To make matters even worse, the Agency’s Kiev-based cover company was having trouble acquiring the foodstuffs it sold. Crop yields in Ukraine and the other republics had been dismal. That was partly a product of the year’s freak weather and partly because the Commonwealth’s farms and transportation networks were still half-mired in socialist sloth. Breaking the bad economic habits built up over seventy years was proving an almost impossible task. Too much grain still rotted in unharvested fields and too much beef and pork spoiled in railroad cars left sitting on isolated side spurs.
The chronic supply shortages were starting to put a crimp in the CIA’s Moscow operations. Profits from food sales covered a lot of the network’s day-to-day expenses: bribes, safe-house rents, and the like. Even more important, having food to sell gave Banich and his agents power and the freedom to wheel and deal almost at will inside the Russian Republic’s governing circles. The capital’s generals, bureaucrats, and politicians were willing to overlook a lot for those who could put hot food on their plates.
Banich was tempted to make up the shortfall with imports from overseas, but he’d been fighting the temptation. Except for its original funding — ostensibly from a wealthy, expatriate Ukrainian — almost everything about the New Kiev Trading Company was exactly as it appeared to be. Ukrainian buyers bought Ukrainian products with Ukrainian money and then resold them for a profit to Russians, Belarussians, Armenians, and others. Going abroad for food would only increase the odds of Russia’s counterintelligence service poking its nose into the company’s lucrative and door-opening business.
Instead, it might be better to send Hennessy and some of the others down south to see if they could shake more food loose from tightfisted farmers or other hoarders. Of course, doing that would leave him even more short-handed here. Despite Kutner’s best efforts, Langley had refused every request for more personnel. Apparently Congress was busy again, cutting the defense and intelligence budgets to fund extra unemployment insurance and federal make-work programs. Idiots.
He entered the chancery through the rear door, signed in with a brisk nod to the marine sergeant on desk duty, and took the stairs to the sixth floor. Most embassy staffers rode the elevators from floor to floor. Climbing the stairs was one of the ways he dodged the mix of inbred speculation and gossip that passed for conversation in this isolated diplomatic posting. Besides, he thought, it helped him stay in shape.
Banich shook his head at that. Rationalizing wouldn’t get him anywhere. The truth was that his temper was so short right now, he’d have scaled the chancery’s outside walls to avoid unnecessary contact with the embassy’s regular staff. Days filled with too much work and nights with too little sleep were starting to take a serious toll on both his endurance and his good humor.
Coming in early paid off. The corridors and cubicles on the way to his office were still empty. Then he stopped, frowning at the pink message sheet taped to his door. Len Kutner wanted to see him again — in his office this time.
The chief of station wasn’t alone. A young woman sat comfortably in the chair facing his desk. “Alex, come on in. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Kutner stood up, an action imitated by his visitor. “Miss McKenna, this is Alex Banich, my senior field agent. He’s the man you’ll be working with for the next several months.” He nodded toward her. “Alex, meet Erin McKenna. She’s been assigned to us as a trade intelligence expert.”
Banich studied the woman with greater interest. She was taller than he’d first thought, with long legs and a slender, almost boyish figure. A mass of auburn hair framed her face. He was suddenly aware that she was studying him just as intently, frank curiosity clear in her bright green eyes. For some reason it was an uncomfortable sensation. He wished he’d shaved closer that morning.
With an effort he focused on more important matters. Now that the Agency’s stateside, penny-pinching paper pushers had finally answered his request for more personnel, he’d better find out just what he had to work with. Starting with her background. Was she an agent or just an analyst? He smiled politely. “Glad you’re here, Miss McKenna. Where’d you work at Langley? Intel or ops?”
She shook her head. “Neither. I’m not with the CIA, Mr. Banich.”
What?
Kutner cleared his throat. “That’s right, Alex. Miss McKenna works for the Commerce Department.”
“For the Office of Export Enforcement. Specifically the intelligence division.”
Banich felt himself starting to frown. A civilian. They’d sent him a goddamned civilian. And probably one with dreams of being some kind of female James Bond. Just fucking great.
“Do you speak Russian?” He spoke rapidly, the way a real Muscovite would.
“I’m fairly fluent. Enough to handle most conversations.” She answered him in the same language and then switched back to English. “I’ve also got a pretty good grasp of French and German.” She smiled thinly. “I even know enough Italian to read menus.”
The frown stayed on his face. Her vocabulary was good, but that accent would mark her as a foreigner no matter where she went inside the Commonwealth. Time to nip this thing in the bud and bundle her back to Washington where she belonged. He turned to Kutner. “I can’t use her, Len. Not out on the streets. I need trained field personnel.”
He had an instant feeling he’d been too blunt for his own good. He was right.
Erin McKenna’s eyes flashed fire at him. “Look, Mr. Banich, I’ve read the memos and message traffic from this station. All you’ve been doing is bitching about the new emphasis on trade intelligence. Well, that’s why I’m here.” She took a step closer. “I’ve got the knowledge and the experience to analyze the raw data you and your people collect. I can help point you in the right direction and call you off false scents. I am not here to play covert-action cowboys and Indians. Got it?”
Banich had the momentary feeling that he’d stuck his head into a buzz saw. He tried changing tack. “It’s not personal, Miss McKenna. It’s just that we’ve been pushing hard to get this crap… this information… Washington wants, and — ”
She interrupted him icily. “This crap, as you call it, happens to be considered vital by the people we both work for. You have some kind of problem with that?”
Banich picked up the verbal gauntlet she’d thrown down. “Yeah, I do. While we’re busy tracking down garbage like who bribed who to get some frigging import license, we’re losing track of other things. Like who’s really got control of the Russian military. Or what kinds of weapons they’re putting into production.”
Her voice was scathing. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but the cold war’s been over for six years now, Mr. Banich. We’re in a new kind of war now. One that’s being fought with weapons like imports and exports, subsidies and tariffs. Maybe you ought to wake up and get with the program before the next century arrives.”
“Subsidies don’t kill people and conquer countries. Tanks and missiles do. Maybe you should remember that — ”
“There, there, children.” Kutner broke in, not even bothering to hide his amusement now. “No more fighting. You’re both stuck with each other no matter how much you squawk.”
Banich saw McKenna roll her eyes upward in disgust at the situation. He nodded to himself. At least they could agree on that much. And maybe he really could find some use for her. At least until he could convince somebody higher up the ladder to pull the plug on this half-assed idea. Besides, coping with all the red tape Washington tossed their way might even cool her down. He turned back to Kutner. “All right, I give. She’s on the team. For now.”