“Yes. Quite,” said Benford. “The most hair-raising aspect of COS Moscow’s career—apart from his inexplicable avoidance of accountability for his mistakes—is that he is unaware of his incompetence. He has no sentient appreciation of his deficiencies. He is Mr. Toad behind the wheel of a motorcar.”
“Mr. Toad?” said Nate.
“Wind in the Willows,” said Hannah, chuckling. She was freshly showered, hair brilliant, face alight at having gotten through IO training, and flushed with excitement at now entering into Benford’s confidence. She liked working with Nate, felt that she was part of his club, liked his loose-limbed approach, and was fascinated with what she privately called his controlled fanaticism to denied-area operations and to DIVA.
Hannah wore a pearl-gray suit and black heels (the look is too old for her, thought Nate; she should wear something more casual), no jewelry, and a sports watch with a bezel and a clunky metal-link band. He liked her heavy-framed glasses—brainy hiding beneath bubbly. For the first time Nate noticed her straight nose and her green eyes, and she caught him looking at her and smiled, and he smiled back. She wore nature-girl pink lip gloss. Benford started speaking again.
“While you will outwardly be under COS’s command, you are working for me. You know the requirements and the priorities.” He paused.
“What are you saying?” said Hannah.
“This stays in this room,” said Benford. “What I am saying is: As long as COS does not interfere, or alter, or manage your mission parameters, fine. The minute he in any way jeopardizes your goals, you are to disregard his orders and proceed on your own recognizance.”
“Jesus, Simon,” said Nate.
Benford waved him to stop. “If the situation becomes untenable, go to the Station communicator and send me a cable in JOLT privacy channels, without COS release.”
“Jesus Christ, Simon,” said Nate. “You’re directing her to mutiny? She’s your illegal penetration of the Station?”
“I will not allow DIVA to be subjected to unnecessary risk, much less mortal danger born of stupidity. Hannah will successfully deploy comms to DIVA. Vernon Throckmorton will not fuck this up.” Benford swiveled toward Nate. “So perhaps your own well-known custodial concern for Dominika is now not so misplaced.”
Silence in the room. Agent’s true name spoken. Never done.
“It’s a nice name,” said Hannah, smiling, anxious to break the silence. These guys are invested in ways I’ll never know, Hannah thought. So now I’m invested too. Her name’s Dominika: Hello, my sister. The young officer had no way of knowing that the crenellated mind of Simon Benford would not make such an inadvertent slip, nor could she have fathomed that Benford purposely had done so expressly to begin to create the metaphysical bond between this little blond gladiator and the former Russian ballerina, five thousand miles away.
The next morning, Benford wanted to talk some more.
“Your evaluations for the last two weeks of technical training were satisfactory,” said Benford, “just as the last three months of your street training were. I commend you.”
Hannah fiddled with her hands and blushed. She had practiced emplacing the short range agent communications (SRAC) sensors—they were called RAPTORS—at Cane Island in the Santee Coastal Reserve, two hundred acres of US government-owned tidewater scrubland somewhere south of Georgetown, South Carolina, under the guidance of a tall, rangy tech named Hearsey, who Hannah thought looked like a cowboy senator from Montana. The remote sensors—eight inches across, slightly convex, made of gray, scored fiberglass, and somewhat heavy—resembled oversized mushroom caps that had to be buried several inches beneath the ground. These sensors would receive DIVA’s SRAC bursts and store them, and could be interrogated on command by a passing Station officer. They in turn could be preloaded with a Station message for DIVA that would be exchanged in a two-second “handshake” whenever the agent activated a sensor with her handheld unit. They essentially were electronic mailboxes filled and emptied remotely.
“Obviously,” said Hearsey, drawling his words, “in the case of the RAPTOR equipment in Moscow, emplacement has to be done during the summer months when you can dig earth.” He fingered the specially designed hand trowel that in one motion would excavate the dinner-plate-sized cavity for the sensor, allowing the soil or sod to be replaced and stamped flat.
“You can carry the three sensors in this pack,” Hearsey said, handing her a nylon pouch with shoulder straps. “There are aluminum panels in the pack, treated with barium sulfate.”
“Stop,” said Hannah. “Tell me why the pack is lined.”
Hearsey looked hurt. “The sensors run off a small source of strontium-90,” he said. “Not enough annual sunlight in Moscow for photovoltaic power—solar, that is—so we developed a mini radioisotope thermoelectric generator to power these units. Half life of eighty-nine years. Your agent’s grandchildren will be using these babies when—”
“Stop again,” said Hannah. “The phrase ‘half life’ reminds me of nuclear zombies in apocalypse movies.”
“These sensors are perfectly safe,” said Hearsey, running his fingers through his sandy hair.
“Hearsey,” said Hannah. He avoided looking at her.
“They’re sealed, totally shielded. Still …”
“Still?” said Hannah.
“Don’t carry them below your belt, near your fallopian tubes or anything. Why take chances?” Hearsey smiled at her.
At the end of training, Hannah was astonished when Hearsey bent down, gave her a hug, and said, “Wish I could go with you, you know, to help.”
“And so it starts,” said Benford. “You are assigned to deploy the RAPTOR short-range agent communication sensors for GTDIVA at selected sites around Moscow. You know the requirements: First the agent package is placed in a short-term drop. I need not remind you that this phase is a critical life-and-death operation. Then you must emplace the relay receivers—how many are there? yes, three—as well as prepare the principal and mobile base stations.”
Nate looked at Hannah. “That first drop to DIVA—if you whiff it, she’s dead,” he said, totally serious.
He was wearing a navy-blue blazer, gray slacks, blue-striped shirt, and a navy tie with thin pink stripes. On spring break from prep school, thought Hannah. She swallowed the “tell me something new” on her lips and nodded. Last night over burgers he’d talked about Moscow, about working as a US diplomat dip cover—from the embassy, about the city and its pulses. Hannah had recognized the voice of “I’ve done that” and listened hard.
“You have been trained in the RAPTOR system nearly to the level of expert,” said Benford to Hannah. “I cannot augment your knowledge in this. Nash here will continue to brief you on FSB surveillance and on DIVA—I want you to begin understanding her life, her predilections, her idiosyncrasies. And her unambiguous and critical importance to the United States.”
He stood and walked to the door of the conference room. “I will see you tomorrow, and we will briefly review everything we have discussed, and then I will send you to Moscow. Period.” He nodded to them both and walked out.
LEEK AND MUSHROOM CALZONE
Dice onion, garlic, and washed leeks, then sauté with shiitake, cremini, and oyster mushrooms until cooked through and glossy. Add spinach and cook until wilted. The mixture should be dry. Place filling on rolled-out pizza dough, add cubes of feta cheese and a pinch of fennel seed. Fold one edge of dough over, and crimp seam. Bake in a high oven until golden brown.
18
They went to dinner on Capitol Hill at the Hawk ’n’ Dove on Pennsylvania Avenue, close to Hannah’s apartment. “She’s temperamental, but loyal,” said Nate, picking at a piece of salmon. “DIVA’s been through a lot. She’s seen the worst of her system.”
Hannah took a sip of wine and read his face.
“Because of all that, she wanted out,” said Nate. “It got pretty rough. Then, when MARBLE was shot—he was like a father to her—she got crazy angry and
put herself back into harness. A year later she hands us this Iran thing.”
Hannah listened. She had finally read all eight volumes of the DIVA file. “Tell me about the ambush in Vienna,” she said.
Nate looked down. “Not much to tell. We got lucky. It was unreal—a dog-pack manhunt in modern-day Vienna.”
“I don’t know how I would react,” said Hannah. She took another sip of wine. “There was something I wanted to ask you from the file. You wrote the ops cable about Vienna, about that night. You said that DIVA ‘struggled for control’ in that warehouse.”
Nate shook his head. “Yeah, that’s right. Domi was out of her mind over the murder of her Sparrow, the Serb girl.” Domi, thought Hannah. Huh, pet names between handler and agent. Hannah saw that he was holding back.
“Struggling for control, out of her mind; what’s that mean, exactly?” asked Hannah.
“I never really reported it. She executed one of the Iranian surveillants,” said Nate quickly. “She severed his carotid artery with a steak knife.”
Hannah put her fork down. Nate waited for the hands to the face, the shocked whisper, the pale face, but she didn’t blink.
“I would have done the same,” said Hannah without emotion.
Nate looked at her hard, reassessing this golden nature girl. Green eyes stared back unwaveringly. “It was life and death; it was a giant surveillance team. They kept showing up, driving us to a bridge, and probably under the sights of a sniper. I just wanted to get her out of there,” said Nate.
He’s protective, thought Hannah. He cares for her. “I can understand that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s important to keep her safe,” said Nate.
He really cares for her, thought Hannah.
They paid the bill and looked at the time. It was too early to go home. They walked down Pennsylvania Avenue a few doors to a nearby bar, sat in a pair of overstuffed leather chairs in the back, and kept talking—about Moscow, surveillance, casing sites, DIVA. Two drinks later, they started discussing assignments, careers, the Agency, life. Conversation between them was easy, but she instinctively steered away from their love lives. Hannah thought Nate was thoughtful and a little shy; Nate thought Hannah was perceptive and spirited. They liked each other—as colleagues, as people—and shared a unique life, a unique vocation. They had spent a lot of time together recently. It felt strange, but it also felt good.
They left the bar, crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, walked around Seward Square and up Sixth Street SE, toward Hannah’s apartment—a basement sublet in a row house a block from Eastern Market. Hannah’s last two gin and tonics had numbed her nose, and she stepped carefully on the uneven sidewalk. The rearguard of multiple beers likewise had just arrived in Nate’s head, and he had to tell Hannah—just had to—a Putin joke, first in Russian, but then in English when Hannah put her arm into Nate’s and yanked, telling him she didn’t speak Russian.
Stalin came to Putin in his dream and told him how to rule Russia. “Destroy all the democrats without mercy, then eliminate their parents, and hang their children, and incinerate their relatives and their friends, and kill their pets, and paint your Kremlin office blue,” said Stalin’s ghost. “Why blue?” said Putin.
“I don’t get it,” said Hannah.
“Come on,” said Nate. “The only thing Putin asks, the only thing that doesn’t make sense to him, is the color of his office?”
A snort came out of Hannah, then they both started laughing, and she held on to him to keep from stumbling. They stopped after a while, staring at each other and, subconsciously, scanned the other side of the street—spook habit. Hannah suddenly looked serious.
“Can I tell you something?” said Hannah. Nate blinked through the beer and tried to focus.
“Sure,” he said.
“I’m a little scared about all this,” said Hannah. “I didn’t dare tell Benford, but I’m worried about that first run in Moscow. I mean, will I have the nerve? Will I see coverage if it’s on me?”
A gout of tipsy tenderness welled up in Nate’s chest. Poor kid, she’s fighting this alone. He stepped up to her and held her head in his hands.
“It’s normal to be scared. But you’re a natural, one of the best I’ve seen. Everyone thinks so, or they wouldn’t be sending you to Station. The first time, the hours right before you go out, is a bitch. But once you’re on the street you’ll start feeling the vibe and they won’t be able to touch you.”
Hannah hiccupped. “Shakespeare, are you actually holding my head in your hands?” She giggled.
Nate blushed and took his hands away, and she thought she had embarrassed him.
The streetlamps emitted a gassy haze filtered through the leaves of the trees along the sidewalk. The tension and fatigue of training boiled over, and she stepped up to him—Don’t stop now, idiot—put clumsy arms around his neck, and they were kissing, a little unsteadily, but she felt his arms around her waist, and her pulse was racing, and they kept kissing, and she slid her hands down his back.
When Hannah kissed him, Nate was genuinely surprised. This talented woman had by all accounts maxxed the most demanding operations course in the Agency. She had, with aplomb, tied up the entire counterintelligence apparatus of the Washington FBI—on their home turf. She had been selected by the demanding and irascible Benford to service the drops and manage the covcom shots in Moscow in support of CIA’s premier Russian penetration asset, DIVA.
More to the point, they had gotten along during these last training days—really gotten along, without all the usual territorial, glandular spraying between two ops officers—and Nate had genuinely celebrated her success. And now, unless this block of Sixth Street SE was leveled in the next two minutes by a fuel air explosive, it seriously appeared as if they would be making love. His head swirled as Hannah—tasting of lime and tonic—kissed him again and, like a guilty puppy who will not look at his scolding master, he stuffed the thought of Dominika behind the curtain. Hannah was smart and brave and sweet and confident and desirable, and perceptive, and sassy, and they were partners, in a way, in this risky undertaking. And, damn it, was he going to reject her on the eve of her seriously nervy assignment? He was prepared to rationalize this forever—but her arms were around his neck, and her mouth was yielding, and unless there was someone else on the sidewalk behind him those were probably Hannah’s hands moving around; her tongue flicked at his lips, and then they were inside the neat, spare efficiency apartment, a few books on the bookshelf, two pairs of running shoes lined up by the door, and Nate almost blurted that he’d already been inside but caught himself. Her arms were around his neck again.
Oh God, suddenly she could feel she was wet between her legs. They kissed again, without urgency but deeply, and Hannah closed her eyes and felt a knot in her stomach—What are you doing, are you crazy?—and she pulled her sweater up over her head, and pulled his sweater over his head, and they were on her bed, on the blue-and-white quilt her mother had made—thinking about Mother now?—and they kept kissing, wordlessly, kicking off shoes and pulling off clothes, and Hannah put her glasses on the bedside table, and closed her eyes and his skin felt hot against her body, and she didn’t stop kissing him while she reached for him—God, he’ll think I’m a real slut—and steered him inside her, sweet and full, and rhythmically he moved, back and forth like a sexy tectonic slip plate, back and forth and back, thighs friction-hot, eyes locked on each other, mouths open, straining, and Hannah felt something stirring—she loved that gathering first tremor in her belly—and she levered her trembling legs out from under him and wrapped them around his waist and dug in her heels—God, I should have put moisturizer on my feet, too much running—and she held him by the shoulders and pulled him to her as her head went back on the pillow, and he nuzzled her arching neck, and the little tremor became a series of them, and she climaxed hard, Babe, so good, it’s been too long, and felt that flush of wet underneath her and Nate was still moving and the sensation was glorious, and she opened her
eyes, and put her fingers on his lips and pulled them to her, and she kissed him as he kept moving, Dude, do not stop now, and she didn’t want him to stop.
Nate thought Hannah had a different touch than Dominika, somehow less primal—Hannah was a honeyed topaz to Dominika’s fathomless sapphire; silent Hannah vibrated while vocal Dominika shuddered, and blond curls looked different against the pillow than chestnut tresses—he was going to drive himself crazy. Then he felt the hot wet bloom of Hannah’s orgasm, different than—Shut up for Chrissake—and she clamped her mouth on his and she gripped him tighter, but silently, and they kissed again, more tenderly intimate than twenty minutes ago, lovers now, and he lay on the wet spot on the blue-and-white quilt as they dozed in each other’s arms.
It was still dark and the streetlights were slanting through the windows when Hannah got up for two glasses of water. Nate watched her cross the shadowy single room to the sink and come back and he couldn’t stop himself from noting that she was shorter, and her buttocks were flatter, and her legs were skinnier, and the nipples on her small breasts were darker, and between her legs she was blond and downy—Fucking stop it, you absolutely will not imagine them side by side. She saw him looking at her and put down the water glasses, and it started again and Hannah vibrated and this time quietly moaned his name with a shaking voice and they both collapsed and ended up falling asleep on the vastly expanded wet spot on the quilt.
As the sky through the little barred window was getting lighter—Hannah whispered in Nate’s ear that the Mohammedan distinction between night and day is the moment one can distinguish a black thread from a white one—she put her chin on his chest and looked at him. Her glasses were on a little crooked. Her hair had been combed by an eggbeater, flyaway strands catching the rising light in the room. Nate could now distinguish her green irises—the Nash distinction between night and day. She kept staring at him.
Red Sparrow 02 - Palace of Treason Page 25