“But she told her about Cobra. She didn’t have to say anything about him. He wasn’t a part of her story with that Abramovich man.”
“You’re right, sir. I’ve read her file and my guess is that this sudden reconnection with her past also reawakened her old anger about being forced, and quite rightly so, to immediately put an end to that outrageous love story, which was, in my opinion, a fantasy, for the most part. Seeing each other just once a year doesn’t make for a true love affair, does it? What did she have, after all? Love letters and a pile of lies. I’m no psychologist, but I can read people. She was overcome by anger, and she opened her heart and mouth to reveal the big secret to which she had the privilege of being party to the first stranger she saw—who just happened to be Galina, or someone who said she was Galina, it didn’t really matter to her.”
“Naturally, Demedev, you aren’t familiar with the particulars of Operation Cobra. After all these years, it remains a very important and highly classified operation. Don’t get me wrong. You’ve done an excellent job until this point, and now I’m asking you not to take any further action on the matter. If you come across any information you believe could be related to the affair, report directly to me. Only me.”
“Thank you, sir. I can’t even begin to describe the sense of satisfaction I get from playing a part, even marginally, in a special operation of this kind. Moments like these justify all the endless work we do. Suddenly we see how important it can be. What are we going to do about Katrina Geifman?”
“She’s no longer your concern, Demedev. I’m handling it personally. You did some fine and trustworthy work. The head of your department will be retiring in a few months, and I think I’ve found an excellent candidate to replace him. Take care of yourself and send my best wishes to”—and at that point the deputy head of the FSB glanced fleetingly at the piece of paper on the desk in front of him—“send my best wishes to Olga, your wife.”
“Pass on my best wishes, too,” the head of the SVR’s Tenth Directorate added dryly. “We appreciate the good work you’ve done.”
• • •
The deputy chief of the FSB asked to be put through to Colonel Semionov in Dimitrovgrad once Demedev had left the room. “Semionov,” he said, exacting a profoundly respectful response from the other end of the line, “put Katrina Geifman out of her misery. I believe that sadist Demedev worked her over good and proper. Oh, well, that’s the way things go sometimes in this line of work. We have no choice. Who’s going to do it for us? And report to me directly, Semionov. Your efforts don’t go unappreciated here in Moscow.”
42
SVR HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW, MARCH 2013
Colonel Dmitry Malenkov, the director of the SVR’s Tactical Planning Division, which was responsible for the running of sensitive sources, and the head of the Tenth Directorate walked side by side down the long corridor leading to the bureau of the organization’s commander. An urgent discussion concerning Cobra, that’s all they were told in person by the commander’s secretary, who added that the meeting would appear in the computer logs as a consultation on “personnel matters.” They needed no further explanation. The code name Cobra didn’t appear in the organization’s computer systems. Their footsteps echoed off the sleek marble floor, and Dmitry Malenkov thought: They certainly know how to look after themselves here on the sixth floor. That’s for sure. They were ushered into the commander’s extensive office promptly and without delay, and that, too, from Dmitry’s limited experience at the lofty heights of the floor serving the organization’s top brass, wasn’t commonplace.
“I’ll get straight to it,” said the head of the SVR after the two had settled into their chairs on the other side of the huge, empty desk across from him. “Cobra may have been exposed, or the enemy may be on the verge of exposing him. We’re still trying to figure out how it happened, but the fact is that a woman, who probably works for the Israeli Security Service or the Mossad, paid a visit to Katrina Geifman, who once provided security for Cobra’s operational meetings. She wasn’t there by chance or for any other reason. She asked questions about Cobra and she got answers. I believe we’re seeing only the tip of the iceberg here. They’ve come across something, and there’s no reason to assume they have any intention of letting go. So several things. We’re going to conduct a comprehensive damage-control assessment. We have to bring his handler into the picture and get him to Europe as soon as possible. If Cobra has yet to be exposed, he needs to be warned and we need to weigh the option of extracting him from Israel. As part of our damage-control assessment we also have to consider the worst-case scenario: Cobra’s already been exposed and arrested, and he is now telling the Israelis everything he has done for us throughout all the years in our service. We have to assess whether Cobra’s exposure means the exposure of his handler, too. We need to come up with a contingency plan in anticipation of the possibility that Cobra is going to be exposed. There’s a good chance the Israelis will respond to Cobra’s exposure by expelling our people at the embassy there.” He broke off for a moment, a grave expression on his face. “Your thoughts?”
“We definitely have to assume that Cobra’s cover is about to be blown,” said Dmitry Malenkov. “Our primary concern has to be getting him out of Israel. If they haven’t exposed him just yet, the most important thing is to get him on the next flight out. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if he falls into the hands of their interrogators. Sooner or later he’ll come clean and tell them everything—how much damage he caused, the focus of his reports, the issues he didn’t touch. It would be best for all of us for him to vanish. As always, not knowing will be harder on them than knowing. They’ll have to assume the worst.
“And at another level, getting him out would convey an important message to our agents. In terms of prestige and image. All of us in this room know that there’s an enormous difference if an agent is exposed, tried, and sent to prison for a very long time, or if a certain individual was under suspicion but managed to get out unharmed and can go on living his life as a free man elsewhere. That sends a hugely significant message to all our agents around the world. It’s important for us to show again that the SVR always takes care of its own, no matter what.”
“I may be putting the cart before the horse,” said the directorate chief, “but Russia itself is the only place where an individual with Cobra’s profile could be resettled and given a new life. He won’t be willing to live on some remote farm in Venezuela or spend the rest of his days in some dusty town in Angola. We wouldn’t be able to protect him in those places, and we have to remember that the Israelis are obsessive and have long memories and impressive capabilities. If we don’t bring him here, they’ll get their hands on him, and take him out or put him on trial in Tel Aviv.”
“There’s another issue, too,” said the commander of the SVR, “and it’s not a trivial one at all. He’s been under the impression since the 1980s that his handlers are American, and we’ve invested very extensive resources to this end. How’s he going to react when he’s instructed to go to Russia and not the United States?”
Dmitry Malenkov was the one to respond. “First of all, he has no choice. I don’t have to tell you, matters like these aren’t for the pampered. Second, I’m not so sure it’ll come as a complete surprise to him. Yes, from the outset, back in the days when the Stasi were running him, his handlers have always acted like authentic Americans. And yes, we’ve never met with him on American soil, but we’ve put that down to security concerns, which I believe he accepted as legitimate. In any event, he’s never pressed the issue. Furthermore, the questions we’ve asked and the assignments we’ve given him have never been of a distinctly Soviet hue. We’ve asked him about things that are of interest to any superpower, including the United States. After all, we’ve had a special team charged with ensuring that our briefings didn’t betray our true identity. Nevertheless, he’s been a spy for almost thirty years. And Cobra is a sharp guy. No matter how good we are, I’m guessi
ng that somewhere along the way someone has made a mistake of sorts, even a small one. One that should have made him think that maybe we aren’t really Americans as we’ve led him to believe. And there must have been other signs over the years, slipups of some kind by someone. They may have been small things, even the way in which someone drank his vodka, or lit a cigarette. Little things like that, which could give someone away. I have to say that Cobra has never pressed us in this regard, has never asked questions. He may have tested us, but his handler’s cover holds up perfectly, not only vis-à-vis an Israeli agent, but also when it comes to FBI investigators. Moreover, the debriefers who sometimes joined the rounds of meetings with him all speak fluent English.”
Malenkov looked at his two colleagues and continued. “And another thing, and this may be the overriding issue: I believe that Cobra simply doesn’t care. His cynicism and absolute lack of scruples were plain to see from day one. He is a man without values, a worm, concerned only with himself and his own personal gain. I have no doubt he’d abandon the family he’s raised in Israel in an instant. Deep down he doesn’t care if he’s working with the CIA or the SVR. All he cares about is the sense of respect and power. And we can continue to provide him with that. And the money, of course. True, we haven’t put this to the test, we didn’t want to make things difficult for him, we didn’t want to risk overstretching the limits of his betrayal, but I believe this is the kind of man we are dealing with. When the moment of truth arrives, he won’t fall apart on learning that he’s been working for Moscow and not for Washington.”
“We’ll move forward in keeping with the points you noted, sir,” said the directorate chief. “With respect to Cobra himself and also insofar as the wider circles are concerned. We can meet with his handler the day after tomorrow already, in Zurich. And we’ll make every effort to make contact with him by the weekend, too. It isn’t easy for a man in his position to leave the country from one moment to the next. He’s accountable after all to the people around him. He can’t simply disappear for no apparent reason. But we’ll certainly impress upon him that the matter is a critical and urgent one. In any event, I don’t want to meet with him in Israel. It’s too dangerous. If they’ve already blown his cover, they have a huge advantage over us in Israel. We’re on an equal footing more or less when it comes to Europe.”
The directorate chief and the head of the Tactical Planning Division rose and stood at attention in front of their superior. They then turned around and left, both with a serious and determined look on their faces. They were still pacing down the magnificent marble corridor when Dmitry Malenkov turned on his mobile phone and instructed his secretary to convene the Cobra team for an urgent meeting.
• • •
“You’re wanted back on the sixth floor for a moment,” the security guard said to the directorate chief just as they were leaving the building. And turning to Malenkov, the directorate chief said: “Go ahead. Don’t wait for me. Keep me posted on your progress.”
The SVR commander’s secretary was waiting for him at the entrance to the bureau. “Go right in,” he said. “The commander is expecting you.”
“I’ve been looking through Demedev’s report again,” the commander said without looking up. “Katrina did indeed know very little about Cobra, but she did pass on all she knew to that young woman from the Mossad, or the Shin Bet, or wherever she’s from. She estimated Cobra’s approximate age, she even had a rough idea of his date of birth. And she told her about a round of meetings we held with him in Switzerland, including their precise dates. I didn’t want to discuss these issues in the presence of Malenkov, he isn’t in the know,” the commander continued, finally looking up, “but something’s troubling me. I’ve asked my bureau chief to bring me the Viper dossier. I want us to go through it together. And we’ll do some thinking.” He stood up, walked over to an elegant antique sideboard in the corner of the room, and retrieved two small crystal glasses and a clear unmarked bottle. He poured out two shots of the viscous, colorless liquid and said to the directorate chief with a smile: “Come, let’s have a drink. I don’t know about you, but I certainly need one.”
43
EL AL FLIGHT, EN ROUTE FROM NEW YORK TO TEL AVIV
“I’m too old for these flights,” Michael grumbled to himself while struggling to find a good angle for his long body in the cramped economy class seat. He’d managed to get himself a seat in one of the last rows of the jumbo jet, a row that had only two seats rather than three between the aisle and the window, and the arrangement offered a certain sense of comfort, but mostly a small sense of triumph to someone who was familiar with little tricks like that. His sense of achievement, however, didn’t last very long, and after three hours of dozing on and off over the Atlantic Ocean, it gave way to despondency. He wasn’t at all happy with the fact that several hours of flight time still lay ahead, and his efforts to position his limbs in a manner that would allow him to relax and silence the noise swirling in his mind were to no avail.
He knew they were getting close to him, to Cobra. He knew that Aharon and Ya’ara wouldn’t return from Rhode Island empty-handed. They were moving in on their prey in ever-tightening circles, and they would eventually corner him. Michael tried to picture that moment in his thoughts, to imagine the very instant in which they closed in on him and brought him down. He couldn’t shake the image in his head of a large gray wolf, injured and bleeding, slowly collapsing into the deep snow, staining it with its blood, its mouth gaping and spewing steam, its yellow eyes dimming and losing focus, and them standing around it in a circle, dressed in heavy coats, the hunting rifles in their hands pointing toward the earth, looking at it in silence, at the dying beast, huge stretches of snow all around them, the air painfully crisp and very cold.
Michael put on the headphones he found in the seat pocket in front of him. And once again he wondered why the airlines—in this day and age, with headphones of wonderful quality readily available—continued to provide their passengers with inferior-quality devices that made every sound that came through them very unpleasantly tinny. “You’re cranky,” he said to himself in silence, while noticing that it wasn’t the first time that same self-analysis had passed through his mind in recent months. “You’re cranky,” he said, addressing himself in the second person, “and it really doesn’t suit you. Make an effort to snap out of it.” He could hear, or rather he thought he could hear through the rasping tinny screen, Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York,” and immediately thereafter came a grandiose Italian number, San Remo Festival style. “If you’re familiar with the San Remo Festival, you’re probably not that young anymore,” he said to himself with a fair amount of self-pity, and his thoughts wandered to Ya’ara, “who probably doesn’t even know what kind of music you’re talking about.” And he thought about her beautiful, serious face, about the way in which rays of sunlight trapped and illuminated strands of gold in her hair.
He smiled to himself and then turned serious. Just before falling asleep again he thought about Cobra, pictured him in the interrogation room immediately after being caught. Cobra, shocked to the core at being apprehended, fists pounding on the door of his home, his hair disheveled, his eyes puffy from sleep. They would take him in at a time when a man’s walls of defense are at their weakest. They would drag him out in his pajamas, to make him feel ridiculous and humiliated, a terrible dryness, that insipid taste of the night, in his mouth. He would be pushed into the backseat of the unmarked security vehicle, his head would bang against the door frame as he tried to bend down, his limbs would still be stiff from an uneasy sleep. They would move off in a convoy of three vehicles, accelerating aggressively, displaying with their manliness, with his terrified wretchedness, just how fast and far he was falling. Michael drifted into a broken sleep, his head resting on the arm of the seat, imagining the fear gripping Cobra, the sour taste rising in his throat, the sudden sense of thirst that would overcome him, his shriveled cock, the uncontrollable shudders that shake
his body from time to time. For an instant, just a nanosecond, his mind entertained the thought that under different circumstances, in an alternative pattern of revolving doors, he could have been Cobra.
44
PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND, MARCH 2013
Ya’ara rang the doorbell at the home of Professor Julian Hart. Aharon was standing one step behind her. They could hear the chimes echo through the expanse of the interior. The wide stretch of lawn in the front of the house was covered in mud stains. The shrubs were topped with the remains of dirty snow. The tall trees on the sides of the house stood bare, their leafless branches sketching gray lines on the backdrop of a cold sky. Two cars, stained with splatters of mud and salt water, were parked side by side at the entrance to the home’s garage. The taxi that had dropped them outside the residence turned around and disappeared down the windy road.
An attractive, well-groomed woman in her fifties, wearing a light-colored dress and a thin gray sweater, opened the door for them. “Good afternoon,” Ya’ara said. “This is Professor Max Katz,” she continued, gesturing toward Aharon, “and I’m Annabelle Eshel. We’d like to speak with Professor Julian Hart. We’ve just come from the university, where we were told that Professor Hart should be at home.”
“Hello, I’m Frances, Professor Hart’s wife. It’s a shame really that you didn’t call before coming. Not to mention not bothering to make an appointment,” said Mrs. Hart, clearly agitated, openly hostile, and with more than just a hint of reproach in her tone of voice. She looked every inch a lady, but Ya’ara noticed that her high-heeled shoes and makeup weren’t exactly appropriate for such an early hour. Yes, she was definitely overdressed for that time of the day. “Regrettably, my husband isn’t home. He was called away in the middle of the night.” She glanced over their shoulders, presumably looking for the vehicle that had brought them there, but they had chosen to take a cab rather than rent a car. It wouldn’t take more than a simple inquiry with the car rental company for a vehicle to reveal their real names. And the fact that they were there without the option of making a quick getaway served their purpose, too—to spend as much time as possible in Hart’s house, even if he was unwilling to see them. Finding out that he had gone away in the early hours of the morning, perhaps unexpectedly, was in itself significant. And even if he wasn’t there, his wife was a worthy target for their efforts. They were clinging to every sliver of information, every little thread. “I take it you came by taxi,” Frances continued. Her manners wouldn’t allow her to leave them outside. “Come, come in, please, have something to drink. We’re quite a way out of town. Tell me,” she said while taking their coats, her hands shaking slightly, “what brings you to see Julian?”
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