nothing about classic human espionage and operations, were ill prepared and unsuited to collect or analyze foreign intelligence, and, more abstrusely, were all “jacking off with oven mitts.”
Besides being an enfant terrible and a misanthrope, the cow-eyed Benford was a legendary mole hunter, strategist, operational high priest, and savant who was considered the scourge of inimical foreign intel services: more treacherous than the Russian SVR, more inscrutable than the Chinese MSS, more elegantly devious than the Cuban DI, and twitchier than North Korea’s RGB. Those CIA officers closest to Benford privately described him as “bipolar with a sociopath vibe,” but secretly worshipped him. Allied foreign-liaison services loved him and hated him and listened to him: Years ago, Benford had helped the Brits uncover an illegals network run by Moscow for fifteen years in the House of Commons by following, Benford explained to the scandalized Joint Intelligence Committee, “the last heterosexual in Parliament directly to his Russian handler.” The Britons were not amused.
Benford had called COS Athens Tom Forsyth on the secure line to congratulate them all on the acquisition of LYRIC. Preliminary assessment of the general’s early intelligence was favorable, and Benford approved of Nash’s handling of the case to date.
“I am anxious to hear from DIVA,” Benford said over the phone.
“We all are, Simon,” said Forsyth. “Nash is ready to go to her the minute she signals she’s out. He’s got a bag packed.”
“There is no reporting on her status, no gossip, no sightings. No announcements in
Rossiyskaya Gazeta.
” He meant no obituaries, like former Soviet watchers would pick up in the old
Pravda.
“She’s resourceful,” said Forsyth. “A tough cookie.” The decision to send Dominika back inside had been Benford’s, and Forsyth knew the feeling of waiting for word from an agent who was back inside and out of contact. It didn’t matter where: Cuba, Syria, Burma, Moldova. “All we can do is wait,” said Forsyth.
“Yes, Tom,” said Benford. “I fucking know that, goddamn it.” Had Forsyth been a GS-13 duty officer in Headquarters, Benford would have burst a blood vessel screaming into the phone, but one doesn’t yell at a senior officer, especially not at Tom Forsyth.
“The minute she shows a feather, Nash is there,” said Forsyth soothingly. “We’re ducks—calm on top, paddling furiously underwater.”
Benford groaned into the phone.
The morning after her return from Moscow, Dominika lay on the floor in her underwear in the tiny living room of the Vienna apartment on Stuwerstrasse, several blocks from the Danube and a quarter mile from the elegant curved towers of the International Atomic Energy Agency on the east bank of the river. The apartment windows were open to let in the summer breeze. To the south, the giant Ferris wheel of Prater park was just visible in the haze—at night the boxy cars on the wheel were trimmed with white fairy lights.
Dominika did incline push-ups on the floor, her breasts flattening on the carpet with each downward repetition. She exhaled on each slow press, feet planted high on a chair from the dining table. When her chest screamed for mercy, she shifted to the chair, hands on the seat and legs elevated on a small couch, and did slow dips—twenty, pushing to thirty—until she could do no more. The telephone in the kitchenette trilled. Breathing hard, she walked across the room to answer it.
She recognized Udranka’s throaty voice. “
Devushka,
hey girl,” said Dominika panting into the phone.
Sign.
“
Devchonka,
you slut,” said Udranka in Russian.
Countersign,
all normal.“Why are you panting into the phone? What are you doing? It’s nine in the morning.”
Mention of time: I need to see you, one hour.
Sparrow tradecraft—trashy and quick and foolproof. A quick shower and six stops on the U-Bahn to Hardegasse, then up four flights on the
Besides being an enfant terrible and a misanthrope, the cow-eyed Benford was a legendary mole hunter, strategist, operational high priest, and savant who was considered the scourge of inimical foreign intel services: more treacherous than the Russian SVR, more inscrutable than the Chinese MSS, more elegantly devious than the Cuban DI, and twitchier than North Korea’s RGB. Those CIA officers closest to Benford privately described him as “bipolar with a sociopath vibe,” but secretly worshipped him. Allied foreign-liaison services loved him and hated him and listened to him: Years ago, Benford had helped the Brits uncover an illegals network run by Moscow for fifteen years in the House of Commons by following, Benford explained to the scandalized Joint Intelligence Committee, “the last heterosexual in Parliament directly to his Russian handler.” The Britons were not amused.
Benford had called COS Athens Tom Forsyth on the secure line to congratulate them all on the acquisition of LYRIC. Preliminary assessment of the general’s early intelligence was favorable, and Benford approved of Nash’s handling of the case to date.
“I am anxious to hear from DIVA,” Benford said over the phone.
“We all are, Simon,” said Forsyth. “Nash is ready to go to her the minute she signals she’s out. He’s got a bag packed.”
“There is no reporting on her status, no gossip, no sightings. No announcements in
Rossiyskaya Gazeta.
” He meant no obituaries, like former Soviet watchers would pick up in the old
Pravda.
“She’s resourceful,” said Forsyth. “A tough cookie.” The decision to send Dominika back inside had been Benford’s, and Forsyth knew the feeling of waiting for word from an agent who was back inside and out of contact. It didn’t matter where: Cuba, Syria, Burma, Moldova. “All we can do is wait,” said Forsyth.
“Yes, Tom,” said Benford. “I fucking know that, goddamn it.” Had Forsyth been a GS-13 duty officer in Headquarters, Benford would have burst a blood vessel screaming into the phone, but one doesn’t yell at a senior officer, especially not at Tom Forsyth.
“The minute she shows a feather, Nash is there,” said Forsyth soothingly. “We’re ducks—calm on top, paddling furiously underwater.”
Benford groaned into the phone.
The morning after her return from Moscow, Dominika lay on the floor in her underwear in the tiny living room of the Vienna apartment on Stuwerstrasse, several blocks from the Danube and a quarter mile from the elegant curved towers of the International Atomic Energy Agency on the east bank of the river. The apartment windows were open to let in the summer breeze. To the south, the giant Ferris wheel of Prater park was just visible in the haze—at night the boxy cars on the wheel were trimmed with white fairy lights.
Dominika did incline push-ups on the floor, her breasts flattening on the carpet with each downward repetition. She exhaled on each slow press, feet planted high on a chair from the dining table. When her chest screamed for mercy, she shifted to the chair, hands on the seat and legs elevated on a small couch, and did slow dips—twenty, pushing to thirty—until she could do no more. The telephone in the kitchenette trilled. Breathing hard, she walked across the room to answer it.
She recognized Udranka’s throaty voice. “
Devushka,
hey girl,” said Dominika panting into the phone.
Sign.
“
Devchonka,
you slut,” said Udranka in Russian.
Countersign,
all normal.“Why are you panting into the phone? What are you doing? It’s nine in the morning.”
Mention of time: I need to see you, one hour.
Sparrow tradecraft—trashy and quick and foolproof. A quick shower and six stops on the U-Bahn to Hardegasse, then up four flights on the
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