DIVA’s reporting triggered a hasty meeting in CIA Headquarters in Langley.
Benford recently had designated Gable as DIVA’s primary handler.
Benford, Forsyth, Gable. These three veteran officers were as different in temperament and style as imaginable. But they had come together as a team when Nate Nash recruited DIVA in Helsinki, and under their subtle tutelage she had developed into a world-class reporting source. Nash, the fourth and most junior member of the coterie, was absent from this meeting: he had recently been posted as Chief of Operations in CIA’s London Station, on the face of it a plum assignment in a solidly advancing career, but really designed to keep him busy and away from DIVA. Forsyth—arguably the best case officer among them—had called Nash “a magician” on the street, working against hostile surveillance in denied areas. Forsyth had been Nate’s Chief of Station twice before, and he knew what a good officer he was, despite the sex-with-DIVA problem.
“I seem to remember your unapproved infatuation twenty years ago with a certain safe-house keeper in Rome,” Forsyth had once reminded Gable while discussing Nash. “You knew it was against the rules, but you used to run over there bowlegged to see her every week.”
“That was different,” growled Gable. “We were young, she used to cook carbonara for me, and I was helping her out.”
Forsyth looked at him deadpan. “Carbonara? Did she use pancetta, guanciale, or some other pork product?”
“Very funny. If it was such a big fucking deal, why didn’t you kick me in the balls?” said Gable, red faced.
“Maybe I knew you could handle it, or maybe I knew you had the discipline to keep her safe,” said Forsyth. “Like maybe we give Nash the same slack. I’m not saying he’s a choirboy, but Domi’s half to blame. Godammit, they’re in love with each other, you said so yourself.” Gable shook his head, but agreed.
Today, Forsyth had included Lucius Westfall, who, as Benford’s new assistant, was cleared for DIVA material, and thus was on the very small BIGOT list for the case, the abbreviated roster of officers who had been read in to her file, and who were cleared for the RH (restricted handling) compartment. Westfall sat quietly in a chair in the corner—he knew his place on the food chain in this room.
“The facility these Russians have for mayhem is awe inspiring,” said Forsyth. He looked up from DIVA’s reports about Istanbul, and pushed his half-moon glasses to the top of his head.
“They’re fuckers,” said Gable, “but we take this to Turkish liaison and help them, they’re gonna kiss our asses for a decade.”
“I agree,” said Forsyth. “But not to TNIO, the intel guys. They don’t trust us. We take it to the TNP, Turkish National Police; they’re serious and accessible.”
“And when you say ‘help them,’ ” said Benford, turning to Gable, “you mean exactly what?”
“Interdict the shipments, wrap up the gomers waiting in the swamp for the delivery, let the TNP sweat ’em, and clean out the rest of the cells,” said Gable.
Lucius Westfall cleared his throat and scraped his chair. Gable looked over at him. He liked the young guy, but as with Gable’s protégé Nate, he would never say so. “If you have something to say, say it,” said Gable. “Don’t keep us squeezing our legs together.”
“I was thinking,” said Lucius. “Istanbul’s population is over fourteen million. The Kurds in the city number about four million.”
“Admirable command of the facts, which I trust will soon be shown to be relevant to this discussion,” said Benford, rubbing his face.
“The point is that we’ll never be sure of taking out one hundred percent of the PKK cells with a couple of raids and a score of arrests,” said Westfall, swallowing. “The city’s too big, the Kurdish population is too diffuse. We have to consider this in three parts.”
“Tell us,” said Benford. He liked linear thinking, which, he frequently raved, was uniformly absent in the US government.
“We have to interdict all the Russian matériel without exception,” said Lucius. “We can’t let even one mine get through. We then have to identify as completely as possible the PKK organization in the city. Finally, we have to neutralize the source of the problem: GRU Major Valeriy Shlykov.” The men in the room shifted in their seats.
“You’re a regular Alfred Einstein,” said Gable. “Keep going.” For all his gruffness, Gable knew how to draw young officers out, make them think, stick up for what they believed.
“To stop the whole thing I think we have to beacon the weapons before they get to Turkey,” said Westfall. “That way we track them from inland creek, to warehouse, to backyard potting shed, to safe-house cellar, so we get them all.”
“Before they get to Turkey?” said Gable. “As in Russia?” The others were quiet, thinking the same thing.
“Out of the question,” said Benford. “DIVA’s already in jeopardy as it is, reporting this unique intelligence. We fuck up in Istanbul, she’s one of twenty Council members in the room—not even a full member yet—who know about the PKK covert action. Trying something with the shipment when it’s still in Russia would be doubly suicidal for her.”
“Maybe not,” said Westfall. “DIVA told us the crates were going to be trucked to Sevastopol and staged in a warehouse, then ferried across the Black Sea to Turkey in small fishing boats when they get the green light from Shlykov. It’s a GRU covert action; they’ll keep this quiet, and they’ll stay away from official Russian naval installations. It’ll be a commercial warehouse, an easy target.”
“Okay, hotshot, you take the responsibility for invading Russia and starting World War Three?” said Gable. Westfall kept quiet.
Benford got up from the couch and started pacing, looking at Westfall sideways. “How would you propose to break undetected into a warehouse in Russian-controlled Sevastopol and install beacons on a dozen crates?” he said.
“We could use the WOLVERINEs,” said Westfall.
Heads around the room came up. “Ain’t they all retired?” said Gable.
“They’re on reserve status,” said Forsyth. “They didn’t like to be sidelined. I kept them busy for as long as I could.”
“I heard they were pretty effective,” said Westfall. “The file is fascinating.”
“Cold War throwbacks,” said Benford, head cocked to the side, thinking.
“Forget it,” said Gable. “They were crazy anticommie Polaks, out of control. Who’s going to handle them?”
“We’d need a Russian speaker, strong operator, denied-area expert,” said Westfall.
Everybody was thinking of the same name. “And who, pray tell, might that be?” said Benford.
“Nate Nash,” said Westfall. No one said anything. Westfall didn’t know about Nash’s penalty-box status.
“Put that aside for now,” said Forsyth. “What do we do with Shlykov?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Westfall, swallowing. “DIVA says Gorelikov wants to sink Shlykov. What if we give him a reason to do it, make it appear that Shlykov himself is responsible for the collapse of the entire covert action in Istanbul?”
“Keep going,” said Gable. All three seniors were listening hard now.
“I believe you ops officers call it ‘burning’ someone,” said Westfall. “What if we make it look like Shlykov is double-dipping—taking money from CIA and not reporting it? The Russians are so suspicious, they’ll believe it.”
“Tall order. It would have to be convincing,” said Forsyth, already calculating. “Bank account, spy gear under the mattress, signals.”
“It really doesn’t have to be one hundred percent convincing,” said Westfall. “DIVA and Gorelikov will have enough to ruin him: implicating and convicting innocent people are Russian art forms.”