by Leslie Wolfe
She went ahead to search the kitchen and little there caught her attention. It was clean, neatly organized, taken care of. The windows had white sheers, and the cupboards had been refaced recently.
She opened the dishwasher; empty. She checked under the sink and pulled out the trashcan. It was lined with a new white plastic liner, but it smelled a little of burned paper. She lifted the liner and saw the burn marks on the trashcan’s metallic surface. She put everything back how she found it and moved to the cupboards.
Nothing was out of the ordinary; pots, pans, plates, cups, all boringly normal, except one place, the two shelves above the fridge. In there she saw a small stack of Petri dishes, seven in total. Huh . . . that was strange. There wasn’t a single explanation she could think of to justify those Petri dishes.
She opened the fridge next, and saw an assortment of deli meats, cheese, and vodka. A few sandwiches already packed in tinfoil took half the middle shelf, next to an olive jar and a small pot of borscht. She opened one sandwich: ham and cheese. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.
She closed the fridge just when the radio crackled to life.
“One, this is two, come in.”
She picked up her radio. “Go for one.”
“One, you have traffic inbound. Will have eyes on you in two minutes.”
She groaned and cussed under her breath. “Copy that.”
Jeremy came downstairs right after he heard the radioed message.
“Found anything?” she asked.
“Nothing much, just a crisscross paper shredder. You?”
“Petri dishes. And someone really cares about this guy, they’re packing lunch for him. Let’s go.”
“One, traffic has eyes on front door,” the radio crackled again.
“Copy,” Jeremy replied.
She had already opened the door, looking carefully to spot any movement. She saw Smolin coming down the street.
“Fuck,” she muttered, then grabbed Jeremy’s sleeve. “Arm the alarm and keep your head down. The hedge will cover us.”
Jeremy pulled the door gently behind him as he exited the house, while Alex crouched on the porch. He locked the door just when Smolin’s hat started to be visible in the distance, above the hedge line.
Without saying a word, she pushed Jeremy hard toward the hedge on the opposite side, and he went through it with a thump, landing behind it. She had nowhere to go, it was too late; Smolin was looking straight at her, as she sat crouched in an unnatural position on his front porch.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his Russian accent thick and unmistakable.
“Yes, please,” she whimpered. “I twisted my ankle right there, in that pothole,” she said, pointing at a small indentation in the asphalt. “My cell’s battery is gone; can you please help me call a cab to take me home?”
She extended her leg as to show him, but Smolin frowned, unconvinced.
Barely audible, she discerned the faint beep of the alarm system arming itself. She almost sighed with relief.
“If it’s too much trouble, I’ll go away,” she said, feigning an attempt to stand up.
“Wait here,” Smolin said, then tried the handle on his door. Alex held her breath for a second, feeling the sweat break at the roots of her hair, but the door was locked. Smolin entered the house, disarmed the alarm, then brought outside a cordless phone.
...61
...Thursday, June 2, 7:19AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...Russian Ministry of Defense, Vitaliy Myatlev’s Office
...Moscow, Russia
Anatoly Karp paced the room slowly, carrying himself tall and proud, with his hands clasped behind his back, measuring up his audience. The improvised training room was packed to the brim with people of all ages, taking every available seat, some standing.
What a spoiled bunch they were, all of them! Every one of these men and women had left their country behind and decided it wasn’t good enough, because they wanted a bigger car or more money. How disgusting! Like whores they were, all of them, selling themselves to whoever had the deepest pockets.
But even whores served a purpose; so could these people. After all, they owed their abandoned country a debt of service and of loyalty, words most of these fat pigs didn’t even know the meaning of.
His mouth filled with phlegm mixed with bile, coming up his throat, stimulated by the wave of disgust he was feeling. He turned his head slightly toward the wall and sent out a spitball that landed a few feet away.
He felt better after sending that projectile, cleaner. Karp was an unusual, memorable man, not blond or sandy-haired like most of his compatriots. His hair was raven black, and his eyes matched a shiny, almost bluish shade of color. His square jaw and strong features showed character and determination, and the premature lines on his face were a testimony to the sacrifices he had made in the service of his country.
“You’re here today,” Karp finally spoke, “because your country needs you. Russia needs you.”
The hundred or so attendees started murmuring, turning to one another to exchange whispered comments.
“I do not care,” Karp continued undisturbed, raising his voice slightly, “that you are now American citizens. I do not care that you have renounced your loyalty to Russia when you swore your allegiance to America. You have taken an oath of lifelong loyalty to this institution, the SVR, and that’s the only one that matters. Your debt of honor to your motherland hasn’t been paid and will be owed until the day you draw your last breath. All of you,” he continued dramatically, making an all-encompassing gesture with his hand.
The murmurs in the audience stopped abruptly, and the silence became deafening.
“You are integrated in the American society. You have American-born children. You have jobs, nice cars, and expensive houses. And now you have a mission. It is not optional.”
He let the silence dwell over the crowd for another minute or so, while he studied them. They had come in walking proud and feeling superior, thinking they had it all if their wallets held blue passports and gold credit cards. Now they were showing some respect, like they were supposed to in the presence of an SVR officer.
“You, all of you here, will be the first line of offense and support in our new intelligence network. You are now a network of asset-recruiting agents, of case officers.”
The murmurs rose, but Karp interrupted again.
“I don’t care if you came to visit Russia to see family or go to Sochi. You will spend your vacation in training, and at the end of these two weeks, you will be reminded how to be proficient case officers, ready to recruit assets and work them in your city of residence.”
The room was silent again, deathly silent.
“To those of you who are now thinking of running to the American Embassy, or boarding the first international flight out of Moscow, I have one thing to say: you have families. We know where they are, who they are, here or in America. You know how the game is played. Don’t even think about it.”
Karp paused his speech, taking his time to make eye contact with several of the people in the room. A woman on the third row sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve, then averted her eyes.
“You have only one choice,” he continued, satisfied with what he was seeing. “Serve your country, and serve it well.”
The silence continued, his audience watching his every move.
“Good. Now that we understand one another, let’s proceed.” He paced the room some more. “We’ll use technology to home in on areas of interest and conduct our recruiting efforts in a focused manner, going after the valuable intel we need. You’ll have cyber support to help you identify weaknesses in our enemy, and the most valuable assets in the field.”
Karp resumed his pacing, keeping his fingers interlocked behind his back and continued.
“Case officers are expected to be able to take over new cells with very little notice, and they will be the only ones in contact with Moscow. Lead agents will work the field as ins
tructed, recruit, identify targets, extract the intel, and prepare the transport. You will identify and recruit your assets, motivate and encourage them, drive them, keep them on a short leash.”
He paused again, letting them process all the information. “You are here because you have proven yourselves in the years before your departure. Now Mother Russia is willing to forgive your betrayal. You are here because Russia needs you, and because you are tomorrow’s heroes, our country’s salvation.”
Without any transition, Karp started singing the national anthem. One by one, the voices in the room started singing, hesitant at first, then stronger, more powerful, united.
...62
...Friday, June 3, 6:28PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Norfolk Botanical Garden
...Norfolk, Virginia
The roar of a jet on an aggressive takeoff climb from Norfolk International interrupted the serenity of the Botanical Gardens, and made Alex pause a little. She and Jeremy were taking the same bench under the old tree, with direct line of sight to Smolin’s favorite backgammon game. Alex refrained with difficulty from hiding her face, concerned he might recognize her after he’d seen her on his doorstep. But they were too far, she was safe at that distance.
He wasn’t playing backgammon that time, just hanging out, as if waiting for a game partner to show up.
“And?” Jeremy asked.
“And what? Oh, yes,” she remembered where she’d left off before the 747’s takeoff, “Louie is the one we all go to if we need data. Any kind of data, really.”
“So he’s a hacker?”
“White hat, and a pretty good one,” she chuckled. “When we can’t afford to go through channels, or we can’t bypass a roadblock, he’s always able to find a way to get the job done. Ex-SEAL, and my personal trainer.”
“For what?” Jeremy asked. “Computer hacking?”
“No,” she laughed. “Krav Maga, weapons, that kind of stuff. You’d be surprised how dangerous corporate investigations can get sometimes,” she clarified, seeing how amazed he looked.
Smolin stood up and grabbed his backgammon set under his arm, heading slowly toward the exit. They stayed a decent distance behind, and followed him in the same relaxed pace.
Smolin stopped at a food vendor on his way to the exit, waited in line for another customer to be served, then bought a sandwich. He didn’t eat it; he just put it in his pocket and continued his slow stroll through the park alleys.
“What’s with this guy and his sandwiches?” Alex wondered. “He’s got plenty of those at home, right?”
“Well, maybe they’re not that good,” Jeremy said. “Remember he threw the one from home in the trash after just one bite. Who knows, maybe he’s too polite to tell whoever’s making them that he prefers street vendor hotdogs instead.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so . . . It must be something else. Nothing this man does is casual or left to chance.”
“Yeah, but we’re talking about food here,” Jeremy said. “I agree with everything you said, but even spies have to eat.”
“True. All right, I’ll drop it.”
They walked without saying anything for a while, following Smolin as he headed toward the parking lot.
“Do you think he’s hoarding food?” Jeremy asked. “How many sandwiches were in that fridge? Four, five? Do you think it’s because they didn’t have much food in the communist days?”
“Yeah . . . maybe. But I don’t think so,” she said grumpily, struggling to hide her irritation.
Here they were, wasting valuable time following a Russian agent who seemed to have nothing better to do than walk in the park and eat. What the hell were they missing?
...63
...Saturday, June 4, 10:11AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Federal Bureau of Investigation—Norfolk Division
...Norfolk, Virginia
“How many did you say we had, again?” Alex asked in disbelief.
“There are 142,” Jeremy replied. “The entire complement of the Fletcher, well, minus Simionov; he’s been dealt with already.”
“We’ll be here ’til midnight,” she complained, grabbing the mouse from Jeremy’s desk and clicking through sailor profiles.
Jeremy’s phone rang, and he picked it up immediately.
“Agent Weber. Yes,” he said, “let me put you on speaker.” He put the phone on his desk and touched the speaker icon. “It’s one of the surveillance teams deployed at Smolin’s house,” he told Alex.
“Yeah, hi,” Alex greeted the caller.
“Good morning, ma’am. Nikolai Novachenko, Smolin’s so-called son-in-law, left earlier with a suitcase and a duffel bag and is headed for Norfolk International. What do you advise?”
“Damn,” she muttered. “Stay on him, and call TSA and ask them to screen him very thoroughly. Got it?”
“Yes, got it.”
“If he carries as much as a safety pin we wanna know about it, OK? And tell TSA to call us the minute they’re done with him.”
“Yes, understood,” the agent replied dryly, a little offended to be treated as if he didn’t know how to do his job and some civilian consultant had to spell it out for him.
Alex bit her lip. She wasn’t making any friends, that was for sure.
She stood and grabbed her empty coffee cup. “Want some?” she asked Jeremy.
“Please.”
A moment later, she was back with both cups refilled to the brim.
“Did they call yet?” Alex asked.
“It’s only been a minute,” Jeremy said. “Take it easy, will ya’?”
“Yeah, OK.”
She resumed clicking through the sailor profiles, a little preoccupied. Her mind wouldn’t focus on the work in front of her, stubbornly going over every possible scenario Novachenko could use to transport classified information out of the country. When the phone finally rang, she almost jumped out of her skin.
“Good morning, Agent . . . Weber,” the caller said hesitantly, “this is Shift Supervisor Davidson with TSA at Norfolk.”
“Yeah, what did you find?”
“We had to let him go, Agent Weber. We didn’t find anything wrong with him, and we checked him thoroughly. We took him in a private screening room and went over everything in detail: clothes, his luggage, everything.”
“Anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all? Was he nervous, agitated?” Alex intervened.
“N–no, ma’am, nothing out of the ordinary. He was relatively calm, even apologetic. Most people are a little antsy when we pull them in for private screening, and his behavior was quite normal under the circumstances.”
“Why apologetic?”
“Oh, he had a sandwich with him, and he apologized for that, said he didn’t know if that was allowed or not. We let him go; they’re boarding the flight now.”
A wave of adrenaline spiked her heart rate. She hesitated a little . . . What if she was wrong? Ahh . . . the hell with it.
“Stop him,” she yelled at the TSA agent. “Grab him, and get that sandwich. We’re on our way.”
She ran to the elevator, followed closely by Jeremy.
“Care to share?” he asked, as they were heading downstairs in what seemed to be the slowest elevator invented.
“Not really,” she said sheepishly. “Just a hunch.”
...64
...Saturday, June 4, 10:54AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...En Route to Norfolk International Airport
...Norfolk, Virginia
Jeremy drove as fast as he could, his siren blaring, zigzagging through traffic like a maniac, and leaving behind a chorus of screeching breaks and wailing horns.
“Call your team for me, get them on the phone,” Alex asked.
“Who do you want?”
“Anyone in the surveillance lab, anyone would do.”
Jeremy told her the number and she dialed. The car’s hands-free system took over, making it difficult for them to hear over the blaring siren.
&nb
sp; “Yeah, hi, it’s Alex Hoffmann and Agent Weber. Yeah, please go back on surveillance and look for anyone doing anything with a sandwich. What? Yeah, a sandwich. Anything . . . eating, buying, packing, giving, taking, just anything, any sandwich.”
Jeremy looked at her briefly, between avoiding a garbage truck and passing a cab.
She hung up the call.
“I’m starting to see your hunch,” Jeremy said, “but it’s a thin one, very thin. People eat, Alex. It’s just food, that’s all.”
“I need a mobile lab to meet us at the airport,” she continued, unperturbed. “How do I get that to happen? Whom do I call?”
“We have procedures for this kind of thing, you know,” he protested. “It’s not like a multimillion piece of equipment is at my beck and call.”
“Here’s how this is gonna go,” she said in a low, almost threatening voice. “Either you call your mobile lab to assist us at the airport, or I call a mobile lab to assist us at the airport and you foot the bill. Don’t care, really. So what’s your preference?”
He sighed, made the call, then asked wryly, “Has anyone ever said no to you and lived to tell the story?
...65
...Saturday, June 4, 12:18PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Norfolk International Airport
...Norfolk, Virginia
Nikolai Novachenko sat at the small table in the improvised interrogation room, courtesy of the TSA. There was one other chair in the room, empty. Both Alex and Jeremy stood, studying Novachenko closely.
On the wall at his left, there was a cheap clock, one of those $9.99 electronic wall clocks one can get from Walmart. Somehow that seemed to be the focal point of interest with Novachenko, who looked at it every minute or so.
“Got someplace to be, Nikolai?” Alex asked.
“Yeah, got a plane to catch,” he replied morosely.