Her value elevated her above the status of agent—she was a supermole, a potential agent of influence, a Manchurian candidate. Golov had begun directing, assisting, coaching her, preparing her further for important career advancement. It was not new. Over the years the Russians had done it before, obliquely, for other members of the US Congress. Unfortunately, most of those debauched legislators eventually drove into lampposts, or caught air before splashing into the Reflecting Pool, or skidded off bridges into tidal estuaries. Compared with those cirrhotic bumblers, SWAN had no such vulnerabilities. Better yet, none of them had had the potential of SWAN. The Center envisioned Boucher as a cabinet member, as Director of the CIA, perhaps even as vice president.
Her production was astounding, and the best was yet to come. SWAN was on the threshold of tapping into the most sensitive, current SAP in the Pentagon, the Special Access Program devoted to the development of an advanced Global Orbiting Vehicle (GLOV).
Initial intelligence already provided by SWAN astounded the Russians. GLOV would be a hybrid platform capable of collecting SIGINT and ELINT while providing GPS support. It could protect itself in orbit from killer satellites. More alarming for Moscow was GLOV’s anticipated ability to launch weapons from space against targets on earth. Directly. No warplanes, no refueling, no radar, no stealth technology, no antiaircraft missiles, no lost pilots, no warning. Pinpoint strikes on the surface of the planet from three hundred miles in space. US Air Force project briefers had called it the Finger of God.
The billion-dollar SAP was contracted exclusively to, and managed in a strict compartment by, Pathfinder Satellite Corporation of Los Angeles, located in the high-tech corridor along Airport Road and the LAAFB in El Segundo. This coincidentally also happened to be Senator Boucher’s former congressional district. Yes, indeed, thought Golov, the best is yet to come.
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Senator Boucher walked briskly through the small English country-house lobby of the Tabard Inn, squeezed past people in the narrow picture-lined corridor connecting sitting rooms and lounge, before coming out to the garden. She saw Golov at a table in the rear and strode over to him. Golov stood up, offered his hand, and bent in the European fashion to bring the lips to within inches of the hand. Golov did not actually touch the senator’s hand with his lips. He recalled early assessment reports about her social habits and what she liked to do with those hands.
“Stephanie, good evening,” said Golov, choosing his words. He used her first name to create familiarity and to avoid using her title, striking a chord between courtesy and intimacy. You never knew what kind of mood she would be in. Golov waited for her reply as she sat down.
“Hi, Anatoly,” said Boucher. She put her elbows on the table. “I’m sorry to get right to business, but did you receive an answer from your people?” The senator fished a cigarette out of her purse. Golov leaned forward to light it with a pencil-thin gold Bugatti lighter.
“I passed along your request, Stephanie,” said Golov, “along with my recommendation that they should agree without hesitation. I expect a reply within the next few days.” He sat with his hands resting easily on the tablecloth. His coffee arrived, and Stephanie ordered a whiskey and soda.
“I feel so good that you recommended they pay, Anatoly,” said Boucher in her committee voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without your support.”
What an insufferable woman this is, thought Golov. But he knew the Center would pay. They would pay five times her asking price for the information. The first discs she already had provided from Pathfinder Satellite SSCI briefings had amazed Russian researchers. Additional discs, manuals, and software from future Pathfinder and DoD briefings would be priceless. “Stephanie, you know you have my support always. Don’t worry, the Center will agree, and gladly.” Golov resisted the impulse to pat Boucher’s hand across the table.
“That’s good, Anatoly, because today we were briefed that Pathfinder is close to completing the first stage of bench testing for some of the navigational and targeting circuits. I’ve insisted on regular progress reports. I’m visiting Pathfinder in Los Angeles once a quarter. This project will be funded for another decade.” Boucher blew a stream of smoke straight up. “So, if your comrades in Moscow”—this last said altogether too loudly, thought Golov, like a threat—“don’t want to pay, then okay, we’re finished and I’m done.”
Golov noted once again that it was a measure of Boucher’s sublime arrogance, of living in a world devoid of consequences, that she was incapable of contemplating the certainty that the Center would never let her “quit,” that the choice was not hers. Golov tried to imagine the meeting at which Boucher would be told that she would be required to continue spying for Moscow or be exposed.
“Of course we’re going to continue our collaboration,” said Golov soothingly. “Don’t even suggest anything else. We will continue safely and securely, you will continue to amaze and astound our people, we will continue to remunerate you for your efforts, and your career will flourish.” Golov had long since discarded the temptation to add ideological blandishments. A simple recitation of the facts sufficed. You pass us secrets, we pay you for them.
“I want to continue our discussion from last time about your security,” said Golov. “I know you don’t think it’s necessary, but I must insist that you listen to me. I’m doing this for you, Stephanie, no one else. It’s rather important.” Golov sipped his espresso and looked at Boucher over the rim of his cup. Boucher blew cigarette smoke in a huff of fatigue.
“You are a well-known personage in Washington,” Golov said softly. “In certain circles, I am also recognizable as a senior Russian diplomat. Our continued public meetings are extremely inadvisable. Moscow is worried. I am worried. We have to do better.” Golov kept his voice steady, offhand. They had met too frequently. He was stretching his luck. Boucher blew more smoke into the air.
“Are we going to have this conversation again?” Boucher said, flicking cigarette ash off the table. “We discussed all this before and I thought I made myself clear.”
“Of course we did, Stephanie, but I insist that you reconsider. To start, we have to meet in more private locations, out of the public eye. In addition, the frequency of these personal meetings must also be reduced in favor of impersonal communications.” Golov looked into Boucher’s narrowing eyes.
“Listen, Anatoly, I told you before. I’m not going to root around under some infested tree stump in Great Falls Park at midnight looking for a package from you. I’m not going to accept one of your clunky transmitters that will start smoking in my purse and set off the alarms in the Dirksen Building.” She held up a hand. “Don’t tell me about your technology, I know all about spy gear. Your Russian gadgets aren’t half as good as ours.” Boucher bared her teeth. “And I emphatically am not going to begin meeting with some first-tour officer from Abkhazia with manure on his shoes.” Before her SVR briefings, the senator did not know that Abkhazia existed, much less where it was located. “Why do we keep having this discussion?”
Golov knew how to handle agents, but this was different than any other case he had run, ever. He knew Egorov in Moscow was nervous about security. Golov was nervous as well. But to slow the operational tempo when the intelligence was so spectacular was not possible. “Stephanie, I understand how difficult all these precautions are. Let’s agree to this: You and I will continue to meet. If you agree, I will arrange for hotel rooms outside Washington for our meetings. Because we will have lots of time, I suggest we meet less frequently. This will be a lot safer.”
“Outside Washington?” said Boucher. “Are you serious? It’s hard enough to get a free night in town. You expect me to get away from my staff, my schedule, and drive to a ridiculous rural Sheraton off the highway to huddle with you over a bag of chips? Like where, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Richmond? That’s not going to happen, Anatoly, not even close.”
Golov looked at SWAN smoothly. He was not going to insist on anything. This case was too big. He
smiled at her. “Stephanie, you are too logical. Observant. Practical. I ask you to agree on one element. Let us continue, but not in public. Every month we will meet in a Washington hotel. In a suite. At your convenience. Even this little place has rooms, but they are small. We will innovate, accommodate, be flexible. Your safety is my only concern.”
Senator Boucher, distracted, nodded. “All right, but let’s start with a room here. This little inn does something for me, I don’t know.” She looked over at Golov and inclined forward so he could light another cigarette. Golov summoned thirty years of discipline to hide his revulsion. “Oh, and Anatoly,” she said, “I still want the number to my account in Liechtenstein. Ask them to pass it along.”
“Stephanie, we have discussed this subject also, several times. It is against Center procedure to grant access to this account. The sole consideration is your security. Believe me, the money is there, the deposits all have been made. You have seen the balance figures.”
“Anatoly, you’re a dear man,” said Boucher. “But would you mind very much if I play the prima donna and insist? Humor me.” Boucher got up and dropped her cigarette into her whiskey. Golov rose from his seat and wished her good night. As she turned to leave, Boucher reached into her purse, took out a disc in a black paper sleeve, and flipped it casually on the table. “Minutes of a committee hearing last week about Pathfinder,” she said. “I was going to keep it until your pals in Moscow paid up, but I like you too much, Anatoly. Good night.”
He watched her march into the hotel, her blond hair swaying with her stride. Golov casually put the disc into his suit coat pocket and sat down at the table. The garden was empty and quiet. He ordered a brandy and began composing the cable to Egorov in his head.
GOLOV’S EGG-LEMON LAMB STEW
Vigorously brown cubed chunks of lamb with diced bacon and onions; moisten with white wine and stock, season with salt, pepper, and nutmeg, and simmer for one hour. Remove lamb chunks. Beat lemon juice, egg yolks, and minced garlic, and whisk vigorously into stock without boiling. Season egg-lemon sauce again with salt, pepper, and nutmeg, and pour over lamb garnished with finely julienned lemon zest.
28
Vanya Egorov read Anatoly Golov’s cable from Washington describing SWAN’s continued refusal to accept more exacting tradecraft in the relationship. He swore under his breath and considered ordering Golov to slow the case down, perhaps even to put it on ice. He changed his mind when he began reading the second page of Golov’s cable, summarizing the contents of the disc SWAN had passed at the last meeting. It contained a verbatim transcript of a closed-session briefing of the SSCI by Pathfinder Satellite Corporation and US Air Force managers on the GLOV project, timelines, Gantt charts, evaluation criteria, production parameters, subcontractor requirements. It was all there; the information was spectacular. Line T was already working on an executive summary for the Kremlin, the Executive Committee of the Duma, and Defense. He would present the summary himself; it would look very, very good.
But this intelligence windfall was at serious risk. Security was inadequate and the case vulnerable. The unflappable and experienced Golov improved the odds somewhat, and his handling of the little blond harridan was masterful, but nothing they could do, no regime of tradecraft or technical tools, could guarantee SWAN’s safety indefinitely. Egorov lit a cigarette with hands that shook slightly.
There were two points of vulnerability: Golov as rezident of course could be followed constantly, monitored electronically, beaconed, bugged, and buttoned. But he was too good, too cautious to lead surveillance to a meeting. He moreover had a dedicated Zeta Team of countersurveillants who followed their chief as a hostile surveillance team would, at the same distances and using the same techniques, both to detect and impede opposition coverage on the rezident. SWAN herself posed the larger problem. She could go crashing around Washington without a thought of staying anonymous and accidentally be seen with Golov, or bring attention to herself unnecessarily. No tradecraft could control that.
But if someone noticed a leak, or if there was a tip, then the American mole-catchers would indeed come out of their holes and never stop searching. And where would such a leak originate? For one, from the son-of-a-bitch SVR traitor who was being handled by Nathaniel Nash, American CIA officer, that’s who. Egorov slammed his fist down on his desk. Someone in this building. Someone he likely knew.
There were a half dozen high-level officers outside the restricted list who had indirect knowledge of SWAN and who supported the case. Vanya mentally listed them now: the owlish Yury Nasarenko, director of Line T (Science and Technology), and the chiefs of Lines R (Operational Planning and Analysis), OT (Tech Support), and I (Computer Service). These officers knew they were supporting an exceptional case, they could infer where it was being run. They did not know the identity of SWAN, but they had access to the raw reports, and much could be gleaned. Despite their ranks and positions, they would all have to be vetted, and for that distasteful task Vanya had the dwarf, Alexei Zyuganov, director of Special Service II, Counterintelligence, Line KR.
Egorov knew the prospect of an internal investigation against his own professional colleagues would bring Zyuganov as close to a state of upoenie, sheer ecstasy, as was possible in this life, possibly with the exception of his work in the basement of the Lubyanka. Vanya had given the dwarf full authority for his internal investigation and the little man with the big ears and the bland grin went away happy, his mind brimming.
Egorov looked out the window of his executive suite. Who else could jeopardize SWAN? The Director, of course. Probably a half dozen or more in the Executive Secretariat, the President’s Office, the Office of the Minister of Defense. But there was little Egorov could do about people out of his reach. Who else? The only other senior officer worth considering was Vladimir Korchnoi, director of the First Department (America and Canada), who, although he was not cleared for SWAN, was finely attuned to what was happening operationally on his turf. They were good friends, addressed each other with affectionate, village diminutives. Volodya Korchnoi was of the old school. He was trusted and liked by officers in the Service. He also had connections throughout the Service, allowing him to hear a lot of gossip. And he was currently directing the operation to get to Nash.
Egorov thought how seldom he saw or spoke to Korchnoi these days. His friend was getting old. Several more years until retirement, perhaps. By that time Egorov would be at the top of the heap, he could choose a loyal protégé to take over the Americas Department then. Even though Vanya knew in his heart that it was unlikely—impossible—that treason resided in the First Department, he decided to add Korchnoi to the list for art’s sake. He would attend to the Service first, then attend to the American Nash. Za dvumya zaitsami pogonish’sya ne odnogo ne poimaesh, he thought. If you chase two rabbits, you will not catch either one.
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Chief of Directorate T Yury Nasarenko waited at the threshold of Egorov’s office like a serf waiting to be invited into a barn. Tall and gangly, even at the age of fifty, Nasarenko wore thick wire glasses that were bent and pitted with years of absentminded misuse. He had a big head, a jutting forehead, wing-flap ears, and exceptionally bad teeth, even for a Russian. He was a nervous man who twitched, and jerked his head, and bent his thumbs, and touched his sleeves in a constant marionette show of movement. He had a large mole on the left point of his chin, which Egorov used as an aiming point when speaking to Nasarenko to avoid looking at the quivering entirety of the man. Despite his outward habits, Nasarenko was a brilliant technical mind, someone who understood the science of a problem and could also apply theory to operational need or intelligence production.
“Yury, come in. Thank you for coming so promptly,” said Egorov, as if Nasarenko had had a choice of appointment times and dates. “Please sit down. Have a cigarette?” Nasarenko sat down, shrugged his shoulders, clasped his hands in his lap, and bent his thumbs twice very fast.
“No, thank you, Ivan Dimitrevich,” said
Nasarenko. His eyebrows lifted and fell and Egorov fixed his gaze on his chin.
“Yury, I want to tell you that you are doing an exceptional job with the information that is coming in about the Americans’ space vehicle. The Service is being complimented at the highest levels on the work so far,” said Egorov.
More precisely, he was receiving compliments for the SWAN case so far.
“That is good to hear, Ivan Dimitrevich,” said Nasarenko. “The information is exceptional. My analysts and I are quite impressed with the brilliance of the concept.” Nasarenko looked across the desk at Egorov’s impassive wrestler’s face. “Of course, Russian space technology is easily the equal of this project,” he added with a double bob of his Adam’s apple, “but the Americans’ work is remarkable.”
“I agree,” said Egorov, lighting a cigarette. “I wanted to tell you to continue working on your analyses and assessments, but also wanted to notify you that the intelligence stream will temporarily be interrupted. The source of the information, a sensitive source that I cannot describe further for obvious reasons, is wrestling with health matters and must suspend work for a short time.” Egorov let the sentence hang in the air.
“Nothing so serious as to curtail the information, I hope?” asked Nasarenko, leaning forward in his chair. His right leg and knee vibrated slightly.
“I sincerely hope not,” said Egorov expansively. “An attack of shingles can be debilitating. I am hoping our source will recover soon.”
“Yes, of course,” said Nasarenko, “we will continue our analysis of the existing information. There’s more than enough data to keep us busy for some time.”
Red Sparrow Page 34