The Art of War: A Novel (23 page)

Maybe Anna’s status as an unofficial spy was a distinction without a difference, considering the turmoil that has racked Russia repeatedly since Communism collapsed and the new ex-Communists swallowed capitalism whole. Spies are spies. I ought to know: I work for a spy agency. Believe me, in the spy business the right hand rarely knows what the left hand is doing. It’s also kinda tough at times figuring out who the good guys are.

Me, I was lucky. I had faith in Jake Grafton, who was as close to an American warrior-saint as I was ever likely to meet. I think Anna felt the same way about Ilin. Maybe what Anna and I had in common was the need to believe in something. Or someone.

That thought made me slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps I should take religious vows and join a monastery, if I could find one that didn’t do vows of chastity. Money I might possibly be able to live without, but not sex. Better yet, maybe I ought to be seeing a shrink on a regular basis. It might be informative to know what was actually happening inside my head, but I doubted if the shrink would tell me. They had their little secrets, just as I had mine. Not that I would ever tell them mine.

When the wage slaves began to dribble out of the money temple, I watched for Anna. Saw her, and my hard little heart gave an extra thump. I rose and followed.

Following someone through a city you don’t know well is iffy at best. If they jump a bus or taxi, you gotta be quick, and even then, if you don’t want your rabbit to burn you, it takes luck.

She queued up at a local bus stop, so I hoofed it back down the street and found a taxi. Got it, tried English on the driver, and he answered with a heavy German accent. The bus passed us, so I said, “Follow that bus.”

He was dubious. I got out a wad of Swiss francs and waved them, so he pulled up behind it. I saw Anna get on.

Away we went, slowly, stopping here and there on the way to a suburb. People got off, people got on. Anna stayed on the bus, so we stayed behind it.

“You follow someone, yes?”

“Yeah. I’m a spy.”

“Funny man.”

“A bag of laughs.”

“Why?”

“My wife is on the bus. I think she’s meeting another man.”

He nodded sagely. “Wives very…” After a bit he added, “How you say? Difficult?”

“Yeah.”

I figured we had gone about three miles when Anna got off in an area of high-rise apartment buildings. I paid off the cabbie, gave him a nice tip and got out when she was a block ahead of me.

She never looked behind her. Either she didn’t think anyone was following her or she didn’t care. The entrance was a glass door with rows of names and buttons on the right side. There she was. Anna Modin, 6E. I was tempted to push the button, but stood there thinking about it. If she lived with someone, he or she might be there, and Grafton had been emphatic that no one was to see us together. At some point paranoia becomes a way of life if you are a spy. I suppose that’s good life insurance, even if it doesn’t do much for your personal or love life. On the other hand, hers was the only name on the flat.

It was a chance I refused to take. I wasn’t going to be the one who blew her cover or put her life in jeopardy. I strolled away.

*   *   *

The next morning I was out front when Anna exited the building. I watched her walk to the bus stop. Even though I was about fifty yards away I had no doubt it was her. I knew her figure and walk. A knot of people gathered there, four from her building. Others exited and headed for cars, or stood on the sidewalk until people picked them up.

The bus came along, and Anna and her building mates climbed aboard.

I went to the entrance of Anna’s building and waited. In a moment a woman came out. I caught the door and entered. Let the door close behind me.

There was no desk, so no receptionist or doorman. All self-service. Other people came down in the elevator.

I entered the stairwell and climbed up to the sixth floor, being careful to remember than in Europe, the first floor is the one above the main floor. Seated myself in the stairwell and waited. Thought about Anna. Tried to figure out how I felt about her. Gave up, finally, and felt sorry for both of us.

At ten o’clock I figured that anyone who lived with Anna was out if they were going out, so I went out onto the floor and found 6E.

Knocked. Loudly. No answer.

Got out my picks and went to work on the lock. It took about a minute for me to open it. No one came into the hallway while I was working. Nothing could be simpler. Actually, I felt like an idiot. I would have had the lock in twenty seconds if I hadn’t been so clumsy. My mind wasn’t on the job, which is a big no-no in this business. People who don’t pay attention get arrested a lot or wake up dead.

I opened the door, completing the crime. I made sure it shut behind me. Once inside, I scanned the place, saw that I was in a small living room with a television, sound system and closet. I walked on, checking every room. One bedroom with a closet, a bathroom with a tub, a small kitchen with dining nook. That was it. From the evidence, only one person lived there.

I shed the coat and gloves and got busy searching. I was only interested in whatever she might have hidden that she didn’t want found, so merely scanned the cupboards, small refrigerator and closets. Everything else I gave my full attention.

I know how to search a place, and I did it right. Putting everything back as it was made the job last longer, but I had all day. She had no photos of anyone, which I thought was kinda sad. Not a parent, child or man. No one. No letters from anyone. A few books were among her few personal possessions. A Bible in Russian and one in German. I carefully went through her clothes closet and dresser. Even went through the trash.

Two hours later I was convinced there was nothing hidden in the apartment. I scanned the fridge, decided that nothing there looked appetizing and settled on a package of freeze-dried soup in the cupboard. Just add water and bring to a boil, then serve.

There was a half-full bottle of Italian red wine with a cork stuck in it that I appropriated. I poured myself a full glass and sipped it while I waited for the soup to warm.

Wondered how Anna spent her evenings and weekends. I hadn’t even seen a crossword puzzle or library book. She had some CDs to listen to, and maybe she watched television some.

After I had the soup, I sat in her most comfortable chair and worked on the wine. Felt as if I were invading her privacy, looking at a corner of an empty life that she wouldn’t want me to see, if she had a choice. I felt sad. Wanted to leave, but didn’t. I had a job to do, too.

Was I still in love with Anna? I thought not. Time doesn’t just heal wounds; it kills passion.

*   *   *

When Sarah Houston showed up for her first day of work at the CIA, before she did the usual checking-in things, including forms and photos and fingerprints, she was escorted straight to Jake Grafton’s office.

“Hey, Sarah. Sit down, please.”

She looked around distractedly, taking in the wall-to-wall carpet, the flags, the paintings on the wall, then settled into a chair.

“Admiral,” she said.

“Thanks for coming to work here. We really need your help.”

“As if I had a choice.”

She didn’t, of course. Her real name was Zelda Hudson. She had once been involved in the theft of a nuclear-powered attack submarine. Grafton had laid hands on her, actually saved her from her co-conspirators, and she had been convicted of numerous felonies. Later, Grafton had sprung her from the clutches of the federal prison system with a presidential order and could get her sent back with a telephone call. None of that would appear in the agency’s personnel records.

“After a bit,” he said, “I’ll have one of the EAs take you down to personnel for all the usual forms, photos, fingerprints and so forth. They’ll give you an ID and access to some of our computer systems. We’ll skip the polygraph exam. I would appreciate it if you stayed in character, from this moment on, as Sarah Houston, federal wage slave.”

She grunted, which was about what Grafton expected. Houston was one heck of a hacker and data miner. If you wanted a computer genius of the first order of magnitude, you wanted Sarah Houston. If you wanted nice, you needed to keep on looking.

The admiral handed her the file that contained the memo on Chinese hacking of the U.S. Navy’s operational schedules. He waited until she read it, including Mario Tomazic’s handwritten margin comments.

“That is your first assignment,” he said. “I want to know everything you can discover about what the Chinese have seen, what they know, what they don’t know. Anything. Everything.”

“You’re going to give me access to the navy’s computers?”

“Heck no. Hack your way in.”

“What if I get caught?”

“Don’t get caught.”

“Okay.”

“Then I want you to hack into the Chinese navy’s computers. I want to read their stuff.”

“The Chinese have an entire organization engaged in computer espionage and counterespionage,” Sarah Houston objected. “Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, thousands of
really smart
people. There’s just one of me.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one I’ve got.”

She stared into those cold gray eyes, which stared right back, unblinking, pinning her. Finally she lowered her eyes and said, “Terrific.”

“As of today you are on my staff. We’ll get you an office and all the rest of it, and you settle in and get after it. I would like a report as soon as you get your bearings.”

She took a deep breath and nodded. Put the file back on the desk.

Grafton buzzed the receptionist. “Send Anastasia Roberts in, please.”

He introduced the two women, told Roberts to take Houston to personnel. Then he stood and stuck his hand out at Houston. “Welcome aboard.”

She took it, and her lips twisted as she tried to smile. “Thank you, Admiral.”

Out in the hallway Roberts asked, “Is this the first time you’ve met Admiral Grafton?”

“No,” Sarah Houston said without emotion. “We go back a ways.”

“He’s very nice to work for,” Roberts opined.

Houston snorted silently. Anastasia Roberts obviously had never seen Jake Grafton in action. She didn’t bother to reply.

Roberts dropped the subject, and started into the trivia of how one worked for an agency where everything everyone did was a deep secret. Apparently Roberts didn’t know Houston had just come from the NSA, an equally mysterious bureaucracy, and Sarah didn’t make an effort to enlighten her. Roberts had no need to know.

*   *   *

The sun had set and the twilight was about gone when I heard the key in the door. I was sitting in darkness in a chair with my back to a window.

The door swung open and Anna Modin stepped in. She closed the door, locked it, then turned around and saw me. In the dim light coming through the windows, she apparently couldn’t recognize me.

She didn’t panic. Didn’t say a word. Merely reached for the wall switch and turned on the light.

“Hello, Anna.”

She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. “Tommy?”

“Yep.” I stood and stepped toward her.

“My God,” she whispered, and wrapped her arms around me. Put her head on my shoulder.

I hugged her fiercely. That’s when I knew: I still loved her.

*   *   *

We were sitting in the darkness of Anna’s apartment, with only the lights from the street coming in, as we sipped the last of the red wine. Rain began streaking the window. There was so much to ask, and yet, no real place to start. We did long silences.

“How did you find me?” she finally asked.

“The CIA found you. Somehow. Jake Grafton sent me here with a message for you to pass to Ilin. Are you still in communication with him?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I need to talk to him.”

“He’s not yet in Switzerland.”

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow, I think.”

I smiled.

“Oh, Tommy. I—” She stopped abruptly, rose from her chair and went to the bathroom. After a while she came back. In the subdued light it was hard to tell, but I thought she might have been crying.

She started back for the chair, but I reached for her and pulled her down to the couch beside me. Her presence was a tangible thing. I held her hand. It was warm and firm. And it clung tightly to mine.

After a while she said, “Are you hungry?”

“We can eat something here,” I said. “Grafton didn’t want us to be seen together.”

She grimaced. “No. No! No! I refuse! We will go out. To a restaurant with light and music and laughter. We will eat a fine dinner and drink champagne. I am tired of wasting my life sitting in this…” She gestured. “This prison.”

I wasn’t going to argue. She rose from the couch, picked up her purse and said, “Come.”

The rain had changed to snow when we exited her building. We walked the streets holding hands as the flakes came fast and thick. Her shoulder kept bumping into mine. She smiled. Her eyes were bright and glistening, and snowflakes melted on her eyelashes. She held my right hand for a while, then switched sides and held my left.

The restaurant was gay. Bright lights and a four-piece jazz band. We got a table in a corner away from the band where we could talk without shouting. I ordered a bottle of French champagne, and we sipped it, talking about little things. I let my eyes roam around occasionally, scrutinizing the patrons at the other tables. After a while we ordered.

Before our food came she went to the ladies’. Took her purse. While she was gone, I checked out the other patrons of the restaurant again. Looked over the waitstaff. Anna was known here, apparently a regular patron. If someone was keeping tabs on her, this was the place.

So I looked. Got out of sorts a little. In our line of work, it was impossible to ever take a day off. Caution became ingrained. And I was disobeying Grafton, which wasn’t a thing to be taken lightly.

When she returned, as she walked between the tables she glanced around, taking people in, looking for familiar faces. It was a habit. Finally she sat and said, with her hand in front of her mouth, “I left a message in a drop.”