“Answer me,” said Steve.
“Who the fuck are you to talk to me like that?” asked Phelps.
“Either you answer me, you prick,” Steve said, taking a step forward, “or I’m on the line to Langley.”
“I may have made a vague statement along those lines,” said Phelps.
“When she said she had enough and wanted out,” said Steve.
“Yeah, she thought she could just walk away after all the money we spent on her and her kid.”
“And you told her you’d turn her into the FSB?”
The red flush in Phelps face had spread to his neck. “For Christ’s sake, Steve, stop being a Boy Scout. I was just trying to keep her in line, put a little fear of God into her.”
“You filthy son of a bitch,” said Steve, putting both hands on the desk and leaning toward Phelps. “And you didn’t make a mention of any of that, did you, in your reports back to Langley?”
“Because I talked her out of it,” said Phelps. “There was no need to rock the boat.” He was still defiant.
Steve balled his fists; his breathing quickened. He just managed to restrain the urge to leap across the desk and grab Phelps by his fleshy neck. “Don’t you ever go near her again,” he seethed.
“Since when do you give the orders around here?” Phelps snarled.
Steve pivoted and left the office, slamming the door behind him.
He went down the corridor to his own office and dispatched an encrypted message to Deputy CIA Director Jim Page. “Jim, just learned that after Dancing Bear tried to end our arrangement two months ago. Phelps threatened he would blow the whistle to the Russians. Dancing Bear still wants out and is clearly upset. I convinced source to stay on, promising it would just be for few more months. Also promised that after it’s over we would still continue our medical deal for life. This is the only way we can keep our asset on board. The amount involved is nothing compared to the value we get. Need urgent authorization from the top.” The top was the director of the CIA.
Two hours later, the answer came back. “Authorization granted from top for lifetime commitment. Good hunting.”
Two days later in a very brief meeting in the packed corridors of the Belorusskaya metro station, Steve relayed that commitment to Maya. “That promise I made you has now been authorized by our government, at the very highest level,” said Steve. “All we ask is a few more months.”
“How can I trust you?” she asked.
“Because I would never lie to you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “We will see.”
Over the following months in Moscow, as the U.S. election campaign pursued its frenetic pace, Steve’s team uncovered increasingly shocking evidence. The Russian hacking was far greater in scope than even the most virulent Russophobes had previously suspected. As an officer in one of the Russian military units doing the hacking, Maya provided the most solid and devastating information. Almost all of it, however, was coming via dead drops and ciphered messages. Despite the risks involved, Langley was demanding that Steve have another extended face-to-face meeting with Maya to confirm the information she had secretly passed.
He set up another early meeting in the CIA safe house at 27 Smolensky Pereulok. It was a gray evening, pouring rain. Again, Steve arrived early and, despite the gravity of the business at hand, he still felt the same adolescent stirring in his loins, the tingle of desire. He could still smell her skin and feel the silkiness of her hair when she let it down over her shoulders. He remembered the way her nostrils quivered when she was aroused, the soft cry she made when she came. And yet he knew it was not to be. It was all a pipe dream.
He opened the door when she rang.
“Horrible weather,” she said as she entered and brushed by him. She put her umbrella in a stand and took off her dripping raincoat “This has to be done in fifteen minutes,” she said. Her cheeks were wet from the rain and flushed from the cold. Repressing a crazy desire to take her in his arms, he led her into the living room and motioned her to sit on the sofa; he took a chair across from her. She wore a white wool sweater and blue skirt that came to her knees. There was no sign of emotion on her face: she sat there stiffly, legs primly crossed, waiting for him to begin.
“Would you like something to drink?” he said picking up a bottle of vodka from the bookcase. “To warm you up.”
She considered before she replied, “Very well.”
He poured a glass for her, then one for himself. He raised his in the air in salute before he drank. Still grim-faced, she raised her glass slightly, and then took a large sip herself.
“Maya, the information you’ve provided has been fantastic,” said Steve, feeling the warm jolt from the vodka.
“What do you need to know?” she asked. Once again, he thought darkly, I’ve turned her into a call girl servicing her client.
“I need to confirm some key points directly from you,” he said, “rather than from coded messages.”
“So you could be sure the messages were really from me?” She smiled bitterly.
“You don’t know who could be feeding us information,” said Steve. He didn’t add that the listening device hidden in the living room would record all their conversation to be later played back to Langley.
“So what do you need to confirm?” asked Maya, taking another sip.
“First, Russian army units have actually hacked into the files of both American political parties: the Democratic National Committee and the Republicans.
“That is correct,” she said. “My own unit was involved. I imagine your bosses back at your headquarters will be listening to all this.” Her eyes bored into his. “Next?”
Jolted by her bitterness, he still continued down the checklist. “President Kozlov himself ordered the hacking.”
“I saw the instruction myself. Next?”
“Kozlov is doing this in order to elect Stokes.”
“That I cannot say. I know he is doing it to undermine Stokes’s opponent.”
“How do you know?”
“I told you: I have seen the instructions.”
“Could you get us a copy?”
“Of the secret instructions?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible. Each is view-from-application only, access-monitored, and watermarked with the name of the person receiving it. There is no way I can do it.”
“You also say Russian intelligence has built up its own file on Stokes over the past several years.”
“That is what I have heard from people who should know,” she said. “I have not seen the files myself. But I have heard they contain very embarrassing pictures; pornography, starring Stokes.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Just a few more things,” said Steve.
“You say you have also heard that some people connected with the Stokes campaign may have been in contact with Russian authorities about how and when the hacked material could be released. Do you have any specific names?”
“None. I just know that it may be going on. Now I must go.” She started to get up.
“Wait, there’s something else you have to know. I’ve been ordered to return immediately to Langley to supervise the drafting of our final report.”
Her eyes darkened. “So you are leaving again?”
“The irony is, it’s because of you – because of the dynamite material you’ve given us.” There was so much more he wanted to say. He wanted to reach across and embrace her, protect her, take her away from all this. Of course, with Langley listening, there was no way he could do any such thing. She gazed directly at him now with her pale blue eyes. Did she also feel a similar longing? There was no way to ask.
“Another thing,” said Steve. “Phelps will no longer be your agency contact. I’ve made sure of that. Another person will be taking over. His name is Brian Hunt. I’ve worked with him for many years. You can trust him.”