The Kremlin's Candidate

by Jason Matthews

  The confirmation hearings on Capitol Hill had been a joke: legislators read rambling prepared statements and asked extraneous questions off lists handed to them by spotty staffers just out of college. Audrey played the professional navy vice admiral, and the scientist preeminent in technology, weapons, and communications, advances in which would mean less spending and reasonable budgets for the navy while continuing to ensure national security. The addlepated senators, Democrats and Republicans alike, liked the fact that Admiral Rowland was an outsider, a sexless woman, obviously apolitical, and would steer CIA in the right direction, away from profligate spending and away from nefarious covert actions and similar extralegal behaviors.

  Audrey’s scalp moved when she heard a thump-thump coming toward her out of the darkness on the boardwalk. In the fading light, the indistinct shape of a hunched-over human form gradually became clear, and Audrey thought of the irony of being accosted by an estuarine swamp creature while meeting her Russian handler in downtown Washington, DC. More likely it would be a paunchy Schedule C contractor, out at twilight looking for a young tug-mutton. She relaxed when a fogey in a floppy hat and flannel shirt approached. The old man was using a walker, and the thump of the padded legs of his appliance echoed hollowly off the planks. Audrey nodded pleasantly as he passed, but just got a harrumph in return from the miserable bastard, who was clearly hurrying to get off the island before it closed. After the man had disappeared around the bend there was no one else around, no sounds. All she had to do was wait for SUSAN to ghost up to her out of the dusk. Audrey patted her jacket pocket to make sure the thumb drive and two discs with the latest Office of Naval Research secrets were secure. She’d pass the drive and discs, verbally brief SUSAN on her confirmation, and listen to the Center’s ideas about communications options when she became DCIA and had a full-time security detail.

  What Audrey Rowland did not realize was that the senior citizen fishing off the causeway, and the two biddies looking for birds, and the irascible crusty-pants hobbling behind a walker were all part of Simon Benford’s ORION surveillance team, a collection of retired CIA officers who were so adept, and patient, and effective, that they outperformed the crack FBI surveillance team known as the “Gs” who followed trained foreign intelligence officers for a living. The ORIONs’ skill was to anticipate where a target would go, get there ahead of the rabbit, and undetectably witness a clandestine act without the intelligence officer (and his American agent) ever having an inkling that they were covered. Benford once famously said that the difference between ORION surveillance and the FEEBS was the difference between a cat watching a bird, and a dog chasing a car. The ORIONs had been leapfrogging ahead of Admiral Rowland all day, totally unseen, anticipating her route-of-march—the overall vector of her travel—and logging her general direction, and when, near the end of the day, Theodore Roosevelt Island became a possibility, four of the dozen ORIONs covering Audrey had flooded the zone and were in place before she even pulled into the parking lot. The geriatric team—the two bird-watchers were grandmothers—reported that target demeanor indicated an imminent meeting. That was good enough for Simon. Benford had alerted the FBI arrest team to deploy accordingly, as the ORIONs had no arrest authority and could not detain a suspect by flashing their AARP cards.

  * * *

  * * *

  Days before, the rendezvous had been made twenty-one nautical miles off the Black Sea coast of Russia. The USV had performed flawlessly, making contact with DDG-78, the USS Porter, an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer of the 6th Fleet, a little after 0100 in calm seas. The USV was hoisted aboard the helo deck by a specially fitted stern hoist, and rolled on a dolly out of sight into the aft helo hangar by bridge crane. Sailors who opened the USV hatch had been surprised to see a busty middle-age woman in a wet T-shirt emerge, holding a waterproof pouch. They had been further surprised to see the shrouded figure of an elegant gentleman in a suit sleeping in the second reclining chair who, on closer inspection, was determined to be dead. The executive officer on the Porter cleared the hangar of crewmembers at the behest of a short rumpled man wearing a navy peacoat who was accompanied by a taller civilian with salt-and-pepper hair, and a nervous young man with fogged-over spectacles.

  Agnes had shaken hands with Benford and Westfall, hugged Forsyth, repeated “chalice, chalice, chalice,” until they told her to stop, they got it, and handed them the pouch with the thumb drive. They had all sat in the empty wardroom, sipping coffee, reading the thumb-drive report on a laptop. A plate of toast slices smothered in a white sauce with chipped beef, the navy staple known as “S.O.S.,” was put in front of her by a grinning steward. Agnes took a cautious sniff, tried a forkful, then had devoured the whole plate. She had not eaten in twelve hours. As she ate, she told them the rest about Dominika and Gorelikov. Forsyth reached over and squeezed her hand. Westfall had hurried away to send flash cables to Langley.

  “Alex Larson is in small measure avenged,” said Benford, grimly. “MAGNIT will be arrested, and Gorelikov becomes CHALICE. Line KR in SVR, kontravietka, counterintelligence, will be doing damage assessment for years.” He patted Agnes’s hand and congratulated her. “DIVA will be able to tie up Russian intelligence—internal and external—for a decade, especially since she has consummated her relationship with Putin, and there is no longer a competitor for the president’s confidence. I wish Alex could see it all.”

  Agnes had whipped her white forelock back, and looked at him with a murderous look Forsyth remembered from the old days. “How nice for DIVA,” she spat. “You are content to let your asset get on her back whenever that pig wants? And what of your officer languishing in a Russian prison? What is so fortuitous? Your brilliant trap worked but what will you do to repay Nash for your betrayal?” Benford glowered at her, red in the face.

  Forsyth had pulled her out of the wardroom and out onto the afterdeck where they stood against the aft rail as dawn broke, watching the ship’s yeasty wake trail behind, straight as a pencil. Both of them wore too-large peacoats against the morning chill.

  “If you think he’s not going through hell over this, you’d be wrong,” said Forsyth. “But catching the mole is Simon’s first priority, his only priority. He would have used any of us to identify MAGNIT, including himself.”

  Forsyth put his arm around Agnes’s shoulder. He had guessed at the love triangle since Sevastopol. “He’s counting on Dominika keeping Nash in one piece and eventually getting him out of Russia, maybe arranging a trade. It’ll take some time—the navy and the courts won’t let a traitor of Rowland’s magnitude avoid prison time.”

  Still furious at the soulless practicality of these CIA men, Agnes shook Forsyth’s arm off. “So Nathaniel rots in Russia?” She didn’t care if her affection for Nate showed.

  Forsyth shrugged. “If the FEEBS can also identify MAGNIT’s handler—a real Russian illegal—a spy swap might be arranged quickly.” Forsyth knew this was a long shot. Benford had ranted to Hearsey that nothing had come from dusting DIVA’s throwaway ops phone with metka, spy dust, as a way to tag SUSAN. Multiple trips to New York City with FBI technicians to fluoresce the offices of fringe, left-progressive literary magazines in New York—New Politics, the American Prospect, Salon, the New School Quarterly, and Harper’s—had not resulted in a single hit of spy dust. There was some initial excitement when the desktop of an editor had fluoresced slightly under the black light, prompting an FBI special agent to say he knew the place was full of comsymps, but there was no other evidence of metka anywhere else in the office. Hearsey later determined that trace amounts of recreational drugs including cocaine, methamphetamine, and psilocybin mushroom crumbs on the desktop had registered a false positive. Benford subsequently concluded that SUSAN either had used a cutout to retrieve the phone from the little cemetery in the Village, or had somehow not physically touched the phone before throwing it into the East River. Smart gal, that SUSAN.

  * * *

  * * *

  Audrey felt rather than saw S
USAN sit down next to her on the bench in the gloom. Goddamn illegals, sneaking up like that.

  “Any problems getting here?” she asked. Audrey shook her head as she handed over the thumb drive and the two discs in a ziplock bag.

  “These will be self-explanatory,” said Audrey. “I expect confirmation as DCIA in two days or less. We will have to discuss communications on a priority basis.”

  “The Center is aware of the requirement,” said SUSAN brusquely.

  “Well the Center had better get moving. In less than a week’s time I’m going to have a twenty-four-hour security detail, and . . .”

  The dark woods on both sides of the boardwalk erupted into a wall of blinding light. A megaphone voice ordered the two women to stay put, this was the FBI. Blinded by the lights, Audrey heard the sound of SUSAN launching herself out of the bench, and jumping off the boardwalk into the putrid swamp, followed by frantic splashing. Voices were yelling, more splashes were heard, quite a lot of additional splashing, and Audrey, who had not reacted at all because of the blinding effect of the lights (and a physics geek’s natural inability to launch into rapid physical movement), felt hands on her arms and the snick of handcuffs on her wrists. She saw that SUSAN had left the thumb drive and discs on the bench, which the FBI was now gathering and putting into a plastic evidence bag. It seemed as if there were hundreds of people milling about in blue Windbreakers with “FBI” stenciled across the back. There was never a moment that a hand wasn’t gripping her arm.

  It would have been impossible to describe the numb shock that Audrey felt as she was walked back down the boardwalk to the parking lot, already a carnival ground of flashing red-and-blue lights. Part of the shock, of course, was the surprise of the ambush, and the realization that approximately fifty special agents of the FBI had been hiding knee-deep in swamp water for hours before the meeting. How had they known? Audrey’s precise, quantitative mind also reeled against the reality that her twelve years of clever, calculated espionage had been detected, and it was irksome not to know how. Those dumpy little men looking for moles were more dangerous than they appeared. The final sour gout of desperate reality hit Audrey when she was put in the back of an FBI sedan reeking of Aqua Velva, her hands still cuffed behind her back, and the car door was slammed shut. She knew this was the beginning of an interminable period of evidence, interrogations, trials, and publicity ending in prison, as well as the catastrophic end of her navy life of privilege and status. She felt no remorse beyond the fact that they would court-martial her and take away her stripes. A female special agent sat in back with her, and Audrey stole an appraising glance at the youthful profile and the stockinged legs. The special agent caught Audrey looking at her, and stared her down. This was the end of that part of her life too, Audrey realized miserably, not ever having seen movies such as Caged Heat, or Kittens Behind Bars.

  Her life was over, her world was upside-down, and she would certainly grow old and die in prison, but as the car started moving onto the parkway, Audrey strangely thought about what her hateful father would have said at this moment. Screw him. She was a three-star admiral, and he never was.

  US NAVY CREAMED CHIPPED BEEF

  Melt butter in a saucepan, blend in flour, salt, and pepper. Stir in milk and cook over medium heat until boiling and sauce thickens. Tear dried beef and add shreds to sauce. Serve over toast.

  38

  The Presidential Wood Saw

  “You’re telling me that there was no conceivable contingency that would have suggested the positioning of a patrol craft or an inflatable dinghy on the river, given that the ambush was taking place on a fucking island?” raved Benford to FBI Counterintelligence Chief Charles Montgomery. Benford had just been told that the woman who was meeting Admiral Rowland had plunged into the swamp, had actually outrun a score of special agents in their twenties through thigh-deep swamp water, had gotten to the shoreline, and had escaped across the black Potomac in what the winded SAs thought was a kayak. This was confirmed when a rental kayak was found abandoned on a low-tide mud bank near the Washington Harbour condominium complex in Georgetown the next morning. SUSAN was gone, presumably already back in New York City, editing precious and self-important articles in a literary magazine, and presumably still operationally active for SVR Line S, supporting other sources, talent-spotting prospective assets for recruitment, and probably servicing dead drops and caches from Seattle to Key West. Benford uttered a foul oath as he contemplated how many more MAGNITs could be operating with impunity in the United States.

  Benford had told Forsyth they would wait six months, to see whether DIVA could swipe SUSAN’s file (illegals’ true names are strictly compartmented in Line S—even the Director of SVR does not have ready access to the roster—and a close record of senior people who request their identities is kept). Now that Dominika was Director of SVR, double and treble precautions had to be taken to protect her. In the meantime, the two CIA men began contemplating a double-agent dangle to give DIVA reason to assign SUSAN a new case. Setting up and arresting a Russian operative—any operative—was on everyone’s mind so CIA could arrange the swap to free Nash as soon as possible. There was some urgency; prisoners normally did not flourish in Russian prisons.

  The arrest of Audrey Rowland was, of course, a counterintelligence triumph for Benford, but it was not trumpeted in the press out of concern for Nash’s well-being, only that the admiral had been relieved for cause, with a vague mention of malfeasance. Not only did it eliminate an active Russian mole within the US Navy, but also DIVA and the list of CIA’s other Russian assets were again secure. However, CIA was still without a Director: there were no nominees to replace the late Alex Larson as DCIA. Until new candidates could be identified and put forward, an interim Director had been named. This happened to be the preening Frederick Farrell.

  * * *

  * * *

  Two good pieces of news greeted them the next morning: A Moscow Station case officer had successfully delivered DIVA’s communications desk lamp without a problem (a Russian support asset passed the package to DIVA as she retrieved her coat from the cloak room of a fancy restaurant by actually giving it to one of her bodyguards to carry to the office) and Counterintelligence Division had already received a test covcom message from DIVA, indicating that the equipment was in place and working perfectly. A second message (from the Pentagon) informed CIA that the body of an unidentified Russian citizen had been buried at sea; his weighted canvas body bag had slid into the Black Sea from under an American flag, while being saluted by an honor guard of US sailors. Benford forwarded the snippet to DIVA in Moscow, with grim satisfaction.

  The initial tranche of intel reports from DIVA’s covcom lamp were astounding in their unique perspective and extreme sensitivity. Security Council minutes, weekly meetings with Bortnikov of the FSB concerning counterintelligence cases against foreign embassies, President Putin’s executive-committee meetings, the agendas of which indicated he was already worried about an increasingly dissatisfied working-class, and the upcoming Russian elections, Defense Council minutes regarding solid-fuel missile technology shared with Iran and North Korea; the latest statistics from the Central Bank of the Russian Federation noting endemic economic dysfunction, warning of imminent financial stagnation; and Kremlin reaction to enhanced cooperation among North Asian allies with Washington against Chinese expansionism in the Pacific, and against chronic North Korean misbehavior. Plus, of course, DIVA’s usual fare—a weekly executive summary of SVR operational activity worldwide. “A hundred case officers working for ten years couldn’t collect this kind of intel,” crowed Benford. He ordered four separate reporting compartments established, so that the bulk of DIVA’s intel would appear to have originated from multiple sources.

  * * *

  * * *

  In Moscow things were less jolly. Putin had convened a small meeting in his private conference room with Bortnikov, Patrushev, and Dominika after more specific stories about the arrest of a US Navy admiral fo
r espionage broke in the US press. Dominika expected to be the main focus of President Putin’s ire, given that it was she who had argued for a looser counterintelligence net to identify CHALICE, with the unhappy result that the presumed real mole (Gorelikov) had escaped and defected. Now with the arrest of MAGNIT, the opportunity to destroy CIA was lost. But Putin raved at the three of them equally, his blue halo luminous with emotion. During most meetings, he rarely raised his voice when berating the incompetents who ran his State industries, or who mismanaged sectors of his economy, or who siphoned off billions from companies at the cost of efficiency and productivity. But he was yelling tonight.

  This evening the president told Patrushev, “Negó kak ot kozlá moloká,” that he was as useless as tits on a bull. He told a scandalized Bortnikov, “Mne nasrát’, chto ty dúmaesh,” that he didn’t give a fuck what he thought, and turning to Dominika, said her work was “porót chush,” literally dog shit. He glared at them as they sat silently around the mahogany conference table with the inlaid Soviet star, telling themselves these blasphemies could not compare with the disciplinary actions that would have been meted out in the thirties by the black Vozhd, the Master, Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, Comrade Stalin.

  Sitting at the table with her hands folded in front of her, Dominika took it as a positive note that she was receiving the president’s scorn in equal measure with the other two. This suggested that Putin considered her a full and equal member of the Big Three on the Council. If so, this would be an important indicator to pass along to Benford regarding her elevated status. Perhaps Putin calculated that, with Gorelikov defected to the West and presumably advising CIA in all things, he needed Egorova’s cosmopolitan outlook to counter continued American depredations. No one on either side of the old Iron Curtain ever forgot that British traitor Kim Philby, apart from his epic betrayal of MI6, had for the subsequent twenty-five years after his defection to Moscow in 1963 frequently briefed KGB audiences to explain the national idiosyncrasies and cultural vulnerabilities of Britons and the British Secret Service. The really good defectors keep talking for decades, and the men all assumed Gorelikov would do the same.