Then she read about Argentine wine. And the food. There was an Argentine food truck in downtown DC that served delicious choripanes, mini grilled-chorizo sandwiches with onions and chimichurri sauce. If the little girls in Buenos Aires were as tasty as the street food, she would enjoy herself. But the heady prospect of meeting an exotic Latina lover was overlaid by the shock of this afternoon’s CIA briefing.
This was trouble, bad trouble, and she needed to talk to Uncle Anton. Not to the Center. Not to the Kremlin. Not to Moscow. She needed Anton. If that unkempt troll Benford at CIA was telling the truth, in a couple of days a CIA case officer would be talking to someone named CHALICE who, somehow, knew that Audrey Rowland, vice admiral, US Navy, was spying for the Russians, and had been spying for more than a decade. She had to tell Anton, which meant she had to call SUSAN to pass the message. That evening, she dug her clunky Line T encrypted phone out of the hinged concealment compartment in the arm of a couch in her bedroom—a crappy piece of furniture delivered by the GRU years ago. Big as a brick, it was a location-spoofing FIPS140-2 encrypted secure phone whose software obfuscated phone position by canceling the device’s connection to the nearest cell towers while permitting the call to go through using more-distant towers. A call, therefore, from Audrey in Washington to SUSAN in New York caromed first to Las Vegas, then bounced through Traverse City, Michigan, to SUSAN’s New York City phone, which would use similar circuitous routing through Cheyenne, Wyoming, to Tarpon Springs, Florida, and back to Audrey in DC.
SUSAN did not answer her special phone in three separate tries—there was no capability for leaving messages, too insecure—so Audrey had to stew all night and finally connect with an irascible SUSAN the next morning. What the hell was she doing? This was an emergency. Using her admiral’s voice, Audrey ordered her hot-shit handler to send a flash message to Anton about the imminent infiltration of a CIA officer at Putin’s reception to connect with a spy code-named CHALICE, got that? CHALICE, and he’s going to fly the mole out on a stealth glider, no he didn’t say from where, but this CHALICE bastard knows my name, and once they tell Langley, I’m finished. Do you understand? And I want to meet you in Washington soonest: I’ve got new information on cavitation propulsion tests, never mind what it is, and more tidbits CIA has been briefing on, about recruitments of Russians, that’s right, recruitments, and one more thing, I want to be ready to bug out if the CIA guy gets CHALICE out of Russia, yeah, well fuck authorization, because if they arrest me I’m going to tell them about a magazine staffer in New York working for Vladimir Vladimirovich, then you’ll be swimming the Rio Grande yourself to get to Mexico. You have all that? Do it now, I don’t care what time it is there, the CIA guy may already be eating hors d’oeuvres at the buffet table with CHALICE. And call me back about our meet down here. Good-bye.
Audrey Rowland’s orderly mind was not panicking, yet, but like any astute scientist she was watching the gauges carefully to determine the degree of danger and to identify the propitious moment to contemplate flight. This was not the first time there had been a security scare in her twelve-year career as a spy. She’d had long discussions with Anton about tradecraft, spying, and the mental discipline required of a mole collecting, storing, and passing sensitive secrets from within a large organization. The intricate discipline appealed to her quantitative brain. The US Navy had many layers of security designed to protect secrets, but no navy counterintelligence system could conceive of, much less make allowances for, a three-star admiral and director of ONR operating as a clandestine source for the Kremlin. NCIS, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, was ill equipped to detect the tradecraft nuances of a Russian-run mole. But it was the little gray rumpled men like that annoying Simon Benford at CIA who were the real danger. Audrey thought it ironic that the famous little mole hunter himself had delivered the warning that would keep Audrey out of trouble. If she was selected for DCIA, the irony would continue.
She thought back to her recruitment at the Metropol in Moscow, and wondered what had become of the stunning Russian girl who had wet her chin between her thighs so long ago. Certainly she was not a three-star admiral now. That sexy evening had started the whole thing: Audrey began spying as a way to boost her career, specifically to show the son of a bitch she called daddy that she could match, no surpass, his own career in the navy. As the stripes on her sleeve multiplied, Audrey was confirmed in her belief that she had made the right decision regarding the Russians, despite the initial circumstances. Now she was in danger. Her orderly mind contemplated the odds, and she felt no fear, confident in her own intellect and in Anton’s skill.
Audrey was ready to leave the navy, and if she became DCIA it would mean two or three or four more years of bureaucratic torpor, spectacular gains for Moscow, the collapse of CIA, and continued annuity payments from the Kremlin, after which Audrey Rowland would disappear, and retire to a beach somewhere with hot and cold running chocito in sarongs and braided hair. She wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.
But first she had to survive this imminent threat to her liberty, and trust that SUSAN was at this moment speaking to Anton, who in turn was alerting security at Putin’s compound, and that both the CIA officer and his confounded mole would be arrested and eliminated so her secret would remain safe forever.
ARGENTINE CHORIPANES
Split and toast small rolls on a griddle until brown. Cut chorizo in half, then in half lengthwise, and grill until caramelized and charred on both sides. Grill sliced white onions until caramelized and finish with a splash of balsamic vinegar. Put chorizo and onions on toasted rolls and slather with chimichurri sauce. (Process shredded carrots, parsley, vinegar, red pepper flakes, garlic, olive oil, salt, and pepper in a blender into a thick sauce.)
35
Gall, Not Cheek
SUSAN’s tardy relay of MAGNIT’s urgent warning about the CIA officer who would attempt to penetrate the president’s swanky party to contact the mole known as CHALICE was received in the Center, but was further delayed by the laborious special handling required of all incoming messages from illegals. It finally was forwarded from Yasenevo to the communications unit at Cape Idokopas, where it was read by Gorelikov with a mixture of alarm and triumph. He made a hurried inquiry with the security office: they still had time; the new art-restoration shift from Poland was arriving the next morning. He immediately convened an emergency executive meeting in the secure room of the commo shack with General Egorova of the SVR, Bortnikov of the FSB, and Patrushev of the Security Council.
“The szloba, the gall of these Americans, attempting this at the president’s compound,” said Bortnikov behind his blue halo. “I could understand it in Moscow, business as usual, but this is too much.”
Patrushev had no time for games. His own yellow halo of deceit and cruelty shimmered in the small gray room. He pointed his Cossack’s nose at Gorelikov. “Gall, not cheek. What is so complicated?” he said. “When the American arrives with the Polish contingent, it will be a simple matter to arrest him immediately. Let our colleagues here”—he nodded to Dominika and Bortnikov—“arrange a vigorous interrogation, determine the identity of this CHALICE, and settle the matter. The American and his mole can share a cell in the Black Dolphin, in Orenburg.”