Chapter Eight

 

 

Ottawa, Canada

December 1, 12:10 p.m.

 

They spent the first few minutes discussing their work in general, sticking to what was not publicly available information but not top secret either. Maggie talked about a series of policies she had initiated within the NCS, aiming at streamlining their operations and improving their information analysis and sharing capacities. McClain mentioned the internal restructuring of the CIS and negative impacts of the budget cuts and demands for greater transparency from the public. Maggie agreed, sharing her views that the public wants someone to do the dirty jobs, but is quite unhappy to know how dirty jobs are done and that the rights of the terrorists have not been respected.

The waiter brought their appetizers. The aroma of a combination of bocconcini cheese, olive oil, basil, and freshly baked bread soothed everyone’s mood. It was not until the waiter had collected their empty dishes and had brought in a second order of garlic bread that Maggie guided the conversation to the issue for which she had called them to this meeting.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the assassination of Russia’s Defense Minister,” she said and wiped her lips with her black napkin.

McClain nodded.

Maggie sipped her coffee. “Yes. It took everyone by surprise, since it came after a long period of calm, and it was such a well-planned and well-executed attack.”

She reached for a briefcase next to her chair and pulled out a few folders. She pushed to one side her small plate, which still held a slice of bread, and put the folders in front of her.

“The public has heard only half the truth.” She opened the first folder. “According to our sources, the Russians are not sharing most of their intelligence, which is to be expected.”

She looked up and her gaze was met by McClain’s suspicious eyes.

“We’re reluctant to exchange intelligence, as well, but as I said earlier, we’re working on fixing that,” she said quickly and flipped through the documents in the folder. “You have probably realized by now that this is a safe place to have such sensitive conversations. The owner is on our payroll, and we sweep the restaurant for bugs on a daily basis.”

“I had figured out that much,” McClain said, “but it’s good to have your affirmation. Who are your sources in Russia?”

Maggie said, “I will get to that in a moment. Let me tell you what the Russians are keeping to themselves. The assassin was not just a militant of a Chechen terrorist organization. He was a well-trained sniper, a part of the security team of the Defense Minister.”

Justin frowned. “You mean it was an inside job?”

Aaron nodded.

“Yes, and not only that, but the initial plan included a massive suicide attack in one of Moscow’s metro stations.”

Justin looked at the document in Maggie’s folder. It was a printout, with small letters and a black-and-white picture. He could not make out the words.

“How . . . you have a source within the FSB?” McClain asked.

His eyebrows had formed an arch, showing his surprise. He leaned forward, intent on not missing a word of the conversation.

“Had. We had a source close to the FSB.”

McClain’s curious eyes asked the question that came up in Justin’s mind.

Maggie sighed. “The FSB has been cleaning house, and our CIA station in Moscow is getting hit pretty hard. They detained one of our diplomats and accused him of trying to recruit FSB operatives. Then they exposed our station chief and gave his name to the media, something that did not happen even during the Cold War.”

Aaron shook his head. “It used to be that we kept their secrets and the Russians kept ours. Not anymore.”

“Yes, the FSB doesn’t play by the old rules. New team, new game, new rules,” said McClain.

“So you pulled your man out as soon as you could?”

“Woman,” Maggie corrected him. “We pulled out our female agent before her identity was compromised.”

“And your diplomat?” asked Justin.

“He was deported two days ago. We’re in the process of deporting one of their embassy secretaries, and we’ll leak the name of their chief of station in Washington, D.C. to the media. You know how it is.” Maggie shrugged.

Justin nodded. The war of spies had its own rules, some of which countries never broke. Diplomats suspected of espionage were deported, sometimes secretly, sometimes—when it was deemed useful—publicly, after they were paraded in the media and in the courts as enemies of the state. The Russians were flexing their muscles, conveying to the world the message that they were as strong, if not stronger, than before. If they could name and shame American spies, the ones belonging to the only superpower in the world, no one else was safe within their borders. The Chechen militants were just a small headache and not to be taken too seriously by anyone.

McClain gestured toward the folder. “So who exactly was the assassin?”

Maggie flipped the document over toward McClain and handed it to him. “His name was Vladimir Oborin. He worked for the Ministry of Defense for almost three years and was in the army for ten years before that. Quite clean, no misconducts or insubordinations.”

McClain studied the file, then pushed it toward Justin. “So what made him snap?”

Maggie shrugged. “We’re not sure. Chechen Islamists turned him, as proven by our documents. The Islamic Devotion Movement, a brutal Chechen terrorist group, bragged about his success on their jihadist websites, confirming that Oborin was one of their faithful members.”

McClain drew back his lips and shook his head. “Something doesn’t make sense. The FSB had no idea Oborin was a Chechen terrorist?”

Maggie pulled another file from her briefcase. She opened it and handed a two-page document to McClain. “Oborin and a team of FSB operatives were working to infiltrate different Chechen terrorist groups. Oborin had family connections to Chechnya and the wider area. The FSB thought it could take advantage of those connections.”

“But the Islamists ended up convincing Oborin to join their cause and to turn against his country,” Justin said.

“That’s a correct assessment,” Aaron said. He exchanged a quick glance with Maggie, then looked at McClain.

“All right,” McClain said. “Oborin kills the Russian minister. What’s this story of blowing up the metro?”

“Our source reports the metro suicide bombing was part of the original plan. FSB agents discovered an explosive cache in the same building where they found the assassin. They easily tied the explosives to Oborin and to the Chechen militants.”

McClain scratched his left temple. “I can see why Russians don’t want this intel to become public. It hurts them and shows them as weak. If they can’t rule their own house, how can they control the region and crush the terrorists?”

Maggie nodded. “Yes, and that’s the problem. Instead of working together against our common enemy—global terrorism—we’re bickering and playing spy games.”

McClain held Maggie’s cold eyes. “And that’s the favor you’re asking from the CIS: help you play nice with the Russians.”

Maggie frowned. “You make it sound like we need a babysitter. We don’t. The Russians are not sharing their intelligence, even though we have given them everything we have.”

Everything would be an exaggeration, Justin thought. You gave them what you thought was enough to make them reciprocate, but it didn’t happen, so now you’re turning to us.

McClain’s face was calm, but Justin knew his emotions were boiling just underneath the surface.

Maggie said, “After the Las Vegas bombing, which as you know was the works of Chechen rebels in retaliation for US Middle East policies and our support for Israel, we agreed to cooperate and share intelligence with our FSB counterparts. We keep our side of the deal, but the FSB has been very unreliable. The documents we receive from them are old, incomplete, and at times completely useless.”

Maggie rubbed her forehead. Before she could continue, someone knocked on their door. A moment later, the waiter opened it and pushed a cart with their orders. Their conversation came to a halt, as the clattering of dishes and the mouthwatering aroma of veal, lamb, and mushroom tortellini filled the room.

They took the first bites in silence, enjoyed the delicious food, seemed to forget about their earlier conversation, and simply commented on the supreme quality of their meal. The waiter reappeared a few moments later, to check whether they found everything to their liking. They did and he left.

Maggie finished chewing a small bite of her Caesar salad, then said, “I was saying how the FSB’s cooperation is quite disappointing. Add the political tension because of the conflicting positions of the US and Russia with regard to Syria and Iran, and some European issues, and you’ve got some cold, almost frozen relations.”

McClain put down his knife and fork. “I read somewhere there was a blame game going on for some time.”

Maggie flinched as if McClain’s words had struck her. She cocked her head to the left, thought about her answer for a moment, then said, “It is common for intelligence agencies to carefully analyze all details before determining the cause of the problems and suggesting solutions. Sometimes, they include telling allies and partners that they need to change some of their practices, as they are inefficient or plain stupid.” She paused for effect, letting the last word hang in the air. “Some people call this assigning blame; I call it the truth.”

McClain grinned. “Thanks for clarifying it, but I wasn’t saying it was NCS’s fault, just that the FSB and the NCS exchanged some harsh allegations.”

“Yes, and they just remained as such: unsustained allegations.”

A cold stare replaced McClain’s grin. He said, “What’s the favor?”

Maggie smiled. “Glad you asked.”

She pushed away her half-eaten salad, then opened one of the files, careful not to stain the documents on a couple of oil drops that had fallen on the blue tablecloth. “This is what we’ve collected over the last few days about a potential Chechen terrorist attack on US soil.”

“Where?” Justin asked, while McClain looked at the document Maggie had handed him.

“We don’t know. One of the terrorists died in a shootout with police before we could make him talk. Others we have detained don’t know very much.”

McClain asked, “What kind of attack?”

“We don’t know that either. We’ve followed movements of Chechen immigrants suspected of ties to terrorist groups back in their homeland and to Al-Qaeda, but we don’t have all the details. The FSB has been following Chechen terrorists groups for decades.”

Justin looked at McClain, who caught his gaze and passed the file over to him. It was a briefing note, followed by a series of transcripts and a few photographs. He did not recognize any of the faces.

“We want you to take this intelligence to the FSB. In exchange, we want everything they have on this terrorist group and their activities in Russia and abroad. Here are the rest of the files in an electronic form.”

She placed a small USB memory stick on the middle of the table, halfway between her and McClain.

McClain leaned back in his chair. “That’s quite a tall order, Ms. Moore,” he said. He shook his head and ignored the frown that began to form on Maggie’s face. “You’re requesting we vouch for this intel which we haven’t gathered, analyzed, or even reviewed. And in return you want not a part of, but everything the FSB has gathered using their resources, their time, and their money, and shouldering the risk. You’re asking for a small miracle.”

Maggie’s frown stayed on her face for another moment and then she tried to smile. It did not work as well as she had expected it. Her lips drew back and she looked like she had just bitten into a lemon. She took a sip from her glass, then wiped her lips.

“Mr. McClain, I think you’re underestimating the abilities of your agents.” She gestured toward Justin with her left hand. “Mr. Hall is a superb agent, with many connections in the official and unofficial structure of Russia’s power hierarchy. He’s smart and fearless.”

Justin smiled and tried to put a modest look on his face. He knew Maggie was playing to their sense of pride and self-satisfaction.

Maggie continued, “Take your time to review the files. You will come to the conclusion that they are accurate and as complete as yesterday’s morning intelligence briefings. We’re giving you everything, I underline, everything we have gathered so far, and will continue to update you on any new reports as they arrive.”

McClain reached for his glass, but changed his mind and placed his hand on the table, next to the file.

“And Justin will not be working alone. Our operative, the agent working close to the FSB, will be a valuable help. She has many key contacts, which will prove to be priceless. If we pool our resources, this could be a successful operation for both our agencies.”

McClain’s fingers drummed the edge of the table in a nervous rhythm. “Is it safe for her to return to Moscow?”

McClain stressed the word “safe” a bit more than necessary. Justin realized he was subtly asking whether it was safe for Justin to enter Russia.

Maggie shrugged. “As safe as it will ever be. It’s Moscow. It’s Russia.”

McClain nodded. He glanced at his watch, then took a bite of his lamb chop.

Justin was sure he was not chewing just the meat, but Maggie’s proposal as well. She was not talking about a simple intelligence exchange, since the FSB had not been very cooperative in the past. If Justin gave the FSB all the information the NCS had gathered on Chechen terrorist activities in the US and the FSB did not reciprocate, then Justin would be left with only one choice: steal the intelligence.

After what seemed like a very long pause, McClain said, “I can’t give you a definite reply at this moment. Infiltrating the FSB and stealing their secrets is a matter that deserves a deeper discussion within my Service and a lot of careful planning.”

Maggie tried to smile, and this time her lips produced the right facial expression. “I understand your position. Just let me know as soon as you make a decision. I have the authorization in place for our operative, and we’re ready.”

McClain reached for the USB memory stick. He weighed it in his hand for a moment—as if deciding whether he should take it or not—then picked it up and passed it to Justin. “I’ll give you a call by tomorrow morning,” he said to Maggie. “Either way, you’ll have your answer.”