The shocking loss of the DCIA was compounded by another catastrophe: sudden and inexplicable arrests inside the COPPERFIN spy network. A score of recruited design engineers in the OAK aerospace consortium were suddenly arrested by the FSB, and interrogations were being held around the clock in an attempt to identify other network members. Only two assets continued sporadic reporting, and their messages were panicked and barely coherent. COPPERFIN couriers were able to exfiltrate a handful of agents—in one case an entire family—but an equal number were caught and arrested at the border. At last count at least twelve sources did not respond to “sign of life” signals, and were unaccounted for, their status unknown. Benford knew very well that this was the worst case in the running of a large network—the inexorable unraveling, the continuing interrogations, the desperate attempts to escape, the arrests, and, ultimately, the triumphant news releases from the Kremlin.
Benford knew that the COPPERFIN meltdown was the work of MAGNIT. But based on the chaotic counterintelligence performance of the FSB—they were picking apart the network in fits and starts, rather than in a complete roundup—Benford was convinced that the mole did not have direct access to COPPERFIN and had learned about the network incompletely and serendipitously. In the lexicon of spooks, MAGNIT had “vacuumed up” the information: an overheard conversation, whispered gossip, an intemperate aside, the contents of an inbox read upside down. Windfall collection that could not implicate the mole, and left the FSB free to act decisively. No BIGOT list, therefore, could be used to flush the traitor.
“The trouble with running a mole hunt,” said Benford to Gable and Forsyth, “is that you cannot announce it, or drag suspects in for CI interviews, or immediately begin combing through one hundred thousand computerized personnel files, or tap the phones and computers of likely candidates without approvals and warrants. And you cannot brief a bunch of FEEBs, whose immediate reaction is to get into a black Crown Vic and interview suspects at home, asking them outright whether they are currently, or have ever, cooperated with a foreign power. They expect immediate compliance—it’s a crime to lie to the FBI, after all. The cumulative effect of their blandishments, of course, is to alert the mole, who heads for the hills, resulting in a permanent-resident visa from the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and an FSB-provided high-rise apartment in Babushinsky District, from the shabby comfort of which the traitor can listen through the clapboard wall every Saturday night to his neighbors fucking.”
“Now we have a new problem,” said Forsyth. “MAGNIT apparently is getting around some more. He’s hearing about secrets like COPPERFIN. He’s disappearing into the woodwork.”
“He’s a fucking flaming cactus,” said Gable. “The key is the goddamn railgun. Domi told me MAGNIT has been in harness for ten or twelve years. That’s gotta be key; who’s been on the railgun project that long?”
Benford swiveled in his chair. “We’re running all the combos, but it could be someone who previously worked on that project, but no longer. DIVA reported that MAGNIT is moving up to a policy job. That widens the field.”
“Okay,” said Gable. “But Domi mentioned that fancy-pants guy in the Kremlin wants to handle MAGNIT solely by the New York illegal, and take the case away from GRU goobers. With so much infighting, Domi may eventually find out MAGNIT’s true name on a restricted list.”
“We can’t wait that long,” said Benford. “We’re hemorrhaging secrets.”
“We may not have to. There’s a lot of intrigue going on in the Kremlin,” said Forsyth. “Not like the years Brezhnev shit his diaper and they held him upright to sign the disarmament treaty. DIVA says Gorelikov runs his own shop, is loyal to Putin, but does things his own way. He’s gunning for the GRU. DIVA is ripe for promotion. She’s going to get that name.” Benford shook his head doubtfully.
“Dangerous territory for our girl with all these plots,” said Gable. “We got to keep an eye on her. She’s running a little hot these days, temperamental-like. She needs replacement SRAC gear ASAP.”
Benford groaned at that. “There is no replacement SRAC. Our inscrutable colleagues from China Operations requested and received the last two available systems, which already are slaved to satellites in geosynchronous orbit to cover the Asian theater. They would not give up either one of them. Their refusal was polite but implacable, which I believe once again proves my contention that operational offices acquire the cultural characteristics of their target countries. Quite inscrutable.
“The SRAC larder is now officially bare. The last time this happened, the Carter White House suggested we use HF radio and Morse code. The Acting Director just ordered that R&D for the next generation of SRAC be put on hold. He wants to divert the tech budget to launch satellites that calibrate global warming. Orders from the NSC.”
“Are you fucking shitting me? Leave inside assets without covcom?” said Gable.
Benford ran his fingers through his already anarchic hair. “I am throwing histrionic fits at every leadership meeting, but the bureaucrats are unmoved and singularly focused on the one degree Fahrenheit change in global temperature since Charlemagne. Hearsey is racking his brains on cobbling together some sort of emergency-signaling gear, but as of today we’ve got nothing on the shelf for her.
“We will have to rely on personal meets for the time being,” said Benford, wearing his February face. Every person in the room knew that each time Moscow Station—or any denied-area station—tried a personal meet, the probability of catastrophic flap (and loss of agent) rose to 90 percent. Opposition surveillance had to get it right only once, and your agent was dead. Russia, China, Cuba, North Korea, it didn’t matter.
“Personal contact with Domi is coming up in three days,” said Gable. “They got a good operator to meet our girl?”
“Case officer named Ricky Walters,” said Benford, reading off a cable from Moscow Station. “Looked him up. Good on the street, ice for nerves, likes the ladies, but no zipper trouble in Russia. He looks okay.”
Gable grunted. “In her current pissed-off state, she’s not gonna be happy without covcom. Hope he doesn’t try to get saucy with her,” he said. “He’ll start his return SDR with a kick in the nuts. She doesn’t need another Romeo. Nash is pissing her off enough as it is.”
“Tell me that’s still not a problem, Nash and DIVA,” said Forsyth.
“They’re fucking in love,” said Gable, holding up his hands. “I know, I know, but if you fire Nash, Domi might flat-out quit on us; she’s in that frame of mind lately. So you tell me what’s worse, them belly thumping or her quitting.”
“We may be able to put some space between those thumping bellies,” said Benford. “The Aussies have a clambake brewing in Hong Kong, and they think they might need a Russian speaker. If we send Nash it’ll keep him away from her for a while. We can only hope that an extended separation will result in atrophy of one or both of their libidos.” No one laughed.
“Christ, is there any good news? What about that illegal in New York?” said Forsyth.
“Everything’s done,” said Gable. “Hearsey spritzed the phone and we wrapped it so Domi could load the dead drop in some crazy little 1805 Jewish cemetery on West Eleventh Street in the Village. Thirty moss-covered tombstones on a little triangle of land behind a peeling wall. You’d walk by it all day without seeing it. She put the package behind the middle headstone of three against the brick wall; it tilts forward, so she wedged the package down low. We left it alone, lots of apartment windows around. That gal could be watching the drop.”