“We suspect that one of the candidates for the next Director of the Central Intelligence Agency is a mole run by Moscow Center. The Kremlin’s candidate. If MAGNIT is selected as DCIA, the Agency will cease to exist, and the United States will be blind to overseas threats. It will be worse than Philby, worse than Ames or Hanssen.”
“We’d have to exfil and resettle hundreds of assets,” said Forsyth. “Not just the Russians, but sources in China, North Korea, and Cuba.”
“The cereal aisle at the supermarket in Alexandria is going to look like the League of Nations, with all the ex-agents grocery shopping,” said Westfall, who once babysat for a Chinese defector, and knew how impossible most defectors could be.
“Those will be the ones we agree to settle. There will be a lot of low-level Joes left behind, who’ll be tossed in jail, or retired without pension,” said Forsyth.
“You’re both forgetting the ones who won’t leave and will try to gut it out,” said Benford. “The ones they’ll feed to the lions.” They were all thinking about Dominika.
“So you’re willing to risk your career to defy the Director?”
“In trade for DIVA? What would you do?” They all knew the answer to the question, including the greenhorn on the couch, who already felt fiercely protective of the blue-eyed Russian.
“Time for a barium enema,” said Benford. “Lucius, I’ll need your help.” Westfall’s eyes widened. He frantically wondered whether this could possibly be a medieval secret rite of initiation in the Operations Directorate or, as plausibly, an unsavory personal practice of Benford’s in which he, as factotum, was somehow expected to assist. He was sure it had not been listed as one of his professional duties.
Westfall was immeasurably relieved, though alarmed at the scope of the sedition, when Forsyth and Benford explained what “barium enema” meant—a counterintelligence test—and what they wanted. Just then, Benford’s secretary walked in with lunch, a cardboard box with Styrofoam cups of egg-drop soup from the cafeteria, which had become popular with the recruitment of SONGBIRD. She handed around cups as the room grew silent except for the sound of Benford slurping.
* * *
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They were fortunate that for the next round of briefings, each nominee had scheduling conflicts, so individual sessions had to be scheduled at different times. Benford obsequiously briefed Senator Feigenbaum and her scowling altar boy Farbissen on a sensitive operation to recruit a Russian code clerk in Buenos Aires, based not on any demonstrated vulnerability or regulatory transgression, but simply because the young bachelor was observed to be lonely. Farbissen snorted in derision and the senator muttered “fishing expedition” under her breath, neither of them acknowledging the immense value of recruiting a code clerk.
In reality, Benford had concocted the entire operation. If Feigenbaum/Farbissen were the moles, the Center would quickly recall the blameless code clerk to Moscow—something the cooperative Argentine service immediately could ascertain—to get him out of the crosshairs of perfidious CIA. Benford wasted an hour playacting, trying to convince these two congressional bivalves that the operation had merit. By then, time was up, and Benford had avoided briefing his most sensitive cases—for today. It was a dodge that would work only once.
The next day, Forsyth briefed VADM Rowland. Benford had suggested that Forsyth turn on a little of his salt-and-pepper charm to see if the dour three-striper would react to him. Forsyth later grumpily reported that mildly flirting with the admiral was like throwing cotton balls at riveted steel plate.
“Christ,” said Forsyth. “I wore my dark suit with the Italian pocket square, threw her the case-officer smile, turned on the charm, and complimented her on her inspired management of ONR. I let her catch me looking at her legs, and told her a story about my fiancée who was lost at sea during a typhoon. Nothing. No reaction. I’ve had North Koreans at diplomatic receptions react more than she did. I went home that night and cried into my pillow.”
“Age is the great leveler. It catches up with us all,” intoned Benford, commiserating. “Though it may have been the pocket square.”
Forsyth had briefed the admiral on a troubling case in Panama City involving a recruited but obstreperous senator in the Panamanian Parliament who had befriended an unidentified (and imaginary) Russian diplomat who was “talking out of school.” The senator had refused to identify the Russian until the Station agreed to raise his salary. Benford knew that even the possibility of an unknown Russian dip getting cozy with an access agent from CIA would result in a hasty Russian approach to the venal senator in an attempt to identify the wayward diplomat. (The senator, in fact, was a longtime and loyal asset who would report any inveigling contact or surveillance on him.)
“The admiral listened politely but was clearly not interested,” said Forsyth.
“Probably thinking about magnetic impedance and joules,” said Benford. “She continues to be the least likely of the three, in my view.” He turned to Westfall. “You will brief Ambassador Vano tomorrow. He seems less concerned with rank, and is equable in nature, so he presumably will not object to a briefing from a junior snail. Play it with youthful enthusiasm and make it appear you’re exceeding your brief. Observe his reaction. He is a successful businessman with access, who is vain and inexperienced in intelligence matters. Play on that.”
For a junior analyst who was new to the Operations Directorate, Lucius played his role with a fine hand as the overserious analyst with facts and figures who liked to hear himself talk. He told the ambassador about a (fictitious) Russian naval captain in the Northern Fleet stationed in Murmansk who intended to defect and smuggle himself and his family into Finland in the back of one of the hundreds of 18-wheelers passing through the Vaalimaan Rajanylityspaikka, the southernmost Finnish border crossing on the E18. Westfall bragged that the Russian captain commanded a fleet ballistic submarine, would potentially bring kilos of top-secret naval documents out with him, and would attempt the crossing in two months. This would be irresistible bait for the Russians, who would tear apart every truck exiting the Federation, causing holy chaos at the border, which would be easily observed. Benford was enthused now that he had spread his trail of bread crumbs at the feet of each candidate.
“I anticipate FSB and SVR will collaborate, and that DIVA will be involved in the investigations,” Benford said. “We, therefore, will have positive intelligence on which variant was reported to Moscow.”
“If we ever get her reliable commo,” grumbled Forsyth. “We cannot keep meeting her on the street.”
“Hearsey tells me a new piece of communications gear has been tested and will soon be ready for deployment. He is coming to demonstrate it this afternoon. You should all be here to assess its suitability for DIVA, especially Nash, when he returns from the Orient.”
* * *
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