“And at another level, getting him out would convey an important message to our agents. In terms of prestige and image. All of us in this room know that there’s an enormous difference if an agent is exposed, tried, and sent to prison for a very long time, or if a certain individual was under suspicion but managed to get out unharmed and can go on living his life as a free man elsewhere. That sends a hugely significant message to all our agents around the world. It’s important for us to show again that the SVR always takes care of its own, no matter what.”
“I may be putting the cart before the horse,” said the directorate chief, “but Russia itself is the only place where an individual with Cobra’s profile could be resettled and given a new life. He won’t be willing to live on some remote farm in Venezuela or spend the rest of his days in some dusty town in Angola. We wouldn’t be able to protect him in those places, and we have to remember that the Israelis are obsessive and have long memories and impressive capabilities. If we don’t bring him here, they’ll get their hands on him, and take him out or put him on trial in Tel Aviv.”
“There’s another issue, too,” said the commander of the SVR, “and it’s not a trivial one at all. He’s been under the impression since the 1980s that his handlers are American, and we’ve invested very extensive resources to this end. How’s he going to react when he’s instructed to go to Russia and not the United States?”
Dmitry Malenkov was the one to respond. “First of all, he has no choice. I don’t have to tell you, matters like these aren’t for the pampered. Second, I’m not so sure it’ll come as a complete surprise to him. Yes, from the outset, back in the days when the Stasi were running him, his handlers have always acted like authentic Americans. And yes, we’ve never met with him on American soil, but we’ve put that down to security concerns, which I believe he accepted as legitimate. In any event, he’s never pressed the issue. Furthermore, the questions we’ve asked and the assignments we’ve given him have never been of a distinctly Soviet hue. We’ve asked him about things that are of interest to any superpower, including the United States. After all, we’ve had a special team charged with ensuring that our briefings didn’t betray our true identity. Nevertheless, he’s been a spy for almost thirty years. And Cobra is a sharp guy. No matter how good we are, I’m guessing that somewhere along the way someone has made a mistake of sorts, even a small one. One that should have made him think that maybe we aren’t really Americans as we’ve led him to believe. And there must have been other signs over the years, slipups of some kind by someone. They may have been small things, even the way in which someone drank his vodka, or lit a cigarette. Little things like that, which could give someone away. I have to say that Cobra has never pressed us in this regard, has never asked questions. He may have tested us, but his handler’s cover holds up perfectly, not only vis-à-vis an Israeli agent, but also when it comes to FBI investigators. Moreover, the debriefers who sometimes joined the rounds of meetings with him all speak fluent English.”
Malenkov looked at his two colleagues and continued. “And another thing, and this may be the overriding issue: I believe that Cobra simply doesn’t care. His cynicism and absolute lack of scruples were plain to see from day one. He is a man without values, a worm, concerned only with himself and his own personal gain. I have no doubt he’d abandon the family he’s raised in Israel in an instant. Deep down he doesn’t care if he’s working with the CIA or the SVR. All he cares about is the sense of respect and power. And we can continue to provide him with that. And the money, of course. True, we haven’t put this to the test, we didn’t want to make things difficult for him, we didn’t want to risk overstretching the limits of his betrayal, but I believe this is the kind of man we are dealing with. When the moment of truth arrives, he won’t fall apart on learning that he’s been working for Moscow and not for Washington.”
“We’ll move forward in keeping with the points you noted, sir,” said the directorate chief. “With respect to Cobra himself and also insofar as the wider circles are concerned. We can meet with his handler the day after tomorrow already, in Zurich. And we’ll make every effort to make contact with him by the weekend, too. It isn’t easy for a man in his position to leave the country from one moment to the next. He’s accountable after all to the people around him. He can’t simply disappear for no apparent reason. But we’ll certainly impress upon him that the matter is a critical and urgent one. In any event, I don’t want to meet with him in Israel. It’s too dangerous. If they’ve already blown his cover, they have a huge advantage over us in Israel. We’re on an equal footing more or less when it comes to Europe.”
The directorate chief and the head of the Tactical Planning Division rose and stood at attention in front of their superior. They then turned around and left, both with a serious and determined look on their faces. They were still pacing down the magnificent marble corridor when Dmitry Malenkov turned on his mobile phone and instructed his secretary to convene the Cobra team for an urgent meeting.
“You’re wanted back on the sixth floor for a moment,” the security guard said to the directorate chief just as they were leaving the building. And turning to Malenkov, the directorate chief said: “Go ahead. Don’t wait for me. Keep me posted on your progress.”
The SVR commander’s secretary was waiting for him at the entrance to the bureau. “Go right in,” he said. “The commander is expecting you.”
“I’ve been looking through Demedev’s report again,” the commander said without looking up. “Katrina did indeed know very little about Cobra, but she did pass on all she knew to that young woman from the Mossad, or the Shin Bet, or wherever she’s from. She estimated Cobra’s approximate age, she even had a rough idea of his date of birth. And she told her about a round of meetings we held with him in Switzerland, including their precise dates. I didn’t want to discuss these issues in the presence of Malenkov, he isn’t in the know,” the commander continued, finally looking up, “but something’s troubling me. I’ve asked my bureau chief to bring me the Viper dossier. I want us to go through it together. And we’ll do some thinking.” He stood up, walked over to an elegant antique sideboard in the corner of the room, and retrieved two small crystal glasses and a clear unmarked bottle. He poured out two shots of the viscous, colorless liquid and said to the directorate chief with a smile: “Come, let’s have a drink. I don’t know about you, but I certainly need one.”
43
EL AL FLIGHT, EN ROUTE FROM NEW YORK TO TEL AVIV
“I’m too old for these flights,” Michael grumbled to himself while struggling to find a good angle for his long body in the cramped economy class seat. He’d managed to get himself a seat in one of the last rows of the jumbo jet, a row that had only two seats rather than three between the aisle and the window, and the arrangement offered a certain sense of comfort, but mostly a small sense of triumph to someone who was familiar with little tricks like that. His sense of achievement, however, didn’t last very long, and after three hours of dozing on and off over the Atlantic Ocean, it gave way to despondency. He wasn’t at all happy with the fact that several hours of flight time still lay ahead, and his efforts to position his limbs in a manner that would allow him to relax and silence the noise swirling in his mind were to no avail.