Callsign: King - Blackout

7

Timur Suvorov replayed his conversation with Dr. Julia Preston-the curator knew him only as “Trevor”-in his head as he stalked through the corridors of the Louvre, and wondered where he had slipped up. His instructors at the cultural immersion training facility had praised him for his pitch perfect English and his command of American dialect, but she had picked up on his true heritage after hearing him say only a few words.

Suvorov had never actually been to the United States. The closest he had come to that experience was a six-month long stay in a town called Springfield, a perfect middle-American suburb that happened to be located, not in the American heartland but in a remote location on the coast of the Caspian Sea.

Springfield had been built during the Cold War by the KGB for the sole purpose of training long-term deep cover operatives-sleepers, in the common parlance-who would be able to perfectly blend into American society. Every aspect of life in Springfield had been simulated Americana, at least insofar as the Soviet social scientists understood it. The only language spoken in the mock-city was English. The radios played a wide selection of American music and American television programs were broadcast. Residents could get Big Macs at the local McDonald’s and bought their cigarettes and Coca-Colas at the 7-Eleven. Thousands of KGB sleepers had literally been raised from infancy in Springfield, and many graduates of the program had subsequently been deployed to conduct active espionage or, more often than not, await a critical assignment that would never come. In the post-Cold War era, Russia’s foreign intelligence service, the SVR, continued to conduct operations abroad. But these days there were more expedient methods of getting agents into place, particularly with the advent of globalization and a growing population of Russian expatriates in America and other countries. Nevertheless, Springfield continued to be useful as a training tool for SVR operatives and GRU Spetsnaz soldiers preparing for undercover work.

Evidently there were still some gaps in the training though, as Julia’s observation had borne out.

In retrospect, it had probably been a bad idea to visit the museum. To establish their cover stories and blow off a little steam before the final phase of the assignment, Suvorov had directed the members of his team to do a little site seeing. Despite the stereotypical Russian proclivity for alcohol consumption, drinking was strictly forbidden before an operation, as was sexual congress, but there were plenty of other distraction in the City of Lights, and for Suvorov, a chance to see the Bamiyan Buddhas, even if they were now only pieces of rubble, had seemed the obvious choice.

The lie he had told to cover his dismay at Julia’s revelation was close enough to the truth to satisfy the woman’s curiosity. He had indeed been born in Saint Petersburg-in his earliest memories, it was still called Leningrad-and his father really had seen the Buddhas during his military service. Her discovery nonetheless posed a risk for potential exposure moving forward. When she learned of the operation in the news, would she put two and two together, and perhaps report her suspicious encounter with a man claiming to be a Russian emigre? Probably not, but it was best not to leave such a thing to chance. Julia was a loose end that would have to be tied up, one way or another, and he found that thought discouraging.

Actually, there was a lot about this mission that troubled him.

No, that wasn’t quite right. Not just this mission; he’d been experiencing misgivings about everything in his life. The sense of pride he’d once felt in his military service, in excelling in his training and commanding a team of Russia’s very best special operations soldiers, in literally being a part of shaping the future of the Rodina…those ideological concepts just didn’t square with reality. That was another lesson of history. Brave men-his team, and even his father before him-were always the ones who made the sacrifices, while the politicians who sent them to their appointments with destiny were always chasing some selfish agenda. This mission was no different. They would succeed of course, but in the end, would it make any difference?

He reached the main exit, threading past the idling masses of tourists, and once outside took out his phone and called Kharitonov. When his subordinate answered, he spoke only two words: “It’s time.”