“All warrants are in?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes, they moved really fast this time,” Gabriel confirmed. “We have phone records, insignificant. Bank records for Smolin and the Novachenkos, also nothing remarkable. We bugged the house early this morning, when everyone left. We have video and audio in every room. And there,” he showed them another desk, this one with four monitors. “we have cloned phone-activity trackers. Smolin was using a burn phone.”
“And you cloned that?” Alex asked. “How the hell did you pull that off?”
Gabriel’s smile widened. “We have a technology now that allows our agent to clone a target’s phone just by walking next to them or past them for a second. That’s all it takes. When our agent walked past Smolin at the park exit last night, the system picked up two signatures, so now we have two cloned phones for Smolin, and one for each Novachenko.”
“Impressive. Data too? Or just voice?”
“Everything. Text, apps, voice, email, Internet. And we’re tracking all data and Internet usage inside the Novachenko residence. They can’t make any move without us knowing about it.”
…56
“What the hell?” she mumbled, awoken from a dream-filled, agitated sleep.
She listened for a minute, not sure the noise she’d heard was real or a dream. Then she heard it again, this time loud and clear, three knocks on her hotel room door. She jumped out of bed and looked through the peephole, then unlocked the door, turning on the light.
“You again? Or is this some sick déjà vu moment?” she said, inviting Jeremy in. “You already know what my jammies look like.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. We got a problem, a big one.”
She turned on another lamp and sat at the small desk. “What’s up?”
“Smolin has a backup asset in play. We have another leak.”
She frowned and wiped her eyes, chasing the remnants of sleep away.
“How did you find out?”
“He’s using a webmail service to communicate with home base, without even sending email, just by saving message drafts. He referred to ‘still planning to go shopping for the real big salami,’ or sausage, or something like that.”
“Or something like what?”
“Like… dick,” he spilled it out after hesitating, a little embarrassed. Alex didn’t seem to mind.
“What was the original phrase he used?”
He checked his notes, then struggled pronouncing, “Bolshoy khuy kolbasy.”
“Yup, they’re talking about the cannon all right,” she said thoughtfully. “When irritated by objects, things, or even people, Russians compare them with male genitalia. Just like we’d say about someone ‘he’s a dick,’ or ‘that dick, George.’ Our laser cannon must irritate the hell out of them. So what do the analysts think?”
“They’re thinking he’s targeting the plans for the laser cannon this time, not only the compatibility and installation. They’re saying that Smolin’s plan has escalated.”
“Any idea who this backup asset is?”
“None whatsoever. It could be one of Walcott’s people, or anyone on the ship for that matter. We’re running background checks and surveillance on everyone, effective immediately. But it could still not be enough, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
…57
Two teams watched the Novachenko residence, waiting for Smolin to make a move. About noon, he left the house, unwrapping a sandwich as he stepped down the five concrete steps in front of his door.
Smolin stretched a little, apparently enjoying the warm sun. Then he started walking casually, continuing to unwrap his food.
He took one bite and chewed it, letting disappointment show on his face.
“That must taste like shit,” one of the agents in the stakeout car commented with a chuckle.
“He, he, Russian cuisine, what would you expect?” his partner replied, and they both laughed.
Smolin wrapped his sandwich, continuing to look disgusted, and disposed of it in the nearest trash can. Then he continued his walk, followed at a safe distance by the two surveillance teams.
Minutes later, a street bum started going through the Dumpster where Smolin had thrown his sandwich. He retrieved it carefully, studied it for a few seconds, then placed it in his pocket and vanished, unseen.
…58
Mason’s office at Walcott was crowded again, contrasting with the deserted corporate office building on a Sunday morning. Jeremy, Sam, and Alex were all standing, leaning against the walls of his small office.
“Thanks for coming in on a Sunday, Mason, we appreciate it,” Alex said.
“Sure, no problem,” Mason said, seeming a little surprised. “We’re in this 24/7 until we’re done.”
“Here’s where we are,” Alex said. “We have identified a Russian, most likely a handler, by the name of Smolin. He’s Russian intelligence, a major. He’s here under the cover of a visiting parent with a family of Russian-born American citizens, the Novachenkos. This man is key.”
“Why don’t we arrest him? How sure are we?” Mason asked.
“Very sure. Before he killed himself, Hadden handed Smolin an envelope. We assume some intel was in there.”
“Did we recover it?” Mason asked.
“No, we didn’t,” Jeremy replied. “We wanted to continue to investigate this leak, and it gave us results. Now we know it’s a bigger operation, bigger than just Hadden.”
“But you could have contained it!” Mason almost yelled. “You saw that happen and you didn’t arrest them? Why?”
“Because we thought—” Alex started, but was immediately interrupted by Jeremy.
“Allow me,” he said, and she nodded. “Interrogations in these cases are risky, as we’ve seen with Hadden, and statistically speaking highly unreliable. Our best bet to contain the entire leak is to let Smolin proceed under extremely tight surveillance.”
A few moments of silence ensued, while Mason was processing the information.
“All right,” he said. “What’s our game plan? How do we minimize the exposure and contain the intel?”
“I’ve worked intelligence for thirty years, Mason,” Sam intervened, “you know that. I’ve worked countless assets, and they all did the same thing. They trickled down the intel, looking to squeeze more money or more favor out of each document. No one comes to a handler and drops everything he knows or he has on one date. Not unless they wanted to defect, and that is obviously not the case here.”
“Then what do you think our exposure is, Sam?” Mason asked. “Can it still be salvaged?”
“I’m thinking some of the intel might have leaked all the way to Moscow, but I’m guessing it was the preliminary intel; the bait, as we called it out in the field. But this is too new to have gone too far, that’s what my gut’s telling me.”