Palace of Treason

21

Athens Station. Gable and Forsyth sat in the ACR in silence, waiting for Nate. Sitting two feet from each other without speaking was preposterous — no, creepy — but you didn’t talk when the door was opened, ever. A minute later Nate stepped into the secure acoustical room carrying a metal in-box full of files. He dogged the door with a twist of a friction lever that was, like every other piece of the twenty-foot trailer, made of clear Lucite. Their ears popped as the door gaskets squeezed the last of the freely circulating air out of the room. Soon the atmosphere would get thick and coffee-heavy.

“How was LYRIC last night?” said Forsyth.

“Like rolling a boulder uphill,” said Nate. “He brought his ego, as usual.” He started taking folders out of the tray and laying them on the table.

“Did he bring the budget documents for the Ninth Directorate?” asked Forsyth. “DoD has been asking.”

“Budget time in Washington,” said Gable. “Cake eaters want to justify their own budgets.”

“Nope,” said Nate. “When I asked him, LYRIC said he brought something better.” Nate opened one of the files and took out a bound, one-inch-thick booklet and slid it over to Forsyth.

“What the fuck is this?” said Gable. Forsyth was riffling through the book.

“It’s a classified report on the clandestine technology acquisition by GRU Ninth Directorate of the frameless canopy from the Chinese J-20 stealth fighter,” said Nate, reading the Russian title on the cover. “LYRIC said the Russian air force is going to use it on their T-50. Better visibility, better heads-up display, survivable pilot ejection at higher speed.”

Forsyth looked at Gable. “The air force will love this crap,” he said, sliding the book back. “We’re not going to refuse this sort of intel.”

“A good sign, him bringing this out now,” said Gable to Forsyth.

“What do you mean, ‘a good sign’?” said Nate, looking at them both.

“No other issues, no other twitches?” said Forsyth.

Nate felt his scalp creep in alarm. “What are you guys talking about?”

“DIVA sent three separate SRAC messages last night. Came in late, after you had kicked off your SDR for LYRIC. You know the Moscow case officer out there?” said Forsyth, handing over the Moscow cables for Nate to read.

“Yeah, Hannah Archer,” said Nate. “She’s solid.” Hannah naked, hair wildly mussed, her feet on his shoulders, yeah solid. “Three messages?”

“Five total. This Hannah cabled that there are two more SRAC bursts from DIVA coming tonight,” said Gable. “She’s cabling the texts as soon as she retrieves ’em and gets back inside the embassy.” Gable ran his hand over his brush-cut hair. “Two runs in two nights. That cowgirl has some balls. We should get her assigned to Station when she finishes in Moscow.”

Jesus, thought Nate, that would be just perfect, and studiously did not look up as he read. Halfway through the first cable Nate did look up. “The Center knows about LYRIC?” Nate said. “What does Benford say?”

“There’s a rat up the drainpipe,” said Gable.

“The Russians are talking to somebody code-named TRITON, who’s gotten wind of LYRIC,” said Forsyth. “It’s in the second cable there. We normally wouldn’t be read in to a CI case back home, but since DIVA generated the intel, Benford wants Station to know.” Forsyth shook his head.

“So Benford’s got a problem,” said Gable, “and the Russkies know they got a problem, and now we, or more precisely you, got a problem. A Restricted Handling asset, your agent, in the crosshairs.”

“Russia Division is worried,” said Forsyth. “Benford told me they may have lost another case. Some Russian was called home from South America.”

“This shit usually happens in threes,” said Gable. “Seen it a million times.”

“And DIVA could be in considerable jeopardy,” said Forsyth. “She’s been the frequent subject of a lot of spectacular cable traffic, from Athens, Vienna, Langley. God knows how many people have read about her.”

“And bagging this third ear, this TRITON asshole, isn’t going to be easy,” said Gable. “Headquarters sends LYRIC’s shit only to about a thousand fucking talkative dickheads,” said Gable, nodding at the booklet Nate had collected last night. “Pentagon, air force, contractors, White House, the committees.”

“Benford is going to be busy,” said Forsyth.

“We have to pull them both out,” said Nate, already three steps ahead, trying to slow down while all he wanted to do was hop in his car and go get LYRIC. “We can get the general out of Athens right here, right now. Digging Domi out of Moscow is going to be—”

“She’s coming to Athens in a week,” said Gable. “Thought I’d tell you so you can get a haircut.”

Nate flipped through the cables, got through DIVA’s brief mention of KR and her counterintelligence trip to Athens.

“She’s done a spectacular job since she went back inside,” said Forsyth. “Top secret Kremlin intel, moles, counterintelligence leads, the whole Iran thing.”

“We got to talk to her about risk, though,” said Gable, looking at the slight vibration of the cable as Nate held it in his hands. “Judging from the variety of her reports, my guess is she’s collecting subsources inside her own directorate who have different access. Wonder how many she’s sleeping with. Fucking nervy.”

Nate looked at him and laughed thinly. “We can introduce LYRIC and DIVA on the plane,” he said. “They can learn to ride horses together in Wyoming.”

“Slow down,” said Forsyth. “We don’t know what we have yet. DIVA’s in KR, sounds like she’s got at least one subsource. We’ll walk this back carefully with her, see what we have. Benford’s coming out to talk with us and her next week.”

“And LYRIC?” said Nate. “He’s exposed. His reporting is pretty specific.”

“They think LYRIC is in Moscow. As long as they don’t call him back, we can wait a little,” said Gable. “But get ready for the midnight boogie if we need to exfil him. Sites, safe houses, safety signals.”

“I got all that. But I have a problem.”

“Apart from your afflicted appearance?” said Gable.

Nate ignored him. “My problem is that I asked LYRIC to bring me the budget documents. This is the third meeting I’ve asked him. It’s not like he doesn’t have them — he’s the frigging GRU attaché in his embassy.”

“You tell him you’ll kick his ass next time?” said Gable.

“Sure, and all the rest of it. Langley’s trust in him, memory of his kids, getting back at Putin. He understands it all.”

“You think they already got to him?” said Gable.

“No, the old guy is still bringing stuff out in shopping bags. Productive as hell. And getting better each meeting,” said Nate. “It’s just that he does what he wants, when he wants.”

“You’ve got yourself a Russian agent who’s a general-rank officer. Used to doing things his own way,” said Forsyth. “He came to us in crisis, but you’re now his life, you’ve done a good job with rapport, he’s blooming again, feeling his oats. Control him, especially now.”

“That’s the problem,” said Nate. “He’s got an ego as big as Red Square; it’s like he’s forgotten how low he was when we popped him. I’m not sure he’ll agree to bug out if we tell him to defect.”

“Well, start talking to him, gently,” said Forsyth. “Don’t spook him, but get him ready.”

“One thing for sure,” said Gable, yawning and stretching his arms over his head. “If they call him home to the Aquarium, that’s what they call GRU Headquarters, for any reason — consultations, or to take a prestigious new job, or to sit on a six-week promotion panel, or because his great-aunt Natasha just fell down the stairs — and he walks through the front door of the Aquarium, that’ll be the last we see of him.”

Two nights later, Nate was walking with LYRIC along a marble-paved walkway in the modest Glyka Nera neighborhood on the darkened east slope of Mount Hymettus, away from downtown Athens traffic, a world away from where any official Russians conceivably would live or shop. They walked slightly uphill through pools of light cast on the marble by streetlamps with white globes, and passed unexpectedly through an unseen puff of incense coming from the open door of the little Church of the Metamorphosis. They continued in silence, up the deserted path, among the pines, the incense giving way to a fragrant fog of wild oregano.

LYRIC was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and black tie, a contrast to Nate’s dark slacks and nylon shell. Nate had run an extra-long surveillance detection route that night — DIVA’s intel that the Center was now aware of a CIA asset encrypted LYRIC had rocked him. He was determined that he arrive black at the non-sked meeting with the general, and he hoped the nonscheduled call out had not spooked the old soldier. Not likely with LYRIC. Nate had waited on a bench among the pines, sighting through the branches, to observe LYRIC’s arrival. No pedestrians at this late hour, no loitering cars filled with dark silhouettes and cherry red cigarette tips. Black. Now business.

The general’s soft steps had not hesitated for even half a beat when Nate told him that the Center might be aware of a CIA reporting source, a GRU source with access to intelligence on military acquisition of foreign technology. LYRIC cocked his head at Nate while lighting a cigarette. “What exactly do they know?” said LYRIC.

“We will know more in several days’ time,” said Nate. “Right now we believe the identification lacks details.” He knew he sounded pretty lame.

“No specific information on directorate or rank?” said LYRIC. His hands were behind his back, cigarette in his mouth. Out for a stroll.

“No specific information on directorate or rank, no,” said Nate, “but the Center is aware that Athens is a possible venue. That could narrow the search and move the investigation dangerously close.”

LYRIC waved his hand dismissively. “Kto sluzhit v armii ne smeyetsya v tsirke, he who has served in the army does not laugh at the circus. I am too familiar with the clowns in the counterintelligence staff in GRU. They could not catch a tethered goat.” LYRIC rakishly blew smoke up into the night air.

“What about FSB or SVR?” said Nate. “Would they be involved in an investigation?”

LYRIC shrugged.

“SVR perhaps, if they need to investigate overseas,” said Lyric. “FSB if in Moscow. But GRU will resist any attempts to steal primacy. Everybody is clamoring for advantage, pecking for morsels; they are like a flock of pigeons.” They had reached the top of the walkway and looked up. The ridgeline of Hymettus was silhouetted against the glow of city lights on the other side of the mountain. They turned to walk slowly back downhill — there was no seven-minute time limit for personal meetings now. No Moscow Rules — yet. But there was every bit as much danger lurking around the corner. The hot-oil aroma of crispy fried fish and skordalia — garlic dip — from an unseen tavern down the hill drifted up through the pines, suddenly strong, then fading.

“General, I want you to consider travel to America if the investigation appears to be getting too close,” said Nate.

LYRIC looked at him sideways. “You mean defect? Flee to the West?” He stopped and faced Nate. The garlicky air was perfectly still; nothing stirred in the pine tops. “I did not start all this with you to flee,” he said. “Besides, it is safe. You will see.”

Nate put his hand on the general’s arm. “There is no thought of flight, I’m talking about an honorable retirement. A peaceful and comfortable life.”

“Out of the question,” said LYRIC, lighting his fourth cigarette.

“We would value your continued expertise, to continue to advise our government in military and scientific matters,” said Nate, thinking, trying to sell the LYRIC retirement plan. Next he’d throw in cabana privileges at the Fontainebleau in Miami.

“I will assist and advise your organization regardless of where I am. I have been pleased with our collaboration, and I have been pleased with your professionalism. Well pleased.”

LYRIC’s lofty assuredness and ego were unshakable. Nate felt like popping the soap bubble. “We would not be able to continue if you were in Chyorny Del’fin, the Black Dolphin,” said Nate softly. The casual mention of the worst prison in Russia, Federal Prison No. Six, near the Kazakh border, made LYRIC’s head snap up. Nate knew he didn’t have to mention that life in prison would be the least of punishments LYRIC could expect.

“I’m asking you, General, to consider what I am saying to you. There’s no need for undue alarm now, but you and I must prepare for the necessity of a new life, a new start. There’s nothing dishonorable in it.”

LYRIC looked at Nate and shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. As valuable as he is, thought Nate, this agent is no MARBLE. I’ll never call this guy dyadya, uncle.

“I will consider what you say,” said LYRIC. “But I have no wish to flee from my country. As they pay for what they have done, I am still loyal to the Rodina, my motherland.”

Nate kept still — this was classic agent rationalization, a balm to the tortured conscience that contemplates treason in the still hours before sunrise. LYRIC went through the familiar routine of field-stripping his cigarette. They were nearing the bottom of the path, where they must separate. Nate wearily contemplated several more hours of an outbound SDR walking and riding three buses to get clear of the area and make his way to his stashed car. LYRIC stopped and faced him.

“As you report my continued willingness to operate with you, I want you also to please convey to your Headquarters my disappointment over this security lapse. But we will continue.”

“Thank you, General,” said Nate, a little weary of his star agent. It was time to separate and get out of the area. “Do you still have the local number to request an emergency meeting?”

LYRIC nodded.

“Do you remember the drill? Call from a clean phone, a hotel, a restaurant, a bar. And no speaking.”

“I remember what you told me,” said Lyric. “I will tap on the mouthpiece with a pencil. Tapping means Solovyov” — LYRIC patted his own chest lightly — “code name BOGATYR, is calling for an urgent meeting. Somewhat primitive methods, I must say. GRU officers use advanced frequency-hopping mobile phones to communicate with sources.”

“Prostota, General. Simplicity — landlines and nonverbal signaling — is the best security,” said Nate. My friend, your GRU would shit if they knew how the FBI and the NSA were crawling up their frequency-hopping asses, thought Nate.

“Call for any reason,” said Nate, putting his hand on LYRIC’s shoulder to get him to concentrate. “I’ll be here at the usual time, and for three consecutive nights, as we agreed.”

LYRIC nodded.

“And General, don’t fool around with this. Please do it carefully. For me. Any summons to Moscow, for any reason, you tell me instantly. Okay, General?”

LYRIC patted Nate’s hand. Nate kept it where it was and looked him in the eyes.

“Okay, General?” he said.

“Da ladno,” LYRIC said, okay I get it already. Nate shook his hand.

“Stupay s Bogom,” said Nate, go with God, and turned for the street.

“Podozhdite minutu,” wait a minute, said LYRIC, taking an envelope out of his suit pocket. “Computer disk, Ninth Directorate budget, per your request.” He smiled at Nate.

A point in time, the pendulum swinging, the will of the agent in the moment acknowledging the authority of the case officer. But for how long?

Process water-soaked bread, abundant pureed garlic, ground pepper, olive oil, and red wine vinegar into a thick dip. Serve alongside chunks of quick-fried cod coated with a batter of flour, eggs, beer, white vinegar, and a drop of ouzo.