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It was also completely wrong.
The Russian counterintelligence officers were some of the best in the world and this was their backyard. Even absent those advantages, only the most incompetent of spycatchers would miss the significance of the embassy staff’s families suddenly relocating. As soon as vehicles full of women and children started rolling through the mission’s gates, the FSK would know what was up. Every asset was precious, but the man who’d surreptitiously dropped a note in an American’s car wasn’t just another asset. The opportunity to recruit someone at his level came along once in a career. Even without the trouble brewing in Latvia, she would have put much on the line to meet with him.
Given their current circumstances, Irene was willing to go all in.
“Moving dependents onto embassy grounds would tip our hand to the Russians,” Irene said. “We can’t run that risk, but I’m also not discounting the danger to your family. We’re going to run an operation to link up with this Russian, but we won’t use anyone’s spouse for the meet the way Kris was used. Good?”
“What if the Russians don’t see the distinction. What if they decide to detain another spouse, or God forbid, a child? What then?”
“Then the Russians will have made a critical mistake. There are rules to the way this game is played.”
Jason snorted. “Not from where I’m sitting. Kris Henrik is in a cell, and her husband is back in DC. If there are rules, the Russians haven’t suffered any consequences for breaking them.”
Irene looked from Jason to the row of clocks mounted along the wall above their heads. Her gaze lingered on the one labeledWASHINGTON, DCbefore shifting back to Jason. “That was true earlier today. It will not be true by the time we execute our operation to link up with the volunteer. The Russians are about to receive a very unambiguous message. There will be no more American spouses taken into custody.”
“How—”
“How isn’t important, Jason,” Irene said, interrupting the case officer. “You expressed your concerns, and I addressed them. That part of the conversation is over. Understood?”
Judging by the set of his jaw, Jason did not think the conversation was over, but he gave a curt nod. Not an apology accompanied by a promise to be a team player, but she would take what she could get. Moscow Station was undermanned as it was. She really couldn’t afford to bench any more of her players, no matter how much they might deserve it.
“Good,” Irene said. “Then let’s get to it. I need to know each of your heat states. Please tell the group whether or not you are currently under surveillance. If you are, for how long. If you’re not, then give us the last time you did have watchers. Elysia, let’s start with you.”
CHAPTER 50
WASHINGTON, DC
DAMIENLipovsky loved his job.
Or to be more precise, Damien loved his job while stationed in the United States. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, or MID, like its American Department of State counterpart could be a thankless mistress. For every posting to London there were ten missions located in backwater third-world countries of dubious strategic importance to the Russian Federation or its predecessor, the Soviet Union. As a young, single man, Damien had found the assignments to the African subcontinent or Southeast Asia full of adventure and possibilities.
Now, as a middle-aged, married father of three, he thought them considerably less so. In his fourth decade of life, his taste in adventures ran more toward exquisite restaurants, fine symphonies, engaging theater, and good schools for his children. He was also partial to cities in which the electricity ran uninterrupted twenty-four hours a day and which one could navigate streets free of protesters or criminal gangs. In this regard, his posting as the deputy chief of mission to Washington, DC, did not disappoint.
Mostly.
Crime in the District had recently catapulted the city to the top of a rather undesirable list—murder capital of the United States. While none of the mission’s personnel had experienced this scourge firsthand, Damien had seen the writing on the wall and instituted several administrative changes. Most of these changes had been made with an eye toward making his staff feel more secure.
Most, but not all.
As the second-highest-ranking Russian diplomat in America, and the person who oversaw the majority of the mission’s day-to-day functions, Damien’s position warranted a driver. Normally, this function was filled by a low-level MID employee.
Normally.
But after the crack cocaine–fueled murder epidemic surfaced in the form of a triple homicide just blocks from the embassy’s Wisconsin Avenue address, Damien had instituted a switch. His new driver, Bogdan, was a former paratrooper on loan from the SVR. Bogdan’s almost two-meter height and nearly one-hundred-kilogram mass made for a ready deterrent whenever Damien found himself in a less desirable section of the District.
Fortunately, today was not one of those days.
“When do you think we’ll be done, darling? I have an engagement later today.”
Damien stifled a sigh.
If he’d grown to appreciate the finer things in life, his wife, Irina, had begun to feel entitled to them. His promotion to deputy chief of mission had come with a slew of social obligations. As per the norm, the ambassador handled the glitziest of engagements, but Washington, DC, was a nexus for foreign governments, as the almost two hundred missions located within its confines could attest. A diplomatic event of some sort or another occurred almost every day of the week and Irina had become something of a regular fixture on the tony streets of Embassy Row. His wife spoke English, Russian, French, and German fluently, had a vivacious personality that was the life of any party, and looked stunningin an evening dress. She was a much-sought-after invitee for boozy brunches, cozy coffees, afternoon teas, and the ever-important formal dinner.
Today was no exception.
“The museum is magnificent,” Damien said. “Truly one of the greatest of its kind in the world. Our visit will last several hours. Minimum.”
Irina sniffed.
