He then continued biking for another hour, had a light lunch, and took the Northern Metro line to the crowded Smolenskaya Station. He walked south for three blocks, entered a small café, waited for a couple of minutes, and doubled back on his route. There was no one following him. He continued to a large, grey cement apartment building at 86 Shabolovka. He rang apartment 254 from the directory at the main door, was buzzed in, took the elevator to the third floor, exited, and took the steps down to the second floor. He recognized the musty smell of stale cigarettes and old carpeting as he walked along the dimly lit corridor to the apartment at the end and rang the bell. He could see someone examine him through the peephole in the door.
“Steven?” she asked.
“It’s me,” he replied. She opened the door just a few inches, leaving the security chain in place and peered at him startled with wide, pale-blue eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“For God’s sakes, Mayushka, it’s me,” he said quietly in Russian, afraid of alerting the neighbors. He used the name he called her when they made love. “It’s me, Mayushka,” he repeated. “Let me in, I’ll explain everything.”
She hesitated, then undid the chain and opened the door but continued to gape at him in disbelief. She was wearing a blue denim shirt open at the neck and jeans, her tied up in a bun on the back of her head. Steve felt his pulse quicken. It was just a few months but it seemed many years since he’d last been with her. Seeing her out of uniform, with her slim white neck and the mole on her right cheek, it was hard to believe that she was one of the CIA’s most valuable assets in Russia.
She pulled back when he tried to take her hand. “How can you be Steve?” she said. “Your accent sounds like his, but your voice is deeper. It is different.”
“Are you alone? And did you do something to your hair?” Steve used the secret words they’d always used in the past to ask, “Are you certain we are clear?”
“Yes. My mother is out with a friend. I just gave my hair a complete do-over, thanks for asking.” But despite the exchange of secret phrases, she continued staring at him.
“It is very complicated,” he said. He led her to a dark green sofa in the small living room. There were several icons and a few family photos on the wall, a framed display of military decorations, and a large picture of a Russian officer being decorated by Stalin. There was a copy of the current edition of Pravda and a bowl of apples on a wooden table covered with a white lace doily.
Steve took a chair facing her. “It’s a very complicated story,” he said.
“You already said that,” her mouth tightened.
“But it’s true,” he said and then launched into an account of the extraordinary things that had happened since they’d last met. The report on Russian hacking had been openly derided by the new president, who now was the ultimate boss of America’s intelligence community. Brian Hunt, who for several months after Steve left had been Maya’s Moscow contact with the agency, had been murdered. The other agents who had worked on the investigation had quit their jobs rather than waiting around to be fired. The Republicans, who might have been expected to howl in outrage at Russia’s blatant actions, were groveling in silence. “If anyone had told me this was going to happen six months ago, I’d have said they were crazy,” said Steve. “But, so far, our country’s accepted all this – eyes wide open.”
“I cannot believe it,” she said. “It is terrible what happened to Brian. He was a good person. He brought me a special gift for my daughter when he went back. Your country has become just like Russia.” She gazed at Steve for a long moment. “I understand you are the person that – that was Steve,” she raised both hands. “But it is still very strange to be with you like this.”
“Strange for me too.”
“Would you like some tea?” It was the first time she had smiled since he arrived.
“That would be very nice.” He remembered when she made him tea in a glass with a lump of sugar, after the first time they’d made love. As their affair continued, it became something of a rite, “our tea ceremony,” he’d joked, “though the Japanese usually do it with their clothes on.”
After finishing the tea, he said, “Despite all that’s happened, you’re still getting the medicines, aren’t you?”
“Yes, thank God.”
“Before I left, I did my best to make sure they’d continue.”
“Thank you,” she smiled slightly.
Now comes the tough moment, Steve thought. The abrupt change of course. “But the way things are going, you can’t count on anything.”
“Despite the promise?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Anything could happen with Stokes. He’s a madman surrounded by pygmies. Your daughter’s not the only one at risk. The whole world is. That’s why I’ve come back here.” I also longed to see you again, he almost said, but didn’t. Things were complicated enough.
“But your investigation was finished,” she said.
“Yes, but not yet for me. I’m not going to let them get away with this.”
“But you’re only one person.”
“The information to destroy Stokes – to reveal the game he’s been playing with Kozlov – it exists. I’m sure of it.” He looked directly at her. “But I need your help again.”
She raised both hands. “No, Steve, Dancing Bear is over, finished. You promised.”
“I’m not asking for information about your country. I need to make contact with one or two very good hackers here. The best.”
“Hackers?”
“I’ve got a job for them”.
“But you are not with the CIA.”
“It’s for me.”
She shook her head, “You are crazy.”
“Perhaps. But who would you suggest?” he said. “I know the best hackers also work at times for Russian intelligence.”
She paused. “There are the Sirotskys.”
“They’d be available?” Steve was surprised. Olga and Boris Sirotsky were two of the most notorious hackers in Russia. In one coup alone, they’d made a fortune hacking the accounts of ten million subscribers of NetChat, and then peddling terabytes of personal data on the dark web to criminal gangs. They also worked on occasion for Russian intelligence, which, in return, closed its eyes to their larcenous doings.
“They worked with my unit for a while,” said Maya. “But no more. I am not sure what happened. Kozlov or someone close to him wanted a cut of their business. Half of everything they have made, in the past and going forward. In return, they will be allowed to continue to operate.”
“Like a tax,” said Steve.
She laughed bitterly. “They do not see it like that. Now they hate Kozlov as much as the rest of us.”
“Can they be trusted?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “It may surprise you but they have a strong sense of professional honor.”
“Will you put me in contact with them?”
“You are really serious?” said Maya.
“Tell them it’s for a few days of research work.”
“They will be very expensive. How will you pay?”
“Just put me in touch,” said Steve.
“Will it help my daughter?”
“It will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:
Moscow
It took Maya less than twenty-four hours to set up a meeting with the Sirotskys. At noon on Saturday she passed the time and address to Steve as he gazed at the Picassos in the Pushkin Museum. But he would go to the rendezvous by himself; he didn’t want Maya any more involved than she had to be.
Befitting their lofty status, the Sirotskys maintained their own safe house in the Patriarshiye Ponds, one of Moscow’s elite residential areas. They regularly swept it for hidden cameras and listening devices. Steve, aka Doug Robb, arrived precisely at 8:00 p.m. Boris Sirotsky opened the door and extended a thick hand, “You are Mr. Robb?”