Center was in China. There was no other explanation. And there was no way in hell he could run such a huge operation on the mainland without the Chicoms knowing about it.
Things fell into place quickly in Yao’s mind while he stood at the shipping desk. Center was working for China. Zha had been working for Center. Zha orchestrated the UAV attacks.
Was the Center group some sort of false flag operation set up by the Chinese?
The prospect was chilling, but Yao was having a hard time coming up with alternative explanations.
Yao only wished he could tell someone at CIA what he had just learned, and what he was about to do. But Adam Yao wanted to stay alive even more than he wanted a pat on the back or a helping hand.
He’d make his way over the border. He would find Center and his operation. And then he would figure out what to do.
Valentin Kovalenko was up early this morning. He took the Metro from D.C. across the river to Arlington, did a brief surveillance detection run, and then entered the Ballston Public Parking Garage at seven-fifteen a.m.
Today’s instructions were clear, though unusual. For the first time since he’d arrived in D.C. he would be running an agent himself. This would be, it had been explained to him by Center, his priority assignment here in the United States, so he should take it seriously and see it through.
Today was set up as just a brief meet-and-greet, but there was a subtext to it, which Center had conveyed via Cryptogram the evening before. This agent was a government employee and a willing accomplice of Center’s, though he did not know Center’s identity, and he himself was running an unwitting agent.
Kovalenko’s job was to get the man to turn up the heat on his agent and get some results.
All this seemed to be child’s play when Center relayed the mission the evening before; at least it certainly did not seem to be anything along the lines of being involved with the killing of five CIA officers.
But Kovalenko could not really say how sensitive this operation would be, for the simple reason that he was not allowed to know who the ultimate target was. As usual, Center kept things so damn compartmentalized that Valentin knew only that he was to lean on his agent to be harder on his agent, who, in turn, was responsible for compromising the ultimate target.
“No way to run an effective intelligence operation,” Kovalenko had said aloud the night before.
Still, the SVR wanted Valentin to go along and get along, so he was here in a chilly parking garage early this morning, waiting to meet with his agent.
A Toyota minivan pulled into the lot and parked next to Kovalenko, and he heard the snap of the doors being unlocked. He climbed into the passenger seat and found himself sitting next to a large man with a ridiculous flop of gray-blond hair dangling into his eyes.
The man reached out a hand. “Darren Lipton. FBI. How the hell are you?”
FIFTY-EIGHT
Kovalenko shook the man’s hand, but he did not identify himself. He only said, “Center has asked me to work with you directly. To help you find access to resources you may need in the furtherance of your objective.”
This wasn’t really true. Valentin knew this man was an FBI agent in the Bureau’s National Security Branch. He would have access to a hell of a lot more resources than Valentin would. No, Kovalenko was here to pressure him for results, but there was no sense in starting out the conversation or the relationship, short-lived though Kovalenko expected it to be, with threats.
The American just stared at him for a long time without speaking.
Kovalenko cleared his throat. “That said, we expect results immediately. Your objective is crucial to the—”
The big man interrupted with a booming shout: “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Kovalenko recoiled in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“Really? I mean… really?”
“Mr. Lipton, I do not know what—”
“The goddamned Russians? I’ve been working for the goddamned motherfucking Russians?”
Kovalenko recovered from his shock. Actually he empathized with his agent. He knew what it felt like to have no idea whose flag it was you risked your life and liberty for.
“Things are not as they appear, Special Agent Lipton.”
“Is that right?” Lipton said, and then he slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “I sure as hell hope not, because you appear to be a fucking Russian.”
Kovalenko just looked down at his fingernails for a moment. He continued. “Be that as it may, I know your agent has planted a bug on the mobile phone of the target. But we are not getting further GPS updates. We assume he has discarded the phone. We will be going forward with physical surveillance if we don’t see immediate results. That will involve you, me, and perhaps others. I don’t have to tell you that this would entail long hours of uncomfortable work.”
“I can’t do that. I have a job and a family to come home to.”
“Obviously we won’t do anything to cause suspicion with the FBI. You will not have to conduct surveillance at times you need to be at your office. Your family, on the other hand, is your problem, not ours.”
Lipton stared at Kovalenko for a long moment. “I could snap your scrawny little fucking neck.”
Now Kovalenko smiled. He may not have known anything about Lipton’s agent, or Lipton’s agent’s target, but he did know a thing or two about Darren Lipton. Center had sent him everything. “If you try to break my fucking neck, Special Agent Lipton, you will fail. But whether or not you fail or you succeed, your past will come back to haunt you very quickly, because Center will be angry with you, and we both know what Center will do.”
Lipton turned away, and looked out the windshield of the minivan.
Kovalenko said, “Child pornography, Mr. Lipton, on one’s computer, certainly of the quantity and variety that was found on your personal computer, is something that will put you behind bars very quickly. And I do not know how things are in your country, but I would imagine an incarcerated former federal agent would have a difficult time in prison. Add to that”—he leaned forward toward Lipton menacingly—“and trust me, we will add to that, the knowledge of your specific crimes, and I should think prison life for you would be especially… brutal.”
Lipton bit his lip while he looked out the windshield. His fingers began drumming on the steering wheel now. “I get it,” he said softly, a tone much different than his tone earlier in the conversation. Again he said, “I get it.”
“Excellent. Now it’s time to put all pressure possible on your agent.”
Lipton nodded, still not looking at the Russian in his passenger seat.
“I’ll be checking in on you.”
Another nod. Then, “Is that it?”
Kovalenko opened the door and climbed out of the minivan.
Lipton started the engine, then regarded Kovalenko before he closed the car door. With a shake of his head he muttered, “The goddamned Russians.”
Kovalenko closed the door, and the Toyota backed out, then drove toward the exit ramp of the parking garage.
“You fucking wish,” Valentin Kovalenko said softly as he watched the car’s taillights disappear.
Darren Lipton met Melanie Kraft at the Starbucks at King Street and Saint Asaph. She was rushed this morning; she was on a task force set up at the office of the Director of National Security to evaluate any security leaks that might have led the Prosper Street safe house to be compromised, and there was an eight-o’clock meeting that she could not be late for.