A Shadow in Moscow, page 29
Skip holds up his hand. “Fine. No copies.”
So it’s back to memorization. Only I’m on my own to create the drawings. I’m to work nightly, “storing them wherever you stored those copy sheets in October of ’83.” Once fully created, I am to pass them along to Skip in a dead drop. No safe-house meetings. No foot-timed drops. No brush passes. Only dead drops.
Bottom line, I’m not out of the cold; I’m still deep in it.
* * *
It takes me only three months to break Skip’s rule and signal a meeting. A yellow check mark informs me my request is denied. I reply with an escalated red mark. A brown tick left the next day concedes to my demand and tells me when and where we’ll meet.
There’s no polite chitchat when I enter the safe house. “Is it true? The KGB arrested Adolph Tolkachev last week?”
“Where did you hear that?” Skip blanches.
“He worked in the lab next to mine. It’s all anyone can whisper about. They say he was a spy. One of yours. United States.”
“He was arrested,” Skip confirms.
“What will happen to him?”
“What always happens. The KGB will get everything they can from him, if they haven’t already. They won’t let another Ogorodnik happen.”
“Who’s Ogorodnik? What happened to him?” I drop into a chair, a little surprised Skip is talking so freely.
“He cracked a cyanide capsule right under their noses back in ’77. He was one of ours too. That’s what put us on stand-down.”
“Is that why I never got the cyanide pill I requested?”
He scoffs. “You expected a bunch of dads, because that’s what these men are, Anya, old family men, to give a suicide pill to a young woman? That was never going to happen.”
“What do I do?” I feel like I’m right back to a year and a half ago, waiting for someone to knock on my door, take me away, torture me, and kill me. “Does Tolkachev know about me?”
“This all just happened, Anya. I have a secure call with Director Ames tomorrow morning and I’ll know more then.”
“Is he CIA director now?”
“No. That’s still Bill Casey, but Aldrich Ames was just promoted to chief of Soviet counterintelligence.” Skip holds up both hands palms out, metaphorically pushing me away. “Until I talk with him, I don’t have any answers. You need to go. This meeting is fruitless and dangerous.”
“But you haven’t told me anything. Is Tolkachev LUMEN?” My mind is never far from the master spy, even in my dreams. I both fear him and revere him. This shadow, like Kim Philby and his thirty years in an impossible position, makes me nervous.
“I doubt it. It’s a business with few secrets. If LUMEN is CIA, it would’ve gotten leaked internally sometime over the decades.” He shakes his head. “I get that you’re scared, but I’ve got nothing for you. The embassy is surrounded. It’ll be a diplomatic dustup and a slew of us will get PNG’d and shipped back.” He runs his hands through his hair, dark curls ruffling and standing straight. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get here. An identity transfer.”
He tries to hide the gleam in his eyes, but I can tell he wants to share the details. As it’ll keep him from kicking me out, I oblige. “What’s that?”
“We used the wiretaps in our office to convince the KGB we had an office party tonight. Everyone is still inside, including a few carefully timed and taped comments from me. I switched identities with the security guard on rounds and left out the back door. Then went off duty when he was supposed to. I’ll switch back with the next guard change in three hours.”
“How will you get word to me?”
“About what?”
I close my eyes, trying to keep my temper and fear in check. “Tolkachev.”
Skip steps back and leans against the kitchen counter. Now that he has told his story, he seems calmer. “The better question is, do you know him?” He gestures between us. “Outside from hearing about his arrest. The KGB will find out if you do.”
“Yes.” My heart drops. “I mean, we met a couple times at symposiums and lectures, but we never worked together.”
“Then assume the KGB will interview you. They will interrogate anyone connected to Tolkachev in any way.”
“What about the drawings I’m working on? I have six sheets in my vent. You haven’t assigned a dead drop.”
Skip sighs like I’m slow on the uptake. “Burn them.”
“They’ve taken me months to draw.”
“And it’ll take seconds for the KGB to find them. Then a few questions will be the least of your worries. Burn them, Anya. Immediately.”
Twenty-Four
Ingrid
Moscow
June 14, 1985
Ingrid rushed into the apartment. She could hear the phone ringing out into the hallway. So few people called, she feared something was wrong. She cycled through her list of family and friends and could think of no one with immediate concerns. That brought a wry smile to her face as she crossed from the hall to the living room, shedding her coat as she walked. Everyone had immediate concerns.
“Hello?” she exhaled the word in a whisper. There was no breath to give it force. Sixty-two was too old to be racing around, she mused.
“Nicholi?”
“Nyet.” Ingrid froze. “You have the wrong number.”
“I apologize.” The man hung up.
Ingrid felt the blood drain from her face. It left a cool, clammy sensation in its wake. She took in the apartment, only now feeling its stillness. Leo was not home.
Her hand crept up her neck, and with it, warmth climbed into her cheeks. Rather than pale and chilled, she knew her face would appear anxious and flushed. She’d spent years tamping down the telltale signs of stress and anxiety and knew how they looked and felt when they were beyond her control to moderate.
It was a call—no, the call—she never expected.
She snatched up her light coat again. It felt hot and sticky against her skin as she retraced her steps and grabbed her handbag from the hall table. Her dry cleaning had to be impeccable this time. No mistakes.
She headed out the door to weave her way to the designated meeting spot.
One hour later she arrived at a small tearoom. George was sitting in the far back corner, facing the door. She noted every person in the room. No one appeared out of the ordinary, nor did anyone pay her any attention as she passed.
“We have a problem.” George pushed out of his chair and kissed her cheeks. A custom everyone would expect without realizing they expected it.
“What kind of problem?”
He reached forward and poured her a cup of tea. “A list is out. Twenty-five names of Western agents working either in or against the Soviet Union reached KGB hands this morning. It’s a CIA list, we’re almost certain, but it holds the names of three of our agents too. That’s what’s concerning. Your name is out, Ingrid. We didn’t think anyone knew about you . . . Bottom line, it’s chaos. Everyone is scrambling.”
Ingrid nodded. She felt outside herself. While it was something she deemed inevitable, the reality of it sank her into a darker and deeper abyss than she’d anticipated. She thought of all the names on that list. The lives. The families. Of course, she’d never learned their identities, but Reginald, George, and Adam probably had. They had shared some of their exploits over the years. They were losing friends and colleagues. And, as for herself, knowing the others were out there had brought her a feeling of comfort and camaraderie.
OCTON, PIMLICO, SCOUT, TRACER, BRAMPTON, SPHERE . . . Now all were in danger. All would die.
Her thoughts shifted to her daughter and all that would be left unsaid and undone between them. Adam was wrong. Anya would now learn the truth about her, and she would hate her mother for the rest of her life.
A waitress arrived with more tea. She poured Ingrid a fresh cup before offering one to George. Once she left, Ingrid tried to lift the cup from the saucer. Her hand shook. She set it down, holding the saucer with her other hand to keep the set from rattling.
“I’m on this list.” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s real names. Not code names. Kadinova is third from the top. There’s no guesswork for the KGB with this one.”
She took a deep breath. “It has been our understanding that the CIA would never learn my identity. That no one beyond you, Adam, and Reginald would ever know. What changed in all these years?”
She recalled that first day as if it played across a cinema screen before her.
The sun, the sky, the birds pecking at the bread crumbs. Reginald handed her a piece of paper. She had stared at it, surprised to find it blank. Then Reginald leaned close and, pulling a tiny bottle from his pocket, sprayed it, and words magically appeared.
Dearest Ingrid,
You are in good hands with Reginald Bishop. I wish I could be with you, but you are already taking a great risk. I won’t selfishly endanger you further.
LUMEN is your code name. It’s how I think of you and will always think of you. In Vienna, you were the light of my life. That has never changed.
Remember that. You will need it in this world of shadows. You must become a shadow. But if anyone can find her way, you can. You are stronger than you realize.
To keep you safe, I make you this promise—Reginald and I will keep this between us. This safety net around you will remain as impenetrable as I can make it for you as long as I live.
God keep you, LUMEN.
Adam
Light. Ingrid smiled then and she smiled now.
The words vanished, but the light never had. Through that code name, she had never been alone. Adam had always been with her, and she’d always believed and always hoped. It wasn’t only Adam. She’d also had Dolores, Reginald, and now George, who sat pondering her question. Not one moment had she been alone; she had been surrounded by care and love and sacrifice all along.
George. This young man she’d come to love like a son would pay a price for his care of her and her work now. She suspected the pressure on him was unbearable. He had to plan extractions for too many agents in too little time, filled with the dark wonder of what went wrong and who was still out there, willing to betray them all.
He sighed, his lips trembling in ill-hidden panic. “Nothing has changed. I can’t fathom how they got it. Your intelligence is parsed so fine you could bake a cake with the flour. Something went terribly wrong.” He leaned forward and seized her hand. Her cup rattled between them. “We have to act now. We have a moment to get you out, but only a moment.”
Ingrid stared into her teacup as if it might hold answers. It held only one.
Kadinova.
At first it surprised her, but as she sat with it, chewed on it, and digested it, she chided herself for never seeing it before. A light shone through her fear, and it left behind peace and a firm resolve. She knew her hands would not shake again. “No. I won’t put you through that. It’s never been done. No one has ever gotten a spy out of Moscow.”
“We’re ready. We have a plan, and just because it hasn’t been done doesn’t mean it can’t be. Another team is devising a way to get their asset out too. We’ll at least get the KGB scrambling so much you might both get through.”
Ingrid took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I won’t defect to England while my daughter is in danger here.”
“But you’ll live. That’s what matters.”
His comment shook her. Once she had believed that was all that mattered—she’d told Adam as much long ago on that park bench in Vienna. She’d been so angry with her parents for risking their lives, for dying. She’d been so angry with Martin for doing the same. But now . . .
She took a long breath, willing herself to stay strong. For if she chose not to run with George right now, the road ahead was going to be horrific. The KGB would not kill her right away. They would extract all she knew, all she’d shared, and with whom she’d shared it. They would plumb the depths of her memory and degrade her humanity to the point nothing was off-limits because she would no longer appear human. Then, when nothing more could be gained from her, they would kill her. And she would call it mercy.
Ingrid regretted the role George now had to play. He was still so young, and despite how good he was at his job, he was out of his depth now. He was not seasoned in the end game.
She reached over and tapped the top of his hand. “I’ll take it from here,” she whispered. His jaw dropped, but she said nothing more. She simply got up and walked out of the tea shop.
Ingrid stopped at the first pay phone she reached. Lifting the receiver, she did not detect a double click. But to make sure, she untwisted the cap to check for a listening device. The phone was clean. She ran her fingers across the ledge wall and seam lines of the booth. Nothing.
She then dialed a number she had never forgotten, despite never planning to use it again.
“Weber,” he answered on the first ring.
“Adam. It’s me. I need you to clarify something . . .”
She listened and learned, as she had for years. Yes, her code name had not been revealed, only the last name: Kadinova. It was an assumption, an anomaly, and a shadow she planned to use for her benefit. She shared with Adam the plan that was forming just ahead of her words. “I need a meeting with a CIA agent, code name SCOUT.”
“He’s not on the list. All the CIA names have been correlated with surnames. SCOUT isn’t on it.”
“Then this shouldn’t be a problem.”
“It’s a delay, Ingrid. Just get out.”
“It’s not. It’s vital and I want the meeting set for tomorrow in Vienna. There’s a crypt room in Peterskirche. I’ll leave meeting instructions there at the base of the statue of the archangel Michael at three o’clock precisely.”
“Impossible . . . They’re in free fall. I can’t make this happen.”
Ingrid hesitated. She trusted Adam with her life, but no one knew who had compromised the CIA and who might be listening in Washington, DC, as Adam made his request. The fewer details revealed the better.
“Adam, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Don’t mention SCOUT is not on the list. Say nothing about the list at all. Pretend it’s business as usual, except this meeting must happen. No matter where in the world he is right now, if SCOUT boards a plane soon, he can arrive in Vienna by our meeting tomorrow.”
Ingrid was absolutely certain she knew exactly who and where this SCOUT was, but she couldn’t risk telling anyone, even Adam.
“Move your meeting to London. I can protect you here.”
“London’s not an option. I can get to Vienna if I move fast enough. Though neutral, it’s swarming with KGB. They don’t check borders as much because they have officers on the ground. My understanding is the KGB hasn’t fully assessed what they’ve got?”
“It’s a slow-moving bureaucracy, but with something like this they’ll figure it out within hours. Search teams might start early morning. Definitely by midday tomorrow.”
“You must make this happen.”
“How is this agent worth your life? Ingrid—”
“Adam . . . Please.” She silenced him with a whisper.
“I’ll get it done. How can I reach you?”
“I’ll call back in thirty minutes.” Ingrid wondered where and how she could find another clean phone.
“That’s hardly enough time.” He balked. “No . . . I’ll make it work.”
“Thank you.”
“Ingrid—”
“No.” She cut him off again. She had heard the crack in his voice. The same catch she felt in her own throat that threatened to cut off her air and reduce her to sobs. It terrified her more than what lay ahead. “Don’t, Adam. I love you, and we both know we set out on these paths over forty years ago. You said it when my parents were killed—this day was always a possibility.”
“I suppose it was.”
She hung up the phone and headed straight for the train station. Thirty minutes later, she called Adam again. There were no preliminaries this time.
“They refused a meeting. Everyone’s compromised and they aren’t sure of anything. They haven’t even notified their agents yet. That’s confidential, but—”
“Everything is confidential, Adam.” She gripped the phone receiver so tight her fingers ached. “Tell them SCOUT can plan the details. His terms. One meet. It must be Vienna tomorrow, but he can leave me the time and location at the dead drop in the crypt. Let him control the variables. I demand this. After what I’ve given them, how dare they—”
“You’re right,” Adam interrupted. “Consider it done. If this is that important.”
“It is and I’m on my way to Vienna now.”
“Ingrid, stay there, please. Or head west. Just promise me after this meeting, you’ll get out.”
“Oh, Adam . . . I fought you all those years ago when you told me some things are worth dying for. Have you changed your mind?”
“No.”
“Good. Because you were right. It just took me longer to understand.”
Twenty-Five
Anya
Vienna
June 15, 1985
It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours.
A red slash sends me running to Safe House #7. Forget work. Forget life. Just get there. That’s what red means.
There, I am told in no uncertain terms to hop a flight for Vienna and beg forgiveness from work later rather than permission to go now. After all, Petrov has required my presence there many times, and it might not get flagged immediately.
“You only need a few hours,” Skip advises.
He gives me instructions to leave meeting details at a dead drop in Vienna. LUMEN wants a sit-down. No details. No whys or what fors. I’m simply to obey the summons.
“No.”
“I advise you not to say no. This comes from the top. Director Casey and Ames want you there. It’s our best chance of getting eyes on LUMEN.”
“It could be a trap.”
“The CIA wants his identity badly enough to risk it. And don’t worry. We’ll have you covered if things go sideways.” He slides a piece of paper toward me. “I’ve written down some good meeting locations and times. Pick one and that’s what you’ll leave at the dead drop. You’ll never be out of reach.”
