Shlykov returned to Istanbul, and the transmissions ceased in Ankara and again followed him. And when he traveled to Moscow, for consultations regarding his covert-action operation, the transmissions stopped altogether, only to start up again on his return to Turkey, when he touched down at Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport. The SIGINT log of these encrypted signals grew and the FSB counterintelligence file got fatter. It was not long until signals analysis matched the transmissions with Shlykov’s movements.
This delighted Gorelikov, whose refined, gracious exterior concealed an inexhaustible capacity for subterfuge and plotting. When Dominika had quietly brought home news of the murder of her North Korean asset, Gorelikov had listened implacably to Shlykov’s dismissive explanation that the North Koreans almost certainly had detected Ri’s treachery through some tradecraft error of Egorova’s and had eliminated the scientist themselves. And as for the missing Sparrow, either the North Koreans had dealt with her, or she had run off with a ski instructor from the Tyrol. Gorelikov later listened to the recording of Blokhin’s voice in the cottage, and had, incongruously, smiled. Additional evidence to hang this GRU apostate, but never a thought for Ioana, Dominika bitterly noted.
Gorelikov took Dominika aside and for a day briefed her on the developments in Istanbul. Shlykov’s operation had imploded, the munitions had been captured, the Turks were apoplectic, and Russia would be embarrassed on the international stage. The president no longer numbered Valeriy Shlykov as one of his favorites. They began choreographing a discreet counterintelligence investigation—SVR would have the lead role in the foreign field—meticulously led by a dutiful Colonel Egorova. “It’s a shame you have to fly all the way to Istanbul; the findings of the investigation are already drafted,” said Gorelikov. “Shlykov is responsible for the OBVAL disaster, for which he must answer, but it is now more serious. He is suspected of espionage. But there it is, appearances matter, and you must play the part.” But then came the sly question Benford had warned her about. “What do you think is going on in Istanbul with these transmissions? Did the Americans suspect something? Why did they focus on Shlykov?”
“In Turkey it could be any of a dozen things; that’s why this covert action was ill-advised,” said Dominika, matter-of-factly. “The Turks certainly have informers inside PKK; perhaps a tradecraft problem with the delivery of weapons; US SIGINT might be listening to chatter.” Gorelikov polished his wire-framed eyeglasses.
“Or we could have a mole in the Kremlin,” he said, softly. Dominika willed her scalp not to creep.
“Always a possibility, but unlikely,” she said. “Everyone in the Council approved the plan.”
“Except for you, Bortnikov, and me,” said Gorelikov.
“I can hardly credit the Chief of FSB working for the opposition, and I know I am not a mole . . .”
“Which leaves me,” said Gorelikov, amused.
“A dangerous counterrevolutionary of the criminal Trotsky gang. Line KR will have to keep an eye on you,” said Dominika, and the moment passed. Is this a ghastly game to tell me he thinks I’m a spy? Take care. Gorelikov was a serpent, tongue flicking, constantly testing the air. That night, she wrote up the details and dead dropped them to Ricky Walters to pass to Benford. She would have to be very careful.
* * *
* * *
In Istanbul, CIA officers, in addition to sending burst transmissions, had begun marking signals—chalk marks on stone walls, tape on light poles, thumbtacks in trees—along Shlykov’s walking route between his temporary Istanbul apartment and the Russian Consulate. Because Shlykov wasn’t looking for them, he didn’t notice them. Very discreet surveillance of the major, done from the front and in phases, soon determined which cafés and restaurants he favored for solitary lunches and dinners. One of these was in Cicek Pasaji, a covered street arcade with a nineteenth-century Beaux Arts latticework and glass roof. Whenever Shlykov ate there—he habitually ordered kadinbudu k?fte, ladies’ thighs k?fte, plump lamb and beef meat fingers, fried crispy on the outside and succulent on the inside—one of half a dozen CIA officers sat close by, always facing him, always with a folded newspaper, or a book, or an eyeglass case on the table in plain sight. No contact was ever attempted.
A steady stream of local commercial brochures, advertisements, and flyers were mailed to Shlykov’s address announcing Bosphorus tours, condos for sale in Esentepe, bus excursions to Bulgaria. The junk mail was collected and delivered by his toothless concierge. Shlykov thought nothing of the brochures and threw most of them away, but one or two of them were tossed in desk drawers and forgotten. They all had been lightly sprayed with household insecticide, a chemical component of which is phenolphthalein, a telltale of secret writing developer. There were no messages on this junk mail, all of it stiff and glossy with the dried aerosol patina.
* * *
* * *
Nathaniel Nash sat in a nondescript Fiat Scudo van parked on a narrow side street in Istanbul with three technical officers from Langley. It was dusk and the final call to prayer had finished minutes ago; the steep Beyo?lu neighborhood of grimy apartment buildings and first-floor shops was quiet and dark. There were intermittent rainstorms scudding across the city, and the alleyways, stairways, and gutters were periodically awash in a brown chyme, the composition unchanged since the Byzantine Empire. A cat sat under the eaves of a ground-floor apartment window shaking its paw. The van was parked three doors down from a brick-and-stone apartment building with a fabric canopy over double glass doors in front. They were waiting for the crone who was the concierge in the building to leave her little desk in the entrance foyer and walk down to her basement apartment to start dinner for her husband. Instead, she stuck her head out of the door and poked the underside of the bulging canopy with a mop handle to empty it of accumulated rainwater.
Nate and the three entry techs were waiting to break into the personal apartment of Valeriy Shlykov. The van was filled with the collective fragrances of the tool satchels each of them held in their laps: the bitter stench of electric motor oil; the pungency of wood putty and quick-dry paint; the gritty whiff of graphite powder, the sweetness of talcum. The techs, veterans all, sat silently, looking straight ahead; three good ol’ boys, two from the Deep South, who didn’t use aftershave because it could linger on doorknobs and drawer pulls, and who didn’t smoke because they sometimes had to lie on their stomachs in an attic for seventy-two hours straight.
The books had them down as surreptitious-entry techs, but it was less formal than that: these men had jimmied, shimmied, and picked their way into embassies, boudoirs, code rooms, and missile bunkers around the world. They called themselves “rum dubbers” or steel-bolt hackers; their Harley-Davidson and Jack Daniel’s belt buckles had squeezed past laths and joists, under electrified wire, around cable runs, over roof slates covered in snow. Older now, in their fifties and sixties, they traveled less. A new breed—cuticle chewers with laptops—was needed to get past infrared cameras and biometric electronic locks. And the Golden Age of Surreptitious Entry had passed. No modern ops manager in the intelligence community today wanted to authorize a delicate physical-entry operation with career-ending risk written all over it.
But there were exceptions. In Shlykov’s case, the object of this clambake was not to emplace microphones or cameras, nor was it to open safes and quick-copy classified materials with a roll-over camera. Rather, the object of this surreptitious entry was to leave things behind.
KADINBUDU K?FTE—LADIES’ THIGHS MEATBALLS
Divide ground lamb and beef into thirds. Sauté two-thirds of the ground lamb and beef with chopped onion until meat is cooked and onions are soft. Mix with remaining one-third raw meat, egg, parsley, salt, and pepper. Knead mixture to incorporate and refrigerate until firm. Form thick finger-sized k?fte, roll in flour, dip in egg wash, and fry in oil until k?fte are crispy on the outside. Serve with a tomato salad and garlic-yogurt dressing.
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