Margolis started to stand as Fiegelbaum added one last statement. “By the way, bring in your Michael Jenkins passport and documents today. That alias is officially retired. We don’t want the FSB tracing you back to prior operations. We will keep the business front in Toronto open for cover purposes, but you no longer travel under that alias.”
8 — Contact
The McDonald’s at 29 Bolshaya Bronnaya Street on Pushkinskaya Square in Moscow was first opened in 1990. It quickly became the highest volume McDonald’s in the world. While customers no longer waited in line for hours, this restaurant was still one of the busiest in the world for the fast food chain. Amit Margolis ordered nine chicken McNuggets with sweet and sour sauce and a Coca-Cola.
It was January 6 and Moscow had a fresh coating of several inches of snow from the prior night. As instructed, Amit sat next to the long stretch of windows facing the street. His training wanted him to turn his back to the window, but he was resigned to the fact that he was being photographed in detail. He continued to wear his leather gloves. He was determined that at least the FSB would not get his fingerprints. Per the agreed contact plan, he wore a red scarf and kept his long black winter coat on. His eyes scanned the restaurant and the street, trying to pick out the FSB team.
He was down to his last McNugget when a man who had been at a back table stood up and walked over. “May I join you?”
“Please do.”
“Visiting Moscow?”
“Here on important business for a few days. You?”
“Not a visit for me. I live here.”
“Perhaps you can show me around?”
“My pleasure.” The man was much older than Amit. The Israeli would have put him in his sixties if he didn’t know from the file that Dmitri Arkanov was fifty-seven. It struck Amit that most long-serving intelligence professionals he knew, like Arkanov and Fiegelbaum, tended to look older than they were.
Amit ate his last piece of chicken in one bite. “Well then, let’s go.” He stood and shook the man’s hand. “I’m Lev.” Amit wheeled a cheap black overnight suitcase behind him that he had purchased the prior afternoon.
“My name is Dmitri.”
A half hour later, Amit opened the door to a randomly selected hotel room in a randomly selected hotel. The odd couple walked in and arranged the pair of chairs in the corner for an open discussion. Amit put the suitcase in the corner and removed his coat, the red scarf having been left in the trash at the McDonald’s. He kept his gloves on. “Shall we begin?” Both men sat down.
“Of course, Mister..?”
“Cohen.”
“Mister Cohen. That is appropriate.” Arkanov smiled at his counterpart. “I must say that your Russian is flawless. Did you grow up here?”
“Yes. Right here in Moscow as a matter of fact.” The response was the opposite of the truth, but Amit was more than happy to send the Russians on a goose chase.
“I am guessing that Cohen is not your real name.”
Amit smiled. “Well, I can’t make it that easy for you. But I can assure you that I have the full authority and backing of my government.”
“I have no doubt about that. And I can assure you of the same.” Arkanov crossed his legs. His dark gray suit was much higher quality than what the old-time KGB used to wear, but was still short of the standards on Wall Street. “It seems that Israel has concerns about Iran.”
Amit raised his right hand in the air, his palm facing the Russian. “Please, Dmitri. We have important matters to discuss. Let’s not waste time discussing obvious issues. We want you to agree to permanently forego the sale of the S-300 system to Iran and you want something in return. I have no idea what this is, so please tell me what you want.”
Arkanov cocked his head to the side and shook it slowly. “Your directness is refreshing. In my position politics has become too common and I am used to the dance. I will try to be more to the point.” Arkanov reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a box of Winston cigarettes. He offered one to Amit. “Do you smoke?” Amit shook his head. “Mind if I do?”
“If you must.”
Arkanov put a cigarette in his mouth and placed the box down on the table. He then pulled a lighter from the same pocket, lit the cigarette and placed the lighter on the table next to the box. “Thank you. I can’t think right unless I have a smoke.” He reached over to the far end of the table for the glass ashtray. “As you know, my government has a long history of supporting Iran. We feel it is appropriate and important for them to be able to defend their sovereign territory. We strive to achieve a fair balance in the region and your country, along with your allies, are in no danger of any military imbalance. Quite the contrary.”
“What is it you want?” Amit’s words were stern. He commanded a level of respect far beyond his years. At his request, his hair had been colored almost completely gray for this journey and the impact helped him with the older Russian.
“Your country maintains close relations with Georgia. Georgia is, to us, much as Iran is to you. In addition, we have ongoing concerns in Chechnya. Were you to provide certain support for us on both of these issues, my government is willing to seriously consider your concerns with respect to our dealings with Iran.”
Amit Margolis had spent the last five years negotiating with Russians. There was a pattern of speech that every Russian over 50 years old was locked into. It was the art of subtle vagueness that had been so critical to longevity in the old Soviet Union. For the men who had come of age in the old system, the pattern was set in granite. The pattern held true today. “We certainly share much with regard to Chechnya and we certainly have had a relationship with the Georgians,” Amit said. “How is it, specifically, that you think we can help you?”
“Since we share a common interest in Chechnya, we would like to have active cooperation between our intelligence agencies.”
Amit broke the Russian’s train of thought. “How?”
Arkanov was taken aback. He was used to complete deference from his subordinates. On the other hand, he thought to himself, Jews are notoriously pushy and rude. “We would like to have an active liaison. We want you to have a representative here in Moscow that interacts daily with the FSB.”
“I am not sure that daily makes sense; however, we are willing to work with you to share intelligence on Chechnya.”
“You understand that your objectives in Chechnya must be in line with ours,” the Russian continued.
“And those objectives would be?”
“I will be very candid. Like you with Arab terrorists or America with al Qaeda, we actively seek to interdict Muslim Chechen terrorists. We wish to cooperate in the identification of appropriate targets.” Like any good negotiator, Arkanov had sought agreement first on the easier issue.
“I think that you can correctly assume that we have common objectives in Chechnya. Now let’s discuss Georgia,” Amit responded.
“Georgia is of historical importance to my country. I will start with our objectives. We desire that they maintain an even hand in their relations with us. We are not seeking to annex Georgia, we only wish that they stay close to their historic roots. After all, the birthplace of Stalin should not become a playground of American imperialism.” Arkanov smiled but got no response from the Israeli. “We wish for your active support in restraining American inroads into Georgia and we ask that you stop selling advanced weapons systems to Georgia.”
“Israel is always happy to seek a level playing field in your backyard. Is this the key issue for you?”