Demedev was holding the brief report that had come in from FSB headquarters in far-off Dimitrovgrad about the surprising visit paid to retired comrade Katrina Geifman. Yes, the system works, Demedev said to himself. At some point in her distant past, Geifman committed a serious violation of the organization’s security procedures, and she was dealt with wisely by means of a transfer to a remote city, far from the real secrets with which she had busied herself previously, to a desk position of little significance. She remained there under the watchful eyes of her superiors and the Credibility Department’s local representative. Until she was pushed a few years ago into early retirement and became a potential “person of interest,” someone whose behavior and actions were monitored from time to time. The FSB’s network of sources on the ground had been instructed to report anything out of the ordinary insofar as she was concerned. She was also required to report for a briefing once every two years. And her telephone line at home was subject to random tapping. And lo and behold, the moment something unusual did in fact occur, the system had functioned smoothly. The hotel reported its foreign guests, the informer at the taxi rank made a report about the foreign woman who had gone to Geifman’s residence, one of the neighbors added a report about an unusual visit to the house, and within two days Katrina was called in for questioning, defined as usual as a routine talk. All okay thus far. But that idiot Alexei Volkov, that moron, hadn’t even asked Katrina Geifman for the name of her guest, the daughter of that man she had known in the past, that man whose name Volkov hadn’t bothered to check out either.
Demedev did that himself. Okay, not really personally, but my means of his secretary, who identified herself as a desk clerk at headquarters. She didn’t say she was from headquarters in Moscow, Katrina was supposed to believe she was from local headquarters in Dimitrovgrad. “I’m calling simply to fill in a detail or two, so that the report can be properly filed away. I’m sure you understand.” Yes, Katrina certainly understood. She herself had filed thousands of documents during her years in exile, with a separate copy for every name that was mentioned, because every name had its own dossier. “I simply wanted to know the name of the young woman who visited you.”
“Galina Abramovich.”
“Are you sure her name is Abramovich?”
“Of course. She’s the daughter of Igor Abramovich. Actually, she told me that she’s married and has two children, with the eldest about to finish high school. Her surname may have changed, assuming she took her husband’s and didn’t keep her maiden name.”
“Did you meet with her husband, too?”
“No, him I didn’t see, and I’m not really sure she was with him anyway. I think she said she was traveling with a colleague from work. They were in Moscow on business, and then went on to Kazan. They stopped here on the way because she wanted to see me. But I don’t think there’s anything sordid going on there, she came across as a good woman. I’m sure they’re just friends.”
“What’s going on between them is really no concern of ours. Okay, thanks, Katrina. You’ve helped. If I need anything else, I’ll be in touch, okay?”
“Certainly. I’m happy to have been of assistance.”
Demedev sat down and stared at the papers on his desk. Ya’ara Stein. That was the name of the woman who had visited Katrina Geifman. Not Galina and not Abramovich. Ya’ara Stein. Thus said the records at the hotel in Dimitrovgrad, and that was the name that appeared in the passport she showed to border control officials at the airport in Moscow. Born in 1979, thirty-three years old. Even if her eldest son were only sixteen, that would mean she had him at the age of seventeen. Unlikely. But possible. And yes, Amnon Aslan probably wasn’t her husband. At the very least, they didn’t have the same name, and in terms of their ages he could be her father. Demedev didn’t like what he was seeing. He didn’t like inconsistencies and he loathed particulars that didn’t add up. He knew life had its oddities, but things that appeared out of place required a thorough investigation. An in-depth probe. Never assume extenuating circumstances, and always carry out a detailed check into anything and everything that people tend to pass off as a slight unpleasantness. He pressed the intercom button and asked his secretary to bring him Katrina Geifman’s personal file. He wanted to recall why she had remained under suspicion and surveillance by the organization she had served for so many years.
Wrapped in a woolen blanket, Katrina sat down in her favorite armchair, her Dimitrovgrad home in darkness, all its lights turned out. The call from Alexei Volkov’s clerk was troubling her. She had sounded a lot less stupid than he had. She hadn’t called on a whim.
Katrina had already exacted her great revenge. She had told that beautiful young woman all she knew about Cobra—the little that there was to tell. Now she only had to wait. She had paid them back and she was going to have to pay the price.
39
VIRGINIA, FEBRUARY 2013
They listened with bated breath. Thomas Langham was on his way to Rhode Island. A drone was keeping watch over him from above. And an FBI surveillance team was waiting for him meanwhile on the outskirts of Providence, the capital of the tiny state. Michael could already tell where the story was going, and how it tied in with their Cobra mystery from Bill Pemberton’s perspective. But he allowed Bill to tell his tale. Ya’ara was sitting next to Michael, and his fingers brushed inadvertently against her hand. She squeezed his hand for a second and then let go, her eyes fixed on Bill’s face, over which shadows and tongues of flames from the fireplace appeared to be dancing. His eyes were shining. Aharon was slumped back in his chair across from their host, his eyelids almost closed. But the fleeting touch of hands between Ya’ara and Michael failed to escape his vision.
“Okay, then,” Bill continued, in a show of the power of his memory when it came to even the smallest details, “the FBI team continued to monitor Langham. He settled into a small motel nearby Providence and didn’t leave his room until the following day, apart from a visit to a diner across the street for a pizza and two cans of beer. He didn’t call anyone or meet with anyone. Nothing. He left the motel the following day at around ten, after having already checked out. He had no intention of returning. At the request of the FBI, a police team, allegedly on the trail of a drug dealer, checked the room. You can be sure they turned it inside out, but they found nothing. Langham hadn’t left anything behind for someone to pick up. He drove from there to Brown University, without any wrong turns or hesitation. Either he knew the way very well or he was using Sat-Nav software. We learned subsequently that he had indeed used a GPS device, thus reinforcing our assumption that his visit to Brown University wasn’t a routine mission. The Russians were improvising—and when you improvise, you also make mistakes.