“Funny,” said Berg, standing up.
“Karl, we all took a big hit earlier in the year. It hasn’t been easy.”
“I’m fine. Really. As a matter of fact, I’m meeting Darryl Jackson for dinner and cocktails tomorrow night,” he said.
“All right. Please say hi for me, and thank him again for his help in the past,” said Bauer.
“I’ll be sure to pass none of that along. His left eye twitches whenever he hears the letters C–I-A.”
Bauer laughed, moving around the table to shake his hand. “I’ll keep you posted. Good seeing you.”
“Good seeing you too. I grab coffee down at the Starbucks most days around 1:30 PM. I probably shouldn’t make a habit of visiting your office.”
“Radioactive?”
“Positively glowing,” he said, showing himself out.
Berg avoided eye contact with the busy collection of analysts and CIA officers swarming in and out of the cubicle farms occupying the Counterproliferation Division’s middle ground. Reaching the stairwell unmolested, but presumably not unnoticed, he stopped to collect his thoughts. There really was nothing else to do at this point. He’d return to his desk and continue to mindlessly tackle an email inbox full of mundane tasks, all the while keeping his fingers crossed. But before he returned to his cubicle, a leisurely stop at the on-site Starbucks was in order.
Chapter 13
Dmitry Ardankin unconsciously fidgeted in his chair. He only noticed when the stoic secretary behind the oversized antique desk raised her eyes, keeping them fixed on him until he remained perfectly still for a few seconds. He hated that woman, though not for any rational or personally justifiable reason. Just the fact that she made him feel so uncomfortable every time he sat here was reason enough. And now she had stilled him with nothing more than a mildly annoyed stare.
Fuck you and the Metro card you rode in on, he thought, recrossing his legs in defiance of her disapproving look. He had good reason to squirm.
Director Pushnoy had never made him wait this long before. Not because Ardankin commanded Directorate S, one of the most secretive directorates within the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR), but because he religiously kept to his schedule, especially the regularly scheduled meetings with the service’s deputy directors. No doubt thanks to the emotionless machine standing guard over the entrance to his office, and his attention.
He resisted glancing at his watch again. The time didn’t matter. The last time he checked, the appointment was twenty-three minutes past due. That was all he needed to know. Uncharacteristically late. He wondered if the director’s secretary had notified the other deputy directors of the delay, or was he the last deputy scheduled for each day? He had no idea. He’d never once seen another person waiting for the director when his previous appointments had ended.
Ardankin sensed a shift in the secretary’s posture. “The director will see you now.”
After closing the door behind him, he walked through a darkened privacy vestibule into the director’s spacious office, freezing in place. For the first time in five years, he wasn’t alone for his regularly scheduled morning meeting. Worse than that, he didn’t recognize the man seated in one of the chairs at the oval mahogany table with Pushnoy. At least the mystery guest didn’t look comfortable. If he’d looked at home sitting with the director, Ardankin would be worried. Not that he wasn’t a little unnerved to be sharing his allotted time with a total stranger. This couldn’t be good.
“Dmitry, please,” said the director, motioning for him to join them at the table.
Stefan Pushnoy remained seated as he approached, but the angular-faced stranger started to stand, which was immediately stopped by a casual glance from the director. Already halfway out of the chair by the time he caught Pushnoy’s silent order, Ardankin got a quick look at the man as he sank slowly back into his seat.
One thing was clear: the guy was not comfortable in a suit. Nor was the suit comfortable on him. Stretched tight across his chest and broad shoulders, the jacket strained when he sat down again, its cuffs pulled back to expose a few inches of the white dress shirt covering his arms. This was the first time the man had worn a suit in years — if ever. If forced to guess, Ardankin would say the guy was former or current Spetsnaz.
“Dmitry, this is Colonel Levkin with the Main Intelligence Agency’s Special Operations Command. He knows full well who you are,” said the director.
“Colonel,” said Ardankin, nodding at the GRU officer.
“I’m honored to be here,” said Levkin, extending a hand across the table.
Ardankin reached across the table to shake Levkin’s hand, anticipating a bone-crushing grip that never materialized. When his hand was safely out of the colonel’s grasp, he stated the obvious.
“I wasn’t aware that the GRU had a Special Operations Command.”
“They don’t,” said Pushnoy. “Not yet, at least. We’ll get to that in a minute.”
Once Ardankin was seated, Pushnoy opened the same briefing folder he always used for their morning appointment, squinting at its contents. Two additional folders, with different markings, sat beneath it — taunting him. The bulky man seated across from him had a similar folder.
“What is your assessment of the operation in Goa?” asked Pushnoy.
Ardankin fought the urge to glance at the newcomer, but his eyes betrayed him.
“Colonel Levkin is aware of that situation,” said the director.
“Compromised,” Ardankin replied.
“Indeed,” said Pushnoy.
“My directorate’s regional asset was unaware of the laboratory. The Bratva managed to keep it exceptionally quiet,” said Ardankin.
“Until they didn’t,” said Pushnoy, closing the file. “Someone inside the Bratva turned.”
“Turned to who?”
“Nothing your people need to worry about right now. We didn’t even know the Bratva owned Reznikov until a few days ago.”
“Or how he came into their possession. We all know who had him last,” said Ardankin.
“All part of the absurd charade both of our countries have been playing for the past two years,” Pushnoy said, pushing one of the new folders in his direction. “This came across my desk yesterday. Take a few minutes to look it over.”
Ardankin drank in the details. The information was compelling and well worth immediate investigation, but it raised red flags. Lots of warnings. When he finished reading the documents, he looked up, his face once again betraying him.
“I can’t help acknowledge the coincidence,” Pushnoy remarked.
“Two intelligence coups within a week?” said Ardankin. “And loosely related? Do we know the source?”
“The data arrived electronically.”
“And anonymously, I presume. Just like the Reznikov tip-off?” said Ardankin, wondering if his skeptical tone had crossed the line.
Pushnoy displayed a rare smirk. “Everything will be vetted before a move is considered.”
Interesting. He neither confirmed nor denied whether the information had arrived anonymously.
“It appears to me that a move has already been considered,” said Ardankin, nodding at Colonel Levkin. “Have we submitted satellite reconnaissance requests to the Space Directorate? This intelligence is outdated.”
“Cosmic Intelligence Directorate,” said Pushnoy. “I’ve authorized the colonel to request satellite imagery.”
“I still can’t bring myself to say cosmic. Why in hell they would choose that name is beyond me,” said Ardankin.
Colonel Levkin chuckled. “I’ll submit the request immediately. We should have enough imagery to make an initial assessment within forty-eight hours.”