The murmurs in the audience stopped abruptly, and the silence became deafening.
“You are integrated in the American society. You have American-born children. You have jobs, nice cars, and expensive houses. And now you have a mission. It is not optional.”
He let the silence dwell over the crowd for another minute or so, while he studied them. They had come in walking proud and feeling superior, thinking they had it all if their wallets held blue passports and gold credit cards. Now they were showing some respect, like they were supposed to in the presence of an SVR officer.
“You, all of you here, will be the first line of offense and support in our new intelligence network. You are now a network of asset-recruiting agents, of case officers.”
The murmurs rose, but Karp interrupted again.
“I don’t care if you came to visit Russia to see family or go to Sochi. You will spend your vacation in training, and at the end of these two weeks, you will be reminded how to be proficient case officers, ready to recruit assets and work them in your city of residence.”
The room was silent again, deathly silent.
“To those of you who are now thinking of running to the American Embassy, or boarding the first international flight out of Moscow, I have one thing to say: you have families. We know where they are, who they are, here or in America. You know how the game is played. Don’t even think about it.”
Karp paused his speech, taking his time to make eye contact with several of the people in the room. A woman on the third row sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve, then averted her eyes.
“You have only one choice,” he continued, satisfied with what he was seeing. “Serve your country, and serve it well.”
The silence continued, his audience watching his every move.
“Good. Now that we understand one another, let’s proceed.” He paced the room some more. “We’ll use technology to home in on areas of interest and conduct our recruiting efforts in a focused manner, going after the valuable intel we need. You’ll have cyber support to help you identify weaknesses in our enemy, and the most valuable assets in the field.”
Karp resumed his pacing, keeping his fingers interlocked behind his back and continued.
“Case officers are expected to be able to take over new cells with very little notice, and they will be the only ones in contact with Moscow. Lead agents will work the field as instructed, recruit, identify targets, extract the intel, and prepare the transport. You will identify and recruit your assets, motivate and encourage them, drive them, keep them on a short leash.”
He paused again, letting them process all the information. “You are here because you have proven yourselves in the years before your departure. Now Mother Russia is willing to forgive your betrayal. You are here because Russia needs you, and because you are tomorrow’s heroes, our country’s salvation.”
Without any transition, Karp started singing the national anthem. One by one, the voices in the room started singing, hesitant at first, then stronger, more powerful, united.
…62
The roar of a jet on an aggressive takeoff climb from Norfolk International interrupted the serenity of the Botanical Gardens, and made Alex pause a little. She and Jeremy were taking the same bench under the old tree, with direct line of sight to Smolin’s favorite backgammon game. Alex refrained with difficulty from hiding her face, concerned he might recognize her after he’d seen her on his doorstep. But they were too far, she was safe at that distance.
He wasn’t playing backgammon that time, just hanging out, as if waiting for a game partner to show up.
“And?” Jeremy asked.
“And what? Oh, yes,” she remembered where she’d left off before the 747’s takeoff, “Louie is the one we all go to if we need data. Any kind of data, really.”
“So he’s a hacker?”
“White hat, and a pretty good one,” she chuckled. “When we can’t afford to go through channels, or we can’t bypass a roadblock, he’s always able to find a way to get the job done. Ex-SEAL, and my personal trainer.”
“For what?” Jeremy asked. “Computer hacking?”
“No,” she laughed. “Krav Maga, weapons, that kind of stuff. You’d be surprised how dangerous corporate investigations can get sometimes,” she clarified, seeing how amazed he looked.
Smolin stood up and grabbed his backgammon set under his arm, heading slowly toward the exit. They stayed a decent distance behind, and followed him in the same relaxed pace.
Smolin stopped at a food vendor on his way to the exit, waited in line for another customer to be served, then bought a sandwich. He didn’t eat it; he just put it in his pocket and continued his slow stroll through the park alleys.
“What’s with this guy and his sandwiches?” Alex wondered. “He’s got plenty of those at home, right?”
“Well, maybe they’re not that good,” Jeremy said. “Remember he threw the one from home in the trash after just one bite. Who knows, maybe he’s too polite to tell whoever’s making them that he prefers street vendor hotdogs instead.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so… It must be something else. Nothing this man does is casual or left to chance.”
“Yeah, but we’re talking about food here,” Jeremy said. “I agree with everything you said, but even spies have to eat.”
“True. All right, I’ll drop it.”
They walked without saying anything for a while, following Smolin as he headed toward the parking lot.
“Do you think he’s hoarding food?” Jeremy asked. “How many sandwiches were in that fridge? Four, five? Do you think it’s because they didn’t have much food in the communist days?”
“Yeah… maybe. But I don’t think so,” she said grumpily, struggling to hide her irritation.
Here they were, wasting valuable time following a Russian agent who seemed to have nothing better to do than walk in the park and eat. What the hell were they missing?
…63
“How many did you say we had, again?” Alex asked in disbelief.
“There are 142,” Jeremy replied. “The entire complement of the Fletcher, well, minus Simionov; he’s been dealt with already.”
“We’ll be here ’til midnight,” she complained, grabbing the mouse from Jeremy’s desk and clicking through sailor profiles.
Jeremy’s phone rang, and he picked it up immediately.
“Agent Weber. Yes,” he said, “let me put you on speaker.” He put the phone on his desk and touched the speaker icon. “It’s one of the surveillance teams deployed at Smolin’s house,” he told Alex.
“Yeah, hi,” Alex greeted the caller.
“Good morning, ma’am. Nikolai Novachenko, Smolin’s so-called son-in-law, left earlier with a suitcase and a duffel bag and is headed for Norfolk International. What do you advise?”
“Damn,” she muttered. “Stay on him, and call TSA and ask them to screen him very thoroughly. Got it?”
“Yes, got it.”
“If he carries as much as a safety pin we wanna know about it, OK? And tell TSA to call us the minute they’re done with him.”