“Like weapons?” Kyra accused him.
Lavrov shrugged. “There is no moral law of the universe that says the Chinese may not have stealth planes or the Iranians can have no nuclear weapons, or the Syrians no EMP bombs. You only want to stop these because they scare you.”
“We’re afraid? You’re the one hiding from us,” Kyra replied. “You don’t sell your technology out in the open.”
“Privacy is good business. Surely the United States doesn’t make public all of its weapons sales? And there is nothing I have sold to other countries that your country has not. Stealth, nuclear weapons, EMPs… have you held any of these back from your allies? No.”
“We demanded that General Lavrov stop his proliferation activities immediately,” Cooke continued. “He refused, saying that he was making more from that business than he was from us. The fact is, we can’t get approval to pay him the kind of money that he’s making from proliferating strategic technologies to foreign buyers. President Rostow is afraid it would set a precedent and he doesn’t want to reward men who traffic in illegal arms. So we told General Lavrov that we would burn him ourselves by reporting him to you. Whether your president had approved or not, he would have to stop Lavrov to protect his own interests.”
“Then Lavrov killed Strelnikov to protect himself,” Barron added. “He could blame all of his activities on Strelnikov and say that he’d already found and executed the mole himself. It was a stalemate. So we decided to negotiate a truce. We sent a CIA officer named Alden Maines to Berlin to meet with Lavrov. Maines’s cover story was that he was defecting and had burned Strelnikov to prove his bona fides. The general detained him. We sent two more officers to find out what happened to Maines and Lavrov grabbed one of them. The other escaped, but we believe the general is holding our two officers at GRU headquarters. The U.S Embassy also informed us a short while ago that he arrested a third officer just this evening, a young woman who was investigating Maines’s detention.”
Girgoriyev frowned. “As I told you, the GRU has no authority to detain foreign citizens engaged in unlawful actions on our soil. That is the duty of the FSB.”
“We have the security footage,” Barron replied. “It’s on that thumb drive. Feel free to confirm it. I won’t be surprised if the men in the video don’t work for you.”
Grigoriyev stared at the thumb drive in his hand. Cooke couldn’t tell whether he could separate the truth from the lies. “So you believe he is trying to neutralize everyone who could confirm his treason, whether Russian or American,” he said.
“We’re not sure, but that’s our working theory,” Barron agreed. “And we think he’s tried to push the point by evicting mass numbers of U.S. citizens from the country, probably hoping that we’d back off. At this point, Lavrov is beyond our control, has undermined our operations, and could kill three of our officers. Since he’s broken Russian laws by detaining foreign citizens on Russian soil without valid legal authority, we’re going to the only person with the authority and resources to stop him.”
“But we know that some of the people who Lavrov evicted from the Rodina were CIA officers, not diplomats. We are very good at counterintelligence,” Gregoriyev replied.
“Some were,” Barron conceded. “Mostly senior officers who were already nearing the end of their rotations in Moscow. The rest were just State Department employees.”
“So the bulk of your officers, they are still in Moscow?” Grigoriyev asked, suspicious.
“That I cannot confirm nor deny,” Barron replied.
Grigoriyev leaned back, clasped his hands together, and stared at the Americans.
Lavrov leaned back in the chair, looking suddenly tired. “So I ask you, the final time… work for me. I will not insult your loyalty by offering you money, though I can and will arrange that if you agree. You spoke the truth when you said you were a moral woman, and I need such a person. In return, I can give you the intelligence you need to win some battles and rise through the ranks. I will give you what you need to become one of the CIA’s leaders. You will be in a position to influence presidents. Help me to rebuild my country so that yours can be strong again.”
Kyra stared at him, trying to read his face, his movements, to get some look into his mind. “Will you answer one question?”
“Perhaps.”
“How much money have you made selling technology to other countries?” she asked.
Lavrov’s smile froze and melted in seconds. He turned to the table where the contents of Kyra’s pack were still organized. He picked up the letter and showed it to her. “They showed me a photocopy of this letter. Who was it meant for?” he asked.
Kyra refused to answer and Lavrov read the letter aloud. “We regret the actions you had to take with regard to your friend, but we concur with your decision. While he was valuable to us, you have proven yourself more so and your protection is paramount.” He looked back at the analyst. “I think this letter is not meant for anyone,” Lavrov offered. “I think this letter is a forgery, a prop for a play on a stage, and we are the actors. I believe you wanted to get caught, hoping that this letter would reach the highest levels of the FSB. Grigoriyev would read it and think that I am a CIA asset. Grigoriyev hates me, as I am sure you know, and he would use this as an excuse to denounce and jail me… possibly execute me.”
Kyra gave him no reaction. “But you did not think that the GRU might detain you instead of the FSB. A shame, it was clever.” He pulled a lighter out of his pocket, ignited it, and touched it to the paper. He held it until the fire reached his fingers, and he dropped it. Then he picked up the stacks of euros. “But I will keep the money, for which I thank you.”
“So it is all about money,” Kyra said.
“No, devushka,” Lavrov said. “It truly is as I said. I want my country to be great and I need your country to stand against it for that to happen. But great men deserve great rewards. Your country thinks so. Why else do so many of your politicians become wealthy in the service of your nation?”
He sighed. “I regret that we could not come to an accommodation.” Lavrov walked to the door and opened it. “You have your orders?” he asked the guards.
“Da,” they said, not quite in unison.
“Very well. I will be at the Khodynka Airfield. Let me know when you are finished.” Lavrov turned into the hallway and walked out of Kyra’s sight.
Director Grigoriyev’s car was one of the most comfortable armored vehicles in which Kathy Cooke had ever traveled. The U.S. president’s limousine was a finer ride, but not by much.
The FSB director himself sat in the facing double seat across from Cooke and Barron, holding a conversation in Russian with the station chief. Two guards sat in the front of the car, and chase cars bracketed them ahead and behind. The motorcade was ignoring traffic lights and laws with abandon. Grigoriyev has better job perks than I do, Cooke thought.
Grigoriyev and Barron reached some break in their conversation and the Russian senior officer pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and placed a call. Cooke leaned over to the station chief. “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice low.
“GRU headquarters,” Barron said.
“Oh, joy,” Cooke said, deadpan. “Did Grigoriyev believe us? Or is he just using us to shiv Lavrov?”