Buckley. May have done something with the Taliban after the Russians invaded Afghanistan. His whole era was the Cold War, Vietnam, up to the Soviet collapse in ’ninety-one. He was right in the middle of all of it. The link to some Agent 19 in a Venona cable from 1943 sure doesn’t jump out.”
“Not yet,” said Mandy, “but the name Fitin rings a bell. Wasn’t he the GRU colonel who specialized in making deep legends for his people?”
“Viktor Fitin was an espionage genius. They still teach him at Peary. Say the name Viktor to anybody in the trade, they’ll know who you’re talking about. Look, about the Glass Cutters, they’re NSA, aren’t they?”
“Technically,” said Mandy, “but they’re not working at Crypto City. The AD of RA at Fort Meade runs them. You remember him?”
“The ex-Marine with the burn scars on his face?”
“Yes, Hank Brocius. He hates the CIA, thinks we’re all a gaggle of treasonous pencil necks. He didn’t like the Glass Cutters being too near Langley, so he broke them up and scattered them all over. They stay in touch through shielded servers at Fort Meade. But whatever is going on, the Glass Cutters must be making somebody nervous.”
“How do we know this?”
Mandy gave him her lifted-eyebrow-and-curled-lip look.
“Because, as I may have mentioned, somebody just killed one?”
“Yes. I meant, how do we know that all this is connected ? You said they were calling it a random robbery that went bad. Where did this go bad?”
“Here. Right here in London. At her flat on Bywater Street in Chelsea.”
“Jesus, who’s got it, the Bobbies? The FBI? The Yard? MI5?”
“No. She was NSA, so Brocius wants his own people on it. Some NSA field agent named Audrey Fulton. The FBI raised hell, but the DNI made it happen. They’re telling the Yard and MI5 that Fulton’s crew is FBI, but actually they’re part of Crypto City’s security detail. London Station is to provide logistical resources only and otherwise to stay the hell away. As I said, Brocius hates the CIA.”
“Then how are we involved? I know, duty, honor, country, and all that. But there’s something else going on, isn’t there? Something personal .”
Mandy looked at Dalton for a while as if she were about to do something difficult that she knew she was going to have to do eventually and now the time had come. Her mood shifted abruptly, all the light leaving her face: “Yes, there is something . . . personal.”
Dalton sat back, took in some Guinness.
“Okay. I thought there was more going on than you were saying.”
Mandy considered Dalton for a time as if taking a reading on his mental state. Then she reached into her purse, took out a small digital camera. She did not hand it to him immediately but held it in her bone-china hands, looking down at it.
Her expression, normally mobile, reactive, with a quiver around her lips that very easily became a teasing smile, turned still, even grave. Watching a somber mood come over a person as innately sunny as Mandy Pownall was like watching a vandal spray-paint a stained-glass window.
Dalton braced himself for what was coming.
“I’m going to show you a file of digital shots, Micah. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I hadn’t seen them myself. But I think you need to see them. They’re from the crime scene . . . Micah, I really do hate to do this to you.”
Mandy was deadly serious.
He felt his breathing alter, tried to get his adrenaline back down.
She was silent for a time, gathering herself.
“Well, let’s get this behind us, then. The woman in the pictures had a name. Her name was Mildred Durant. They called her Millie. She was one of the original women who worked on the Venona Project under Colonel Carter. She had a long, full life, served her country well. She had children and grandchildren, and lots of people who loved her. You understand me?”
Dalton understood that only too well. Working as a Cleaner was
“Not yet,” said Mandy, “but the name Fitin rings a bell. Wasn’t he the GRU colonel who specialized in making deep legends for his people?”
“Viktor Fitin was an espionage genius. They still teach him at Peary. Say the name Viktor to anybody in the trade, they’ll know who you’re talking about. Look, about the Glass Cutters, they’re NSA, aren’t they?”
“Technically,” said Mandy, “but they’re not working at Crypto City. The AD of RA at Fort Meade runs them. You remember him?”
“The ex-Marine with the burn scars on his face?”
“Yes, Hank Brocius. He hates the CIA, thinks we’re all a gaggle of treasonous pencil necks. He didn’t like the Glass Cutters being too near Langley, so he broke them up and scattered them all over. They stay in touch through shielded servers at Fort Meade. But whatever is going on, the Glass Cutters must be making somebody nervous.”
“How do we know this?”
Mandy gave him her lifted-eyebrow-and-curled-lip look.
“Because, as I may have mentioned, somebody just killed one?”
“Yes. I meant, how do we know that all this is connected ? You said they were calling it a random robbery that went bad. Where did this go bad?”
“Here. Right here in London. At her flat on Bywater Street in Chelsea.”
“Jesus, who’s got it, the Bobbies? The FBI? The Yard? MI5?”
“No. She was NSA, so Brocius wants his own people on it. Some NSA field agent named Audrey Fulton. The FBI raised hell, but the DNI made it happen. They’re telling the Yard and MI5 that Fulton’s crew is FBI, but actually they’re part of Crypto City’s security detail. London Station is to provide logistical resources only and otherwise to stay the hell away. As I said, Brocius hates the CIA.”
“Then how are we involved? I know, duty, honor, country, and all that. But there’s something else going on, isn’t there? Something personal .”
Mandy looked at Dalton for a while as if she were about to do something difficult that she knew she was going to have to do eventually and now the time had come. Her mood shifted abruptly, all the light leaving her face: “Yes, there is something . . . personal.”
Dalton sat back, took in some Guinness.
“Okay. I thought there was more going on than you were saying.”
Mandy considered Dalton for a time as if taking a reading on his mental state. Then she reached into her purse, took out a small digital camera. She did not hand it to him immediately but held it in her bone-china hands, looking down at it.
Her expression, normally mobile, reactive, with a quiver around her lips that very easily became a teasing smile, turned still, even grave. Watching a somber mood come over a person as innately sunny as Mandy Pownall was like watching a vandal spray-paint a stained-glass window.
Dalton braced himself for what was coming.
“I’m going to show you a file of digital shots, Micah. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I hadn’t seen them myself. But I think you need to see them. They’re from the crime scene . . . Micah, I really do hate to do this to you.”
Mandy was deadly serious.
He felt his breathing alter, tried to get his adrenaline back down.
She was silent for a time, gathering herself.
“Well, let’s get this behind us, then. The woman in the pictures had a name. Her name was Mildred Durant. They called her Millie. She was one of the original women who worked on the Venona Project under Colonel Carter. She had a long, full life, served her country well. She had children and grandchildren, and lots of people who loved her. You understand me?”
Dalton understood that only too well. Working as a Cleaner was
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