by Ward Larsen
With practiced discretion, Slaton studied Sorensen as she drove. He thought she looked different from the last time he’d seen her, although he couldn’t say precisely how. She wore a stylish scarf around her neck and a pair of large-framed sunglasses. Her straight blond hair had gone askew, a few locks tumbling forward over her face. He was certain it was all deliberate. Indeed, he imagined that the CIA, given its expertise in facial recognition technology, had somewhere on its staff a hair stylist who specialized in maximizing pixelated confusion. Sorensen’s guise was just understated enough to be effective. She might have been the wife of a sales rep tagging along on a business trip, or a schoolteacher on sabbatical. Anything but the director of the darkest division of the world’s most mighty clandestine service.
The city fell behind them, giving way to broad coastal plains. The day seemed unusually bright. Clear air and a high sun. A sign declared they were entering a region called Maldonado. Open expanses stretched to the horizon, tawny hills flecked by farmhouses and barns, the occasional village nestled in the creases between hills. Weary dirt side roads disappeared into dusty pastures, and small herds of goats and sheep wandered through it all. Slaton saw teenage boys riding muscular horses, all of them rough-hewn and weathered, moving slow on a fast-warming day.
Sorensen finally turned off the main road onto a bolt-straight dirt path. “Here we are,” she said.
Rows of trees stood in what looked like military formation, reaching high into the gentle hills. Slaton knew what kind of trees they were—the type was common throughout Israel’s Upper Galilee.
“This is your quiet place?” he asked. “An olive farm?”
“Trust me, it’s very secure. Wholly owned and operated.”
He stared at her for a moment. “The CIA is procuring olive farms in Uruguay to use as safe houses?”
She met his gaze with a dazzling smile. Sorensen was an undeniably attractive woman. Slaton guessed her to be in the neighborhood of forty, although in the short time he’d known her, just over a year, he thought she seemed more mature. It wasn’t crow’s feet or gray hair, but something more insidious. A faint strain in her voice, a burden in her eyes. Slaton had seen more advanced stages of the affliction in his sage mentor at Mossad, the now septuagenarian Anton Bloch. Also like Bloch, Sorensen conveyed no small measure of conviction in her words and tone. A requisite trait, he supposed, for successful spymasters.
“I wasn’t talking about the company,” she corrected. “The farm is owned by my family. My grandfather bought it nearly sixty years ago. Two hundred and fifty acres of mature Manzanilla olives on a perfectly terraced hillside.”
“Does he live here?”
“No. He and my grandmother went back and forth to Sweden seasonally for many years—harvest every March or April, depending on the conditions. But they’re getting on now, so they stay in Malmö full time. They hired a local couple to run the farm. Pressing and bottling are handled by a local distributor.”
“Not a bad arrangement. I worked on an olive farm in Israel for a year, when I was a teenager. We harvested by hand. I recall that if you don’t process the olives within a few hours, the oil begins to degrade.”
“True—one of the reasons we use mechanical harvesters now.”
The rows of trees seemed endless as they progressed up the long drive, and Sorensen had to veer around the occasional pothole.
He asked, “Are you sure this place can’t be traced to the head of the Special Activities Center?”
“I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought it could. My name was never associated with the property. I haven’t been here in twenty years. My sister and I came twice when we were in college to work the harvest.”
“That’s an unusual spring break. And you never mentioned this on your company security declarations?”
“No. I actually hadn’t thought about the place in years. I couldn’t go to Idaho, and I knew you wouldn’t want to come to D.C. This seemed ideal. There’s a small main house. The caretaker, Gabriella, lives there with her husband most of the year. I sent a message, told them I was coming with a guest. She said they would take the chance to visit family up north.”
“She probably thinks you’re having a tryst.”
“Probably—which is good cover. We’ll have the place to ourselves, very discreet.”
On balance, Slaton approved. Meeting at an off-the-books family-owned farm was decidedly intimate. But then, his relationship with Sorensen held an intimacy few could comprehend: that of assassin and controller.
* * *
The cottage was small, a weathered raft of whitewashed earth floating atop a minor hill. There were wooden shutters on every window, each a different size and seemingly attached at a different angle. The barrel tile roof might once have been orange.
Sorensen led the way to a front door that wasn’t locked. Indeed, Slaton saw no security of any kind other than a corroded iron hasp and handle that was probably decorative fifty years ago. Inside the place was solid and warm. Crossbeam ceilings carried the length of the main room, and a thick wooden counter at the far end defined a kitchen. Next to that a butcher block table was surrounded by four slat-back wooden chairs. Plain curtains above the kitchen sink fluttered, giving away that the window behind them was open.
Strike two for security, Slaton thought.
Sorensen crossed the room and put her satchel on the table. She pulled out a laptop computer, and as it booted up she pushed back one of the chairs and took a seat. Slaton followed her lead, sliding a second chair beside her.
“Before I give you the briefing,” she said, “we need to establish some ground rules.”
“Rules?”
“When we arranged to protect your family, David, I promised there would be no quid pro quo. I don’t have any authority to order you out on a mission. I can only convince you that what we’re proposing is justified.”
“That’s a good start. In my experience, operators who don’t believe in what they’re doing are rarely effective.”
“Are you referring to your years with Mossad?”
“Things went pretty well for a time … until I realized my whole recruitment had been based on a lie.”
“Point taken. I understand that your first allegiance is to your family now … as it should be. But to my section you offer certain unique qualifications.”
“Chief of which is expendability?”
She held his stare.
“Okay, sorry,” he said. “Let’s just say I’m your ultimate cutout. If things go sideways, there won’t be blowback on the CIA.”
“Essentially, yes.”
He studied her for a beat. “You mentioned authority a moment ago. At the risk of sounding like a lawyer, where is that sourced?”
She hesitated.
“Look … we both know there isn’t much chain of command above you.”
“All right, it’s a fair question. At my request, Director Coltrane approached the president to request authority for special missions. I won’t get into the details, but the end result was a highly classified national security directive signed by the president. It gives me authority to conduct operations using assets outside normal agency channels. It’s only to be used in extremely delicate situations—instances in which using in-house personnel might be viewed as either illegal or unsafe.”
“That sounds broad. Does Coltrane have oversight?”
“The directive doesn’t require it, but I promised him I would keep him informed. Not specifics—just a general outline of what’s being planned. For what it’s worth, none of this is set in stone. What we’re talking about today would be the first operation down the chute.”
“Is any of this legal?”
“We tried to keep the JAGs out of it. In the president’s mind, it’s necessary.”
“Don’t you think Coltrane will guess I’m involved? He has seen me work.”
“Probably. The point is to have the highest possible degree of separation.”
“True … but that falls into the realm of politics.”
“Look, I’ve seen murky setups like this before. What I’m hearing puts you firmly on the hook for any screwups.”
“Not as much as you. If a mission goes bad, David, I’ll help you as best I can. I have virtually all agency assets at my disposal. But there are limitations. If you end up in prison in some godforsaken backwater, don’t expect State Department lawyers or a Delta Force extraction team.”
He sat impassively.
“Can you still work for us knowing that?” she asked.
Slaton blew a humorless laugh. “I’ve been working under those rules most of my life. It gives a pretty strong incentive to not screw up. But I do have one request.”
This time Sorensen was out front. “Whatever happens, you have my word that Christine and Davy will be cared for.”
“For however long it might be,” he added, his implication clear.
“Yes.”
“All right,” he said, “so let’s get down to it. Who do you want me to kill?”
“It may surprise you, but that’s not the mission. I actually want you to save someone…”
ELEVEN
“We want you to exfiltrate a woman from a precarious situation,” Sorensen said. “Her name is Ludmilla Kravchuk. She’s an interpreter with the Russian foreign ministry, a Mideast language specialist. We’ve had her name on file for a few years—she occasionally works high-level meetings.”
“Have you ever tried to contact her?”
“No. She was never an agent, never targeted for recruitment.”
“Then what’s driving your involvement?”
“Two days ago, Kravchuk made a cold call to the Czech embassy in Damascus—the Czechs serve as our surrogate point of contact in Syria. She asked for an immediate meeting.”
“In Damascus?”
“Broad daylight.”
“That’s bold.”
“As it turned out, I think desperate is more like it. The Czechs did well. They sent a man to meet her, and the rendezvous went down with no apparent hitches. He said Kravchuk seemed nervous. She claimed to have information that could be very valuable to us, sourced from a meeting that morning between the presidents of Russia and Iran.”
“Did you verify that?”
“As far as we could. We knew the Syrians were hosting a summit between Petrov and Rahmani. It was put together on short notice—according to the press releases, some kind of trade initiative. Our analysts didn’t have any trouble placing Kravchuk at the meeting. She can be seen in the background of the grip-and-grin photos that were put out by Russian news services.”
Sorensen called up the first image on her laptop. Slaton saw a generic photo op: two presidents smiling through a handshake, their interpreters blending in discreetly in the background. There was no question which of the two women might be named Ludmilla Kravchuk: she was a babushka in the making, sitting stiffly with her hands folded in her lap.
“So, she’s legit,” Slaton said.
“As far as we can tell. After the photographers finished, the room was cleared. By all accounts it was a one-on-one meeting—only the presidents and their interpreters.”
“And this valuable information she’s offering? It’s her account of the meeting?”
“Apparently. Kravchuk gave one hint as to its substance. She said it involves a pending attack—one that will employ chemical weapons.”
Slaton stiffened ever so slightly. “That’s a serious allegation.”
“It is. And Kravchuk says she has proof.”
“Proof?”
Sorensen explained what the interpreter claimed to have in her possession.
“If that’s for real, it could be pretty damning.”
“I thought the same thing,” Sorensen agreed. “And that’s when I decided to call you.”
* * *
The shoe sat on the table in front of Ludmilla. She regarded it as one might a sculpture in a museum—reflecting on the deeper meaning. She’d been studying it, on and off, for the best part of two days now. In the world’s continuum of gray pumps, she’d hardly thought them special. Not until she’d caught the heel of one on the uneven staircase.
After reaching her room that day she’d taken a closer look. The first thing she noticed was an exposed blue wire. Curiosity piqued, she’d tracked the wire by feel, through the leather siding, and realized it ended at the decorative brass button on top—a circular bauble the size of a ten-ruble coin. On closer inspection, she noticed that the button was in fact surfaced with fine metal mesh. It didn’t take an engineer to realize what this was: a microphone.
She’d used a knife from the kitchen to pry the heel apart, exposing a nest of wiring, a tiny circuit board, and something she recognized instantly—a compact memory card, very much like the one in her SLR camera at home.
At that point, Ludmilla’s technical expertise was exhausted. The greater revelation, however, was inescapable: someone had fabricated an audio recording device into her shoe. A shoe that had been given to her by Petrov’s staff. Because she’d spent a career in foreign service—and perhaps more so because she was Russian—the discovery of a hidden microphone came as no great surprise. It explained why Vasiliev had come to reclaim the shoes directly after the meeting. Also, why an extra pair had been provided: they didn’t want to take the chance that she might reject them due to a poor fit. Then came the classic bureaucratic blunder. Nobody told Vasiliev she’d been given two sets of shoes, and Ludmilla had kept the pair she’d worn to the meeting. That mistake had worked in her favor. And the discovery of a recording device only further cemented her conviction: she’d done the right thing by running.
If only poor Sofia Aryan had been so lucky.
She tapped the loose heel contemplatively. Ludmilla wasn’t sure how to find out what was on the memory card—assuming the device had even worked. Gadgets had never been her strong suit, yet she knew they had a way of malfunctioning. Still, the chances were good that she now possessed a perfect transcript of the meeting—and undeniable confirmation that an attack was in the works.
More than ever, she realized she needed help.
She got up and went to the sink, filled a kettle with water. The kettle was rusted and the handle broken, probably the reason the previous tenant had left it behind. She lit a burner on the stove and set the water to boil. The instant coffee was long gone, the dregs of a bag of grounds spent on her first morning here. She remembered seeing a few old tea bags in the back of a drawer during her foraging. She was searching for them when a door banged shut down the hall. Three days ago, she wouldn’t have given a second thought to such a noise. Soft footsteps receded down the stairs. The young waitress who rented the other room.
Again Ludmilla sat at the table. She wondered if the man from the Czech embassy had been able to contact the Americans. Was a scheme being hatched to get her out of Damascus, and if so how long would it take? Or had her plea gone wrong? Perhaps the man from the Czech embassy had thought her a crackpot—Ludmilla knew from her time in foreign service that a high percentage of informants were solidly in that category. And if her story had been forwarded, would the Americans deem it credible?
If only I could have given them a sample of the recording, she thought. That would have brought them running.
She looked around the room uncertainly, wondering how long she could hole up here. Since her outing to meet the Czech, Ludmilla had barely set foot outside her pied-à-terre, and even then, she’d ventured no farther than the salon—on the first morning she’d let Salma work her stylist’s magic. It was a Spartan existence. She was still wearing the clothes she’d arrived in, the only difference being a set of athletic shoes borrowed from Salma. She’d found a bit of leftover food in the cupboards, and had so far gone through one can of salmon, half a box of pasta noodles, and a small container of couscous. Un
fortunately, all that was left was a partial bag of very stale cereal and a can of mushroom soup. The moldering piece of cheese in the sputtering mini-refrigerator she’d vowed not to touch. Grocery shopping was out of the question, but if things got desperate she might have something delivered—she could use the phone in the salon after hours. Then again, after literally throwing money at the taxi driver, followed by paying Salma for the room and “the works,” she was desperately low on cash.
On the bright side: the diet she’d long been putting off was well under way.
More vexing than the lack of food was being in the dark about what was happening in the outside world. The room had no television, and she’d intentionally left her phone at the Four Seasons. It left her with no access to news. She’d tried the computer downstairs, sneaking down late last night, but it had been shut down and she didn’t know the password. Asking for that was a bridge too far—Salma had so far been understanding, but Ludmilla didn’t want to press her luck.
She wondered if her disappearance had created a diplomatic row. She decided it was unlikely. Petrov would try to keep the matter quiet, especially given what had been discussed during the summit—a meeting whose infamy could be proved by the recording in her possession. In the end, Ludmilla decided there was nothing to do but wait. A few days at least.
The kettle began to whistle and she took it off the burner. There was no teapot, and she was about to drop the two scavenged tea bags into the kettle when she paused. She took a chipped mug from the counter, filled it with hot water, and used a single bag.
She took the mug to the table, set it down to steep next to the ruined shoe. In that moment Ludmilla felt incredibly alone. Her job, her husband, her homeland … she had lost them all. Her world had shrunk to a few hundred square feet of living space in a war-torn foreign land. Venture outside that, and people would be searching for her.
Right on cue, paranoia made its visit. Having worked with Petrov before, Ludmilla had a more unvarnished view of the president than most Russians. She had seen how he treated oligarchs who double-crossed him. Seen what came of agents who fled to the West. The question of how he would deal with a midlevel foreign ministry employee who’d absconded with an extremely incriminating recording: that required no interpretation.
