“Cold War throwbacks,” said Benford, head cocked to the side, thinking.
“Forget it,” said Gable. “They were crazy anticommie Polaks, out of control. Who’s going to handle them?”
“We’d need a Russian speaker, strong operator, denied-area expert,” said Westfall.
Everybody was thinking of the same name. “And who, pray tell, might that be?” said Benford.
“Nate Nash,” said Westfall. No one said anything. Westfall didn’t know about Nash’s penalty-box status.
“Put that aside for now,” said Forsyth. “What do we do with Shlykov?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Westfall, swallowing. “DIVA says Gorelikov wants to sink Shlykov. What if we give him a reason to do it, make it appear that Shlykov himself is responsible for the collapse of the entire covert action in Istanbul?”
“Keep going,” said Gable. All three seniors were listening hard now.
“I believe you ops officers call it ‘burning’ someone,” said Westfall. “What if we make it look like Shlykov is double-dipping—taking money from CIA and not reporting it? The Russians are so suspicious, they’ll believe it.”
“Tall order. It would have to be convincing,” said Forsyth, already calculating. “Bank account, spy gear under the mattress, signals.”
“It really doesn’t have to be one hundred percent convincing,” said Westfall. “DIVA and Gorelikov will have enough to ruin him: implicating and convicting innocent people are Russian art forms.”
“And the lead investigator gets credit for catching a rat,” said Forsyth.
“A blue-eyed Chief of Line KR,” said Gable. “It protects her and gives her another CI scalp.”
“It’s still a risk. Shlykov is supposed to be very good and popular,” said Benford, looking around the room. They were thinking of the same name . . . again.
“I’ll call London,” said Forsyth. “He can be here in two days.”
“I want to see him personally,” said Benford. “We all should reconvene when he gets here. If we are going to unseat this GRU ruffian, Nash must be brilliant about it.” Benford stopped pacing. “Tell Nash specifically from me that Benford says he should endeavor to be brilliant.”
“And I’ll send the re-activation call out to the WOLVERINEs,” said Forsyth. “They’ll be pleased.”
“Pleased?” snorted Gable. “Who’s gonna tell them Stalin died?” Westfall swallowed twice.
* * *
* * *
Nate walked into Benford’s office at noon of the second day, having taken the early-morning flight from London. The cable from Chief EUR Forsyth recalling him to Headquarters had mentioned only that he was required for “consultations,” which in the patois of cablese could mean he was in trouble for an unknown transgression, or had been chosen as the sacrificial goat for assignment to a liaison billet in FEEB headquarters—a nightmare exile that no ops officer wanted; or there was a spectacular operation that Benford wanted him to handle. Nate the case officer studied Benford’s French bulldog face for a clue, but the mole hunter was inscrutable. Benford pointed to a chair beside his littered desk—his whole office looked like Pompeii after Vesuvius—opened a restricted-handling file and read silently. Like any astute operator, Nate read the block-letter title upside down on the RH title page: GCDIVA. What was this? Were they going to discipline him over the spat he’d had with Dominika in Athens? That was weeks ago.
Nate knew his stock with Benford, Gable, and Forsyth had taken a hit over the years since Helsinki because of his relationship with DIVA. He also knew very well that he had not been summarily separated from the Service only as an accommodation to keep the agent in harness. As it was, he was hanging by a thread. Nash’s mind raced back to the beginning.
The hiatus in contact with Dominika between meetings in Europe always cooled things down, but these officers were not dummies. Benford expected recidivism; Forsyth ruefully understood him; Gable was the worst: he knew both Nate and Dominika as protégés, could read them like the carny who guesses your weight at the country fair. Worse, he could smell coitus from across the room. The tear-filled and disastrous conclusion to the contact in Athens had not helped.
Nate fretted over the futility and unprofessionalism of their love affair—it was besperspektivnyak, a hopeless situation, a fruitless exercise. Dominika loved him passionately, and didn’t care about the rules. Dominika would tease him for acting like a dour Russian while she soared like a liberated American love child. The issue of her defection and resettlement was the tinder that always started the arguments.
How do you feel about her now? he thought to himself, thankful that among Benford’s other vampiric skills, mind reading was probably not numbered. That was fortunate, since Nathaniel Nash at this minute knew, had always known, that he loved the beautiful Russian with the serious scowl that would melt into a dizzying smile from across the street when she saw him approach. He loved the way she breathed his name—Neyt, with the broad Russian vowel—when they made love and how her head went back, eyelids fluttering and chin trembling, groaning Ya zakanchivayu, I’m finishing (Russians never say “I’m coming” in bed).
The bubble popped when Benford looked up and spoke. “Are you jet-lagging now, Nash?”
“No, Simon, I’m fine. It’s an easy flight,” said Nate, trying to blot out the image of Dominika’s face on the pillow.
“We have something in mind for you, something rather important,” said Benford.
“Just don’t tell me I should buy a twelve-month meal plan for the cafeteria at the J. Edgar Hoover building.” Nate had meant this as a joke, to establish bonhomie, and corporately to suggest—or plead—that he mustn’t be sent over to the FBI to work on the joint task force. Joking with Benford was like lion hunting on horseback with a spear: you could in theory do it, but odds were it would not turn out well.
Benford stared at Nate for ten seconds. “Do you know anything about science, Nash?” Benford asked. “I mean apart from the fluid mechanics of nocturnal emissions, of which I am sure you are a longtime student.” Nate shrugged, already regretting his joke.
“Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak,” said Benford. “Endeavor not to be one of those people. A good place to start is not to speak unless spoken to.”
“Okay, Simon,” said Nate.
“Now we have a critical operation ahead of us. It’s rather complicated as it’s in three parts. Alarming as it may be, you would have an axial role in each part.” Nate opened his mouth to ask a question, but Benford put up his hand, and shook his head in a “don’t spoil it” look of distaste.
“If you would permit me to summarize,” said Benford. He sat back in his chair and propped his stocking feet on his desk, starting a minor avalanche of papers that fluttered to the floor.
“DIVA just reported that the Kremlin seeks to destabilize Turkey by supplying antiarmor rockets and pressure mines to separatist PKK insurgents in Istanbul. Part one: We will beacon the weapons crates at their staging point in Sevastopol using an experienced raiding team of reservists that, considering your Russian-language and denied-area experience, you will lead. The operation should take no longer than two days, with time on target approximately two hours.”
“Reservists from Desert Storm or Afghanistan?” said Nate.
“No, closer to the years of the Berlin Wall,” said Benford.
“I beg your pardon?” said Nate. “Berlin Wall?”
“The Berlin Wall,” said Benford. “Perhaps you missed it while watching Dance Fever on television.”
“Dance Fever?” said Nate.
“Never mind. There is no reason for you to have heard of them, the WOLVERINEs. They distinguished themselves during the Cold War in Poland.”