by Leslie Wolfe
“Fair enough; that thought has crossed my mind. But it’s way too early for that. How do you even know it’s the Russians behind this, not the Chinese?”
Alex thought for a second and grunted angrily at herself. She’d jumped to conclusions again. Somehow, despite that logic, the idea felt right.
“Just my gut, I guess.”
“OK, then, let’s prep you for tomorrow,” Sam said, putting his empty cappuccino cup on the side table. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Alex replied smiling, to hide the tight knot she felt in her stomach. “What should I expect?”
“You’ll be taken in a small room with no windows, a couple of chairs, and a table on which the polygraph is installed. Some rooms might have the old-style one-way mirror, but all rooms have video cameras installed to record the interview.”
“What kind of sensors will they use?”
“They normally measure heart rate, blood pressure, breathing, and perspiration. Perspiration is measured through sensors attached to your fingers. Breathing is measured with two sensor bands fitted around your chest, and blood pressure and heart rate with a blood pressure cuff on your arm.”
“Fantastic,” she commented gloomily. “What kind of questions will they ask?”
“To start, they’ll ask baseline questions, such as your name and place of birth, and then they usually ask if you’re planning to lie during the test.”
“Huh,” she snorted, “that depends on the questions they’re gonna ask, right?”
“Wrong, kiddo. Plan to tell the truth. They’ll ask trick questions, like if you’ve ever smoked pot, or other self-incriminating crap like that. Just admit it. Even if you did and cop to it, it’s not a disqualifier. They wanna see you’re willing to tell the truth.”
She stared at him with eyes opened wide in disbelief.
“What if they ask . . . well, things no one should know about?” She involuntarily crossed her arms and immediately uncrossed them, painfully aware of the body language clues she was giving out. How the hell was she gonna pass the stupid polygraph if she couldn’t control her body language here, in the safety of Sam’s backyard?
“Like what?”
“Like . . . if I’ve ever killed someone?”
“Just say yes.”
They fell silent for a minute. Sam allowed her to process that information before moving on, and she was grateful for that minute of reprieve. She suddenly felt a wave of panic taking over her rational brain. Oh God . . . this could go wrong in so many ways, she thought.
“Sam,” she whispered, “I don’t know if I can pull this off. I’m . . . I’m afraid.”
“Everyone is, kiddo,” he replied in a soft, parental voice. “I’ve been doing this all my life, and I’ve yet to meet someone who’s not afraid to take the poly. But you just deal away with the fear, that’s all.”
Her shoulders hunched, and she clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. “How?”
Sam laughed. “You’re asking me how? After everything I’ve seen you handle? Oh, no, kiddo, ask yourself that, ’cause you’ve got all it takes to pull this off like an ace. I’m just a retired old spy, that’s who I am. I’m yesterday’s news, kiddo. You’re tomorrow’s.”
She couldn’t refrain from smiling. She loved how Sam cheered her up and instilled self-confidence in her every time she was in a bind. She suddenly wished they had enough time to share some of his war stories; he must have a few worth telling.
She’d met Sam just over a year before, when he had brought The Agency a new and troublesome case. He was a wartime friend of Tom’s; they went way back. Now sixty-one, Sam was a retired CIA agent, enjoying his free time fishing in the waters of his backyard lake and grilling catfish whenever he’d get lucky. That’s what Sam wanted everyone to believe his current life was all about. However, soon after they met, the two of them had become comrades in arms, chasing terrorists together in exotic destinations. It was a case they should have never worked on, but did anyway.
Sam had identified in her the passion for covert work going beyond the corporate realm. He’d told her many times she was secret-agent material and offered to open the CIA doors for her. Yet she’d stayed true to Tom Isaac and his Agency, jokingly saying that Tom paid way better than the government, but secretly enjoying the family she’d found in Tom and his crew. With Tom, she felt she belonged. She didn’t want to trade that and turn into some faceless, bar-coded agent who no one gave a crap about in an agency as massive as the CIA was. And she did like the bigger paycheck too; it had considerable appeal. There was nothing wrong with having a little wealth and security for a change. She enjoyed the sense of safety that having money brought to her life.
Yet there was something about spies and secret-agent work that lit her imagination and injected her with a deeper sense of purpose. She couldn’t name what that was, and rarely spent any time thinking about it. She just reacted, like she’d done just a few days before, dropping everything else and rushing to the East Coast to catch a spy.
She smiled crookedly, secretly entertained by thoughts about how her career had evolved.
“What?” Sam asked, crinkling his nose, amused.
“Bond. Alex Bond,” she mock introduced herself, and then burst into laughter.
“What? You married James Bond?” Sam laughed with her.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said feigning offense and throwing a pillow at him.
“Then your real name should suffice, kiddo. You’re it. You just need to trust yourself a little, that’s all.”
She stopped laughing abruptly, her face turned suddenly serious, almost grim. “All right, let’s work this. How else do I prepare?”
Sam handed her a red, stick deodorant, Old Spice, with a strong minty flavor.
She looked at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Of course I shower and use deodorant. Sam, what are you trying to tell me?”
“Relax, kiddo, you don’t stink,” he said and winked, reading her mind. “You’ll apply this on your hands before leaving the house to go to the test. This one, not any other brand, because this one is a perspiration inhibitor.”
She was confused . . . How was that going to help with the test?
“They’ll attach sensors to your fingers to measure perspiration. Even if they wipe your fingers with alcohol before starting the test, if you apply this deodorant before leaving the house, it will have time to enter your pores and partially inhibit perspiration for a few hours.”
“Huh . . . interesting, got it. What else?”
“What’s your stress food? What do you eat when you’re sad, worried, or PMS-ing?”
She blushed slightly. “Chocolate chip ice cream, with whip cream and chocolate syrup on top.”
“Eat that before leaving for the test. It will release serotonin and calm you down. You’ll mellow out and be less likely to spike your heart rate and blood pressure under stress.”
“I see. That’s easy,” she replied with a nervous smile. “What else?”
“No coffee tomorrow, none, understood?”
“Yes, no coffee.”
He thought for a little while, then added, “Maybe you can take a beta blocker in the morning, to relieve anxiety.”
“Where would I find that?”
“I’ll share mine. How’s your blood pressure, normally?”
“Perfect, about 130 or so.”
“OK, you can take one beta blocker, not more. And drink chamomile tea tonight.”
“Ugh . . . Got it. What else?”
“Can you dissociate easily?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like daydreaming. You just did it minutes ago, when you were miles away thinking of something.”
“Oh, that . . . yes, I guess I can,” she replied.
“That’s the biggest secret of passing the poly; focus on something else, miles away, so intensely that you can barely hear the questions and you reply to them like in a dream. You thin
k you can do that?”
“I–I hope so,” she said hesitantly. “What else?”
“That’s it, that’s all I have. Sleep well tonight, then go in there tomorrow and knock it out of the park, kiddo.”
“I’ll try. Tea, no coffee, ice cream, beta blocker, deodorant, dissociate, I think I’ve got it. Thanks, Sam, thanks much!”
She gave Sam a hug, said goodnight, and went out to climb behind the wheel of her rental car. Easier said than done, the entire polygraph thing. Regardless of all the advice and paraphernalia, she could still screw this up royally, and lose her only shot at a lead to catch her Russian ghost.
...46
...Thursday, May 19, 10:16PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Nikolai and Olga Novachenko’s Residence
...Smithfield, Virginia
Olga and Nikolai, Smolin’s cover daughter and son-in-law, had left the dining room immediately after finishing dinner and cleaning up the table. They were still uncomfortable in his presence and kept quiet almost all the time.
Smolin understood how he intimidated them; having a high-ranking SVR officer stationed in their home while on a covert mission in the United States was a dangerous position for them to be in. However, they had been nothing but supportive and dedicated since he’d arrived, proud and eager to serve Mother Russia the best they possibly could.
Well-trained by the SVR, prior to their arrival on a visa lottery green card, the Novachenkos proved to be unexpected assets for Smolin. He had to recognize the wisdom of the case manager who had recommended them and their residence for Smolin’s base of operations.
Alone with his laptop, Smolin logged into his webmail server and started drafting a new message. He no longer used Gmail or Yahoo; not since he’d learned the NSA swept those servers systematically, and that the major technology players of the Silicon Valley had signed secret alliances with the NSA, participating directly in security actions alongside the American government. Bastards . . .
He had moved to a smaller, private server that managed domains for sale, and, under one of those domains, he had set up a webmail account. Well, it hadn’t really been his idea. Valentina Davydova had taught him to bypass the monster servers and go with the smaller, inconspicuous email servers, more likely to be omitted from the systematic security sweeps the NSA conducted.
Smolin typed his email message. The subject line read, “Happy Birthday To You!” and the message body contained a few lines of text.
Dear Mother,
I have arrived home and started preparing your party. I’ve invited a few guests, not too many, but I can invite more if you’d like. I’ve also picked a couple of gifts for you that I hope you will enjoy.
More to come soon. Happy birthday!
Love,
Your devoted son,
Zhenya
When he finished typing, Smolin read the message again and smiled. He was happy with his idea. The message read like a plain birthday email greeting; yet he was clearly telling his boss, Vitaliy Myatlev, that he had deployed his first few assets and already had valuable pieces of information to send home.
Satisfied, he closed the message without sending it, saving it into the drafts folder of his webmail application. Sending it would mean the message would have to go through the NSA’s screening, and why risk it? Even if the message seemed inconspicuous, it was better if he didn’t send it at all.
Instead, he had set up a communications system before departing from Russia. He had shared his username and password for that email account with Myatlev. Soon, Myatlev or one of his people would log in using a proxy server and read the message saved in the drafts folder of the webmail application, then delete the draft or edit it to reply. No email message would ever cross the NSA-guarded servers, because, technically, no information would leave the American-based servers heading toward Russia.
Wasn’t technology great? Too bad he couldn’t use the same method to transmit the actual intelligence; the risk was too big with large amounts of data, schematics, or images that could trigger the interest of who-knows-what network engineer to sneak a peek. Even encrypted photos ran the same risk. The NSA was aware of the practice to embed information into the background of banal photos, and they screened every server, every photo-sharing application, everything. He had to find another way to send the intel home, and he had to move fast. The stuff he was sitting on could do miracles for Russia’s aged military technology. Maybe he could ask Mother how she’d like her gifts sent to her; maybe she had an idea.
He reopened the webmail drafts folder and adjusted his message, then saved the unsent message, closed everything, and went to bed.
...47
...Thursday, May 19, 11:53PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Alex Hoffmann’s Hotel Room—Westin Virginia Beach
...Virginia Beach, Virginia
Her cell phone chimed, startling her from agitated, restless sleep. She’d been on pins and needles, waiting for the polygraph test result, not very confident she was able to pass, not sure of the consequences of some of the answers she had given.
She picked it up with a groan and checked the new text message responsible for the familiar chime sound.
“Poly passed,” the message read. “Meet the team tomorrow 9.00AM at Naval Station Norfolk—Pier 7, USS Fletcher—Jeremy.”
“Yes!” Alex gave an excited yelp, jumped out of bed, and started dancing around the room. “Yes!”
...48
...Friday, May 20, 8:47AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Naval Station Norfolk—Pier 7
...Norfolk, Virginia
Alex had no problem whatsoever locating the USS Fletcher. Her hull was distinctively different, standing out from a distance. She quickly found parking, right across from Pier 7, then trotted toward the vessel, curious to explore.
She’d read about it during the past couple of days, thirstily absorbing every bit of information she could, and hoping she’d be able to retain something. Some of it read like a foreign language, filled with concepts she didn’t understand and had to look up.
Mason had given her credentials to join the team as an engagement consultant, her official cover job being liaison between the project team and the US Navy. Not all projects needed an engagement consultant, but some did, and Mason felt this was the most inconspicuous manner she could join the team with her limited knowledge of naval warfare and laser systems, and limited time to prepare.
She waited eagerly for Walcott’s van to appear and drop off the project team at the pier, so she could finally board the Fletcher with them. She checked every minute or so, but then turned her head back to study the ship’s elegant hull.
There had been controversy about that stealth-hull design, and, apparently, the jury was still out whether its seaworthiness exceeded that of an Arleigh-Burke class vessel, the backbone of US Navy’s destroyer fleet. The Fletcher was a Zumwalt-class destroyer, capable of sending more than a hundred guided missiles toward their targets before having to return and rearm. Its hull was what they called a tumblehome design, narrowing up from the water level and giving her a unique silhouette.
That was part of her stealth design; more stealth features were built in, like its inverted bow, designed to cut through the waves and generate minimal wake. The deckhouse was integrated into the hull design, making the Fletcher appear smooth in its narrowing toward the top and presenting minimal visible detail into its technical and weapons equipment. The power and propulsion systems were also integrated, none of that equipment visible above sea level. If she were to compare the Fletcher with any other type of vessel she’d seen, it would have to be a submarine. Yes, the Fletcher looked just like a submarine, more than 600 feet long, floating proudly on the surface. Amazing.
“And I’ll need you to help me with that, Quentin,” a female voice disrupted Alex’s study of the Fletcher.
There they were, passing her by, the Walcott team of five engineers, unmistakable; they all wore color-coded hard hats with Walcott’s
logo on them. She caught a glimpse of the Sprinter leaving the dock and she hurried to catch up with the project team.
“Excuse me,” she said, and they stopped and turned toward her. “Are you guys the Walcott project team for the laser cannon installation?”
“And you are . . . ?” the man Alex knew from photos to be Bob McLeod asked.
She extended her hand and gave Bob a firm handshake.
“Alex Hoffmann, engagement consultant for the Navy. I’m supposed to tag along with you guys, help you out with whatever you need, and document and observe the installation, to give our PR something to work from,” she spouted at machine-gun speed. “You do realize they want to make a big deal out of this launch, right?”
“Yeah, we do; we were wondering when you’d come. Sylvia Copperwaite, mobile installations,” the woman introduced herself. She was charming and delicate in person, features that her human resources file failed to convey. She also had a haggard, almost ashen look, covered for the most part with carefully applied makeup, but revealed here and there, especially around her tired, sad eyes.
“Bob McLeod, PM,” the first man introduced himself, a dutiful smile fluttering on his lips for exactly one second, quickly replaced by a look of irritation, complete with clenched jaws and tense muscles she could see knotting under the skin of his cheeks.
“Faisal Kundi, embedded software.” Faisal shook her hand politely, a little hesitant. Alex noticed about him a shyness, almost fear of scrutiny. Faisal averted his eyes immediately after introducing himself, and stared at the blue waters instead.
“Vernon Blackburn, lasers, but you can call me Vern.” This one studied her at large; there wasn’t a shred of shyness in this guy, as he was measuring her from head to toe. Whoa, buddy, we just met, she thought, feeling how he was undressing her with his eyes. He was an attractive man, his shoulder-length hair giving him an artistic, rebellious air. The way he studied her, his smile and body language, was a powerful, heady mix. Mr. sex-bomb with a PhD, she thought, almost chuckling. She refrained from that and returned a gigawatt smile instead, almost flirting. Sylvia rolled her eyes discreetly; she’d probably seen hordes of naïve women fly like moths into Vernon’s perma-flame.