by Ethan Jones
Lena returned the smile. “Where are you—”
But Maxim had rounded the corner. He flew down the staircase, jumping the stairs by threes and fours. He prayed his Lada would start without any hiccups. His prayer was answered, and he zoomed out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. He turned onto Bolshaya Lubyanka, then drove as fast as he could without causing a car accident or running into pedestrians. Then he merged onto Sadovaya-Sukharevskaya, hoping it was going to be the fastest route to the SVR headquarters.
It was.
This seemed to be Maxim’s day, as the traffic wasn’t as heavy as he expected. He listened on the radio to the traffic incidents and congestions report and avoided a couple of bottlenecked segments. As he zipped through the Mozhaysky District and got on the Moscow Automobile Ring Road, he knew he was making good time and guessed he’d reach the destination with perhaps five minutes to spare. Maxim thought about calling Sasha and asking if he knew anything about Deputy Director Blokhin that might help during the interview. But he doubted Sasha would know. While he was a higher-level SVR operative—“a special operative in training,” as he liked to refer to himself—than Maxim was in the FSB, Sasha did little more than transfer detainees. Moreover, Maxim worried the phone call might slow him down. I don’t have any time to waste.
He fixed his hair in the rearview mirror, then tightened the knot of his blue tie. He was glad he kept dressing up, regardless of the demotion. My father used to dress up, suit and tie, every single day. I don’t remember any of it, but that’s what they’ve told me. My father … What was he like? He remembered what the adoptive mother had told him, as he never knew his father. He was a great war hero. We know very little about what he did, but he fought to keep our motherland safe, to keep you safe. According to her, Maxim’s father was stationed in West Berlin during the Cold War and was killed the year Maxim was born, in 1989. His job was to secure intelligence and provide it to the KGB, intelligence that, according to Maxim’s mother, first and foremost saved Maxim himself, and many, many others.
A car horn brought him back from his daydreaming. He had slowed down, so he stepped on the gas and waved an apologetic hand to the impatient driver. He peeled off the highway at the next exit and followed the two-lane road leading to the SVR compound. He noticed the high wrought-iron fence that encircled the entire tall-treed area, so the nickname for the SVR compound was les, or the forest. During the Cold War, the SVR was known as the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Did my father actually work for the KGB, or was he only an asset deployed to collect information from local sources?
He slowed down when he reached the gate and rolled down the window. The armed guard asked for Maxim’s credentials, and he showed him the FSB identification card. The guard waved him through and told Maxim to park in the visitor’s area, then make his way to the main entrance.
Maxim glanced at his wristwatch. A sense of panic had started to sizzle deep in his gut. He had about five minutes to make it to the meeting room. Then it dawned on him. I never asked about the room … Is it at the deputy director’s office? I doubt it. He sighed as he rushed toward the headquarters’ entrance. Someone at the reception desk will know, or can find out.
The clerks at the reception desk double-checked Maxim’s credentials, then gave him skeptical glances when he mentioned he had a meeting with Deputy Director Blokhin, but didn’t have a meeting room. Their disbelief increased when one of them checked the deputy director’s schedule and couldn’t find Maxim’s name or that the SVR senior official had even scheduled a meeting at that time.
Maxim began to grow impatient while the clerks began to grow suspicious. They called a supervisor, who started to ask Maxim the same questions. He glanced at his wristwatch. He only had a couple of minutes and, the way things were going, he would be late.
Then a woman’s voice came from behind, “Why is this man still here?”
Her voice was firm, and she spoke with authority. Maxim turned around and glanced at a beautiful red-haired woman standing behind them. Her sparkling green eyes had an inquisitive look, and her oval face had formed a scolding frown. The woman was wearing a red business pantsuit with a wide, black leather belt and was holding a brown briefcase with her left hand.
“And who are you?” the supervisor said in a voice full of irritation.
“Captain Kasparova, GRU.” The woman held up a wallet with her credentials, which showed that she worked for the Russian military intelligence agency. “And like Mr. Thornichinovich, I’m here for a meeting with Deputy Director Blokhin.”
One of the clerks ran his fingers through the computer monitor, then shook his head. “Sorry, Ms. Kas—”
“Captain Kasparova.” The woman stepped closer to the reception desk, then reached for her phone. “While you figure this out, I’m calling Blokhin to let him know you’re delaying us.”
Maxim gave her a look of admiration.
The captain speed-dialed a number. They all heard the ringing, as she had activated the speakerphone mode. Someone picked up after the second ring, then a strong man’s voice said, “Deputy Director Blokhin…”
“This is Captain Kasparova. We’re running late, because,” she looked at the supervisor, then her eyes went to the clerks, “there seems to be a problem. We’re not scheduled.” She smiled at Maxim.
“What? They’re not letting you in?”
“It appears that way. But why don’t I let you talk to the man in charge?” She grinned and handed the phone to the supervisor.
He took it with a shaky hand and said in a trembling voice, “Mr. Blokhin. We … eh, we don’t have their names on our—”
“Let them through,” Blokhin said tersely.
“But, sir, we—”
“I don’t like to repeat myself, or waste time. Let them come up. Now!”
“Yes, right away, sir.”
He returned the phone to the captain. “I’m sorry about the delay.” He gave her a sheepish look. “You know where to go?”
“Yes, I’ve been here before. Thank you, gentlemen,” she said and walked gracefully to Maxim, who was only a few steps away. “Mr. Thornichinovich, glad to finally meet you.”
She extended her hand.
Maxim knew it was going to be a firm handshake even before he touched her soft skin. He glanced into her eyes and felt she was reading him. Maxim held her look for another long moment, then asked, “How have you heard about me?”
“The director will explain everything, but I’ve read your file.” She walked in front of him. “For now, I can tell you that I’m very impressed.”
Maxim flinched. He had grown suspicious of flattery, especially from people in authority he had just met. “What gave you that impression?” he asked in as calm a voice as he could.
The captain didn’t slow down or look at him. “Your attention to detail, and fearless attitude in the face of failure.”
They had come to the elevators. When the door opened, the captain stepped in and reached for the button to their floor. She looked at him and offered a small smile. Then she stepped closer and whispered, although there was no one else in the elevator, “Director Blokhin will never admit this, but what you did at the airport—the way you handled that situation—that was remarkable.”
Why is she referring to him as “director?” Does she know something, or is it for flattery? Maxim nodded, but said nothing.
The ping of the elevator announced the arrival to their floor. “It’s to the left,” Kasparova said.
She walked in that direction down the hall, her flat shoes making muted clicks on the marbled floor. She headed toward the third door, which led into a small conference room. Through the half-opened blinds, Maxim saw that a man he assumed to be Deputy Director Blokhin was sitting at the head of the black square-shaped table. He was dressed in a black suit and an open-collar shirt. He was reading a report, which he put down, and stood up when he saw Kasparova and Maxim approaching.
Maxim hurried his steps and reached fo
r the door handle.
Kasparova thanked him with a head nod and stepped inside the room.
“I’m sorry about the holdup downstairs. We have some mule-headed people…” He shrugged, but his voice carried not a hint of an apology.
“It’s all right,” Kasparova said. “It gave me a chance to meet Mr. Thornichinovich.”
“Yes, how are you?” Blokhin shook Maxim’s hand.
“I’m alright, sir.” Maxim said and studied the deputy director’s face. He was no older than sixty-five, but he definitely looked much younger. His face radiated good health, with rosy cheeks, no extra fat, and very few wrinkles. He was clean-shaven, and age had spared most of his charcoal hair, which he kept close-cropped. His handshake was firm; his gaze piercing, yet welcoming. His grayish eyes glowed with genuine assuredness.
Maxim wasn’t sure what to make of it. Blokhin was a master spy, who knew how to control his emotions and show only what he wanted seen. But Maxim was on guard, as always. He said, “I’m glad for the—”
“Don’t mention it.” Blokhin gestured toward the table. “Glad you could make it right away. What did you tell your boss?”
Maxim hadn’t said anything to anyone before bolting from the building, but he had sent a secure email during his drive to the SVR headquarters. The short message said that he was taking a couple of personal hours. He was going to visit with his friend Sasha—who worked in the SVR complex, albeit it in another building—and he was planning to do so right after the … well, the job interview, if this was a job interview. Maxim had anticipated the question, as well as the follow-up, so he had called Sasha and had confirmed he was available for lunch. “I’m meeting with a good friend, Sasha Nikonov. He works with the—”
“I know who he is.” Blokhin opened a black folder set in front of him and glanced at Kasparova. She had pulled out a couple of reports from her briefcase and had laid them across from her. Blokhin said, “You’ve met the captain, so no need for introductions. I want to start right away by telling you that this is slightly related to your application.”
Maxim said nothing and kept a neutral look on his face.
Blokhin said, “Let me explain. You’ve applied for an entry-level position with my section. We’ve reviewed your documents carefully, as we always do with all applicants. You have experience, and you come from within the system, the highly-praised FSB.”
Blokhin’s words put Maxim on guard. He was aware of the decades-old rivalry between the two Russian intelligence agencies, SVR and FSB. There’s always a hook hidden amidst the smooth talk, he reminded himself.
Blokhin said, “But there’s something missing, Maxim, and don’t take this the wrong way. The work of a special operative requires initiative, confidence, and determination. Guts, willingness to go to the end, no matter what.” The deputy director tightened his fist and pulled his arm toward him. “Take what you have to, do whatever it takes.”
“I can certainly do that, sir.” Maxim said in a low, but firm voice. He wanted to add that he had already done that, on a regular basis, but he didn’t want to come across as cocky. Most people misunderstood one important element of the work of a transporter: it always required a sharp state of alertness. The transporter was responsible for one or more high-valued detainees, who were targets for many people: some to save them, others to kill them. The transporter had to ensure, at all times, that the “package” was delivered intact.
Blokhin nodded. “Yes, yes, you can and you have. But those operations have been—no disrespect—low-level and inside Russia. While there have been considerable risks, they were nothing like the ones facing a special operative assigned a task in a hostile country, where he’s working alone. He has no backup, no one to trust, with everyone trying to eliminate him, or his detainees.”
“I can do that as well, sir,” Maxim said in a louder, firmer voice.
Captain Kasparova shifted in her seat and leaned closer to the table. “Of course, and you have. The operation at the airport was a prime example of your skills.”
Blokhin gave the captain a glance of displeasure with raised eyebrows, but said nothing.
The captain continued, “But we’d like to see if that was a stroke of luck, or it was your innate skill in taking charge of the situation. In short, we’d like to see if you can do it again.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Maxim said.
The captain looked at Blokhin, who leaned back in his seat. “We’d like to assign you a transport op, but it’s nothing like what you’ve done before. You’ll be working alone, outside Russia, to bring home an extremely wanted man.” He tipped his head toward the opened folder. “The details are all there.”
Maxim felt conflicted and thought about his answer for a long moment. One part of him wanted to say “yes,” and accept the job right there and then, without asking any questions or raising any objections. The other part, though, the careful one, warned him about finding out more before agreeing to the vague assignment. The second part won, and Maxim said, “Such operations fall within the purview of the SVR. Why is this case so different that you need the FSB?”
Deputy Director Blokhin swallowed hard. “We don’t need the FSB; we want the FSB, since this case is more nuanced than that. Again, the specifics are in the file. But to help you make the right decision, I’ll provide some context. You’re right that the SVR runs these operations, bringing back to Russia those who shouldn’t have left in the first place or who have a debt to pay to our motherland.
“However, considering what happened at the airport—the incident where you were involved, the one the captain mentioned,” he gestured toward her, “we’re a bit leery of using internal resources for this job. We’re not certain about the connections of two SVR agents to the target, the man we’re trying to bring home. Those were two agents that you killed.” Blokhin’s voice turned razor-sharp when he said the last word.
Maxim decided to let it slide, but made a mental note of it. While the SVR might need his services, they hadn’t forgotten and were not willing to sweep under the rug what he had done. Perhaps completing this assignment successfully will change their mind. “So, who exactly is the target?”
“Does that mean you’re agreeing to take on this mission?”
Maxim had anticipated the question. He nodded. “I’m almost certain that I’ll accept the assignment,” he said in an assertive tone. “But knowing who the target is will give me a better appreciation of who will also want to get to him, so that I can better prepare. And, on the topic of preparation, how does the GRU fit into all this?”
“The captain will explain that.” Blokhin tilted his head toward her.
“Sure.” Captain Kasparova slid one of her reports across the table to Maxim. “This is a list of GRU active operatives. When you’ve made a decision, one of them, the one you’ve chosen, will work with you during the first part of the mission in Washington, DC.”
Maxim was taken aback by her words. “In America? This operation will take me to America?”
The captain nodded. “Correct. That’s where the target is hiding.”
Blokhin said, “But not for long, if we have our way.”
Maxim said, “I thought I was working on this alone.”
The captain gave Maxim a smug smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, Maxim, but you can’t do this mission alone.”
Maxim gave her a sideways glance and gestured toward Blokhin. “The director spoke of operating alone, without any support—”
“He did, and you will do so, but you need these contacts, at least for the first segment.”
Maxim sat back in his leather chair and swiveled in it for a brief moment. “So you trust me, but you don’t trust me?”
The captain shook her head. “That’s a black-and-white assessment, Mr. Thornichinovich, and you know we operate in the gray. We’ve gathered all the intelligence necessary, but our agents are under constant surveillance in America. They can’t risk any exposure at this moment. And without the SVR
’s involvement, we need to be absolutely certain that this mission will be executed to perfection. There’s no room for mistakes here, nor second chances.”
There never is. Maxim nodded and said nothing. “Okay, so I’ll work with a GRU operative. Now, who is the man we’re bringing back to Russia?”
The captain looked at Blokhin.
The deputy director leaned forward and looked deep into Maxim’s eyes. “He’s a former KGB agent, who defected to the Americans. He’s a traitor, who deserves to die.”
Chapter Three
SVR Headquarters, Yasenevo District
Moscow, Russia
Maxim tried to keep as calm a face as he could, but he must have made a poor attempt, because Captain Kasparova said, “You look doubtful, but everything will make sense once you study the file.”
Maxim glanced at the report on the table. The cover page was stamped Of Special Importance. The classification meant the intelligence contained in the report pertained to the utmost secretive category. If such intelligence was leaked, it would cause irreparable damage to the security of the entire country.
Blokhin said, “This traitor, he’s given a treasure trove of secrets to our archenemy. Like the plague, his hunger for money isn’t satisfied. He’s been trying to sell our country’s secrets. Even recently, he’s contacted someone powerful, a millionaire, who’s willing to pay a significant amount for Cold War intelligence.”
“Do we know who? And what intelligence?”
Kasparova shook her head, and her face formed a frown. “No, we have no idea who the man is. We suspect he’s an old contact of the traitor, whose name is Valery Volkov.”
“Volkov?” Maxim shrugged. “I’ve never heard that name.”
“You have no reason to know about him. He was a KGB agent stationed in West Berlin during the Cold War. It was at a time when a dozen or so of our agents disappeared, one after the other, in the winter of 1988 and early 1989. We suspected Volkov, but we never had any proof to convict him.”
