“Well the Center had better get moving. In less than a week’s time I’m going to have a twenty-four-hour security detail, and . . .”
The dark woods on both sides of the boardwalk erupted into a wall of blinding light. A megaphone voice ordered the two women to stay put, this was the FBI. Blinded by the lights, Audrey heard the sound of SUSAN launching herself out of the bench, and jumping off the boardwalk into the putrid swamp, followed by frantic splashing. Voices were yelling, more splashes were heard, quite a lot of additional splashing, and Audrey, who had not reacted at all because of the blinding effect of the lights (and a physics geek’s natural inability to launch into rapid physical movement), felt hands on her arms and the snick of handcuffs on her wrists. She saw that SUSAN had left the thumb drive and discs on the bench, which the FBI was now gathering and putting into a plastic evidence bag. It seemed as if there were hundreds of people milling about in blue Windbreakers with “FBI” stenciled across the back. There was never a moment that a hand wasn’t gripping her arm.
It would have been impossible to describe the numb shock that Audrey felt as she was walked back down the boardwalk to the parking lot, already a carnival ground of flashing red-and-blue lights. Part of the shock, of course, was the surprise of the ambush, and the realization that approximately fifty special agents of the FBI had been hiding knee-deep in swamp water for hours before the meeting. How had they known? Audrey’s precise, quantitative mind also reeled against the reality that her twelve years of clever, calculated espionage had been detected, and it was irksome not to know how. Those dumpy little men looking for moles were more dangerous than they appeared. The final sour gout of desperate reality hit Audrey when she was put in the back of an FBI sedan reeking of Aqua Velva, her hands still cuffed behind her back, and the car door was slammed shut. She knew this was the beginning of an interminable period of evidence, interrogations, trials, and publicity ending in prison, as well as the catastrophic end of her navy life of privilege and status. She felt no remorse beyond the fact that they would court-martial her and take away her stripes. A female special agent sat in back with her, and Audrey stole an appraising glance at the youthful profile and the stockinged legs. The special agent caught Audrey looking at her, and stared her down. This was the end of that part of her life too, Audrey realized miserably, not ever having seen movies such as Caged Heat, or Kittens Behind Bars.
Her life was over, her world was upside-down, and she would certainly grow old and die in prison, but as the car started moving onto the parkway, Audrey strangely thought about what her hateful father would have said at this moment. Screw him. She was a three-star admiral, and he never was.
US NAVY CREAMED CHIPPED BEEF
Melt butter in a saucepan, blend in flour, salt, and pepper. Stir in milk and cook over medium heat until boiling and sauce thickens. Tear dried beef and add shreds to sauce. Serve over toast.
38
The Presidential Wood Saw
“You’re telling me that there was no conceivable contingency that would have suggested the positioning of a patrol craft or an inflatable dinghy on the river, given that the ambush was taking place on a fucking island?” raved Benford to FBI Counterintelligence Chief Charles Montgomery. Benford had just been told that the woman who was meeting Admiral Rowland had plunged into the swamp, had actually outrun a score of special agents in their twenties through thigh-deep swamp water, had gotten to the shoreline, and had escaped across the black Potomac in what the winded SAs thought was a kayak. This was confirmed when a rental kayak was found abandoned on a low-tide mud bank near the Washington Harbour condominium complex in Georgetown the next morning. SUSAN was gone, presumably already back in New York City, editing precious and self-important articles in a literary magazine, and presumably still operationally active for SVR Line S, supporting other sources, talent-spotting prospective assets for recruitment, and probably servicing dead drops and caches from Seattle to Key West. Benford uttered a foul oath as he contemplated how many more MAGNITs could be operating with impunity in the United States.
Benford had told Forsyth they would wait six months, to see whether DIVA could swipe SUSAN’s file (illegals’ true names are strictly compartmented in Line S—even the Director of SVR does not have ready access to the roster—and a close record of senior people who request their identities is kept). Now that Dominika was Director of SVR, double and treble precautions had to be taken to protect her. In the meantime, the two CIA men began contemplating a double-agent dangle to give DIVA reason to assign SUSAN a new case. Setting up and arresting a Russian operative—any operative—was on everyone’s mind so CIA could arrange the swap to free Nash as soon as possible. There was some urgency; prisoners normally did not flourish in Russian prisons.
The arrest of Audrey Rowland was, of course, a counterintelligence triumph for Benford, but it was not trumpeted in the press out of concern for Nash’s well-being, only that the admiral had been relieved for cause, with a vague mention of malfeasance. Not only did it eliminate an active Russian mole within the US Navy, but also DIVA and the list of CIA’s other Russian assets were again secure. However, CIA was still without a Director: there were no nominees to replace the late Alex Larson as DCIA. Until new candidates could be identified and put forward, an interim Director had been named. This happened to be the preening Frederick Farrell.
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Two good pieces of news greeted them the next morning: A Moscow Station case officer had successfully delivered DIVA’s communications desk lamp without a problem (a Russian support asset passed the package to DIVA as she retrieved her coat from the cloak room of a fancy restaurant by actually giving it to one of her bodyguards to carry to the office) and Counterintelligence Division had already received a test covcom message from DIVA, indicating that the equipment was in place and working perfectly. A second message (from the Pentagon) informed CIA that the body of an unidentified Russian citizen had been buried at sea; his weighted canvas body bag had slid into the Black Sea from under an American flag, while being saluted by an honor guard of US sailors. Benford forwarded the snippet to DIVA in Moscow, with grim satisfaction.
The initial tranche of intel reports from DIVA’s covcom lamp were astounding in their unique perspective and extreme sensitivity. Security Council minutes, weekly meetings with Bortnikov of the FSB concerning counterintelligence cases against foreign embassies, President Putin’s executive-committee meetings, the agendas of which indicated he was already worried about an increasingly dissatisfied working-class, and the upcoming Russian elections, Defense Council minutes regarding solid-fuel missile technology shared with Iran and North Korea; the latest statistics from the Central Bank of the Russian Federation noting endemic economic dysfunction, warning of imminent financial stagnation; and Kremlin reaction to enhanced cooperation among North Asian allies with Washington against Chinese expansionism in the Pacific, and against chronic North Korean misbehavior. Plus, of course, DIVA’s usual fare—a weekly executive summary of SVR operational activity worldwide. “A hundred case officers working for ten years couldn’t collect this kind of intel,” crowed Benford. He ordered four separate reporting compartments established, so that the bulk of DIVA’s intel would appear to have originated from multiple sources.
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