“Maybe we should reconsider those drones,” said Hearsey, walking out the door.
Three combat swimmers from Spetsnaz Vympel Group 3—a unit based in Moscow and normally used by SVR to execute sensitive “wet work” assignments abroad (beatings, kidnappings, and assassinations)—were not returned to their unit after an unspecified special assignment, but rather were reassigned to a naval infantry unit at the Northern Fleet’s Bolshaya Lopatka naval base above the Arctic Circle, on the Kola Peninsula, seventy kilometers east of the sliver of Norway’s northern border with Russia. The three troopers were given privileges to the officers’ commissary on base, and weekend passes to Murmansk once a month. They knew enough never to mention the Chesapeake Bay, especially since a goateed dandy in the Kremlin had warned them of the consequences of indiscretion. They had no desire to be residents of Upravlenie solovetskogo and Karelo-Murmanskikh ITL, the Directorate of Solovki and Karelia-Murmansk Camps, once Gulags filled by Stalin, but now grim modern district prisons, albeit with the original 1935 plumbing.
STRIPED BASS à LA FIORENTINA
Sauté fish fillets in butter and oil until golden. Set aside. In a saucepan, sauté whole peeled tomatoes, anchovies, chopped garlic, chopped cilantro, capers, a splash of balsamic vinegar, and thinly sliced potatoes until potatoes are soft and sauce is thickened. Serve fish on a bed of sauce.
12
Merit to the Fatherland
The drowning death of DCIA Alex Larson devastated the CIA workforce, and the turnout of silent, numb employees at the service in front of the memorial wall of stars chiseled into the marble, representing CIA officers lost in the line of duty, was so large that the front lobby overflowed and hundreds of attendees had to watch on closed-circuit screens set up in the cafeteria. Simon Benford was convinced that the Kremlin had engineered the DCIA’s death, and continued tasking operational desks to canvass assets for any indication of Russian complicity in the matter.
The shocking loss of the DCIA was compounded by another catastrophe: sudden and inexplicable arrests inside the COPPERFIN spy network. A score of recruited design engineers in the OAK aerospace consortium were suddenly arrested by the FSB, and interrogations were being held around the clock in an attempt to identify other network members. Only two assets continued sporadic reporting, and their messages were panicked and barely coherent. COPPERFIN couriers were able to exfiltrate a handful of agents—in one case an entire family—but an equal number were caught and arrested at the border. At last count at least twelve sources did not respond to “sign of life” signals, and were unaccounted for, their status unknown. Benford knew very well that this was the worst case in the running of a large network—the inexorable unraveling, the continuing interrogations, the desperate attempts to escape, the arrests, and, ultimately, the triumphant news releases from the Kremlin.
Benford knew that the COPPERFIN meltdown was the work of MAGNIT. But based on the chaotic counterintelligence performance of the FSB—they were picking apart the network in fits and starts, rather than in a complete roundup—Benford was convinced that the mole did not have direct access to COPPERFIN and had learned about the network incompletely and serendipitously. In the lexicon of spooks, MAGNIT had “vacuumed up” the information: an overheard conversation, whispered gossip, an intemperate aside, the contents of an inbox read upside down. Windfall collection that could not implicate the mole, and left the FSB free to act decisively. No BIGOT list, therefore, could be used to flush the traitor.
“The trouble with running a mole hunt,” said Benford to Gable and Forsyth, “is that you cannot announce it, or drag suspects in for CI interviews, or immediately begin combing through one hundred thousand computerized personnel files, or tap the phones and computers of likely candidates without approvals and warrants. And you cannot brief a bunch of FEEBs, whose immediate reaction is to get into a black Crown Vic and interview suspects at home, asking them outright whether they are currently, or have ever, cooperated with a foreign power. They expect immediate compliance—it’s a crime to lie to the FBI, after all. The cumulative effect of their blandishments, of course, is to alert the mole, who heads for the hills, resulting in a permanent-resident visa from the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and an FSB-provided high-rise apartment in Babushinsky District, from the shabby comfort of which the traitor can listen through the clapboard wall every Saturday night to his neighbors fucking.”
“Now we have a new problem,” said Forsyth. “MAGNIT apparently is getting around some more. He’s hearing about secrets like COPPERFIN. He’s disappearing into the woodwork.”
“He’s a fucking flaming cactus,” said Gable. “The key is the goddamn railgun. Domi told me MAGNIT has been in harness for ten or twelve years. That’s gotta be key; who’s been on the railgun project that long?”
Benford swiveled in his chair. “We’re running all the combos, but it could be someone who previously worked on that project, but no longer. DIVA reported that MAGNIT is moving up to a policy job. That widens the field.”
“Okay,” said Gable. “But Domi mentioned that fancy-pants guy in the Kremlin wants to handle MAGNIT solely by the New York illegal, and take the case away from GRU goobers. With so much infighting, Domi may eventually find out MAGNIT’s true name on a restricted list.”
“We can’t wait that long,” said Benford. “We’re hemorrhaging secrets.”
“We may not have to. There’s a lot of intrigue going on in the Kremlin,” said Forsyth. “Not like the years Brezhnev shit his diaper and they held him upright to sign the disarmament treaty. DIVA says Gorelikov runs his own shop, is loyal to Putin, but does things his own way. He’s gunning for the GRU. DIVA is ripe for promotion. She’s going to get that name.” Benford shook his head doubtfully.
“Dangerous territory for our girl with all these plots,” said Gable. “We got to keep an eye on her. She’s running a little hot these days, temperamental-like. She needs replacement SRAC gear ASAP.”
Benford groaned at that. “There is no replacement SRAC. Our inscrutable colleagues from China Operations requested and received the last two available systems, which already are slaved to satellites in geosynchronous orbit to cover the Asian theater. They would not give up either one of them. Their refusal was polite but implacable, which I believe once again proves my contention that operational offices acquire the cultural characteristics of their target countries. Quite inscrutable.
“The SRAC larder is now officially bare. The last time this happened, the Carter White House suggested we use HF radio and Morse code. The Acting Director just ordered that R&D for the next generation of SRAC be put on hold. He wants to divert the tech budget to launch satellites that calibrate global warming. Orders from the NSC.”
“Are you fucking shitting me? Leave inside assets without covcom?” said Gable.
Benford ran his fingers through his already anarchic hair. “I am throwing histrionic fits at every leadership meeting, but the bureaucrats are unmoved and singularly focused on the one degree Fahrenheit change in global temperature since Charlemagne. Hearsey is racking his brains on cobbling together some sort of emergency-signaling gear, but as of today we’ve got nothing on the shelf for her.
“We will have to rely on personal meets for the time being,” said Benford, wearing his February face. Every person in the room knew that each time Moscow Station—or any denied-area station—tried a personal meet, the probability of catastrophic flap (and loss of agent) rose to 90 percent. Opposition surveillance had to get it right only once, and your agent was dead. Russia, China, Cuba, North Korea, it didn’t matter.