by Taylor Smith
“The foreign minister himself? I know the exhibit’s an important revenue-generator for the Russian government, but that seems like overkill, doesn’t it?”
“My thoughts, too, although Zakharov was due in L.A. later this week, anyway. The conference of Pacific Rim states opens out there on the fifth. There’s going to be a big kick-off reception on board the Queen Mary the night of the fourth.”
“Nice timing. They’ll be able to see fireworks up and down the coast from there. The State Department should save a bundle on entertainment.”
“No kidding. Anyway, we’ve spotted several known intelligence figures on the list of names the Russians have submitted for diplomatic visas.”
“That’s not surprising, is it? Zakharov’s ex-KGB, after all. Well, ‘ex,”’ she amended. “Not precisely. It may be FSB now, but it’s not like they’ve gone out of business. It’s to be expected that Zakharov’s entourage would include some spooks, I would think.”
“No doubt. That’s why I want somebody there to keep an eye on things.”
“Isn’t that the FBI’s job?”
The deputy scowled. “Funny, that’s what our esteemed director said. Between you and me, Mariah, that man’s so pussy-whipped by the oversight committees he doesn’t take a piss without prenotifying Capitol Hill.”
Mariah said nothing. There was something tacky about a man bad-mouthing his boss to someone he’d never met before and who didn’t even work for him. Given that the director had appointed Geist to his current exalted position, it was also more than a little disloyal. So what was that all about? A bid to make her feel part of his inner circle of confidants?
Geist had held the deputy’s post only a few months. Like most covert operatives, he’d been little known inside the agency until his name had suddenly surfaced as the man who would take over the beleaguered Operations position. The press release announcing his appointment had said Geist was an eighteen-year veteran of the agency who’d served in a variety of positions, mostly in the Middle East. Only eighteen years, Mariah reflected—a relatively meteoric rise in a bureaucracy as large and byzantine as the CIA. It was safe to assume the man was both ambitious and ruthless.
“We have no mandate for operations on domestic soil,” she said, pointing out the obvious. Was that why she was here? So he could keep his hands technically clean by using a non-Ops employee for whatever scheme he was brewing?
“Who said anything about an operation? I’m talking observation. Simply keeping an eye on Company interests. The FBI’s worried about Russian moles and organized crime. Fair enough, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Zakharov’s making a big push for the presidency. He’s probably going to be the next man with his finger on the Russian arsenal. It’s not much direct threat to us these days, but the Russians have plenty of potential for mischief. You, of all people, are well aware of that, Mariah. Why, just the level of their arms shipments to sleazy customers is enough to turn my hair gray.”
She was tempted to point out that the Russians would have to quadruple their activity to begin to approach the level of American arms sales abroad, nor were U.S. clients any less unsavory, on the whole. But she let it slide. Her job was to monitor the other team, not her own. In any case, she was curious to know where this conversation was heading. Curious, and more than a little uneasy.
“Zakharov is a thug, but if he’s going to take over Russia, he’s going to be our thug,” Geist said. “We’re already working to ensure he’s in our pocket, but to be on the safe side, I’d like a little extra insurance. A reliable source in his inner circle would make me very happy.”
A source in Zakharov’s inner circle? That sounded suspiciously like co-opting a foreign agent—a covert operation if ever there was one. Mariah waited for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t take long.
“That’s why you’re going to attend the Romanov opening,” Geist said.
Bang. Just what she’d been afraid he was going to say. “Excuse me, sir—”
“Call me Jack.”
“—this doesn’t make any sense,” she went on, ignoring the invitation to familiarity, which, she suspected, could only breed contempt. “If you’re planning to mount a recruitment operation, you should send someone from your side of the shop with experience in this kind of thing.”
“I understand you’ve done some work for us in the past.”
Much to my everlasting regret. “Nothing of this order of magnitude,” she said. “I wouldn’t know where to begin identifying a susceptible target.”
“Ah, well! That’s the beauty of it, you see. The target has already identified himself. Someone you know. Yuri Belenko, Zakharov’s executive assistant.”
“Belenko? Really? I have met him,” she conceded.
“Twice in the last year, if I’m correctly informed. First, at last fall’s U.N. General Assembly session in New York. Then again in March, at the European security conference in Paris.”
She nodded. “I was seconded to the State Department to work with their disarmament delegation, but—”
Geist leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fixing her once more with that intense, thousand-yard stare. “Tell me about Belenko, Mariah.”
“I filed contact reports both times I met with him.” It sounded defensive, she knew, but what did Geist think had gone on between her and the Russian?
“I know you did, but I want to hear it from you. What’s he like?”
“He’s…nice,” she ventured, wincing internally. Oh, that’s brilliant, Mariah. What a wonderfully insightful analysis. She tried again. “Intelligent and personable. Well-educated, well-traveled. Forty-three. Divorced, apparently. Speaks excellent, idiomatic American English of the kind taught in KGB training courses—which we happen to know was his original stomping ground. We have to presume he still represents the FSB.”
“Personal quirks?”
“I’m not sure I know of any—unless you count the fact that he’s an avid collector of proverbs and American slang. It’s quite the running joke.”
“Proverbs, eh? What else does he collect?”
Mariah frowned. “I don’t follow your—Oh! Right. Well, yes, he is a bit of a ladies’ man, I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“As I said, he can be charming, and he tends to turn it on around women.”
“Especially you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m led to believe that our man Yuri’s somewhat smitten with you, Mariah. Is that true?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just waiting to hear what you have to report.”
“There’s nothing to report,” she said. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard from your watchers, but there’s nothing between me and Belenko. The idea’s ridiculous, not least because I lost my husband a year and a half ago, and my hands are full doing my job here and raising a teenage daughter. I’m hardly in a position or mood to carry on a wild social life with the likes of Yuri Belenko or anyone else.”
“You do get around, though.”
“How do you mean?”
Geist sat back and studied her for a moment. Then he got to his feet, walked back to his desk and reached for one of the files he’d been reading when she walked in. With-drawing a piece of paper, he returned and stood over her, holding it up.
Mariah’s heart sank. It was a photocopy of a Washington Post article that had appeared a few weeks earlier. The photograph accompanying the piece hadn’t copied well, but she knew exactly who the two shadowy figures in it were.
“For someone who claims to be out of commission, you do lead a high-profile life,” Geist said. He turned the article back toward himself. “The National Press Club awards. My, my! And there you are, recognizable enough, even though this is a lousy copy, gracing the arm of one of our top TV newscasters.”
“Paul Chaney’s an old friend of my husband’s. And mine,” she conceded, realizing it was stupid to pretend otherwise,
despite her own ambivalence on the subject. “He was getting an award that night. He needed a date and I went along as a favor.”
“This article’s not about Chaney, though, is it? It’s about you. And your father. There’ve been a couple of others since this one, too.”
“Unfortunately.” She exhaled heavily. “Look, the whole thing was an accident. Some reporter found out I was Ben Bolt’s daughter and latched onto a rumor that an unpublished novel of his had been found.”
She should never have gone to that dinner. Not for the first time, she cursed Paul for letting slip the information about her father and his papers. Not for the first time, either, she wondered whether his gaffe had been as accidental as he kept claiming.
“Your late father’s considered to be one of the biggies of American lit, I guess.” Geist pursed his lips and shrugged. “Not surprising news like that would create a stir.”
“I suppose, but I certainly never intended to get caught at the center of a controversy.”
“So? Is there a novel?”
She shrugged. “There’s a draft manuscript and some journals that showed up in an old storage locker. My father’s agent is wading through the mess now, trying to see whether it adds up to much. I’m planning to see him next week to discuss what, if anything, we should do with it. In any case,” she added, “that’s all beside the point. We were discussing Yuri Belenko, and I don’t want to hold you up, sir. I’m sure you’re very busy. Why would you think Belenko’s susceptible to working for us?”
“Ah, well,” Geist said, laying aside the Post article, “that’s what I was trying to get at before you went all coy on me, Mariah. I don’t know if he’s susceptible to us, but he certainly seems to be susceptible to you.”
“Why would you think that?”
“My people have been keeping an eye on him, and we’ve intercepted a couple of conversations where he’s mentioned you in a most wistful manner. Also, did you know that when you were in Paris in March, he followed you back to your hotel one night? We think he was planning to pay a social call, only I gather your daughter was there with you…?”
“The conference was only a one-day affair, and she had spring break, so…” Mariah felt a tremor run through her. “Belenko was following me? He saw her?”
It was her old nightmare, come back to haunt her again—her child in danger because of her work. Deskbound as she was, it wasn’t much of an issue these days. But when the March conference had come up, she and Lindsay had just gone through their second Christmas without David, followed by a rough winter. The appeal of springtime in Paris had overshadowed the risk of taking her daughter along on the short business trip.
Never again.
Geist leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “My watchers said Belenko seemed real disappointed. Guess he decided he wasn’t going to get to first base that night. We decided to start keeping an eye on him, though. Then, day before yesterday, we hit pay dirt.”
“Pay dirt?”
“He had dinner with his brother in Moscow. The guy’s a literary critic for Isvestia, did you know that? Belenko told him he’d met Ben Bolt’s daughter. I guess your father’s novels are popular over there, too?”
Mariah nodded. “Your people bugged their conversation?”
“Yup. Belenko mentioned he was heading back to the States this week, said he was hoping to see you again. Maybe he was just trying to impress big brother, but from the way he spoke, it didn’t seem like it was the finer points of modern fiction he was looking to pursue, if you know what I mean.”
Mariah sat back, momentarily stunned. Then she shook her head. “I don’t think you’re reading this correctly.”
“You never noticed Belenko had the hots for you? You’re a very attractive woman, Mariah.”
She passed on the flattery. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve run into this kind of thing before. It’s not me that’s the draw, it’s my father.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“He is. He died when he was twenty-eight.” She sighed. “It’s hard to explain. It’s the phenomenon of being related to fame. There’s a look certain people get when they twig to the fact that Ben Bolt was my father.”
“Certain people?”
“Certain grasping, upwardly mobile characters. Or, I don’t know—maybe they’re just fans. People like that want to get close to their heroes, even if only indirectly. Given the way Russians lionize poets and writers, Belenko could be very susceptible. As I say, I’ve seen it before. You can be ugly as a post and stupid as dirt, but if you’re related to somebody famous, it never matters to those who are too easily impressed.” Even though she herself found more to regret than celebrate in her connection to Ben Bolt, Mariah thought grimly.
“Be that as it may,” Geist said, “it’s a hook. I’m still thinking it would be a good thing if you ran into Belenko again. In fact, I think you should get to know him much better.”
“Are you saying you want me to seduce the man? Because if you are, I’m sorry, the answer is no. I interpret satellite data and write depressing reports on arms shipments that nobody reads. I wasn’t recruited to be a swallow.”
His hand made solicitous “there-there” motions, patting the air. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Mariah. I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I just want you to reestablish contact with Belenko, see where his long-term interests lie. Feel him out. Note I said ‘out,’ not ‘up,”’ Geist added, smirking at his own wit. “If you get any hint he might be interested in joining forces professionally as well as personally, you let me know. We’ll take it from there.”
“I’m not comfortable with this,” she said, head shaking.
“You’ll do fine. It’s only for a day or so.”
“A day or so? I thought you just wanted me to cover the Romanov opening.”
“That’s probably all. Foreign Minister Zakharov’s going to be in L.A. for a few days, as I said, but we’re not sure Belenko’s staying the whole time. One way or the other, though, it’s two days, tops. Promise. I know you’ve got a vacation coming.”
“What about the State Department? Secretary of State Kidd doesn’t like Ops officers on his delegations.”
“I know, but that’s the beauty of it. You’re not Ops.”
Aha! Just as she’d suspected. The fact that she’d read him right gave her little satisfaction.
Geist went on. “It’s already been cleared with Kidd’s office. Since you’ve worked with them before, he’ll go along with it now. State has no idea about your approach to Belenko, mind you. We’ve said we want to use you as a quick conduit for intelligence briefings of the secretary in case the crisis heats up between Russia and Turkey.” A small skirmish had been developing between NATO ally Turkey and the Russians over the latter’s support to Kurdish rebels in Turkey. It was hardly at the level of “crisis,” Mariah thought, but Geist must have oversold its potential to get Kidd’s approval.
“I suppose my own deputy has also agreed to this?” she asked, knowing full well that the well-meaning but ineffectual analysis chief was no match for a determined operator like Jack Geist.
“Naturally.” Geist leaned back into the sofa and laced his fingers over his flat stomach. “All I’m asking you to do is help us take advantage of an opportunity, Mariah. If Belenko agrees to come on the payroll, my people in Moscow will manage him. I have full confidence in you to handle this.”
Somehow, that was small comfort.
Mariah took her victories where she found them. The year and a half since David’s death was just a blur, a blind succession of days filled with all the textbook stages of grieving, save acceptance. But denial she knew. And anger. And bargaining with fate: Let this not have happened and I will live an exemplary life all the rest of my days.
Fate wouldn’t be bargained with, however, so the best she could do was allow herself a small sense of triumph at get
ting out of bed each morning—an act of sheer will, requiring a certain determined amnesia in order to ignore the losses strung like thorns along the beaded chain of her life.
This resolve to carry on was entirely for Lindsay’s benefit. If she could have, Mariah would have sheltered her precious daughter from every harsh and buffeting wind, but she’d been powerless to keep David’s life from slipping away on them. Lindsay had been robbed of a father’s unconditional support at the worst possible moment, poised on the brink of adolescence, that moment in life when young people are already beginning to suspect that they’ve been duped and that the safe haven of childhood is an illusion fostered by a vast parental conspiracy. All Mariah wanted now was for her daughter to hold on to faith in the possibility of happiness, the constancy of love and the notion that people are mostly good—even if these beliefs held only the shakiest of places in her own personal credo.
At fifteen, however, Lindsay seemed equally determined most days to reject her mother’s take on life, love and all other matters, great and small. This was one of those days when nothing Mariah did or said or wore or suggested was going to earn even the most grudging approval.
“Not the blue one, either?” Mariah asked, pulling yet another hanger from her closet. They were in her upstairs bedroom of the condominium town house Mariah had bought in McLean, Virginia, after it became clear David would never recover from the car crash that had ripped apart their family—a deliberate attack that had also injured her daughter, but missed its intended target: Mariah herself.
Lindsay picked up a magazine from the bedside table and began flipping through it, her beautiful, dark eyes avoiding both her mother and the dress. “Whatever,” she said grudgingly.
Her hands were again decorated with ink doodling, Mariah noted, her nails painted blue-black. She’d been forbidden to go to school looking like that, but with school out for the summer now, Lindsay was testing limits again. Between the skin drawing, the hammered-looking fingertips and the third earring in one ear, her beautiful little girl seemed determined to transform herself into something out of Edgar Allan Poe. Why?