The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (28)

Doomsday Option

The recruitment of PLARF source SONGBIRD and the subsequent intelligence stream of secret information on Chinese war-fighting capabilities triggered the usual feeding frenzy as Washington careerists and the tall poppies in Canberra sought to extract maximum political advantage from the windfall recruitment. This they did primarily by discussing the case—about which they knew nothing—around town as if they themselves had conceived, planned, and green-lighted the operation, and personally swam ashore on Hac Sa Beach at midnight with commando knives between their teeth.

CIA’s China Ops Division sought to protect SONGBIRD’s identity by compiling a BIGOT list documenting the limited number of officers, analysts, and managers who were read in to the true-name operational file. A separate reporting compartment encrypted HYACINTH was established with general intelligence on the Chinese military from a variety of sources, designed to obfuscate SONGBIRD’s specific position and access.

In Canberra, an Australian undersecretary for Domestic Security had vaguely heard about “recent exceptional information” involving Chinese submarines, and had repeated the comment at a National Day reception at the Indonesian Embassy within earshot of the New China News Agency correspondent who was trying to get through jostling diplomats mobbing the buffet table. The NCNA rep reported this to the military attaché at the Chinese Embassy the next day.

In Washington, a swarthy, puffed-up deputy national security adviser in the White House, known for his five o’clock shadow and imperious self-confidence, told his Taiwanese mistress—she was a lobbyist on the Hill for the Hyundai Motor Group—that his erectile dysfunction earlier that evening almost certainly was caused by worry over Chinese military buildup in the South China Sea. “That’s old news,” she said as she put Mr. Softy into her mouth, with no effect other than eliciting a petulant “No, it’s brand-new info, and you’d be distracted too if you read what I read.” His mistress reported his comment the next morning to her real employer, Zhōnghuá Minguó Guójiā Ānquánjú, the National Security Agency of the Republic of China (Taiwan), an intel service so utterly penetrated by the MSS that the information was in Beijing the next morning.

About the same time in Macao, police arrested a local ring of young men who were caught smuggling MDMA—Ecstasy—from Guangzhou to sell to party-going patrons in the casinos. Desperate to ingratiate himself with interrogators, one of the men—a waiter at Fernando’s Restaurant on Hac Sa Beach—said he suspected Russian organized-crime gangs were already operating in Macao, and described a dinner meeting he had observed between a Chinese official with a military-style haircut, and a young Russian. Given the Russian connection, the police forwarded the transcript of the interrogation to the Guangzhou MSS office, from where it eventually made its way to headquarters.

In Beijing, Bao mi dan Wei, the Security Protection Bureau of the MSS, assembled the tidbits and concluded that there was a mole within the People’s Liberation Army, a mole possibly just recruited, and possibly by the Americans or the Australians. They wondered about the single sighting of a Russian, prompting the more cynical officers in the unit to posit that the SVR was now working with CIA against China. This theory was generally dismissed, but the MSS Chief in Moscow General Sun Jianguo nevertheless was directed to approach his SVR contact and to determine outright whether the Russians had any involvement.

As they sifted the few leads, the Security Bureau checked all recent foreign travel by PLA general officers. Though Macao was technically Chinese sovereign territory, an investigator from the Guangzhou MSS office was directed to determine how many generals and admirals had traveled to Macao in the past six months. The list of hair-raisingly prominent names of PLA officers was so long that the independent-minded Guangzhou office decided not to report anything. SONGBIRD’s name, accordingly, never came up.

Dominika sat in the tastefully appointed meeting lounge in the separate liaison reception center at SVR headquarters in Yasenevo, reminding herself not to bounce her foot in front of General Sun. A tray of salaka, smoked fish on buttered bread topped with melted cheese, was on the table between the armchairs, along with a sweating pitcher of kompot, a cold fruit beverage that was a staple in the liaison lounge, vodka being reserved for more ceremonious occasions.

Following the president’s order that Colonel Egorova establish a relationship with the MSS, she had seen the unctuous general three times, including once for lunch, but the conversation never extended beyond liaison niceties and nonsubstantive subjects. She needed to engage this doddering Chinese grandfather more closely, but had made no progress. Dominika had assessed the general each time to identify his motivations, discover his vulnerabilities, sniff for weaknesses—women, whiskey, money—but there was nothing. Further attempts to elicit who his Moscow contacts were, and whether he was engaged in classical recruitment operations, likewise came up empty. His yellow aura did not change appreciatively with his moods.

“Good morning, Colonel,” said General Sun. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice. I apologize for the urgency of my request.” He was wearing his forest-green uniform, with a modest block of ribbons on his chest, and three bright-yellow stars on his epaulets, which were the same shade as the steady unperturbed halo behind his head. As usual, his eyes did not linger on her bust or legs—there had never been even the slightest whiff of prurient interest—and Dominika had shelved for the moment the idea of engineering a “bump” on the general with a Sparrow.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, General Sun,” said Dominika. “How can I be of service?”

“The matter is delicate and embarrassing,” said Sun. “Our counterintelligence units have uncovered unsubstantiated indications that a high-ranking PLA officer recently may have been targeted for recruitment by an unknown service.”

“That is always an upsetting development,” said Dominika. The general clasped and unclasped his hands. Dominika forced her foot to stay still.

“I am pained even to raise it, but there are unsubstantiated reports of a possible meeting between a Chinese official and a young Russian in Macao. Nothing is substantiated; all we have is the single sighting.”

“What is your question, General?” said Dominika evenly.

“Forgive me, but I must ask you officially, as the Chief of Counterintelligence, are there any SVR recruitment operations in China?”

Dominika kept her face shut down even as the thought boiled from the pit of her stomach, crept up her spine, and volleyed around the top of her head. It’s Nate, she thought. I’m sure of it, I can feel it, it’s a false-flag pitch, Benford’s behind it, they’re up to their old tricks, pitching a Chinese officer as a Russian. Thanks very much, fellows, you could have given me some warning, but that wouldn’t have happened, not in a million years.

“General, I can answer with complete honesty that there are no human SVR operations, in China, or against Chinese interests anywhere,” said Dominika. Technically, she was telling the truth: there were no ongoing human recruitment operations, but that did not include massive Russian SIGINT and ELINT collection programs along China’s northern border and Far East Pacific Coast. General Sun smiled. He was aware of the distinction, and recognized the evasion.

“I never thought so myself,” he said. “But I had to ask. Please excuse the presumption.” His yellow halo was steady.

“But your counterintelligence problem remains,” said Dominika. “What are your next steps?”

“With the most welcome confirmation that your service is not involved, we can proceed to investigate other possibilities,” said the general.

“You have other leads to pursue?”

The general leaned forward in his chair. “Yes, a particular possibility with which I believe you can assist. Several weeks ago, assets in Hong Kong reported the arrival of a CIA officer on a limited temporary assignment, somewhat unusual, coinciding with the approximate time frame of the shady contact between an unknown Chinese official and an unidentified Russian.” Bozhe moy, my God, they’re already looking at Nate, she thought. Chinese counterintelligence is insidious. Keep fishing, you must learn as much as you can.

“We have no information on this officer,” said Sun. “He apparently has never operated against the People’s Republic, but I kindly request SVR traces in the event you have a file on him. Beijing would like to review his biography, operational history, and, most important, whether he speaks Russian.” Nate’s delo formular, the operational file, is five volumes, it will make the MSS swoon. Respond now, she thought, you have to agree, no other response is possible.

“Of course, General,” said Dominika. “Please send me this American’s name and I will personally run full traces on him for your review.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” said the general.

“And what will be your course of action?” said Dominika.

“Our priority, of course, is to identify the traitor. If the American CIA officer has indeed recruited an agent, he knows the name. Beijing has directed an asset to develop a relationship with the American, to attempt to elicit the name of the turncoat.”

“It will not be easy,” said Dominika. “In my experience, the Americans are disciplined and cautious.” The ultimate irony, thought Dominika. A hundred years ago, I was sent to elicit the name of Korchnoi from Nate. Look how that turned out.

“Our operatives are very effective,” he said. “I have heard about your service and its methods, so I know you will understand. You are not the only ones who employ what I believe you call Sparrows.”

“Sparrows,” said Dominika, swallowing hard. “They were effective in their day. Sexual attraction can be a powerful tool, but times have changed, and methods have evolved over the years.”

“Most interesting. But our Sparrows—we call them Zhènniǎo—are occasionally called upon to perform functions beyond mere seduction and coercion,” said the general. Dominika felt her foot bouncing.

“Zhènniǎo translates as ‘poison-feather bird,’ ” said the general. “Part of an ancient mythology.”

“What are you saying?” said Dominika.

“Whether our operative is successful in eliciting the name of the mole from the CIA officer or not, his complicity is clear,” said the general. “She will be ordered to assassinate the American. She is highly trained in the requisite skills.” Wonderful. A Chinese female assassin running loose, a goddamn poison-feather bird, whatever that is.

“You know your procedures best, General,” said Dominika, casually, feeling her heartbeat behind her eyes. She was gently trying to talk this down, with no effect. “I might mention that we have long observed an unspoken rule that we do not offer violence against opposition officers. We view it as counterproductive and costly.”

“I understand. Sadly, the result of this policy of restraint did not, as we know, stave off the dissolution of the Soviet Union, a somber historical lesson noted by our own politburo,” said the general, displaying uncharacteristic candor. “We believe that it is salutary occasionally to send a dramatic message to the enemy to deter future offensive action, especially inside China.”

“I am not convinced it is a wise course of action,” said Dominika.

The general shrugged. “Beijing insists,” he sniffed. “But I would like to propose something a little out of the ordinary.”

“You have all my attention,” said Dominika.

“Would you consider coming to China—Hong Kong—to advise us on the counterintelligence phase—the entrapment—of the operation against the American? Your service has many years of experience operating against America and Americans, especially CIA. We would look forward to your guidance and, of course, to exchanging methods and techniques. You would be the esteemed guest of the minister.”

What was this? An intricate CI trap? Some way to link Nate and her, some triple move by Gorelikov to incriminate her? Don’t be paranoid, your security is intact. These Chinese were devious and intricate, but they’re not stupid. A rare invitation to China to observe MSS operations would be a triumph. Putin would marvel at her acumen and skill; no senior SVR officer had ever before been invited to monitor an ongoing compartmented activity.

“This indeed is an extraordinary request,” she said. “It would be fascinating to share observations and techniques, with the caveat that I do not wish to be party to any lethal operation.”

“We can accommodate you with great pleasure,” said the general, glowing yellow. It was unclear whether he meant MSS would shelve plans to assassinate Nate or that she would be ushered out of the room before Miss Poison Pussy was let off her leash. Could she convince them to forego assassination?

“I thank you for your kind invitation,” said Dominika. “It’s an inspired idea, General Sun. I believe I can secure authorization from the director [I really mean from Putin] for this trip.”

The general bowed his head. “I am delighted we will have the opportunity to host you,” he said. “There is some need for haste, however; our operative has already made contact with the American. Would it be even remotely possible for you to fly to Beijing tomorrow? It is an eight-hour flight, with an additional three hours to Hong Kong from Beijing.”

You’ve got no SRAC, you put a hold on personal meets. Even if there were time for you to put down a note—there wasn’t—it would be days before a Moscow officer could get black and retrieve a message that Nate is a target and should be yanked out of Hong Kong immediately. If she knew him, Nate’s probably trying to develop this Zhènniǎo. Idiotka, all you can do is go to Hong Kong and somehow try to warn Nate, or spoil the approach without burning yourself. She could not bear the thought of both Gable and Nate being taken away from her.

“I will be ready tomorrow,” said Dominika.

Dominika called the Kremlin. Gorelikov was delighted with the prospect of her Hong Kong trip, and said he would inform the president, who would also be greatly pleased at her remarkable progress. It was unprecedented that a senior SVR officer was even invited to China, much less asked to advise on an entrapment operation. “Your specialty,” crowed Gorelikov, to which Dominika silently told him to go to hell, and thought sadly of Ioana and all her sister Sparrows.

“The president just yesterday asked whether you liked your dacha at the cape,” said Gorelikov, conversationally. “He looks forward to taking you around the mansion, to explain the restoration work, and to show you the famous antiques of Tsar Alexander.” Dominika read the message: Her weekend at the dacha (naturally) was a matter of record, but her meanderings about the palace with the young Pole Andreas had been noticed (cameras, bugs, or security?), including their peeking into the master suite. She remembered now that Andreas had told her the ornate bed had belonged to Tsar Alexander. The end of the evening with Andreas in her dacha was presumably also known, but Dominika didn’t care. Gable long ago had told her always to assume uncontrolled rooms were bugged, and that the best way to reassure the watchers was to feign ignorance of the surveillance, demonstrating guiless innocence. “Let them see you alone in bed,” Gable had said, “hands under the covers moaning, crashing the yogurt truck. Give ’em a show.” Dominika had pretended to be shocked, telling Gable Russian girls didn’t do that. “Probably why most of ’em got mustaches,” he had said, and she had called him nekulturny, laughing. How she missed him.

There was another component to the president’s invitation: with the acuity of a Sparrow, she knew Putin would not hesitate to lead her into his capacious bedroom, dismiss his bodyguards, and determine whether his new Director of SVR would follow any and all directions. What would she do? Benford would probably tell her there were no limits, that access was the ultimate goal. Gable would tell her to bring a tin snips with her and shorten the already diminutive president by a couple more inches. Nate would go red in the face, caught between duty and jealousy. Wise, experienced Forsyth would take her aside, hands on her shoulders, and advise her to tell Vladimir that if he wanted a Sparrow she would get him one, but if he wanted a Chief of the foreign intelligence service, there could be no thought of anything more; she’d kill for him, but she wouldn’t share his bed. God knew what his reaction would be.

It still didn’t solve the problem of how to warn CIA that Nate was a target. Gable had once spoken to her about a “doomsday option,” a hypothetical situation in which Dominika found out about, say, an imminent Russian nuclear attack on the United States, the start of World War Three, with no way to pass the intel. In that case she was to flash her SVR colonel’s credentials, shoulder her way past the FSB militsiya guard at the front gate of the US Embassy, and get the information to the Chief of Station. It would burn her bridges, it would be the end of her spying, and probably her life, but a crisis like that would be the threshold. But there was no time even to contemplate that; there was no time left. She had brooded all evening and was exhausted as she packed a small suitcase at home.

Oh, she knew very well that a lone officer’s life was expendable, including her own, in the grand scheme. She knew CIA would not equate the possible assassination of Nate with the start of World War Three. Benford would say DIVA’s life was overwhelmingly more valuable, and that the equities weren’t even close. He would say Nash had to take his chances, and she had to stay safe. Her legs shook. She was on her way to China to advise these MSS fanatics how to put Nate in a bottle, with no way to save the man she loved. She couldn’t watch him butchered, couldn’t see his blood spreading in a pool under his head. Being caught while warning him in Hong Kong would be tantamount to revealing everything to the MSS, and word would get back to Moscow. They would be waiting for her at Sheremetyevo when she returned, no longer the favored girl in the club, now a predatel, a traitorous Judas. The panic was like a choking lump under her tongue, and her chest felt tight.

The next morning, the black limo sighed up to the curb in front of Dominika’s Moscow apartment, the door opened, and General Sun stepped out, resplendent in his formal uniform. For the first time, his yellow aura was pulsing, perhaps in expectation of returning to the Middle Kingdom, his homeland. The driver hurried to put Dominika’s suitcase in the trunk.

“Well, Colonel,” said the general, “are you ready for our most excellent adventure?” He held the door open for her.

“I cannot tell you how excited I am,” said Dominika.