.”
“So I would think,” Lange said softly.
“You believe this is the work of the Americans,” Brandt said.
“That seems the likely answer,” Lange agreed. “Certainly both the CIA and the NSA possess the technological means to conduct such a large-scale penetration of the Bundeskriminalamt archives.”
“And the Americans have a motive,” Brandt realized, speaking slowly and reluctantly.
Lange nodded. “Yes. If, that is, one accepts the probability that our security for HYDRA has been compromised to a much greater degree than we had first assumed.”
“So it appears,” Brandt said through gritted teeth. “Well, then, let us hope this latest news escapes the Russians.”
Lange chose his next words very carefully. “If the Americans are probing Renke’s past history, they could begin tracing our clandestine sources and assets inside the German government—”
“I am well aware of what they may learn,” Brandt interrupted. “Listen closely, Gerhard. I want you to assemble a hunter-killer team and fly to Berlin. Leave tonight, if possible.”
“And my orders?”
“You and your team will find and close this new security breach,” Brandt said icily. “At any cost.”
Chapter Twenty
Washington, D.C.
Located on Lafayette Square across from the White House, the Hay-Adams Hotel was a Washington landmark. For
nearly eighty years, American movers and shakers of all kinds—powerful politicians, federal cabinet officers, top White House aides, famous actors, and wealthy corporate executives among them—had been drawn to its beautifully decorated private rooms and public spaces.
The hotel’s premier restaurant, the Lafayette Room, was famous for its award-winning cuisine and superb wine list. For nearly a year, it had also been the favorite haunt of a group of senior staffers for the House and Senate intelligence and armed services committees. Once every week, they met in the Lafayette Room for a “working lunch” with ranking analysts and advisors from the Pentagon, CIA, and State Department. These regular gatherings were seen as an opportunity to exchange information, hash through policy disputes, and smooth over occasional personality clashes in a friendlier, more collegial setting, one far removed from the usual political posturing up on Capitol Hill.
Inside the restaurant’s pristine kitchen, one of the Lafayette Room’s newest sous-chefs, a Romanian immigrant named Dragos Bratianu, worked deftly, swiftly combining snow peas, asparagus, and fresh green beans in a large, shallow bowl with several tablespoons of freshly minced chives and tarragon. He was putting the finishing touches on the special salad ordered by one of the State Department’s most highly regarded experts on Russian foreign policy.
Bratianu risked a cautious, sidelong glance over his shoulder. The other white-coated men and women crowding the kitchen were all busy preparing their own dishes for the weekday lunch crowd. No one was paying close attention to him. This was his opportunity.
Dry-mouthed now, the short, stocky man dipped his right hand into a pocket of his apron and pulled out a small clear glass vial. With one quick, decisive gesture, he unsealed the vial and poured the clear, colorless liquid it contained into the salad he had just made. With that done, he lightly drizzled fresh walnut oil dressing over the bowl, tossed the ingredients to blend their flavors together, and then tapped a bell.
A waitress appeared at the summons. “Yes, Chef?”
“Your Salade de Printemps for Table Five,” Bratianu told her calmly.
Without demur, she slid the salad bowl onto her silver tray, picked it up, and made her way out through the swinging doors into the elegant dining room beyond. The Romanian-born sous-chef breathed out in relief as the waitress disappeared. He had just earned another twenty thousand American dollars—tax-free money that would appear in his private Panamanian bank account as soon as he reported this latest success to his controller. Meanwhile, yet another deadly HYDRA variant was moving toward its intended victim.
Moscow
The Vodootvnodny Canal curved through a great arc from east to west before rejoining the Moscow River just a kilometer or so south of the Kremlin. The canal also marked the northern boundary of the Zamoskvoreche district, home to a growing population of foreigners, mostly European and American businessmen and their families. A row of pale yellow three-and four-story buildings lined the southern bank of the frozen canal. First built as luxurious town homes, they had long since been divided up into smaller flats.
Inside the living room of one of those apartments, Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith turned away from the window. It was very late, near midnight, and the darkened streets outside were almost completely empty. A blue-and-white militia car drove slowly past and then turned left onto a bridge that ultimately ran straight to the Kremlin. Its glowing red taillights vanished in the solid winter blackness. He let the heavy drapes fall back behind him and looked narrowly at Kirov. “You’re sure this place is safe?”
The Russian shrugged. “Absolutely safe? No, I cannot promise that. But this is certainly the most secure shelter I could find at such short notice.” He smiled. “The landlord is an old friend of mine, a man who owes me many favors—including his life and freedom. Best of all, most of his other tenants are corporate executives rotating through Moscow on short-term assignments, so at least you and Fiona will not stand out as strangers.”
Smith nodded. Kirov had a good point. In a city as crowded as Moscow, neighbors seeing anything or anyone out of the ordinary grew suspicious easily, and they were likely to report strangers to the authorities. But if the other residents in this apartment building were newcomers themselves, he and Fiona were less likely to draw unwanted attention. “So how long can we stay here without causing too much trouble for you or for your friend the landlord?”
“Certainly for two or three days,” Kirov replied. “Perhaps longer. After that, it might be wise to move you to another safe house—possibly one outside the city.”
“And what about you?” Fiona asked quietly. Pale and drawn-looking after the bloody close-quarters melee in the ambulance, she was sitting on a sofa, watching the two men closely. Elena Vedenskaya’s case notes were spread out across a coffee table in front of her, along with a pad of notepaper she and Smith had been using to jot down rough translations of the obscure medical jargon and terminology they contained. Their work had been interrupted when the silver-haired Russian returned from a quick trip to purchase food, a few other staples, and some necessary toiletries. Acquiring new clothes would have to wait until the next morning.
“Me?” Kirov shook his head. “I am in no real danger. I’m quite certain that the men hunting for you and Jon never got a real look at my face.” His eyes were bleak. “At least none of those who are still alive.”
“But what about that SUV you abandoned? Can they trace it back to you?”
“No,” Kirov told her confidently. “I bought the Niva for cash, through a series of go-betweens. The registration will not lead anyone to me.”
“There’s still a problem,” Smith broke in.
Kirov raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You and I have a past history of working together, both here and in Washington during the Cassandra smallpox crisis,” Jon pointed out. “And these people, whoever they are, know my name and at least some of my background. They might start asking awkward questions about Oleg Kirov, formerly a general in the Federal Security Service.”
“That is extremely unlikely,” the Russian said simply. His teeth flashed in a quick, wry grin. “You see, before I left the FSB, I made sure that certain top-secret files were…erased. I can assure you that no one searching the records at the Lubyanka headquarters will find any information connecting me to the notorious Colonel Jonathan Smith.” He shrugged his large shoulders again. “If you recall, even then the details of our temporary association were kept hidden from all but a select few.”
Smith nodded, remembering.
Suddenly aware of his own enormous fatigue, Jon crossed the room and dropped into a battered old armchair across from Fiona. The adrenaline surge during their escape had faded away, leaving him feeling weak and weary. It was a relief to get off his feet, even if only for a few brief moments. He glanced back at the other man. “Okay, so you’re in the clear for now. That’s a relief and a big one. But I’d still like to know exactly what role you’re playing in all of this mess.” He grinned tiredly. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you—not after you saved both our necks. I’m just kind of curious about how you just happened to show up in the nick of time. Especially armed and driving a conveniently untraceable vehicle.”
“Fiona asked me to provide distant cover for her during your rendezvous with Dr. Vedenskaya,” the Russian said quietly. “I was glad to oblige her.”
“Oleg runs a private security consulting firm, mostly advising companies interested in doing business here in Moscow,” Fiona Devin explained. For the first time since their capture and narrow escape, her large eyes twinkled with mild amusement. “But he has a rather wide range of clients.”
“Including your mysterious Mr. Klein,” Kirov interjected calmly. He smiled broadly at Jon. “So once again we are colleagues.”
Smith nodded slowly again as the pieces began falling into place. The retired Russian officer was one of Fiona Devin’s Moscow assets, a member of her handpicked Covert-One team. Pensioned off or not, it was a safe
bet that Kirov still had reliable friends and trusted colleagues at every level of the Russian government. No wonder she had been so confident that she could vet his list of potential sources so quickly. And no wonder she had been so sure that Elena Vedenskaya’s FSB security file had been scrubbed clean of any damaging information. How many other files had Kirov doctored before allowing himself to be purged by the Dudarev regime?
Jon studied the taller man silently for a few moments, wondering how he squared working for an American intelligence organization with the lifetime he had already spent as a faithful high-ranking officer in Russia’s army and security services. Cases of divided loyalty all too often turned sour. Men, even the best men, cracked under the strain of deciding between abstract ideals and the closer ties of blood and nationality. Without thinking about how that might sound, he said as much out loud.
“I am still a Russian patriot, Doctor,” Kirov shot back. The muscles around his jaw visibly tightened. “But I am not a blind or unthinking patriot. Dudarev and his supporters are leading the Motherland back into darkness, down an old, tyrannical path that will only bring us to disaster. So long as that is true and so long as the real interests of my country are not damaged, I see no harm in doing what I can to help you in this matter.” He looked steadily at the American, and when he spoke again there was a distinct edge in his voice. “In the past, we have fought side by side and shed blood together, Jon. And now I ask you to put your trust in me one more time. Is that too much to expect, after all I have already risked for you—and for Ms. Devin?”
“No, it’s not,” Smith admitted, realizing abruptly that he had pushed the other man too hard. He rose to his feet so that he could look Kirov directly in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Oleg,” he said quietly, offering his hand. “It was wrong of me to doubt either your honor or your integrity.”
“In your place, I, too, would have such questions,” the Russian assured him. “Suspicion and doubt are inherent perils in this game we play—the game of spies.”
The Moscow Vector Page 19
