Oath of Office

40

Elizaveta Bobkova took a sip of mineral water and closed her eyes. Her joints were stiff, her mind lethargic. She probably just needed to get away from the noxious fog of Pugin’s cologne and go for a long, relaxing run. Gorev lay asleep on the couch, snoring softly. It was Pugin’s turn on post with the laser mic that was aimed across the street at the bedroom window of Senator Chadwick’s Arlington, Virginia, condo. What little talking did occur came from Chadwick, and from the sound of things, her young assistant, Mr. Fite, was having trouble keeping up.

Pugin’s lips spread into a lascivious grin. “These Americans are strange animals.”

“All animals are strange,” Bobkova said, after another sip of mineral water. “If they are watched long enough.”

Pugin tapped a pencil on the notebook beside his computer. “They are going to be hungry after this round.”

The desk in front of Pugin contained a wide assortment of gear, all of it dedicated to sniffing, listening, watching. The laser microphone and receiver, both aimed at the window across the street, sat on tripods to the man’s left. A ladderlike Yagi directional antenna was on his right, mounted on its own stubby tripod and pointed at the same condo, collecting cell phone, wireless router, computer information, and two IP addresses Bobkova believed to be Chadwick’s “smart” television and dishwasher. The antenna gleaned information from the other condos, along with the IP address of any passing vehicle that had GPS or other connectivity, a phenomenon that was becoming more and more of a reality these days. Bobkova wondered, if the average American suddenly became aware of the digital cloud that followed them around, how many would melt into a pile of emotional goo. If you had a mobile phone in your pocket, grocers could be fully aware of which products you loitered in front of with your shopping cart. Online advertisers knew if you’d looked at a certain type of bra — and bombarded you with adds for that bra if you had the temerity to decide to buy something different. Automobile dealerships knew if you put off that oil change for a few thousand miles beyond their recommendation, giving them a reason to deny your warranty claim. It was probably healthier to be oblivious to the constant intrusion, at least in the short term. Bobkova had taken to disconnecting her own life shortly after joining SVR, placing a small square of electrician’s tape over the camera of her laptop while she was still in training. Just as liars found it difficult to trust, watchers were always the most paranoid.

Bobkova was especially proud — and disgusted — at how simple it had been to find out the senator’s mobile phone number. The life of a politician and Chadwick’s own narcissistic personality made her especially active on social media. There were more close-up photographs of her face on her accounts, perfectly framed in that helmet of hair, than Bobkova had ever seen. It was as if she’d ducked into one of those shopping-mall photo booths and the camera had gone on overdrive, spitting out strip after strip of photos of the same mugging face. Chadwick took care to attach that face to worthy causes, making her, at least in the judgment of her handlers, a more electable senator. Homeless shelters, crisis centers, museum openings, all provided backdrops for her toothy smile. To her credit, she kept her personal life personal — except for her dog.

It was a handsome little thing, as far as dogs went, a mix of border collie and something with a curly tail. Bobkova had once adopted a stray in Afghanistan, where the locals did unthinkable things to the dogs. She’d invested a great deal of emotion, only to have the stupid thing die on her once she got it back to Russia. Chadwick cared enough for her little mutt to share the camera with it on a few occasions — and enough to have it licensed and tagged in case it became lost. It was a straightforward matter for Bobkova to zoom in on one of the hundreds of social media photos and find the mobile phone number engraved on the metal dog tag. Once she had the number, it was simple enough for Bobkova to set herself up as a “man in the middle.” Less than an hour later, she was able to “go up” on the phone and begin logging incoming and outgoing calls, collecting packets of information on all Chadwick’s Internet sessions. She recorded login data, passwords that the senator would surely use more than once, building the pattern of life that was needed to cause someone’s death.

Elizaveta Bobkova did it all through gritted teeth. The pasty sycophant Dudko would soil himself were he to spend one minute in the field alongside her. And still, he pushed her relentlessly to make things happen quickly. Bobkova reminded him that she knew what she was doing. She was thorough, she was meticulous, and she was good at her job. He did not care. It had to happen tonight. And it could not splash back on anyone from Russia.

Pugin raised his arms high above his head as if he’d just scored a goal. “And… they are done.”

Bobkova shook her head in disgust, as much for her thoughts of Dudko as this operative with the hairy ears.

Pugin rolled his chair away from the table and pointed his pencil at the session data that was now scrolling down his computer screen. “I told you she would be hungry.”

Bobkova walked over and bent down to get a better look. Pugin’s cologne was actually quite nice once it had a chance to wear off a bit — or perhaps she was just nose-blind to it.

“See, a table for two at a Morton’s steakhouse.” Pugin made a note of the login and password she used for the reservation website. They would use it to try and gain access to Chadwick’s other applications.

Bobkova watched in real time as Michelle Chadwick — or possibly her carp-lipped boy toy using her phone — made seven-o’clock dinner reservations in Crystal City. Bobkova knew the place well. Morton’s steakhouse faced the street but had another entrance inside the underground mall. Her meeting with Reza Kazem had taken place across from the Starbucks in the very shadow of the restaurant. She often ran along the Mount Vernon Trail, which followed the Potomac across the street.

Bobkova folded her arms, pacing the length of the hotel room several times as she thought through the particulars of this location.

There would be enough people to offer the right amount of panic and melee, making the killing highly visible — as Dudko had instructed. There were several other restaurants in the vicinity — seafood, tapas, noodles, even a place that specialized in bison. Some diners would drive, but many would come and go via the Metro, funneling them right past Morton’s to reach the terminal. The crowds would at once provide the necessary witnesses and cover their escape.

Bobkova had studied the security cameras in the Crystal City Underground in advance of her previous meeting with Reza Kazem. Then, she’d wanted to be seen, but such preparation was a habit. She’d send Gorev to check the area again and disable the camera directly in front of the restaurant on Crystal Drive.

Ideally, Bobkova would have liked a little more time to build her file, but Dudko insisted she rush things. Bobkova was smart enough to see what he was up to. Certain news stories were already being written, little flames that thousands of Internet bots would fan into a larger fire across the Web, “liking,” tweeting, sharing, commenting. Monday-morning drive-time radio loved a good conspiracy. More tweets would follow, many of these from real people, helped along by the bot army. One story would bolster another until even the most cynical began to doubt their convictions.

Mundus vult decipi—the world wanted to be deceived.

Senator Chadwick would die tonight — and the American people, or at least a substantial portion of them, would blame the man who she accused of having his own assassination squad, the man who stood to gain the most peace from her death: President Jack Ryan.