The Russian Affair

by Adrian D'hage

  ‘Unfortunately it’s true. I don’t know if Hannah told you . . .’

  Rabinovich shook her head. ‘Hannah’s like a closed book. She would never betray any confidences. Never.’

  ‘I know,’ Bartók nodded.

  ‘I’m like that too, Denis,’ Rabinovich added, resting her hand lightly on his. ‘I’m a very good listener, but nothing ever gets repeated.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Lisa. I really appreciate that. It’s just that I was in line for Director of Weapons Development. I’ve been acting in the job for the past three years and I made some pretty outstanding progress in that time, but last week they told me I’m to be shunted sideways and they’ve looked on the outside. Bastards,’ he added.

  His bitterness was palpable, Rabinovich thought. Venomous, in fact. She noted it as another weakness she might exploit. ‘That’s outrageous, Denis. Let me get you another drink. This one’s on me.’

  ‘He’s putting them away,’ Rabinovich said softly.

  Hannah nodded, putting the drinks on the bar. ‘Depressed. You got my encryption about his wife and the maintenance man?’ she asked, giving Rabinovich her change. Everything was done by the book. Like Rabinovich, Hannah had been schooled in one of spying’s maxims. Always assume you’re being watched and never do anything to draw attention to yourself.

  ‘Yes. The planets are certainly out of alignment for him at present.’ Rabinovich returned to the table and resumed her slightly forward position.

  ‘Cheers again, Denis. And I’m very sorry to hear about the appointment. It’s most decidedly their loss. Are you going to stay?’ she asked delicately.

  ‘Don’t know. I’ve been thinking it might be time to go back to Russia.’

  ‘What would your wife . . . I’m sorry, I’m presuming you’re married.’

  Bartók scowled into his Scotch. ‘I don’t think Darlene could give a rat’s ass what I did. I don’t know if Hannah . . . but she wouldn’t have.’

  Rabinovich shook her head.

  ‘I came home last week and the bitch was in bed with the pool man. We’re finished.’

  ‘Oh no. You poor man.’ Rabinovich lent forward, rested her hand on his again and gently massaged his fingers. ‘I can see why you’re not really tied to here any more. But there are other places on the planet. Did you enjoy Boston?’

  ‘It’s a great city, Boston,’ Bartók replied wistfully. ‘Home to two of the greatest universities in the world, Harvard and MIT.’

  ‘I know,’ Rabinovich agreed. ‘I did my honours thesis at Harvard. But I have an idea,’ she added, stroking Bartók’s hand. ‘Do you have any leave?’

  ‘A barn full. I haven’t had a holiday in so long I can’t remember.’

  ‘Well, I plan to be in Boston next week. I’m staying at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Boylston Street.’

  ‘A bit out of my league, but I know it. Across the river from Cambridge and Harvard.’

  ‘Do you like oysters and seafood?’

  ‘Both. I’m a crustacean junkie, but you don’t get a lot of that in a place like Los Alamos,’ he said, smiling wanly.

  ‘You could do with a break, Denis. Clear your mind of all the shit you’ve been going through. Boston is a fun city, so come and join me. I could do with some companionship. It’s so rarely I meet a man of your intellect, let alone one that’s moved in scientific circles. We scientists are often misunderstood by the rest of the world. And it would be my shout. My company is paying and we can have dinner at the Union Oyster House, and after that . . .’ Rabinovich lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. ‘Well, my suite at the Mandarin Oriental has distinct possibilities.’

  Rabinovich had finished sending her encrypted report to her handler at the Russian embassy in Washington and she had just returned the Russian cell phone to her hotel room safe when her Israeli cell phone beeped with a text:

  Cleared Boston and have a cab. En route to hotel. Looking forward to seeing you again.

  Rabinovich replied immediately:

  Great. Me too. The concierge has been briefed to look after your luggage. xx

  Rabinovich hit the send button and then double-checked to ensure there was nothing in the room that might give Bartók any clues as to whom he might be with. The Premier Suite at the Mandarin Oriental was costing the Israeli government US$1795 a night, but Bartók was a big fish and she had assessed that at this point in time, he was feeling unappreciated on all fronts. She had told her Israeli handler in Washington that it was important that, when she did reveal her hand, Bartók be given the right impression. He needed to know, she argued, that not only were her Israeli clients interested in him for his professional knowledge, they respected him as a human being and as a result, this was the class of accommodation he could come to expect. Her handler had agreed without fuss.

  Rabinovich smiled at herself in the huge but elegant mirror that took up the entire bathroom wall behind the twin marble washbasins. She reminded herself of the twist that President Petrov could not have dreamed of: the Israelis were asking her to recruit the very target Russian agents hadn’t been able to get to. If she played this carefully, she could not only determine what the Israelis were up to at Dimona, she would also determine what progress had been made at Los Alamos.

  Rabinovich picked up the miniature microphone the Mossad had provided her and hid it under her black evening dress. She was braless, and the fine silk felt wonderful against her skin. She leaned forward, checking her plunging neckline. Satisfied, she headed down to the lobby.

  ‘Welcome back to Boston, Denis.’ Rabinovich rose from where she had been sitting near the marble reception area and moved to greet her target. She extended her hand and at the same time gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘I’ve booked a table for two at the Union Oyster House. It’s on my company,’ she added, ‘and unless you want to freshen up, we can go straight there. The concierge has a taxi for us.’

  ‘I’m in your hands,’ said Bartók.

  Not yet you’re not, Rabinovich thought, smiling at him.

  The cab dropped them on the cobblestones at the corner of Union and Marshall. The famous restaurant was housed in a building that had been there since 1704, first as Hopestill Capen’s dress goods shop. Isaiah Thomas’s newspaper, The Massachusetts Spy, was published from the second floor where Louis Philippe, the King of France had also lived in exile, but it had been an oyster house since 1826.

  ‘Your booth is waiting,’ the young Harvard undergrad said, greeting them both with a smile. Rabinovich had booked a specific booth at the end of the row. If everything went to plan, after the meal, she would join Bartók on his side of the table. With no one behind them, Bartók, if he thought about it at all, could be assured no one was able to eavesdrop.

  ‘Drinks to start with?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘A Scotch, Denis?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘And I’ll start with a glass of the California chardonnay, and we’ll have a bottle of Moët.’

  ‘Have you ever been here before?’ Rabinovich asked, once the waiter had left.

  Bartók shook his head. ‘Impecunious university scholars like me didn’t come over to places like this. It was beer and pizza across the river. I’d heard of it though. I think it’s quite old?’

  ‘It is indeed. It’s not only the oldest Georgian architecture brick building in Boston, it’s the oldest oyster bar in the United States. Franklin Roosevelt used to dine here, as did Bill Clinton, President Kennedy and his brother, Ted, along with a whole host of celebrities like Paul Newman and Meryl Streep, so we’re in good company. What do you fancy?’ she asked as the waiter arrived with their drinks.

  ‘I think I’ll go for the pan-seared crab cakes and for a main, what’s the Union Special Lobster?’

  ‘That, sir, is a baked medium lobster with New England seafood stuffing, topped with the claws.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Bartók, taking a generous swig of his Scotch.

  ‘And for you, ma�
��am?’

  ‘I’m going to have a dozen of the freshly shucked oysters and the lobster Newburg.’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am. And shall I open the champagne?’ he asked, presenting the bottle for her perusal.

  ‘Why not,’ said Rabinovich, and she waited until the waiter had placed the open bottle in the cooler.

  ‘I think I read somewhere that this was the place the first toothpick was used,’ said Bartók, downing his Scotch and then reaching for the Moët.

  ‘Well, perhaps not the first use of a toothpick. I think the natives of Brazil can claim that one, but you’re right,’ she said, pushing her empty champagne glass toward Bartók. ‘A guy by the name of Charles Forster brought toothpicks here from Brazil. He couldn’t get anyone to buy them though, because Americans were used to whittling their own. So he hired a bunch of Harvard undergrads to go into the stationery stores and ask for a box of toothpicks. Their request, of course, was to no avail. Forster would then turn up to the same stores a few days later with the “latest craze”, and he had no difficulty in getting them placed.’ Rabinovich gave Bartók another seductive smile. ‘I think Forster could have sold sand to the Arabs, because he hired those same undergrads to come and dine here. At the end of the meal, the students demanded toothpicks, and when none were available, they loudly declared they would never eat here again.’

  Bartók grinned. ‘And of course, Forster would turn up a few days later with a truck full of toothpicks. Not bad!’

  Rabinovich leaned forward, ostensibly to clink her champagne glass with Bartók’s but more to give Bartók a better view down her dress. She leaned back as Bartók’s crab cakes and her oysters arrived.

  ‘So how are things at the lab?’ Rabinovich asked in an opening, gentle probe. ‘Still up the proverbial creek?’

  ‘And then some,’ said Bartók, draining and refilling his glass. ‘The new guy arrived last week.’

  ‘That didn’t take them long.’

  ‘No. Which makes me think the bastards had it organised beforehand.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A guy by the name of Magnuson. Comes out of the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory in California.’

  Rabinovich nodded. Bartók wasn’t the only dossier the Mossad kept on nuclear scientists of international standing.

  ‘Arrogant son of a bitch. Doesn’t know shit from clay, yet thinks he knows it all.’

  ‘I’ve met scientists like him,’ said Rabinovich, sympathising. She signalled the waiter. ‘Could we have another bottle of Moët?’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am, coming right up,’ said the waiter as he cleared away the plates from the first course.

  ‘So what’s the plan for you?’

  ‘I’m scheduled to deliver a paper at a conference for nuclear scientists in Paris, so that will get me out of there for a week, but after that, I’ll stay until I find a better place somewhere else . . . as far away from fucking Los Alamos as possible, if you’ll pardon my French.’

  ‘I’ve heard it all before,’ said Rabinovich, filing away Bartók’s visit to Paris for future use, ‘but I may be able to help. Although I’m on holidays, one of my clients would be very interested in someone like you.’

  ‘Client?’

  Rabinovich held her finger to her lips and inclined her head toward the waiter approaching with the lobsters.

  ‘Cracked pepper, ma’am?’ Rabinovich nodded.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No, thanks. You have me intrigued,’ Bartók said once they were alone. ‘Who is your client?’ he asked clumsily.

  He really is so naïve, Rabinovich thought. Her target clearly had no idea she was in the process of recruiting him, but even so, there was no guarantee he would come across. The Mossad Director was right. It would take money and perhaps sex, and once again she reminded herself she was here for Russia, not Israel.

  ‘For the moment, I’m under instructions not to reveal their identity until you and I complete our preliminary discussions. Let’s just say they are based in the Middle East, and they would be willing to pay very handsomely for your expertise. I’ve been searching the globe for nuclear physicists like yourself, and although I’ve interviewed several, no one comes close to your background, or,’ she added with another seductive smile, ‘anywhere near your . . . how do I put this . . . let’s say, physical attraction.’

  Like a bumbling teenager on a first date, Bartók assumed an ‘aw shucks’ look. ‘My expertise,’ he whispered, ‘the stuff I’ve been working on at the National Laboratory is very highly classified.’ He looked around nervously. ‘There are unbreakable firewalls in place at Los Alamos and unless you have access – and that’s limited to only a handful of people – you can’t download classified documents. Even though I’m the author of the documents on fusion, I can’t download them, and if I could, there’s the US Criminal Code and the Espionage Act . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rabinovich, ‘but you can rest easy on both counts. My client is very well aware of the fate of the Bradley Mannings of this world, and we’ll absolutely ensure you don’t suffer the same.’ In 2010, after being assigned to Iraq as an intelligence analyst with wide access to classified material, Manning was arrested. He had passed nearly three quarters of a million classified documents, including US diplomatic cables, to WikiLeaks. Manning was court-martialled for violations that included those covered by the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the Espionage Act of 1917. On 21 August 2013, Manning was sentenced to 35 years’ imprisonment, was dishonourably discharged and stripped of his Specialist rank.

  ‘What’s important to my client, above all else,’ Rabinovich continued, ‘is that you be recognised for who you really are . . . one of the finest nuclear physicists in the world. I’m authorised to hand you the latest and most sophisticated code-breaking software available – better than anything possessed by the CIA or your National Security Agency. And my client would pay you very handsomely. Do you mind me asking what your salary is at the moment?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think that’s classified,’ said Bartók. ‘Around US$160 000, although Darlene would say that’s not nearly enough,’ he added bitterly, reaching for the champagne bottle.

  ‘My client will pay you double that.’

  ‘Double?’

  Rabinovich nodded. ‘Double. And that would be just the start. I don’t want you to divulge state secrets in a restaurant,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘but perhaps if we get the table cleared and I come over to your side of the booth where no one can hear us, you can give me some idea of what you’ve been working on.’

  ‘How much do you know about nuclear physics?’ Bartók asked, after Rabinovich had slid in beside him on the red leather bench seat.

  ‘Enough to understand the basics,’ replied Rabinovich. She listened while Bartók outlined the quest to extract more energy from a reaction than was required to initiate it.

  ‘I’ve read about that. The Holy Grail of nuclear energy. Instead of splitting the atom, as in fission, in fusion they’re combined, releasing vast amounts of energy . . . the same fusion that powers our sun.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Bartók, suddenly animated. Darlene had never taken the slightest notice of what he was involved in, let alone understood it.

  Rabinovich put her finger to her lips in a warning to keep his voice sotto voce. ‘But if what I’ve read is right, scientists have been working on this for decades, and no one has even got close.’

  ‘Up until now, yes.’ Bartók lowered his voice further and whispered in Rabinovich’s ear. ‘But what if I were to tell you, Lisa, that I have a solution?’

  ‘Denis . . . if that’s the case, you could be up for a Nobel!’ Rabinovich refilled their glasses with the last of the champagne. ‘To Stockholm!’

  Bartók drained half his glass in one gulp. ‘Well . . . well, yes. I think it’s that big a breakthrough,’ he said excitedly. It was the first time anyone had recognised his work for what it was. Groundbreaking research. ‘But,’ he added, his shoulde
rs suddenly slumping, ‘they are taking all the credit for it at Los Alamos. This arrogant prick Magnuson is already strutting around the place as if he made the discovery.’

  ‘In addition to doubling your salary, my client would pay you an enormous sum of money for this, Denis. But more importantly, we can get you the recognition you deserve, including a submission for a Nobel.’

  ‘I’m not even sure how that works,’ said Bartók, inspecting the bottom of his empty glass.

  ‘We’re sure, Denis. The Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences is responsible for the selection of the Nobel Laureates in physics. Each year they send out about 3000 nomination forms to universities around the world and to other Nobel Laureates in physics; my client already has two Nobel Laureates on their books. Imagine what that would mean for you!’ she whispered, moving closer to her target. ‘Your laboratory doesn’t know what they’ve got. Nor does Darlene, but I do.’ Rabinovich took a deep breath for Russia and she ran her hand up the inside of Bartók’s thigh. ‘We should go back to the hotel.’

  ‘Yes, let’s go,’ he said, his voice catching in his throat.

  Rabinovich signalled the waiter for the tab and when he returned she added US$150 for the tip, paying in cash. She had been well briefed on tipping in the United States. It was a way of life, and at least 20 per cent was expected. She slipped her arm through Bartók’s as they emerged onto Union Street and almost immediately, a cab approached.

  FBI Special Agent Mark Barrasso’s mission was simple: pick up the target, engage him in conversation and if possible, determine what he was up to and his relationship with the woman. Although he’d been given a very detailed description of Bartók, as was often the case, Barrasso was excluded from the Dragon compartment and he had no idea of the magnitude of the threat Bartók posed to the United States. The FBI agent switched on his cab roof signal. He had been watching the entrance to the Union Oyster House for the past three hours. He eased away from the kerb and headed down Union Street toward them, pulling over as they flagged him down.