“My name isn’t important,” Kyra told him. “I’m with the U.S. Embassy—”
“I think not, but that is not important at this moment,” Lavrov replied. “Why are you here?”
“I think my request to your people was clear.”
“It was,” Lavrov said. “Quite forward of you to come here and make such a demand.”
“You’re the ones who told us he was defecting and sent a photo to prove it. You had to know that we’d figure out which airport he was in,” Kyra replied.
“Of course,” Lavrov mused. That had never been in doubt. That the Americans would be so brazen as to walk into the embassy and demand to see their most recent Judas was the real surprise. But the FSB general was a soldier and appreciated the willingness to take the initiative. “Still, walking in and asking to see a potential defector is hardly the customary way of handling such affairs.” He held up the card Kyra had passed to the embassy functionary. “Nor is admitting that you know the dead-drop signals we had assigned to the asset.”
“Diplomatic protocols in matters such as these can be tedious, and tedium costs time. I know that yours is valuable, and it would benefit both our countries to resolve this matter quickly,” Kyra advised.
Lavrov turned his head and stared at the woman, as though the American had lit some spark of interest in him. “If Mr. Maines has requested asylum in my country, then it is a matter for the Foreign Ministry, not for an intelligence service,” he said. There was a playful tone in his voice, as though he was enjoying some new game.
“That would depend on why Mr. Maines requested asylum and what he’s offering for it,” Kyra replied. She clenched her hands and ordered her heart to slow down. It disobeyed.
“Any man who would draw such a bold response from your organization would surely have much to offer us. So the question naturally must turn to the counteroffer your friends would be willing to make.”
“Oh, I think that’s premature,” Kyra disagreed. “Obviously, we couldn’t determine that until we confirm his location and what… assets he may have already used to establish his value.” You show me yours and I’ll show you ours.
“I understand that desire, truly, but you realize that I must consider any future opportunities we may have to attract talented individuals from your organization in the future. It would become difficult if prospective converts knew we were open to returning them to their home countries for a price.”
Kyra nodded. “Of course,” she said. “Forgive me, sir, but you appear to be an older gentleman. Did you spend any time here in Berlin before the Wall came down?”
“I did,” Lavrov said. Did this American know who he was, know his biography? If so, this game would be far more interesting than he had thought. “I was here the very night that the Wall fell; on this roof, in fact. We could see the Wall there, to the west of the Gate.” Lavrov pointed toward the Brandenburg Gate, waving a gloved hand to the northwest. “The plaza was full, people were on the Wall itself. To shoot them would have started a massacre. I saw that much, but I could not understand why the guards would not pull them down at least.” He dropped his hand. “That was the night the Warsaw Pact fell, you know. The historians say that came later, but it was that night. The Wall coming down was a shot to the belly… a painful death, and a lingering one.”
“I’m sure it was a memorable night for you,” Kyra said, speaking directly for a moment. She’d been a toddler when it had happened. “So you knew about the East German practice of having the Stasi arrest political prisoners and ransom them back to the West as a way to generate hard currency?”
Lavrov shrugged. “I heard that such things happened. Why do you mention it?” He’d helped arrange a few such kidnappings-for-ransom in his youth. Did this woman know? If so, how? Had the CIA uncovered something in the old East German archives?
“Only to point out that ransom payments aren’t unheard of in our business.” She wondered if this man would give up Maines for money. Not likely, but stranger things had happened between intelligence agencies.
The Russian didn’t bite the hook. “But if Mr. Maines has applied for asylum, then he is no hostage,” Lavrov noted. “Quite the opposite would be true.”
“I doubt that,” Kyra said. “Your country told mine that Mr. Maines was defecting. That act made Maines a fugitive from justice in the United States. You invited him here, then closed his door back. Now he can’t set foot on the street here without risking arrest and extradition, leaving him no real leverage for any bargain. So you don’t have to pay him one ruble to make him talk, do you? You can extort him for everything he knows just by threatening to run him out the front door and calling the German police ten minutes before you do. So I think if Maines is here, he’s very much your hostage.”
Kyra studied the man, hoping that the Russian’s body language would scream his thoughts and emotions to her, but his control was practiced and very precise. She could only divine small glimpses, but for the moment, his pleasure was obvious.
“Zamechatel’nyy!” he muttered. “I truly wish you would tell me your name, young miss.”
“I must disappoint you,” Kyra said. The Russian might find out anyway. She’d seen at least three security cameras here on the roof and doubtless they’d passed a few dozen on the way here. They would have her picture and her disguise was not total.
“But you intrigue me so very much, devushka,” Lavrov said. “I will consider what you have to say. But for the moment, I suggest you enjoy the view from our rooftop. The view of the Gate is quite nice.”
Kyra stared at Lavrov, tried to read his face, and finally gave up, unable to tell what he was hiding behind his smile. That had almost never happened to her. “Most kind of you.”
Lavrov bowed slightly. “Until our next meeting.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the rooftop door.
Strelnikov’s file was spread out on the table, the man’s photograph pinned to the wall.
Jon had been staring at the papers since Kyra had left for the Russian Embassy. Research was his preferred remedy for anxiety and his younger partner was a bottomless source of it. He’d wondered sometimes if she wasn’t an adrenaline junkie, an addict whose preferred fix was risk. She’d almost succumbed to alcoholism two years back and he suspected that her addictive personality was always seeking another outlet. But there was nothing he could do for it at this moment. She was inside the Russian building and he could hardly go charging in after her.
Kyra had been right that the file was thin, but the reports officer who had assembled it had been organized and thorough. The Russian’s grandfather had been Jewish, Lithuanian by birth, and a farmer until the Nazis had invaded from the west. No requests for money, personally wealthy, so he didn’t commit treason out of greed. Retired at flag rank and made the head of the Foundation for Advanced Research a year ago… so you’re not like Maines, not angry because some superior didn’t give you your due, Jon thought. Ideological defector? Soft spot for Israel? He checked the date of the first report. Ten days after Kyra found Iran’s nuke in Venezuela, he realized.
Ideological defectors want to make a difference, to protect something they love or cripple something they hate, he reasoned. A Russian GRU general, even a retired one, would have had access to a huge amount of material, but another pass through Strelnikov’s reports showed that the Russian had given up nothing that wasn’t directly related to the Foundation. You wanted to protect Israel, but you didn’t want to hurt Mother Russia? Jon reasoned. So assume he’s ideological. No way for Strelnikov to make a difference in Iran’s nuke program unless the Foundation is involved in the program. Even so, the general’s tranche of reports revealed nothing about the Foundation’s actual research projects. The man had restricted himself to revealing its organization, budget, manpower, areas of interest, but nothing that would have allowed CIA to cripple a specific program. Perhaps the good general’s conscience had been putting up a fight.