Yuri Kuznetsov opened the sliding-glass doors and inhaled deeply. Beyond the hotel’s wide white beach lay the glittering green Mediterranean, the late-afternoon sun bouncing off blue. Salt air blew in through the open door, ruffling the drapes of the fourth-floor room. He exhaled happily and looked at his phone. No messages. The meet must still be on.
He’d always had a thing for Beirut. Where Damascus had shit hotels and bland food, Beirut had it all. This, the five-star Riviera, had long been his favorite. It sat on Général de Gaulle Avenue with an Olympic-sized pool and a midcentury modern vibe that echoed the KGB Cold War glory. Some of the old-timers could tell some pretty good stories about this place.
Having survived multiple Lebanese civil wars, Beirut was somewhat at peace again—superficially anyway. Gone were the days of rockets and rubble. The fighting now was below the radar, among Mossad, Hezbollah, and Quds killers.
Still, Europeans with fat wallets and long memories were loath to consider it the jewel it had been. That was A-OK with Yuri. Since business was slow, it meant he could stay here in this oceanfront suite for under three hundred, just within SVR per diem. A shame he couldn’t stay longer.
The two-bedroom suite’s phone rang. He picked it up.
“Room service,” said a male voice in French.
Yuri’s cover when he traveled to Beirut was as a Russian immigrant turned Parisian. “Très bien. J’ai hâte de la soupe.” His French had a Slavic accent but worked.
“Oui. La soupe est très bonne aujourd’hui.”
With that predetermined authentication out of the way, he hung up and waited. He stood by the window, looking at the Med, smoothing his suit jacket. It was new. He’d found the tailor that the diplomats favored.
A minute later, there was a knock at his door.
A dark, clean-shaven man in his mid-forties walked into the suite’s marble foyer. He wore a well-tailored gray Armani, a white shirt, a navy tie. There were strands of gray near his temples. He had a newspaper conspicuously folded under his arm: a pink broadsheet, the Financial Times, international edition. Hard to miss.
They greeted each another in French, but didn’t shake hands. Neither man smiled.
“Nice view,” the newcomer said, looking out to sea, advancing toward the living room.
“Oui. A pity to have to work today, isn’t it?” Yuri answered in French.
The man dropped the Times on the table. They sat on opposing beige sofas, perpendicular to the view, the paper between them. “What’s it been . . . five years?”
“At least,” replied the Russian. “Nice to be meeting under more charming circumstances.” He swept his arm.
The man, whom Yuri knew only as Kasem, nodded, but didn’t bother to look around. They’d met in the smoking ruins of the Syrian–Kurdish city of Al Hasakah in ’15. Kasem had been running kill squads against Kurdish rebels. Educated in the UK, he’d been one of the few Quds men who seemed capable of negotiating with foreigners. SVR had him marked as an up-and-comer. A crucial contact within the opaque Iranian hierarchy.
At best the relationship had been a marriage of convenience. Both were in the Syrian fight to prop up Assad, but for different strategic reasons. Iran wanted to build an arc of Shia dominance across the region; Russia wanted access to hydrocarbons.
“Anything good in the news?” Yuri asked, acknowledging the paper. It was a conspicuous prop, so why not?
Kasem unfolded the thin pink pages, spreading them on the glass coffee table. The sea air lifted a corner. “You’ve seen this?”
Yuri didn’t bother to look. He gave a dismissive shrug.
Kasem said, “I don’t usually like the business papers, but the headline caught my eye, so I picked it up in the lobby. I forget, Yuri—do you read English?”
Now Yuri looked. His English was poor, but good enough to make out most of a news story. There was a subhead about a pipeline deal between Iran and China, part of China’s Belt and Road Initiative.
Belt and Road, aka the New Silk Road, was a growing source of inflammation for the Kremlin. If successful, it would create a worldwide artery for oil and trading flows that were controlled by Chinese security and infrastructure, free from Western—and Russian—interference. A substantial portion of the overland route cut straight across Northern Iran, pointedly bypassing Russia.
Abutting the article was a large photo of Iran’s prime minister in Beijing, shaking hands with Chinese president Xi.
“I saw it,” Yuri said. “Très intelligent.”
The Iranian closed the paper. He stared at Yuri, a dark Persian gaze.
Yuri let the Iranian have his moment. He said, “A good thing you brought this up. It’s somewhat related to what I wanted to see you about: the other pipeline deal you have. The one between our two countries.” He waggled his index finger back and forth. “Bushehr.”
“Amazing how all these things seem to come together at once,” said Kasem with a supercilious smile.
Yuri understood the Quds man’s gloat. Iran had a long history of playing world powers off one another. It went all the way back to their manipulation of the Brits by flirting with the Soviets toward the end of the big war.
“I’d hoped to speak with you about it,” Yuri said. “An off-the-record chat . . . less conspicuous than a presidential delegation for the consumption of the papers.”
“Right,” said Kasem, sitting back, crossing his legs. “Like the old days. What is it about our deal that has your attention? A great thing to bring efficient nuclear power to the far reaches of the Islamic Republic.”
“Yes, and a wonderful thing for Russia to refine and make use of Iranian oil.” Yuri grinned. He grabbed a bottle of water off an end table. “If you weren’t a man of faith, I’d suggest a real drink to celebrate.”
Kasem remained still. A seagull screeched just off the balcony. He said, “You didn’t come to Beirut and ask me here to celebrate, Yuri, now, did you? You that lonely these days?”
“No. But here we are. Two old friends. Colleagues. Just talking.”
The seagull chirped again, the sound wheeling away as the bird lost altitude. Yuri continued smiling, until gulping down a third of the water bottle.
“Well, old friend,” the Iranian said, leaning forward, “my position here in Beirut remains busy. Especially now. You must have a point in here somewhere? Perhaps I could help you find it?”
The Russian had decided to pull this string, the only one he had, after reading the latest update from Yasenevo on the American operation the night before. Something was up, something big. The intel seemed to indicate the Americans had a mole in the Iranian nuke program. If Yuri could get to it first, he’d be able to round up the entire operation, gain Russian leverage over Iran, and emerge as a superstar within the SVR ranks. Given the enormously profitable nature of the Iran–Russia deal, he would be a real hero.
But he hardly knew anything, really. Thus, the meeting. If he could spin up Iranian counterintelligence as a bird dog, he thought he might be the one to find the mole by following CIA’s reaction. He’d be able to do so through that wonderful new SVR Directorate S source, the illegal called Zoloto.
He said, “Let me put it this way, Kasem. Since we’ve worked together before, I thought I might do you the favor of a certain line of thinking from our side, one that you might not have anticipated.”
Kasem stared hard at him, eyebrows pressed.
Yuri went on. “You see, old friend, there are those on our side who might think about reconsidering our deal if we thought there were unnecessary risks.”
“Are there?” said the Quds man, eyes unblinking. “And what risks might there be?”
“One hears things.”
“What things?”
Subtle, Yuri thought. “Do you know much about nuclear reactors, Kasem—like the one in Bushehr?”
The Iranian said nothing.
“Maybe you don’t,” Yuri continued. “Let me tell you about them. You see, reactors are dangerous. They leak. If mismanaged, they can leak many things, toxic things, unpredictably volatile things. We would know. We learned a lot from Chernobyl.”
The Iranian hadn’t moved.
Yuri paused, downing the rest of the water. “And the funny thing about radiation . . . when it leaks, it can be detected all over the world. Everywhere. What a mess. Because of our own experience, we’d all be a little more comfortable if we knew Iranian reactors weren’t at risk of such exposure. Leaks, I mean. Leaking is very bad.”
He tossed the empty plastic bottle toward a trash can. It missed, bounced, and rolled on the carpet.
The Iranian watched him carefully. He finally shifted in his seat, his dark eyes steady. “Leaks, you say. And you think Iranian reactors are prone to them? Even ones built by Russians?”
Yuri shrugged. “This is what I’m hearing. Built by Russians, managed by Iranians. Leaky management.”
“Yuri. Enough. Just tell me what exactly you’re hearing.”
“Kasem, old friend. You know I would if I could. But we have to protect our sources in this business. You of all people would understand that.”
The Quds man shifted farther sideways.
Yuri could see that he was freeing his arm for a clear reach at the pistol under his jacket, just in case he wanted the Russian to be much more specific.
“Oh, I shouldn’t have been so rude,” the SVR man said abruptly, angling his arm toward one of the doors over his shoulder. “This is Putov.”
Putov, Yuri’s vulpine-faced deputy, stepped from the bedroom. His suit jacket was open, revealing the ballistic nylon strap of a shoulder holster. The SVR deputy hitched his belt to show that his hands were free. He cracked his knuckles to show they were restless.
Kasem looked at Putov and back to Yuri, who sat there grinning. The Iranian leaned back against the quilted white upholstery, saying, “I forgot, Yuri. Like most Russians, you’re not comfortable traveling without friends.”
The Iranian kept his hand poised on his lap. It would have been a fast maneuver to withdraw his pistol, one that he’d probably practiced a thousand times. But it would still have been two against one. He added, “Perhaps I have friends in the hotel as well.”
“Oh, good,” said Yuri. “Because I definitely do. They’re downstairs now. You must have passed them in the lobby. Maybe we could rent the penthouse and have a party, no? The view up there is even better than this. . . . Celebrate our deal.”
Kasem had had enough. He stood up, smoothed his trousers. “I wouldn’t see the point of that. As you said, as a man of faith, I rarely celebrate the same way you do.”
“A pity,” said Yuri, also standing. “But like I said, you should maybe check on some of those leaks. That reactor of yours is pretty old. Even though it’s of good, solid Russian construction.”
Kasem nodded. “You may keep the newspaper.” He began walking to the door. “You may recall that the original Silk Road went straight through Tehran,” he said. “Founded during the Persian Achaemenid Empire, if memory serves. Cyrus the Great, king of kings.”
Yuri nodded. “So enlightening chatting with an Oxford man. You always learn so much.”
“Oh, but I don’t bother to try to read the Queen’s English anymore. Don’t think that language matters around here as much as it used to. Perhaps Mandarin?” He smiled and turned his back on Yuri, walking through the door with a wave.
“Au revoir, Kasem,” Yuri called after him.
“What the fuck do you mean, he said no?” Jeff Dorsey asked.
Meredith, Sheffield, and Rance had been waiting for the director of the National Clandestine Service in the SCIF. It was three hours after sunset.
Meredith had waited all day, having returned on the red-eye the night before. She was more than ready to get out of here and slide into a hot bath. The meeting had been postponed three times, as Dorsey had apparently run from one crisis to the next.
The deputy director stood over the table, leaning on his fists, knuckles white.
“It’s not a definite no,” offered Meredith. “He may come around yet. I’m just giving you his first reaction.”
“I knew we shouldn’t’ve bothered,” said Rance. “Dale’s a risk one way or the other. I, for one, still question his loyalty.”
She bit her tongue, fighting the urge to say something stupid. Having seen her ex twenty-four sleep-deprived hours ago, she felt dangerously combative.
“I don’t know,” said Dorsey. He began to pace. “Dale was a hell of a handler. One of our best field operators too. Remember Basra? Skills like that rarely come in one package.”
“But then, there was Mosul,” Sheffield reminded everyone.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dorsey muttered. “Mosul . . .” He waved dismissively. “Still . . . I’d really hoped this would come together. It’d solve a lot of problems for us. Whether John’s up to it or not—he’s got the chops.”
“Had,” said Rance.
Dorsey’s eyes lowered like a pair of howitzer barrels. “Ed. We didn’t pick Dale for this op. Cerberus did.”
Rance looked at the table.
Sheffield, the gray-haired attorney, asked, “Meredith, did John give any hints as to why the asset trusts only him? Or anything on why he’s gone dark? He must have some insights.”
“John said he thinks Cerberus isn’t a particular fan of the US, but rather someone that’s just against the mullahs running the country. He always figured Cerberus wanted to keep them from getting the bomb and that’s why he was spying for us. John also said there’s a daughter, if that matters; otherwise he’s in the dark.”
“You believe him?” asked Rance.
She felt her pulse surge. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“Come on, Meredith,” Rance said, inspecting his cuticles. “John has an ax to grind—we all know it. Don’t you think he might be holding back? He’s probably enjoying this.”
“Holding back for what?” she replied. “Spite? Really? Frankly, I thought John’s life looked pretty damned good out there. I don’t think he wants to come back in because he’s basically happy. Recovered. Maybe we should all take a lesson.”
Her words hung in the SCIF’s cloistered atmosphere.
Dorsey paced. After a few steps, he said, “Well, we are where we are.” A quick sigh. “What do we do about it?”
“Give me a little time,” Meredith said. “Let me work him. Just a few days.”
“That’s not something I have right now. The director’s asking for insights into this Iran–China deal, the whole Belt-Road nightmare. He wants an analysis in tomorrow’s PDB,” he said, referring to the President’s Daily Brief.
Meredith nodded. Rance seemed content to stare at his fingernails.
The deputy director quit pacing and stared up at the ceiling. “Fuck,” he said to no one in particular. “Suddenly the Iranians have a bakery full of yellowcake, right when we’ve pasted Soleimani to the asphalt. Be great if we could provide some reassurance that we aren’t going to wake up to a mushroom cloud over Manhattan next week.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Meredith.
“And of course,” he continued, “the carefully cultivated asset we have that could do just that will talk only to an officer that we cashiered five years ago and probably justifiably hates our guts. The director is going to love this shit.”
Rance looked at the floor, crossed his legs, played with a loafer tassel.
Meredith ventured, “I’m asking for only a day, maybe two. John’s an honorable man, a patriot. My money’s on him coming around.”
Dorsey’s assistant knocked. He held up a halting hand, freezing her at the cracked door. She turned and left, shutting the door behind her. He put a pen in his mouth, chewed, removed it. A flinty eye settled on Meredith.
“I need it to work,” he said.
Rance sniffed.
“You have another idea, Ed?” Dorsey turned toward him, pointing with the Bic. “ ’Cause I’d sure love to hear it.”
“I do, sir. I think we just tell Cerberus that John isn’t an option. We tell him he’s dead, out of the service, completely insane. Whatever. He obviously doesn’t know how to find John himself. We’ll just get someone else to handle him.”
Dorsey shook his head. “We don’t know what Cerberus knows. We’d risk him quitting on us altogether and never reaching back out.”
“That’s putting a lot of trust in Dale, sir.”
“No,” Meredith said, “it’s putting a lot of trust in me. Obviously, I know John. He’s going to come around on this.”
Neither man answered. She felt her pique rising.
“Maybe we lean on John,” said Rance, looking up at his boss. “Give him a little push.”
“Meaning what?” asked Dorsey.
“Meaning, why don’t we tell him that if he doesn’t do it, he’ll be violating an oath, breaking the law, something along those lines? This would be a lot better than prison. Surely we have some leverage.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Meredith, her voice rising. “Suspend him all over again? Take away his passport and pension? Check and check. You try to throw him in prison, Ed, and you will be reading all about it on the front page of the Washington Post. I’ll make sure of that.”
Rance crossed his arms. He looked at Sheffield, who shrugged, adding, “I don’t see what else can be done, Ed. Legally speaking.”
“Right,” Dorsey said. “No one is suggesting anything that’s not legal or improper or overly harsh. Let me be clear about that.”
Another sigh. The Bic went into a waste bin. “This is no longer a debate. I need him back on board. Meredith, you figure it the fuck out. Ed, David, make sure we’re clearing a refresher course for John at the Farm in case things get kinetic. If we have to do something about Cerberus in-country, John needs to be ready. Was he fit, Meredith? You think he’d be capable of operating like he used to?”
“He’s still got Farsi, sir, a little rusty maybe. I’d suggest having him go through a weapons refresher and an update on comms tech. But yes, he looked very fit, said he’d been running mountain trails or something.”
Dorsey stood silently, his hands in his pockets. He looked at the carpet and then back toward the rest of them. “All right. Two days,” he said, pointing at her.
Nods all around.
A few minutes later, Meredith walked a half step behind Rance over the long expanse of the seventh floor to the cluster of the Counterproliferation cubicles. She’d fully expected to be led into his office for a smackdown. She kept herself in a state of coiled tension, waiting for the first punch.
But her boss was distracted, busily carrying on some kind of texting session as they walked. His face was flushed. Something from the wife, she supposed. Rance’s wife had a reputation as the controlling type— probably why Rance had hit on Meredith all those times. She secretly hoped now that his personal life was a living hell.
When they finally reached Rance’s threshold, he announced to his secretary that he’d be leaving, heading to the gym, not to be disturbed for the rest of the evening. Hustling to the elevator, he said something to Meredith over his shoulder about making sure to get Dale on their side, as though it had been his idea all along.
But he’d said it almost as an afterthought, his thumbs working feverishly over his phone. The usual condescension was muted.
Odd, Meredith thought, watching the elevator doors close in front of him.