She thought back to her recruitment at the Metropol in Moscow, and wondered what had become of the stunning Russian girl who had wet her chin between her thighs so long ago. Certainly she was not a three-star admiral now. That sexy evening had started the whole thing: Audrey began spying as a way to boost her career, specifically to show the son of a bitch she called daddy that she could match, no surpass, his own career in the navy. As the stripes on her sleeve multiplied, Audrey was confirmed in her belief that she had made the right decision regarding the Russians, despite the initial circumstances. Now she was in danger. Her orderly mind contemplated the odds, and she felt no fear, confident in her own intellect and in Anton’s skill.
Audrey was ready to leave the navy, and if she became DCIA it would mean two or three or four more years of bureaucratic torpor, spectacular gains for Moscow, the collapse of CIA, and continued annuity payments from the Kremlin, after which Audrey Rowland would disappear, and retire to a beach somewhere with hot and cold running chocito in sarongs and braided hair. She wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.
But first she had to survive this imminent threat to her liberty, and trust that SUSAN was at this moment speaking to Anton, who in turn was alerting security at Putin’s compound, and that both the CIA officer and his confounded mole would be arrested and eliminated so her secret would remain safe forever.
ARGENTINE CHORIPANES
Split and toast small rolls on a griddle until brown. Cut chorizo in half, then in half lengthwise, and grill until caramelized and charred on both sides. Grill sliced white onions until caramelized and finish with a splash of balsamic vinegar. Put chorizo and onions on toasted rolls and slather with chimichurri sauce. (Process shredded carrots, parsley, vinegar, red pepper flakes, garlic, olive oil, salt, and pepper in a blender into a thick sauce.)
35
Gall, Not Cheek
SUSAN’s tardy relay of MAGNIT’s urgent warning about the CIA officer who would attempt to penetrate the president’s swanky party to contact the mole known as CHALICE was received in the Center, but was further delayed by the laborious special handling required of all incoming messages from illegals. It finally was forwarded from Yasenevo to the communications unit at Cape Idokopas, where it was read by Gorelikov with a mixture of alarm and triumph. He made a hurried inquiry with the security office: they still had time; the new art-restoration shift from Poland was arriving the next morning. He immediately convened an emergency executive meeting in the secure room of the commo shack with General Egorova of the SVR, Bortnikov of the FSB, and Patrushev of the Security Council.
“The szloba, the gall of these Americans, attempting this at the president’s compound,” said Bortnikov behind his blue halo. “I could understand it in Moscow, business as usual, but this is too much.”
Patrushev had no time for games. His own yellow halo of deceit and cruelty shimmered in the small gray room. He pointed his Cossack’s nose at Gorelikov. “Gall, not cheek. What is so complicated?” he said. “When the American arrives with the Polish contingent, it will be a simple matter to arrest him immediately. Let our colleagues here”—he nodded to Dominika and Bortnikov—“arrange a vigorous interrogation, determine the identity of this CHALICE, and settle the matter. The American and his mole can share a cell in the Black Dolphin, in Orenburg.”
Gorelikov had his courtier’s face on, so as not to offend. “I agree with you wholeheartedly, but if you would please indulge me for a moment.” He shot his French shirtsleeves absentmindedly, revealing magnificent cuff links of brushed silver and red coral. “I propose, for your consideration, a discreet alternative to immediate arrest and interrogation, as logical and proper a course of action as it might be. I posit that if we instead let the American roam freely during the three days of the president’s reception, under constant and strict surveillance, he is likely to attempt contact and unknowingly lead us directly to the individual we seek, the mole CHALICE.”
Bortnikov, whose FSB surveillance teams were prodigious, liked the idea. More credit for him and his agency if he could bag both the case officer and the mole. Dominika kept her face impassive, but internally she knew this diabolical ambush tactic could blow her out of the water in forty-eight hours. And she knew something else. It would be Nate Nash who would be coming from Washington; she knew him, and she was certain of it. As good as he was on the street, Nate could be kept under strict control by static surveillance following his every move around the presidential compound through long lenses that would be impossible to spot. If he made a beeline toward her, convinced that he was black, the game would be over.
Something didn’t make sense. How had MAGNIT learned of Nate’s mission? And where had the cryptonym CHALICE sprung from? She guessed the answer, but could not believe it. She had been doing this long enough, and knew Benford well enough, to come to the unspeakable conclusion that this was what the Americans called a barium enema, designed to flush out MAGNIT by using Nate as primanka, an expendable lure, dangling bait. A desperate gambit, sacrificing him.
How ironic it would be if Nate unwittingly was the engine of her compromise? Just about as ironic as what Dominika knew she had to do now. Gently, she thought, stay objective and kill this idea without offending Gorelikov or alerting the other two wet-muzzled wolves at the table.
She sat up straight, folded her elegant hands on the table in front of her, and looked them all in the eyes. “It is an inspired plan,” she said. “But as you all realize, the enemy of tradecraft is unnecessary complication. If something can go wrong on the street, it invariably will. You all know this. I do not wish to give the impression of negativity, but the list of potential pitfalls is significant.”
Dominika took a breath. “CIA case officers trained in denied-area operations are resourceful. This man coming tomorrow could elude our coverage and foil our plans. He could use disguises. He could distract our surveillance units while an unknown second confederate accomplishes their mission. He could have some infernal technical device—we all know how the Americans rely on their little black boxes—that could allow him to make contact with CHALICE under our noses, without ever approaching him. And worst of all, the CIA officer could detect coverage, abort his mission, and escape in the stealth aircraft MAGNIT reported was part of the plan, leaving us looking like fools, and worse off than before. Admittedly, gentlemen, these are all remote possibilities, but they are possibilities. Can we afford to risk coming up empty-handed?”