Why would Moscow Station request a teleconference at this hour? It’s late in the evening, Moscow time. As Lyndsey weaves through the desks, she notices—or is she imagining it?—tense faces and rounded shoulders, twitchy and ready to bolt. At CIA, people are like gazelles at the watering hole, exquisitely attuned to the slightest change in the air. They know that something is up.
Eric is the only one in the room and he nods slightly at Lyndsey to close the door. On a monitor, two men sit hunched and scowling at a table, braced for contention. She recognizes Hank Bremer, bald and overweight, his unhandsome face flushed bright pink like he’s just run up flights of stairs, though the monitor might be to blame. Next to him is a man she doesn’t recognize, Hank’s opposite physically, with thick, dark hair and a trace of a Mediterranean complexion.
Eric addresses the screen as she takes a seat. “This is Lyndsey Duncan. She’s helping with the Genghis investigation. I want her to sit in.” To her, he says, “You know Hank, I believe. That’s Tom Cassidy.”
It’s all Lyndsey can do not to lash out at Cassidy. She hasn’t brought up to Eric what she learned from Masha, not yet. She wants to work it out in her head first, make sure she’s not overlooking something. Yaromir Popov didn’t trust Moscow Station and it cost him his life.
Eric swivels to face the monitor. “Tell us what happened, Hank.”
Bremer’s hands are clasped in front of his face, hiding his mouth. He has news he doesn’t want to share. “Kulakov’s body was found today.”
One of the missing assets, the scientist. The news is not unexpected but still it takes Lyndsey’s breath away.
“It was all over the newspapers and television. They wanted us to hear about it.” Is Bremer mad because he’s embarrassed that one of his assets was killed under his nose? There seem to be only two types of Chiefs of Station: ones who keep their thoughts to themselves, or emotional types who lash out at the slightest provocation. Reese Munroe, Chief of Station during Lyndsey’s time, had been the former, for which she was grateful. She never liked working for the volatile ones. No one did. “His body was found in a strange place, not near his home or his work. They’re claiming it was a mugging, of course. The body was in bad shape when it was found. Broken bones, face a bloody mess.”
Not a mugging, in other words. Extreme damage implies it was not impersonal. “Could it have been something else?” Lyndsey asks. A hate crime. There is no shortage of these in Moscow. Kulakov was Jewish.
“We’ve seen the police report. They’re trying to insinuate that he was gay. They said his profile was found on a gay website that’s seen trouble recently. Members lured out by homophobes and beaten up.”
“Was he gay?” Eric asks. His tone is clipped; he isn’t in the mood to beat around the bush. He wants answers, not speculation.
“No.” Cassidy jumps in. “He was married. Had children.”
“Married men have been known to have secret lives—”
“He was my asset. I knew the man. I say no,” Cassidy snaps.
So, Cassidy was Kulakov’s handler, too. Can this much bad luck be coincidental? Though to give up two of your own cases to the Russians would be the height of stupidity, to say the least. She tries to read his body English, but it’s hard under the circumstances. He could be defensive. Or merely unhappy.
“Have any of the other victims from the website been killed?” Eric asks.
Bremer sucks in his cheeks as he thinks. “Not that I recall.”
“It’s a smoke screen. They killed him,” Cassidy snaps. He means the FSB. “Maybe they figured out he was working for us. The timing is—suspicious.” He looks sideways at his boss, a sheepish expression flitting by in the blink of an eye but she catches it, knowing where to look. “We were waiting for him to pass missile plans to us. The INF—it was going to be the main focus of the negotiations this summer.”
“Oh?” Eric says. His voice is sharp with surprise.
“Yeah,” Cassidy says. “He was finally going to pay off, after all the waiting… He told me last time we got together. He said he could get his hands on the plans. I was waiting for him to deliver.”
Bremer leans toward the camera, his pink face glowing in the low light. “I think those assholes found out what he was up to and had him killed. Made it splashy, too, as a warning.”
They are all quiet for a moment, turning over individual thoughts. The loss of those plans is a huge blow—the importance of the INF flaring up as both the U.S. and Russia hurl accusations of cheating on safeguards—and Kulakov’s death suddenly takes on greater meaning. Finally, Eric clears his throat. “See what else you can find out, but until we find proof otherwise, we have to assume the state is behind this. We don’t know how they found out about him, but they killed him.”
Popov and Kulakov killed, Nesterov missing. The grim truth settles over the four of them. The evidence seems undeniable: Moscow is rolling up CIA’s assets.
Eric clears his throat. The corners of his mouth twitch. What he’s about to say next pains him. “Hank, I want you to stand down all operations for the time being.” It’s the same advice Lyndsey gave him, only now he’s ready to act on it.
Bremer’s pink face goes red, like his shirt collar has suddenly gone too tight. “You can’t do that. We have things in the works—”
“It doesn’t matter, Hank. You know that. Shut it down, all of it. Tell your people”—the assets, Eric means, their Russian spies—“to lie low until we get things under control. We can’t afford to lose anyone else right now.”
Bremer is clearly upset, but he knows not to say anything more. Instead, he strikes the table with a closed fist.
“I know you don’t like it, Hank, but we have to think of our people.” Eric’s tone is more conciliatory but it’s too late. Station Chiefs don’t like to have their authority questioned in front of subordinates. He should’ve helped Hank come to this conclusion himself. “We’ll figure out what’s going on and stop it.”
“It’s not coming from here,” Bremer booms. “Whoever’s talking to the FSB, it’s not someone in the Station. I know my people.” He points a finger at the camera in accusation. “CI has been sniffing around lately—is that your doing? Trying to place the blame on us?”
“They’re just doing their job,” Eric says, pushing back from the table.
The finger jabs emphatically. “If there’s a mole, it’s in Langley. It’s one of your people, Eric.”
“We’ll see,” Eric says through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, we’ll see all right.” Big talk from Bremer; Lyndsey wonders if he knows something he’s not telling.
“You’d warned me that we’d have to do this to protect our remaining assets… Happy?” Eric says to Lyndsey after the video connection is shut down.
“That you’re shutting down the Station? It’s the right thing. And there’s something you should know: I heard from Popov’s widow.” It means admitting the backdoor channel, but Lyndsey tells Eric about the exchange with Masha.
“So, the problem is at Moscow Station,” Eric says slowly. Floored, maybe, by the news.
“I can get CI to look into Cassidy—”
“No,” Eric says. Too quickly. Lyndsey raises an eyebrow. “Let them conduct their own investigation. Let’s see if they can corroborate what Masha told you. We shouldn’t take anything at face value…”
Does he think there’s a chance Masha might be lying to them?
Lyndsey’s instincts tell her that’s not the case, but Eric is the boss. And he’s more experienced than she is. Lyndsey trusts Masha because she trusted her husband, but she’s never met Masha. It’s hard, but Lyndsey forces herself to see it from Eric’s perspective. They have to remain objective. She says nothing, nods, and heads out the door.