Subject is winning influence among American policymakers and elements of the right wing press. It is fair to speculate that if he is allowed to continue his subversive activities, his trajectory in Washington will continue only to rise. It is clear that he still has sources inside the Motherland, as well as in Ukraine where he resided for a number of years. Some of these sources may be official, and it is even possible that he is a witting agent of the CIA or FBI.
The Rezidentura has launched Phase 2 of this operation, the surveillance of subject. This task is simplified by the work of our asset in locating Subject’s home and office. We should be in a position within a matter of weeks to accurately predict Subject’s movements. The Center will be advised as soon as sufficient data has been gathered.
The full report of our operative is attached.
Chapter 32
Olga used the Russian-American Study Group’s resources to review open-source information about Shtayn. There was a website, and she was surprised that his office address was openly available to the public and actually quite close to her apartment.
Shtayn must be on the U.S. Government payroll. How else to explain a couple of invitations to the White House? He had testified before Congress and frequented the State Department. He was a fixture in Washington’s densely populated analytical community.
Shtayn didn’t fit Zaretskiy’s characterization of activists in America as “filthy hiptsers and shrieking gay activists” that no one took seriously. No. Shtayn was something else entirely. He was a clear and present danger to the Motherland.
No matter what Russia might do, no matter in whose business she meddled, and no matter whether she was right or wrong, no one should act so cold-bloodedly against their own country. To collect information in order to pass it to the enemy was intolerable.
On Shtayn’s website she found photos of him with some Euro-deputies. This coincided with Petrov’s information that Shtayn spent a three-month study grant there when still a law student.
Petrov was useful in other ways, too.
“How do you know about this travel?”
“My son’s nanny is his neighbor,” he whispered as though he was divulging a great secret. “You know how it is here. Immigrants receive citizenship, apply for family reunification and bring their parents over. The fathers and mothers don’t know a word of English and try to get illegal work, as often as not as nannies for Russian-speaking families. This woman is one of these. She a nice old lady who likes to talk. I brokered her children’s purchase of a small house for her in Fairfax, and it turns out that this traitor lives next door. When he went to Europe she looked after his dog. I know when he was there right down to the very day. As I understand it, he went to Strasbourg and got to know some Europeans. That’s when he started following our activities there. He obviously recruited informants and they spy on Russian diplomats. I can only guess at the rest.”
He shook his head sadly.
For an instant, his words evoked school-day memories of reading about informants and firing squads during Soviet times. Petrov was just like those old schoolbook caricatures of informants. The realization did not deter Olga but rather gave her a new sense of self-worth.
Here was Petrov — a worthless little man doing his best to convince her of his value — to serve her. He was obsequious and fished for compliments. She was far above him and his sort — she was an official, a true Chekist, and people like Petrov saw in her the personification of the government they served.
She smiled condescendingly in unconscious imitation Karpov.
“You are a true professional,” she said. “It’s simply remarkable that you’ve been able to dig all of this up. You’ve been very helpful. Could you please let me have the address of this old lady? One of my friends is looking for a nanny.”
Petrov gave her a cunning look out of the corners of his eyes. She wasn’t fooling him. He knew exactly what she was doing. He wrote the address on a piece of his company stationery and handed it to her. “Here it is. Her name is Nina Valentinovna Guskova. No need to talk politics with her. She’s one of us — watches Russian TV, but she doesn’t understand the subtleties. That’s why she can get along with this corrupt Jew. She’s a simple soul and doesn’t understand what he’s doing. If it were me, I’d punch him.”
Petrov slapped himself on the chest as though he expected someone to pin a medal on him.
Olga flashed a brilliant smile. “I’m just looking for a nanny.”
She accepted Petrov’s silent admiration and left.
Olga debated whether to pay a visit to the nanny. Karpov might not approve of her getting so close to the target, but she wanted to see where the man lived.
Guskova lived in a modest house surrounded by shrubbery that undoubtedly would explode in a riot of color in the spring. But gray skies dominated now, and a gentle rain was falling when she knocked on the door.
She introduced herself and was invited inside by a white-haired but robust appearing woman in her mid-70’s — Nina Guskova. The cozy house was filled with the aroma of baking cookies. On one wall of the living room was a small shelf with dried flowers, icons and family photos decorated the walls.
Olga experienced a brief regret that she was here under false pretenses. But she kept in mind the image of herself as a steel-nerved professional. She was in a war, and she would fight it with every smile and word, every nod of her head, in her smallest gesture, in the firmness of her gaze, in the tension she did not betray. An invisible war.
Olga recited the story she had concocted as a pretext for the visit. “My friend has a two-year-old daughter. She’s very precocious and runs everywhere and talks. The only problem is that she doesn’t live near here. You don’t drive, and it would be hard for you to get there. It’s possible that my friend could bring the child here on her way to work in the morning and pick her up after. You have such a nice garden where the little girl could play. But I do have a question. Are your neighbors OK?”
“Oh, the neighbors are very quiet.” The old woman waved vaguely at a window. “On that side there is a very nice elderly American couple. Their children visit occasionally, and they’re very nice. And a nice Russian boy,” she gestured to the other side, “lives over there. Well, not a boy, but he’s young and quite charming, a handsome Jew,” she smiled. “He says clever things that I don’t always understand. He lives alone with his dog. I don’t know much about dogs, but this is a good-sized one. But he’s nice. He always runs to give me a kiss.”
“So this man is smart and handsome, but he’s not married?” She wanted to encourage some gossip.
“Oh, he’s always busy, like all the Americans.” Guskova shook her head. “He used to study all the time, to be a lawyer, I think. He also worked as a paralegal for one of those lawyers that help with political asylum. I asked him, ‘Marik, what is all this about asylum — escaping from one’s own country?’ And he says, ‘Oh, Nina Valentinovna, it’s best that you not know.’ And what does he know that I don’t? I lived my entire life in Russia and saw much that he did not…”
This was easy. It didn’t take much to get the garrulous old lady started. “And what did he do when he finished his studies?”
“He went to Europe for about three months and asked me to look after his dog. He was with me so long it was hard to give him back. Such a good dog. But then Marik founded some sort of organization and spends most of his time there. He helps all sorts of people, refugees, I think. I tell him, ‘Marik, you should have a family instead of helping others all the time.’ And he says, ‘These people help me, too. Thanks to them I always know what’s going on, and know that I’m not working in vain.’”