The Backup Asset (27 page)

And then, silently, the white dome opened and the laser cannon became exposed, coming into firing position, as a drone was launched from the bow deck. The drone flew out to sea, then turned and approached the USS
Fletcher
from the northwest, coming in fast, barely visible against the clear sky. The cannon discharged a quiet laser ray into it, turning it instantly into a ball of fire, under hundreds of cameras rolling and snapping images of the best weapon yet.

A roar of applause covered the choir and the constant roar of helicopter rotors coming from above.

“Anyone care for a cup of coffee?” Alex asked.

There was almost no activity on the quiet little street, with most of the neighborhood folks out to school, work, or about their business. They approached Smolin’s address and slowed to a stop under the pine tree that cast a thick shadow over the house.

The house had an elevated first level. Five steps led to a small front porch that expanded across the entire front. An Appalachian rocking chair and a dying potted plant were the only objects on that porch. A hedge grew five feet tall and was thick, well-maintained, and neatly trimmed. It surrounded the house and stopped at the edge of the narrow path that led to the steps, then turned to follow it all the way to the porch. That hedge provided some privacy.

They checked the neighborhood, looking down the street, in the rearview mirror, scrutinizing the windows of the neighboring houses, then they parked a few houses down the street. They’d driven in Alex’s rental, less noticeable than Jeremy’s Dodge Charger. Even that decision had been a cause for a bitter argument.

“Let’s go,” Jeremy said, a little nervous.

“Thanks for doing this,” Alex said, and hopped out of the car.

“Yeah . . .” Jeremy replied with his usual tone and one-word answer that could mean anything. “It’s one thing to execute a warrant and another to sneak in like this. It’s not like we don’t have a warrant.”

“We still don’t know enough about this man, and something tells me he’s not going to be extra forthcoming in an interrogation. With his rank in the SVR, he’s probably trained to resist more torture than we’re even willing to put him through.” She sighed, watching Jeremy open the door carefully using a lock-picking toolkit, then hooking up a code-breaking device to the alarm system. “Maybe . . . maybe we can learn more about his network, his people back home.”
And about V
, she completed her phrase in her mind, but decided not to share it.

A minute later, the alarm system beeped and the LED turned green.

They snuck in and closed the door behind them.

“I’ll take the kitchen,” she offered.

She went ahead to search the kitchen and little there caught her attention. It was clean, neatly organized, taken care of. The windows had white sheers, and the cupboards had been refaced recently.

She opened the dishwasher; empty. She checked under the sink and pulled out the trashcan. It was lined with a new white plastic liner, but it smelled a little of burned paper. She lifted the liner and saw the burn marks on the trashcan’s metallic surface. She put everything back how she found it and moved to the cupboards.

Nothing was out of the ordinary; pots, pans, plates, cups, all boringly normal, except one place, the two shelves above the fridge. In there she saw a small stack of Petri dishes, seven in total.
Huh . . . that was strange.
There wasn’t a single explanation she could think of to justify those Petri dishes.

She opened the fridge next, and saw an assortment of deli meats, cheese, and vodka. A few sandwiches already packed in tinfoil took half the middle shelf, next to an olive jar and a small pot of borscht. She opened one sandwich: ham and cheese. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.

She closed the fridge just when the radio crackled to life.

“One, this is two, come in.”

She picked up her radio. “Go for one.”

“One, you have traffic inbound. Will have eyes on you in two minutes.”

She groaned and cussed under her breath. “Copy that.”

Jeremy came downstairs right after he heard the radioed message.

“Found anything?” she asked.

“Nothing much, just a crisscross paper shredder. You?”

“Petri dishes. And someone really cares about this guy, they’re packing lunch for him. Let’s go.”

“One, traffic has eyes on front door,” the radio crackled again.

“Copy,” Jeremy replied.

She had already opened the door, looking carefully to spot any movement. She saw Smolin coming down the street.

“Fuck,” she muttered, then grabbed Jeremy’s sleeve. “Arm the alarm and keep your head down. The hedge will cover us.”

Jeremy pulled the door gently behind him as he exited the house, while Alex crouched on the porch. He locked the door just when Smolin’s hat started to be visible in the distance, above the hedge line.

Without saying a word, she pushed Jeremy hard toward the hedge on the opposite side, and he went through it with a thump, landing behind it. She had nowhere to go, it was too late; Smolin was looking straight at her, as she sat crouched in an unnatural position on his front porch.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his Russian accent thick and unmistakable.

“Yes, please,” she whimpered. “I twisted my ankle right there, in that pothole,” she said, pointing at a small indentation in the asphalt. “My cell’s battery is gone; can you please help me call a cab to take me home?”

She extended her leg as to show him, but Smolin frowned, unconvinced.

Barely audible, she discerned the faint beep of the alarm system arming itself. She almost sighed with relief.

“If it’s too much trouble, I’ll go away,” she said, feigning an attempt to stand up.

“Wait here,” Smolin said, then tried the handle on his door. Alex held her breath for a second, feeling the sweat break at the roots of her hair, but the door was locked. Smolin entered the house, disarmed the alarm, then brought outside a cordless phone.

Anatoly Karp paced the room slowly, carrying himself tall and proud, with his hands clasped behind his back, measuring up his audience. The improvised training room was packed to the brim with people of all ages, taking every available seat, some standing.

What a spoiled bunch they were, all of them! Every one of these men and women had left their country behind and decided it wasn’t good enough, because they wanted a bigger car or more money. How disgusting! Like whores they were, all of them, selling themselves to whoever had the deepest pockets.

But even whores served a purpose; so could these people. After all, they owed their abandoned country a debt of service and of loyalty, words most of these fat pigs didn’t even know the meaning of.

His mouth filled with phlegm mixed with bile, coming up his throat, stimulated by the wave of disgust he was feeling. He turned his head slightly toward the wall and sent out a spitball that landed a few feet away.

He felt better after sending that projectile, cleaner. Karp was an unusual, memorable man, not blond or sandy-haired like most of his compatriots. His hair was raven black, and his eyes matched a shiny, almost bluish shade of color. His square jaw and strong features showed character and determination, and the premature lines on his face were a testimony to the sacrifices he had made in the service of his country.

“You’re here today,” Karp finally spoke, “because your country needs you. Russia needs you.”

The hundred or so attendees started murmuring, turning to one another to exchange whispered comments.

“I do not care,” Karp continued undisturbed, raising his voice slightly, “that you are now American citizens. I do not care that you have renounced your loyalty to Russia when you swore your allegiance to America. You have taken an oath of lifelong loyalty to this institution, the SVR, and that’s the only one that matters. Your debt of honor to your motherland hasn’t been paid and will be owed until the day you draw your last breath. All of you,” he continued dramatically, making an all-encompassing gesture with his hand.

The murmurs in the audience stopped abruptly, and the silence became deafening.

“You are integrated in the American society. You have American-born children. You have jobs, nice cars, and expensive houses. And now you have a mission. It is
not
optional.”

He let the silence dwell over the crowd for another minute or so, while he studied them. They had come in walking proud and feeling superior, thinking they had it all if their wallets held blue passports and gold credit cards. Now they were showing some respect, like they were supposed to in the presence of an SVR officer.

“You, all of you here, will be the first line of offense and support in our new intelligence network. You are now a network of asset-recruiting agents, of case officers.”

The murmurs rose, but Karp interrupted again.

“I don’t care if you came to visit Russia to see family or go to Sochi. You will spend your vacation in training, and at the end of these two weeks, you will be reminded how to be proficient case officers, ready to recruit assets and work them in your city of residence.”

The room was silent again, deathly silent.

“To those of you who are now thinking of running to the American Embassy, or boarding the first international flight out of Moscow, I have one thing to say: you have families. We know where they are, who they are, here or in America. You know how the game is played. Don’t even think about it.”

Karp paused his speech, taking his time to make eye contact with several of the people in the room. A woman on the third row sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve, then averted her eyes.

“You have only one choice,” he continued, satisfied with what he was seeing. “Serve your country, and serve it well.”

The silence continued, his audience watching his every move.

“Good. Now that we understand one another, let’s proceed.” He paced the room some more. “We’ll use technology to home in on areas of interest and conduct our recruiting efforts in a focused manner, going after the valuable intel we need. You’ll have cyber support to help you identify weaknesses in our enemy, and the most valuable assets in the field.”

Karp resumed his pacing, keeping his fingers interlocked behind his back and continued.

“Case officers are expected to be able to take over new cells with very little notice, and they will be the only ones in contact with Moscow. Lead agents will work the field as instructed, recruit, identify targets, extract the intel, and prepare the transport. You will identify and recruit your assets, motivate and encourage them, drive them, keep them on a short leash.”

He paused again, letting them process all the information. “You are here because you have proven yourselves in the years before your departure. Now Mother Russia is willing to forgive your betrayal. You are here because Russia needs you, and because you are tomorrow’s heroes, our country’s salvation.”

Without any transition, Karp started singing the national anthem. One by one, the voices in the room started singing, hesitant at first, then stronger, more powerful, united.

The roar of a jet on an aggressive takeoff climb from Norfolk International interrupted the serenity of the Botanical Gardens, and made Alex pause a little. She and Jeremy were taking the same bench under the old tree, with direct line of sight to Smolin’s favorite backgammon game. Alex refrained with difficulty from hiding her face, concerned he might recognize her after he’d seen her on his doorstep. But they were too far, she was safe at that distance.

He wasn’t playing backgammon that time, just hanging out, as if waiting for a game partner to show up.

“And?” Jeremy asked.

“And what? Oh, yes,” she remembered where she’d left off before the 747’s takeoff, “Louie is the one we all go to if we need data. Any kind of data, really.”

“So he’s a hacker?”

“White hat, and a pretty good one,” she chuckled. “When we can’t afford to go through channels, or we can’t bypass a roadblock, he’s always able to find a way to get the job done. Ex-SEAL, and my personal trainer.”

“For what?” Jeremy asked. “Computer hacking?”

“No,” she laughed. “Krav Maga, weapons, that kind of stuff. You’d be surprised how dangerous corporate investigations can get sometimes,” she clarified, seeing how amazed he looked.

Smolin stood up and grabbed his backgammon set under his arm, heading slowly toward the exit. They stayed a decent distance behind, and followed him in the same relaxed pace.

Smolin stopped at a food vendor on his way to the exit, waited in line for another customer to be served, then bought a sandwich. He didn’t eat it; he just put it in his pocket and continued his slow stroll through the park alleys.

“What’s with this guy and his sandwiches?” Alex wondered. “He’s got plenty of those at home, right?”

“Well, maybe they’re not that good,” Jeremy said. “Remember he threw the one from home in the trash after just one bite. Who knows, maybe he’s too polite to tell whoever’s making them that he prefers street vendor hotdogs instead.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so . . . It must be something else. Nothing this man does is casual or left to chance.”

“Yeah, but we’re talking about food here,” Jeremy said. “I agree with everything you said, but even spies have to eat.”

“True. All right, I’ll drop it.”

They walked without saying anything for a while, following Smolin as he headed toward the parking lot.

“Do you think he’s hoarding food?” Jeremy asked. “How many sandwiches were in that fridge? Four, five? Do you think it’s because they didn’t have much food in the communist days?”

“Yeah . . . maybe. But I don’t think so,” she said grumpily, struggling to hide her irritation.

Here they were, wasting valuable time following a Russian agent who seemed to have nothing better to do than walk in the park and eat. What the hell were they missing?