Palace of Treason (23 page)

The courier from the Pentagon arrived with the zippered and locked portfolio, peeled off a copy of the receipt signed by Angevine’s secretary, and left. He would return to collect the flash card for SEARCHLIGHT the next morning, after the mandated final review by CIA, specifically by the associate deputy director for Military Affairs. When CIA signed off on the contents, the card would be delivered directly to Major Thorstad, who would prepare to meet the Russians that night.

Angevine plugged the card into a stand-alone laptop on the credenza behind his desk and quickly scrolled through the air force feed material Thorstad would pass the next evening.
Ordure,
garbage. Ridiculous. The night before, in his locked office, he had used a lightweight Nikon to photograph a three-page classified cable off the screen of his Agency desktop—no hard copy, no print-job record, an anonymous photo and untraceable. Angevine chose an ops cable reporting the recent recruitment of a junior Russian military attaché in Venezuela. The Caracas Station cable was detailed, named names, listed the information the attaché was providing. The beauty of it was that Angevine had no connection to the Latin America Division, or to the operation—he simply had access to worldwide cable traffic.

Angevine knew that for the Russians there was no bona fides like telling them about an espionage case that involved one of their own. They
relished catching their own traitors. Ames, by 1994, had been paid nearly $5 million for the names of twelve Soviets on CIA payroll, an immense payout by a normally stingy Moscow. Along with this info, Angevine had also written and photographed a single-page letter of introduction, the fourth image in his camera. He transferred the four images from his camera onto the OSI flash card and reviewed the results. The air force manuals, then three pages of a CIA ops cable, then his love letter. Angevine’s images looked different—distinct metadata and .dox files—but that was fine; it highlighted the mystery. The letter was spare, muscular, all business. The Russians would shit when they read it:

I call myself TRITON
[Angevine had settled on the cryptonym with relish.]
In exchange for funds I propose to provide information that will be of interest to your Service. As an example, the preceding three pages detail a CIA operation in Latin America against your interests.

I will not identify myself, nor will I describe my access or position. I require prompt payment in US dollars for this information and as good faith for future information, which I will pass via this channel. Emplace a waterproof package containing $100,000 at the site described below
[Angevine had drawn a map of a drop site in the Rock Creek Woods in northwest Washington]
in three days, which will be ample time for you to verify my information.

I will instantly know if your Service attempts to identify me, or if word of my offer leaks out of your Center, in which case I will permanently break contact. TRITON

Nine forty-five p.m.
Golly,
thought Major Thorstad,
this first meeting with the Russians was turning out to be a disaster.
He worried that he had misunderstood the directions he received: At nine o’clock in the evening, walk along the one-mile stretch of the unlighted Capital Crescent Trail in Bethesda, Maryland, between Massachusetts Avenue and MacArthur Boulevard. The former Baltimore and Ohio rail bed had been converted to an asphalt-paved hiking and biking trail, but at nine there were no hikers, and the dense woods on either side of the pathway were pitch-black. Thorstad
had completed two circuits on the trail—almost by feel, it was so dark—and was nearing the yawning maw of the turn-of-the-century, brick-lined Dalecarlia Tunnel that passed under the nearby reservoir.

A man oozed out of the shadows at the mouth of the tunnel, his face and hands faintly discernible in the half moonlight. Thorstad slowly walked up to him.

“Tor-stud?” said the face, mangling his name. The major nodded. “Come close,” said the man, with what Thorstad assumed was a Russian accent.

The major took a step forward. “I didn’t know if I was in the right place. It’s nearly an hour beyond what you—”

“Face wall,” said the man, who lifted Thorstad’s arms so his hands slapped against the rough brick. The interior of the tunnel was cold; groundwater dribbled from the arched brick roof, making a toneless
pock-pock
echo. The man expertly frisked Thorstad, taking his time with his crotch, back, and front. He stooped and passed a metal-detector wand around Thorstad’s shoes and outer jacket. The man was a chunky, hard-faced mouth-breather. He reeked of alcohol—Thorstad supposed it was vodka—but he appeared steady on his feet. He grunted as he finished frisking Thorstad, who turned to look at him. The Russian took a penlight out of his pocket and flashed it twice, in both directions down the tunnel. No signal or response, but Thorstad realized in a rush that they were not alone, that Russian wolves had been watching him, the trail, and the forest since he arrived. He shivered inwardly at the thought of armed men in the gentrified woods of upscale Bethesda.

“Why have you contacted us?” said the man heavily.

Thorstad was eager to please, and OSI had coached him to be communicative, cooperative. “As I wrote in my note to you, I need financial help,” he said. “I need money.”

“Why not go to bank if you need money?” said the man. “Why come to us?”

“I have information of interest to you,” Thorstad said lamely.

“Show me,” said the man. Thorstad took the flash card out of his pocket and held it out in his palm, as if he were feeding a horse a sugar cube. The man took the flash card, turned it in his fingers as if he did not know what it was, then reached into his coat and stuffed it into a shirt pocket. Body odor mixed with the stench of vodka wafted up when he moved.

The man reached into another pocket and handed Thorstad a card with directions to and a line map of the next meeting site. “For next time,” said the Russian, turning away to melt into the black, walking south through the tunnel. Thorstad watched him go. The Russian—a clunky SVR security man from the
rezidentura
—knew only that if, based on the American’s information, the Center assessed that the volunteer was
dvurushnichestvo,
double-dealing, no one would be at the prescribed rendezvous. And the card, made of sodium carboxymethyl cellulose, would absorb ambient humidity and slowly decompose into a pulpy glob in a month’s time.

Just plain rude,
thought Thorstad, and he put the card into his pocket and walked on the path north, out of the woods, toward the lights of Massachusetts Avenue. He stared studiously ahead, intent on not looking for the night glimmer of Slavic eyes in the black trees on either side of him.

“And then what happened?” asked Benford. Redheaded Major Thorstad took a drink of water from a carafe in the middle of the conference room. Three OSI officers were taking copious notes, to Benford’s obvious annoyance. The jubilant OSI guys didn’t care: Contact with RIS—Russian Intelligence Service. In suburban Washington. The first encounter in three years.
Their
DA operation. It would be the shit-hot lead in the monthly activity report for the air force brass. Mr. Chips over there from CIA could kiss their asses.

“Well, I can tell you, the guy was quite rude,” said Thorstad. Benford shifted in his seat and only at the last minute remembered this ginger snap was not a subordinate and therefore, technically, he could not bellow at him.

“He was forty-five minutes late in appearing,” said Thorstad. “I walked the hiking trail
two
complete times.” He held up two fingers to clarify for Benford. The OSI guys were taking down every word.

“They probably had people in the woods with night-vision goggles, looking at your approach, watching for coverage,” said Benford.

Thorstad snapped his fingers. “You’re absolutely correct, Mr. Benford. The man shined a flashlight in both directions down the tunnel. It was a signal of some sort.” Benford suppressed a moan.

“I am gratified you agree,” Benford said, his tone lost on Thorstad, who was trying to remember more details. Benford wondered if the major even considered that a different signal from that flashlight might have ended with him crumpled on the wet bricks of the tunnel.

“He took the flash card,” said Thorstad, “and gave me this card with the next meeting site on it. In two weeks, in Georgetown.”

Benford took the card, read it while feeling the satiny finish, and slid it to the OSI men at the end of the table.

“Water-soluble paper. Make sure you copy the instructions verbatim and put this in a glassine envelope. It’ll decompose in three weeks if you don’t keep it out of the atmosphere.” The OSI officers looked at one another, unsure about “verbatim” and “glassine.” Benford turned to Thorstad.

“Well, I suppose it went as well as we could expect,” Benford said. “The unpleasant fellow—”

“I forgot to say that he reeked—
absolutely reeked
—of alcohol, apart from the rudeness,” said Thorstad, interrupting.

“Yes, well, he probably has troubles of his own at home,” said Benford. Thorstad looked a little guilty at being so unfair: He had not considered that the man might be having problems. Benford looked with clinical interest at the changing expressions on Thorstad’s face. Where did OSI find this man-child major?

“He almost certainly was a low-level security officer from the embassy, perhaps from the
rezidentura,
” said Benford. “The Center would not risk sending one of their active operations officers under cover to this meeting.”

Thorstad nodded. Benford turned to address the OSI men. “I would urge restraint in writing up this contact and predicting further progress,” he said. “The likelihood of another meeting is exceedingly slim, given that the feed material is dated. The Russians are looking for exceptional intelligence. If they don’t get it, they will conclude that the major is a dispatched volunteer and will simply turn the operation off.”

The OSI men looked back glumly.

“I anticipate you will be left waiting at the next rendezvous,” said Benford to Thorstad. “You should not be surprised at a no-show.”

Benford rose and left the room. One of the OSI men flipped him the bird behind his back. Thorstad glared at him.

“At ease, sergeant. That’s not the way we do things in the Air Force,” Thorstad said.