“Was Karl Parker one of these Bright Star agents?”
Yenen nodded, and I felt numb as the last tattered threads of my relationship with my former instructor were cut away.
“His real name was John Kubu. He was an orphan from Kenya. He assumed Karl Parker’s identity when he was nineteen, just before he joined the Marines.”
I shook my head in disgust. The man who’d trained me, my friend and mentor, was a traitor. I bristled with shame.
“Ernest Fisher and Elizabeth Connor — were they Bright Star too?”
Yenen nodded. “Yes.”
“Why would the SVR kill its own operatives?” Dinara asked. “Veles is SVR, correct?”
“He is.”
“Then why is he killing Russian agents?” Dinara pressed.
“I don’t know,” Yenen replied, “but we’ve lost twelve Bright Star operatives this month.”
“Twelve?” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Morgan. The ones you know about are the high-profile deaths. People Veles couldn’t reach easily. They had to be liquidated in a way that made a lot of noise.”
“Which explains the invention of the Ninety-nine,” I remarked.
“Exactly. A cover designed to throw people off the scent. But there have been many more quiet deaths. Bright Star agents who didn’t climb quite so high in American society.”
“Robert Carlyle?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why aren’t you in America?” Dinara asked. “If you were part of the program.”
“Not all of us went,” Yenen replied. “I was a graduate of the last year. By then, the program’s resources had been spread thin. Imagine what it takes to set someone up in a new life in America. To give them help along the way. Connections and money to make sure their business thrives and their life is successful. By the time my class graduated, the well had run dry.”
“Do you know how many there are?” I asked.
“The program ran for four years. There were twenty-four children in my class. My contemporaries in the last class didn’t get deployed, so my guess would be seventy-two people at most.”
“Your guess?” I asked.
“We did not know children from other years. We were kept apart to reduce the risk of exposure. I only know about the man you call Karl Parker because he died and a report was made. The same with Robert Carlyle, Ernest Fisher and Elizabeth Connor. The agents who are still alive are invisible. Their identities a secret only one man knows.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Salko,” Yenen replied.
“Salko?”
“Yevgeny Salko,” Dinara explained. “He’s a director of the SVR.”
“Can you take me away from here, Mr. Morgan? I’ve told you everything I know,” Yenen said.
I nodded. “Let’s get him back to Moscow,” I told Dinara. “Hold him until the case is through.”
“No,” Yenen responded quickly. “This is my chance. My bodyguards work for the Kremlin. They are jailers. This is the first time I’ve been free of them for years, Mr. Morgan. This is my chance to escape. I want you to take me to the American embassy. I want to defect.”
Chapter 85
We made our way through Moscow in Feo’s pickup truck. I was in the front passenger seat, Feo was driving, and Dinara was in the back with Maxim Yenen, who’d slept all the way back from Volkovo. We weren’t far from the American embassy, and dawn was breaking over the city. Heavy snow was falling, making driving conditions treacherous and reducing visibility to no more than thirty paces. There were four vehicles in our convoy, one ahead and two tailing, and we all moved slowly through the snowfall.
In a few minutes Maxim Yenen would be handed over to the US authorities, identified as an intelligence asset, debriefed and disappeared. This would probably be my last chance to talk to him, but I couldn’t think what else he might be able to give us.
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the old photograph of Karl Parker, Ernie Fisher and Elizabeth Connor in the Novoko Bar. I hadn’t shown it to Yenen.
I felt a flash of inspiration as I held the photograph.
“Wake him up,” I said to Dinara.
Dinara shook Yenen awake, and he groaned and rubbed his eyes.
“Ernie Fisher, Elizabeth Connor and Karl Parker all knew each other,” I said, showing him the photo.
He focused on the photograph and I saw recognition.
“That’s the bar in Volkovo,” he said. “I went there after I graduated. We heard some of the older kids used to sneak out of the base, but I thought it was just a myth.”
“You said the years were kept separate,” I remarked.
“Yes. We were kept apart to minimize the risk of identification. If we were ever captured and interrogated, the worst we could do was give up those in our class. The other years would be safe.”
His words were like a spark in darkness, and they lit a fuse.
“Karl Parker, Elizabeth Connor and Ernie Fisher knew each other, so must have been in the same class. What if Robert Carlyle and the others were all in that class too? What if they’re being killed because they’re the only ones other than Salko who can identify each other?”
“That’s possible, but why?” Yenen asked.
“To protect someone,” I replied. “To protect someone important. The Kremlin knows it has a leak. It doesn’t know who or where. Here’s this program you say could shift the geopolitical balance. What if one of these Bright Star agents has worked their way into a position of real power? How far would the Kremlin go to protect them?”
Chapter 86
Feo followed the lead vehicle and took a right onto Bolshoy Devyatinsky Lane, the street that ran in front of the embassy.
“Karl Parker called me to New York to tell me something,” I said.
“That’s why Veles didn’t kill us when he had the chance,” Dinara suggested. “He needs to know what Karl Parker might have told you, and contain any further spread of information.”
“We’ve got trouble,” Feo said, and I turned to see chaos materialize through the whiteout.
A Moscow police checkpoint blocked the street fifty yards from the embassy gate. There were a dozen uniformed police officers, along with men in long dark coats who looked far too shady to be cops.
“Those men,” Dinara said. “I recognize two of them. They were with Veles when he killed Leonid.”
They must have suspected we’d seek asylum at the embassy if things got too hot. They were probably also staking out the Private office, and Dinara’s home.
On its own, the roadblock might have been orderly and well organized, but the chaos stemmed from the squad of six Marines led by Master Gunnery Sergeant Marlon West, who was remonstrating with the Moscow police captain. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could tell West was objecting to the roadblock outside his embassy.
“Back up!” I told Feo, but I was too late.
One of the police officers noticed our convoy, immediately drew his weapon, and shouted to his comrades. In an instant, the cars were surrounded and commands were being barked in Russian.
“Stand down!” West yelled. “Stand down!”
He and his squad drew their sidearms and aimed them at the cops.
“This is sovereign territory of the United States,” West said.
“Not beyond those gates,” one of Veles’ men countered. “Out here it is Moscow. Our city. Our rules.” He turned to the idling vehicles. “Get out! Now! You are all under arrest.”
“Drop your weapons!” West yelled, and he and his squad spread out in fire formation.