Red Sparrow (50 page)

Egorov knew the prospect of an internal investigation against his own professional colleagues would bring Zyuganov as close to a state of
upoenie,
sheer ecstasy, as was possible in this life, possibly with the exception of his work in the basement of the Lubyanka. Vanya had given the dwarf full authority for his internal investigation and the little man with the big ears and the bland grin went away happy, his mind brimming.

Egorov looked out the window of his executive suite. Who else could jeopardize SWAN? The Director, of course. Probably a half dozen or more in the Executive Secretariat, the President’s Office, the Office of the Minister of Defense. But there was little Egorov could do about people out of his reach. Who else? The only other senior officer worth considering was Vladimir Korchnoi, director of the First Department (America and Canada), who, although he was not cleared for SWAN, was finely attuned to what was happening operationally on his turf. They were good friends, addressed each other with affectionate, village diminutives. Volodya Korchnoi was of the old school. He was trusted and liked by officers in the Service. He also had connections throughout the Service, allowing him to hear a lot of gossip. And he was currently directing the operation to get to Nash.

Egorov thought how seldom he saw or spoke to Korchnoi these days. His friend was getting old. Several more years until retirement, perhaps. By that time Egorov would be at the top of the heap, he could choose a loyal protégé
to take over the Americas Department then. Even though Vanya knew in his heart that it was unlikely—impossible—that treason resided in the First Department, he decided to add Korchnoi to the list for art’s sake. He would attend to the Service first, then attend to the American Nash.
Za dvumya zaitsami pogonish’sya ne odnogo ne poimaesh,
he thought. If you chase two rabbits, you will not catch either one.

Chief of Directorate T Yury Nasarenko waited at the threshold of Egorov’s office like a serf waiting to be invited into a barn. Tall and gangly, even at the age of fifty, Nasarenko wore thick wire glasses that were bent and pitted with years of absentminded misuse. He had a big head, a jutting forehead, wing-flap ears, and exceptionally bad teeth, even for a Russian. He was a nervous man who twitched, and jerked his head, and bent his thumbs, and touched his sleeves in a constant marionette show of movement. He had a large mole on the left point of his chin, which Egorov used as an aiming point when speaking to Nasarenko to avoid looking at the quivering entirety of the man. Despite his outward habits, Nasarenko was a brilliant technical mind, someone who understood the science of a problem and could also apply theory to operational need or intelligence production.

“Yury, come in. Thank you for coming so promptly,” said Egorov, as if Nasarenko had had a choice of appointment times and dates. “Please sit down. Have a cigarette?” Nasarenko sat down, shrugged his shoulders, clasped his hands in his lap, and bent his thumbs twice very fast.

“No, thank you, Ivan Dimitrevich,” said Nasarenko. His eyebrows lifted and fell and Egorov fixed his gaze on his chin.

“Yury, I want to tell you that you are doing an exceptional job with the information that is coming in about the Americans’ space vehicle. The Service is being complimented at the highest levels on the work so far,” said Egorov.

More precisely,
he
was receiving compliments for the SWAN case so far.

“That is good to hear, Ivan Dimitrevich,” said Nasarenko. “The information is exceptional. My analysts and I are quite impressed with the brilliance of the concept.” Nasarenko looked across the desk at Egorov’s impassive wrestler’s face. “Of course, Russian space technology is easily the equal
of this project,” he added with a double bob of his Adam’s apple, “but the Americans’ work is remarkable.”

“I agree,” said Egorov, lighting a cigarette. “I wanted to tell you to continue working on your analyses and assessments, but also wanted to notify you that the intelligence stream will temporarily be interrupted. The source of the information, a sensitive source that I cannot describe further for obvious reasons, is wrestling with health matters and must suspend work for a short time.” Egorov let the sentence hang in the air.

“Nothing so serious as to curtail the information, I hope?” asked Nasarenko, leaning forward in his chair. His right leg and knee vibrated slightly.

“I sincerely hope not,” said Egorov expansively. “An attack of shingles can be debilitating. I am hoping our source will recover soon.”

“Yes, of course,” said Nasarenko, “we will continue our analysis of the existing information. There’s more than enough data to keep us busy for some time.”

“Excellent,” said Egorov. “I know I can rely on you to keep working.” He rose and walked Nasarenko to the door, his hand on the other’s jittery shoulder. “Acquiring this information is important, Yury,
but how we exploit it is critical.
That’s where you come in.” Egorov shook hands with the man and watched him walk away down the corridor toward the elevators. His head to one side, walking with a starboard list, Nasarenko looked like a Petrushka puppet in a Skomorokh show with a cut string. “If such a man is a spy,” Egorov whispered to himself, “we are doomed.” He turned back into his office.

Line R Chief Boris Alushevsky was no Yury Nasarenko. He tapped once on the frame of Egorov’s door and walked calmly across the room, a smooth gait with no affectation. Forty years old, he seemed older and looked thoughtfully dangerous. He was thin, dark, his sunken cheeks and prominent cheekbones were clean-shaven but swarthy. He had black almond-shaped eyes, a strong jaw, and a large nose. The dense thatch of jet-black hair piled on top of his head was wavy and thick and shiny, making Alushevsky look like a Kyrgyz Central Committee member from Bishkek. He was actually from Saint Petersburg.

The chief of Line R (Operational Planning and Analysis) was responsible for evaluating all SVR operations abroad. Alushevsky’s English was perfect, after years in London. After returning from Britain, Alushevsky had drifted toward planning and analysis because it suited him. He had an intellect and an inquiring mind. He was, thought Vanya, also a political naïf. It seemed most unlikely that Alushevsky could be the mole. Still, he had evaluated the Washington
rezidentura
’s procedures in handling “the sensitive source” and it was Alushevsky who suggested the use of the Zeta countersurveillance team to protect Rezident Golov during monthly meetings. Therefore Vanya would include him in his canary-trap test.

“Boris, sit down, please,” said Egorov. He liked and respected Alushevsky for his work ethic and intelligence. “I have reviewed your recommendations regarding security upgrades in Washington, and I approve.”

“Thank you, Ivan Dimitrevich,” said Alushevsky. “General Golov is utterly professional on the street. He rarely has FBI surveillance. His assessment is that the Americans believe an officer of his rank and stature would never involve himself in agent handling. It’s an advantage to us. The Zeta Team is thorough, discreet. They will provide added protection.” Alushevsky accepted a cigarette from Egorov, offered from a mahogany box with a tortoiseshell lid.

“Excellent,” said Egorov.

“Technical officers in the
rezidentura
likewise are listening to FBI surveillance frequencies with special care. They especially are looking for anomalies in radio procedure. A change in tactics could indicate heightened interest by the opposition,” Alushevsky explained simply, not sure Egorov understood the nuances of the game.

“Boris, I would like you to continue monitoring the security situation and our countermeasures. We have a little extra time to assess the situation.”

“How so, Ivan Dimitrevich?” asked Alushevsky.

“I cannot discuss the details of General Golov’s case, I regret I cannot, but you surely understand,” said Egorov. “It is through no lack of confidence in you, I assure you.”

“Of course I understand,” said Alushevsky. “Security is security.” There was no trace of resentment in his voice.

“I can tell you that Golov’s source has to suspend activities for a time. A matter of illness, quite serious, actually.” Egorov looked at Alushevsky mildly.

“How long a hiatus will we have?” asked Alushevsky. “It will be important for General Golov not to become suddenly inactive. He must exactly mirror his previous activity levels.
Any
change in his profile could alert the opposition, and that would be doubly dangerous when the general resumes activity in the case.”

“I do not know exactly how long the agent will be inactive. Recovery from heart bypass surgery can be lengthy or quick. We shall have to wait and see.”

“With your permission, I will draft some additional thoughts for your consideration, and for forwarding to General Golov.”

“By all means, I would like to see your ideas. Please submit them as soon as you finish,” said Egorov, rising from his seat. “I repeat that I am greatly pleased with your work. Your leadership of Line R is quite satisfactory.” Egorov steered Alushevsky to the door and shook his hand.

SVR Americas Department Chief General Vladimir Andreiyevich Korchnoi walked into the outer reception area of Egorov’s office twenty minutes late. Egorov’s personal aide Dimitri came out of his cubicle and shook hands. Korchnoi took in the fussed disapproval of the two secretaries sitting behind their desks, but he greeted them by name, and his deep brown eyes twinkled under his bushy white brows as he sat on the corner of one desk and told a story.
“There was an announcement of the highest adultery level: First place, Movie Stars; second place, Theater Actors; third place, KGB. Someone shouts: I’ve been in the KGB for thirty years and I never cheated on my wife! Someone else shouts: It’s because of people like you that we’re in third place!”

The secretaries and Dimitri all laughed. Dimitri poured a glass of water for Korchnoi from a carafe on the sideboard. One of the secretaries was in the process of telling another joke when the leather-padded inner door to Egorov’s office opened and the deputy director appeared. The secretaries quickly bent their heads to their desks and resumed work. Dimitri nodded courteously at Korchnoi, then at his boss, and retreated into his little cubicle. Egorov surveyed the outer office.

“Quite a lot of merriment out here,” said Egorov sternly. “It’s no wonder we cannot get anything done.”

“Director, the blame is totally mine,” said Korchnoi with mock humility. “I disrupted this office with the telling of a silly story, a ridiculous waste of time.”

“Yes, and twenty minutes late on top of it,” said Egorov. “I trust you have time to speak with me now?” Egorov spun on his heel and went into his office. Korchnoi followed him, nodding at the secretaries as he walked past. The door closed behind him and the secretaries looked at each other, smiling, before returning to their work.

Egorov walked over to the blond-leather couch at the end of his suite and sat down. He patted the seat next to him, indicating that Korchnoi should sit beside him. “Volodya, are you making time with my secretaries? I bet I know which one you fancy, and let me tell you, they’re both good in bed.”