Early in 2016, he was summoned urgently to pack up in Kabul and return to Langley. He was given no indication of the reason, whether it was to be dispatched to another assignment or relegated to opening mail in the basement. Within three days, he was back on the 7th floor at Langley, wearing a dark gray suit and red tie. He’d been ordered to report to Jim Page, head of the new Directorate for Cyber Security.
In the past few years, Steve’s and Page’s paths had crossed on several occasions within the agency. Page, many months ago, had sent a congratulatory message to Steve for having recruited Maya Chertkova. She’d turned out to be one of the best sources the CIA had inside Russia. Her code name was Dancing Bear. This morning, however, Steve was still concerned that his future with the agency was on the line.
The knot in his stomach loosened, however, when Page came around his desk to shake hands warmly and offered a wide, friendly grin. “Thanks for getting back so quickly,” Page said. “Must be pretty jet-lagged.”
“Never get used to it,” said Steve. He took a seat across from Page and gazed at him warily. Always the natty dresser, his boss was wearing a blue Armani blazer, a club tie, and gray flannels.
“Any idea why we brought you back?” Jim smiled tightly.
“I figured someone upstairs finally got pissed off with my reports from Afghanistan, and I’m being pulled.”
“Yeah, well actually, your comments did get under the skin of a few people around here. The stuff about record poppy production and battalions of phantom soldiers was not particularly appreciated at the White House and the Pentagon. Your views hit just as the appropriations committee was meeting. Or perhaps you didn’t know that?” Again, the same thin smile. “But of course, there are a lot of people around here who support you.” Steve wondered what Jim’s own views were on Afghanistan, but Jim had always been reluctant to stake out a position until he knew what his bosses were thinking.
“So then why did I get yanked?” asked Steve.
Page rested his chin on his hands and gazed directly at Steve. “We want you to go back to Moscow on special assignment.”
“Moscow?”
“We’ve some signs that the Russians under Kozlov are attempting to influence the presidential campaign here.”
“That’s pretty wild. I know they fooled around in the past during other campaigns.”
“But nothing like this,” said the director. He tapped a file on his desk. “As a matter of fact, we first got word of it from your Dancing Bear. But most of us didn’t really take it too seriously. Never thought Kozlov would dare. But the evidence keeps growing. We’d thought their cyber threat would be, you know, attempting to take down an entire electrical grid, or destroy our ability to respond to a nuclear attack, but now it seems Kozlov may be out to subvert our whole electoral process.”
“Everyone knows they experimented with cyber war in the Ukraine and in Georgia,” said Steve. “But going after the U.S?”
Page slid a file across his desk to Steve. “For starters, you should read this article by one of their top generals. It was in a Russian army journal. Didn’t get much notice, but it should have. He predicts the next world conflict will be largely fought and won on what he calls “the cyber battlefield.”
“I’d say he’s right,” said Steve, “but where do our presidential elections come in?”
“The general spelled it out. He talked about hacking to create mistrust, to provoke domestic strife, to turn the peoples of one country against each other.”
“Hell,” said Steve, “we’ve been doing that kind of stuff for years around the world. As have the Russians. So what else is new?”
Page frowned. “Sounds like a typical Steve Penn comment. Look, Steve, what we’re talking about now is much more sophisticated.” He was up now pacing back and forth across the office. “It’s not just funneling money to opposition parties or playing up to the local generals. The Russians have got entire army units devoted to hacking, to computer espionage, to creating and disseminating fake news stories that look like the real thing. And the point is that – if the early evidence we’ve got bears out – the Russians have decided they can manipulate us like we’re some third-world country.”
“To what end?” asked Steve. “Is there any evidence they control Stokes?”
“Nothing solid, it may be they’re just out to weaken the Democrats. Not that Kozlov likes Stokes, but that he hates the alternative so much.”
“Question,” said Steve. “What if we do find out they really are trying to make Stokes president. And, despite our knowing that, Stokes actually wins. Then what do you do?”
Page tightened his mouth and raised both hands. “That’s above my pay grade,” he said. “But as the director sees it, there is no way we cannot investigate this. There’s going to be a task force set up with us, the FBI, and NSA. Only people who need to know will be informed. Otherwise top-secret.” Page pointed his finger at Steve. “And you, lucky man, are our choice to head the CIA team. You know Dancing Bear better than anyone.”
“Thanks for the honor,” said Steve.
He wondered if they suspected how well he really knew Dancing Bear.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
Moscow
So in the early spring of 2016, after two days of briefings and reading through classified files, Steve flew to Moscow. It had been only two years since he’d last been there, but despite the new highways and overpasses, traffic congestion seemed much worse. To keep his cover consistent with his previous tour he was assigned once again as an “agricultural attaché” to the U.S. Embassy. He was excited to be back: keyed up by the responsibility he’d been handed, stirred also by the thought of seeing Maya.
Using a dead drop, he left a message for her to confirm an evening meeting at a new CIA safe house; actually a two-room apartment on the fourth floor of an apartment building at 27 Smolensky Pereulok, just up the block from an Orthodox church. Steve arrived half an hour early. He wanted a few minutes to check out the apartment and gather his own thoughts before Maya arrived. There was a bottle of vodka and another of scotch and some packaged snacks on a shelf in the living room. He poured himself a Black Label, opened a bag of potato chips, stared at a watercolor print of birch trees on the wall, and thought of Maya. In his attaché case he carried a silk scarf for her from the duty-free at Dulles Airport, as well as the monthly supply of medicines for her daughter. His feelings about Maya, however, were in turmoil.
So much had happened in the two years since he’d seen her. Before, he’d been a married man cheating on his wife; now he was alone, Marilyn and their newborn child dead and buried. On the other hand, it was insanity to think of renewing his liaison with Maya. She was now one of America’s prime agents in Moscow. Any attempt to add a romantic entanglement would only increase the likelihood of the Russians ultimately discovering what she was up to. It would mean the end of Steve’s career, but it would mean a bullet in the back of the neck for Maya.