Shadow of Doubt, page 7
There were other divisions, departments, and American intelligence community partners that had played a role in the current failure, but ultimately Conroy saw it as his responsibility and therefore his problem to fix.
As such, the Agency was playing a dangerous game of catch-up—shoveling mountains of currency, man-hours, and resources into Belarus, all in the hopes of quickly developing as many high-value human networks as possible.
Until they received evidence to the contrary, the CIA had no choice but to operate as if there were indeed Russian tactical nuclear weapons in Belarus. That raised the stakes for everyone, including the Russians, to a dangerously high level.
It was a level that the White House deemed absolutely unacceptable. American president Paul Porter had no intention of accidentally stumbling into war with Russia, nor did he intend to allow the Russians to purposely drag him into one.
In a face-to-face with the Director of Central Intelligence, President Porter had made his position crystal clear—he wanted the gloves to come off. The Agency was to do everything in its power not just to clip Russia’s wings, but to remove them.
Since its most recent invasion of Ukraine, one of the greatest fears had been that if Peshkov and the Russians were allowed to succeed, they wouldn’t stop there and that history would repeat itself. The history they were all afraid of was what had happened in the run-up to World War II.
After Adolf Hitler had been allowed to annex Austria and then the Sudetenland, the Nazis went after the rest of Czechoslovakia. In the absence of meaningful international pushback, Hitler became even more emboldened and, after staging several false-flag attacks as a pretext, next took Poland, and World War II began.
In 2014, despite having signed an international treaty known as the Budapest Memorandum, which stated that Russia would respect the territorial integrity of Ukraine, the Russians invaded and took both the Donbas and Crimea. Eight years later, without provocation, the Russians invaded again, hell-bent on capturing the rest of the country.
From there, before even the thought of nuclear weapons being transferred to Belarus, analysts had seen Peshkov possibly going one of two ways. He had massed troops in Transnistria, a breakaway region of Moldova—a tiny, former Soviet Republic—where he was running a similar playbook as he had in the Donbas. He was already claiming to just be looking out for the interests of “ethnic Russians” who happened to live in the sovereign nation of Moldova. It was the same line he had used before invading the Donbas and Crimea. It was also eerily similar to Hitler’s claim that he was simply protecting “ethnic Germans” in the Sudetenland.
The other option was that the Russians could invade one of the smaller, Baltic nations like Latvia, Lithuania, or Estonia, all three of which had also been members of the former Soviet Union.
Of course today, Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia were members of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, the greatest military alliance in history and Article 5 of the NATO charter stated that an attack on one member was an attack on all.
Peshkov, however, had been doing all he could to weaken that alliance, to sow doubt as to whether it was worth fighting for, or whether it would fall apart in the face of actual war against Russia.
Analysts across NATO members’ intelligence services put the odds of a Russian attack on a member nation in the next ten years at fifty-fifty. In response, NATO headquarters in Belgium had been completely reorganizing itself into a full-on war command center. It was a level of activity not seen since the very height of the Cold War.
And the sudden threat of nuclear weapons being based in Belarus had only made things worse.
President Porter came out and publicly denounced Russia’s alleged deployment of tactical nuclear weapons to Belarus, declaring any such transfers as “absolutely irresponsible.” It was a statement he made repeatedly and forcefully.
In keeping up the public pressure, the White House hoped to discourage the Russians from doing anything stupid and kicking off World War III.
But hope wasn’t a plan. A plan required a concrete course of action. That’s where Conroy came in.
Once the CIA confirmed that the nukes were in Belarus, they would be able to present options to President Porter and the National Security Council. To get to that point, however, he was going to need a lot of luck and a lot of brainpower.
Looking up, he saw the personification of both standing in his outer office. Maggie Thomas, as always, was precisely three minutes early for their daily meeting.
CHAPTER 11
Margaret Jean Thomas, or “Maggie” to the people who knew her, was a “skip leg”—a legacy employee whose family service had skipped a generation.
Maggie’s grandmother Jean, from whom she took her middle name, had worked for the Agency’s precursor, the Office of Strategic Services, during World War II. The woman’s exploits had been legendary. When the OSS was dissolved after the war, Jean became one of the CIA’s first female intelligence officers and served with continued valor and distinction until her retirement.
The resemblance between grandmother and granddaughter was uncanny. They were both tough, broad-shouldered women who stood over six feet tall. Maggie, like her grandmother, had no problem holding her own in the male-dominated world of espionage. She could outdrink, outsmoke, and outpoker the best of them.
She had been a Russian, Eastern European, and Eurasian studies major at Smith College in Massachusetts and had gotten her master’s of science in global studies and international relations at Northeastern. Thanks to a pair of flower child parents, she had spent most of her youth overseas and could speak four languages. The CIA couldn’t have scripted a better résumé.
It’s been said that great intelligence analysts were like great painters or musicians. You didn’t teach them their craft, you helped them perfect it. It was a God-given ability that you either had, or you didn’t. Which was why the great ones, like Maggie, were so rare.
She was fearless, curious, and absolutely tenacious. Once she had zeroed in on something, she didn’t give up until her objective was complete. Nothing and no one could stand in her way.
Adept at spotting patterns, she was patient and methodical in her approach, especially when it came to piecing together the bigger picture. She was also humble, willing to admit when she had gotten something wrong, to learn from her mistakes, and to adjust accordingly.
Maggie and her husband, Paul, a State Department employee, lived in a storybook Cape Cod that had belonged to her grandmother Jean. It was only three and a half miles from CIA headquarters. Maggie could make the drive in under ten minutes, but preferred, when the weather was agreeable, to ride her bike.
Considering her high-profile position at the CIA, it was a dangerous means of travel, which she and Conroy had butted heads over countless times. But no matter how often they’d argued, Maggie always came out the winner.
From Bangkok to Berlin, she had grown up on a bicycle. Since she was a child, it had given her a sense of freedom. She loved the outdoors, being in the fresh air—especially with how much time she spent cooped up at Langley. It was a mental health issue for her, something she wasn’t willing to compromise on.
Though Conroy never stopped disliking it, particularly from a security standpoint, he chalked it up to her being quirky. It was simply who she was. It was also part of what made her so good at her job.
In her mid-forties, with almost two decades at the Agency, she was smarter than most of the people in the building, which was why he’d put her in charge of Russia House. It was a specialized, highly secretive unit focused on Russia and the former Soviet states.
Despite falling under the CIA’s Mission Center for Europe and Eurasia, because of the extremely sensitive intelligence it dealt with, Russia House was fully self-contained. It had its own offices, its own computer network, and even its own SCIF.
As an example of how the culture had come full circle at Langley, post-9/11, the Middle East and counterterrorism assignments had been all the rage. Today, however, Russia House had once again become the coolest table in the lunchroom. And with all of the pressure raining down from the White House over Belarus and the nuke situation, Conroy was exceedingly grateful to have Maggie sitting at the head of that table. Getting her attention, he waved her into his office.
“Good morning, Maggie,” Conroy said as she entered and they both took their usual seats at his conference table.
“Good morning, boss,” she replied, removing a tablet and two folders from her briefcase, which she placed in front of her.
“What have you got for me?”
Maggie was a skilled briefer. She knew what her boss was interested in, as well as what he didn’t want his time wasted on.
“Norway’s Russian defector,” she said, opening the first folder. “Leonid Grechko. I heard back from our Oslo station chief.”
“Holidae Hayes,” Conroy stated. He prided himself on knowing the names of all his NATO country chiefs, as well as those based in the nations most hostile to the United States.
Maggie nodded. “Harvath bit, but he didn’t like it. Hayes said it got quite heated, yet in the end, he agreed to cooperate.”
“I told you he would. Nobody walks away from a pile of money like that. Not for a woman. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“How soon until he starts producing?”
“Hayes put him on a short leash. She told him that she expects results ASAP.”
Conroy smiled. “Good. What else?”
She moved to her second folder. “This morning, a senior French DGSE officer named Jadot no-showed for breakfast with our Paris station chief.”
“Ray Powell.”
Maggie nodded again. “Turns out, he couldn’t make breakfast because he had been murdered at some point last night. His housekeeper found his body.”
“Why did it hit your desk?”
“Powell says Jadot had requested the breakfast. He believes the dead operative discovered something, possibly Russia-related, and wanted to discuss it. Other than that, Powell has no clue. Paris police are investigating. He’ll stay on it and update us as soon as he has anything.”
“I only see two folders today. Is that it?”
“Pretty much.”
Conroy cocked an eyebrow. “Pretty much?”
Maggie didn’t want to lead him down a dark alley until she knew what was in it. “We’ve found a new thread. It’s interesting, but we need to pull on it a bit more.”
“How interesting?”
“It has to do with Cape Idokopas.”
Mention of the tiny promontory on the Black Sea instantly captured Conroy’s attention. “I’m listening.”
Cape Idokopas was the location of the Russian president’s $1.5 billion palace. It was the physical manifestation of his arrogance, his thievery, and his pillaging of the Russian people.
When some brave anticorruption bloggers had drawn attention to the massive, chateau-style complex, Peshkov had moved quickly to camouflage its ownership. He substituted bogus paperwork and got a conglomerate of Kremlin-friendly oligarchs to stand up and claim that they were the true owners.
“Peshkov’s Palace,” as it was known, was the most closely guarded facility in Russia. At over 190,000 square feet it included multiple helipads, an Olympic-size ice rink, an amphitheater, casino, hookah lounge, movie theater, swimming pools, and an arboretum—just for starters.
The adjacent grounds contained vineyards, greenhouses, a stable, livestock barns, and even an Orthodox church that had been moved stone by stone from Greece.
But it was what lay fifty meters below the palace that the CIA and the U.S. government found most interesting—a gigantic, heavily fortified doomsday bunker with its own electrical, water, sewer, air filtration, and fire suppression systems.
If there were to be some sort of Armageddon—nuclear or otherwise, this was where the CIA believed Peshkov and his inner circle would ride it out.
“I wanted to widen the aperture,” Maggie continued.
Opening her iPad, she pulled up a series of photos and slid the device over to Conroy, who swiped through a handful of equestrian images.
“What am I looking at?” he asked.
“The Ukraine invasion rendered the Russians persona non grata at pretty much every international competition. So wealthy Russian elites began creating their own, like this equestrian event in Volgograd.”
“And?”
“And the rider you’re looking at is Peshkov’s mistress, Valentina Usova. She’s a former gold medalist who still loves to compete. The Volgograd event gave her a chance to do just that. The photographs you’re looking at are from the day before yesterday.”
“Who took these?” Conroy asked.
“We pulled them from local press coverage, as well as Rossgram—Russia’s version of Instagram.”
“Am I missing something? Was Peshkov in the crowd?”
“No,” Maggie said, taking the tablet back. “This was a real rich people’s event and Peshkov’s no fool. If he had been there, publicly supporting Valentina, there would’ve been photos of him splashed all over the place. He won’t hand his opposition, much less Russia’s angry citizenry, who are shouldering the weight of international sanctions, a let-them-eat-cake moment like that. He’s too cunning. But would he come in under the radar? Maybe adopt a disguise of some sort? That’s what we were wondering.”
“Did he?”
Maggie shook her head. “As we know, he’s paranoid about assassination attempts and travels with a large security element. The sheer number of men and vehicles would have been impossible to hide.”
“Then what am I missing?”
“This,” she replied, swiping right to a new set of images and handing the iPad back. “Satellite footage taken from after the event.”
“It looks like a horse being loaded into a trailer.”
“Correct. That’s Valentina’s trailer. But that isn’t her horse.”
Conroy looked closer. “How can you tell?”
“The first giveaway is the color. Valentina’s horse, Balthazar, has an autosomal dominant gene. It creates a dilute phenotype in black-pigmented horses.”
“In English, please.”
“It’s referred to as silver dilution. A horse with a black coat will actually be chocolate in color with a flaxen or silver-gray mane and tail. Balthazar’s are flaxen.”
“And the horse I’m looking at here, its mane and tail aren’t?”
Maggie reached over and zoomed in on the photo. “No. We believe this horse is a bleached blonde.”
“I’m starting to understand why you didn’t bring this to me sooner.”
“Bear with me,” she replied, committed to making her case. “The second giveaway is even more revealing.”
“Which is what?”
“The horse’s height. Balthazar is an Arabian. Arabian horses stand fourteen to fifteen hands high.”
“And how tall is the horse in this photo?” Conroy asked.
“Based on our calculations, it’s at least sixteen hands, and while it looks similar, it isn’t an Arabian. Our best guess is that it’s probably a breed known as an Oldenburg.”
He studied the photo for a few more moments. “For the sake of this conversation, let’s say they are two different horses. Why do we care?”
Leaning over, Maggie swiped to the next series of photos and replied, “Because about twenty minutes after Valentina’s trailer with Balthazar’s look-alike left for Moscow, another trailer departed, heading south toward Idokopas.”
Conroy scrutinized the new series of photos. “Remind me where Volgograd is again?”
“It’s along the Volga River. Halfway between Moscow and Idokopas.”
“Were you able to see what was inside the second trailer?”
“Only partially,” she said, advancing to the next images. “They backed it up so tight, it was practically touching the stable door. Where we do catch a glimpse of the second horse being loaded, the animal’s been covered in a full Lycra body wrap, right down to what I’ve learned is called a tail bag.”
“How do you know that’s Lycra?”
“Because of how tightly the material hugs the musculature of the horse, and because by isolating the pattern, we were able to source the product manufacturer.”
“Why would you wrap a horse in Lycra?”
“It’s normally used pre-event to keep braids in place or dust and bedding out of the horse’s coat.”
“Is it possible that it’s also used to keep flies and other biting insects away?” Conroy asked.
“Lycra doesn’t work for that. You’d use a mosquito mesh or a ripstop nylon.”
She had done her research. He had to hand it to her. “So what’s the point of all this? Why the decoy?”
“That’s the thread we keep tugging on. Valentina has been spotted back in Moscow, so we know she didn’t head south with the horse.”
“Do we have confirmation that the ultimate destination was Peshkov’s palace in Idokopas?”
“No,” Maggie admitted. “The satellite window closed before we could get confirmation.”
“And nothing from subsequent passes over Idokopas?”
She shook her head. “The Russians know when our satellites are coming. Pretty simple to only let the horse out of the stables when it’s safe to do so.”
Conroy swiped through the photos once more. As he did, he asked, “Worst case, what might we be looking at?”
“You don’t want my worst case. Like I said, just let me pull on this thread a little longer and see what we come up with.”
“You can keep pulling, but I want to know what you’re thinking.”
Maggie paused for a moment before responding. “Okay. Here’s what I’m thinking. I think Peshkov knows his mistress loves that horse more than anything. I think that if he and Valentina needed to get out of Moscow in a hurry and get to someplace safe, say Idokopas, they could hop on a helicopter or a jet at a moment’s notice. Moving humans in a time of crisis is one thing. But a horse? That takes advance work. And that’s what I think we could be seeing here.”
