After a delay he typed instead, “He is my father.”
“That is irrelevant to us, and he is irrelevant to your assignment. You will not have any contact with anyone from your past life.”
“He is no longer with the government. He will tell no one.”
“Irrelevant. You need to follow instructions.”
Kovalenko looked over at the new mobile phone. No, there is no way that Center could have some sort of tracking or listening device planted on every new phone in every blister pack in the world.
The Internet café? Could they really be looking at every machine in every Internet café in Barcelona? In Europe? On earth? That was unfathomable.
Impossible.
Wait. Kovalenko pulled his own mobile phone out of his jacket. He had been working for Center long enough to put together some of the technological pieces of any operation they might be running against him. Maybe his phone was bugged with a GPS beacon of some sort. His movements could be tracked; if Center was really on the ball he could have seen him go to the Internet café. Then he could have — Kovalenko supposed — looked at the traffic coming out of those computers. The Internet search of the Moscow phone book. They could have recognized the name or done some other follow-up search to determine that he was trying to contact his father.
They could have monitored him at the market where he purchased the phone.
Is that how they did it?
Not a simple thing, but somewhat less than omnipotent.
Shit. He’d been stupid. He should have tried harder, come up with some more remote way to get his father’s number.
He typed, “I have been working for you for three months. I want to return to my life.”
The response he received from Center was not what he expected: “You will continue doing as you are instructed. If you had managed to contact your father successfully, he would be dead by now.”
Kovalenko did not respond.
A new paragraph of text appeared on Cryptogram an instant later. “Documents will be dead-dropped to you in Barcelona today. You will use them to go to the United States. You will leave tomorrow. There you will rent suitable habitation in Washington, D.C., and you will operate from there. You have two days to get into position and to report in prepared to receive operational instructions.”
D.C.? Kovalenko was surprised and more than a little concerned.
“I do not have a good relationship with the current administration.” This flat declaration by Valentin Kovalenko could not have been more of an understatement. One year prior, Kovalenko had conspired with billionaire Paul Laska, a U.S. citizen, to destroy the election chances of Jack Ryan. Laska and Kovalenko had failed, and while Laska seemed to have gotten off scot-free, Valentin became an embarrassing inconvenience for the Kremlin, so he’d been thrown in a rat hole.
Kovalenko had no trouble believing that the Ryan administration knew all about him. Flying into Washington, D.C., to work for a shadowy criminal organization seemed like a terrible idea.
Center responded, “We know about your relationship with the John Clark episode and, by association, with President Ryan. The documents, credit cards, and cover for status we will give you will ensure your ability to get into the country and situated. Your own OPSEC and tradecraft will ensure your continued safety once there.”
Kovalenko looked at the screen for a moment before typing, “No. I do not want to go to America.”
“You will go.” That was all. Just a demand.
Valentin typed “no,” but he did not press the enter key. He just looked at it.
After several seconds he removed the “no” and typed, “How long an assignment?”
“Unknown. Likely less than two months, but all depends on your skill. We feel you will do well.”
Kovalenko spoke aloud in his flat. “Yes. Threats and flattery. Kick an agent in the ass and then give him a blow job.” He knew nothing about Center, but he could easily deduce that the man was a seasoned spymaster.
The Russian typed, “And if I refuse?”
“You will see what will happen to you if you refuse. We suggest you do not refuse.”
FORTY-THREE
The life of a CIA officer in the field had its moments of raw adrenaline and pure excitement, but there existed many more moments like this.
Adam Yao had spent the night in the small waiting room of an auto body shop in Sai Wan on Hong Kong Island, just a few kilometers from his flat. He’d brought his neighbor’s Mitsubishi minivan here the previous evening, and he’d paid the shop owner and his assistant handsomely to work through the night to clean blood off the upholstery, to fill in and buff out the bullet holes, to repaint the vehicle, and to replace the broken windows.
It was seven a.m. now, and they were wrapping up, which meant Adam would, he hoped, just be able to get the minivan back in time to park it in its place in the parking garage before his neighbor came down from his flat to head for work.
None of this was a thrilling postscript to the excitement of the past few days, but these things happened, and Yao could not very well just give the Mitsubishi back to his friend as it was.
His neighbor, a man Adam’s age named Robert Kam, had three kids and owned the minivan out of necessity. He had been driving Adam’s Mercedes for the past two days, and he had not complained one bit. Though Adam’s car was a dozen years old, it was in fine condition, and a hell of a lot better ride than the Mitsubishi Grandis minivan.
The body shop owner tossed Yao the keys, and they inspected it together. Adam was impressed — he could see no evidence of the damage to the car’s body, and they had replaced the side windows with tint that perfectly matched the tint on the windshield and back glass.
Adam followed the manager to the counter and paid his bill. He made sure to get an itemized receipt. It had cost an arm and a leg to get the vehicle repairs expedited, and he’d paid with his own money. He had every intention of sending the invoice to Langley, and to pitch a white-hot fit if he wasn’t reimbursed for this expense.
But he was not going to be sending that invoice in anytime soon. He was still over here, in the field, operating under a strong suspicion that there was a leak in the pipeline of information between Asian-based CIA officers and Langley.
The last thing he wanted to do was send a cable that revealed the fact he had been involved in the shoot-out the night before last.
Adam raced home in the minivan now, checking his watch every minute, hoping he could get the Mitsubishi back in time for his neighbor to find it in his parking place.
Adam’s place was in Soho, a trendy and pricey area of Central on Hong Kong Island built into a steep hillside. Yao could never afford his small but modern flat on his CIA salary, but his place fit his cover as president and owner of a business investigation firm, so he justified it to Langley.
His neighbor Robert, on the other hand, was a banker with HSBC, and he probably raked in four times Adam’s salary, though Adam could imagine that the expense of having three boys would cut into Robert’s discretionary income.
Adam made it back to his building and pulled up the ramp into his parking garage just after seven-thirty a.m., and he made the turn to go find the Mitsubishi’s numbered parking space.
Up ahead of him, at the end of the lane of cars, Adam saw Robert stepping up to Yao’s black Mercedes with his briefcase in his hand and his suit coat over his arm.
Shit, Adam thought. He could still switch out cars with him, but he’d have to come up with some excuse why he was just getting the vehicle home right now. Adam’s fertile brain started working on something as he headed up the parking lot to Robert’s numbered space a row over from his own.