“I wanna feel alive, Vern,” she continued, her voice turning from angry to pleading. “I want to go out with you, dance, have some fun. I want you to buy me flowers and make love to me. Do you even know how long it’s been?”
He felt another pang of anger.
“All you can think of is yourself, Madi. Jeez… it’s unbelievable,” he fired back. “It’s always about you and what you want! When’s the last time you cared about what I want?”
“How about today, when I asked you what you wanted for dinner, and I fucking fixed you precisely that! Or when I opened the door and let you come in, after drinking who knows where with who knows whom! You take it all for granted, don’t you? Well, I’m not your fucking servant!”
“But that’s not what I need… ” he said, letting his anger subside. “I couldn’t care less if you fed me tuna from the can. I need to be able to unwind at home just as I do at the bar, where no one judges me.”
“Ahh… you’re such an idiot, Vern, I just can’t believe it! Those people let you drink in peace ’cause they don’t give a fuck about you, that’s why. I care about you and I’m trying to help you. But you have to make a commitment to change. You need to bring your clipboard and start taking notes with what needs to happen to help our marriage survive. I have a whole damn list!”
“Oh, I am sure you do!” Vern yelled. “There’s no limit to your selfishness!”
He regretted the words the moment they came out. He saw Madison’s eyes open wide in dismay.
“Baby…” He reached out, trying to hold her hand.
“Don’t touch me!” She turned and started for the garage. “This is your final warning, mister, your wake-up call.”
She slammed the garage door behind her. He rushed to catch up with her.
“Where are you going?”
“None of your fucking business, not until you get your shit together.”
She started the car engine and left, screeching her tires against the pavement. Vernon stood there, speechless, unable to move, watching her brake lights disappear in the darkness. He couldn’t lose her. Oh, God, no…
…17
Myatlev had to admit Abramovich moved fast when he really wanted something. Only a day after he had suggested to Abramovich that they bring Dimitrov back as defense minister, Myatlev had already been set up in a new office in the Ministry of Defense, on the top floor, right next to Dimitrov’s old quarters.
The Ministry of Defense was only minutes away from the Kremlin, at the center of Moscow. It was housed in a massive building as only communists could build; a gray, dull palace housing thousands of offices, a monument to communist bureaucracy.
Yet his new office was decorated to his modern, cosmopolitan taste, down to his favorite art pieces, cigar brands, and perfectly chilled bottle of Stolichnaya. His new assistant was young, very pretty, probably SVR, and judging by her smile, instructed to go to any length to fulfill his wishes. Yes, when he wanted, President Abramovich had class.
Dimitrov was already on his way in from the Caspian. He had boarded a flight immediately after accepting the reinstatement with enthusiasm. Abramovich wanted both of them to join him for a late lunch, to catch up and discuss new plans. New plans for his war… that was all he cared about.
Myatlev didn’t want to waste time waiting around for Dimitrov’s arrival. He had requested the files for all the top resources who Division Seven had enrolled, planning to interview them personally, one by one.
He looked at the first file, the most recent addition to Division Seven, a highly decorated intelligence officer by the name of Evgheni Aleksandrovich Smolin. He had built a reputation that he’d do anything to get the mission done, employing a variety of unusual methods in his tradecraft. Interesting.
A few minutes later, Smolin entered Myatlev’s office, saluting by the book, with a hint of almost imperceptible hesitation as he recognized Myatlev.
“You asked to see me, sir?”
“Take a seat, Smolin.”
“Sir.”
“Have you recruited foreign assets before, Smolin?”
“Yes, sir, for years.”
“What do you like most about it?”
“Sir?” Smolin frowned, trying to understand the meaning of the question.
“A man with your results must like what he does,” Myatlev clarified, tapping his fingers on Smolin’s personnel file. “So, again, what do you like the most about what you do?”
“Umm… The sense of power it gives me,” Smolin said after hesitating a little.
“Excellent,” Myatlev answered, reaching for a cigar and offering one to Smolin. “Almost like playing God, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Smolin ventured a faint smile.
He accepted the cigar with a nod and both men focused on lighting up for a while, savoring the thick smoke.
“How do you recruit, Smolin?” Myatlev resumed the interview.
“I offer the assets something they need. Money, solutions to their problems, umm… sex,” he said, unable to refrain a quick smile.
“Yes, I’ve heard that about you,” Myatlev laughed. “If it works, that’s fine by me.”
“Good to know, sir.”
“All right, Smolin, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to open your mind from working a localized asset into thinking wide nets, redundancies, and backups for every single source.”
“Sir?”
“Everyone is gettable, Smolin, everyone. If they don’t have a problem that we can fix in return for their intelligence, then let’s create one for them! It’s cheaper than paying for the intel anyway. I want you to organize the largest network of assets anyone has ever had, and extract every bit of intel you can get.”
“Intel on what, sir?”
“On everything,” Myatlev answered with a wicked smile. “We don’t know what we don’t know. Who knows what’s out there? Let’s put our ears to the ground and get everything we can.”
“How are we going to go through so much information?”
“I’ll organize a center for information processing; I’ll set it up on this end. You just get me the information; we’ll filter and analyze here, in Moscow. Then we’ll figure out what we need to pursue.”
“Sir, that’s highly unusual for an intelligence operation, I mean that with all due respect.”
“I know it is… but soon you’ll see the value of my plan,” Myatlev said, amused that Smolin challenged him. That meant he had a brain and a spine, both very useful assets for a foreign intelligence leader.
“Sir, if we’re not after a certain target in our intelligence efforts, then are we targeting a specific geographical area?”
“Yes,” Myatlev answered, “of course. The United States.”
“I am to build a network of assets in the entire United States, sir?”
“Precisely. Is this too large an operation for you to handle, Smolin?”
“No, sir, just making sure I understand the task correctly. There are almost a million Russian immigrants in the US. I have a good place to start.”
“Excellent. Anything else?”
“Umm… If I may, I was surprised to see you, a famously wealthy businessman, having an office here, and being involved in intelligence work, sir.”
“So you think that if I’m rich, my duties to Mother Russia suddenly cease to exist? I have taken an oath,” Myatlev said. “That oath goes with me to my grave.”
“Yes, sir, thank you. That is inspiring.”