Palace of Treason (42 page)

Dawn was showing in the eastern sky when the minivan dropped Hearsey and the two junior techs at their hotel, and then Ulrike and Senta
told Gable they could drop him at his separate hotel, the Cosmo near Checkpoint Charlie, or he could join them for
katerfrühstück
, a hangover breakfast, at the Café Viridis in Kreuzberg, across the river. The girls had been up all night, waiting on the street for the CIA officers to finish, and they were hungry.

Gable accepted the invitation; he liked these two SBE cowgirls who were young enough to be his daughters, and he approved of their easy familiarity and narrow-eyed professionalism. They had followed directions exactly, drove their routes with precision, and watched the street like pros. Gable’s practiced eye estimated they carried pistols in their oversized hooker bags. And they did not once ask why the SBE had secretly enabled the surreptitious entry at one in the morning by four Americans with tool kits into the state-of-the-art assembly plant, unescorted, for three hours.

Senta inspected Gable out of the corner of her eye as they parked and walked to the café. Gable felt her studying him. His ops instincts were humming—a case officer never turned them off—and there was no such thing as a friendly liaison service. The SBE ladies ordered coffees, cognacs, and
Obatzda,
a smoky Bavarian cheese spread spiced with paprika and cumin. They all sat on a worn leather couch in the corner of the café, Gable in the middle of a cyclone of perfume, swinging earrings, and fishnet thighs.

The two of them talked nonstop, often at the same time—no way were they eliciting. Gable assessed away and watched them eat, looking for the various tells and tics revealed when humans feed themselves. Exuberant, boisterous, confident—what else? Curious, clever, covering their full mouths to laugh. Gable tried throwing a long pass, asking a nosy question about pay scales in their service to see who would answer, who would defer to whom. Both answered at once, laughing, complaining about their low pay.
Huh. Same rank. Coequals.

“You guys did great tonight,” said Gable. “I appreciate your assistance.” Ulrike smiled, pleased. He had them laughing, telling war stories.

“I love the hooker getups, too,” said Gable looking at them both. “Perfect for waiting in a parked van at night.”

“What hooker getups?” said Ulrike.

“I want to ask you a favor,” Gable said quickly, bailing. “We need to keep track of when the seismic floor is totally packed, and when it ships. Can you cover that?”

“The
Bundeszollverwaltung
will alert us ahead of time,” said Senta. Her Thai silk jacket had a plunging front, and, as far as Gable could see, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.

“Who will alert you?” asked Gable.

“Our Federal Customs Service,” said Senta.

“Learning of the date of shipment will be no problem,” said Ulrike. “It will be in the newspapers and on television. Three years ago the company shipped a huge package to a laboratory in Istanbul. They used a truck with one hundred and twenty tires to move it to the port. It took them thirteen hours, they go so slowly. It will be on television for nights.”

“And there will be more coverage of them loading it on a ship,” said Senta.

“I’ll let our guys know,” said Gable. “Thanks.” They sipped the last of their coffee. Gable refused another brandy. They were at a “mile marker” moment in the conversation, when the subject would change or the evening would end.
This is when the first puffs of a cold pitch would come,
thought Gable,
but it can’t happen, not here, not from these gals
. As if they read his thoughts, the SBE officers stood up, smoothed their minis, and slung their saddlebag purses over their shoulders. Ulrike signaled to the sleepy barman and left euros on the bar.

Outside the sky was a shade brighter, the underside of the clouds red with a rising sun not yet above the horizon. City traffic was still light. Ulrike said she had to return the van to the motor pool before 0600—strict rules—but that Senta would get Gable a taxi and see him safely back to the Cosmos Hotel. Gable, amused, said absolutely not, it had been a long night, he wasn’t going to inconvenience them further, and he certainly could get back to his hotel on his own because, after all, Berlin wasn’t Beirut or Vientiane or Khartoum, no offense, so he’d say good night and thanks for covering them.

Ulrike looked at her watch and said she had to go, kissed Senta on two cheeks, shook hands with Gable, and walked away. Senta flagged a taxi, yanked open the door, and slid in across the backseat. Gable got in and pulled the door closed while Senta fired directions at the driver. She sat back and looked over at Gable to see if he was angry. She spoke quickly, apologetically.

“Martin, I know you can get back to your hotel yourself,” Senta said. They had not passed around names the evening before, but the SBE could
be expected to read hotel registers like any other service. Per Benford’s guidance and to display goodwill to their hosts, the entire team had traveled to Berlin in true name.

“You understand, you are a professional with much experience,” said Senta. “Our chief, Herr Jung, is very
stur
, very stubborn, and he gave instructions to see you safely home. Perhaps he wants you Americans to pass along praise to the president for our efficiency. Perhaps he doesn’t want a CIA
Kopfgeldjäger
running around Berlin unescorted. Perhaps he just likes barking orders.”

“What’s a
Kopfgeldjäger
?” said Gable, looking out the window.

“A headhunter,” said Senta, smiling.

Gable smiled back. He guessed she was about twenty-five, with blue eyes and an upturned nose. The blond hair fell loosely to her shoulders, framing a ready smile with even teeth.
Not a knockout like DIVA,
he thought,
but she’s got confidence and smarts, and she’s not afraid of an old CIA buffalo like me.

“How about you?” said Gable, kidding around. “You ain’t nervous riding around alone with a Yank headhunter?”

“
Aren’t
nervous,” said Senta, laughing. “No. I have a gun in my purse to protect me.”

Her handshake in the lobby was correct and firm, and Senta’s heels clicked as she walked away with a backward wave.
Good legs,
thought Gable.
Shaddup, you’re as bad as Nash. But she has a cute stern; you’re tired, get some sleep.
He had a couple of hours before the car was to take him to the embassy for a full fucking day of writing cables to Benford about last night and listening to Bromley and Westfall ordering gluten-free lunches.

Upstairs, in his room, his face in the steamy mirror of his bathroom looked tired, and he ran fingers through the buzz-cut hair that looked grayer than he remembered. A sharp
clink
sound came from the bedroom, and Gable bent his head and listened. Someone—maybe—was moving out there. Chambermaids always tap on the door. So, what? At seven thirty in the morning in a four-star hotel in Berlin? Hotel thief? Some sort of comeback from the Germans? Russians? The worst answer, had they found out about the factory entry? LYRIC? They always were brazen in Berlin, habits from the old days.

Gable straightened up, wrapped a towel around his waist, and, with a practiced eye, inventoried the bathroom for weapons in three seconds. Damn little: toothbrush handle into the hollow of the throat, hair dryer cord garrote if he could get close, astringent mouthwash into the eyes. All bullshit if the threat was real, if there was a top pro in his room. He took a big bath towel from the rack, knotted the end, and plunged the whole thing under running water. He had seen a knotted wet rope used as an arm’s-length distance weapon in Manila, an ugly little fight in a back alley swept by wind gusts during a tropical deluge. His agent had told him about
Sayaw ng Kamatayan,
the martial art of the islands that used whipping weapons. Okay, the knotted end of a sopping bath towel. Gable opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom, ready to start the overhand swing.

Senta Goldschmidt lay on his bed, covered by a sheet drawn up to her eyes. One eyebrow went up when she saw Gable with the dripping towel in his hand. He shook his head, tossed the wet mass into the tub, and sat on the edge of the bed. Senta lowered the sheet to her chin.

“Did I frighten you?” she said.

“What are you doing here?” said Gable softly, taking one of her fingers gently.

“If my chief knew, I would be fired before lunch,” said Senta. Her blue eyes searched his.

“And so?” said Gable.

“You interest me,” said Senta. “I was attracted to you—”

“I’m not exactly in your age—”

“You know a lot, you’ve seen a lot—”

“And you’re too pretty to be with—”

“And your eyes are
empfindlich,
sensitive,” said Senta.

“Listen,” said Gable, “I was guarding the Fulda Gap before you were born.”

Senta looked at him and wrinkled her upturned nose. “What is a Fulda Gap?” she said.

Gable squeezed her hand. “Cold War? East German border? The two valleys where the Russians would attack west when World War Three started? Any bells?”

Senta laughed and slowly pulled the sheet off her body. She was wearing
only fishnet stockings and her pendulous earrings. “That’s history.” She pouted, moving her legs. “Is there a modern Fulda Gap?”

Dominika had two more nights in Athens before her flight back to Moscow. Benford had returned to Washington the day before, the day Dominika filed her recommendation to the Center to recall LYRIC. Nate had met the general and once again prepped him on the exfil drill. Everything was on a hair trigger.

Safe house TULIP: There was always a sense of edgy urgency during the last meetings with a source who was going back inside. The CIA officers pushed hard for hours, knowing she could handle it—and also aware of the probability that Dominika could not travel out of Russia again anytime soon. It could be years before they saw her again.

“When you get back to the ranch,” Gable said, “put the hurt on that bug-eyed riverbank freak Zyuganov. Keep him off balance. Take credit for a counterintelligence victory. You solved it.”

Having understood fully one half of what Gable just said, Dominika smiled at him. Steady, rich purple swirled around his head.

“And when President Vladimir calls you to the Kremlin to pat you on the fanny, wear something nice,” said Gable, winking at her. “Real high heels, so you tower over him.”

Dominika rolled her eyes.

“Domi, taking credit and improving your position with Putin comes with a risk,” said Forsyth. “As long as you’re a favored subordinate you will have influence. But you also will be resented by others, inside the Kremlin and out. And if you slip out of favor the fall could be a long one.” Forsyth’s halo was bright blue; he was concerned.

“There’s another risk,” said Nate. “If Benford catches TRITON, the Center is going to be looking at why their case crashed. You have to distance yourself.” He was thinking of Yevgeny—he was a traceable link, and if he was interrogated, he could put Dominika in real danger. Nate ignored the image in his head of a faceless Yevgeny in Dominika’s arms.

Gable poured her another finger of ouzo and filled the tumbler with
water. “You got two, maybe three, personnel meetings with our officer coming up,” he said. “I want you to use maximum caution—you see something you don’t like, get the hell out of there.”

Dominika patted his hand.

“Do you want to review the Sparrow Hills meeting site?” said Nate.

Dominika shook her head. “You have told me this officer who will meet me is very good,” said Dominika. “I believe you all, but I will make up my own mind when I see her on the street.” She was still deciding whether to build up a serious case of grudge against this twenty-seven-year-old woman.

“Make it a quick look,” said Gable. “The meet should be four minutes, max. Our gal will have the equipment package for your contingency exfil kit.” Gable ran his fingers through his brush cut. “You two will have plenty of time to get acquainted later,” he said.

“She’ll have everything you need,” said Nate. “She’ll be all trained up.”

“Why do you call her she, instead of Hannah?” said Dominika, impatient.

Forsyth and Gable looked casually at Nate. They were exceptional readers of human emotions and, with the instincts of twitchy dogs in earthquake country, understood the situation. Jealousy, mistrust, and competition had no place in a denied-area operation, regardless of gender, ego, or personality. Forsyth made a mental note to suggest to Benford that another Moscow case officer be assigned to meet Dominika in Moscow, even though he expected Benford would refuse. He knew Hannah Archer was Benford’s young star, handpicked and performing magnificently.

Gable, more earthy and cynical, suspected the worst. He looked at Forsyth and telegraphed that he would be giving Nash a high colonic the next morning in the Station, a service euphemism for scaring him shitless. Nate, sitting at the end of the couch and no slouch himself in reading signals, knew he was seriously in the red. And he was furious—with her and with himself. Dominika stood apart and watched the aurora borealis display of their respective haloes collide and separate, thinking that Tchaikovsky would be suitable accompanying music, all cannons and cymbals.

Her CIA men were too good to air internal problems in front of her, but Dominika knew she had just put Nate into the
banya,
the steam bath,
and that, judging from the look on Gable’s face and his swirling purple halo, he would be waiting for Nate tomorrow with the eucalyptus switch. She didn’t know why she did it, but Dominika felt unsettled, a little twitchy.
First it’s your temper, now you’ve become a green-eyed
klikusha,
a hysterical jealous demoniac,
she thought. Idiotka,
concentrate on your work. Focus on the Gray Cardinals in the Kremlin; reserve your spite for them.
She looked furtively at Nate as the men gathered their papers and filed to the door.

Dominika kissed Forsyth on opposite cheeks three times as he left. She hugged Gable, smiling into his eyes. “Will you give me a ride to my hotel?” she said, not looking at Nate. A contrary streak was building up in her, and she reserved the right to be petty about this Hannah. So she would leave, not stay behind with Nate. She did this for Nate, letting Gable see they wouldn’t be together tonight. She ached for him, ached to feel him inside her, but she gave up loving him tonight because she loved him so much. She looked back at Nate as she left.

“Do not worry,” she whispered. “I am all right.”

Udranka was in the corner of the room watching the entire drama. Do what you want, she said, but don’t expect me to agree.

Nate never got his high colonic the next morning. At the opening of business, the ops phone behind Margie’s desk rang, and when she picked it up she heard a low quavering whistle, repeated twice. Margie stuck her head around the corner of her boss’s office door, then into the office next door. Forsyth and Gable together walked through the interior network of rooms to Nate’s little office, nearly at the end of the row, where he was drafting a cable to Headquarters on the safe-house meeting last night. Gable looked down at Nate and briefly mimed whistling. Outside the secure room, they would not speak DIVA’s cryptonym aloud, nor would they refer to her bird-call telephone signal, triggering an emergency meeting—Nate checked his watch—in one hour.

Gable and Nate arrived at the safe house separately fifteen minutes apart. There was an empty tumbler from last night on the low table in the living room with a faint trace of lipstick. Gable and Nate saw it at the same
time—they were racked with concern for her. They did a quick check of the apartment, then Gable went back down to the street to set up and watch her walk in.

Nate heard the elevator clunk to a stop on the landing, the squeak of its door, then Gable’s key in the lock. Dominika stormed into the safe-house living room with pogrom and pillage on her face. She was wearing a light beige sweater, pleated navy skirt, and black leather flats. Her hair was messily up and she wore no makeup, which Nate always thought suited her classic features. Not this Visigoth morning though. Nate willed himself not to stare at DIVA’s nipples showing under her sweater—less sexy than threat display. Gable walked in behind her, and both CIA officers waited, cataloging ashtrays and table lamps that could turn into projectiles. Dominika stood in the middle of the room. Her voice was flat but her eyes were animal eyes, shifting from Nate to Gable and back.

“The recall cable from Moscow arrived last night,” she said. “There would have been no trouble. Solovyov had a day or two to prepare for travel. But this morning the old fool comes into the office and tells me proudly that his service has offered him the directorship of a highly classified project. He is convinced that he has been vindicated and is returning to a position of influence and prestige.”

“We told him a hundred times he’s under suspicion,” said Gable. “He said he was ready to bolt the minute we rang the bell.”

“Well,
Bratok
, he seems to have forgotten your words,” said Dominika. She started pacing three steps one way, three steps the other, her arms crossed in front of her. “He is a lotus-eater; he believes they want him back!”

“Did he say when he was leaving?” said Nate. “Did he mention a flight?”

Dominika looked at him sideways as she paced, clutching herself. “I sat there, listening to him—I couldn’t blink—knowing he was headed straight into the cells. What could I say? ‘General, you might remember the words of your CIA officer that you are under suspicion, that this recall is a ruse, and that your escape to America is arranged?’ I had to sit there and nod.”

“Domi, when did he say he was leaving?” repeated Nate.

“He told me the one o’clock Aeroflot was full, so he was looking at something earlier,” said Dominika. Nate looked at his watch. She stopped pacing and squared off in front of Nate and Gable.

“He’s gone,” she said. “The GRU security officer will drive him to the airport and stay with him until he boards. So forget it. He’s in the Butyrka cellars and he doesn’t even know it.” She walked to the couch, sat down, crossed her legs, and started bouncing her foot. Then she got up again and paced to the window, parting the curtains to look out briefly. Gable looked at Nate and gestured with his head, then went into the kitchen and started opening cupboards and clinking glasses. Nate stood in the middle of the room.

“Dominika, come over and sit down,” Nate said, gesturing to the couch. She looked at him over her shoulder.

“Of course,” she said. “Let’s review the next name on the list you want me to eliminate.”

“Domi,” said Nate softly, “will you sit down or would you like me to kick your butt to the couch?”

Dominika’s head snapped around and she saw dragon tails of purple behind Nate’s head. She flashed to a battered Nate dragging her through the Danube swamp and across the bridge in Vienna. He’d had the same expression that time as he did now. Dominika swallowed the bile in her throat, came around the back of the couch, slumped in the single armchair, and glared at him.

“If you think you can kick—”

“Don’t try me,” said Nate. “Will you shut up and listen to me?” Gable came out of the kitchen with three glasses of ouzo and a store-bought food container he had found in the refrigerator. He set the tray on the table in front of the couch.

“You might want to listen to him, sweet pea,” said Gable, looking at Dominika. “This is bad, really bad. LYRIC is his agent. Just like
you’re
his agent.”

Gable had hit her over the head with it, and Dominika was furious.

“You told me Solovyov would be taken to the United States,” said Dominika. “You all told me that you had the escape plan settled with the general. Now he’s on a plane to Moscow and they will be waiting for him at the airport.”

“Do you think we want it this way?” said Nate.

“Whether you want it or not, once again you bastards have made me responsible for putting a good man in his grave,” said Dominika. She crossed her legs as she sat and started bouncing her foot again.

“Yeah, well a lot of good men—and women—get screwed in this game,” said Nate. “Maybe the point is we protect a lot of others in the balance.”

“Did you know this would happen?” said Dominika. They had made love on this couch, and again standing up at the kitchen sink, and he had known all along.

“Listen, Dominika,” said Nate, “this is not a plot. We didn’t use you to put the general away. He was our asset.”

“You wanted me to expose him, to improve my position,” said Dominika. “I never should have agreed.”

Nate shook his head. “You heard Benford,” he said. “The general—LYRIC—was already exposed by that son-of-a-bitch mole in Washington. LYRIC knew it—I told him, and he took it calmly. He was all set to resettle in the United States. He was always headstrong, an old soldier who was grieving for his lost kids, but still a patriot at heart. He
made
himself believe his people wanted him back. He wanted to go back. Maybe a little part of him knows the truth, but the Russian officer in him wants to believe otherwise.”

“Get it out of your mind that this was some slick move,” said Gable. “It’s TARFU. We’ll be answering questions from Washington for weeks. Forsyth and me, as chief and deputy, but especially droopy over there, as LYRIC’s handler. No one likes to lose an agent.”

“What is this TARFU?” said Dominika. Gable sometimes spoke in tongues.

“It means Totally and Royally Fucked Up,” said Gable, pouring more ouzo.

“You will be censured?” said Dominika, looking at Nate.

“They’ll second-guess him for months,” said Gable. “But we gotta keep doing our jobs. Just like you.” Dominika slumped in her chair, arms crossed. She hadn’t thought of the implications for Nate—now she felt doubly responsible.

“And that means—look at me—that means you have to keep doing
your
job,” said Nate. “And you have to stay safe. And part of that means staying strong against Zyuganov. And if it means in two days you have to go down into the cellars and slap LYRIC across the face, you fucking do it.”

Dominika had not thought of the very likely possibility that Zyuganov
would drag her to sessions in the prison with LYRIC. One CIA mole would be interrogating another, knowing the truth, with the poisonous dwarf looking at both their faces. If her expression did not show her unease, the shiver that would run through her certainly would. The CIA men saw it instantly.