Michael Gresham (Book 5): Sakharov the Bear Page 3

  Moscow Station is hidden inside the United States Embassy in Moscow. The embassy complex is located in the Presnensky District in the city center of Moscow. Our floor is long and extremely crowded, like a boxcar. It is the target of constant electronic assaults from the Russians as they steal our secrets. Here are the ways the Russians have stolen secret information from us just since I have been stationed in Moscow these past weeks: bugging phone lines and bugging phones; miniature cameras hidden inside our copy machines; electronic circuits encased in concrete walls; laser beams broadcast from parked trucks into our windows that can eavesdrop; electronic eavesdropping of the electromagnetic fields that all computers generate; computer bugs and typewriter bugs that broadcast keystrokes to the outside world, as well as never-ending attempts to bribe the Marines who clean our offices. Do we know about all this? Of course, but in this age of disinformation we leave most of it in place. If there's a political angle to work, we call in the newspapers and TV and make a huge commotion to embarrass our hosts. Oh, and there's another side to all this: it's a quid pro quo relationship: they do it to us, we do it right back at them. And of course they misinform us just like we do them. Which, in the end, means that all stolen data and conversations and files anymore are never believed to be genuine.

  Which brings me to the bill of lading we have taken from Henrik's office outside of town. A bill of lading is ordinarily a document given by a shipping company to a seller for goods received to be shipped. As Petrov and I discussed earlier tonight, the bill of lading could be 100% phony. It could have been kept inside that yearbook for months—years, really—awaiting the advent of spies in that office. Or, it could be 100% legitimate and we just happened to find it while I was grabbing books from the bookcase and shaking them to disgorge hidden papers. So there's always the possibility that the munitions, guns, and chemicals contained on that list were actually shipped and are hidden away in America right now, waiting to be utilized when selected cities are targeted by our enemies. Why move a whole army into a country when you can just take out its government and military installations and poison its water supply—all in less than two hours nationwide? Armies are passé. Little wars are the latest accommodation East to West. And, by the way, West to East. Our brain trust and military minds have likewise established fighting units throughout Russia equipped with the same or even more powerful munitions, guns, and chemicals. Chemicals? All bets are off if the U.S. is ever attacked at home. We will do and use anything to survive.

  But there's another side to this. What if the shipments haven't arrived in the U.S. yet? What if the shipping container numbers I have memorized are all the U.S. has to lead it to the weapons of war? That makes me indispensable. Whatever else happens, Moscow Station will have to get me home to America if things suddenly go to hell over here.

  So now we are in downtown Moscow on a freezing December night, holding a piece of paper up to the light to decide if it's real or not. Not actually up to the light, of course, I'm speaking metaphorically. Suffice it to say our laboratory is much farther down the road with our find, running many more sophisticated tests than mere porosity, ink manufacturers, and tool marks.

  MOSCOW STATION CHIEF EDWARD R. HENSHAW rolls out of bed with the first buzz of his phone. The buzz is reserved for exigencies that require his presence at the station without delay. He knows its sound by heart and by training. Chief Henshaw is a rawboned sixty-year-old who boxed light-heavyweight at Annapolis, a man who married his Gamma Phi sweetheart, and the father of three grown children—all Stateside and sometimes available to him only as barely recognizable contacts on his phone. He dresses in wool slacks and a polypro shirt underneath a wool sweater. As he unlocks the front door of his apartment inside the Embassy enclave, he slips into a Northface shell for protection against the snow, which is dropping from the sky in clumps at 12:44 a.m.

  PETROV RETURNS to the room where we will debrief, holding two coffees before her. Between us we have knocked back two apiece since returning to our home base a little over an hour ago; we are frozen throughout and our toes and fingers are just beginning to thaw. On arrival, we separated into our restrooms where we cleaned what mud and blood we could from our boots and washed away the night's grief from our hands. For people like us, there is never enough soap or water to fully bring us clean. And we talk about that, Petrov and I, about the abiding sense of betrayal we carry around inside of us as we lash out at people who once trusted us enough to let us close. They are our customary targets: people we meet while undercover, people we know only slightly from galas and balls around Eastern Europe, and people we know only from kill sheets or sometimes even just artists' renderings.

  She sets the coffee down in front of me. Then she sits down next to me and stretches her arms out wide while yawning. She playfully backhands me in the face as she stretches. I turn my face away and seize her forearm with my left hand. Like our Chief, we all wear polypro underthings and tonight Petrov is no different. When I seize her arm the material is cool and glossy to the touch, just as I imagine her skin. She isn't a woman who reveals much about herself; our relationship up until tonight has been one of secret operatives who often are paired up and who just as often are acting alone, but there is a kind of meritocracy between us that shifts back and forth depending on who has struck gold or eluded the FSB or made a kill that night. Tonight we are equals in that, since we have each taken down three men. I release her arm and push it away.

  "Must you?" I ask.

  "I must," she replies. "Rusty, old man, you did good tonight. Plus, we scored an important document."

  I shrug. "Maybe, maybe not."

  "Oh no," she says, "I just talked to Eddie Scales from Science. He says the document is genuine, the items on the list have been reported missing from various military bases and stores, and it all appears to be on the up and up."

  "We've hit a home-run, then. We should go celebrate."

  "Yes, a drink wouldn't hurt anything."

  "Is your husband waiting up?"

  "Rodney never waits up. He has his classes at oh-seven-hundred, remember. I'm oftentimes just loading into bed as he's leaving."

  "His loss."

  She looks away then, refusing to lower herself by acknowledging my meaning. I pull back. Maybe I have just given up one hint too many.

  We are silently staring into space and keeping our distance when a guard comes charging into the debriefing room.

  "We've been looking for you!" he breathlessly shouts. "The Chief has been shot!"

  We leap up and follow the man, breaking into a jog behind him. We are on the third floor of the embassy, on the enclave side, looking down on the walled-in courtyards below. A cadre of armed Marines surround a fallen body and we can make out the facial features of Chief Henshaw lying on his back in the snow, one leg crumpled behind him, arms out-flung, with half his head missing where the bullet found him and expanded upon impact. A large red patch is off to the side and I know that down in that blood, mixed among it, are pieces of skull and brain matter where the missing head parts have come to rest. Several Marines are pointing and peering off to the north, across the street to the north end of the embassy. A building rises up there where they are pointing, and the pantomime tells us they believe they know where the kill-shot originated from. Or thereabouts.

  Petrov runs for the elevator and I follow but grab her hand from behind.

  "You can't go out there!" I shout. "You could be shot too. This is payback for our work tonight. You and I come up on video as the two agents who left here together in the Lada. Maybe the Lada was seen by Henrik as he went by, and they know who we are. We are in play, Petrov! Do you understand?"

  She removes her hand from the down arrow at the elevator and turns around to me.

  "Yes. They've made us. And we're in danger."

  "So where are you rushing off to?"

  "I—I was going to go to Rodney, to warn him."

  "If they want Rodney, he is already dead. They're way out in front
right now."

  Tears wash across her eyes and she sucks in a sharp breath. "Oh my God. Poor Rodney!"

  "Yes, this isn't about the fact we made off with Henrik's records. Someone is really pissed. Someone high up."

  She is stuck. She cannot call her husband on her cell phone as all calls emanating from the embassy are monitored by the Russians. Tipping them off to her husband—if they don't already know about him—would almost certainly get him killed.

  We both know I'm right. Our days are filled with theft/counter-theft machinations and there is never a thought of retaliation by physical means. But tonight a bridge has been crossed. War has been declared on Moscow Station by the Russians because we have done something unacceptable. I can only assume that in our ambush of the Russian guards we managed to kill someone of note. We managed to kill someone who had friends in high places. I have no idea who that might be and I have no idea if my assumption is right. But I have a strong instinct about these things and I'm worried we might have crossed over. An internecine war could and maybe already has erupted among spies Eastern and Western, spies nobody actually cares about in a larger sense. While the powers that be turn their backs on us, we are left in place to kill and be killed.

  My thoughts are pulled up short when Asuncion Robles arrives on the elevator.

  "Good. You two should be out of here and on your way someplace safe," says our second-in-command.

  "And where might that be, Señor Robles," Petrov says almost as a mockery. "Where do we run off to where Russians cannot find us in Russia?"

  "I'm thinking of the green house."

  "Not a chance," Petrov exclaims. "I'm going home to look in on Rodney."

  "No," Robles says in his controlled manner. "No, you are not, Anna Petrov. You and Rusty are going to leave underground and hide yourselves in the green house."

  Unbeknownst to the Russians, our people have dug a tunnel leading from the embassy to the sewer system running below the streets surrounding our enclave. I say they don't know; that is probably more hopeful than it is accurate. They probably know all about it and have cameras monitoring those warrens and subterranean walkways. But I'm too tired to argue. Besides, it would do no good. Robles doesn't like me and won't put up with my objections for even a minute. We will do as he says and Petrov knows this too.

  Robles brushes on past us and says over his shoulder, "My office. Ten minutes. Be collected up and ready to leave."

  Chapter 4

  Russell Xiang

  ASUNCION ROBLES HAS SENT us down to the tunnels. Our armed guards are taking us to the exit, where we will board a bus and ride several miles, get off, and walk two blocks to the green house. The green house is the Station's safe house where operators can hide while the FSB turns the town upside-down looking for them. Why is it believed safe? Because it is a large guest house behind the residence of Rudina Alaevsky, who sits on the Duma, the lower house in the Russian Federal Assembly. It is the more powerful legislative house, the Duma. All bills, even those proposed by the Federation Council, must first be considered by the Duma. Which means her political reach is nationwide and local politicos and constabularies are frightened of her. Alaevsky has been bribed by the Americans, of course, and the FSB would never dare to suspect she might be housing the enemy. The Station remits to her Swiss account ten thousand dollars per month. In return we have our safety.

  We emerge from the tunnels and head for the bus stop. It will be an eleven-minute wait for the next bus and we are freezing as soon as we climb aboveground. Petrov sits down on the bench and I stand beside her. Around us, in varying degrees of proximity, our guards pose as if busy at other tasks. They will watch over us all the way to Assemblywoman Alaevsky's house.

  "Did you ever think you would be hiding out in sub-zero weather, in Moscow, waiting for a bus that will have no heat as its system will be broken?"

  I smile at Petrov. She has changed her clothes from earlier and is now wearing jeans and a sweater and a hooded goosedown coat that reaches her knees. The coat is black and is not meant as a fashion statement. Her words are her attempt at humor in an uncomfortable situation. Always one with a try at levity, that's Petrov.

  "No, I never thought I'd be waiting for a bus in sub-zero weather. I thought it would be sub-zero weather in an ice storm. Where's the ice?"

  She giggles. "You're standing on it, Rusty. It's all around. This entire country is nothing but a solid block of ice. By the way, we've never been to the safe house. Will there be decent food and warm beds, I wonder?"

  "Well, I've heard stories. I've heard that it's very comfortable and well-stocked. I hope I'm right."

  She kicks her feet back and forth, as a child on a swing, and appears totally innocent at that moment. I'm pierced by her beauty and I'm happy we are together and that we'll be spending time together, secluded, our time unmonitored by anyone including our spouses.

  My own wife is in Washington, D.C., where she is expecting our second child. I'm very happy about this but sad that I'm unable to share in the preparations. Antonia has sent me ultrasound images of our baby—a little girl—and that helps, but it isn't, of course, satisfying in any sense. Even with that blessed event going on in my life as I know it stateside, I find that I'm attracted to Anna Petrov, my friend and partner, in the absence of my wife. Maybe I'm just weak, I don't know. But there is something about the embrace of another human—especially an attractive one like Petrov—that pursues me and would see me roam.

  We are quiet for four or five minutes until finally the bus approaches. Two of the four armed guards sidle up and casually stand with us, as the bus whooshes when it brakes and its front door slaps open. We climb aboard. Petrov and I sit near the front; the guards are someplace behind. The seats are narrow and I find myself pushed up against Petrov's thigh and torso, a not unpleasant seating arrangement. She feels me pressing against her but makes no attempt to move away. Maybe she has the same longing for the touch of another.

  At the next corner the bus slows again and rocks to a stop. The front door again flies open and this time three sturdy-looking men in heavy wool topcoats and trooper hats climb aboard. In an instant I know they are Russian FSB agents. I shut my eyes and feign sleep as I sense the men drawing near, pausing beside us, and then moving on back until they are seated just behind us. Great, I'm thinking, they know who we are and they will drag us off at the next stop.

  Except they don't. Because I realize I can smell alcohol and that they are passing around a bottle and sharing a drink in the middle of the night. They wouldn't be doing that if they believed they had located two spies—at least that is my take on it. Or else they are play-acting to convince our guards they have simply stumbled aboard the same bus. Which is it? Up under my left arm my gun is heavy and warm from my body heat. Slowly I reach up with my right hand and unzip my Northface coat down to sternum level to give me access to my weapon should I suddenly need it.

  Petrov suddenly stiffens beside me and I turn to look. One of the Russians has reached forward and is tapping her on the shoulder.

  "Hey, beauty, do you have the time?" he asks in Russian.

  Petrov doesn't acknowledge him. So he tries again, this time punching her in the shoulder. "Hey, did you hear me, bitch? I want to know if you have the time. Time for me?"

  I turn in my seat and give the man a look. A grim look. His eyes shift to me.

  "Turn around, fool," he says to me.

  But I don't. I continue staring at him.

  "Did you hear me, fool? I said turn around. That's an order!"

  Again I ignore him.

  Then I speak. "Don't touch my wife, please. She has no interest in you. Go on about your evening now, please."

  It is a fair request. The man leans back, his eyes still locked on mine, then he looks away. I realize that the man next to him has pushed him back with his elbow, telling him he should disengage. The second man smiles at me.

  "My friend has had a little too much to drink tonight. Please excuse his rude
ness."

  I'm about to say thank you, when the first man suddenly leans forward again and drops his hand on Petrov's shoulder, which he begins kneading through her coat. I bring my elbow up and knock his hand away.

  "Don't," I warn him.

  "Says you?" the man asks. "Don't you see there are three of us?"

  "I don't give a damn if there are twenty of you. You are being impolite and I don't like it."

  Whereupon the man reaches down to his hips, unsnaps his holster, and brings his pistol up to my eye-level. He points it directly at me.

  "Polite? How's this for polite?"

  He waggles the muzzle of the gun and sneers at me. As I feared might happen, two of our guards have come forward and have drawn their own weapons.

  "Not good, friend," says Samiov, the leader of our guards. "Suggest putting that back in its holster." He nudges the ear of the first Russian with his gun. The first Russian starts to turn, realizes that there is a gun pointed at his head, and lowers his own gun, replacing it in its holster.

  "Smart man," says Samiov. "Now get off the bus. Yes, step to the front and get off our bus. Up you go now."

  The three Russians standup as one and shuffle forward, our guards crowding them and forcing them down the steps to the door.

  "Pull over now," Samiov tells the driver in Russian. "These gentlemen have overstayed their welcome on your bus."

  The driver obeys, braking and then throwing open the door. The three FSB men scramble down the steps and step over to the curb. The door swings shut and we are moving again.

  "Did they know?" I whisper to Samiov as he returns to us.

  "They knew," he says. "They would have followed you to the green house and mounted an attack after we were gone."

  I shoot a look out the back window of the bus. The threesome can be seen coming up to the bus stop at the corner, where they stand, stamping their feet in the cold and speaking animatedly. There won't be another bus by for fourteen minutes, according to the schedules along Presbinaya Avenue. It is good. Petrov and I settle back in our seat.