The Mercenary Read online

  “What’s next?”

  “Go dark,” Mueller said.

  Garin looked at the others. “Why would a temporary, non-diplomatic employee suddenly withdraw and go dark? That would attract attention. We still need a way to protect GAMBIT from Posner.”

  “Do nothing,” Rositske said. “Take the risk. Business as usual.”

  “She’s invited me to the Bolshoi. Do I ignore her? Call it off?” His question was met with silence. “I saved her life. Now I don’t talk to her? Let’s play this out,” Garin went on. “There is a greater risk in changing how I operate. Their people will take an interest in the hard-drinking fuck-off who has suddenly changed his spots.” Garin addressed the speakerphone. “What’s the worst thing that could happen, George?”

  “They try to recruit you,” Ronnie interjected. Her remark was made in jest, but when the laughter faded, a long silence followed and the idea settled in like the missing piece of a puzzle.

  The audacity of the suggestion, its symmetry, and the power of its appeal silenced them. Could it work? Let Garin be turned? A CIA asset working for the KGB, playing both sides.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Garin said. He’d played that game before. He knew what to expect. “Ridiculous and dangerous.”

  “That’s why it might work,” Ronnie said. “If she isn’t KGB, nothing happens. If she is, Alek’s cover improves, we feed them misinformation, and we buy time until May 28.”

  Garin kept his thoughts to himself as the others debated the idea, tested it, considered its implications, its dangers, and its possibilities. Mueller was asked what he thought.

  “Let’s assume the worst,” he said. “They suspect you. Then, by our own rules, we should play this out. If surveillance has seen you, keep going and stay with your cover. That’s the rule.”

  Mueller queried the group: Rositske?… Garin?… Ronnie?… Garin?

  “He’s thinking,” Ronnie said.

  “I don’t like it.”

  Rositske’s brusque voice cut off the conversation. “I want to speak with George alone.”

  The room emptied. It was late. The meeting had been convened at an hour when it was safe to bring Garin to the off-limits seventh floor.

  Rositske moved closer to the speakerphone. “I’m alone.”

  “What’s on your mind?” Mueller asked.

  “I didn’t like him when he showed up, and I have seen nothing to make me comfortable. He is not one of us. Who knows where his loyalties sit. Do you trust him?”

  “Up to a point,” Mueller said. “He has issues with us, but he has contempt for them. It doesn’t matter. We don’t have a choice. GAMBIT requested him.”

  “How do you know he’s stopped working for the KGB? I got the file. Jesus fucking Christ. He was never cleared. There were questions. Some people thought he was responsible for the loss of General Zyuganov.”

  “It was never proved.”

  “He was forced out.”

  “He quit.”

  “He had to leave. There were questions and no good answers. He took what he was offered.”

  “What do you suggest?” Mueller grunted. “Think about it. GAMBIT is out there. He requested Garin. If we remove Garin, who would you slot in?” There was a beat of silence. “We are where we are.” He added, “Send Garin back in. I want to speak with him. Alone.”

  Garin stepped into the Bubble and moved toward the speakerphone’s red light. He glanced out into the hallway at the two people staring at him. He sat down and placed one hand on the other, and his voice, when he spoke, was matter-of-fact.

  “George, you want to speak with me?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, except for the ones standing outside the Bubble staring at me with their lime-shriveled, pucker-faced expressions. What did Rositske want?”

  “He doesn’t trust you.”

  “I don’t trust him. You didn’t say what you thought of the plan.”

  “I said I didn’t like it. Have you been recognized for the work you did here six years ago?”

  “No one knows about that.”

  “GAMBIT knows. Talinov knows. Their side knows. Are you being targeted?”

  Garin lifted his eyes to the people in the hallway, and he felt anger stir and with it a desire for a drink.

  “What happened with General Zyuganov?” Mueller asked.

  “We made a mistake.”

  “You made a mistake.”

  “A mistake was made,” Garin shot back. “They knew he was meeting me at the boat in Vyborg.”

  “Have you been compromised?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. Do they know you’re back?”

  “No one has connected me. But how would I know? Wouldn’t it be stupid of them to say, ‘Oh, Alek, welcome back’?”

  “Where is their interest coming from?”

  “Who the fuck knows? George, don’t go there. It’s a tunnel without light. It was six years ago. My body was never found. They were led to believe that I was at the bottom of the Baltic. Or dead on the tundra.”

  “What happened that night?”

  “Read the file.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  Garin knew how his version of the incident differed from the conclusions of the official inquiry. He had no need to defend himself. Their judgment had been made and punishment rendered, his reputation tarnished, his life altered. “How much time do you have?” he asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  Garin delved into the part of his memory that contained the willfully forgotten. “It was a Friday,” he began. He described how General Zyuganov had made his way to Vyborg, near the Finnish border, with a plan to meet a small fishing trawler that would make its way to the Finnish coast under the cover of night. The plan required heavy fog, so the exact date of the exfiltration was not fixed. Then the right conditions arrived and the boat docked in the harbor by the old castle. The trip was sixty kilometers and would take eight or nine hours in normal seas. The plan had been to reach a specific drop-off on the coast by dawn, where the CIA pickup team waited. Garin paused. “Tell me if you already know this.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Garin shook his head at a private thought. “So,” he went on, “maybe this is the part that you haven’t heard. The inquiry was eager to assign blame, and no one wanted to admit it was a bad plan. The idea that a senior KGB officer would make his way alone to Vyborg without raising suspicions in Moscow Center. Langley was convinced of the plan, and no one wanted to hear that it was radically flawed. One man. Visible. Recognizable. Traveling with false documents by Aeroflot. Brilliantly stupid. But no one wanted to listen, so we went forward.”

  Garin paused. “Or maybe this is the part you don’t know. It was spring and cold fronts were unpredictable, but frequent dense fogs covered the coastline when cool air followed a warm day. Zyuganov needed a safe place to hide in Vyborg until the weather turned and made the crossing safe from Soviet shore patrols. Zyuganov knew he had to hide until conditions were right, but being unfamiliar with Vyborg and unwilling to risk going to a hotel where he might attract suspicion, he had someone arrange a hiding place. He had help from a trusted person. A Russian. That’s what I heard. Another man, or maybe a woman, and I heard both versions of the story afterward. One version had the woman being a girlfriend, but that was the fevered imagination of a man who knew less than I knew, and he was happy to embellish his story. It had to be another KGB officer. That’s what I believe. Someone Zyuganov trusted, who had access to false documents—or someone whose trust he bought.”

  Garin stared at the blinking red light. “He never made it to the boat. A dense fog was moving into the harbor, and the time to leave was approaching. The trawler’s captain was the first to hear footsteps on the cobblestones, and then I heard a man moving quickly across the dark plaza, staying in the shadows of buildings. A second man emerged from a parked car, and a third followed. There was a brief chase, but then the square filled with cars. Bright h
eadlights revealed Zyuganov, and his fate was sealed. He was brought to his knees by a blow to his head.

  “A stranger can disappear for a few days even in a small town like Vyborg, but the KGB knew where to wait. I could hear that from the boat. Five Volgas converged at the same time in a coordinated operation. He wasn’t betrayed by a suspicious neighbor or a curious hotel clerk. They were waiting for him.

  “The fog was rolling in, but the cars’ beams were bright and the square was not far away. I could see some of what was happening, and what I didn’t see, I heard. Zyuganov was beaten. They were interrogating him. The operation was blown, and we had very little time before the KGB found the boat. We had paid the captain well, but he refused to leave his trawler, and he paid dearly for his mistake. I left on foot and avoided roadblocks over several days as I made my way to the Finnish border. The KGB was embarrassed by the whole episode. They invented stories about my death that excused the sloppiness that allowed me to escape. In one version, I tried to swim away and drowned in the frigid water. I prefer the version that had me walking across the rocky terrain camouflaged with branches and leaves, carrying a stinking, dead possum to throw off their tracking dogs. The terrain was rough, my body was never found, and they believed I was dead.

  “Langley was also astonished that I survived. No one could believe that I got through ten cold days and nights without food wearing only my light parka. So, those skeptical minds assumed that I had been allowed to escape because I had collaborated with the KGB. They had made up their minds. A few were uncertain, but unproven suspicion is the end of trust—and the end of trust is the death of an intelligence officer’s career.”

  Garin concluded, “And here I am again. Rositske doesn’t trust me. Maybe you shouldn’t either. But I’m here. What do you want me to do?”

  “Find out what they want from you.”

  “And risk GAMBIT?”

  “Let them play their hand. You’re here. You won’t get out of the Soviet Union unless it’s with GAMBIT.”

  Garin heard the threat. He lifted his eyes to the curious faces outside, then turned back to the speakerphone when Mueller spoke again.

  “GAMBIT’s copier is being watched because we have a leak in Moscow Station that’s compromising this mission. Let’s square the circle. Exfil GAMBIT and plug the leak. We’ll give them corrupted information to lead them away from GAMBIT. Both of you will get out at the same time.”

  Garin stared at the red light. “I’m the bait?”

  There was a long silence. Garin felt the muscles in his neck constrict. He saw Ronnie, still staring at him through the Plexiglas. “It’s easy for you to make the call,” he said. “You’re in Washington. I’m the one who is being asked to climb out of the trench and into the line of fire. Well, I didn’t sign on for that. I don’t want to find myself in Lubyanka with a pistol to my head.”

  “Calm down, Alek. It’s a simple entrapment that we’re turning against them. If it gets uncomfortable, we’ll bring you back inside.”

  Silence lingered. Mueller spoke again. “The White House is asking for updates.”

  “Make something up,” Garin snarled. “Tell them everything is fine. Lie to them, George. Use your talents.”

  “I’ll make sure you get the credit when it’s over. It will clear your record.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about my record.” Garin slammed his hand onto the red button, disconnecting the call.

  * * *

  GARIN DREW A frigid bath when he got to his apartment. The prostitute had been outside again, and he had been tempted to use her to relax, but instincts warned him off. Shockingly cold water surrounded him when he slipped into the tub, and his breath quickened, but he tolerated the temperature. It bothered him to think of himself caught between Agency bureaucrats, who reduced his life to a few debriefing remarks between sips of coffee, and the diligent KGB. He felt used and angry. He never wanted to find himself at risk in Moscow again. He felt old contempt for Agency puppeteers moving his arms and legs in a flippantly pedestrian production of espionage commedia dell’arte.

  Garin pondered his bad choices. He remembered Rositske’s and Ronnie’s startled faces when he’d walked out of the Bubble, and he enjoyed thinking they were mad with worry that he was abandoning the operation. He put his lips to a newly opened bottle and coughed at the metallic taste. Tainted vodka. He emptied the solvent alcohol into the toilet.

  A thought struck him when he slipped back into the frigid water. Not all missions succeeded. He should get out now. He had lived the world of two lives—one open, seen, and known to all who cared, and the other running its course in secret, unknown to all except his KGB handlers. And then he’d been compromised, turned, and everything had changed, wearing a mask over his mask. The lies had been harder to keep up, and he’d struggled to keep the layers of deception straight, knowing that a single mistake could be fatal.

  He contemplated the steady torture that would come from suspecting every stranger’s gaze, the caution of what to say, what to avoid, hoarding his words, living every moment with his old fear of being hunted. If things got unbearable, he could cut and run.

  But could he? His old contacts in the Ukrainian mafia would happily accept hard currency to arrange safe passage on a freighter out of Kiev, but he knew them, their corruption. Taking his cash, turning on him.

  There was only one way forward.

  12 BOLSHOI THEATER

  GARIN DID HIS BEST TO keep his mind on the performance. He sat in an aisle seat a few rows back from the orchestra pit with a good view of the stage. Tchaikovsky’s glorious music and the ballerinas’ graceful movements helped unwind his wariness and put him in a pleasant mood. There came a time when he ceased to be aware of Comrade Posner, who sat in the adjacent seat, and Natalya, who was farthest from the aisle.

  The curtain came down at intermission and the house lights came up, bringing the audience to its feet with applause. Light from the overhead chandelier deepened the scarlet velvet seats and brightened the packed house.

  “Do you like it so far?” Posner asked.

  “I wanted to like it,” Garin said. He had seen many worse productions in New York and London, but they didn’t know he was fond of ballet. “I didn’t expect to like it.”

  “Well, then, success.” Natalya leaned across Comrade Posner toward Garin. “Every night, they perform to this same standard of perfection. That is why they are the world’s best. Every night, they transport the audience to an imaginary place and we all forget our lives for a moment.”

  She rose from her chair, and as she did, her willowy figure wrapped in its colorful shawl drew the gaze of lumpish men standing nearby. She tossed the shawl over her shoulder, covering her white silk blouse, which made her look as if she belonged onstage. Lightly brushed pancake makeup on her forehead covered her remnant bruise.

  They joined intermission’s exodus to the lobby. Natalya wasn’t the only fashionably dressed woman, but her lustrous hair, glistening pearls, and scarlet lipstick made her the most striking. Her confident walk and contemptuous smile gave her seductive charm.

  Posner nodded at a Soviet Army general with a chest full of medals, and without turning his head, he whispered to Garin, “He is the deputy director, GRU. He nodded at me, but he noticed you. No one is invisible here. This is one of the few places where it is appropriate to be seen. I am sure someone is already asking who you are.” He abruptly changed the subject. “Natalya’s debut performance in this opera brought her great attention.” He looked at Natalya. “Do you mind if I tell the story?”

  “It’s stupid,” she said.

  “But worth telling, Natasha.” He turned to Garin. “She was magnificent throughout, but her brilliance came in the fourth act, when Odette is distraught. You’ll see it when intermission is over. It’s the scene when the swan maidens try to comfort her, and Siegfried returns to make a passionate apology. Rather than remain a swan forever, Odette choses to die, and Siegfried choses to go with her, forever uni
ted in love.”

  “You’re spoiling everything for him,” Natalya said. “He doesn’t know the story.”

  Posner raised a hand. “It is beautifully tragic, and she performed it perfectly. The audience was mesmerized. When the curtain came down, the audience leapt to its feet in wild applause. She won over the skeptics—of which there were many—and then the next week, having performed so brilliantly and earned high praise, she also became the object of vicious jealousy.”

  Natalya swatted Posner’s hand when he pointed to her ankle with its flesh-colored wrap. “You would exaggerate the time of day if you could,” she said, and turned to Garin. “Don’t ever let him see your weakness. He will never forget it.”

  A trio of blinking lights signaled the end of intermission. An usher approached Posner, handing him an envelope. After reading it, he looked at his companions with grave eyes.

  “There is an emergency. An editor in London is still at his desk and asks to speak to me. An Englishman without a life now has a claim on mine.”

  Garin and Natalya returned to the hall. She passed Posner’s empty seat on the way to her own, but seeing it empty, she changed her mind and sat next to Garin.

  “He won’t be returning,” she whispered, placing her hand on his arm.

  After a moment, he withdrew his arm to his lap, slumped in his chair, and fixed his eyes on the stage. He tried to ignore her.

  “I think he planned it this way,” she whispered.

  Garin made sure to look surprised.

  * * *

  THE METROPOL HOTEL was a short walk from the Bolshoi Theater, but Natalya and Garin were shivering when they spun through the hotel’s revolving doors on their way to the Metropol restaurant. The maître d’ stood at his station, a thin, short man with graying hair swept back and dark eyes. His severe face softened when he saw Natalya.

  “Good to see you again, Natalya Seergeevna,” he said. “I have a nice table for you. Will Comrade Posner be joining you tonight?”