CIA safe house
Tverskoy District
Moscow, Russia
1021 local time
Clark paced the living room, feeling very much like a caged tiger in a zoo.
The days of sunglasses, ball caps, and hiding behind newspapers were long, long gone. Conducting surveillance operations in Moscow had always been dangerous, but these days it was practically a suicide mission. If the Russians had his face—or Ding’s or Midas’s or Adara’s—in their database, they were at risk of being identified by one of the thousand CCTV cameras in the city. If the SVR had flagged any of them as a person of interest, then the Spetssviaz—the successor to FAPSI and the Russian equivalent of the NSA—would use its facial recognition surveillance system to scour the feeds and find them. And if that happened, the interrogation and torture that would follow their capture would be a fate worse than death.
“Hey, boss, why don’t you take a seat,” Ding said. “You’re making me nervous.”
Clark was a man of action, a problem solver, a doer . . . So sitting around and waiting wasn’t in his vocabulary.
“I can’t,” he said. “Doing nothing is driving me crazy.”
“I get it, but this ain’t Severodvinsk,” Ding said, “This is Moscow. And our marks aren’t some mid-level weapons engineer like Popov. The guys we need to surveil are sharks, not minnows. Boldyrev is the head of the Russian Navy. Rodionov is second-in-command of the GRU. Aralovich leads the FSB.”
“And Ilyin is the retired defense minister,” Midas said.
“Exactly my point. These men are the untouchables of the Russian upper echelon. They all have security details watching their private residences. They all work in the most secure buildings in Moscow. We wouldn’t get within a hundred yards of them without being made. And, boss, I’m worried about you getting made most of all. You met with VICAR twice in person. You were sitting across from him in Warsaw when the hit squad came. What are the odds you weren’t photographed?”
“I know, I know,” Clark grumbled. “But the President needs to understand what these sons of bitches are up to. How can he make tactical decisions if he doesn’t know who the enemy is and what their objectives are? He needs us to figure out what the hell is going on.”
“Okay, I hear you. So let’s work the problem,” Ding said, turning his attention from his open notebook computer to Clark. “Talk us through what’s in your head.”
Clark took a moment and gathered his thoughts, and then did just that.
“Popov said that Boldyrev personally paid a visit to the shipyard and ordered everyone out while the Status-6 torpedoes were loaded. Can you imagine the chief of naval operations showing up at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard to micromanage a weapons load? That would never happen.”
“Popov also said that Rodionov had ‘toured’ the facility and conducted interviews. Why would the number two guy at GRU drop by the Sevmash Shipyard in Severodvinsk for a tour and interviews?”
“I think the answer is obvious,” Adara said. “The GRU was conducting a security and loyalty survey in advance of Boldyrev’s visit and the Belgorod’s weapons load and secret underway.”
“It still doesn’t confirm a coup. Yermilov could have directed all of this. He’s known to be both paranoid and meticulous about security and compartmentalization,” Midas said, playing the devil’s advocate.
“Good point,” Ding said, and they were back to conjecture.
Clark closed his eyes and tried to replay the conversation with VICAR in his head. There was something the Russian double agent had said—a little detail—that Clark’s brain told him was important, but that he couldn’t quite recall. He’d always had a good memory for details—not eidetic, but formidable. Except, with each passing year, he was finding it harder and harder to retrieve memories on demand. It would come to him eventually, but he needed it now.
“What’s wrong?” Ding asked.
“Quiet, I’m trying to think,” Clark said, squeezing his eyes closed and coaxing his mind’s eye back to the table in that restaurant and VICAR’s final conversation with him.
“I suspect Colonel General Nikolai Ilyin may be in charge. He was observed at Glavpivtorg in Moscow with Admiral Rodionov.”
“Does the word ‘Glavpivtorg’ mean anything to you guys?” Clark asked, his eyes popping open. “Is it some secret GRU facility?”
“Say the word again?” Ding said.
“Glavpivtorg, I think. But it could have been Glavapitvorg . . . I can’t remember exactly.”
“Got it,” Ding said, fingers working the keyboard. “Glavpivtorg, Moscow—it’s a restaurant and bar located, get this, across from the old KGB headquarters . . . Known to be a place where KGB officers drank after work.”
“What’s the connection, boss?” Adara asked.
“It’s one of the last things VICAR said to me. He mentioned almost as an aside that Colonel General Ilyin was seen with Rodionov at Glavpivtorg.”
“Plotting their coup over beer and borscht,” Midas said with a chuckle.
“You laugh, but I have a feeling that might be closer to the truth than you know, Midas,” Clark said.
“I’m going to do a deep dive on the owner,” Ding said. “If these guys are having meetings there, it’s because they consider it a safe place. Hundred bucks says the owner is former KGB and goes way back with the cabal members.”
“I say we stake it out tonight,” Adara said. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Good idea. Let’s do it,” Clark said.
“Not you,” she said. “Remember, your face is on the watch list.”
“I’ll wear glasses and a hat,” Clark said.
“Won’t matter,” Ding said.
“Then I’ll put on a fake mustache . . .”
“Nope,” Adara said, enjoying the moment it seemed.
“What will it take for you guys to let me do my job?” he said.
Adara looked at Midas, who with a deadpan delivery said, “If you shave your head, get a face tattoo, knock out your two front teeth, and wear glasses, only then will you be safe.”
Clark sighed his resignation. “Fine, you win . . . I’ll stay here.”