Palace of Treason (44 page)

All DIVA traffic was in a highly restricted cable compartment with a BIGOT list of a dozen cleared readers, maintained as a counterintelligence-accountability
document. Not even the CIA associate deputy director for Military Affairs, Seb Angevine, was privy to operational traffic on DIVA caroming between Athens, Moscow, and Headquarters. But he did attend the daily deputies’ meeting in the director’s conference room on the seventh floor, and he did hear the hoggish Gloria Bevacqua, the deputy director for operations, whispering to the director during the sycophantic milling at the end of every meeting that LYRIC had ignored warnings and returned to Moscow, almost certainly to be arrested, and that she
had not concurred with the plan to turn him in.

Back in his office, Angevine pondered this.
The plan to turn LYRIC in
? He wrote a note, photographed the item because it had something to do with Russia, and included it in his dead-drop package that week for Russian
rezident
Yulia Zarubina. The
rezident
forwarded this latest TRITON report to the Center, eyes only Line KR, which was read by Zyuganov and his deputy, Yevgeny Pletnev, the former with a solar flare of suspicion, the latter with a douche of fear.

The only way the Americans could know about Solovyov is if they had another mole. And the “plan to turn him in,” was that a garble? Egorova had returned miraculously from Athens and immediately requested to go on sick leave, claiming she had been attacked on the street and slightly injured. Quick recovery, they said: The CI analysts wanted to talk to her; the director wanted to see her; the Kremlin had summoned her. It all stank to Zyuganov.

When Zyuganov eventually heard that Eva Buchina had been found dead in the Athens hotel room, he was truly amazed that she had been bested in a struggle. How could thin, elegant Egorova manage to beat her? Did the skinny ballerina have someone with her for protection? Nothing would be said about it again; it had to be that way. Whatever happened, Eva had missed, and now, as useful as she had been, her demise was in one way welcome. Eva was uncontrollable: She would have been the pet snake, growing in length and girth, that one day starts looking at you through the glass of the terrarium as if you were the mouse.

Egorova would have praise heaped on her, and Zyuganov would wait, and watch. He was counting on TRITON to tell him what he wanted to hear.

Brief-Encounter Site TORRENT. The hard-packed dirt trail ran downhill until it doglegged with another trail coming up from the river walk. The lamp pole at the
V
-shaped intersection of the two trails was out—the glass globe was broken—and the area was dark; the only light coming obliquely through the tree canopy was from the lights along the river. They twinkled through the autumn-bare branches, which by now had lost almost all their leaves. Leafy or bare, the forest of
Vorobyovy Gory
, the horseshoe-shaped Sparrow Hills Park on the Moskva River, was dark and spooky. Hannah Archer, sitting against the trunk of a smooth-barked ash tree, shifted her aching legs and checked the luminous dial on her watch, then tucked it away under the sleeve of her black hooded hard-shell jacket.

Time. Hannah stood up slowly, not making a sound, and dug the Scout PS24 out of the shell’s side pocket, a thermal imaging monocular with a rubber eyepiece at one end and a lens aperture at the other. Hannah set the lens on “white hot”—a (human) heat source would show up as a ghostly white image against a totally black background—and scanned a hundred-degree arc in front of her in the direction of the ascending trail.
Come on, DIVA,
thought Hannah,
what’s keeping you, girl?

At the very bottom of the curving trail Hannah saw a phantom coming up through the trees. The figure looked like something ghost hunters photograph in a farmhouse attic, floating and disembodied. Hannah watched her come along the trail, but she now concentrated on the path behind the ghost. No one coming up behind. Hannah smoothly pivoted to hose down the woods on either side with invisible infrared light. Clear. Hannah kept her feet planted and twisted her torso to check the black uphill forest behind her. Nothing. She refocused on the ghost, noting the imperceptible hitch in her stride—not quite a limp, but just noticeable if you looked for it. DIVA.

Hannah stowed the PS24 and swung her backpack over one shoulder. She stepped out from behind the tree and onto the trail just as Dominika
came up. Hannah was a dark shadow, a forest druid in a hood, and she held up her hand.

“Captain Egorova?” she said softly. “I’m Hannah.” She pulled the hood off her head and the curly blond hair spilled out, the eyes crinkled with intensity, and the guileless smile lit up the woods. With the smile came the candy-red bloom of dedication and appetite and resolve.
And passion?
As tall as Dominika, perhaps slighter, certainly fit—she vibrated with energy and operational adrenaline. With a nod of apology, Hannah brought out the thermal scope and did a three-sixty scan of the forest.

She would have handed it to Dominika to try but Moscow Rules included the requirement that the American case officer have no physical contact with the foreign agent for fear of pollinating the Russian source with
metka,
spy dust, a sticky, colorless fine powder—a compound of nitrophenylpentadienal, also called NPPD—which the FSB surreptitiously spritzed everywhere: on American doorknobs, car handles, floor mats, steering wheels, and in overcoat pockets. From a handshake or unwrapped item, a polluted Russian agent (if under suspicion) would fluoresce like a neon Samsung billboard above Tverskaya Street.

“Course you have to be careful with it,” whispered Hannah, lowering the scope. “The IR is visible to a simple night-sight goggle, so you have to take short looks.”
That smile would be visible to night-vision devices, too,
thought Dominika.

“Come on, let’s walk,” said Hannah and they took the longer uphill leg, deeper in shadow with less ambient light. They quickly set the time for their next brief encounter, always the first piece of business, in case of a sudden interruption and a busted meeting.

Dominika was impressed. Hannah was fast, complete, and ordered. “They want me to tell you they know why you didn’t show up the last night in Athens,” said Hannah. “They know about the blond woman, the assassin. Are you okay?”

“Taped ribs, bruised knuckles, sore throat. I told the Center I was mugged. There’s no problem now,” said Dominika. “My boss looks at me like I’m a witch.”

“They want to know whether you are in danger from your supervisor. They instructed me to tell you that they will pull you out if you request.”

Dominika looked at Hannah, with that guileless face and the red of passion swirling around her head. “Please thank them,” she said. “I am in no danger and am making progress.”
You sound a little old and stuffy next to this nature child,
thought Dominika.
I wonder if Nate thinks so, too.

“That’s a relief,” said Hannah. “I could tell Nate was worried.”
Indeed.
Dominika said nothing. Hannah moved right through her checklist.

“Here’s the equipment kit for your exfil plan,” she said, pulling out a small duffel wrapped in a larger plastic bag. She held it open so Dominika could lift it out. “Checked and totally clean. You already know what’s in it; you practiced with the same kit. If you have any questions, I can talk you through them via SRAC. Okay?”

Efficient, confident; she knows what she’s doing. How old? Nate said Twenty-seven?
Bozhe,
God. “I remember the plan,” said Dominika, feeling like a foreign asset being briefed by her case officer—which is exactly what she was. “I have several things,” she continued. “Please tell them that I have determined where LYRIC is. He is still alive. In fact, the old
morzh
has confessed to nothing. I saw him in his cell, but he did not see me. Zyuganov is sweating that he won’t get a confession; the interrogation has gone on too long. Now they are worried about his heart. LYRIC is under house arrest in his Moscow apartment, waiting for the second round of interrogation. He won’t make it past Level Two.” Hannah looked over at Dominika, a serious look on her face. “Did you get all that?” said Dominika.

“Yes,” said Hannah, patting her backpack. “I’m recording everything. I don’t want to miss anything. But what’s a
morzh
?”

Dominika didn’t know the English word and tried to explain what a walrus was, and even tried a snorty grunt to illustrate. Hannah covered her mouth with her hand and Dominika started laughing too, and they were in the midnight woods, committing espionage, listening for the fatal snap of a branch, laughing like sisters.

“You’ll be careful of that recording—my voice—won’t you, Hannah?” said Dominika, resisting the impulse to ask whether Nate would hear it.
Of course he would.

“I won’t let anything happen to it,” said Hannah, serious again. “Besides, if anyone tries to play it back without pressing the right buttons, it scrubs the entire digital file in two point three seconds.”

“You seem to have all the right equipment,” said Dominika.

“We have a lot of toys, sure,” said Hannah, “but the most important thing is your security. That’s my only job.”

Dominika could even hear the cadence of Nate’s words as Hannah repeated the cant.
They trained together, how lovely. And now I’m standing in the forest with this little gladiator, who’s telling me she’ll take care of me.
Dominika thought an uncharitable thought. “I feel safer with you already,” she said, talking to the recording device, talking to Nate.

Hannah looked at Dominika for a second.
She’s perceptive too,
thought Dominika.
Is that bitchy enough for you?

“There’s more,” said Dominika. “Tell them that Yevgeny is still cooperating, and he will tell me anything I want to know.”
Did you hear that, Neyt?
“Yevgeny just told me there was a request from Zarubina for satellite imagery support to survey a proposed meeting site in Washington, DC. Yevgeny was preparing a formal memo to the Space Intelligence Directorate at Vatutinki. He showed it to me … for a kiss.”
Stop it, enough.
“I copied the coordinates.” Dominika handed Hannah a slip of paper. “I assume Zarubina intends to use it for TRITON.” Hannah looked at the paper and read the coordinates aloud for the recorder, then tore the paper into pieces and stuffed them into a small bottle of clear liquid that she shook violently. Acetone to destroy the handwritten note, Hannah explained, smiling.
Cute smile,
thought Dominika.
Smart girl,
she thought.

Marta sat on a fallen tree trunk, shaking her head. Really, now, jealousy does not become you.

“Captain Egorova, this is huge,” whispered Hannah. “Nathaniel is going to freak. This could lead us to TRITON.” Hannah’s young face was alight.

It’s Nathaniel now,
thought Dominika, looking at her face.
There’s not a false bone in her body. Candy-red halo, powder and strawberries, and those Roman curls.
Hannah pulled her sleeve up and checked her watch.

“We’re past our time limit,” said Hannah. “Is there anything else? Do you need anything? Is your SRAC gear okay?” Dominika nodded. She tamped down the urge to ask about her and Nate—she would not appear
nekulturny.
Hannah scanned the woods around them again and shook her head—negative, nothing moving.

“I’ll see you again at site SKLAD—it’s ‘warehouse’ in English. You remember?”

Dominika nodded.

Hannah looked down at her feet, then up into Dominika’s eyes. “It was great to meet you,” she said. “You’re an amazing person, doing an amazing job.”

Dominika searched her face for the fissure of sarcasm or toadying. Her halo held steady. “It is good to meet you too,” said Dominika. “We will work well together. Please pass my regards to Nathaniel and the rest of them. You’re doing the same job now that he did.”

“I read the whole file,” said Hannah. “Nate’s a fantastic case officer. He helped me prepare for this assignment. He helped me a lot.”

Dominika saw the emotion, saw how quickly she swallowed it down. She couldn’t make herself dislike this woman.

“He’s totally dedicated to supporting you,” said Hannah suddenly. “
Totally.
We all are.” The chemical message on the Pheromone Channel was unambiguous:
Whatever may have happened, for whatever reasons, he loves you. It doesn’t matter what I feel, he’s yours.
Hannah almost took Dominika’s hand and shook it, almost impulsively reached out to give her a quick hug, but she stopped herself. She turned, flipped up the hood of her jacket, and walked uphill, swallowed by the shadows, leaving DIVA immobile for a second until she turned and headed downhill toward the river.

Udranka walked down with her.
Kak tebe ne stydno,
she whispered, shame on you.

Yevgeny left his hairy thigh draped over Dominika’s haunches as he panted for breath. She had turned onto her stomach, partly to furtively mop her face but primarily so she wouldn’t have to look at the forested ears and nostrils, the corrugated toenails and torn cuticles.
Bozhe moi,
my God, even his
khuy
was feathered in downy hairs like a Kamchatka brown bear. Sparrows used seduction to further the strategic goals of the homeland—sexpionage was the combination of the two oldest professions—but Dominika was having sex with bottle-bristle Yevgeny to keep herself alive: He was her only source of information about how the TRITON case was progressing.

She had been back to Line KR for a week. Zyuganov was the same: swirling black clouds of envy and deceit. The interservice counterintelligence
board had been abuzz over Dominika’s uncanny performance in detecting something fishy about General Solovyov and recommending his recall from Athens, a brilliant piece of intuitive tradecraft. Zyuganov, frantic with jealousy and Putin-envy, was now sweating to get a confession out of the old soldier, so far without results. Yevgeny said it was for this reason the general had been put under house arrest in his small apartment in the northwestern suburb of Khimki. A live-in guard watched the old bachelor—where was he going to go without a passport? Give him a month’s rest, then start again.

Yevgeny had missed her while she was away. He had come over after work, and they sat in the living room of Dominika’s little apartment and munched on
kotlety Pozharskie,
minced chicken cutlets fried to a golden brown with spicy
ajvar
sauce. As they ate, Dominika pulled on Yevgeny’s strings with delicate fingers to get him talking. There was a lot, but Yevgeny could talk and eat at the same time.

Zarubina was now managing TRITON by means of personal meetings. She had flattered, complimented, suggested, cajoled, and directed TRITON to collect increasingly spectacular intelligence from the very heart of CIA. Yevgeny called her a genius, an artist. At the top of the list: Zarubina had been directed to task TRITON with discovering whether there was another American mole
inside
the Center—a mole who filled the gap when the traitor Korchnoi had been eliminated. The Blue-Eyed Serenity in the Kremlin had ordered his intelligence services—all of them—to find out. They all grimly noted the unmasking of the Caracas recruit. And the recall of the GRU general from Athens had caused a furor. The Americans were busy again, they told themselves, and they knew, just knew, that there were even worse enemies out there.
They’re looking for me,
thought Dominika.