by Mark Henshaw
She left the dacha, walked outside, and looked at the ground where the car had been. It was dark now, and she pulled out her flashlight, turned it on, and swept the ground. There were footprints in the dust left by the sparse gravel, made by different soles and shoe sizes. Kyra couldn’t tell how many men had been here, but it had been several. Then two long lines where the gravel had been knocked aside. She stared at them, confused, then realized they’d been made by a man’s shoes as he was dragged along the ground.
Adolf Viktorovich Topilin was a dead man walking somewhere inside Lubyanka Prison, she was sure. Kyra turned off her flashlight and cursed Maines and Lavrov, and any Russian who’d had a hand in Topilin’s arrest.
Should’ve gone for Puchkov first, she thought. The major would’ve been the better choice. Kyra had been trying to be professional, go for the man who could confirm the existence of the EMP instead of the asset with the broader access to information. Puchkov might have been able to give her a clue to the locations of both Jon and the EMP.
No time for that, a voice in her head chided her. Topilin is gone. He’s a dead man. Two moles left. You have to move.
Kyra turned back and jogged into the woods, running for her car. Moscow was an hour to the northeast, and she had to get back to the safe house. She needed to be ready to move at sunrise.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The White House
The Russian ambassador to the United States had not expected to be summoned to the White House again so quickly. He had thought President Rostow would have licked his wounds for at least a week as he consulted with his advisers on how best to respond to the Kremlin’s expulsion of so many American spies from Moscow’s streets. It had been an unprecedented act, but the act of a great power, Galushka thought. Rostow had hidden his reaction to the news reasonably well, but Galushka had read the man’s face. The young president had been stunned, even confused. Oh, to have heard the words he had spoken to his staff after the Russian left the Oval Office! Galushka cursed his colleagues in the intelligence services for not being able to tell him that. Instead, he would have to wait a few decades until the American press made their documentaries and wrote their histories to find it out. But he knew what history’s judgment of it all would be. The expulsion order would be seen as the starkest evidence yet that the United States was no longer a nation to be feared, and Galushka would be always remembered as the man who had delivered it. Without question, it would stand as the most glorious day of his career thus far, and perhaps the one that opened the door for him to ascend to the Kremlin’s highest posts.
Now Galushka could not stop wondering whether the swift summons was not a sign that all of that was being threatened. Like a jury sent out of a courtroom to deliberate a case, a swift verdict was rarely good news for the accused. Now Rostow was being unpredictable. The young president should have accepted his humiliation. Of course, it was expected he would expel a few Russians from Washington in a weak bid to save face. Reagan had expelled fifty-five diplomats in 1986 as retaliation for Gorbachev’s eviction of five CIA spies, the kind of disproportionate act the Russian people had come to expect from the cowboy president. Bush the younger had expelled fifty in 2001 after Robert Hannsen’s treachery was revealed, but to be fair, that traitor’s work had allowed the Kremlin to execute several CIA assets.
But Rostow was no Bush, much less a Reagan, and the man was running for reelection. Politicians like him preferred to rely on the electorate’s short memories and bury such embarrassments as deep as they could, and the American president was not following that model. Galushka was concerned. He replayed the secretary of state’s call through his mind, asking him to return to the White House. The Russian had asked to know why and the secretary had refused to tell him. The Russian had frowned at that, but no one around him had noticed, the expression being too close to the ambassador’s usual appearance.
The chauffeur opened his door and Galushka dismounted onto the asphalt outside the East Wing entrance. The Russian followed the usual security escorts, expecting to be taken to the Oval Office, which route he knew well. His only notice that he would not be following that route came when the man ahead of him slowed to direct him into a room to the north from the center hall. The Russian, focused on his own thoughts, had not been watching his escort and stumbled into him.
Galushka walked through the open door. He’d not been here before, but he came to recognize the White House library, remembering it vaguely from some photograph he’d seen years before. It was a small space, perhaps twenty feet by thirty, decorated in the style of the late Federal period, with soft gray and rose tones coloring the wall panels. It was dimly lit at the moment, the fire in the hearth illuminating the room as much as the gilded wood chandelier above the round table in its center. Galushka was sure that the many books on the shelves were American classics, if any tome written by Western authors ever could be called such. He’d never cared enough to read any of them. Russia’s own literary tradition was too rich and deep for him to waste his time on the scribblings produced by so young a country.
The Secret Service escort closed the door behind Galushka and took up a position in the corner to watch the husky diplomat. The Russian waited for his eyes to adjust to the low light. He wasn’t a young man anymore and they didn’t make the change as quickly as they once had.
“Do you know what this room was used for, originally?” Galushka finally saw President Daniel Rostow standing before the east wall, looking up at a row of books on one of the shelves.
“Mr. President,” Galushka acknowledged, “I do not. I have never been in this room.”
“It was the White House laundry,” Rostow explained. “For almost exactly a hundred years, this is where the staff cleaned up dirty clothes.”
Galushka looked around at his surroundings. “It is a more useful space now, I think.”
“Oh, yes,” Rostow agreed. “Though occasionally it still serves its old purpose.”
Galushka frowned, unsure what the young president meant by that. Rostow turned around, made his way to one of two facing chairs before the fireplace, and directed the Russian ambassador to the other. “I’m sure you know why I asked you to come tonight, Igor Nikolayevich.”
“You wish to respond to our expulsion of your cadre of spies in Moscow,” Galushka replied. He wanted to smile but it would not have been diplomatic, and he was out of practice anyway.
“That’s right, Igor, I do,” Rostow concurred. The president of the United States reached over to the table, picked up a large manila envelope, and offered it to the Russian ambassador. “In response to your unprecedented expulsion of so many U.S. diplomats and their families from your soil without provocation, the United States government hereby requires the Russian Federation to withdraw the following individuals and their families from our soil within the next five days. The secretary of state will deliver the formal paperwork to your embassy in the morning, but I wanted to personally give you the advance notice so the people on the list could start packing up tonight.”
Galushka opened the envelope and withdrew the contents, surprised to find two pieces of folded paper inside. He straightened them and his eyes widened. Both papers were filled with names, top to bottom, split into two columns on each. He tried to estimate the full total. “There are over two hundred names here,” the ambassador protested.
“Two hundred twenty if you’d like to count,” Rostow said. “Most work at your embassy here on Wisconsin Avenue, but some are stationed at your consulates in New York, Houston, San Francisco, and Seattle.”
Galushka scanned the list. Several names he recognized as GRU and SVR officers under official cover, but he couldn’t identify most of them. “This will damage relations between our two countries most severely, Mr. President. It is a shame that you chose this course in an effort to divert the world’s attention from the scale of your own intelligence activities and failure. A better course would have been to resolve this matter through private channels and spe
cial contacts,” he said. “Unfortunately, as you have chosen another way, this step cannot be regarded as anything but a political one.”
Rostow smiled. “Well, Ambassador, for the record, you can tell your government that I truly do look forward to finding a way to smooth this matter over and rebuild a productive relationship with the Russian Federation. But unlike some of the previous presidents from my party, I’m a realist. And right now, after your country’s unprovoked diplomatic slap, allowing an enormous Russian diplomatic presence on U.S. soil just isn’t a good signal to the rest of the world about the kind of relations I want to have with your country. We are equals, after all. It wouldn’t do to have your delegation outnumber ours, and asking the Kremlin to approve a lengthy list of replacements for ours would just make me look weak to the rest of the world. Cutting yours down to size is easier and makes me look stronger. So I get to insult you, look stronger for it, get our countries back on equal terms all at once, and boost my poll numbers at home. We Americans call that ‘multitasking.’ ”
The president leaned forward and looked Galushka in the eyes. “Off the record, you can inform your government that the United States of America is not done ‘resolving this matter,’ ” he advised. “And I regret that I must say farewell to you, Igor.”
“I am prepared to leave the White House at any time,” the Russian replied, offended.
“Not just the White House, Mr. Ambassador,” Rostow told him. “Your name is on the list, too. I realize it will cause the Russian Federation some inconvenience to replace its ambassador here, but if the Kremlin wants to make a fresh start with me, they can begin by putting forward a fresh face. But do let your president know that I can expel people just as fast as he can. So you might want to ask him just how far he wants to take this.”
Galushka stared down at the papers again, reading the names and finding his own on at the top of the second page. Rostow stood and walked to the door, opened it, and a pair of Secret Service agents stepped inside. “Good-bye, Igor. Do have a safe flight home. I look forward to reading your memoirs.” He looked at the senior security officer. “Please see Ambassador Galushka to his car.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Russian ambassador watched the president of the United States walk out into the central hall and turn left, heading for the West Wing. The Secret Service officer extended his arm, showing Galushka the door, his expression clear that he was not going to be patient with him. The overweight Russian grunted and shuffled out of the library. He knew he wouldn’t see the inside of the White House again.
Kurkino District
Moscow, Russia
Major Elizaveta Igoryevna Puchkov pulled around the wrecked cars blocking the leftmost lane of the Leningradskoye Highway and mashed the gas pedal to the floor, determined to recover the speed and time she’d lost to the snarl of traffic she’d just escaped. She seen the now-wrecked car pass her a minute before it had sideswiped a delivery truck. The driver had been drunk, she figured, judging by the lack of control. Not that she minded a bit of inebriation, but the moron should have waited until he got home to chase his stupor. It was early in the evening yet, and the drunk had reaped what his stupidity had sown.
Angry though she was, she could hardly condemn the man. Puchkov had been tempted to pass the evening with a pub crawl of her own, a bad habit she’d picked up during a tour at her country’s embassy in London. It had been too long since she’d killed time on a stool at the Bar Strelka by the old Krasny Oktyabr chocolate factory on the man-made island of Bolotny Ostrov. To see the Moskva River at night, lit up by the lights of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior with a bottle of twelve-year-old Green Mark in her hands would be a fine way to forget this ugly day. She was not a Christian, but she could still appreciate the beauty of the buildings the believers erected as an act of worship.
But then the Kremlin itself sat just across the Moskva to the north. Walk the wrong way along the Sofiskaya road while drunk, she would see those spires instead, and Puchkov’s loose tongue would be tempted to say something unfortunate. That particular behavior was a luxury she’d indulged in her youth, like most Russian college students. She knew she was a talkative drunk and that was an unfortunate weakness for a CIA mole.
So she’d given it up, but she was at peace with that. Puchkov would do that much for Alexsandr. Her old boyfriend from university had settled on journalism as his calling and he’d been good at it. They’d broken up before the Novaya Gazeta newspaper had hired him, but she’d followed his progress, reading his articles and happy that he was making his mark. The Novaya Gazeta had been a harsh critic of Putin, enough to draw a charge of violating anti-extremism laws, and Alexsandr had been as daring as any of his peers there. He became a favorite of the Kremlin’s opponents, outspoken and never subtle in his writing.
Then he’d turned his talents to writing on corruption in the Kremlin. His new portfolio lasted only four months before his neighbors found his body in the elevator of his apartment building. Two shots to the chest, one to the head, the official report said. The Kremlin had issued a statement decrying his death and promising to find the murderer, but no detectives were ever assigned and no arrests were ever made.
Puchkov had found the Kremlin true-but-unofficial report on Alexsandr’s death after a monthlong search in the GRU’s files. The folder had included surveillance reports noting Alexsandr’s daily schedule. Either they’d killed him or they’d watched while someone did.
Puchkov had volunteered to work for the CIA the next day. Ten years on, her desire to hurt the wicked oligarchs who’d snuffed out her country’s brief glimpse of freedom hadn’t been satisfied and the GRU major was sure it never would be. Revenge didn’t heal the soul, she’d learned. She wished that she could call her actions by some more respectable word, justify them as a covert fight against overt corruption, illegal acts made righteous by evil men who had perverted the law. But, no, it was revenge she wanted, nothing more. Puchkov was at least honest with herself about that.
But now the Americans were in no position to help her. News of the expulsions had raced through the GRU. She had cheered with her colleagues—her finest acting on display—but fear dogged her now. How had General Lavrov identified the American intelligence officers? Would the same source or method let him identify her as a CIA asset? No one had any details that would help her determine this, so all she could do was act as normal as possible and pray that no one came for her at home after dark.
Her cell phone rang in her coat pocket. Puchkov cursed as her lap belt made it a struggle to extract the device. She finally got it out, and took her eyes off the road to look at the screen. The caller ID showed a number she didn’t recognize and no name at all. Surely it was someone at work calling. She pressed a button. “Ya slushayu vas,” she said.
“You are Elizaveta Igoryevna Puchkov?” the caller asked. The voice sounded odd, digitized. It was not encrypted . . . her phone lacked that capability. Someone was using a voice changer.
“Da.”
“They are coming for you,” the voice said. “The GRU knows that you are a traitor. If you wish to live, you will go into hiding. Do not go home.”
Puchkov’s heart began to race, pounding hard enough to hurt her chest. Despite the distortion, she could tell that the caller was Russian. The Muscovite accent was strong enough to survive the digital masking. Not CIA, she thought. Not my handler calling to warn me. The Agency had another, more secure way to contact her in case of such an emergency. Was this a GRU trap? Part of a counterintelligence investigation, a gambit to see if she would panic and run, confirming her guilt.
That wasn’t one of the GRU’s normal methods for hunting moles. Then who was this? This man was a Russian, but no other Russian knew that she was a CIA asset. Puchkov couldn’t make sense of it.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Puchkov lied. “I am not a spy.”
“You must believe me,” the voice said. “They know what you have done.”
/> “I am not a traitor to the Rodina,” Puchkov retorted. “This is a very poor joke. If you do not leave me alone, I will have this call traced—”
The line went dead. Puchkov set the phone on the passenger seat.
She drove on, her mind paying no attention to the busy road. What to do? Was it possible the caller had told the truth? Would the CIA even know if she’d been identified? Perhaps the caller was another CIA asset?
Puchkov knew of only one way to confirm the possibility. She took the next right turn, which led her away from her apartment, less than a mile away.
Magnoliya Supermarket
Kurkinskoye shosse 17k1
Kurkino District
Moscow, Russia
The market was a small, square one-story affair that butted up against the circular red-brick wing of an apartment complex. The file said that the exfiltration signal was to be a chalked diagonal line on a particular brick at the residential building’s corner closest to the point where the two buildings met. A line running from the upper left to the lower right was CIA’s signal to Puchkov that she needed to run. Puchkov’s confirmation was a line from the upper right to the lower left. Puchkov had suggested the site to her handler. The major came here often enough to buy her groceries that a trip would raise no suspicions.
Kyra checked the GPS unit again. She’d been driving for three hours, watching the rearview mirror, and the device finally insisted that she was near the address she had copied from Puchkov’s file. She unbuckled her restraint and checked her pocket for the piece of chalk. She would walk a short surveillance detection route, make the mark, retreat to her car, then spend most of the night waiting for Puchkov at the exfiltration site. She couldn’t actually get Puchkov out, but she could at least warn the woman and tell her to hide until the CIA could put resources in place to bring her out.
Whether Puchkov knew anything that could help her find Jon or confirm his death was another matter entirely.