But Winston Andrews harbored a secret. While funneling all of that sensitive information regarding the Soviets to the U.S., he was simultaneously funneling information regarding the United States intelligence services to the Soviets.
This was Winston’s secret. This was how he had developed the deep connections in Moscow that others had never been able to accomplish. This was how he was able to retrieve sensitive information regarding the Soviets almost in real time. He knew there had been the occasional whisper questioning his loyalty over the course of the last forty years, suspicions muttered, his work examined with narrowed eyes. But the intelligence he delivered was so consistently valuable, so up-to-the-minute, so sensitive, that the whispers and suspicions never developed into anything more. They invariably died away, often for years at a time.
Winston supposed — hell, with the clarity provided by gulping three gin and tonics, he more than supposed, he knew—that most people would consider him a traitor to his country if they learned his secret, but he didn’t see it that way. Above all, Winston Andrews was a pragmatist. The more information the two countries with opposing political philosophies and mutual suspicion possessed about each other, the less likely they were to blow each other up.
“Mutually assured destruction,” was the term. It signified each country’s knowledge that the other could retaliate for any aggressive act, nuclear or otherwise, by wiping their enemy off the face of the earth. It sounded like a terrifying prospect because it was a terrifying prospect, and as an academic, Winston knew nothing could diminish the likelihood of mutually assured destruction as effectively as information.
So he did what he had to do, year after year, decade after decade, through Republican administration and Democrat, and regretted none of it. Winston liked to believe the fact that both countries were still standing forty years after his first tentative information exchange was proof positive his theory had been right.
He pushed himself up from his leather recliner, wobbling unsteadily, and tottered out of his office for another drink.
He had no regrets about anything he had done over the past four decades, but what was happening now was different. This was a situation unlike anything he had ever experienced. Lives were directly at stake. In fact, lives had already been lost, and that loss of life could be traced straight back to Winston Andrews.
Winston could accept the notion of sacrificing a few in the interest of saving many. He had built a career on that concept. But in the past, that loss of life had been largely theoretical, at least to Winston. He had no doubt Soviet citizens had died thanks to intelligence information he had generated. Probably Americans had lost their lives, too, due at least in part to information he had passed to Moscow.
But as far as he was aware, there had never been a direct connection.
Until yesterday.
Until he had learned of a plan set in motion by the KGB to prevent a secret communique, from Soviet General Secretary Gorbachev to President Reagan, from reaching the White House. Despite his best efforts, Winston had been unable to ascertain what was contained in the letter and, in fact, strongly suspected the KGB didn’t even know.
But their plan had backfired. The plane crash ordered by the KGB had occurred not in the middle of the Atlantic as planned, but on U.S. soil, just a few hundred miles away, in Bangor, Maine. Now, news organizations were reporting that an unidentified female passenger, whose whereabouts were currently unknown, had survived the crash.
The passenger wasn’t unidentified to Winston, though. The passenger was his agent, Tracie Tanner, a young operative he had discovered and helped train, talented and smart. And things got even worse from there. A brutal massacre had taken place at Bangor International Airport: seven people slaughtered in cold blood, one a law enforcement officer. He shuddered at the thought of the carnage, a chill running down his spine that was unrelated to the temperature in his office.
Winston had no way of knowing whether Tracie was still alive. It was possible the KGB, whom he was certain had engineered the attack at the airport, had killed or captured Tracie and taken possession of the letter. He didn’t think that was the case, though. Tracie Tanner was perhaps the finest operative he had ever supervised over forty years in charge of CIA’s Soviet Intelligence Division. He doubted a small group of Russian operatives working on U.S. soil would have had the ability to eliminate her, unless she was badly injured or they simply got lucky.
He was in the process of mixing another gin and tonic when the shrill ringing of a telephone caused him to slop gin onto the bar in surprise. It wasn’t his house phone ringing, it was one of his special telephones, the one that received incoming calls only rarely, and only from a select few Russian intelligence officers. Even the majority of his contacts in the USSR were not privy to this number.
This was the call Winston had been dreading. He could predict, almost word for word, how the conversation was going to go, and it would not be good.
He sighed deeply, and reluctantly climbed the stairs to his second floor office. There was no need to hurry, the caller wasn’t going anywhere. And he wouldn’t give up. Winston walked to the phone, which he had placed squarely on the middle of his desk in anticipation of this call. “Hello?”
“Are you secure?” the caller asked, not bothering to identify himself. No introduction was necessary. Winston recognized the distinct baritone immediately, the voice raspy from a lifetime of abusing strong Russian vodka and unfiltered American cigarettes. It was Vasily Kopalev, the highest-ranking KGB member Winston had ever dealt with.
“Of course,” he answered, hoping he sounded stronger and more confident than he felt.
“Good. I am certain you are aware of the events of today?”
“I know what I’ve seen on the news.”
“Then you know our operation has, thus far, been an abject failure.”
“It would seem so.”
“We need to know where your agent is, Mr. Andrews. We need to know right now.”
“I understand, but she has not yet contacted me. She has been quite busy, though, as I’m sure you are well aware. If she is able, she will be in touch soon.”
“Are you being truthful with me, Mr. Andrews? The critical nature of this mission cannot be overstated.”
Winston’s heart sank. There was no way out of this. Kopalev’s presence on the other end of the line was indication the KGB intended to play their cards right to the end. He hesitated long enough for Kopalev to bark, “Mr. Andrews!” and then answered. “Yes, yes, of course I’m being honest with you, Vasily. The moment I hear from my operative, you will know it.”
“Sooner is better than later. We must gain possession of that letter.”
“I understand. As I said, when I hear from my agent, you will hear from me.” The line went dead and Winston returned the handset to its cradle, lifting the telephone off the desk and placing it into a drawer, which he then locked.
Tracie Tanner. His protégée, the daughter he never had. To be delivered up to the KGB, after which she would most certainly disappear forever. His stomach roiled, the gin sitting in his gut like an unexploded bomb.
He sat at his desk, head in his hands, for a very long time. Then he stood and walked downstairs to the bar to finish making that drink.
29
They made it as far as New Haven before stopping for the night. Shane felt almost as tired upon waking from his nap as he had before falling asleep. He offered to switch places and take a turn behind the wheel, but Tracie declined, saying, “I do some of my best thinking when I drive, and right now I have a lot to think about. Besides, we’ve gone about as far as we need to today.”