The Fall of Moscow Station (24 page)

“Two hundred twenty if you'd like to count,” Rostow said. “Most work at your embassy here on Wisconsin Avenue, but some are stationed at your consulates in New York, Houston, San Francisco, and Seattle.”

Galushka scanned the list. Several names he recognized as GRU and SVR officers under official cover, but he couldn't identify most of them. “This will damage relations between our two countries most severely, Mr. President. It is a shame that you chose this course in an effort to divert the world's attention from the scale of your own intelligence activities and failure. A better course would have been to resolve this matter through private channels and special contacts,” he said. “Unfortunately, as you have chosen another way, this step cannot be regarded as anything but a political one.”

Rostow smiled. “Well, Ambassador, for the record, you can tell your government that I truly do look forward to finding a way to smooth this matter over and rebuild a productive relationship with the Russian Federation. But unlike some of the previous presidents from my party, I'm a realist. And right now, after your country's unprovoked diplomatic slap, allowing an enormous Russian diplomatic presence on U.S. soil just isn't a good signal to the rest of the world about the kind of relations I want to have with your country. We are equals, after all. It wouldn't do to have your delegation outnumber ours, and asking the Kremlin to approve a lengthy list of replacements for ours would just make me look weak to the rest of the world. Cutting yours down to size is easier and makes me look stronger. So I get to insult you, look stronger for it, get our countries back on equal terms all at once, and boost my poll numbers at home. We Americans call that ‘multitasking.' ”

The president leaned forward and looked Galushka in the eyes. “Off the record, you can inform your government that the United States of America is not done ‘resolving this matter,' ” he advised. “And I regret that I must say farewell to you, Igor.”

“I am prepared to leave the White House at any time,” the Russian replied, offended.

“Not just the White House, Mr. Ambassador,” Rostow told him. “Your name is on the list, too. I realize it will cause the Russian Federation some inconvenience to replace its ambassador here, but if the Kremlin wants to make a fresh start with me, they can begin by putting forward a fresh face. But do let your president know that I can expel people just as fast as he can. So you might want to ask him just how far he wants to take this.”

Galushka stared down at the papers again, reading the names and finding his own on at the top of the second page. Rostow stood and walked to the door, opened it, and a pair of Secret Service agents stepped inside. “Good-bye, Igor. Do have a safe flight home. I look forward to reading your memoirs.” He looked at the senior security officer. “Please see Ambassador Galushka to his car.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Russian ambassador watched the president of the United States walk out into the central hall and turn left, heading for the West Wing. The Secret Service officer extended his arm, showing Galushka the door, his expression clear that he was not going to be patient with him. The overweight Russian grunted and shuffled out of the library. He knew he wouldn't see the inside of the White House again.

Kurkino District

Moscow, Russia

Major Elizaveta Igoryevna Puchkov pulled around the wrecked cars blocking the leftmost lane of the Leningradskoye Highway and mashed the gas pedal to the floor, determined to recover the speed and time she'd lost to the snarl of traffic she'd just escaped. She seen the now-wrecked car pass her a minute before it had sideswiped a delivery truck. The driver had been drunk, she figured, judging by the lack of control. Not that she minded a bit of inebriation, but the moron should have waited until he got home to chase his stupor. It was early in the evening yet, and the drunk had reaped what his stupidity had sown.

Angry though she was, she could hardly condemn the man. Puchkov had been tempted to pass the evening with a pub crawl of her own, a bad habit she'd picked up during a tour at her country's embassy in London. It had been too long since she'd killed time on a stool at the Bar Strelka by the old Krasny Oktyabr chocolate factory on the man-made island of Bolotny Ostrov. To see the Moskva River at night, lit up by the lights of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior with a bottle of twelve-year-old Green Mark in her hands would be a fine way to forget this ugly day. She was not a Christian, but she could still appreciate the beauty of the buildings the believers erected as an act of worship.

But then the Kremlin itself sat just across the Moskva to the north. Walk the wrong way along the Sofiskaya road while drunk, she would see those spires instead, and Puchkov's loose tongue would be tempted to say something unfortunate. That particular behavior was a luxury she'd indulged in her youth, like most Russian college students. She knew she was a talkative drunk and that was an unfortunate weakness for a CIA mole.

So she'd given it up, but she was at peace with that. Puchkov would do that much for Alexsandr. Her old boyfriend from university had settled on journalism as his calling and he'd been good at it. They'd broken up before the
Novaya Gazeta
newspaper had hired him, but she'd followed his progress, reading his articles and happy that he was making his mark. The
Novaya Gazeta
had been a harsh critic of Putin, enough to draw a charge of violating anti-extremism laws, and Alexsandr had been as daring as any of his peers there. He became a favorite of the Kremlin's opponents, outspoken and never subtle in his writing.

Then he'd turned his talents to writing on corruption in the Kremlin. His new portfolio lasted only four months before his neighbors found his body in the elevator of his apartment building. Two shots to the chest, one to the head, the official report said. The Kremlin had issued a statement decrying his death and promising to find the murderer, but no detectives were ever assigned and no arrests were ever made.

Puchkov had found the Kremlin true-but-unofficial report on Alexsandr's death after a monthlong search in the GRU's files. The folder had included surveillance reports noting Alexsandr's daily schedule. Either they'd killed him or they'd watched while someone did.

Puchkov had volunteered to work for the CIA the next day. Ten years on, her desire to hurt the wicked oligarchs who'd snuffed out her country's brief glimpse of freedom hadn't been satisfied and the GRU major was sure it never would be. Revenge didn't heal the soul, she'd learned. She wished that she could call her actions by some more respectable word, justify them as a covert fight against overt corruption, illegal acts made righteous by evil men who had perverted the law. But, no, it was revenge she wanted, nothing more. Puchkov was at least honest with herself about that.

But now the Americans were in no position to help her. News of the expulsions had raced through the GRU. She had cheered with her colleagues—her finest acting on display—but fear dogged her now. How had General Lavrov identified the American intelligence officers? Would the same source or method let him identify her as a CIA asset? No one had any details that would help her determine this, so all she could do was act as normal as possible and pray that no one came for her at home after dark.

Her cell phone rang in her coat pocket. Puchkov cursed as her lap belt made it a struggle to extract the device. She finally got it out, and took her eyes off the road to look at the screen. The caller ID showed a number she didn't recognize and no name at all. Surely it was someone at work calling. She pressed a button.
“Ya slushayu vas,”
she said.

“You are Elizaveta Igoryevna Puchkov?” the caller asked. The voice sounded odd, digitized. It was not encrypted . . . her phone lacked that capability. Someone was using a voice changer.

“Da.”

“They are coming for you,” the voice said. “The GRU knows that you are a traitor. If you wish to live, you will go into hiding. Do not go home.”

Puchkov's heart began to race, pounding hard enough to hurt her chest. Despite the distortion, she could tell that the caller was Russian. The Muscovite accent was strong enough to survive the digital masking.
Not CIA
, she thought.
Not my handler calling to warn me.
The Agency had another, more secure way to contact her in case of such an emergency. Was this a GRU trap? Part of a counterintelligence investigation, a gambit to see if she would panic and run, confirming her guilt.

That wasn't one of the GRU's normal methods for hunting moles. Then who was this? This man was a Russian, but no other Russian knew that she was a CIA asset. Puchkov couldn't make sense of it.

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Puchkov lied. “I am not a spy.”

“You must believe me,” the voice said. “They know what you have done.”

“I am not a traitor to the
Rodina
,” Puchkov retorted. “This is a very poor joke. If you do not leave me alone, I will have this call traced—”

The line went dead. Puchkov set the phone on the passenger seat.

She drove on, her mind paying no attention to the busy road.
What to do?
Was it possible the caller had told the truth? Would the CIA even know if she'd been identified? Perhaps the caller was another CIA asset?

Puchkov knew of only one way to confirm the possibility. She took the next right turn, which led her away from her apartment, less than a mile away.

Magnoliya Supermarket

Kurkinskoye shosse 17k1

Kurkino District

Moscow, Russia

The market was a small, square one-story affair that butted up against the circular red-brick wing of an apartment complex. The file said that the exfiltration signal was to be a chalked diagonal line on a particular brick at the residential building's corner closest to the point where the two buildings met. A line running from the upper left to the lower right was CIA's signal to Puchkov that she needed to run. Puchkov's confirmation was a line from the upper right to the lower left. Puchkov had suggested the site to her handler. The major came here often enough to buy her groceries that a trip would raise no suspicions.

Kyra checked the GPS unit again. She'd been driving for three hours, watching the rearview mirror, and the device finally insisted that she was near the address she had copied from Puchkov's file. She unbuckled her restraint and checked her pocket for the piece of chalk. She would walk a short surveillance detection route, make the mark, retreat to her car, then spend most of the night waiting for Puchkov at the exfiltration site. She couldn't actually get Puchkov out, but she could at least warn the woman and tell her to hide until the CIA could put resources in place to bring her out.

Whether Puchkov knew anything that could help her find Jon or confirm his death was another matter entirely.

There was an unsettled feeling in her chest, and she did not have to guess what it was.
Weird not having you here, Jon
, she thought.

She was sure she heard Jon's voice in her mind.
This is not a good idea
, he told her.

“Yeah, I know,” Kyra said aloud, surprising herself. She was gambling that the Russians would be relaxing their security, thinking that all of the CIA officers had left the country.

But only the CIA officers are gone. The Russians know that there are other spies still in the country. They'll still be watching
. Jon spoke to her again.
And if Lavrov's boys are here, at the market, you're screwed. Nothing I can do to help you . . . not that I'd get out of the car to save your tail anyway.

After a three-hour surveillance detection route, I'd think you'd want any excuse to stretch your legs
, Kyra chided her absent partner.

If I was going to get out of the car, it would be to run away from the men with the guns, not toward them
, Jon's voice in her head replied.

I'm clean
, Kyra reassured him and herself.
Three hours looking in the mirror and never saw the same car twice.

Here's to hoping
, her absent partner replied, and then he was silent. Kyra opened the door and put her foot down on the asphalt. She was two hundred yards from the site.

•  •  •

Puchkov pulled her car into the very small parking lot to the south of the market, past the store's own lot, and turned the engine off. She sat inside, working through the rough plan in her mind. She'd parked away from the market so she could walk past the corner where an exfiltration signal would be marked. Whether the signal was there or not, she would go inside, buy some bread and beer, and return to her car. The only question would be where she would go after. If there was no mark, she would go home. If the chalk line was present, she would never see her apartment again. She would drive to the exfiltration point her handler had identified, and fate willing, she would be on United States soil within two days.

Puchkov stepped out of her car, shut the door, and set the locks. She looked for approaching cars. Seeing none, she walked north toward the market.

All she had to do was look at the brick, nothing more.

•  •  •

No one was following. Kyra was a hundred yards from the market when her stomach twisted inward. Her instincts began to scream, and she stopped moving. She swept the scene in front of her, her mind dissecting the picture.

There was very little to see. The only person in sight was a woman, boyish dark hair, short, and a little overweight. She was fifty yards from Kyra's position, but her profile at this distance matched the photograph Kyra had seen in the file.
Puchkov.

Kyra still wouldn't move, not until she had found the source of her anxiety. She stared at her surroundings.