Gathered in his secure office were the General of the Army and Minister of Defense, Pavel Bykov, who was the head of the GRU, and the First Deputy Director of the SVR, Boris Abramovich. Neither of these men were present during the conference call with the American president, though.
Zima had just briefed these men on what had transpired with the Americans. “Input?” the president asked.
The GRU general shifted his eyes toward the SVR director.
Boris took this as a sign to stretch his neck out for the ax. “Sir, it sounds like the Americans are lying.”
The president laughed. “Obviously, they are lying. They said they had electronic verification of the missile being on the ship, but we know they had no satellite coverage of Murmansk during the time we transferred the missile to the ship.”
“We could have caught them in their lie,” the GRU general said.
Boris Abramovich shook his head vehemently. “No, no. That was not the play. We could not let them know that we know of their precise satellite positions.”
“That is correct, Boris,” the president said. “Nor could we let them know that we know of their man from Murmansk. Tell me about your people on the ground in Venezuela.”
The First Deputy Director of the SVR shifted in his chair. “As you know, mister president, I was only brought in on this recently. Yet, I have heard from Sergei Zubov just an hour ago that his agent is a bit reluctant to provide proper information.”
President Zima twisted in his chair, his hands nearly crushing the arms. “This agent was recruited because of her parents, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Boris said. “They were both former KGB assets in St. Petersburg before the mother took her daughter to America at a young age.”
“And the father?” Zima asked.
The SVR director hesitated before saying, “An unfortunate accident.”
Zima knew all too well about accidents, having been an officer himself in the GRU before starting his political career. “Very well. Use whatever leverage you need on this new American woman. Let her know that accidents happen not only to fathers, but to mothers and daughters.”
“A wise choice, sir,” Boris said. “My people will assure success.”
The president got up from his chair and paced the room with his hands clasped behind his back. His men were smart enough to know this meant they had been dismissed. He heard the sounds of them leaving, but he didn’t turn. This was a deadly game they were playing. The Americans would blink. He was sure of this.
25
Karl slept in the next morning, trying his best not to let Maya know that he had caught her speaking with the Russian SVR officer. He wasn’t stupid enough to think they were simply exchanging borscht recipes. Maya had gotten in to the hotel only minutes after Karl had texted his contact at the Agency the night before. But he hadn’t heard back from Roddy until sometime just before noon. His orders? Be careful and meet with a local agent who had been recruited by a former CIA officer who no longer worked in Venezuela. The Venezuelan government had expelled a number of intel officers a few years back, and this officer had run the most agents in country. Some of these agents were still active with new Agency officers, but others had been put in a holding pattern until things cooled down. This didn’t make sense to Karl, since the country was in such a state of flux currently. Eyes and ears on the streets needed to increase, not decrease.
Because of trust issues, Karl had sent Maya out shopping for new clothes, shoes, and a better bag to carry her gear. She had jumped at the opportunity, taking enough cash from Karl to clothe a small family.
He met the female agent at noon after traveling by bus and metro car for a half an hour, only to end up back near the hotel at a downtown park.
Sweltering heat nearly crushed Karl’s lungs as he walked through the park slowly. Young folks were lying about smoking pot and drinking from bottles covered with paper. The place reminded Karl of images he had seen from the 60s in America. Young rabble-rousers were not just resting, they were recharging and preparing their chants for their nightly protests of the government. More than anything, it seemed to Karl that these young people his age needed one thing. Or maybe two. Jobs and direction.
Karl felt his gun against the skin on his back, where it was covered only by a loose tropical shirt.
Ahead he saw his contact sitting on a park bench. Her code name was Ocelot.
Karl sat, giving the woman in her early 40s enough distance to feel safe. Her hair was fake blonde, streaked with black. Or the other way around. Although a bit chunky, she had obviously been a stunning woman in her youth. Her only visible flaw was a scar along her right jaw line.
“Nice day for a revolution,” Karl said in Spanish, his eyes cast upon the radicals frolicking in the park.
“It is always a good day for that,” she said. Her accent was hard for Karl to discern. She sounded highly educated.
Still not looking at the woman, Karl said, “I understand you have something for me.”
Now she turned to him and caught his attention. “Your Spanish is flawless. Your accent sounds like Madrid or coastal Spain.”
He returned her stare. “Are you a linguist?” he asked.
“A college professor,” she said, switching to English.
Great. He would be surprised if she wasn’t busting crap at night in the protests herself. Moving to English, Karl said, “Nice work if you can handle grading papers.”
She shrugged. “After a while, you get used to lowering your expectations. That way you are not so disappointed.”
Karl wasn’t sure what a college professor could give him. Especially a linguist. If that’s what she was. “You have something for me?”
“I’m not a professor of languages,” she said. “They call me the Ocelot because of this.” She ran her index finger along the scar on her jaw. “I had an incident as a young girl in the jungle south of here. My father was a zoologist. I, on the other hand, am a geologist. To be specific, a petroleum geologist.”
That made more sense to Karl. “A good profession for a country with the largest oil reserves in the world.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. But in this country a two-year-old could find oil.”
Get to the point, Karl thought. “Does what you have deal with the oil industry?”
“Perhaps. Have you heard of the Orinoco Region?”
He nodded. “Yes. What about it?”
“I just got back from there, trying to discover drilling locations for the Venezuelan government,” she said. “What I found was interesting.”
“In what way?” Karl asked.
“The military has closed off an area in the jungle,” she said. “Not particularly unusual. But they had heavy equipment. They were building something.”
“A training camp?” he asked.
“Perhaps. But there are much better places to conduct military training that does not conflict with the country’s oil production.” She moved closer to him and reached her hand out, as if she needed support.
Karl saw that she had something in her hand, so he put his hand on hers and she slipped a piece of paper to him. The gesture would appear to any casual observer that they had simply held hands briefly. To sell the intimacy, Karl moved in closer and gave her a hug. “Thank you,” he whispered in her ear.
She pulled away a few inches and said, “If I were a little younger, I would take you to my bed.”
“You are young enough,” he said. “But I’m with someone.” It was intended to be an attempt at flattery, but she seemed to take this as a challenge.
“I don’t have a problem with that,” she said.