The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (5)

Stealing Secrets

Alexander Larson, the sitting Director of CIA, was the first DCIA in thirty years to have come up through the operational ranks. He was a mustang, like the OSS-vintage directors who led the Agency in the fifties and the sixties—before the unrelieved string of successors selected from the military, or from the unctuous halls of Congress, or from the ranks of the Directorate of Intelligence—and tried their hands at directing an organization the arcane mission of which they imperfectly understood and had never experienced firsthand. Some directors were disasters, some of them unmitigated disasters, and a precious few achieved a certain synergy with the notoriously skeptical and ungovernable workforce at Langley before they left. The confirmation of veteran ops officer Alex Larson as DCIA broke the drought.

Alex Larson had gone through training at the Farm in the early seventies with Simon Benford. Larson the smooth extrovert became friends with Benford the irascible misanthrope, the result of an unlikely personal chemistry that had endured thirty years. It was logical that their disparate personalities would push Alex into the overseas clandestine service and the business of recruitment of foreign assets, and that Benford naturally would gravitate to the slough of counterintelligence and counterespionage. Geographical separation over the years did not dull the friendship, which automatically renewed itself whenever their paths crossed. Now Larson was DCIA. He knew his rumpled friend was brilliant, and had the tenacity of a pit bull, albeit with a maloccluded bite. Benford consulted with him often.

The past administration had selected Larson as DCIA in recognition of his moral rectitude, bureaucratic acumen, and top-flight recruitments (which Benford over the years had supported by vetting the assets as they came online). Sixty-five-year-old Larson looked the DCIA part: He was short, a bit stout, wore ginger-colored tortoiseshell eyeglasses, and sported what Benford called an Allen Dulles wannabe mustache. This, along with thinning white hair and white eyebrows so bushy that subordinates had to resist the temptation to run a comb through them, made him look like a college professor. But he was every inch the operator, and the troops respected him.

Larson was not popular with the current White House or with the derivative progressives on the National Security Council, the twentysomething English majors who were advising POTUS on Mideast policy. DCIA Larson moreover had obliquely contradicted his predecessor’s statement during the latter’s farewell foreign tour. “We don’t steal secrets,” the outgoing DCIA had said of CIA intelligence collection to an allied liaison audience. “Everything we do is consistent with US law. We uncover, we discover, we reveal, we obtain, we elicit, we solicit.”

Asked about his predecessor’s statement at a closed session of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence (SSCI), Larson unsmilingly and without a trace of irony had replied to the senators, “Fair enough. An asset, for instance, discovers the existence of a Russian mole in NATO headquarters, the CIA case officer solicits the info, the asset then reveals it, and thereby CIA obtains perishable counterintelligence information.” Partisan snitches reported the disloyal comment promptly, but Alexander Larson was not fired. He could not be fired. The reason was COPPERFIN.

During his fourteen years in the operational field, Larson had built the COPPERFIN espionage network, the massive, pervasive penetration of the entire State aerospace design, construction, and testing combine in the Russian Federation. Larson had personally recruited the first two Russian principal agents years earlier, one in India, the other in Brazil, who in turn had themselves recruited subsources in the Sukhoi, Mikoyan, Ilyushin, Tupolev, and Yakovlev design entities, all of which in 2006 had merged into OAK, Obyedinyonnaya Aviastroitelnaya Korporatsiya, the United Aircraft Corporation, located in the Krasnoselsky District in the central Moscow Okrug. Larson’s COPPERFIN agents regularly emptied the top-secret vaults of OAK to report on the advanced capabilities of fourth- and fifth-generation Russian fighters such as the Su-27, the MiG-29, and the new Sukhoi PAK FA. The US Air Force was ecstatic.

The administration’s intention to eventually jettison Alex Larson in favor of a DCIA more conformable to the White House’s pigeon-hearted foreign policy was stopped cold by howls from the Pentagon after the acquisition through the COPPERFIN network of the technical parameters of APFAR, Aktivnaya Fazirovannaya Antennaya Reshotka, the new Russian phased array radar, an inestimable prize. Next came the delivery of an actual Zvezda Kh-35U antiship missile, NATO designation KAYAK, but nicknamed the harpoonski because of its similarities to the US Harpoon missile. The Zvezda was brought across the Lithuanian border by a courier in the COPPERFIN network who bribed border guards to ignore the tail of the missile protruding from the broken-out back window of his UAZ Patriot, which was the only way he could fit the 520 kg, 380 cm missile into his compact SUV.

Immune from dyspeptic antagonists, DCIA Larson, in consultation with Simon Benford, launched his own active-measures campaign against the Putin regime—an offensive long overdue in the eyes of many to repay the Russians in their own coin for seven decades of disinformation, forgeries, and political meddling that was the Kremlin’s stock-in-trade. Larson became a vocal critic of Vladimir Putin’s Russian Federation, testifying in open committee sessions about congenital Russian use of active measures to influence political outcomes, mostly with mediocre results. He increased intel sharing with allied services, especially in Ukraine and the Baltics, which resulted in several flashy spy arrests of red-faced Russian intel officers. Their identities had been provided by DIVA and Larson had passed along his compliments to her via Benford. (The Director and DIVA had never met; Larson properly left the case in the able hands of Benford and company.)

After a career of working the Russian target, Larson understood the depredatory worldview of Vladimir Putin, and knew that the Kremlin would stop misbehaving only when the costs of Putin’s delinquency exceeded the perceived gains. Then came the explosive report: COPPERFIN assets smuggled out documentary proof of massive fraud in the OAK aerospace consortium. OAK had been set up by President Putin as an open joint-stock company combining Russian private and State-owned assets, the lion’s share of which disappeared into the pockets of favored cronies. Supported by Benford, Larson pushed the White House and the hand-wringing Department of State to publicize the corruption (citing foreign sources to protect internal assets), to denounce Russia in the United Nations, to levy sanctions on companies selling Russian commercial airliners, and to block any reinstatement of Russia to the G7. Reluctant to antagonize the Kremlin, the White House dithered, but finally acted at the urging of a bumptious Congress that had been briefed by the DCIA. Alex Larson was everywhere in town, pressing official Washington to bestir itself.

Benford huddled with Alex in Larson’s office. “Finally. This is an opening to discommode these coarse Slav fuckers,” Benford said. “We’re collecting comprehensive technical and military intelligence, and the negative international publicity will cow Putin, at least for a while. I only wish we could more accurately predict his reaction. Handling a cornered snake and so on, if you follow the metaphor.”

“As I recall, your metaphors used to be markedly more erudite,” said Alex, deadpan. “Perhaps DIVA will soon have better access to Putin’s plans and intentions if she becomes Director of SVR, assuming, of course, that your handling of her is as inspired as you claim it to be.”

Benford did not smile. “You can be sure that even in the absence of your signature flamboyant rococo operational style, the DIVA case is being managed securely.”

Larson laughed. “Is the young officer still primary handler? What was his name?”

“Nash, Nathaniel,” said Benford. “He is possibly going to assist the Australians in the Hong Kong operation I briefed you on last week. Marty Gable will hold DIVA’s hand in the interim.”

Larson’s nose was too good. “Any trouble?”

Benford shrugged. “The recruiting case officer and DIVA have a relationship that falls slightly outside the usual parameters.”

“Meaning what?” asked Alex.

“They are in love and are intimate, whenever circumstances allow,” said Benford. “Until now I have stayed my hand from firing Nash. I assess his separation from the service would have a significant effect on DIVA’s production.”

“How significant?” said Alex.

“As in she would quit. With Nash in Hong Kong for a few weeks and Gable to steady the asset, there are no immediate concerns.” The two men thought alike and the matter—and Nash’s future—was shelved for now.

Larson opened the file on his desk that contained Benford’s script for tomorrow’s briefing of POTUS and the NSC Principals Committee on CIA’s continued covert-action campaign against the Kremlin. He was silent as he read. “One misses the field,” he said, looking up.

Benford opened his file too. “The organization needs you behind this desk. You’ve had your debauch overseas for thirty years. Now you have to turn this pig’s breakfast back into a spy service.”

“Run through your notes for me,” said Alex.

Benford spoke briefly and succinctly. This brief was a matter of reassuring the jittery US president, and ensuring continued Pentagon support. Jamming a stick into Putin’s spokes at this time was critical, given his brazen interference on the world stage. He was emboldened by confusion and anxiety among Western governments. Publicly embarrassing the Kremlin would disrupt multiple Russian active measures in the Baltics, Europe, and in places like Montenegro. Russia’s moribund economy would be trebly stung by any publicized malfeasance within OAK, scaring away investors, reducing customers for Russian military material, constraining the military budget, and complicating Kremlin adventurism in Africa, Latin America, and the resource-rich Arctic. Twisting the Russian bear’s tail abroad, moreover, would distract the Kremlin and thus protect valuable assets, such as COPPERFIN. The Russians would be driven frantic in the face of withering international disparagement. The DCIA would politely insist that POTUS could not ignore the opportunity and must not remain quiescent.

“We’ll see how it works on him,” said Alex. “At least the top brass will support me.”

“Don’t worry, this will stir the hornets’ nest,” said Benford. He was correct, but he would set in motion events no one could have even remotely predicted.

The Russian reaction to the first American exposé was to cry provocation (ironic: the inveterate plotters always assumed their own misfortune was, naturally, the result of an outside plot). But the international embarrassment, and the innate Russian paranoia of being laughed at as manure-speckled kulaks and relegated to second-world status, drove Vladimir Putin into a rage, in part fueled by fright. This was how leaders were toppled. He summoned Gorelikov to his personal, most-isolated dacha in the town of Solovyevka, 130 kilometers outside Saint Petersburg, on the shore of Lake Komsomolsk. He wanted privacy and to be away from the prying eyes of his siloviki. They would smell his panic like the pack hunters they were. He trusted Gorelikov.

“How did word leak of financial arrangements at OAK?” raved Putin, pacing the room, kicking the snarling head of a Siberian tiger rug each time he passed. They were in the dacha’s large main room, redolent with wood smoke, decorated in rustic style with leather couches and chairs scattered about and a vintage 1936 7.62-caliber Tula hunting rifle above the roaring fireplace. Outside the panoramic picture windows—uncharacteristically lavish in a typical lakeside dacha—snow covered the shoreline and dusted the pines, but the black water of the lake had not yet frozen.

Gorelikov did not want to excite the president any more than he was now. “It is likely that the corporation’s foreign contacts—bankers, salesmen, and government buyers—were the sources of these defamations,” he said, quoting the news releases.

Putin looked at Gorelikov like a week-old sturgeon with milky eyes. “No. We have a gemorróy, a big problem. Someone inside OAK, someone who knows the books.”

Gorelikov had by choice never prospered from the bacchanal of corruption in the Kremlin, and was secretly amused now that the spoils of greed had stung the tsar. “There are thirty thousand employees working at OAK,” said Gorelikov. “We’d have to tear the place apart.” He took a breath. “Ignore the accusations. They will be forgotten in a week.” Putin swore.

Those specific accusations were in fact forgotten the next morning when a message from MAGNIT was relayed from the Center to the dacha’s commo room reporting that an intact Zvezda Kh-35U antiship missile had been delivered to the Dahlgren Division, Naval Surface Warfare Center test facility in Virginia for evaluation of guidance, propulsion, and warhead systems.

Putin swore again. “Bljad, son of a bitch; so you think this will be forgotten in a week?” he said to Gorelikov. “Not only is Washington defaming us on the world stage, but also CIA appears to have at least one asset inside OAK.”

Gorelikov chose his words carefully. “We sell Zvezda missiles to India, Brazil, and Vietnam. The Americans could have acquired an export model from a third-world agent without our top-of-the-line seeker head and telemetry.”

Putin gave him another fishy stare. He had trusted Gorelikov since knowing him from law school, recognized his brilliance, and appreciated his analytic mind. He also knew Anton was not corrupt, or susceptible, or power hungry. He would never covet Putin’s throne. Most important, Putin recognized Gorelikov’s proclivity for and love of naneseniye uvech’ya, covert mayhem. Just as a chess player relishes organizing defenses, traps, attacks, and feints to achieve checkmate, Gorelikov reveled in concocting an intricate intriga just for the sheer joy of causing havoc. In this he was unmatched: Bortnikov of FSB, or Patrushev of his Security Council, were accomplished schemers, but no one was like Gorelikov.

“Enough of the rationalizations,” said Putin. “I want a solution. Washington and CIA are making fools of us. The loudmouths in the Moscow press and on the street will spread the word and agitate.”

Gorelikov shrugged. “Repina especially,” he said, referring to one of the most vocal anti-Putin, anticorruption dissidents recently noticed in the West and raising money as a result.

“Suka, bitch, forget her. I want sredstvo. I want a remedy,” said Putin, leaving the room, and Gorelikov, to contemplate the snow-laden landscape and the ink-black water.

The next evening, Putin lighted two thick candles in eighteenth-century red, gold, and turquoise cloisonné candlesticks on a plank table placed near the dacha’s picture windows. The rest of the room was dark—only the light of the burning logs in the vast fireplace cast additional flickering shadows around the room. Two steaming bowls of kormya, Russian lamb stew, were in front of them with two heels of black bread for dipping into the gravy. The stewards serving them had withdrawn. Putin and Gorelikov both drank tea from a hissing samovar on a side table. Tonight was no night for vodka. The wind had kicked up after dusk and frozen crystals of snow adrift in the utterly black night scratched invisibly against the glass. With the roaring hearth, the hiss of the samovar, and the storm raging outside, this was the Devil’s waiting room. The two men were sitting at either end of the table eating stew and looking at each other, as if waiting for Shaitan to join them.

“The Americans are timorous,” said Gorelikov. “They avoid conflict in the foreign field; they ignore their allies and coddle those who oppose them.”

Putin slurped a spoonful of stew. “And yet we see this attack against the reputation of Russia and the calumny directed at me.” His voice shook.

“This is my point,” said Gorelikov. “This campaign does not originate from the craven White House. This comes from CIA; it is their brand of active measures directed back at us.”

“Why does it come now?”

Gorelikov wiped his mouth, and leaned forward. “It could be for a hundred reasons, all of which we know well. We ourselves concocted a legend to camouflage the intelligence Snowden brought with him. Or we send a dispatched volunteer to discredit a genuine defector. We focus criticism elsewhere to mask the existence of a high-level agent or network.”

Putin set his spoon down. “We can discuss American motives all day,” he said. “And we can speculate about how many moles we have in place in each other’s pantries. But it does not solve the problem.” His voice rose. “It is my reputation, my prestige, and my public image.” Which is more important than any spy stealing our secrets, thought Gorelikov.

Gorelikov commiserated. “The Director of CIA is Alexander Larson,” said Gorelikov. “He is a legend among the operational cadre in CIA’s Ops Directorate. He is also the first ops-trained DCIA since the midseventies, and is aggressive. Reports from rezidenturi indicate CIA is ramping up activity worldwide—CIA officers are pitching our officers in scores of foreign capitals. For every one who reports a hostile pitch, how many do not? We cannot know, but we must assume a small percentage accept recruitment. Egorova in Line KR also regularly reports operational flaps and ambushes, as though a mole in SVR is advising the Americans.”

“We have our own triumphs,” said Putin, distractedly.

“Of course. I’m only emphasizing that DCIA Alexander Larson is an activist director who is not only accelerating operational tempo against us in the field, but also, in my view, putting together a covert action to stimulate regime change in our country, modeled after their successes in Ukraine and Georgia. He must have leverage to persuade the administration to permit it, perhaps with support from congressional hawks.”

Gorelikov spoke calmly. “You know I speak openly to you.” Putin nodded. “I say to you with confidence that Larson and his Agency are working to destabilize our country. Why now? Suppression of dissidents may have been the catalyst, Crimea, the alliance with Iran, or ten other factors. But the threat is real, and we will have a crisis unless we act.”

Putin poured himself more tea. “You’ve had a day to think on it. What do you propose?”

“I have considered multiple options. Only one recommends itself.”

“Tell me.”

A gust of wind-driven snow made the plate-glass window flex in its frame—Shaitan knocking to be let in. “That we eliminate the Director of CIA,” said Gorelikov, softly. A log collapsed in the fireplace, spewing sparks into the room where several embers glowed on the pine floor. Shaitan was in the dacha now.

Putin stared at Gorelikov, who continued, almost in a whisper. “His death—it must appear accidental—will derail this covert action against the Rodina. His agency will be demoralized and in shock, its case officers vulnerable and disillusioned. The US administration will hitch up their skirts in panic, and Congress will blubber until it is time for them to go into their next recess.”

Putin had not blinked once. “The hand of Russia will of course remain invisible, even though the world will suspect, no, will marvel, at the utter imperturbability of Vladimir Putin and Novorossiya,” said Gorelikov, wondering if he was laying it on too thick, but deciding it could never be too thick for V. V. Putin.

“How would you undertake such an action?” said Putin. “The CIA Director is protected at all times.”

Gorelikov sipped his tea. “I will examine the pieces to see how they might fit. None of our usual organic compounds; no forensic toxicology is acceptable. An indisputable accidental death will forestall open hostilities between our services.”

Putin nodded. “Put all your energies into the plan,” he said, curtly. The president of the Russian Federation had just green-lighted the assassination of the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. “Do you need anything?”

Gorelikov looked at the flames of the candles. “What do you think of including Egorova in the planning? She knows the field, has a cool head, and will not shrink from extreme measures.”

Putin shook his head. “Only the two of us. No one else. I insist on that condition. We will refer to the project henceforth as Kataklizm.”

“Understood,” said Gorelikov. The two men fell silent, and Anton knew the president—slayer of tigers, accomplished horseman, skilled jet pilot, and master of judo—appreciated the enormous risk of attempting to assassinate the American DCIA.

“With your approval,” said Gorelikov, “I would like to posit an additional refinement for your consideration. Any of our unicellular colleagues in FSB or the armed forces could have arrived at the solution of assassinating the head of CIA in five minutes. This, however, can only be the beginning of a larger plan that is infinitely more consequential and far-reaching.”

Putin dunked his black bread into the stew, waiting. Refinements. This is why he liked Gorelikov.

“Since MAGNIT’s recruitment I have been monitoring her career,” said Gorelikov. “As you know, she was recently promoted to vice admiral and is what one could call the US Navy’s senior flag-rank science manager. She has access to technologies, research and development, and the navy labs. Even though she is recognized for her brilliance, she is still generally considered meshkovatyy, awkward, pouchy, and three-cornered—without a political network outside her limited naval orbits. Accordingly, when she retires, the technical-reporting-asset MAGNIT disappears. For the last two years I have steered her to balance her scientific career with duties that would burnish her political bona fides; she is ambitious and followed my instruction with her characteristic quantitative precision. She was recently assigned to a position on the Bureau of Navy Personnel advisory board, which wields considerable influence. This year she was also considered for adjutant to Admiral Richards, the Chief of Naval Operations, but was not selected, I suspect due to her lamentable lack of what the Americans call front-office appeal. I fear MAGNIT will never have that quality; she could not acquire it any more than you or I could master her particle physics.

“But there has been more recent progress. She has been selected as a briefer to the Joint Chiefs because of her ability to explain science theory clearly and concisely to unschooled superiors. Part of these briefing duties includes accompanying the chairman to the White House every week. We are collecting some interesting national security intelligence now, which is the transition I wanted MAGNIT to make. You see, I have an endgame in mind, it’s—”

Putin put up his hand for silence. The corners of his mouth lifted microscopically, which for him suggested barely suppressed mirth. “What of her preference for lohmatka, for women?” he asked.

Gorelikov was not fazed at the interruption; he expected the inevitable question from the president. “Her addiction is aperiodic and controlled,” he said. “She indulges her appetites during discreet annual vacations abroad when under my supervision. She occasionally loses control with her partners, which I attribute to her social narcissism and pent-up sexual repression, a result of psychological conflict during childhood with an abusive father.”

“Loses control how?” asked the president.

Gorelikov shifted uncomfortably. “Frenzied lovemaking, too-rough use of sex aids, biting, and slapping.”

“Have you filmed this behavior for later control?” asked Putin, who was once a spook himself.

Gorelikov shook his head. “Coercion is not a motivating factor with MAGNIT. Apart from her initial—and short-lived—refusal to collaborate during her recruitment, she has grown into a model agent—her narcissism fuels her spying. The only film ever taken of her was during the original polovaya zapadnya, the honey trap in the Metropol, nearly twelve years ago.”

“Do you have the recording of that encounter?” said Putin.

Gorelikov shrugged. “I have no idea where it is. I suppose somewhere in the archives.”

“My loyal counselor, you wouldn’t be protecting your protégé Egorova, would you? She was the Sparrow in question.”

“Mr. President, you are referring to your next Director of Foreign Intelligence, or have you changed your mind? I will admit I am a supporter of Colonel Egorova. I think she shows enormous promise.”

It was enough that he had twanged one of the unflappable Gorelikov’s nerves. Putin had already seen all of Egorova’s Sparrow-vintage films. She indeed showed enormous promise then, as now. He was itching to get at her. “I agree,” said Putin. “Now, tell me about your additional refinement.”

The wind outside howled. “It goes without saying that when a sitting DCIA passes away, the administration must select replacement candidates for consideration, one of whom will be put forward as the final nominee for congressional confirmation.”

Putin knew what was coming, but stayed silent so Gorelikov could finish spinning his web.

“I have instructed MAGNIT to dangle herself conspicuously in front of the president during briefings in the Oval Office, especially when she is the sole briefer on the occasions the chairman cannot come to the White House for the weekly brief. I have coached her to interject comments that would suggest she is politically aligned with the president, that she agrees with his defense and intelligence policies, and that she looks forward to working on his team, either before or after her retirement.”

“You believe these blandishments will work?” said Putin.

“Analysts in the Americas Department posit that the president is driven by ego and ideology, and that now, in the fifth year of his presidency, is increasingly thin-skinned to criticism, and as a result surrounds himself with sycophants. If MAGNIT can establish herself as a sympathetic ally, and the DCIA position is suddenly empty, I predict her name would be one the president at least would consider. The notion of naming a brainy, liberal woman, an admiral from the navy, to undo Alexander Larson’s bellicose legacy and unsettling covert action, would appeal to him.”

“Too bad we don’t have that other president, that rasputnik, that satyr, still in the Oval Office,” said Putin. “MAGNIT could have solicited the DCIA job on her knees. But this scheme appears extremely tenuous—the chance that MAGNIT would be tapped for the position is remote.”

Gorelikov counted on his fingers. “We endeavor to influence outcomes—often with no guarantees—and hope for the desired results. The utter implausibility of making MAGNIT the DCIA is the hallmark of the perfect zagovor, an exquisite conspiracy without Russian fingerprints. She has no high-profile civilian patrons, no covert sponsors, so there are no invisible strings. MAGNIT, the brilliant but unlovely stork, solidly partisan, able to manage the challenges of technology and the new cyber age, is the perfect candidate. If she is selected, you, Vladimir Vladimirovich, will own the CIA.”

More sparks flew from the fireplace as Shaitan flew around the massive pine rafters of the dacha, mightily pleased.

Just beside the Situation Room under the West Wing of the White House was a smaller briefing room with a short walnut table and three plush armchairs on each side, POTUS’s chair at the far end under the presidential seal. Unlike the spacious, mahogany-paneled SitRoom with seating for twenty—including chairs for backbenchers—and multiple teleconferencing flat screens along the walls, the small briefing room featured only two compact screens on the far wall, above which were six digital clocks: one that displayed the time in Washington; a clock labeled “President,” indicating the time wherever the president was located; one for Zulu time; and three additional time-zone displays, today labeled Baghdad, London, and Kabul.

Vice Admiral Audrey Rowland had just concluded a solo briefing to the president, his national security adviser, and the deputy NSC adviser on tests conducted by ONR on cavitation propulsion for littoral combat ships, an in-the-weeds subject usually not of interest to this commander in chief, whose idea of power projection was to enlist the tepid support of prevaricating allies, and to sign treaties with hostile states that had no intention of honoring any diplomatic concordant. POTUS, however, was taken by the smaller, more lightly armed, and relatively inexpensive vessels as good examples of “nonconfrontational naval platforms.” One could hear admirals’ teeth grinding in the Pentagon all the way from the South Lawn.

The briefing concluded, Admiral Rowland told the president that his notion of a more restrained US military footprint, a more inclusive internationalist US foreign policy that would abandon nineteenth-century practices of nation building, regime change, and gunboat diplomacy (Audrey couldn’t remember the other talking points Anton had drilled her on) were critical concepts in an unstable world. His feet characteristically propped up on the table, showing the soles of his shoes to the others—a grave insult to foreigners, but merely boorish in the conference room—POTUS said he was glad to hear her views. Audrey hastened to add that, from her perspective, restraint likewise applied to intelligence collection—whether DIA, navy intel, or CIA.

“We just acquired a Russian antiship missile—I don’t know the source—and we’ll assess its capabilities and develop countermeasures, against which the Russians will develop counter-countermeasures,” said Audrey. “And the process will continue, endlessly, with enormous cost, with so many other domestic priorities facing us.” Anton had coached her to invoke inferences that would appeal to the president’s well-known social progressivism.

“Mr. President, my retirement window is opening in a year. If I at any time can be of any assistance to you and your team (she nodded at the slack-jawed NSC adviser, then at the slug of a deputy), it would be my singular honor to continue to contribute.” Audrey stopped there, not wanting to overdo it. POTUS thanked her, and he and the NSC adviser left the room, but the young deputy stayed behind and stared at Admiral Rowland as she packed up her briefing materials.

“Don’t you really know how the CIA got that missile?” he said. He was short, balding, with a round face that perpetually hovered somewhere between mean and deceitful. He had the dark eyes of a hanging judge.

Audrey closed her Kevlar portfolio and secured the zipper pull under the lockable clamp. “No, and it really frosts me,” she said, with her carefully chosen prim vocabulary, which would, said Anton, bolster her Vestal image. Anton constantly considered such details, thought Audrey. “I know I’m in the science end of things, but I could really add value to the requirements process.”

Young Caligula shook his head. “They never told you, a three-star admiral, about COPPERFIN? You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

In three minutes he had told MAGNIT about the COPPERFIN network, and about some of the reporting in the compartment.

MAGNIT knew she had to cauterize the leak. “Listen, don’t tell me any more. It sounds pretty restricted. I’ve already forgotten it.” The ferret’s eyes narrowed, realizing he shouldn’t have mentioned anything, but he knew the admiral would be discreet. He’d keep his mouth shut too.

He shrugged, trying not to acknowledge his mistake, and changed the subject. “Sounds like you’re looking for a job.”

“The navy’s been good to me, but I’m ready for a new challenge. I have the science thing down, and cyber’s the next big hurdle. Intel would be a good fit.”

“Let me talk to the president,” he said, puffing up, the White House kingmaker. “It’s an interesting idea.”

Audrey smoothed her uniform coat and extended her hand. “I’m glad we talked. It’s good to feel connected to someone downtown with real pull.”

The deputy nodded, as if validating Newton’s three laws of motion. “I’ll be in touch.”