The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (38)

Black Sea Cruise

They dropped Gorelikov’s shrouded body twice as they stumbled down the shale goat path to the beach, once just catching him before he rolled off the pathway onto the rocks thirty meters below. The night land breeze came off the face of the cliff and created a small chop on the water, which broke among the many rocks protruding from the sandy bottom. Could an unmanned vessel be preprogrammed to weave between these outcrops, to run aground gently on this small patch of wet packed sand, and to weave its way out again? Dominika and Agnes took turns wearing the infrared glasses that would pick up the invisible beacon from the bow strobe on the USV, and Dominika wore the beacon wristwatch. They thought they could hear some of the sounds of the late-night party high above them, beyond the face of the cliff. As they waited silently, listening for the clump of sentries’ boots, the land breeze increased, and the waves turned from small chuckling wavelets to noisier three-foot breakers that hit some of the protruding rocks and gurgled over them, occasionally throwing a little spume into the air. Choppy, but not impossible. Dominika periodically looked back at the shrouded form of Gorelikov lying on the sand beyond the reach of the waves—she fully expected him to sit up and start talking—and wondered first, how the boat could get close enough to them in the surf, and second, how they could possibly load his limp body onto the deck of the USV that had a significant freeboard.

At precisely midnight by Dominika’s watch, she saw an intermittent flashing blue light on the horizon. As the minutes went by the light grew brighter and the indistinct shape of a low-slung speedboat with what looked like zebra stripes along its sides and a small white bow wave in its teeth became visible. The shape of the vessel materialized, disappeared, and reappeared as it approached, sliding into the troughs of the waves, and then climbing back out. As it entered the rock field, the boat slowed and, as if driven by a coxswain, slowly made its way around or between the rocks until the rounded bow slid to a stop on the sand right at their feet. The boarding footholds were at the stern of the USV, but the surf was banging the hull back there. Dominika could hear the propulsion jets of the vessel trying to hold the hull straight and to counteract the effects of the waves. Making her way to the aft accommodation ladder, Agnes was soused to the neck by a breaker, then knocked off the second foothold back into the water, completely drenching her, the second time tonight she was soaked. Finally she was able to scramble up the three footholds and balance herself on the deck of the USV. Dominika reached up and gave her the bag that contained the condom-wrapped thumb drive, the infrared glasses, the beacon watch, and Gorelikov’s expensive Swiss wristwatch.

The double coffin-lid hatch automatically opened and Agnes looked inside, then back to Dominika, who was in thigh-high water, and gave a thumbs-up. Dominika stayed away from the stern of the boat being pounded regularly by the surf, causing loud slapping booms that would sooner or later attract sentries. Now came the hard part. Dominika went over to the wrapped body of Gorelikov, sat him up, put her shoulder into his stomach, and with a grunt, picked him up like a sack of flour. She waded back into the water and tried to boost him high enough so Agnes could reach down, grab a sheet corner, and haul him aboard. It was impossible with the sloshing water and the bucking hull, but Dominika boosted him by his legs and, miraculously, Agnes was able to grab the top edge of the sheet and pull with all her might. The corpse slid up over the gunwale and onto the deck of the vessel. Dominika walked back on the beach and waited; watching as Agnes slid, rolled, and finally dumped Gorelikov’s corpse down the hatchway. Once below, she would have to pick him up and put him on one of the reclining seats, strap him in, then strap herself in, and flip the switches that would close the hatch and initiate the programmed course back to the waiting US Navy frigate twenty miles offshore. Before Agnes disappeared down the hatch she looked at Dominika in the moonlight and waved. The thought occurred to Dominika that Nathaniel Nash was very lucky that such a woman loved him, that they both loved him.

The tone of the jet nozzles grew louder as the USV backed off the beach, the surf still smacking the transom as it moved away. Then a grinding bump as the stern collided with a flat rock protruding above the surface and the vessel stopped dead. From the foam around the stern, Dominika could see that the USV was trying to go forward and backward to free itself from the invisible obstruction, but it kept bumping into the outcrop and could proceed no farther. Cursing, Dominika waded in up to her chest, was swallowed by a breaker, and then managed to swim to the hung-up hull and push the bucking stern with all her might. She finally got a lift from a wave, and heard the transom grind against the rock and float free. Another wave slapped her under, but the jets pulsed in reverse and the zebra-striped boat silently backed out of the rock field into open water. Another wave hit Dominika and she swallowed some seawater and retched, but recovered enough to see the USV spin in her own length, settle by the stern, and pick up speed, headed out to sea. She paused briefly to squat in the shallows. Seawater should do the same job as vinegar and baking powder. There was some satisfaction in consigning the president’s DNA to the Black Sea. Dominika struggled to the beach, her clothes streaming with water (she’d win the wet T-shirt contest at the party tonight), and looked back seaward. The stealth vessel had already disappeared from sight. Good luck, Agnes Krawcyk. Don’t fail me.

Shivering, Dominika staggered up the goat path to her dacha, shucked off her clothes, collected the champagne glasses, and mopped up Gorelikov’s mess from the marble. She then stood under a hot shower for twenty minutes, too tired to mind the inevitable nightmare image of Grace Gao hanging by her neck from the glass shower door.

It was noon before anyone noticed that Gorelikov was missing. Bortnikov ordered a massive search of the compound, and had spotter planes and fast motor-patrol boats from Sevastopol comb the coast in case Gorelikov somehow had fallen off the cliff into the sea. After an informal roll call it was additionally noticed that Agnes Krawcyk, one of the art-restoration workers, was also unaccounted for. Bortnikov and Dominika met in the compound’s security-control building’s conference room, to discuss how they would brief the president on these disturbing developments. There was no record at Gelendzhik Airport of either individual boarding a plane and all compound vehicles were accounted for—they had simply disappeared into thin air. Bortnikov remembered that MAGNIT had reported part of an exfiltration plan involving a powered stealth glider that could land in the Balaklava Valley undetected, but there was no way Gorelikov or the woman could have exited the compound unnoticed and walked the ten kilometers at night, on country roads, to reach an exfiltration pickup point. Frustrated and furious, Bortnikov ordered a second complete search of every structure in the compound, including the presidential wing and the president’s own private apartments. Nikolai Patrushev deigned to attend the last meeting with Bortnikov and Dominika at the end of the day. Despite the cataclysmic possibilities, Patrushev’s conniving yellow halo was steady and unperturbed. He’s already chosen a scapegoat, thought Dominika. He’ll assume none of the blame.

“The Polish woman is of no importance,” said Patrushev. “She could have been taken by one of the soldiers into the woods, raped, and killed, then thrown into a ravine. It would take months to find her body.”

Bortnikov goggled at him. “Are you mad? Why do you assume that?”

Patrushev ignored him. “Anton Gorelikov is a different matter. If he has defected, it is a potential disaster. Your services should have been more vigilant.”

Bortnikov looked across the table at him. “You are levying blame on Egorova and me? Are you serious? You are head of the Security Council with an oversight charter over all matters of State security. You share the responsibility.” Bortnikov was almost yelling, but Patrushev was blasé and unaffected.

“The FSB exists to catch spies in the Rodina. The SVR is supposed to run foreign assets who can give early warning of such breaches,” said Patrushev. “It is my observation you both fell short in these duties, and in consequence failed the president.” There it was, the cringing, blame-shifting, famous among the Kremlin siloviki, with no one taking responsibility, and everyone distraught and disapproving when the president was ill served by others. Dominika calculated that perhaps this criticism would push her and Bortnikov closer—at least until the next palace crisis. Bortnikov still goggled at Patrushev, and his blue halo flickered in agitation.

Dominika understood what Nikolai was doing, distancing himself from any responsibility. But she was now Director of SVR. It was time to assert herself, to establish a voice among these men who, along with the president, would be her competitors, allies, and rivals in the years to come. “With respect, I think no one deserves any blame, and it is unseemly that Nikolai pretends otherwise,” said Dominika. “One thing is certain. We will know clearly whether Anton Gorelikov is a CIA mole, and we will know the truth very soon.”

Patrushev and Bortnikov stared at her. “The proof will be apparent within four or five days,” said Dominika. “If in the next week important SVR assets in the United States are compromised, then it must be the inescapable conclusion that Gorelikov is CHALICE. This is conjecture, but if it happens, it is incontrovertible proof.” That should nail down the notion of Anton’s guilt.

“How do we brief this to the president?” said Bortnikov. Patrushev offered no guidance.

Dominika leaned forward. “Given that Anton was one of the president’s closest advisers, I think care should be taken, great care, not to insinuate that the president himself was incautious, or overly trusting, or blind to the obvious signs, if any, that Anton was going down the wrong path.” The two magpies on the other side of the table nodded their heads.

“If it suits you, gentlemen,” said Dominika, fingering a striking strand of pearls around her neck, “I can brief the president on this difficult situation. We are lucky that we have the American case officer in Moscow to use as a bargaining chip. We can use the American to exchange for our assets, and additionally demand the extradition to Russia of Gorelikov.”

“Since it was your idea,” said Patrushev, relieved, “it would certainly be appropriate for you to brief the president. Don’t you agree?” he said to Bortnikov.

“Absolutely,” he said. “The president likes and trusts you.”

Dominika nodded. “That would be satisfactory,” she said. “Then all we have to do is wait. I intend to return to Moscow tonight to monitor the situation from Yasenevo.” And I want to see Nate.

Audrey Rowland walked in the twilight on the raised boardwalk over the bog on the northern end of Theodore Roosevelt Island in the Potomac River between Rosslyn and the John F. Kennedy Center in the heart of Washington, DC. The island was part of the National Park System, and would close in ninety minutes. Pedestrian traffic was light. An old coot had been fishing off the causeway bridge that connected the island to the parking lot on the George Washington Memorial Parkway, and two blue-hairs with cameras had passed Audrey fifteen minutes ago, chattering like parrots and idiotically looking for birds to photograph. After that, she was alone. As she walked soundlessly on the planks of the boardwalk in the failing light, lumpy things—turtles and frogs—occasionally splashed in the brackish, reedy water, but otherwise the forested island was eerily calm.

The boardwalk curved east, and the lights of Georgetown and downtown DC were coming on, visible through the dense foliage. Audrey stopped and sat on the secluded bench designated as the meeting site, looked at her watch, sat back, and listened. The creeks and pops of the deciduous forest were muffled by the drone of the evening traffic on the nearby Key and Roosevelt Bridges. Otherwise nothing. Audrey had been making clandestine meetings for a long time, and was accustomed to the jittery stomach and damp palms that came before making contact with her GRU handler or, more recently, with SUSAN, the illegals officer from New York. Meeting with this creepy bitch was a lot safer than meeting someone from the Russian Embassy, but Audrey didn’t like her. There was something superior about her attitude; she didn’t acknowledge Audrey’s rank or importance. Audrey already had resolved to tell Uncle Anton that she wanted a different commo system, and she was sure the Russians would comply, especially since she was two days away from Senate confirmation as the new Director of the CIA.

The confirmation hearings on Capitol Hill had been a joke: legislators read rambling prepared statements and asked extraneous questions off lists handed to them by spotty staffers just out of college. Audrey played the professional navy vice admiral, and the scientist preeminent in technology, weapons, and communications, advances in which would mean less spending and reasonable budgets for the navy while continuing to ensure national security. The addlepated senators, Democrats and Republicans alike, liked the fact that Admiral Rowland was an outsider, a sexless woman, obviously apolitical, and would steer CIA in the right direction, away from profligate spending and away from nefarious covert actions and similar extralegal behaviors.

Audrey’s scalp moved when she heard a thump-thump coming toward her out of the darkness on the boardwalk. In the fading light, the indistinct shape of a hunched-over human form gradually became clear, and Audrey thought of the irony of being accosted by an estuarine swamp creature while meeting her Russian handler in downtown Washington, DC. More likely it would be a paunchy Schedule C contractor, out at twilight looking for a young tug-mutton. She relaxed when a fogey in a floppy hat and flannel shirt approached. The old man was using a walker, and the thump of the padded legs of his appliance echoed hollowly off the planks. Audrey nodded pleasantly as he passed, but just got a harrumph in return from the miserable bastard, who was clearly hurrying to get off the island before it closed. After the man had disappeared around the bend there was no one else around, no sounds. All she had to do was wait for SUSAN to ghost up to her out of the dusk. Audrey patted her jacket pocket to make sure the thumb drive and two discs with the latest Office of Naval Research secrets were secure. She’d pass the drive and discs, verbally brief SUSAN on her confirmation, and listen to the Center’s ideas about communications options when she became DCIA and had a full-time security detail.

What Audrey Rowland did not realize was that the senior citizen fishing off the causeway, and the two biddies looking for birds, and the irascible crusty-pants hobbling behind a walker were all part of Simon Benford’s ORION surveillance team, a collection of retired CIA officers who were so adept, and patient, and effective, that they outperformed the crack FBI surveillance team known as the “Gs” who followed trained foreign intelligence officers for a living. The ORIONs’ skill was to anticipate where a target would go, get there ahead of the rabbit, and undetectably witness a clandestine act without the intelligence officer (and his American agent) ever having an inkling that they were covered. Benford once famously said that the difference between ORION surveillance and the FEEBS was the difference between a cat watching a bird, and a dog chasing a car. The ORIONs had been leapfrogging ahead of Admiral Rowland all day, totally unseen, anticipating her route-of-march—the overall vector of her travel—and logging her general direction, and when, near the end of the day, Theodore Roosevelt Island became a possibility, four of the dozen ORIONs covering Audrey had flooded the zone and were in place before she even pulled into the parking lot. The geriatric team—the two bird-watchers were grandmothers—reported that target demeanor indicated an imminent meeting. That was good enough for Simon. Benford had alerted the FBI arrest team to deploy accordingly, as the ORIONs had no arrest authority and could not detain a suspect by flashing their AARP cards.

Days before, the rendezvous had been made twenty-one nautical miles off the Black Sea coast of Russia. The USV had performed flawlessly, making contact with DDG-78, the USS Porter, an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer of the 6th Fleet, a little after 0100 in calm seas. The USV was hoisted aboard the helo deck by a specially fitted stern hoist, and rolled on a dolly out of sight into the aft helo hangar by bridge crane. Sailors who opened the USV hatch had been surprised to see a busty middle-age woman in a wet T-shirt emerge, holding a waterproof pouch. They had been further surprised to see the shrouded figure of an elegant gentleman in a suit sleeping in the second reclining chair who, on closer inspection, was determined to be dead. The executive officer on the Porter cleared the hangar of crewmembers at the behest of a short rumpled man wearing a navy peacoat who was accompanied by a taller civilian with salt-and-pepper hair, and a nervous young man with fogged-over spectacles.

Agnes had shaken hands with Benford and Westfall, hugged Forsyth, repeated “chalice, chalice, chalice,” until they told her to stop, they got it, and handed them the pouch with the thumb drive. They had all sat in the empty wardroom, sipping coffee, reading the thumb-drive report on a laptop. A plate of toast slices smothered in a white sauce with chipped beef, the navy staple known as “S.O.S.,” was put in front of her by a grinning steward. Agnes took a cautious sniff, tried a forkful, then had devoured the whole plate. She had not eaten in twelve hours. As she ate, she told them the rest about Dominika and Gorelikov. Forsyth reached over and squeezed her hand. Westfall had hurried away to send flash cables to Langley.

“Alex Larson is in small measure avenged,” said Benford, grimly. “MAGNIT will be arrested, and Gorelikov becomes CHALICE. Line KR in SVR, kontravietka, counterintelligence, will be doing damage assessment for years.” He patted Agnes’s hand and congratulated her. “DIVA will be able to tie up Russian intelligence—internal and external—for a decade, especially since she has consummated her relationship with Putin, and there is no longer a competitor for the president’s confidence. I wish Alex could see it all.”

Agnes had whipped her white forelock back, and looked at him with a murderous look Forsyth remembered from the old days. “How nice for DIVA,” she spat. “You are content to let your asset get on her back whenever that pig wants? And what of your officer languishing in a Russian prison? What is so fortuitous? Your brilliant trap worked but what will you do to repay Nash for your betrayal?” Benford glowered at her, red in the face.

Forsyth had pulled her out of the wardroom and out onto the afterdeck where they stood against the aft rail as dawn broke, watching the ship’s yeasty wake trail behind, straight as a pencil. Both of them wore too-large peacoats against the morning chill.

“If you think he’s not going through hell over this, you’d be wrong,” said Forsyth. “But catching the mole is Simon’s first priority, his only priority. He would have used any of us to identify MAGNIT, including himself.”

Forsyth put his arm around Agnes’s shoulder. He had guessed at the love triangle since Sevastopol. “He’s counting on Dominika keeping Nash in one piece and eventually getting him out of Russia, maybe arranging a trade. It’ll take some time—the navy and the courts won’t let a traitor of Rowland’s magnitude avoid prison time.”

Still furious at the soulless practicality of these CIA men, Agnes shook Forsyth’s arm off. “So Nathaniel rots in Russia?” She didn’t care if her affection for Nate showed.

Forsyth shrugged. “If the FEEBS can also identify MAGNIT’s handler—a real Russian illegal—a spy swap might be arranged quickly.” Forsyth knew this was a long shot. Benford had ranted to Hearsey that nothing had come from dusting DIVA’s throwaway ops phone with metka, spy dust, as a way to tag SUSAN. Multiple trips to New York City with FBI technicians to fluoresce the offices of fringe, left-progressive literary magazines in New York—New Politics, the American Prospect, Salon, the New School Quarterly, and Harper’s—had not resulted in a single hit of spy dust. There was some initial excitement when the desktop of an editor had fluoresced slightly under the black light, prompting an FBI special agent to say he knew the place was full of comsymps, but there was no other evidence of metka anywhere else in the office. Hearsey later determined that trace amounts of recreational drugs including cocaine, methamphetamine, and psilocybin mushroom crumbs on the desktop had registered a false positive. Benford subsequently concluded that SUSAN either had used a cutout to retrieve the phone from the little cemetery in the Village, or had somehow not physically touched the phone before throwing it into the East River. Smart gal, that SUSAN.

Audrey felt rather than saw SUSAN sit down next to her on the bench in the gloom. Goddamn illegals, sneaking up like that.

“Any problems getting here?” she asked. Audrey shook her head as she handed over the thumb drive and the two discs in a ziplock bag.

“These will be self-explanatory,” said Audrey. “I expect confirmation as DCIA in two days or less. We will have to discuss communications on a priority basis.”

“The Center is aware of the requirement,” said SUSAN brusquely.

“Well the Center had better get moving. In less than a week’s time I’m going to have a twenty-four-hour security detail, and . . .”

The dark woods on both sides of the boardwalk erupted into a wall of blinding light. A megaphone voice ordered the two women to stay put, this was the FBI. Blinded by the lights, Audrey heard the sound of SUSAN launching herself out of the bench, and jumping off the boardwalk into the putrid swamp, followed by frantic splashing. Voices were yelling, more splashes were heard, quite a lot of additional splashing, and Audrey, who had not reacted at all because of the blinding effect of the lights (and a physics geek’s natural inability to launch into rapid physical movement), felt hands on her arms and the snick of handcuffs on her wrists. She saw that SUSAN had left the thumb drive and discs on the bench, which the FBI was now gathering and putting into a plastic evidence bag. It seemed as if there were hundreds of people milling about in blue Windbreakers with “FBI” stenciled across the back. There was never a moment that a hand wasn’t gripping her arm.

It would have been impossible to describe the numb shock that Audrey felt as she was walked back down the boardwalk to the parking lot, already a carnival ground of flashing red-and-blue lights. Part of the shock, of course, was the surprise of the ambush, and the realization that approximately fifty special agents of the FBI had been hiding knee-deep in swamp water for hours before the meeting. How had they known? Audrey’s precise, quantitative mind also reeled against the reality that her twelve years of clever, calculated espionage had been detected, and it was irksome not to know how. Those dumpy little men looking for moles were more dangerous than they appeared. The final sour gout of desperate reality hit Audrey when she was put in the back of an FBI sedan reeking of Aqua Velva, her hands still cuffed behind her back, and the car door was slammed shut. She knew this was the beginning of an interminable period of evidence, interrogations, trials, and publicity ending in prison, as well as the catastrophic end of her navy life of privilege and status. She felt no remorse beyond the fact that they would court-martial her and take away her stripes. A female special agent sat in back with her, and Audrey stole an appraising glance at the youthful profile and the stockinged legs. The special agent caught Audrey looking at her, and stared her down. This was the end of that part of her life too, Audrey realized miserably, not ever having seen movies such as Caged Heat, or Kittens Behind Bars.

Her life was over, her world was upside-down, and she would certainly grow old and die in prison, but as the car started moving onto the parkway, Audrey strangely thought about what her hateful father would have said at this moment. Screw him. She was a three-star admiral, and he never was.