But then the Kremlin itself sat just across the Moskva to the north. Walk the wrong way along the Sofiskaya road while drunk, she would see those spires instead, and Puchkov’s loose tongue would be tempted to say something unfortunate. That particular behavior was a luxury she’d indulged in her youth, like most Russian college students. She knew she was a talkative drunk and that was an unfortunate weakness for a CIA mole.
So she’d given it up, but she was at peace with that. Puchkov would do that much for Alexsandr. Her old boyfriend from university had settled on journalism as his calling and he’d been good at it. They’d broken up before the Novaya Gazeta newspaper had hired him, but she’d followed his progress, reading his articles and happy that he was making his mark. The Novaya Gazeta had been a harsh critic of Putin, enough to draw a charge of violating anti-extremism laws, and Alexsandr had been as daring as any of his peers there. He became a favorite of the Kremlin’s opponents, outspoken and never subtle in his writing.
Then he’d turned his talents to writing on corruption in the Kremlin. His new portfolio lasted only four months before his neighbors found his body in the elevator of his apartment building. Two shots to the chest, one to the head, the official report said. The Kremlin had issued a statement decrying his death and promising to find the murderer, but no detectives were ever assigned and no arrests were ever made.
Puchkov had found the Kremlin true-but-unofficial report on Alexsandr’s death after a monthlong search in the GRU’s files. The folder had included surveillance reports noting Alexsandr’s daily schedule. Either they’d killed him or they’d watched while someone did.
Puchkov had volunteered to work for the CIA the next day. Ten years on, her desire to hurt the wicked oligarchs who’d snuffed out her country’s brief glimpse of freedom hadn’t been satisfied and the GRU major was sure it never would be. Revenge didn’t heal the soul, she’d learned. She wished that she could call her actions by some more respectable word, justify them as a covert fight against overt corruption, illegal acts made righteous by evil men who had perverted the law. But, no, it was revenge she wanted, nothing more. Puchkov was at least honest with herself about that.
But now the Americans were in no position to help her. News of the expulsions had raced through the GRU. She had cheered with her colleagues — her finest acting on display — but fear dogged her now. How had General Lavrov identified the American intelligence officers? Would the same source or method let him identify her as a CIA asset? No one had any details that would help her determine this, so all she could do was act as normal as possible and pray that no one came for her at home after dark.
Her cell phone rang in her coat pocket. Puchkov cursed as her lap belt made it a struggle to extract the device. She finally got it out, and took her eyes off the road to look at the screen. The caller ID showed a number she didn’t recognize and no name at all. Surely it was someone at work calling. She pressed a button. “Ya slushayu vas,” she said.
“You are Elizaveta Igoryevna Puchkov?” the caller asked. The voice sounded odd, digitized. It was not encrypted… her phone lacked that capability. Someone was using a voice changer.
“Da.”
“They are coming for you,” the voice said. “The GRU knows that you are a traitor. If you wish to live, you will go into hiding. Do not go home.”
Puchkov’s heart began to race, pounding hard enough to hurt her chest. Despite the distortion, she could tell that the caller was Russian. The Muscovite accent was strong enough to survive the digital masking. Not CIA, she thought. Not my handler calling to warn me. The Agency had another, more secure way to contact her in case of such an emergency. Was this a GRU trap? Part of a counterintelligence investigation, a gambit to see if she would panic and run, confirming her guilt.
That wasn’t one of the GRU’s normal methods for hunting moles. Then who was this? This man was a Russian, but no other Russian knew that she was a CIA asset. Puchkov couldn’t make sense of it.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Puchkov lied. “I am not a spy.”
“You must believe me,” the voice said. “They know what you have done.”
“I am not a traitor to the Rodina,” Puchkov retorted. “This is a very poor joke. If you do not leave me alone, I will have this call traced—”
The line went dead. Puchkov set the phone on the passenger seat.
She drove on, her mind paying no attention to the busy road. What to do? Was it possible the caller had told the truth? Would the CIA even know if she’d been identified? Perhaps the caller was another CIA asset?
Puchkov knew of only one way to confirm the possibility. She took the next right turn, which led her away from her apartment, less than a mile away.
The market was a small, square one-story affair that butted up against the circular red-brick wing of an apartment complex. The file said that the exfiltration signal was to be a chalked diagonal line on a particular brick at the residential building’s corner closest to the point where the two buildings met. A line running from the upper left to the lower right was CIA’s signal to Puchkov that she needed to run. Puchkov’s confirmation was a line from the upper right to the lower left. Puchkov had suggested the site to her handler. The major came here often enough to buy her groceries that a trip would raise no suspicions.
Kyra checked the GPS unit again. She’d been driving for three hours, watching the rearview mirror, and the device finally insisted that she was near the address she had copied from Puchkov’s file. She unbuckled her restraint and checked her pocket for the piece of chalk. She would walk a short surveillance detection route, make the mark, retreat to her car, then spend most of the night waiting for Puchkov at the exfiltration site. She couldn’t actually get Puchkov out, but she could at least warn the woman and tell her to hide until the CIA could put resources in place to bring her out.
Whether Puchkov knew anything that could help her find Jon or confirm his death was another matter entirely.
There was an unsettled feeling in her chest, and she did not have to guess what it was. Weird not having you here, Jon, she thought.
She was sure she heard Jon’s voice in her mind. This is not a good idea, he told her.
“Yeah, I know,” Kyra said aloud, surprising herself. She was gambling that the Russians would be relaxing their security, thinking that all of the CIA officers had left the country.
But only the CIA officers are gone. The Russians know that there are other spies still in the country. They’ll still be watching. Jon spoke to her again. And if Lavrov’s boys are here, at the market, you’re screwed. Nothing I can do to help you… not that I’d get out of the car to save your tail anyway.
After a three-hour surveillance detection route, I’d think you’d want any excuse to stretch your legs, Kyra chided her absent partner.
If I was going to get out of the car, it would be to run away from the men with the guns, not toward them, Jon’s voice in her head replied.
I’m clean, Kyra reassured him and herself. Three hours looking in the mirror and never saw the same car twice.
Here’s to hoping, her absent partner replied, and then he was silent. Kyra opened the door and put her foot down on the asphalt. She was two hundred yards from the site.