Paul Vidich - The Mercenary

“We’ve been expecting you,” Ronnie Moffat said when Garin stepped from the car at the embassy’s side entrance. “I’ll bring you up.” She hustled Garin past the marine guard.

Moscow Station was a cramped suite of rooms on the seventh floor. Bricked-up windows gave the vestibule they entered from the elevator a claustrophobic feeling. The small room served as a kind of air lock in which non-Agency personnel were allowed to read classified material. They moved toward a door without a handle or keyhole and no opening except a peephole for those inside to see who wanted to enter.

“Listening devices were found in the beams,” Ronnie said, noting his wandering eyes. “Two years ago, an electric typewriter had to be quarantined. We found a KGB microprocessor under the typewriter’s keypad that recorded each stroke and sent the data to the power cord, which transmitted it wirelessly.”

She swiped her badge against the electronic wall pad, causing the door to swing open automatically, and they entered a long, crowded area of cubicles and cramped offices. Overnight cipher clerks transcribed and decrypted coded messages from Headquarters, working reverse shifts to accommodate the time difference. Little had changed, Garin thought, as he stepped into Moscow Station, calibrating what he remembered against what he saw.

Ronnie pointed to a conference room that was encased in inch-thick Plexiglas. “Secure conversations take place there. We call it the Bubble.”

“Aleksander Garin,” she announced, opening the conference room door.

George Mueller sat at one end of a long conference table, and next to him was another man Garin did not recognize. Garin nodded at each one, but he settled on Mueller. Mueller’s right eye was a purpled spider web, which gave him the look of a man who had been on the losing end of a fistfight, and his left hand was splinted and bandaged. Mueller’s overcoat draped a chair, and his bulky garment bag leaned against the wall. An airplane ticket, his black diplomatic passport, and an open file lay in front of him on the table.

“Your car is ready to take you to the airport,” Ronnie said.

“When I’m done here,” Mueller replied, and then he looked at Garin. “Sit down. You keep looking at my face. You’ve never seen the KGB’s handiwork? It could be worse. I’ll have it looked at in Washington.” He nodded. “Yes, I’ve been declared persona non grata and expelled. This is my deputy, John Rositske.”

“Long trip?” Rositske said.

“No more than usual.” Garin met Mueller’s eyes without acknowledging that they knew each other. He turned to Rositske. “Just the two of you?”

“For now,” Mueller said. “Surveillance?”

“One car. They dropped back when we crossed the bridge.”

“Immigration?”

“No trouble.”

Garin saw Rositske stare at him like a bored house cat watching a sparrow through a window. “What?”

“Your name?” he said. “I drew a blank when your name came through on the cable from Headquarters. I read that you’re a native Russian speaker. That surprised me. I’m familiar with all the case officers in the division who work on Soviet affairs. I’ve never come across your name. How is that possible?”

“I don’t work in the SE Division.” Garin took a measure of the two men opposite. He flattened his accent to rid it of clues of who he was or where he was from, and he gave an account of the phone call and the details of his departure from New York, leaving out only personal details that weren’t germane. Garin had mastered the art of separating life and work. He spoke about the trip with the calm of a man who long ago had surrendered his will to the sudden demands of unpredictable covert work. “I was told there’s a mess to clean up.”

“We don’t have a mess,” Rositske said in his Texas drawl.

“There was another breach,” Mueller interrupted. “The KGB knew I would be in Red Square.” Mueller folded his hands on the table solemnly. He nodded at late-arriving staff coming through the peephole entrance door. “That’s why we are in here. It’s just the three of us for now.”

Coffee was brought in. Garin took his black with four sugars that he measured carefully, stirring slowly counterclockwise, and then he drank it all at once. He listened to Mueller describe the Station’s loss of MOBILE, PANDER, and two others he didn’t identify.

“We can’t afford another loss,” Mueller said. He described the few details they had on the man known only as GAMBIT. “He took a terrible risk when he slid the note into my car. I’m a known intelligence officer who is watched by the KGB. He was visibly nervous in our first meeting but clearly aware of what he is doing. He refused to give me his name or his position. But he knew a lot about me, and he had knowledge of our operations, so I assume he is high-ranking KGB or GRU. He brought excerpts of military weapons specifications to prove his value. The Pentagon confirmed the documents are authentic. They are eager to get their hands on his intelligence. The Soviets are building weapons that we haven’t figured out how to design.”

Mueller adjusted his splint. “GAMBIT asked me to be his handler, but I said that was impossible. I’m too visible. He was adamant that he didn’t want a randomly assigned handler. He also doesn’t speak English, so he wants a Russian speaker. In our first meeting, he threw out several names. I got the impression that he’s been planning this for some time. Before I was blown, we agreed on communication protocols—drop points, signals, meeting places—and he gave me the person he wanted to be his handler—the man who handled General Zyuganov.” Mueller looked at Garin. “That must be you.”

Garin didn’t respond. “What does he want?”

“Money.”

“They all want money. What else?”

“We haven’t gotten that far.”

“Defect?”

“Yes, he’ll probably want to be brought out.”

Garin clapped his hands slowly twice. “Perhaps we can have a band play farewell when he boards Aeroflot and waves goodbye.” Garin leaned forward and growled, “You have never exfiltrated a KGB officer from Moscow.” Garin grunted his skepticism. He went for his coffee, but he put down the cup when he saw that it was empty.

“You’re not with the Agency, are you?” Rositske said.

“I left.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Whatever I’m paid to do. Contract work.”

“What does that mean?”

“White papers,” he said dismissively.

“On?”

“Counterintelligence,” he snapped.

Rositske smiled. “Who thought a guy with a desk job was the right man to run a covert operation in Moscow?”

Mueller placed a restraining hand on Rositske’s arm. “John.”

“No,” Rositske said. “I want to know the answer.”

Garin leaned back in his chair, exciting a creak. “I am quite certain of my qualifications.”

“What are those qualifications, besides speaking the language?”

“Talk to GAMBIT. He seems to know.”

“Zyuganov was compromised,” Rositske snarled. “How does a spectacular failure qualify you?”

Garin stood. “I don’t need this.” Garin had known men like Rositske, who wore their toughness with a superior attitude. Men who believed difficult intelligence problems were better solved with brute force than the puppet strings of psychology. “I am happy to leave this problem in your capable hands.”

“Sit down,” Mueller said. He turned to Rositske. “I’d like a minute alone with Alek.”

GARIN’S CUP HAD been refilled. He stirred in the four sugars in the same slow counterclockwise motion, and when he was satisfied the sugar was dissolved, he sipped, looking over the cup’s lip at Mueller.