Dominika met the MSS general for lunch at the White Rabbit, the internationally acclaimed restaurant on the rooftop sixteenth floor of the Smolensk Passage Building in the Arbat, on Smolenskaya Square, the long dining room completely under a curved glass roof with breathtaking views of the Moskva River and Stalin’s looming Gothic Ministry of Foreign Affairs skyscraper. The restaurant interior was a dreamland of extravagant artwork hung every which way, brightly colored couches, and a neon-lit bar, all under the scudding afternoon clouds of early summer. Dominika chose a dark chalk-stripe suit, with a white blouse buttoned at the neck, dark stockings, and black flats. No cleavage or come-fuck-me heels today.
She was already seated at a choice corner table for five at the end of the room, against the downward sweep of the clear canopy, when General Sun appeared by the ma?tre d’ station. He was accompanied by a tall young man who scanned the room, leaned to whisper in the general’s ear, and pointed at Dominika. Bodyguard. Sun came down the two steps and made his way alone across the dining room between the tables. The young man remained at the entrance, never taking his eyes off the general.
General Sun was short and stout, in his sixties, with a smooth flat face and jet-black hair, no doubt dyed. Rheumy black eyes under upward-arching eyebrows gave him a perpetual quizzical look, as if he were struggling to understand what was being said to him. There was a canary-yellow halo around his head, signaling deceit, calculation, disingenuousness.
He stood at the table and bowed slightly, then offered his hand in a mild fleeting handshake. He was dressed in a pearl-gray suit with a starched white shirt and a muted striped tie. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” said Sun, in heavily accented English. He sat across the table from her, unrolled his spotless linen napkin, and put it on his lap. At the academy they would have recommended he take the seat next to her, to establish a connection, to position himself inside her space, but that’s what aggressive SVR Russians would do. Cautious and introverted Chinese officials, in full defensive mode in the Russian capital, would be different. In contrast, Dominika knew Nate would scoot his chair close so their knees were touching, and drape his arm across the back of her chair. But what else could you expect from nekulturny Americans? Nate intruding into her thoughts again.
“Are you enjoying Moscow, General?” said Dominika. “Are you in your apartment?” She knew all Chinese Embassy diplomats had strict rules and were forced to live kak seledka v bochke, packed like herrings in the barrel, in prefab high-rises on the embassy’s five-acre walled compound on Druzhby Street, near Moscow State University.
“I am fortunate to have been assigned a comfortable flat in a large building on Minskaya Ulitsa, in the diplomatic quarter, not far from the embassy. I can walk when the weather permits,” said General Sun. “My assistant and a housekeeper live with me.” Interesting. He’s allowed to live off compound, very unusual. Staying loose to be able to operate in Moscow? Living apart also means we can get to him, if we eventually see an opening. Welcome to Moscow! Your comely neighbor lady might need to borrow a cup of Sparrow sugar some evening.
“I trust that soon we can host you at Headquarters in Yasenevo,” said Dominika.
“Delighted,” said General Sun, reserved.
“I understand your service is interested in expanding cooperation,” said Dominika.
“Most assuredly,” said Sun. “My organization—I apologize for the long title—the Zhonghuá Rénmín Gònghéguó Guójia Anquánbù, the Ministry of State Security, is especially interested in your service’s recognized expertise in counterintelligence. As you are chief of that department, we wish to learn from you.” He bowed from his seat. Was the MSS worried about a specific CI problem? She knew SVR officers in the Beijing rezidentura were trolling for elusive Chinese contacts, but Dominika was not aware of any major SVR operations currently running against China. Maybe her CIA colleagues were causing trouble.
This is good, really good, she thought. Dominika could exploit this liaison relationship on three levels: she would elicit MSS counterintelligence philosophy and techniques; she could pass dezinformatsiya, disinformation, to Beijing about Russian intentions toward China (Gorelikov would like that); and she would report it all to Benford and Nate. General Sun seemed mild and polite, but her instincts told her—like with Gorelikov—not to underestimate him.
* * *
* * *
Benford sat at a conference table in Headquarters with Tom Forsyth, Nate Nash, and Lucius Westfall. Coffee cups, files, folders, and pads of paper literally covered the table. The empty chair at the end of the small table reminded them of Gable, and they felt his presence in the room. They wished he were with them, for this was a desperate gathering. A mole hunt. At Benford’s behest, Westfall and Nash had cautiously researched the backgrounds, without approvals from the office of the Acting Director, of the three candidates for the new Director, a violation of at least a dozen Agency regulations, if not a handful of federal ones. They were all complicit by their presence in this room.
“We screened for three criteria,” said Westfall. “Substantive access to the US Navy railgun program; continuing access of interest to the Russians for approximately the last five years; and the last category, which is subjective, vulnerability, motivation, inclination—you’ll have to decide yourselves.”
“Why five years?” said Benford. “DIVA reported that MAGNIT’s been in harness for at least twelve years.”
Westfall swallowed. “We figured if we identify five years of access, we get an indication. Besides, MAGNIT may have been dormant or on ice for a couple of years.”
Benford nodded. “As you report on your findings, and if it does not tax your millennial intellects, remember we are looking as hard for reasons to exclude any one of the three as a suspect, as we are for incriminating evidence. The Russians cannot be running all three of them. And we don’t have much time.”
“Okay, Senator Feigenbaum’s been on the intelligence and armed services committees for twenty years,” said Westfall. “She voted to fund the railgun through the development process and can request any information from the navy anytime she wants.”
“Motivation?” said Forsyth. “She’s a US senator for Christ sakes.”
“Debatable,” said Nate. “She’s traveled a lot overseas all her career, including lots of contacts with the Soviets. Maybe she’s retiring soon, wants a cabinet job. We thought maybe she’s building a nest egg.”
“But we found out she doesn’t need a nest egg,” said Westfall. “We did a full financial dive on all the candidates. The senator has thirty million dollars in the bank and in real estate.”
“Don’t discount the amassing of title and power,” said Benford. “It’s what makes the whole Congress tick. The ultimate aphrodisiac among a large herd of narcissists.”
“We know the senator hates CIA’s guts,” said Westfall.
“Maybe the Kremlin is paying her to bring down the Agency,” said Benford. “She’d like to do that, her and her butt boy Farbissen.” Forsyth didn’t buy it, but motioned Westfall to continue.
“Next we have Vice Admiral Audrey Rowland. She’s actually been running the railgun project since it started. Now she’s running all the navy labs with science and weapons and stealth stuff the Russians would love to steal.”
“Motivation?” asked Nate.
“She’s the cleanest of the bunch,” said Westfall. “Third star, medals, physics brain, poster girl for the navy. She stays at home too. No time at all with the fleet at sea. Military pension when she retires.”
“Hobbies? Vices? Habits? Addictions? Vulnerabilities?” asked Forsyth, the case officer, looking for a handle.