Copyright © 2023 by James M. Roth

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions” at TradecraftPublishing@gmail.com.

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of public figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

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Print ISBN: 979-8-35090-335-5

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35090-336-2

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First Edition

PRAISE FOR THE DEAD DROP

“This enchanting story of four young teenagers, who inadvertently stumble into a deadly spy scheme as they discover a dead drop made by a Russian intelligence officer for an American traitor deep within the CIA, grabbed me from the first and wouldn’t let go. Former senior CIA officer Jim Roth has mixed excellent espionage tradecraft and an exquisite understanding of the adolescent mindset to create a riveting tale of spies, youthful idealism, and adult betrayal, which accelerates to a thrilling climax worthy of a major motion picture.”

Jim Lawler, author of Living Lies and In the Twinkling of an Eye

“Jim Roth’s cleverly written The Dead Drop is part espionage tradecraft tutorial, part cold-war history, and an adventure-filled ride throughout as an aging Russian spy and four high schoolers form an unlikely team over summer break to ferret out a CIA traitor before he escapes. Authentic details and engaging characters, young and old, make this both an entertaining and informative read.”

Duane Evans, author of North from Calcutta and Foxtrot in Kandahar: A Memoir of a CIA Officer in Afghanistan at the Inception of America’s Longest War

For Kelly, Meggie and Mandy.

My proudest achievement is being a founding member of the Fab Four.

CONTENTS

1. THE BRIEF ENCOUNTER

2. THE COFFEE CONTAINER

3. SOMETHING AMISS

4. THE INTRUSION

5. THE CONFRONTATION

6. A TRIP DOWN SOVIET LANE

7. THE TRANSFER

8. AN UNUSUAL VISITOR

9. THE HUNCH

10. OPERATION HIJACK

11. A RARE EARLY EXIT

12. A WELCOME CALL

13. IVAN NIKTO

14. THE QUESTION

15. THE JOGGER

16. THE THIRD VISIT

17. SUSPICIONS

18. THE STROLL

19. THE SUMMER JOB

20. COMING CLEAN

21. AN UNEXPECTED CALL

22. THE PHOTOGRAPHER

23. ENDGAME PLANS

24. THE ANNOUNCEMENT

25. A DISTURBING SUMMONS

26. THE LETTER

27. NEW MARCHING ORDERS

28. THE EMERGENCY

29. NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH FODDER

30. BIG NEWS

31. THE RED THUMBTACK

32. THE PHOTOS

33. THE MISDIRECTION PLAY

34. A CHANGE IN PATTERN

35. AN ODD COINCIDENCE

36. THE COUNTERSURVEILLANCE RUN

37. THE BACK ROOM

38. DEEP KIMCHI

39. THE VIGIL

40. A RENEWED ACQUAINTANCE

41. THE DEPARTURE

42. SURVEILLANCE

43. THE BRIEFING

44. COVERING TRACKS

45. THE PLAN

46. THE DETOUR

47. THE DISTRACTION

48. WAITING IN THE FORT

49. THE PENGUIN’S RETURN

50. THE REUNION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

THE BRIEF ENCOUNTER

Oliver Tempest awakens before dawn. It’s a typical June day in Washington, already hot and humid. He hopes the woman he selected will stick with her Sunday morning jogging routine, despite the heat. He prepares a light disguise, shaving off the beard he’s worn for years, touching up his graying temples to make himself look younger, and putting on a pair of dark sunglasses and ball cap. There’s no need for more than that. Natalya Vasilyeva will surely be asked for Tempest’s physical description, but their street encounter will be fleeting and she’ll be able to provide few personal characteristics. Knowing his wife won’t wake up till at least eight o’clock, he sets a note on the kitchen counter telling her he’s gone into the office for a few hours, which isn’t unusual on weekends.

Tempest makes the twenty-minute drive from Northern Virginia to Washington’s Rock Creek Park area, parking several blocks from Vasilyeva’s apartment. It’s 6:30 a.m. He walks past her apartment to the jogging path into the park, satisfied that the streets are nearly deserted. At 7 a.m., he finds a spot among the trees to observe the jogging path discreetly. A few minutes later, Vasilyeva enters the park on the path, jogging slowly, holding a cell phone and wearing a pair of earbuds. Tempest returns to an intersection on the backstreets nearest her apartment, knowing from her routine that she’ll return at about seven-fifteen.

Vasilyeva appears at the opposite end of the block, transitioning from a slow jog to a walk, before turning the corner and heading to her apartment. From the opposite end of the street, Tempest begins walking toward her on the sidewalk. She is sweating and still has her earbuds in. As she nears, he locks eyes with her and says loud enough so she can hear over her music, “Good morning, Natalya.” With a startled look, Vasilyeva slows. She pulls out her earbuds, allowing them to dangle from her neck. Before she can respond, Tempest hands her an unmarked envelope, saying, “Please pass this to Colonel Medvedev with my regards.” The initial look of confusion fades as it dawns on her what is happening. She responds with a curt nod of her head. Tempest resumes walking, and she wordlessly does the same. Their interaction had taken no more than five seconds.

With relief, Tempest returns by foot to his car. The brief encounter went as well as he could have hoped. But Tempest knows he has taken an action he can never undo. The following day, he begins growing his beard back.

CHAPTER 2

THE COFFEE CONTAINER

Spencer Hale

My last summer of freedom. That’s what my mom calls it. I’ll be fifteen next summer and, in her world, that’ll be time to start earning my keep. As if I haven’t been mowing the lawn every week since I was twelve and doing the dishes most nights while my dad reads scientific journals in his recliner and my mom talks with an endless stream of real estate clients on the phone. She says experience as a lifeguard at our neighborhood pool will be good resumé material. She’s like that.

“Spence, you’ll be out of college in seven years and starting a career and it’s important to show future employers that you have a strong work ethic and skills that go beyond just shooting a basketball,” she says. My mom speaks in italics and specializes in run-on sentences like other moms do pasta casseroles. Sometimes I wish I weren’t an only child just so her nurturing would have another target.

“C’mon, Mom, you think I’m gonna graduate, show up at my first interview and some executive’s gonna say, ‘Spencer, I see here that you spent a summer in your early teens checking chlorine levels of a pool and ordering eight-year-olds to stop running. I sense good parenting at work here and see great potential in you. Can you start on Monday?’”

My dad’s on my side. He says summer is the only time a kid can still be a kid in Northern Virginia. Kids here go from school to piano lessons to soccer practice to Cub Scout meetings, and then come home to eat dinner, do homework, and go to bed. That’s because parents in the Washington, D.C. area want their kids to get into Ivy League schools so they can brag about ‘em at cocktail parties, according to my dad. He grew up in San Diego and spent his summers surfing, but still managed to get a PhD. Even so, he isn’t much help to me, deferring to my mom on pretty much everything and offering occasional sympathy – not in words, but with a gentle shrug of the shoulders and a grin. He’s a professor of astrophysics at George Washington University, and limits his conversation to awkward attempts at humor and observations about the behavior of the universe, under the assumption that everyone else shares his interest.

But my mom grew up here and is part of the culture. “Fifteen is not ‘early teens,’ Spencer, and besides” – here she throws up her hands for emphasis – “what if the economy is doing poorly when you finish college and you’re competing with other graduates who got an earlier start and you find yourself on food stamps and living in our basement?”

The old “poor economy” and “living in our basement” scenario, my mom’s go-to argument. I learned long ago not to bother pointing out that some employers, the NBA for example, do care about the ability to shoot a basketball. That would just prompt the dubious story of her high school boyfriend, Eddie, who was supposedly recruited to play for Coach K at Duke before tearing his ACL as a senior. I’ve seen pictures of Eddie in my mom’s yearbook, and let’s just say he clearly spent more time eating french fries than working on his jump shot. Besides, he was only five-foot ten. Coach K and Duke? C’mon! I’ve overheard my mom gossiping about the adult version of Eddie, who sells insurance when he’s not in rehab and is having “relationship problems” with his fourth wife.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, Spence?”

“Why would I need food stamps if I lived in your basement? Would the refrigerator be off-limits?”

***

If this really is my last summer of freedom, I plan to make the most of it. My goal is to extend my shooting range so I’ll be more of a three-point threat next season. And by the way, I’m aware that making the NBA someday is a longshot. I’m not an idiot. But hey, I was the only freshman at Willow Creek High School to make varsity last year and next season I’ll be the starting point guard. Michael Jordan didn’t make varsity till his junior year. I’ll bet he didn’t get where he did by spending the summer after his sophomore year blowing a whistle at his community pool.

I read Steph Curry makes 500 shots a day during the off-season, so that’s my summer plan. There’s a basketball hoop in my driveway, but not enough room to shoot three-pointers. Instead, I use an outdoor court in a county park beyond the end of my street. Willow Creek Park is a few hundred acres of dense forest with nature trails and a winding creek that empties eventually into the Potomac River. The court sits in the middle of the woods. Since school got out last week, I’ve been going there to do my drills every morning at seven thirty, before it gets too hot. My friends and I usually hang out at the pool in the afternoons, and then meet in the woods for a pick-up game after dinner when it cools off.

Since there are a lot of summer thunderstorms here, my friend Ravi checks the weather forecast online and gives us regular updates on the chances for evening rain. He can be annoying, talking about things like “precipitation patterns.” But he’s usually right so we plan around it.

Ravi says basketball tonight is “a little iffy due to a low-pressure system.” We’re supposed to meet at seven o’clock at our fort, an abandoned deer hunting stand mounted on a giant maple tree not far from the basketball court. I always leave early to get there first. I ride my bike, steering with one hand and dribbling a basketball with the other. That’s what Pete Maravich did as a kid, and he became the greatest ball-handler of all time.

I ride to the cul-de-sac at the end of my street where a path leads into the woods between two houses, Mr. Fedorov’s on the right and Mr. and Mrs. Prattle’s on the left. Mr. Fedorov is in his front yard, trimming shrubs. His yard is always perfect. He’s huge – tall, wide, big as a grizzly bear. He straightens up slowly to his full height, a big smile under his bushy gray mustache, and shouts, “Time for basketball!” as he always does, in his thick Russian accent. He came to most of the varsity games last year and seemed to root especially for me, maybe because I’m his neighbor. He always sits alone. I like him, despite the neighborhood rumors.

I stop dribbling as I glide between the two houses. Mrs. Prattle is taking pictures of birds and butterflies in her backyard, next to her mini pond and waterfall. That’s her hobby. Mrs. Prattle brags that her backyard is certified as a wildlife habitat, but all you need are trees, birdhouses, food and water, so it seems to me that anybody could do it. She lowers her camera and watches me suspiciously over her fence as I roll by. She’s nosy, likes to know everything going on in the neighborhood so she can gossip about it. At the end of the path, I turn right and ride behind Mr. Fedorov’s back fence along a paved park trail toward our fort and the basketball court. I have to carry my bike through the woods and over the narrow stream, stepping across big rocks above the surface to get to the fort. Nobody ever goes back there except for me, Ravi, Colbie and Cal.

Leaning my bike against the maple, I climb up the fifteen-foot ladder into the fort. I grab a pair of binoculars we keep up here, and look through them at the sky. A patch of dark clouds is moving in. I hear the rumble of a distant thunderstorm, and a light rain begins. I lower the binoculars and look at the trails winding through the woods, spotting a couple of deer and a fox, but no people – the storm threat has kept the usual dog walkers and joggers at home. It begins to rain harder. Pick-up basketball might not happen. I turn the binoculars to the path coming from my neighborhood, along the western edge of the park, but there’s no sign of Ravi, Cal and Colbie yet. Maybe they stayed home because of the weather, so I decide to text them.

Then I hear something odd: a masculine grunt followed by a muffled curse – it sounds like “bleen!” – coming from the opposite direction.

I move to the other side of the fort and turn the binoculars in the direction of the sound. Through a narrow gap in the trees, I see an unfamiliar middle-aged man picking himself up from a wet path that slopes downhill to a small wooden footbridge over the stream. He must’ve slipped and fallen. It’s gotta be eighty-five degrees out, but the man is dressed in a bulky coat. Weird. Holding onto a walking stick, he stands up and flexes his knee. He’s short and thickset, with shaggy graying hair and oversized eyeglasses. Not the type you usually see out for a hike in the woods. He brushes himself off, glances around, picks up a small, green container lying next to him on the path. He begins walking downhill toward the bridge, holding the container under his left arm and the walking stick in his right hand to maintain balance, his toes pointing outward under thick legs. Waddling, like a penguin. I lose him for a moment in the trees and then his squat figure reappears, taking short, quick steps across the bridge. There, the Penguin slows and carefully places the container next to a corner of the far end of the bridge. He glances around again as he shuffles off into the distance. The rain has become heavier, with gusty wind. The Penguin picks up his pace and I lose him again.

He finally reemerges, approaching a white metal park sign facing an entry path from a neighborhood on the opposite side of the park from mine. His back is to me, partially blocking the sign. Grasping the walking stick in one hand, he reaches out with the other to the bottom left corner of the sign and appears to remove something. He pauses for a second and then wipes the same part of the sign with his palm a couple of times, like he’s trying to remove moisture from the rain. After drying his hand on his pants and reaching into his pocket, his hand darts again to the sign, like he’s putting something there. The Penguin then hurries along the path leading out of the park and into the other neighborhood. I train the binoculars back on the park sign, but can’t make out the bottom corner. The rain stops as quickly as it started, typical summer weather in Virginia.

I glance at my watch: six minutes after seven. I’m about to text my friends when I hear Ravi’s voice. He, Colbie and Cal are carrying their bikes across the stream.

“I thought you decided to stay home and play Fortnite!” I shout down. I know this will annoy Cal. He’d happily stay home and play video games all day if we didn’t nag him to go to the pool or play basketball. He grumbles at my comment. Cal’s a little sensitive.

“We were waiting for the rain to stop,” says Colbie. Colbie and Calvin Callahan are twins, but you’d never know it. Cal’s really tall and chunky. He played center on our JV basketball team last season as a freshman. He’d be a beast if he worked harder on his game, but his first love is baseball. Colbie is slim and shorter, and she’s a good player too. For a girl, that is. She was the leading scorer on the girls’ varsity team as a freshman point guard, a fact she reminds me of regularly, since I wasn’t a starter my freshman season.

They climb up the ladder into the fort, Cal lagging behind and complaining about having to play on a wet court. Cal sits down on a bench, pulling a baseball glove from under his arm and putting it on. He pulls out his scuffed ball, which he carries with him everywhere he goes, even to church. Cal pitched on the JV baseball team last season, with a fastball that might have college scouts drooling if he could learn how to put it in the strike zone. He begins flipping the baseball into his glove with a sharp snap of the wrist, a ritual.

Ravi pushes the bridge of his black-framed glasses up to the top of his nose, grabs my basketball off the floor of the fort, and tries spinning it on his index finger, a trick he hasn’t quite mastered. Ravi Patel moved here with his family from India a few years ago. He was a really good cricket player in India, but never played basketball till he got here. He’s become pretty good with practice though, riding the pine on the freshman team last season and hoping to make the JV squad this year. He’s the only guy in the program who wears glasses when he plays, practically blind without ‘em. “Let’s go before it starts getting dark!” he says.

They all look at me, sitting on a bench and still holding the binoculars. I’m usually the first to pester everyone to get going to the court.

Colbie glances at me, her eyes squinting. “Well?” she says. She has long blonde hair and dark brown eyes. My dad says “she’s gonna break a lotta hearts, someday.” Ravi says she’s a “firecracker.” Whatever.

“I want to check out something first,” I say. Now they’re really curious.

“Say it ain’t so, Spence!” says Ravi. “Since when do you – the baller of all ballers! – want to do something other than shoot the rock?” He grew up speaking both Hindi and English, and we make fun of him when he uses slang phrases from India that make no sense to us. He’s good-natured about it, but now counters the teasing by using American slang at every chance.

I point in the direction that I’d seen the man in the rain, the Penguin, and describe his strange behavior.

“You want to look at the green container he left by the bridge, don’t you?” says Colbie. She gets it.

“Yeah.”

“You want to go look at some guy’s litter?” says Cal, thwapping the baseball into his glove. “Seriously?”

Before I can respond, Colbie cuts in, peering at her brother. “C’mon, Calvin, the guy didn’t throw the trash. He placed it. And why was he wearing a coat? Aren’t you curious?”

“So this guy, the Penguin, is overdressed and finicky about where he leaves his garbage,” says Cal. “That mean we gotta pick it up for him?”

“I think maybe he was carrying the container inside his coat, and it fell out when he slipped,” I say. “C’mon, let’s just take a quick look.”

“Yeah, let’s find out what that perp was up to!” says Ravi. He’s been watching too much NCIS.

***

We leave our bikes under the fort and cut through the woods on foot to the trail the Penguin was on, heading toward the wooden bridge. The downhill path is slick. I point to where he slipped and fell and then lead the others across the bridge to the spot on the far side where he placed the container. We don’t see it at first. Then I spot it hidden in the green brush. I pick it up: a dark green, cylindrical, 16-ounce plastic container with a black pull-off lid. On it is a ground coffee label.

“So what?” Cal says. “It’s just a coffee container.”

I rotate it in my hands, examining the label. It has a little dirt on the bottom, but otherwise looks brand new. I pull off the plastic lid. It’s empty. I sniff the inside of the container. “That’s funny,” I say.

“What?” asks Colbie.

I hand it to her. She takes a sniff. “Yeah, it is.”

Ravi grabs it from her and does the same. “Weird.”

“What’s weird about it?” asks Cal, rubbing his forehead under his baseball cap. Ravi hands him the container.

“Sniff it,” says Ravi.

Cal does. He’s impatient. “I still don’t get it.”

“No coffee smell,” says Colbie.

I look at Cal. “A new ground coffee container should smell like coffee,” I say. “This doesn’t smell like anything. And it’s completely clean inside, like it never had anything in it.”

Cal is irritated. “C’mon, let’s go. It’s getting dark.”

“If it’s not really a coffee container,” says Colbie, “then why does it have a coffee label?”

“Yeah,” says Ravi. “And what’s its real purpose then?”

“That’s the question,” I say.

We look around. Nobody else out except us.

“Let’s take a look at the park sign the Penguin fiddled with,” I say.

I’m still holding the container when we get to the white metal park sign, attached to a wooden post.

“So it looked like he wiped the bottom left corner and then put something there?” asks Colbie.

“Yeah.”

We stand there staring at it. “You can see where he wiped the back of the sign, but why?” says Ravi. “There’s nothing there but a smear.”

“C’mon,” says Colbie. “Let’s take the container back to the fort.”

***

It’s still a while till sunset, but it’s gotten pretty dark with black clouds overhead. We’re sitting on two wobbly benches, across from each other, Colbie and Cal on one side, me and Ravi on the other. Between us, on a rickety wooden table we built with some two-by fours, are the coffee container and a small battery-powered lantern.

“Okay,” says Ravi, “so the Penguin comes into the park with a coat on in June, maybe hiding a coffee can that’s not really a coffee can inside his coat, places it at the corner of the bridge, and then goes and wipes off the back of a sign. Why?”

We all stare at the container, silent for a minute. “Maybe it’s not really empty,” Colbie finally says.

I look at her. “What do you mean?”

“Spencer,” she says, “any man is a dolt who permits a ‘secret’ drawer to escape him in a search of this kind.” The corners of her mouth turn up. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle and her cheeks dimple.

I look at her, confused. I’m also a little annoyed that Colbie apparently just called me a dolt. Then Ravi says, “That’s from The Purloined Letter. You’re quoting the French Chief of Police, Monsieur G!”

Colbie nods. All of us read the Edgar Allen Poe mystery in Mr. McGee’s freshman English class. Colbie likes to memorize quotes from literature, speaking of annoying.

“But in The Purloined Letter,” I point out, “Monsieur G and the French police were wrong. The compromising letter stolen from the royal lady – the queen or whoever she was – was hidden in plain sight.”

“Yeah,” says Colbie. “Monsieur G and the police secretly searched the home of the thief, Minister D, for three months, looking for a hidden compartment in his cabinets and furniture. Turned out there wasn’t any. Minister D outsmarted the police by hiding the letter in plain sight. But maybe our villain, the Penguin, took the other approach.”

“A secret compartment,” I say.

Cal, now interested, picks up the container and removes the lid. “I think Colbie’s right,” he says. “This feels too heavy to be empty. If there’s a hidden compartment, it’s gotta be in the bottom, but I don’t see anything.”

“In The Purloined Letter,” says Ravi, “Monsieur G measures the size of every cabinet in Minister D’s home and compares that to the dimensions of the space inside, looking for measurements that don’t match. Where a hidden compartment could be. Let’s do that.”

We look around the fort for something to measure with. “I’ll grab a stick,” I say, heading for the ladder. I return with the straightest twig I could find, a couple of feet long, and hand it to Colbie.

Placing one end of the twig on the table and holding it up vertically along the outside of the coffee container, Colbie measures its exterior height, using a thumbnail to mark the spot on the twig even with the rim. Then she inserts the twig inside to measure the interior height, her thumbnail still on the original spot.

We look at each other. “Bloody hell!” shouts Ravi.

Colbie’s thumbnail is three inches above the top edge. There’s gotta be a hidden compartment in the bottom.

I turn the container upside-down and rap my knuckles on the plastic bottom. Cal holds up the lantern so we can examine it more closely.

There’s a narrow gap I hadn’t noticed before between its circular base and its sides. I try to pry off the base with my fingernails. No luck.

“Try unscrewing it,” says Colbie. Holding the rim in one hand, I try twisting the bottom with the other, but it doesn’t budge.

“Let’s help,” says Colbie. She grabs the container and, along with Cal and Ravi, braces it in place on the table, upside-down. I grasp the base with both hands and twist, counterclockwise. Slowly, it begins to turn. After a few rotations, it comes loose.

A clap of thunder sounds overhead. I lift off the base and we peer inside, Cal still holding the lantern. In the hidden compartment is a clear plastic bag, the kind you keep in the kitchen to store food. I shake it out of the compartment, unseal it, and turn it upside-down. Out drops a package of folded paper bound with a rubber band.

“Open it, Spence!” says Ravi, pushing his glasses up. I take off the rubber band, opening the paper. Inside is a half-inch thick wad of cash, folded and bound with another rubber band.

“Let’s count it!” says Ravi.

He grabs the money and pulls off the rubber band. Ravi counts the hundred-dollar bills, stacking them in piles of a thousand dollars. “Ten!” he says. “Ten thousand bucks! We’re rich!”

We stare quietly at the money then at each other. Outside the fort, it begins to rain again.

Colbie finally picks up the papers that had been wrapped around the money. There are two sheets, both typewritten. The page on top contains a letter. “What’s it say?” asks Cal.

Colbie grabs the lantern from Cal and reads the letter to us in the faint light.

Dear Friend,

We have received your package and read your information with great interest. We are most grateful for your offer of cooperation, knowing that it takes enormous courage. Our Director has asked us to pass along his congratulations to you personally. Please accept the payment in this package as a sign of our deep appreciation, knowing there will be more to come, in line with your wishes, as we get to know each other better.

We understand and will respect your wish to remain anonymous. We also accept your stated preferences for future communications. The site you proposed for exchanges is acceptable to us for now, and we hope that you will consider suggestions we may provide later for other sites that we consider secure for you. Please know that your security is our top priority! With that in mind, we do have some concern with the alternating two-week intervals you proposed for two-way communications. Though we are eager for additional information and share your view of its urgency and importance, we may wish, for the sake of security, to adopt a less frequent approach in the coming months. In the meantime, we accept your schedule and confirm that we are prepared to receive the next communication from you on the 30th.

We believe your selection of N.V. as the intermediary for passing your introductory package to us was well-reasoned, but ask that you avoid direct contact with her again, for reasons we are sure you understand. In the event you need to communicate with us earlier than a scheduled drop, please contact us using the following mailing address: W. Abbott, 272 E. Lamont St., Alexandria, VA 22301. We have direct control of any mail to that address, which is not monitored by the authorities. If you use “Boston” in the return address of such a package, we will treat it as a sign of urgency and expect to receive an exchange from you at the site three days after the postmark on the mail, using your proposed timing (including the two-day alternate). We will work with you to fine-tune these communications arrangements in the near future.

Attached you will find a brief list of questions as a follow-up to your initial information. We welcome your input on these points in your next scheduled package.

We are most confident this will be a rewarding relationship for you and for us. We look forward to hearing again from you and to working with you for a long time to come. Again, you have our deepest gratitude.

Sincerely,

Your Friends

Colbie sets the letter on the table and looks up at us. The only sounds are the light patter of rain, the hum of cicadas, and a distant roll of thunder.

Ravi pushes his glasses up on his nose and breaks the silence. “Our parents must wonder where we are. It’s raining and dark.” He’s right. We grab our cell phones. Colbie texts her parents that she and Cal are at my house. Ravi and I text our moms that we are at Colbie and Cal’s house.

Then I grab the second sheet of paper and read it aloud under the glow of the lantern.

Thank you for your insights on our friend in Cairo. This is the type of timely and actionable information that we find most helpful. Are you able to provide specifics of this type on “Alex” in the Balkans? We understand that you don’t know the identity of “Alex,” but would welcome any additional details that will assist us in identifying him. No detail is too small, especially biographic.

Can you narrow down which country in the Balkans “Alex” is most likely working in? May we assume he is in one of the nations of the former Yugoslavia?

Do you know when “Alex” began his relationship with your government? Was it before his arrival in the Balkans? If so, do you know in which country the relationship began or where he previously served?

You referred to being aware of other members of our government – aside from “Alex” and our friend in Cairo – who are working for yours. As you can imagine, we are deeply interested in information on these individuals, as well.

The strategy document you provided on your organization’s targeting of our government is of great interest and we are still reviewing it. We will have follow-up questions, soon. In the meantime, we would be grateful for additional documents of this nature as they cross your path. Please take no undue risks to your security.

I place the paper back on the table.

“We are dealing with a rowdy sheeter!” says Ravi.

We all stare at him. “A ‘rowdy sheeter’?” asks Colbie.

Ravi looks sheepish. “That’s what we call a dangerous criminal in India.”

“Where’s the Balkans?” asks Cal, looking at Ravi.

“It’s a peninsula in Southeastern Europe, between Italy and Turkey,” says Ravi. He finished second in the Virginia state Geography Bee finals last year.

This is all too much for Cal, who jumps up from the bench and removes his baseball cap. “We better put the money and papers back in the container and take it back where we found it. I don’t wanna get mixed up in something shady!”

“What did the Penguin look like, Spence?” asks Colbie, ignoring her brother. “If we went to the police, could you describe him?”

“Kind of. He looked like an older white guy. Short, thick, like a fire hydrant. Gray hair. He wore glasses.”

Colbie frowns. “Did the Penguin see you?”

“No – I’m sure of it.”

Cal sits back down, but he’s fidgety. He gets that way when he’s nervous. Like when he gets rattled on the baseball mound after a wild pitch. “We should go to the police,” he says.

“I don’t think this is regular criminal stuff, though,” I say. “It sounds more like spy stuff. Like someone offered to spy for another country, and that country has agreed to pay him to keep doing it.”

“Yeah,” says Colbie. “Could be an American is spying for a foreign government.”

“Maybe,” I say. “If that’s true, we can’t just put everything back where we found it. He’d take the package and get away with it.”

I can tell Ravi’s mind is working a hundred miles an hour. He’s kind of a genius. “Okay, if all that is true, can we figure out who the foreign government is? Could be China or Russia. Maybe even North Korea or Iran.”

“Russia,” I say. “Russia. You don’t think…?”

Colbie finishes my sentence for me. “That Mrs. Prattle was right all along?”

“Bloody hell!” says Ravi.

Mrs. Prattle, who lives with her husband next door to Mr. Fedorov, is an “idle busybody” according to my mom – and my mom hardly ever says anything bad about anyone. Mrs. P gossips about everyone, but especially Mr. Fedorov, who apparently came here from the Soviet Union. He’s lived in the neighborhood longer than any of us, but nobody knows much about him. Mrs. Prattle is sure Mr. Fedorov is a Russian spy and blames him personally every time something comes up in the news about Russian interference in American politics. My dad says she even keeps a record of the comings and goings of him and his visitors. Mrs. P says Mr. Fedorov gets visits a couple of times a month during the evening, usually from someone coming alone and carrying a bottle of alcohol. Everyone rolls their eyes at Mrs. P’s theories and tries to avoid her. Mr. Fedorov occasionally leaves vegetables from his garden on Mrs. P’s front porch, in hopes of winning her over. But Mrs. P brags to anyone who’ll listen that she throws them out because they “might be poisoned.” My dad likes Mr. Fedorov, calling him “a harmless old commie.” I don’t like to think it, but what if Mrs. P is right, and everyone else is wrong?

“But the guy you saw obviously wasn’t Mr. Fedorov, Spence,” says Colbie.

“No, but…”

“Mr. Fedorov’s gotta be, I dunno, almost eighty years old!” says Cal.

“Yeah,” says Colbie. “If that package was left by the KGB, or whatever it is, why would an old man be involved?”

“C’mon, you guys!” says Ravi, jumping to his feet. “Don’t you know about the Russian illegals program?”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“I’ve read all about it,” says Ravi, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “The Russian have sleeper agents all over the United States. They pretend to be normal Americans, but they’re really operating under deep cover. They have fake identities and help the regular KGB agents, or whatever the KGB is called now. And they can get away with it because the FBI isn’t watching them!” Ravi is the only fourteen-year-old kid I know that reads the paper every day.

I grab the binoculars and move to the west side of the fort, facing the back of our neighborhood. You can see the back of Mr. Fedorov’s house through the trees. Sometimes when we’re bored, Ravi, Cal and I watch him and other people who live along the park and make jokes about them. Colbie doesn’t like it, calling us “peeping Toms.” When we see Mr. Fedorov, he’s usually pruning plants in his backyard during the day, or is in his study above the back deck, writing at his desk or reading a book in his brown leather recliner after dark. When he reads, he usually has a drink and is smoking a cigar. I guess he can get away with that indoors, since he doesn’t have a wife. I see a light on in his study, which is crowded with full bookcases, but no Mr. Fedorov.

I put the binoculars on the table and sit back down on the bench. “I dunno, Ravi, it just doesn’t make sense.”

Colbie nods. “If Mr. Fedorov was a Russian sleeper agent or illegal or whatever you call it, wouldn’t he change his last name to ‘Smith’ and hide the fact that he’s Russian?”

“Be pretty hard to hide that Russian accent,” says Cal.

“Do the math, people!” says Ravi. “We have some foreigners, probably the Russians, running a spy operation in our woods, a short distance from the house of a guy from the old Soviet Union. A guy rumored to be a spy! What are the odds that Mr. Fedorov isn’t involved somehow?”

Ravi just aced calculus as a freshman, so I don’t doubt his math skills. But something doesn’t add up. “We don’t know that it’s the Russians, Ravi,” I say.

Ravi ignores me. “We always see him at night working on something at his desk. What’s he doing, at his age? If he is involved, let’s find out what he’s up to.” Ravi’s always looking for an adventure. “And if Mr. Fedorov is not involved, we can eliminate him from the list of perps before we report it to the authorities!”

“What list of perps, Ravi?” asks Colbie. “And what authorities would we report to?” Ravi doesn’t respond, but I can see the wheels turning.

Over the next hour, the rain stops and the clouds clear, leaving a bright moonlit sky. The rain has cooled things down a bit, but we’re too busy planning to notice. We are either going to clear Mr. Fedorov, or implicate him. Ravi’s good at getting us to do things we’re not comfortable with. Cal still thinks we should go to the police and let them figure it out. In the end, Ravi wins, as usual. We sit quietly for a while, once we have a plan in place and have agreed not to discuss this with our parents or anyone else yet. There is only silence; even the cicadas have turned in for the night. Before heading down the ladder, we conceal the coffee container and its contents behind some loose boards in the fort.

It occurs to me as I pull my bike into the garage at home that the person the package was intended for may already have found it missing from the corner of the bridge.

Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. This summer’s already going differently than I’d planned.

CHAPTER 3

SOMETHING AMISS

The old man removes his work gloves, pulls a small hand towel from his pocket, and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“Come, Tsarina, time to go in!” he calls out. A chocolate Lab gets up from the shade of a nearby tree, stretches, and wags her tail.

Pavel Fedorov takes one last look at the perfect rows of vegetables – onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers – in his small garden, satisfied that it’s free of weeds. He glances at his watch. Not even nine o’clock in the morning and already too hot and humid for gardening.

And he has other things to do. A visitor is scheduled for this evening. His routine on such days is to get a haircut and pick up a bottle of Scotch from the liquor store. Maybe one aged in a sherry cask.

His visitors always arrive with a bottle of Scotch in hand. In the early days after his arrival in the United States, his visitors would arrive at his front door with a bottle of vodka, assuming that to be his drink of choice, as a Russian. With time they learned that in his many years of living in the West, Fedorov developed a preference for Scotch whisky. But his visitors show little imagination in selecting a bottle, always presenting him with an expensive but otherwise unremarkable brand they are familiar with. Perhaps his visitors, or hand-holders as he thinks of them, believe Fedorov is a stereotypical Russian, drinking just to drink.

No, for Fedorov, exploring a new whisky with a comrade is an adventure – not unlike his meetings as a KGB officer with an intelligence source. There is an eager sense of anticipation that comes with that first sip, just as there is in sitting down to debrief a well-placed spy with secrets to disclose.

And so it has become routine for him to share with his hand-holders a taste of the Scotch they arrive with, to compliment them on their good taste in whisky, and then to offer a dram from a bottle he has bought for the occasion. He appreciates the rare visitor that rewards his effort with a genuine shared interest in discovery.

***

Fedorov tosses his dirty gardening clothes in the hamper, showers, and gets dressed. He checks the time: still too early for the barber shop and liquor store, which open at ten o’clock. He pours a cup of coffee, grabs the morning paper, and settles into the leather recliner in his study. Coffee and a newspaper: what a luxury, he thinks. Tsarina is snoring softly under his desk, her favorite spot. He picks up the front page and glances at the headlines, but lowers the paper when a motion in the woods behind his home catches his eye.

Peering out the window of his study over his back fence, Fedorov spots a young woman pushing a toddler in a stroller along a trail. As he is about to return his attention to the newspaper, he glimpses two distant figures in a thick wooded area beyond the stream. Squinting through his glasses, he sees that it is Spencer and Ravi sitting under a tree in animated discussion. Nice boys, he thinks. He regularly attended their Willow Creek High School basketball games last season, a respite from his lonely evening routine at home. It is a pleasure to watch friendly children he is familiar with from the neighborhood blossom as basketball players.

Squinting, he sees Spencer hold a cell phone to his ear, speak briefly, and then return it to his pocket. Both Spencer and Ravi are looking in the direction of his house. While working in his back garden this morning, Fedorov had seen Spencer ride his bike holding a basketball along the trail behind his fence at about seven thirty. Spencer seems to have a summer basketball workout routine at the court in the woods, and Fedorov admires his diligence. Fedorov had waved a hand, but Spencer either ignored the greeting or pretended not to see it. Not like him. Nor is it like Spencer and Ravi to sit idly in the woods.

Fedorov glances at his watch. The shops will open soon. He sets his newspaper on a side table next to his coffee and struggles out of his recliner, holding his lower back as he straightens. He checks to confirm Tsarina’s bowl has water, grabs his wallet and keys from his desk, and enters his garage from an interior door. He pushes the garage door opener and shuffles toward his old Buick sedan. Glancing down the driveway, Fedorov pauses. He spots Colbie, peaking around a river birch on the other side of the cul-de-sac. She maneuvers so that she is hidden completely behind the tree. He gets into his car and reverses down the driveway.

As Fedorov drives slowly up the street, he glances in his rear-view mirror. Colbie, partially obscured by the tree, is typing something on her cell phone, looking in his direction. He drives around a bend in the road and sees Calvin ahead at the corner of a neighborhood intersection, mindlessly flipping a baseball into the glove he always seems to have on his left hand. When Calvin sees Fedorov’s car approaching, he abruptly looks away and begins walking down a side street.

Strange, thinks Fedorov. What are these kids up to?

CHAPTER 4

THE INTRUSION

Spencer Hale

Ravi and I have waited in the woods for over an hour, alternately sitting and pacing in the shade, far enough from Mr. Fedorov’s house that he won’t notice us. Colbie and Cal are our lookouts on the street, and are supposed to text us if he leaves his house. He seems to run errands or something most mornings, which we counted on.

I’m having second thoughts about our plan. I can tell Cal and Colbie are, too, because they didn’t say much this morning when we met at the fort. Ravi did most of the talking. He seems more excited than nervous. A couple of times I’ve started to say something about reconsidering, but he cuts me off. He is insistent, and Ravi can be bull-headed when he makes up his mind.

We know from watching Mr. Fedorov from the fort with binoculars over the past couple of years that he tends to keep his sliding glass door open all the time, even when he leaves home. The screen door is always shut, but that wouldn’t really keep anybody out. It’s too bad – if he locked the glass door, we would never even think of trying what we’re about to do.

Our cell phones ding at the same time. Ravi and I look at them. “He left in his car,” reads the text from Colbie.

“Let’s go,” says Ravi, jumping up.

I get up more slowly, stalling. “No more than twenty minutes, Ravi.”

“I know, Spence. We’ll check our watches as soon as we get in there.” Both of us are whispering, even though there’s nobody in sight.

We make our way through the woods toward Mr. Fedorov’s house, walking on rocks to cross the stream. As we approach the trail along Mr. Fedorov’s back fence in the trees, Ravi stops and holds up his hand, motioning me to stop. I see an overweight man jogging slowly, huffing, on the path. We wait in the woods until he passes. We glance in both directions: nobody else in sight.

Ravi begins walking again, more quickly, and I follow. We cross the trail and approach a gate leading into Mr. Fedorov’s backyard that he uses on his daily walk in the park with his chocolate Lab, Tsarina. The gate is at the end of the back fence furthest from Mrs. Prattle’s yard. My heart starts to pound as Ravi lifts the latch and pulls back the gate. We enter and take a quick look around. I close the gate.

“Only the desk, Ravi. That’s all.”

Ravi just nods. We agreed to look only on the desk of Mr. Fedorov’s study for “incriminating evidence,” as Ravi calls it, something connecting him to the money and letters in the coffee container.

As we walk around Mr. Fedorov’s garden toward his back door, I realize we’ve probably already broken a law against trespassing or something. I pull my phone from a pocket to see if Colbie or Cal has texted again. They’re still on the street, keeping an eye out for Mr. Fedorov’s return. There’s a text from Cal: “Drove past me.” I nervously start putting my phone back in the pocket, but accidentally drop it. The phone clatters on a brick patio. Ravi stops and glares at me. We both look in the direction of Mrs. Prattle’s house, but it’s mostly hidden by trees. No sign of the nosy Mrs. P. I reach down to pick up my phone, hoping the noise has prompted Ravi to “abort the mission” – another phrase he’d used during our planning last night – but he turns and walks to the screen door.

Ravi tugs lightly on the door. It doesn’t budge – it’s latched. He pulls from his pocket a credit card he’d lifted from his mom’s purse this morning. I’m hoping it won’t work and we can leave, but the gap is just wide enough for the edge of the credit card to fit. Ravi pulls up on the card, and the cheap metal latch releases. He looks at me and smiles.

Ravi slowly opens the door. It’s slides easily, almost noiseless. We enter Mr. Fedorov’s kitchen. It’s gotta be at least eighty degrees in here. The air conditioning is off. There’s a strong smell that reminds me of when my mom makes stuffed cabbage using the recipe of her Polish grandmother. “Golumpki,” she calls it.

I look at my watch. “Ten thirteen, Ravi,” I whisper. “We leave by ten thirty-three.”

The entrance to Mr. Fedorov’s study is on the front-left side of the kitchen. The door is open. As we walk past a kitchen table, I glance at my phone again – nothing from Colbie and Cal – and put it back in my pocket, more carefully.

We enter the study. I’m sweating in the heat. Ravi doesn’t seem bothered by it. Tsarina jumps up from under the desk and barks twice. When she sees it’s us, she runs up and licks our shins, tail wagging, excited by visitors. We had counted on her staying calm since she knows us. We sometimes cross paths with Mr. Fedorov and Tsarina on their morning walks in the woods, and always stop for a minute to say hello and pet her.

The desk sits along a back window, facing the woods. The leather recliner is in a far corner. On a side table next to the recliner are a lamp, newspaper, cup of coffee, and pair of reading glasses. The study seems much bigger than it does looking through the back window with binoculars. Along the three interior walls are bookcases filled with books and mementos. Between the bookcases, hung on the walls, are framed photographs.

Ravi goes right to the desk, which is covered with stacks of papers. There’s also a small printer, an open checkbook and a stack of mail, all very neat. We stand motionless at first. Then Ravi starts looking through the mail. Looks like bills – the one on top is from the water company. As Ravi glances through those, I start looking at the stacks of printouts, not touching anything, worried about leaving fingerprints. I’m not even sure what we’re looking for. I don’t think Ravi does either.

When Tsarina realizes she’s not going to get attention from us, her tail stops wagging and she slumps back down under the desk, disappointed.

As Ravi looks through the stacks of paper, careful to leave each one as neatly as he found it, I look again at my watch. “Ten twenty-one, Ravi,” I whisper. We have twelve minutes left, but I am ready to head out. I leave Ravi to his detective work and walk across the room to a side wall, glancing at the many photographs. A much younger and thinner Mr. Fedorov, with dark hair but still the bushy mustache, appear in many of them. He is usually standing with a pretty woman and a boy in a foreign country, smiling. I see the Eiffel Tower in the background of one, Big Ben in another. Some are of just the woman and the boy. The boy appears at different ages, sometimes as a young man. I guess Mr. Fedorov had a wife at one time, and a son.

Ravi stands at the desk, shaking his head, arms at his sides. Looking at my phone again, I walk to a set of photos on another wall. More family pictures, but also some with Mr. Fedorov standing with important-looking people.

And then one photograph catches my eye. I walk up to it and take another look. Oh, no. Oh, boy.

“Ravi!” I whisper. Ravi turns from the desk, hands on hips. I point to the photo. Ravi walks across the room and looks up. We both stare at a framed photo of Mr. Fedorov, in coat and tie, maybe in his mid-forties. He is standing in the Oval Office. The White House. Standing next to him, an arm wrapped around Mr. Fedorov’s broad shoulders, is a smiling President Reagan. Inscribed in the top right corner is a handwritten note: “To my friend Pasha for great courage in helping to bring an end to the Cold War.” It is signed by the president.

We were wrong about Mr. Fedorov. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Now.”

Before we have a chance to move, we hear from behind us a familiar voice, the thick Russian accent. “Find what you’re looking for, boys?”

Filling the doorway to the study is the hulking frame of Mr. Fedorov. The only one happy to see him is Tsarina.

CHAPTER 5

THE CONFRONTATION

Spencer Hale

Mr. Fedorov walks into the study. Ravi and I stand motionless. Tsarina ignores the tension, running up to greet Mr. Fedorov.

“Funny,” he says, reaching down to pet Tsarina, but keeping his eyes on us. “I didn’t think either of you was the type to break into a neighbor’s home.” His expression and words carry more disappointment and curiosity than anger. This somehow makes me feel even more embarrassed.

He locks his eyes with mine, and then with Ravi’s. I have never been this uncomfortable in my life. Then he shakes his head, turns, and walks from the study into the kitchen. “Come,” he says. “Why don’t you explain to me what this is all about?”

Ravi and I look at each other, and then follow him into the kitchen.

Between an island and the screen door is a kitchen table, made of thick glass and surrounded by six high-back chairs. Mr. Fedorov motions to the table, inviting us to sit. As we approach it, I notice the screen door is part-way open. Ravi and I had closed it. That means Mr. Fedorov came in through the back door. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d returned in his car, using the garage to enter. I look at my phone. Still no text from Colbie or Cal, so they didn’t see him return.

“You boys are free to go, if you wish,” says Mr. Fedorov. “But I do think you owe me an explanation before you leave.” He is stern, but not hostile.

Ravi and I each take a chair. I see Ravi glance to the side, at the screen door. So he noticed it, too. Mr. Fedorov, still standing, slides it closed.

“Would either of you care for a glass of lemonade?” he asks. “I’m sure you find it too warm in here. I like fresh air and usually leave the windows open and air conditioner off. I assume you came in through the back door?”

Ravi and I nod. Neither of us has said a word yet.

Mr. Fedorov opens a cabinet and takes out three tall glasses. He pulls a pitcher from the refrigerator and fills the glasses, handing one to each of us. He sits down with a grunt, across the table from us. Ravi and I look at the full glasses and then at each other.

Mr. Fedorov seems to understand, and smiles. “No poison, I promise – despite what Mrs. Prattle seems to think.” So he is aware of the neighborhood gossip. He raises his glass and drains half of the lemonade in two big gulps.

Ravi and I take a few sips. I’m still sweating, and realizing how thirsty I am, I drink most of my glass. Mr. Fedorov refills it. I wish he would turn on the air conditioner, but he stays seated. Tsarina is under the table, lying at Mr. Fedorov’s feet.

“So, gentlemen,” he says, looking at us.

I decide to take the lead, figuring the best explanation would be the truth.

“Mr. Fedorov,” I say, “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have come in here.” I struggle with how to explain, where to start.

After a pause, Mr. Fedorov says, “But you did come in here. And you’re always welcome. But it would be better to do it when I’m home.”

I take another sip of lemonade and then a deep breath. “We thought you were…a spy.”

Mr. Fedorov lets out a deep laugh. “Ah, and you were right! I am a spy. Was a spy. But, as you might have learned from your unguided tour of my study, when it really counted, I spied for your side. And that, boys, was a long time ago.”

My phone and Ravi’s both ding, but neither of us makes a move to look at them. “Go ahead and check,” Mr. Fedorov says. “Your two friends on the street are probably wondering if you’ve left the house yet. I’m sure your operational plan included a time limit that has been surpassed. I don’t want them to worry about you. You may invite them to join us, if you wish.”

Ravi, who’s usually not at a loss for words, finally summons the courage to speak. “You came in through the back door. How did you know?” Leave it to Ravi. Caught red-handed breaking into someone’s house, and now he’s asking the questions?

“You exercised poor operational tradecraft. If you are going to conduct surveillance on a trained spy – and a very experienced one, at that – then you need to use better technique. Otherwise, you’ll be exposed, every time.”

After seeing Colbie and Cal monitoring his movements, Mr. Fedorov explains, he had driven another block and parked his car. Then he walked down another path leading from the neighborhood into the park, continued along the trail behind his home, and came in, just as we did, through the back gate and screen door.

“In your future surveillance operations, you should have someone watching the back of the house, too,” he concludes, raising his thick, gray eyebrows. “And better use of cover and concealment, better on-street demeanor, would also be helpful.”

“That sounds like good advice, Mr. Fedorov,” I say, “but I don’t expect to stay in the spy business, after our rough start.”

I finally look at my phone. Colbie sounds worried in her text. “Where are you? Have you left the house???”

I set the phone on the table. “Mr. Fedorov, I think you need to hear the whole story. And I think you should hear it from all four of us.”

CHAPTER 6

A TRIP DOWN

SOVIET LANE

Spencer Hale

Colbie, Cal, Ravi and I are seated around the table with Mr. Fedorov, who has prepared a fresh pitcher of lemonade, closed the windows, and turned on the air conditioner. It took some doing to get Colbie and Cal to join us, especially once they learned Mr. Fedorov was home, but I convinced them it was okay. And necessary.

Tsarina is beside herself with the excitement of having four familiar visitors, walking from one to another of us, tail wagging, seeking attention.

“So,” says Mr. Fedorov, “you thought I was a spy. Maybe am still a spy? Not surprising, with my Soviet background and the gossip from next door.” He gestures with a burly arm in the direction of Mrs. Prattle’s house. “But,” he says, gazing back and forth between me and Ravi, “your analysis led you astray. In the intelligence business, it is not uncommon for deductive reasoning, based on limited information, to lead to a wrong conclusion. We’ll get to that. But I am a student of human behavior – any good spy is – and unless I’ve read the four of you wrong all along, I suspect you deserve the benefit of the doubt and that your bad decision to visit my home in my absence was based on good intentions.”

He takes a sip of lemonade, strokes his bushy gray horseshoe mustache, and squints at us. “I guess both sides have a story to tell here. Who shall go first?”

He glances at Colbie and Cal, who are still visibly nervous, unaware of how Ravi and I found ourselves sharing a lemonade with our prime suspect. “Tell you what, let me go first,” he says. “Then perhaps you’ll be more comfortable sharing with me why an old Cold War spy like me has suddenly sparked the interest of four high school basketball players with too much time on their hands. Something tells me the four of you have gotten yourselves into something, yes?”

Colbie, Cal and I glance at Ravi, who squirms under the attention.

“Come,” says Fedorov, pushing on the tabletop for leverage to get his huge frame out of the chair. He ambles toward his study, a little unsteady at first, Tsarina trailing him. “Let us return to the scene of the crime.”

We follow him. He walks to the section of framed photos on the wall opposite the door, and gestures to the one of him and President Reagan in the Oval Office. “I believe you boys were looking at this one,” he says. Ravi and I nod. Seeing it for the first time, Colbie and Cal understand how Ravi and I realized we misjudged Mr. Fedorov.

“So, you spied for the United States?” asks Colbie. “Against the Soviet Union?”

Mr. Fedorov nods. “For a couple of years, until I was caught. I was a KGB officer. My wife, son and I lived for many years in Western countries, including the United States. My first overseas tour was in Washington, D.C., in the 1960s. We lived on the Soviet compound, maybe twenty miles from here.” Colbie and Cal look at the photos of the young Mr. Fedorov and his family.

“Your wife is pretty, Mr. Fedorov,” says Colbie.

“Thank you, Colbie.” His smile is wistful. “Yes, she was beautiful.”

“Is that when you started working for the United States?” I ask. “When you were in Washington?”

“Nyet – no. That came much later. I was a patriot. I loved my country, the people, the customs and traditions. But over time I developed a profound appreciation for the freedoms enjoyed in the West, freedoms often taken for granted here. No, it was two decades later when I volunteered to the CIA. And there was much more to it than that.”

Mr. Fedorov walks to a bookcase on an adjacent wall. We follow. He points to a wooden, box frame on a shelf. In it, behind glass, is a certificate above a round gold medal with a big star in the middle. Inscribed around the outside of the medal is “CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY.” Below the star is another inscription: “FOR VALOR.”

“President Reagan presented me with this in the Oval Office,” says Mr. Fedorov.

The certificate above the medal identifies Pavel Fedorov as a recipient of the Intelligence Star “for extraordinary heroism under conditions of grave risk.” It is signed by CIA director William Casey, in 1988.

On another shelf, above the Intelligence Star, I see a framed photograph of a basketball team, in red jerseys with “CSKA” in white letters across the front. I spot one player who is tall, thin, and athletic-looking – the only player with a mustache.

“You played basketball?” I ask.

All eyes look up at the photo. “Da, a long time ago,” says Mr. Fedorov. “I played as a young man in the Soviet Union Premier Basketball League for the best team, CSKA Moscow. We won the FIBA European Champions Cup in 1963. Beat Real Madrid in the finals. I had eleven assists and fourteen points.” He smiles. “Today, we would call that a double-double.”

All of us look at him, thinking the same thing: this heavy old man, a Cold War hero and basketball star, has been living down the street from us all these years. And we never knew it.

“That’s legit!” says Ravi.

Mr. Fedorov laughs. “You are more impressed with the basketball than the Intelligence Medal.” He bends over slightly at the waist, a hand gripping his lower back.

“Mr. Fedorov, would you like to sit down?” asks Colbie. “Let’s go back to the kitchen.”

“Da. Your observation skills are strong, Colbie. You would make an excellent spy, if only you were better at concealing yourself behind trees across the street.” Mr. Fedorov raises his bushy gray eyebrows.

Colbie grimaces, gently takes his elbow, and guides him slowly back to the kitchen table. We follow, with Tsarina in tow.

“Did you play on the Soviet Olympic team?” asks Ravi as we sit.

“Nyet. I was not so lucky. I tore ligaments in my knee a few months before the 1964 Olympic Games in Tokyo.” He pulls up the left leg of his pants, revealing a long scar on his left knee. “Knee surgery was primitive in those days. I was never able to play the same again. That team lost to the U.S. in the finals. Won a silver medal.”

“Wow, you coulda won an Olympics silver medal!” says Ravi.

“Nyet,” says Mr. Fedorov. “It would’ve been a gold medal if I’d been on the team.”

He reaches down to pat Tsarina’s head. “The injury. Best thing that ever happened to me. I met my wife, Karina, going through rehab for my knee. She was a nurse.”

“What about your son, Mr. Fedorov?” asks Colbie. “Where is he now?”

“Dmitry.” Mr. Fedorov lowers his gaze to his glass of lemonade and takes a sip. “Killed in the senseless Soviet War in Afghanistan. Nineteen eighty-four. Such a young man – still a boy, really. Always looking for adventure.” He smiles. “Perhaps a bit like the four of you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fedorov,” says Colbie.

“So you got married and joined the KGB,” says Cal, joining the conversation for the first time as he sets his baseball and glove on the table.

“Da, yes. Playing tournament basketball in Europe, it was my first time outside the Soviet Union. Such an adventure. Experiencing cultures so different from mine. Players from other countries – we played Finland, Spain, France – seemed more carefree. Meanwhile, our players were watched constantly by KGB minders. Preventing anyone from defecting to the West. I realized – my teammates, too – that Western countries, the people, were far different from how they were portrayed by the Soviet government. It made me want to travel more. When an opportunity with the KGB came along after my injury, we – Karina and I – decided to take advantage of it. Despite our reservations. The job came with more privileges and an opportunity to see the world. And then Dmitry came along. It was a perfect life.”

“What was it like?” I ask. “Growing up in the Soviet Union, I mean.”

“The Soviet system was repressive, though I didn’t understand it until I was older. We were conditioned to view life as a constant struggle against enemies of the people, outside our country, but inside it, too. Soviet children were taught that loyalty to the Soviet government was the most important trait one could possess. As a schoolboy, I learned to honor the legacy of Pavlik Morozov, a twelve-year-old boy who reported his own father to the secret police for hiding grain from the authorities during the 1930s Stalin era.”

“This boy was a hero for ratting out his own dad?” asks Ravi.

Mr. Fedorov nods. “He was the model for other children. There were statues of him. Schools were named after him. Can you imagine?”

“Did you know it was different in other countries?” asks Colbie. “Like in the United States or Europe?”

“Nyet. It was illegal to listen to a foreign radio broadcast or be in possession of a foreign book. All books and newspapers carried only the government’s official version of history and current events. How could a child know the truth?”

He pushes himself up slowly from the table, picks up a metal bowl from the floor, refills it with water from the kitchen sink, replaces it, and sits back down. Tsarina laps up some water, and lies down again at Mr. Fedorov’s feet.

“It wasn’t until you traveled outside the Soviet Union that you realized how bad it was there?” asks Cal.

“No, I was about your age when I became aware of it. After Joseph Stalin died. Children were taught to love him as a kindly father. When he died in March of 1953, I cried. Like millions of other Soviets. Three years later, our new Soviet leader, Nikita Khrushchev, condemned Stalin in a speech. From that point, Stalin was considered a criminal. Some of his closest associates were executed for treason. There were a few changes for the better – some political prisoners were released from labor camps, some forms of censorship were reduced. But for most people, nothing changed. And I was just old enough to realize that the repression and lies under Stalin continued under Khrushchev.”

“How did your parents explain it to you?” asks Colbie. “Did they support the Soviet system?”

“Like most adults, they had little choice. They were cautious about what they said and did. They didn’t question things. Let me give you an example.” Mr. Fedorov takes a sip of lemonade. “The head of the Soviet Secret Police under Stalin was Lavrentiy Beria. He oversaw Soviet forced labor camps and took part in torture and rape. He enjoyed it. After Stalin’s death, he was arrested for treason and executed. We had a set of Soviet encyclopedias in my home. In the ‘B’ volume was an entry on Beria, very flattering. After his arrest and execution, the Soviet government sent out to all encyclopedia subscribers a written piece about the Bering Strait, which fit in the same spot alphabetically with Beria. With it came instructions to cut out the section on Beria and replace it with the one on the Bering Strait. My mother didn’t question it, she followed the instructions, like a good Soviet. That’s the country I grew up in.”

“But you still joined the KGB,” says Ravi. “Despite all of that.”

“Da. I still wanted to serve my country. And there were selfish reasons – it offered a good life for my family. So let me tell you how I ended up here.”

I lean forward, elbows on the table.

“During my first tour, in Washington, I attended an exhibition basketball game. A visiting Soviet team was playing an American team, part of a cultural exchange between our countries. At the game, I was bumped by a CIA officer.”

“Bumped?” I ask.

“An intelligence term,” says Mr. Fedorov. “He knew I would attend and arranged to have the seat next to mine. He ‘bumped’ me. He wanted to establish a friendship so he could recruit me later for the CIA.”

“So it worked?” asks Cal. “I thought you said you worked for the CIA only much later.”

“Yes, this was just how it got started. The CIA officer was Clint Kilkenny. A tough Texan, former navy pilot. Claimed he worked at the Pentagon. I knew what he was up to, figured he was CIA. But we hit it off, as you say, and agreed to have a drink after the game. We had a lot in common. He was an athlete – played minor league baseball for a few years – and we shared an enjoyment for risk and strong dislike for bureaucrats and politicians.”

“Did he ask you for secret information then?” asks Ravi.

“Nyet. These relationships take time. We began meeting occasionally for lunch or dinner, talking, getting to know each other. Both of us knew who the other really worked for and reported the meetings to our governments. I needed KGB permission to meet with him, and got it because I reported that I was developing him as a source for the KGB. I claimed he had weaknesses that could be exploited, though if Clint Kilkenny really did, I never saw them. Neither of us ever gave the other any information of value. And each of us tried to pitch the other to work for his intelligence service, unsuccessfully. We became close friends and continued that way until I was reassigned to Moscow. But Clint never gave up. On my later overseas assignments, he would occasionally visit, unannounced. He was always careful to make contact outside the prying eyes of the KGB, knowing it could get me in trouble, that the KGB would no longer permit me to meet with him.”

“And eventually, it happened,” I say. “You agreed to work for the CIA.”

“Yes, eventually, I volunteered. We were living in Turkey in 1984. Ankara, the capital. Karina became seriously ill. On a visit to Moscow, we found out she had a terminal illness. She was given only a year to live. I learned from a Soviet doctor that more advanced treatment was available in the United States. I petitioned the KGB to reassign us to Washington. For Karina. I was a KGB colonel at this point. We had just lost our son in the Afghan War. But the KGB bureaucrats refused my request.” He slaps the table with his hand, startling us.

Mr. Fedorov sits quietly for a bit. We wait until he’s ready to continue.

“We returned to Ankara. Karina got treatment there. Then I got an unexpected visit from Clint Kilkenny. I told him about Karina. He was determined to help. A couple of weeks later, Karina and I took a brief vacation to the Mediterranean coast of Turkey, where we wouldn’t be watched by the KGB. Clint had arranged for a specialist from the Mayo Clinic to meet us there, at a hospital. To evaluate Karina. The doctor put her on experimental drugs used in the U.S. The drugs slowed her deterioration, but she continued to decline. We were reassigned to Moscow the following year. Karina died six months later.”

Seated next to him, Colbie puts her hand on Mr. Fedorov’s forearm.

“Was there some sort of a deal, that you would work for Clint in return for his help with Karina?” I ask.

“Nyet. Clint never asked for anything. Said he knew I would’ve done the same for him if the situation was reversed. He retired before Karina died.”

“So you never did work for Clint?” asks Cal.

“Nyet. It was during Karina’s funeral that I decided to work against my repressive government for the CIA. I had lost my wife and son. Now, no one but me could ever be hurt by my actions if things went badly. The next month, on a business trip from Moscow to Istanbul, I deliberately crossed paths with the CIA chief there.”

“You bumped him!” says Ravi.

“Exactly.” Mr. Fedorov smiles. “I told him who I was, my relationship with Clint Kilkenny, and volunteered. He confirmed my story and during the next few days we met privately, developing a plan for me to provide intelligence to the CIA while working in Moscow.”

“Sounds pretty risky,” I say.

“More than you can imagine, Spencer. Over the previous year, ten Soviet agents working for the CIA had been arrested and executed. I knew the risks as well as anyone.”

“Aldrich Ames?” asks Ravi.

Mr. Fedorov looks surprised. “You know your spy history, Ravi!”

Colbie, Cal and I look back and forth between the two, confused.

“Aldrich Ames was a CIA officer who secretly worked for the Russians. He was what we call a mole. Ames revealed to the KGB the identities of every CIA source in the Soviet Union. I didn’t know who the CIA mole was – his identity was known among only a handful of people in the KGB – and it took the CIA and FBI almost nine years to identify and arrest Ames.”

“And yet you still did it,” I say. “And got caught. Did Ames tell the KGB about you, too?”

Mr. Fedorov shakes his head. “No, Spencer. The CIA suspected it had a mole and took special steps to protect my identity internally. Ames betrayed every CIA source in the Soviet Union, before I came along, to protect himself – if he eliminated all KGB moles, no CIA sources would be left to reveal him. But the FBI and CIA are certain he never knew my identity.”

“Robert Hanssen?” asks Ravi.

“No.” Mr. Fedorov turns his attention to me, Colbie and Cal. “Bob Hanssen was a mole in the FBI, arrested in 2001,” he explains. “He was already reporting to the KGB when I volunteered, but his access to counterintelligence was limited to KGB officers in Washington and I was in Moscow, so he knew nothing about me.”

“How’d you get caught then?” asks Cal.

“Ah, that’s the big question, Cal. The CIA doesn’t know for sure, even today. It happened in early 1988. I was meeting on a quiet street in Moscow, after dark, with a CIA officer who worked at the U.S. embassy. Ten minutes into the meeting, as we walked along the street talking quietly, we realized we were under surveillance. We broke it off immediately, going our separate ways, but I’d already passed him photographs of KGB documents. We were arrested a minute later, and he had the photos in his possession. We took many precautions to protect ourselves, but something went wrong. Perhaps I made a tradecraft mistake. Perhaps the CIA officer did. Maybe I was already under suspicion, had surveillance on the way to the meeting and missed it.”

“That seems unlikely,” I say. “You caught us pretty easily.”

Mr. Fedorov laughs. “The four of you were a bit less discreet than KGB surveillance teams, Spencer. And it is difficult to identify surveillance conducted by a large, well-trained team.”

“If you got arrested, how did you end up here?” asks Colbie.

“I was lucky. I was convicted of treason, and sentenced to execution.”

“Oh, my god, Mr. Fedorov,” says Colbie. “That doesn’t sound lucky.”

“The luck came later. The CIA knew the consequences for me. They brought Clint Kilkenny in, out of retirement, to work out a deal. He was bored, anyway, playing golf in Arizona.”

“What kind of deal?” I ask.

“Clint met with the FBI’s counterintelligence unit in Washington, the group responsible for identifying foreign spies on U.S. soil. He learned the CI unit was monitoring the activities of a small group of Soviet illegals working on the East Coast.”

“Sleeper agents!” says Ravi.

“Da, exactly right! How do you know about these things?”

Tsarina begins whining. Mr. Fedorov looks at his watch, pushes himself up, and puts a scoop of dog food into a bowl. She finishes the food – practically inhales it – before he sits back down.

“Anyway, the FBI’s CI unit had identified three Soviet illegals. They suspected the three were part of a larger group. The FBI had them under surveillance, patiently trying to identify others before making arrests. Clint and the CIA persuaded the FBI to move forward with the arrests immediately.”

“A spy swap!” says Ravi.

“Yes, Ravi. The FBI went to the White House, proposing that they arrest the three illegals and then make an offer to the Soviet Union to swap them for me. President Reagan agreed. The arrests were made. And the Soviet Kremlin agreed to the offer, stipulating that the U.S. government could not publicize the arrests or the swap. The Soviets didn’t want the U.S. to gain any propaganda value.”

“How was the swap made?” asks Colbie.

“It was handled quietly, in Austria, a few weeks later. The three illegals returned to Moscow. The CIA brought me here, bought me this house, put me on a pension. They call it ‘resettlement.’ I had refused to take any money until then. I continued to work with the CIA for years, helping them understand developments in the Soviet Union and assess KGB officers I was familiar with around the world.”

One thing is bothering me. I have to ask. “Mr. Fedorov, Mrs. Prattle says you get a lot of visitors. She says they come in the evening every couple of weeks, always carrying a bottle.”

“Ah, da, Mrs. Prattle is very…observant. Might make a good counterintelligence specialist. She is correct. The CIA sends an officer to my home, usually a couple of times a month, part of their resettlement program. In the early days, they would debrief me, ask me for input on intelligence operations. Now that they consider me less useful, it has become what they refer to as a ‘hand-holding’ activity. They come just to check in on me, make sure I am doing alright, have a drink and chat.”

“They don’t hide it?” asks Ravi. “Aren’t you worried the Russians will learn where you are and do something to you? Like the former Russian spy they poisoned in London?”

Mr. Fedorov laughs. “I’m glad to know that young people are following the news. But no, Ravi, I am not hiding from the SVR – as the KGB is called today. I was swapped. The SVR would never touch me on U.S. soil, so there’s no reason for me to hide. Or for the CIA to exercise much caution in meeting me here. I am old news, an ancient relic of the Cold War.”

Mr. Fedorov’s expression becomes more serious. “Well,” he says, “I have done all the talking, and you have asked all the questions. It’s time to turn the tables. I believe the four of you have a story to tell. To what do I owe your little visit today” – he looks at me and Ravi – “in my absence?”

Ravi, Cal and Colbie look at me.

“Spencer?” says Mr. Fedorov. “I believe your friends have elected you. Explain.”

CHAPTER 7

THE TRANSFER

Spencer Hale

I start from the beginning, me in the fort, the Penguin slipping in the rain on the slick trail, before placing the coffee container next to the bridge and wiping the back of the park sign. Colbie, Cal and Ravi fill in details as I describe the hidden compartment, money, and content of the letters. Mr. Fedorov listens carefully, not saying a word. I let Ravi explain our suspicions of Mr. Fedorov and how it was decided to visit his study. Mr. Fedorov squints and purses his lips under his bushy gray mustache as Ravi nervously tries to justify the decision. The rest of us look down at the table, away from the old Russian’s stern gaze.

Finally, Mr. Fedorov speaks. His tone is serious. “I am impressed with your deductive reasoning skills and detective work. But it was unwise for you to take this into your own hands. You have involved yourselves in something dangerous for amateurs. Whoever the package was intended for knows it’s missing.” His eyes make their way around the table, locking on each of us, one at a time.

We are quiet and still, afraid to look away. The only sound is Tsarina, licking her paws, oblivious. Nice to be a dog.

“Where is the concealment device – the coffee container – now?” asks Mr. Fedorov. “The letters and money?”

“In our fort,” I say. “Hidden. It was still there this morning.”

“Okay,” says Mr. Fedorov, slapping the table lightly, “here is what we’ll do. You’ll leave here together, through my back gate. One of you will go home and get a backpack large enough to hold the coffee container. Ravi, can you do that?”

Ravi nods.

“The other three will head to your fort. Ravi will meet you there. A few minutes after I see Ravi go by my back fence with the backpack, I’ll take Tsarina for a walk in the woods. You’ll put the container in the backpack. Look for me. I’ll be wearing my Nationals baseball cap. When I am satisfied that no one is observing you, I’ll remove my hat. That is your signal to leave the fort, with the backpack. You’ll return here together. Enter through the back gate and back door.” He fixes his gaze on me and Ravi. “You two obviously know the way. I will meet you here after I finish my walk. Understood?”

***

We are waiting nervously in the fort, me, Colbie and Cal. None of us has said much since leaving Mr. Fedorov’s house. We kill time by taking turns shooting a mini basketball at a small hoop mounted on the wall. The backboard has a logo of UCLA, my dad’s alma mater. Each of us has contributed to the mix of basketball posters, pennants and souvenirs covering the walls of the fort, all yellowed by weather and age. The lone exception to the basketball theme is a poster of a guy named Sachin Tendulkar, an Indian cricket player that Ravi describes as the “greatest batsman of all time,” whatever that means.

Ravi arrives fifteen minutes after we do. He climbs into the fort, wearing a green backpack.

I pull the coffee container from behind the two-by-fours, the letters and money still in the hidden compartment. Ravi opens his backpack, puts the container in, and zips it shut.

“Do we trust him?” says Ravi, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Mr. Fedorov?”

“I don’t think we have much choice,” I say.

“I trust him,” says Colbie. “He should know what to do with this.”

“We should have reported it to the police,” says Cal. “Then we wouldn’t be involved.”

Ravi pulls out his phone and begins typing. “What’re you doing?” asks Colbie.

“Googling.”

The rest of us look out of the fort, through small breaks in the trees at the trails winding through the woods. There are a few people out – walking, riding bikes, jogging. No sign of Mr. Fedorov and Tsarina yet. The sky has become overcast.

“Here it is,” says Ravi, looking at his phone. “March 1988. The Soviet government declared a guy who worked at the U.S. embassy in Moscow persona non grata for spying. No name.”

“Persona non grata?” asks Cal.

“It’s Latin,” says Ravi. “Means they kicked him out of the country.”

“That must be the CIA officer, the one who got arrested with Mr. Fedorov,” I say.

“Here’s something else,” says Ravi. “It says President Reagan responded by kicking out a Soviet diplomat a week later. None of it mentions a Pavel Fedorov.”

“Sounds like he’s telling the truth,” says Colbie.

I am looking through the binoculars. “There he is!” Mr. Fedorov is walking Tsarina along the trail in the direction of the bridge where the coffee container was left by the Penguin. “He’s wearing his Nats cap.”

I lose Mr. Fedorov for a minute and then he reappears through a gap in the trees, stopping maybe fifty yards short of the bridge. He allows Tsarina to sniff the ground and then turns, reversing direction. I catch occasional glimpses of him, returning along the trail, cap still on.

Ravi is still staring at his phone. “And here’s a roster of the CSKA Moscow basketball team in 1963. Pavel Fedorov is listed as a six-foot four-inch point guard.”

I lose sight of Mr. Fedorov for several minutes. When he finally reemerges, he’s walking along the trail that leads along his back fence, in the general direction of the fort.

“He’s coming this way now,” I say. “Cap’s still on.”

“Why’s he still got the cap on?” asks Colbie.

“Maybe he saw something,” says Cal. “Maybe it’s not safe.” He sets his baseball on the table, grabs an opened bag of Fritos, and starts eating nervously.

When I catch sight of him again a few minutes later, Mr. Fedorov has passed the fort on a bend in the trail leading away from our neighborhood and further into the woods, Nats cap still on. Then he stops to let Tsarina pee. As Mr. Fedorov waits for Tsarina to finish her business, he removes his hat and wipes sweat from his forehead. Tsarina starts moving again in the same direction, away from us, and Mr. Fedorov follows, cap in hand.

“Cap’s off,” I say. “Let’s go.”

***

The four of us are again seated in Mr. Fedorov’s kitchen, Ravi’s backpack on the table in front of us, unopened. Tsarina appears outside the screen door, panting and excited, like she hasn’t seen us in weeks. I get up and open the door. She greets each one of us and then laps water from her bowl. Mr. Fedorov comes in, sweaty and exhausted.

Colbie fills his glass with lemonade. “Thank you, Colbie, just what I needed.” He sits, looking at the backpack. “Let’s take a look.”

Ravi opens the backpack and pulls out the coffee container, sliding it across the table to Mr. Fedorov. He shakes his head. “You four have opened it before. I’ll let you do the honors.”

I pull it toward me, turning it upside-down. Colbie and Cal brace the outside. I twist off the base, just as I had last night in the fort. I pull out the plastic bag, handing it to Mr. Fedorov. He sets the bag aside and reaches for the two pieces of the coffee container, examining the hidden compartment and threaded edges. “Well-made concealment device,” he says.

Then he picks up the plastic bag, unsealing it, and pulls out the contents. The papers and money are just as we first found them. He removes the rubber bands, puts on a pair of reading glasses, and glances first at the money. “Used. Non-sequential serial numbers. No way to trace.”

He picks up the letter and list of questions, leaning back in his chair. We wait quietly until he finishes. Finally, he takes off his glasses. “Well, young people, you have uncovered a dead drop.”

“Dead drop?” I ask.

“Ravi,” says Mr. Fedorov, “you seem to be well-versed on these things. Would you like to explain, or shall I?”

Ravi smiles, a mix of mild embarrassment and pride. “You take this one, Mr. Fedorov.”

“Why, thank you, Ravi.” Mr. Fedorov leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlocked. “A dead drop is a way for spies to pass information and materials back and forth using a secret location agreed upon in advance. It can be more secure because they communicate without meeting directly. The concealment device can be anything – a fake, hollowed-out rock. Even an old glove will do. In this case, we have an intelligence service communicating with someone who has offered to spy on his own government.”

“You said his,” Ravi points out. “How do we know it’s a man?”

“We don’t, Ravi. What we do know is that the spy is calling the shots. How, where and when they will communicate. That means he has been trained in the tradecraft of espionage. He has also chosen to remain anonymous, to protect his own identity.”

“So, if the intelligence service doesn’t know who the spy is,” I say, “it’s harder for him to ever get caught.”

“Exactly, Spencer. If the intelligence service is penetrated by someone – a mole – who is reporting to the spy’s own government, that mole wouldn’t be able to identify him.”

“You mean like the guy in the Balkans that they ask for more information about?” asks Colbie. “He’s a mole, right?”

“Likely so, Colbie. And the letter refers to ‘our friend in Cairo’ – probably another mole.”

“The list of questions asks for more details about the guy in the Balkans,” I say. “But no questions about the one in Cairo. Why?”

“Good question, Spencer. The spy must have provided enough information to identify the guy in Cairo, but not the one in the Balkans. Maybe he doesn’t know the identity of the mole in the Balkans. But it’s also possible he was deliberately vague because he isn’t ready to reveal him yet. Maybe he plans to drag things out a bit, demanding more money for additional information.”

“Who do you think N.V. is?” asks Ravi. “The letter instructs the spy not to see her again.”

“Our spy probably considered several options for getting a package into the hands of an intelligence service, probably one based at a foreign embassy in Washington. He could’ve walked into the embassy and met them directly, but ruled that out because he wants anonymity. He could’ve mailed it, but knew the FBI could be monitoring the mail. The third option would be to cross paths with an embassy employee on the streets and give them the package with instructions on who to pass it to. Looks like he took that route, selecting someone that has intelligence connections, but isn’t likely to be under FBI surveillance. And that person is a woman with the initials N.V.”

“Why would the intelligence service trust him?” asks Ravi. “He refuses to identify himself. Wouldn’t they think maybe he was a double agent or something?”

“Yes, the intel service would consider the possibility that he is a dangle, directed by one spy agency to be recruited by another and then run as a double agent, perhaps to spread disinformation. But that’s unlikely. Double agent operations are risky, time-consuming, and of limited value. Plus, I’ve never seen a dangle that would reveal the identities of moles – two of them, in this case – just to get recruited. No, our spy is crafty. He identified the moles for two reasons. One, he knows that identifying and catching moles is a matter of great urgency to any intel service. They would respond quickly and compensate him well, if they believe he is credible. And two, the spy wants to eliminate anyone who can identify him as a traitor to his own government, as Aldrich Ames did. No one left to identify him.”

“Where do you think the spy works?” I ask. “Is he an American?”

Mr. Fedorov leans back in his chair. “Yes. Let’s put it all together. Our spy is trained in espionage. Living near Washington, probably in the suburbs not far from here, with convenient access to Willow Creek Park. An operative working at a foreign embassy in Washington could fit those characteristics, but this spy provided an intelligence strategy document and information on moles in other countries – and these types of information would typically be available only to someone working in a headquarters office, not someone at an overseas embassy. Yes, I suspect our spy is an American, working at the CIA.”

“Couldn’t he work for the FBI?” asks Cal.

“I don’t think so, Calvin,” says Mr. Fedorov. He picks up the list of questions from the dead drop, and puts on his reading glasses. “The primary focus of the questions from the intelligence service is on identifying a mole, ‘Alex,’ who is handled somewhere in the Balkans region. The FBI posts personnel overseas, but mostly just to work with their counterparts in foreign governments, not to handle foreign assets. That’s the work of the CIA, and knowledge of ‘Alex’ would be restricted within the Agency – not shared with the FBI. That means our spy, our mole, is in the CIA.”

“Which foreign intelligence service do you think our spy contacted?” asks Ravi.

“It could be one of several.”

“The letter says the spy proposed communicating using ‘alternating two-week intervals,’” says Colbie. “What’s that mean?”

“It’s prearranged for a dead drop to be made every two weeks, but responsibilities for making the drop or picking it up will alternate. The intelligence service made this dead drop, so the next one will be made by the spy on the 30th, according to the letter – two weeks after the drop you found. The intelligence service would then respond with a dead drop for the spy, with feedback and instructions, two weeks after that. And so on.”

“So, how do we track down this spy?” asks Ravi. “What do we do next?”

“We?” Mr. Fedorov laughs. “You four have done quite enough. And you should be commended for it. But now it’s time to get these materials, and money, into the right hands. Professionals. Espionage is not an activity for children.”

“But we’re already involved!” says Ravi. “You’re a professional. And we can help.”

I find myself nodding, but Mr. Fedorov sits back in his chair and shakes his head.

“Who will you give the letters and money to?” asks Colbie.

“I have a visit scheduled tonight from one of my CIA hand-holders. It’s usually someone from Russia House. Someone who will know precisely how to handle such matters.”

“But you said yourself that the spy is probably from the CIA,” I point out. “How do you know you can trust them? That your visitor isn’t the spy?”

“Yes, the thought has occurred to me, Spencer,” says Mr. Fedorov. “But the risks of that are negligible. Far less risky than an old spy and four teenagers taking this on.”

“Bloody hell,” says Ravi.

“Bloody hell?” says Mr. Fedorov.

“He picked it up from his mom,” says Colbie, rolling her eyes. “She grew up in London.”

“So that’s it?” asks Cal. “How will we find out what happens?”

Mr. Fedorov shrugs. “You may never find out, Calvin. That’s the nature of the intelligence business. Everything operates on a strict need-to-know basis. Even I may never find out where this leads.”

“Can you at least tell us how your meeting goes tonight?” I ask.

Mr. Fedorov strokes his bushy mustache. “Yes, I believe I owe you that. How about you all visit me again tomorrow morning? After Spencer finishes his basketball drills. I’ll let you know how it goes. Perhaps my hand-holder would even like to meet you sometime, to thank you for your service to our country.”

“Can we come to your front door this time?” asks Colbie.

Mr. Fedorov frowns. “No, best not give Mrs. Prattle something else to chatter about. Have any of you mentioned the events of last night to anyone else?”

All four of us shake our heads.

“Good,” says Mr. Fedorov. “Now keep it that way for now.”

CHAPTER 8

AN UNUSUAL VISITOR

A deep exhaustion settles over Pavel Fedorov, a tightness in his upper back and shoulders. He leans back in his recliner, releasing the footrest. Tsarina lies on the floor next to him, snoring gently. He replays the day’s events in his mind.

Fedorov glances at his watch. The hand-holder is scheduled to arrive at seven-thirty. That will give him time for another visit to the woods, for there is one more matter he needs to attend to, without the four children this time. But first, a nap. And then dinner.

***

With most people in for the evening, foot traffic in the park is light. Fedorov takes the same route he started out on this morning, puffing occasionally on a cigar and walking at a relaxed pace across the footbridge, past the spot where the coffee container was placed. Good dead drop site, he thinks. Easy point to identify and place or retrieve a package without leaving the trail. Adequate concealment provided by ground vegetation.

He continues in the direction of the white metal park sign described by Spencer, at the junction of his trail and a path leading into a neighborhood on the opposite side of the park from his own. It’s one of several identical signs placed at every entry point, showing a map of the park’s trail system. The sign is concealed by trees from homes backing onto the park. A good signal site, he thinks – our spy knows what he’s doing.

Seeing no one else in the area, he pulls out his lighter and walks to the back of the sign. As he relights his cigar, he looks at the bottom left corner, where Spencer had seen the Penguin appear to wipe off moisture from the rain. The sign is dry now, but he sees a small section that is smeared. Within the smudged spot is the partial outline of a narrow rectangle, maybe three inches long, running vertically. He runs a finger along the length of the rectangle. A bit of stickiness remains.

He looks at the ground below the base of the sign. Along the path and under the sign the vegetation is low. Rocks, plants, broken twigs and dead leaves, still damp from last night’s flash storm. As Tsarina sniffs around the sign, Fedorov brushes one foot lightly back and forth along the ground, through the brush. Where is it? It’s got to be here. He steps a few inches closer, continuing to drag his foot gently along the ground cover. And there it is. Taking a puff of his cigar, he reaches down and picks up a small rectangular piece of blue painter’s tape. He glances at the tape and again at the sticky rectangular outline on the sign. Their dimensions match.

Pavel Fedorov pockets the tape. “Come, Tsarina, let’s head home.”

***

The doorbell rings, followed by a couple of light taps on the door. Fedorov glances at his watch: seven twenty-nine, prompt as always.

He opens the door to find an unfamiliar young man, dark haired, smiling earnestly, hands in pockets. He is clad in a blue blazer and tie, a plastic bag under one arm.

“Mr. Fedorov?”

“Yes, call me Pavel.”

“I’m Martin. Martin Dubois.”

“Thank you for coming, Martin,” says Fedorov, extending his hand in greeting. After an awkward pause, Dubois pulls his hands out of his pockets and Fedorov sees that he has a wrist brace on both arms.

Dubois shrugs. “Sorry, can’t shake hands. A little injury. Two of them, actually.”

“Ah, I see that. Here, let me help you.” Fedorov steps out onto the porch, and takes the bag, containing a bottle of Scotch no doubt, from under his young visitor’s arm. “Please, come in, Martin,” he says, motioning through the doorway.

As Dubois enters, Fedorov glances to the side, across his porch, and sees Mrs. Prattle observing them through her kitchen window. As he smiles and waves, Mrs. Prattle turns abruptly and walks away from the window.

Stepping in and closing the door, Fedorov reaches into the bag and pulls out a bottle of Scotch. “Ah, how kind of you, Martin,” he says, masking his disappointment in the selection. “Will you join me for a glass?”

“Oh no, thank you. A cup of tea, please. Herbal, if you have it.”

More disappointment. In the spy business, relationships are built, secrets are conveyed, plans and intentions of governments are discussed, treason is committed – often over a shared bottle of distilled spirits. Fedorov views with disdain the many intelligence officers who drink to excess, as it clouds their judgment and decision-making. But he has always found it difficult to trust the few who don’t drink at all. Perhaps this generation of spies is different, he thinks.

“Ah, tea, a healthy alternative, Martin. I believe there’s chamomile in here somewhere.” Karina had always made him a cup of chamomile to treat his occasional bouts with indigestion, a prescription he continues to follow.

“Perfect,” says Dubois.

Fedorov shows his visitor to a seat in his living room. A violin concerto plays softly in the background.

“Make yourself comfortable,” says Fedorov. “I have something I want to show you in a bit. I think you’ll find it most interesting.”

“You have me intrigued, Pavel!”

Stepping into the kitchen, Fedorov considers his visitor’s youth – he looks barely old enough to drink – and wonders whether he is experienced enough in intelligence matters to comprehend fully the significance of the dead drop and prospect that one of his own colleagues has volunteered to spy for an adversary. The CIA’s Russia House always sends seasoned operations officers to visit him, prominent men and women who can converse knowledgably about world affairs and espionage. Officers of senior rank, reflecting the Agency’s respect for Fedorov, his Cold War contribution, his place in American intelligence history. Dubois is certainly too young to have completed an overseas tour as an operations officer. Fedorov does not take offense easily. He has come to accept that his knowledge and expertise are so dated that his visitors are no longer accompanied by analysts eager for his feedback on developments in Moscow. But he can’t help but feel miffed by what he considers a breach in protocol. Sending a schoolboy to babysit Pavel Fedorov! Karina would have counseled him not to be so quick to judge. Perhaps Dubois is an up-and-comer, a standout in training, now preparing for a posting to Moscow. It would be only natural for the CIA to send Dubois to Fedorov for guidance on the complex operational environment in Moscow, where U.S. embassy officials are under constant surveillance and sound tradecraft is an imperative.

Fedorov sets the bottle of Scotch brought by Dubois on the counter, unopened, and puts the tea kettle on. He opens the bottle he bought in the morning and pours two fingers in an old-fashioned whisky tumbler. As is his habit, he adds a few drops of water from a mini pitcher to release the whisky’s more subtle flavors. Fedorov takes a moment to appreciate the mahogany coloring of the Scotch and then brings the rim of the glass to the bottom of his lower lip, inhaling lightly. Ahh, the scent of toffee, dark chocolate and orange.

The tea kettle begins whistling. Fedorov pours hot water into a teacup, placing the cup and a bag of chamomile on a saucer. Finally, with anticipation, he takes a small sip of the Scotch, holding it in his mouth for a full second before swallowing. Wonderful, he thinks. Full-bodied, coffee on the palate. How could any man prefer chamomile to this?

Fedorov takes his Scotch glass and the tea and walks through the kitchen, pausing for a moment outside his study. Hands full, he decides to get the dead drop coffee container from his study later.

***

“How’s the Scotch?” asks Dubois. He and Fedorov are seated across from each other in high-backed chairs, a table in between. Dubois leans forward, saucer and cup on the table, bobbing his tea bag up and down with one of his braced hands. He winces slightly, as though the motion causes pain.

“Wonderful, thank you, Martin. It was thoughtful of you to bring it, in your, ah, condition.”

“My pleasure, Mr. – I mean, Pavel.”

“Tell me, Martin, how did you injure yourself?”

Dubois takes a sip of his tea. “Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Both wrists. Quite painful. Incapacitating, in fact.”

“I’m not familiar with it. How did it happen? Paramilitary training accident? I once met an officer – one of your colleagues – who broke both wrists on a bad landing after parachuting out of an airplane.”

Dubois colors slightly, smiling self-consciously. “Nothing so interesting. Too much typing, as it turns out. Causes swelling in the wrist, which pinches the median nerve. First the right hand, and now the left.”

“Typing?”

“Yes, the repetitive motion. But I’ve gotten guidance from my physical therapist to relieve the pain. It’s best to keep your hands warm. Sometimes I even wear gloves at work.”

“Gloves?”

“Yes. And now I’ve taken up yoga. All the stretching and focus on posture help.”

Fedorov takes a sip of Scotch, then another. He has always made it a point to sip his Scotch sparingly, taking the time to enjoy the flavor nuances, and is chagrined to find himself breaking his own rule. He squints at his visitor. “Forgive me, Martin, but why? Why would an operations officer, spend so much time typing?”

“Oh, I’m not an operations officer, Pavel. I do clerical work in the Asset Resettlement Center.”

“Not an operations officer? You don’t work in the Directorate of Operations? In Russia House?”

Dubois shakes his head. “Sorry, Pavel. If I’ve disappointed you, I mean.”

“I’m not disappointed, Martin. Just surprised. I’ve been getting these visits for three decades now, and the Agency has always sent senior operations officers from Russia House.”

“It’s my fault, Pavel. I should have explained the Agency’s policy change. New leadership in the Directorate of Operations has decided that defectors are to be minded from now on by administrative personnel from the Resettlement Center, rather than operations officers, unless the defectors are still producing intelligence or actively involved in operations.”

“I’m not a defector, Martin. I was swapped. Arrested by my own government, sentenced to execution, and swapped to this country, whose principles of freedom I had chosen to serve.”

“Yes, I’m sorry for misusing the terminology, Pavel. I’m new to all of this. Just a summer intern in the Resettlement Center.”

“A summer intern? The CIA sent a summer intern?”

“Yes, I finish college next year. In any case, the leadership believes the time of senior operations officers at headquarters should be spent more productively.”

“I see. Da, yes, I suppose the CIA must prioritize its limited personnel resources in Russia House. But – although I certainly enjoy meeting a young man like you just making his way into the strange world of intelligence – I must admit to disappointment that, under this new policy, I’ll no longer be able to meet with operations officers actively engaged in operations involving Russia. As you may know, Martin, Vladimir Putin is dragging Russia back to its Soviet past with repressive policies at home, eliminating his opposition. I know Putin, worked with him in the KGB. I understand his mindset. I believe I still have insights that are of value to the CIA.”

“I’m probably not supposed to share this with you, Pavel – Mr. Fedorov – but my boss spoke this morning with the Russia House operations officer who was originally scheduled to meet with you before the new policy took effect. The officer said Russia House was actually planning to ignore the policy in your case, to continue meeting with you as long as one of their officers is available. ‘An act of civil disobedience,’ he called it.”

“Ah. But you came instead, Martin.”

“Yes. The operations officer said that everyone in Russia House had just been directed by the new leadership to take a compulsory one-week training course, with almost no advanced notice. I understand the officer was angry about it.”

“A full week? Must be important operational training to come up so suddenly.”

“Well, I don’t think the operations officer thought so. We now have a newly-created Associate Deputy Director responsible for employee wellness and work-life balance. His staff identified all CIA branches that are operating against key targets, like Russia House, putting in long hours under great strain. Those branches have been directed to take a five-day off-site course in lifestyle coaching. Russia House was first up, starting today. The operations officer told my boss he’d be unable to meet with you tonight because – and I’m now quoting here – ‘the bastards are making me take an evening Pressure Point Therapy Workshop.’”

“Pressure point therapy?”

“Yes. It’s the latest thing. You know, a stress reduction technique.”

Fedorov gulps down the rest of his Scotch. “I see. But, Martin, wouldn’t a compulsory course like that create additional stress, rather than relieve it? After all, these are busy people. How will the important work of Russia House be managed with their entire staff in therapy?”

“Perhaps that’s why the operations officer was angry, Mr. Fedorov. But the leadership believes this is in the CIA’s best the long-term interests. My boss says leaders know best, that that’s how they got where they are. Might I have another cup of tea?”

***

Fedorov returns from the kitchen, handing his young visitor another cup of hot water and tea bag. He has replenished his whisky, chiding himself for drinking the first glass too quickly.

“So, you said you had something interesting to show me, Mr. Fedorov.”

“Ah…yes. Yes, I do, Martin. Come. Follow me to my study.”

Approaching a bookcase opposite the door to his study, Fedorov glances at the dark green coffee container on the floor and makes a decision. He points a finger.

“This,” he says. “This is what I thought you might find interesting, Martin.”

Fedorov pulls from the bookcase the wooden box frame containing the Intelligence Medal, handing it to Dubois.

“Wow, Mr. Fedorov, I’ve never seen one of these. I was briefed this morning that you played a significant role during the Cold War, but had no idea.”

Fedorov is only half-listening, his mind on other things. They send a summer employee? Russia House is tied up for a week of lifestyle training? This won’t do. No, Pavel Fedorov will show the CIA leadership that this old spy is more than just an artifact of the Cold War.

CHAPTER 9

THE HUNCH

Fedorov and Tsarina exit the yard through the back gate under a cloudless Thursday morning sky, turn left onto the trail leading into the woods, and begin a relaxed stroll. Fedorov is bleary-eyed. After a few hours of fitful sleep, he had given up and spent the rest of the night in his study, pacing (as much as his lower back would allow), drinking black coffee, and thinking through the options.

As he saunters along the path, stopping every few steps to let Tsarina sniff, he hears the distant sound of a bouncing basketball. He glances at his watch. Only ten minutes after seven, and Spencer’s already at it, he thinks. That boy is determined.

He walks across the dead drop bridge in the direction of the park sign used by the Penguin. There are already people out on the paths, exercising before the heat and humidity kick in. As he nears the sign, he sees what he’s looking for, just as a middle-aged couple walking hand-in-hand enters the park from a neighborhood path on the eastern edge of the park. Without breaking stride, he nods in greeting to the couple and continues along the trail as it turns to the north.

After a few minutes, Fedorov and Tsarina reverse direction. With no one in sight, he approaches the park sign a second time. During his park reconnaissance the previous evening, the back lower left corner of the sign had been empty, save for the sticky rectangular outline. Now, there is a fresh piece of blue tape, placed horizontally, confirming his hunch. Perhaps the craft of spying hasn’t passed him by, after all, he thinks. He removes the tape, and then replaces it, attaching it vertically this time.

Having executed the first step in his plan, Pavel Fedorov heads home.

CHAPTER 10

OPERATION HIJACK

Spencer Hale

I toss and turn all night, thoughts of dead drops, concealment devices, wads of cash, and Mr. Fedorov’s secrets dancing in my head. I finally get out of bed early, figuring I might as well get my shooting drills out of the way. My mom’s a little suspicious at breakfast.

“Spence, you were very quiet last night. That’s not like you and now here you are getting up so early during summer break and picking through your pancakes like you have no appetite and heading out the door without saying a word. Everything okay?”

My mom’s pretty perceptive, but this is not a conversation I want to start my day with. “Mom, I’m a teenager. I’m supposed to be moody.” Playing the sullen adolescent card should end the discussion quickly. My dad is in coat-and-tie, sipping coffee and reading the paper, completely oblivious. “I’m probably just going through a non-communicative phase, Mom. Besides, I wanna get my shooting in before it gets too hot.”

***

Drenched with sweat from my workout, I approach the fort a half-hour earlier than usual, and am surprised to find the others already there. Colbie and Ravi wave at me from the fort. Cal’s on the ground below and ignores me, busy tossing baseballs through a tire hanging from a limb of an oak tree, his summer routine to improve pitching accuracy.

I stop and watch Cal for a minute, marveling at the unorthodox windup and delivery motion that earned him the nickname “The Tornado” among his baseball teammates. He starts his windup by twisting slowly until his back is turned completely to home plate, and then pauses. You could just about microwave a bag of popcorn in the time it takes Cal to go through this windup. But then Cal becomes The Tornado, unleashing an explosive pitch that appears as a white blur in the fraction of a second it takes to reach home plate. If it happens to go toward home plate, that is. Cal’s pitches are as unpredictable as they are violent. He recorded a pretty impressive number of strikeouts last season, but also set JV team records for most walked batters and wild pitches. When he starts losing control of his fastball, opposing teams are known to taunt him by humming the song “Wild Thing” from their dugouts. Cal likes to point out that Nolan Ryan is number two on the all-time list for wild pitches in the major leagues, as if that means he’s right on track for stardom. Ravi reminds him that Ryan pitched for twenty-seven years, averaging only ten wild pitches per season.

But Cal knows he has to harness control on the mound if he’s gonna make the varsity team next season, and that’s his summer goal. His pitching coach loaned him a bucket of baseballs, a pitching rubber, a home plate, and a wide metal-framed net. Last week, Cal set up a practice pitching range on flat ground next to the fort, using the tire swing we hung from a tree last year. With the home plate on the ground underneath the tire, he placed the pitching rubber exactly sixty feet and six inches from it, the same as on a baseball diamond. The net stands behind the tire as a backstop.

Every morning, Cal throws twenty-five pitches, giving himself three points for every ball that goes through the tire, and one point for every one that hits the tire. During his first couple of outings, his point totals were fewer than the number of wild pitches that missed the wide backstop altogether. I think Cal has spent more time grumbling as he looks for errant balls in the woods than he has actually pitching.

Cal removes his glove and baseball cap, signaling that his routine is complete.

“How many points today, Cal?” I ask.

“Eighteen.” he says with a grin. “Best score yet. And only six pitches missed the backstop.”

His goal is to reach fifty points by the end of summer, so he’s got a long way to go. He walks off to hunt for the wild pitches.

I climb up into the fort, where Ravi’s trying to spin a basketball on his finger and Colbie’s reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, a summer assignment for all rising sophomores. She’s probably the only student who has even started it yet.

“You’re early!” says Colbie.

“Yeah, woke up early and wanted to beat the heat with my workout.”

“Yeah, right,” says Ravi. “So you couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

“You guys, too?” They nod.

Cal finally climbs into the fort, grabbing a giant bag of cheese puffs. “Ready to go talk with Mr. Fedorov?” he asks. For a guy that didn’t want to get involved in this spy thing from the start, Cal’s gotten almost enthusiastic.

“Mr. Fedorov won’t be expecting us this early,” I say.

“We already saw him heading home from a walk with Tsarina,” says Colbie. “He’ll be there. Let’s go.”

***

Tsarina welcomes us with a wagging tail as we come through the back gate. Mr. Fedorov, watering his vegetable garden, greets us with a smile.

“You’re ahead of schedule!” he says. “Curiosity will do that, I suppose.” He looks tired but upbeat, happy to see us. Definitely more welcoming than when he found me and Ravi nosing around in his study yesterday. He sets down the garden hose, turns off the spigot, and motions us to follow him into the house.

As we sit at the kitchen table, I’m relieved to notice the air conditioning is on and the scent of boiled cabbage is diminished.

“I turned on the A/C, Spencer,” Mr. Fedorov says, setting a pitcher of lemonade and four glasses on the table. “Figured you would want to cool off after your basketball drills.”

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s a little warm out there.”

After filling our glasses and pouring himself a cup of coffee, Mr. Fedorov sits down with a grunt, Tsarina settling at his feet.

“So,” he says. I can tell he has something interesting to tell us, but wants to build a little suspense first. He takes a sip of coffee. “There has been a change in plans.”

“What happened?” asks Ravi, adjusting his glasses and moving forward on the edge of his seat. “Didn’t your visitor show up last night?”

“Oh, he came, right on time. It just went a little bit, ah, differently than I anticipated.”

“You didn’t trust him?” asks Cal. “Thought maybe he was the mole?”

“Most definitely not, Calvin.”

“You decided not to tell him!” says Colbie.

“Exactly right, Colbie.” Mr. Fedorov gives her a look of mild surprise. Sometimes Colbie picks up on things that the rest of us don’t see, like a mind-reader.

“But why?” asks Ravi.

“To understand that, you must understand the CIA. It prides itself in hiring the best and brightest to carry out its important mission. Its officers are talented, well-trained, and capable of accomplishing great things. But as special as the Agency is, it is in some ways like any large organization – a bureaucracy with many regulations and levels of management. The best managers know their role is to create an environment in which officers can focus on running successful operations, but otherwise stay out of their way.”

“But some managers aren’t like that?” I ask.

“It’s human nature, Spencer. With increasing authority comes bigger egos and the desire to demonstrate influence. Management’s intentions are good, but they can get in the way of the mission.”

“Was your CIA visitor last night one of those managers?” asks Colbie.

“Nyet, Colbie, far from it. He was a young man who wears gloves at work and prefers chamomile over Scotch.” Mr. Fedorov laughs.

“I don’t get it,” says Cal, speaking for all of us.

“I simply realized last night that I am in a better position at the moment than the CIA to deal with this situation. I have plenty of time on my hands and the right expertise to uncover this spy – this mole – myself.”

“What about Clint Kilkenny?” says Ravi. “Couldn’t you fill him in on this? He should have time to help you, since he’s retired.”

“No, Ravi. Clint died several years ago. Had a heart attack during a softball game. That was Clint – still playing ball, into his seventies.”

“You’re not going to tell the CIA about this?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, I will inform the CIA – at the appropriate time, when I have taken care of some of the leg work, myself. I am not burdened with the regulations of the CIA or FBI. I can operate more freely, more quickly, outside the bureaucracy. I will uncover more information to identify the mole, and then go to the CIA. Soon. I have a plan, though I still need to flesh out the details.”

“What is it?” asks Ravi. Then he frowns. “Or is this one of those times you’re going to tell us we don’t have the ‘need to know’?”

Mr. Fedorov smiles. “As it turns out, the four of you do have the need to know. That is, if you’re still willing to help an old KGB officer.”

Ravi jumps out of his chair so quickly that his glasses flip off, onto the table. Putting them back on, he says, “You mean it, Mr. Fedorov? We get to help you identify the mole?”

“Da, Ravi. It would be challenging to do alone. So, I welcome your assistance if you’re willing – but only under four conditions. First, your roles will be limited. You will operate in a passive intelligence support capacity. I cannot – will not – put you in danger. Second, you need training. I will teach you basic tradecraft, and you must apply that knowledge exactly how you are taught. And third, you – we – will operate on a strict need-to-know basis. Knowledge of this little operation must be restricted to this group. Is that acceptable?”

All of us nod, grinning. Even Cal.

“Wait, you said four conditions, Mr. Fedorov,” I say. “What’s the fourth?”

“Ah, yes, Spencer. If we are to be colleagues in an operation to unmask this traitor to our country, you must dispense with the ‘Mr. Fedorov.’ From now on, I am just Pasha.”

“That’s what President Reagan called you,” says Colbie. “In the inscription on the photograph.”

“Da, Pasha is the nickname for Pavel. In Russian, it means little.” At that, we laugh. “Yes, I know – a name that’s perhaps a bit incompatible with my size.”

Mr. Fedorov, Pasha, pushes himself back from the table and stands. “Before we get to the plan to uncover this traitor, I have something to show you.” He walks unsteadily from the kitchen to his study and returns a minute later. He sits and places on the table the two pieces of paper that were hidden in the coffee container. On top of the letter to the mole he sets what looks like a small strip of dirtied blue tape.

“Anyone care to guess what this might be?” he asks.

“A piece of painters tape,” I say.

“True, but it’s much more than that,” he says. “And now, the training begins. This, my young intel team, is a signal. A piece of tape placed on the back of the park sign, the one Spencer saw the foreign operative – the Penguin – approach after he placed the dead drop.”

“But we looked at the back of the sign right after the Penguin left the park,” I say. “There was nothing there.”

“Correct, Spencer. The sign was still damp, and the tape fell off quickly in the wind and rain. I found it on a walk with Tsarina after dinner last night. On the ground, under the sign.”

“So it was a signal for the mole?” asks Colbie.

“Da, yes. Let me explain the tradecraft used in a dead drop. First, the mole places a signal of his own, during a pre-scheduled time window, letting the Penguin know he’s ready for the drop. The Penguin later walks past the site, sees the mole’s ready signal, and proceeds to make the dead drop. He then leaves a drop-loaded signal – our piece of tape here – to inform the mole that the package, the coffee container, is in place. Sometime later, the mole walks by the park sign. If the drop-loaded signal, the blue tape, is not there, he aborts – he leaves the park. If the signal is there, he knows the drop has been made and proceeds to pick it up. He would then leave yet another signal – the drop unloaded signal – informing the Penguin that he received it. This is standard tradecraft.”

“So, three different signals,” says Ravi.

“Da, Ravi. To indicate ready to receive, drop loaded, and drop unloaded. Three signals, back-and-forth between the mole and the intelligence service.”

“Would they all be made using the same park sign?” I ask.

“Normally, no,” says Pasha. “It would be better tradecraft to use different signal sites separated by distance to avoid ‘heating up’ the area. But in this case, yes, they used the same site. Probably because the mole wants to keep it simple. Remember, Spencer saw the Penguin remove something from the sign before he wiped it and put the blue tape on. So, he first removed the ready signal from the mole, a piece of tape placed horizontally, parallel to the ground. He then replaced it with the drop-loaded signal, tape placed vertically, up and down. The mole wants to limit the possibility of error or misunderstanding in communication. Using just one dead drop site and one signal site helps him do that.”

“But you found the Penguin’s tape on the ground,” says Colbie. “How do you know it was placed on the sign vertically?”

“There was sticky residue from the tape, still on the sign, Colbie. Part of the outline was still there, a vertical rectangle matching the tape.”

“How do you know the mole placed his tape signal horizontally?” I ask.

“I’ll get to that shortly, Spencer.”

“You explained how the signal plan works when the intelligence service leaves a dead drop for the mole,” says Cal. “How would it work if it was the other way around, if the mole leaves a dead drop?”

“We can assume that it would work the same, but in reverse, Calvin. They would follow the same schedule, the same signals, but the intelligence service would leave the vertical ready signal, the mole would leave a package and a horizontal drop-loaded signal, and so on. Keeping it simple.”

Ravi leans in, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I get it. But if the drop signal from the Penguin, the vertical tape, fell off right away in the storm, the mole wouldn’t have seen it when he came by later. The mole must think the dead drop was never made!”

Mr. Fedorov nods. “An important point, Ravi. One that will figure prominently in our operational plan, which we’ll get to.”

“What does the mole do now, Mr. – Pasha?” I ask. “Does he just keep going back every day and checking for the drop-loaded signal, since it wasn’t there Tuesday night?”

“Not exactly, Spencer. Plans for an operational act, like a dead drop, always include alternate timing – contingencies in case a drop is aborted, or the original timing needs to change. The communications plan included both a primary schedule and an alternate. The mole will think the drop was not made, but won’t know why. He’ll consider two possibilities: either the intelligence service ignored his proposal, or accepted it but had to abort the dead drop for some reason. He’ll hope it was aborted and will return to the signal site at the alternate time.”

“But we don’t know the alternate timing,” says Cal.

“Ah, but we do, Calvin,” says Pasha.

“It’s in the letter!” says Colbie.

“Pravilno, Colbie,” says Pasha. “Correct.” He picks up from the kitchen table the letter to the mole and reads a sentence from the second paragraph. “If you use ‘Boston’ in the return address of such a package, we will treat it as a sign of urgency and expect to receive an exchange from you at the site three days after the postmark on the mail, using your proposed timing (including the two-day alternate).”

“Two-day alternate,” says Cal. “The mole is returning today!”

“Yes, tonight,” says Pasha. “The dead drop was made on Tuesday night. The alternate would be forty-eight hours later – 7 p.m. tonight – so the mole will return to look for the signal sometime well after that, probably after sunset.”

Pasha reaches across the table to set the letter back down. As he pulls his arm back, his elbow knocks over a quarter-full glass of lemonade. “Bleen!” blurts Pasha, as the lemonade spreads across the table, leaving part of the letter in a puddle. Colbie quickly grabs it, as Pasha stands and rushes to the kitchen counter, returning with a dish towel. He hands it to Colbie, who blots the wetness from the letter. Some of the ink has run, but it’s still legible. “I am getting clumsier with age,” says Pasha, returning to his seat.

Pasha then sees the stunned look on my face. “What’s the matter, Spencer?” he asks.

“Bleen,” I say. “You said, ‘bleen.’”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s a mild curse in Russian to express frustration. Like, dammit. I apologize.”

“No, I totally forgot!” I say. “I heard the Penguin say that when he slipped on the path. ‘Bleen.’ The Penguin is Russian!”

***

Pasha says my identifying the Penguin as Russian will make our plan to unmask the mole a bit easier. He returns to the table with another ice-filled glass – switching from coffee to lemonade – and a package of chocolate chip cookies. “By the way, Spencer,” he says, tearing open the cookie bag, “did you know you share the surname of America’s first spy?”

“No,” I say. “Who was that?”

Cal sets his baseball on the table and grabs a handful of cookies and starts munching, like he hasn’t been fed in a week.

“Captain Nathan Hale, a schoolteacher from Connecticut who joined the Continental Army during the American Revolutionary War at age twenty-one. He happened to be a friend of Major Benjamin Tallmadge, who was assigned by George Washington to run the Continental Army’s spy operations.”

“We had spies way back then?” asks Colbie.

Mr. Fedorov laughs. “Yes, Colbie, spies have helped win wars since the beginning of time. And George Washington was not just a Founding Father and our first president, he was also our first great spymaster. One British intelligence officer said after the Revolutionary War, ‘Washington did not really outfight the British. He simply out-spied us.’”

“What did Nathan Hale do?” I ask.

“He volunteered to slip into Long Island to gather intelligence on the occupying British forces. A British counterintelligence officer tricked him into admitting he was a spy. He was arrested and sentenced to death without a trial. Just before he was hung, Hale said, ‘I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.’ There’s a statue of him in front of CIA headquarters.”

Cal seems to lose his appetite at the thought of getting hung for spying, setting down a half-eaten cookie. He picks up his baseball and starts rubbing it nervously.

“Doesn’t sound like Nathan Hale was a very successful spy,” I say.

“No,” says Pasha, “but he had no training for his mission. And he was a brave patriot. Perhaps you are related to him.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I’m just glad you didn’t hang me and Ravi without a trial after you caught us snooping in your study.”

“Only because it turned out we’re on the same side, Spencer. Luckily for your school, which will benefit from not losing its starting point guard next season. Now, my young intel team, it’s time to firm up our plan to catch this traitor, our mole. He’ll return tonight, so our time is limited.”

“Surveillance, right, Pasha?” says Ravi. “We can set up in the fort with a camera. Zoom in on the perp, the mole, when he looks for the tape signal and picks up the dead drop. Boom, we got him!”

“It’s not as simple as that, Ravi. Maybe on TV. First of all, it will be dark. The park closes at dark, so the mole will probably enter just after nightfall – when it wouldn’t be too odd for him to be out, but he’s not likely to cross paths with anyone.”

“And we don’t know which park entrance he’ll use,” I say. “There have got to be a couple of dozen entry paths from different roads and neighborhoods.”

“Pravilno, Spencer,” says Pasha. “Right.”

“Wait, what about the ready signal?” asks Ravi. “The mole would have to leave it before 7 p.m. It’ll still be light out.”

Pasha grins, stroking his bushy, gray mustache. “I took Tsarina for a walk this morning shortly after seven o’clock, past the park sign. I had a hunch and –”

“The ready signal was already there!” says Colbie.

“Right, Colbie.” says Pasha. “There was a piece of blue tape in the same spot, placed horizontally. So, we now know how both sides are signaling each other – horizontal tape from the mole, vertical tape for the intelligence service. The mole probably placed his signal last night or very early this morning. Perhaps he is anxious.” He takes a bite of a cookie. “But there’s another factor we must consider that restricts our use of surveillance to identify him. Our mole is clearly well trained in tradecraft. He’ll carry out a ‘khemchistka’ – a dry cleaning – to and from the sites.”

“Dry cleaning?” says Cal.

“Da, that’s what we called it in the KGB. The CIA calls it a surveillance detection route, or SDR. The mole will conduct an SDR, a long walk designed to spot surveillance before and after he picks up the dead drop. If he detects any sign he is being watched, he’ll abort.”

“If that happens,” I say, “it might be the end of it, right? Wouldn’t he ditch any evidence and avoid contact with the Russians? He’d never get caught!”

Pasha nods. “He’d be spooked. That’s why the Soviets never determined the identity of Robert Hanssen, the FBI mole who spied for the KGB for two decades. They communicated through signals and dead drops, and the KGB was careful not to do anything to scare him off. He was too valuable to them.”

“Pasha,” I say, “the Penguin never received a drop unloaded signal from the mole on Tuesday. How would the Russians respond to that?”

“Since the signal wasn’t made, the Penguin would’ve returned to retrieve the dead drop late Tuesday night, and found it missing. He would be worried, but the SVR probably concluded that the mole picked up the dead drop and that either the Penguin missed the signal or the tape fell off the sign in the wind and rain. There’s nothing they can do for now, except hope for confirmation from the mole in his dead drop to them in two weeks.”

“If we can’t use surveillance,” says Cal through a mouthful of cookies, “how do we identify him?” Cal’s eating again, more relaxed, knowing he won’t have to hide behind a tree tonight in the dark, looking for a spy.

“We will let the mole identify himself over time, Calvin. The access of any CIA officer varies, depending on his position and role in the Agency. Every piece of intelligence he provides will tell us more about the nature of his access to secrets. The revelations he makes will help us narrow down where he sits in the CIA.”

“Like the strategy document,” I say. I grab from the table the typewritten list of questions from the SVR, scan to the last paragraph, and read aloud. “The strategy document you provided on your organization’s targeting of our government is of great interest and we are still reviewing it.” I set the paper back on the table. “The Russians already know where the mole works from the document.”

“Da, at least which agency he works for,” says Pasha. “The mole would be willing to reveal that much to the SVR. It will give him credibility – help gain their trust and demonstrate his value.”

“We just let him continue spying then?” asks Ravi. He takes his glasses off, wipes the lenses on his shirt, and puts them back on.

“Da. For now, Ravi. We must give the mole enough rope to hang himself with.”

“You’re going to leave a dead drop for him tonight, then?” asks Colbie.

Pasha nods. “I’ve already made the drop-loaded signal – on my walk this morning – by turning the tape placed by the mole from horizontal to vertical. And we will use the contents of our dead drop tonight to take control of the operation. Tell me,” says Pasha, glancing around the table, “who controls the communications plan now?”

“The mole,” I say. “He chose the dead drop and signal sites.”

“Correct, Spencer. And we must now take control of it, persuading the mole to modify his plan, eliminating the ability of the Russians to communicate with him. That means rewriting the Penguin’s letter to the mole, proposing different signal and dead drop sites for future exchanges. And then we will begin communicating with the mole, posing as the Russians. He will be passing his intelligence to us, revealing himself in the process.”

“We’re gonna hijack the operation!” says Ravi.

“Ah,” says Pasha, “now it has a name: Operation Hijack. Perfect. The four of you know the park better than I, so we will craft our rewritten letter together. Deception is an important part of espionage, and we must deceive our mole with great subtlety. He knows he’s playing a dangerous game. He’ll be cautious, looking for signs he’s being manipulated. We must handle our exchanges delicately, gain his trust, give him no reason to suspect he’s communicating with anyone other than the Russians.”

Pasha pushes himself up from the table. He picks up the now-empty bag of cookies, goes into the kitchen, and returns with a bag of tortilla chips, setting it in front of Cal.

“Let us start with the signal site,” he says.

“Do we have to change the signal site?” I ask. “Couldn’t we just change the signals? To something the Penguin wouldn’t notice or recognize?”

“Perhaps, Spencer. What do you have in mind?”

“We’ve learned painter’s tape isn’t the best signal, that it can fall off in bad weather. Why not point that out to the mole in our revised letter? Tell him we agree to use the park sign as a signal site, but want to use a signal that would be better if it’s raining or windy?”

“Umnyy, Spencer.” says Pasha. “Very crafty. You are already thinking like a spy. Yes, there are many alternatives to tape. Chalk is often used, though that could wash off in the rain, too. But thumbtacks are a good choice. We can suggest in our letter that the mole stick a white thumbtack into the wooden post holding up the park sign, for his signals. We will use a green thumbtack for our signals. They will work regardless of weather. And if the Penguin monitors the sign for an indication of a signal from the mole, he will look for tape on the back of the sign, not a tack on the front of the post.”

Colbie taps my knee and whispers, “Nice job, Spence.”

“Now,” says Pasha, “let’s consider the dead drop site. It’s actually a good spot. What excuse might we come up with for saying it’s unsatisfactory? We also need a pretext to explain why the drop was not made two nights ago.”

Colbie pipes in. “Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Go on, Colbie,” says Pasha.

“You know,” she says, “some of the older kids occasionally sneak into the park at night and drink beer. We hear older kids talk about it at school, and sometimes you see a bunch of cans left behind in the park. Usually you see ‘em off in the middle of the woods or under bridges.”

“Yeah,” says Cal, “they just leave the cans for the County Park Authority or a community group to clean up after ‘em. Jerks.”

“How does this play into our scenario, Colbie?” says Pasha.

“The bridge where the dead drop was left is elevated – high enough for people to sit under it and drink. Suppose the Penguin went to the dead drop site on Tuesday and found it littered with beer cans that someone was in the process of cleaning up. What would he do?”

“Abort,” says Pasha. “He couldn’t make the drop if anyone were there.”

“And,” says Colbie, “the Penguin wouldn’t want to use that bridge in the future, if it’s the type of spot where that happens.”

Pasha grins. “A plausible pretext for explaining why the original drop was not made, and for suggesting an alternate site. Perfect, Colbie! Ideal’nyy!”

Colbie and I exchange smiles.

“All we need now is an alternate dead drop site,” says Pasha.

Ravi leans forward. “There are lots of bridges crossing the stream in the park, and most of them are lower than the one the mole chose. If we pick another bridge, near the one chosen by the mole but not high enough for people to sit under, wouldn’t that keep the mole happy?”

“Good thought, Ravi,” says Pasha. “Which one?”

“If you walk from the current dead drop site toward the signal site and continue around the bend to the right, you come to another bridge that’s just a couple of feet above the stream. It’s a few hundred yards from the park sign.”

“I’m familiar with it,” says Pasha. “It’s well-hidden in the woods from the neighborhood on the eastern edge of the park. The mole can stroll past the signal site and retrieve the dead drop quickly.” Pasha sits back in his chair, a content smile emerging beneath his mustache, and glances around the table at each one of us. “My confidence in the four of you has already been rewarded. Our plan is nearly complete!”

“What comes next?” asks Cal.

“Now we rewrite the letter,” says Pasha.

***

With the only neat handwriting of the five of us, Colbie is elected to write out a draft of the letter, in pencil on a blank sheet of paper. She’s also the most talented writer in the group. We try to keep as much of the original content as possible. We omit the reference in the original letter to the mailing address in Alexandria that the mole was instructed to use if he needed to make an urgent, unscheduled drop. An “accommodation address,” Pasha calls it. In its place, we provide our own instructions for an emergency signal, using a red thumbtack.

“What about the part in the letter where the SVR says they have ‘concern with the alternating two-week intervals’ that the mole proposed?” I ask. “The SVR says they might later want to communicate less frequently. Do we leave that in?”

“No, we take that out,” says Pasha. “SVR officers are under regular FBI surveillance. Two-week intervals risks exposure for them, especially since the same dead drop and signal sites are to be used to communicate each time. The SVR accepted it for now only because they want to identify ‘Alex’ in the Balkans urgently. Once a month would be better tradecraft.”

“But two-week intervals are okay for us?” says Colbie.

Pasha nods. “We aren’t under surveillance and have a reason to be in the woods regularly. The mole’s schedule is good for us, since we want to flush him out.”

“But the mole is an intelligence professional, too,” says Ravi. “Wouldn’t he realize that two weeks is too often? Why would he propose that?”

“I have wondered that, too, Ravi,” says Pasha. “It’s curious. We don’t know our mole’s agenda, his motivation. For some reason, he wants to move quickly, despite the risk. Perhaps he has financial problems that he needs to address immediately and thinks he must establish himself quickly with the SVR as a valued source.”

It takes more than an hour before Pasha is satisfied with our revised letter. “Okay, Colbie, I think we’re set,” he says. “Read it back to us.”

Colbie picks up the paper and reads:

Dear Friend,

We have received your package and read your information with great interest. We are most grateful for your offer of cooperation, knowing that it takes enormous courage. Our Director has asked us to pass along his congratulations to you personally. Please accept the payment in this package as a sign of our deep appreciation, knowing there will be more to come, in line with your wishes, as we get to know each other better.

We understand and will respect your wish to remain anonymous. While we generally agree with your communications plan, circumstances prompt us to suggest a couple of minor modifications to protect our relationship. We like your choice of signal sites, but are concerned that the use of tape may be less than ideal under rainy and windy conditions. We therefore suggest that you use for your signals a white thumbtack placed on the wooden post, just below the front of the same park sign, at waist height. Our signals to you will consist of green thumbtacks in the same location. We also wish to propose the use of a different bridge for the drop, due to a problem we encountered two nights ago. The bridge you chose is apparently a favorite location for teenagers to drink at night; we approached the site on Tuesday evening to find a clean-up of beer cans in progress beneath the bridge, forcing us to abort and wait for the alternate timing. There is another bridge – unsuitable for late night teenage carousing – on the same path in the other direction, a few hundred yards south of the signal site. We suggest using the base of the northeast corner of the bridge (nearest the signal site) in making future drops, for now. We hope you find this acceptable, and are prepared to receive the next communication from you on the 30th at that location.

Should you have an urgent need to communicate with us, please leave a red thumbtack at the signal site. We have a secure means of monitoring the site on a daily basis in the mornings after 9 a.m. The presence of a red thumbtack will signal plans for an exchange from you at the drop site that evening, using your proposed timing (including the two-day alternate). We hope you understand that these minor changes are for your security, our top priority!

With that in mind, we believe that your selection of N.V. as the intermediary for passing your introductory package to us was well-reasoned, but ask that you avoid direct contact with her again, for reasons we are sure you understand.

We will work together with you to fine-tune these communications arrangements in the near future.

Attached you will find a brief list of questions as a follow-up to your initial information. We welcome your input on these points in your next scheduled package.

We are most confident this will be a rewarding relationship for you and for us. We look forward to hearing again from you and to working with you for a long time to come. Again, you have our deepest gratitude.

Sincerely,

Your Friends

“Excellent.” says Pasha. “I think our spy, our mole, will have no choice but to accept our proposed changes. We will type it up, print it out, and I will make the drop this evening.”

“What about the second page from the Penguin, the one with all the questions?” says Ravi. “Do we need to rewrite that, too?

“I see no need,” says Pasha. “The SVR asked for information on penetrations of Russian intelligence, including more details on ‘Alex’ in the Balkans. And for additional documents on American targeting of Russian intelligence. He will expect those questions. We’ll leave it as is.”

“We should retype it,” says Colbie, “so the fonts match.”

“Da, Colbie. Khorosho – very good.”

“And the ten thousand dollars?” I ask.

“We’ll include that with the letter and questions,” says Pasha. “We’ll handle it just as the SVR did. It is apparent from their letter that the mole asked for more than that – probably much more. The Penguin and his comrades were right to pay him a significant amount as a sign of good faith and a commitment to a long-term relationship. But they were also right to pay him less than he asked for, conveying a message that the mole must work to gain the SVR’s full trust. He has an incentive now to produce more intelligence. To reveal himself to us.”

“What do we do after you make the dead drop?” asks Colbie.

“We wait,” says Pasha. “The mole is scheduled to make a drop a week from next Tuesday, twelve days from now. I will look for his ready signal then. In the meantime, I will monitor the site on my morning walks with Tsarina in case he leaves a red thumbtack, the emergency signal.”

“What if the mole never responds?” asks Cal. “Maybe he’ll change his mind about cooperating with the Russians.”

“No, Calvin,” says Pasha. “Our mole will respond. He has already crossed the line, committed treason. There is no turning back for him.”

CHAPTER 11

A RARE EARLY EXIT

The first thing new employees of the CIA’s Denied Region Training Center, DRTC, learn upon joining the unit is that their boss views calling in sick or taking time off as a sign of weakness. And so it is to the astonishment of everyone on the DRTC staff when Oliver Tempest walks out of the office in the middle of a pleasant Thursday afternoon, telling his administrative assistant without explanation that he is “knocking off early” and to cancel his remaining meetings.

Tempest is always the first to arrive at the office and the last to leave. He has never set foot on a golf course and has no known interests outside of espionage. His departure prompts hushed conversation in the DRTC hallways that the always hyper-focused Tempest seems unusually distracted this week. Speculation circulates that he might be preparing to transition to an overseas field assignment as a reward for two years of undeniable success in overseeing the training center. Whatever the reason for their demanding chief’s early exit, the busy staff is relieved to wind up the workday without his lurking presence.

***

Having completed his most recent field assignment in solid, if unspectacular, fashion three years earlier, Oliver Tempest had returned to Washington. There he served for a year as the CIA’s point man in a counterintelligence unit representing each of the Intelligence Community’s seventeen-member organizations. The team’s mission was to identify and neutralize foreign espionage in Washington. He had never served in counterintelligence – the defensive side of the spy world – and had not looked forward to the prospect. For Tempest it was a box-checking exercise to beef up his resumé and qualify for higher leadership positions in the Agency.

To his surprise, he found the experience illuminating, gaining insight on the activities of Russian, Chinese and other enemy operatives on U.S. soil. Perhaps most valuable for Tempest was the chance to observe blunders made by foreign spies – not just young ones, but also careless or overconfident veterans of the trade. The assignment was an education from the flip side of espionage, and he was eager to return to the foreign field to apply lessons learned.

But an opportunity of a different sort came up unexpectedly when Tempest was asked to manage the Denied Region Training Center unit. Training staffs in the CIA’s Directorate of Operations are made up of veteran operations officers who, during rotational assignments of a couple of years, share their tradecraft expertise with less experienced officers. For some, a training assignment is a welcome break from the intensity of recruiting and handling assets overseas. For others, it is a way to re-acclimate their children to life in the United States after years spent moving from one foreign capital to another. And for many it is an opportunity to wrap up a career comfortably, handing the torch of espionage to the next generation.

Tempest had always resisted involvement in operations officer training. He and his wife had no children, he was years from retirement, and he craved the adrenaline rush found only in the field. Playing no small role in his reluctance was his wife Peggy’s disdain for the quiet life of Northern Virginia’s suburbs. The daughter of a prominent New England judge whose name, in his younger days, came up with every U.S. Supreme Court vacancy, Peggy reveled in hosting cocktail parties on the diplomatic circuit overseas, rubbing elbows with foreign dignitaries. It brought back memories of her pampered childhood in the home of a politically well-connected father. One year as a commoner was almost more than Oliver Tempest’s wife could take.

But in studying his options Tempest came to view the DRTC leadership position as an opportunity he couldn’t ignore. The Denied Region Training Center sits apart from other programs in the CIA operational training sphere, providing specialized tradecraft instruction for operations officers preparing to handle America’s most sensitive assets – often in hostile locations such as Moscow or Beijing, where surveillance is pervasive and relentless. Tempest’s interest piqued when he learned that CIA leadership was blaming a series of recent bungled field operations on critical flaws in the training course. The next DRTC chief would be expected to restore the program’s formidable reputation.

A plan formed in the mind of Oliver Tempest. By rebuilding the course preparing officers for handling prized assets in the world’s most challenging operational environments, he saw a way to make the leadership forget about his past sins, once and for all. Memories of operational failures are hard to erase in the Agency. And making amends was a precondition for earning one of a handful of coveted field assignments – a springboard to reach the most senior ranks of the Directorate of Operations.

And his plan had almost worked. First, he convinced Peggy that spending two additional years in the U.S. was a worthwhile investment of time, for both of them. Success with the DRTC program would be a feather in his cap, a key position overseas his just rewards. With visions of an onward assignment to Rome or Paris, where she could spend evenings hobnobbing with the political elite, Peggy eventually agreed, albeit reluctantly, to her husband’s accepting the assignment.

Tempest was swift in making significant changes to the training program. He introduced creative methods for communications between operations officers and assets, and addressed gaps in their ability to perform under foreign government scrutiny. As he neared the end of his second year at the helm of the DRTC, his success in overhauling the program was apparent to all, demonstrated by stellar operational results in the field. The number of compromised cases diminished. High-value intelligence production surged to an all-time high. Trained operations officers sang his praises and Tempest became a minor headquarters celebrity, with kudos raining down from seventh floor leadership.

Tempest basked in recognition from the people whose opinions mattered most to him in life. Often accompanied by his wife, he attended evening social events hosted by senior CIA officials who previously acknowledged him with no more than a nod of the head in the wide corridors of headquarters. He saw renewed respect in Peggy’s eyes, even hearing her bragging about him on the phone to “the Judge,” his father-in-law.

With his professional reputation rehabilitated and the end of his DRTC tenure looming, Tempest began looking in earnest for a key follow-on position overseas. He needed to be selective. His best shot at full redemption and promotion to the Agency’s upper echelons would be to successfully handle a high-profile foreign asset. Since the very training course he managed was the final step in the process to prepare operations officers for such assignments, Tempest believed he had the ideal vantage point for spotting the right opportunity.

And Tempest was right.

Every class trained by Tempest and his DRTC team endures weeks of grueling exercises tailored to each student’s pending overseas counterintelligence environment. This requires extensive planning and coordination by Tempest well in advance of the class start date. He consequently meets regularly with senior headquarters representatives to discuss which operational divisions require slots in upcoming classes. As space is limited, a division must make a compelling case to Tempest for a student operations officer slot, disclosing the foreign location of an assignment and, in general terms, the sensitive asset to be handled.

It was during one such meeting, a couple of months earlier, that Tempest saw his chance. A senior officer in the GRU – Russia’s military intelligence agency – nearing the end of an assignment in New Delhi had recently volunteered to spy for the CIA. A New Delhi-based operations officer began vetting the new asset and covertly preparing him to be handled at his next assignment to the Russian embassy in Belgrade, Serbia. Initial intelligence from the GRU officer, referred to in CIA internal discussions by the alias “Alex,” was exceptional. His next assignment would provide even better access to key information on Russian covert activities in Eastern Europe, where Russia sought to regain its Soviet-era influence.

Tempest learned that “Alex’s” handler was not yet designated by CIA leadership. Significant field experience and tradecraft skills were prerequisites. With the GRU officer soon slated for reassignment to Belgrade, time was of the essence, and a slot for the operations officer to be selected was earmarked for the next DRTC class.

Tempest had returned from the meeting to his office in a non-descript annex building miles from headquarters, and eagerly prepared to lobby for the position. He could make a strong case. The GRU officer was due to take up his new post in Belgrade imminently. This posed a troubling time gap between his arrival and that of his CIA handler, whose arrival in the Serbian capital would be delayed by weeks of DRTC training. The loss of intelligence in the meantime was a matter of handwringing among the Agency’s decision-makers. As the outgoing head of the DRTC program, Tempest would require no training at all. He could make a transition to Belgrade almost immediately, eliminating the prospect of lost time and intel.

Tempest allowed himself to believe his time had finally come. After all, in taking the DRTC assignment he had done a favor for the CIA’s leadership, transforming a disappointing training program into a model of pride. Who better than he to take the reins of the GRU case? Yes, handling Russian military intelligence officer “Alex” would be his steppingstone to the venerated halls of the CIA’s seventh floor.

As a decision on the assignment was to be made in the coming days before the start of the next training class, Tempest made the rounds among key headquarters decision-makers, formally throwing his hat in the ring. Assured he was the leading candidate, he and Peggy began making plans for a move to Belgrade. Indeed, his career prospects appeared promising then, just a few weeks ago. His plan had progressed to perfection.

Tempest soon learned he was in fact one of two finalists for the Belgrade assignment. The other candidate, Malcolm Edwards, was a much younger officer with less field experience. Tempest was stunned when Edwards was ultimately selected. He was told by CIA brass that the decision was made not because Edwards was more qualified, but because Tempest was too valuable to lose as head of the Denied Region Training Center. He was asked to stay in his position for another year. Brushed off with flattery, Tempest saw that where his recent success led him to view the past two years as preparation for bigger things, it prompted the leadership to believe he had found his niche – in managing training programs. He became convinced that his past mistakes in the field would dog him for the rest of his career.

Peggy provided no solace at home, reacting to the news with rage directed more at her husband than at those who chose Edwards for the Belgrade assignment. For the past few weeks, Tempest arrived home late in the evening to find his wife intoxicated and argumentative. She reminded him incessantly that his decision to take the DRTC position had backfired, leaving her to face a fourth consecutive year in a dull American neighborhood.

Having spent two years overseeing the instruction of younger officers less knowledgeable and capable than he, Tempest found himself training the officer, Malcolm Edwards, assigned to the job he coveted. To make matters worse, he concluded after the first few weeks that Edwards lacked the tradecraft skills and attention to detail to succeed in Belgrade.

Up to then, it was left to Tempest’s discretion to determine whether a student passed or failed the course, documented in either case with a detailed report assessing performance in operational exercises; those who failed were reassigned to lower-risk overseas operating environments. But when Tempest formally expressed his concerns about Edwards’s shortcomings to the leadership, he was rebuffed. Tempest’s bitterness became impossible to set aside when he learned from headquarters hallway chatter that the leadership believed his assessment was negatively biased in hopes of being assigned to Belgrade in Edwards’s place. Tempest believed the bias rested not with him but with the CIA leadership. For Edwards happened to be the son of the head of operations in Europe, who was expected to become the CIA’s next ADDO, the Associate Deputy Director for Operations.

***

After leaving his office early on Thursday afternoon, Oliver Tempest pulls into his driveway in a Northern Virginia suburb, turns off the ignition, and sits for a few minutes before getting out of his Jaguar, rehearsing a conversation he is about to have with Peggy.

He wipes away the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, reaches into his briefcase in the passenger seat, and pulls out two tickets for a musical that evening at the Kennedy Center. Peggy has pestered him for weeks to take an evening off to attend a performance together. Oliver won’t be going, however. Without his wife’s knowledge, he called her best friend Cathy the day before and arranged to surprise Peggy, whose birthday is the following week, with seats for her and Cathy tonight. He even made an early dinner reservation for them at a French restaurant near the theater. Tempest figures Peggy, knowing her husband’s distaste for musicals, will be happier going with her friend. And she won’t question his excuse that he has to monitor an important countersurveillance training exercise tonight on the streets of Washington.

Tempest exits his car, takes a deep breath and approaches the front door of his modest two-story brick colonial, tickets in one hand, briefcase in the other. He is satisfied with his plan to get Peggy out of the house. For, unknown to his wife, Oliver Tempest is engaged in a bold new plan to resurrect his career. And he has much to do in her absence.

CHAPTER 12

A WELCOME CALL

Sitting in the leather recliner in his study, Pavel Fedorov draws gently on a Padron cigar, letting the smoke curl slowly from his lips. He sets the cigar in an ashtray, picks up his tumbler, and takes a sip of Balvenie Scotch. He leans back, closes his eyes for a moment and sighs, enjoying the perfect mingling of whisky and tobacco flavors.

He picks up from a side table a small booklet containing the current diplomatic list of Russians posted to Washington. His CIA hand-holders provide an updated booklet every six months, going over the names of any new arrivals with him. The lists include the names, diplomatic status, rank, and position of every official assigned to the Russian embassy. Those with a known or suspect affiliation with Russian intelligence – either the SVR or GRU – are singled out.

There was a time, in the first few years after his resettlement in the United States, that Fedorov was familiar with many of SVR officers on the diplomatic list, officers he had served with or knew by reputation. In those cases, he provided the CIA with biographic and assessment information: professional history, intelligence role in the embassy, connections and influence within the SVR power structure, drinking habits, history of marital infidelities, gambling habits, and so on. For the CIA, such information is invaluable for identifying and evaluating SVR officers whose potential vulnerabilities and access to critical intelligence make them attractive recruitment targets to spy on their government. As the years have gone by, however, it is rare that Fedorov comes across a name with which he is familiar. When a hand-holder reviews the diplomatic list with him now, he knows it is more out of empathy and recognition of his past contributions than out of any real hope that he will have input of value.

Fedorov opens the booklet and begins looking for a name, something he has been meaning to do since he first went through the contents of the dead drop yesterday. He leafs through pages toward the end of the alphabetical listing to the section with surnames beginning with the letter V, and scans the names, looking for one with the initials N.V. He finds just one: Natalya Vasilyeva, an administrative assistant in the SVR rezidentura, as the intelligence service’s overseas stations are known. Vasilyeva is identified as forty-seven years old, single, and SVR-affiliated based on “slot succession,” meaning that one or more of her predecessors was known SVR. She has been in Washington for two-and-a-half years. She is considered operationally inactive, suggesting that her role is entirely clerical or administrative. It fits, he thinks. The mole had chosen Vasilyeva to pass his introductory package to, knowing she works in the SVR rezidentura but is not likely to draw FBI surveillance. He probably would have made contact with her near her home, away from the watchful eyes of the FBI in the vicinity of the Russian embassy.

He takes another drag on his cigar, another sip of whisky, and glances at his watch: a quarter past five in the afternoon. A good time to make the drop, he decides. Early enough that most people haven’t yet arrived home from work, but not so early that the green coffee container will be left unattended for too long. And a couple of hours before there is any chance of inadvertently crossing paths with the mole. He will need to be watchful, but there is no need to carry out a carefully orchestrated walking route, as he would have done when he was likely to draw surveillance. Nevertheless, he feels the same nervousness he always did in preparing to carry out an operational act. He finds it invigorating in a way he hasn’t felt in many years.

He gets up stiffly from the recliner, stretches, and calls to Tsarina, who is napping under his desk. “Time for a walk, girl,” he says. As he connects a leash to her collar, his home phone rings. He walks to his desk and glances at the caller ID, expecting a robocall, but smiles when he recognizes the overseas number.

“Maddie!” he exclaims into the receiver.

“Hello, Pasha! How are you?”

“I’m doing well as can be for an old man, I suppose. It’s good to hear your voice, sweetie. How are things in Prague?”

Maddie Kilkenny, following in the footsteps of her father, Clint, is a CIA operations officer serving in the capital of the Czech Republic, her fourth overseas assignment. Through her father, she and Fedorov developed a close relationship after his resettlement to the United States, when she was a young woman just starting her intelligence career. With Clint and his wife retired in Arizona and Maddie going through training in the Washington area, Fedorov had become a father figure to her. She regularly seeks his counsel on career and even operational issues on her infrequent visits to Washington, especially since her father’s unexpected death. Maddie has become the only family Fedorov has.

“Oh, you know how it is, Pasha. Too much work to keep up with, and too many late nights. Mostly, I’m exhausted.”

“Da, I know. Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Yeah, I’m trying. Still managing to run a few miles on most days, when the weather’s okay. But, hey, guess what? I’m coming to Washington next month for a leadership seminar!”

“Really? That’s wonderful! How long will you be in town?”

“For two weeks. And I’ll have most evenings free, so we can spend plenty of time together.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too. Well, listen, it’s late here and I have to be up and out early tomorrow, so I’ve got to cut this short. I just wanted to tell you the good news. The seminar timing is still up in the air, but I’ll let you know my itinerary when it’s set.”

“Yes, get some sleep. Thanks for letting me know and I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me, too. Bye-bye, Pasha.”

“Goodnight, sweetie.”

Fedorov hangs up the phone, elated. He always looks forward to visits by Maddie, but this time even more so. She is the one person in the CIA that he can trust completely, sharing details about the dead drop and the mole. Though he knows she will be irritated with him for involving himself, and especially the children, operationally, she will sympathize with his reasoning and get the information into the right hands in headquarters. That gives him and his young team a few weeks to eliminate any means of communication between the mole and the Russian SVR. And to take steps to identify the mole.

Maddie’s visit helps to quell the second thoughts Fedorov has had about temporarily withholding information about the dead drop from the CIA and involving the children. He thinks, not for the first time, that his wife, Karina, would not have approved of his handling of the dead drop. Now he can proceed knowing that the timing of his and the children’s roles will be limited. As he lifts up a small backpack with the coffee container inside and walks with Tsarina to his back door, it is with a renewed sense of optimism.

***

Walking through the woods, Tsarina leading the way on her leash, Fedorov is relieved to see only a few people out and about, and no sign of his young assistants, whom he instructed to stay out of the park this afternoon and evening.

As he approaches the dead drop site with no one else in sight, he unzips the backpack and removes the green coffee container. He places it in the brush near a corner of the bridge, the same spot where the Penguin had made the drop two evenings earlier, visible only to someone who steps off the path and is looking for it. His first dead drop in three-plus decades. He had forgotten the satisfaction that comes with completing an operational act.

He resumes his walk, puffing his cigar, relieved to have taken the next step. If all goes according to the communications plan, the mole should show up tonight, see the piece of blue tape that Fedorov had already placed vertically this morning, pick up the package and, finally, replace the tape horizontally on the park sign, confirming retrieval.

Okay, mole, whoever you are, the ball’s in your court.

CHAPTER 13

IVAN NIKTO

As he enters his home and closes the front door softly, briefcase and Kennedy Center tickets in hand, Oliver Tempest hears his wife’s voice. He glances into the kitchen. Peggy is seated with her back to him at the island on a padded bar stool, a glass of red wine in one hand, telephone in the other.

“I know, daddy, I’m trying,” she says. “But it’s all just so unfair – the nepotism and politics and unkept promises. We should have been back overseas two years ago, and Ollie should have been sticking up for himself more.”

Tempest notices that Peggy is slurring her words, a nearly empty bottle of wine sitting in front of her on the counter.

“By the way, are you and mom going anywhere over the next month? I thought I might come up to Boston for a visit. Maybe stay for a couple of weeks and spend my birthday with you. I need a change of scenery and some time to clear my head if I’m going to face another year of this.”

Peggy seems to sense her husband’s presence and turns with a look of surprise to find him standing in the entryway.

“Okay, daddy, I’ll let you know. I have to go. Tell mom I’ll call her later.”

Hanging up the phone, Peggy stands unsteadily from the stool. “Ollie? What happened? What are you doing home so early?” She seems embarrassed, not knowing how long her husband was listening.

Tempest decides to ignore her comments to her father about his sticking up for himself, and not to remind her to avoid discussing work-related matters on the phone. He doesn’t have the time or patience for another argument. Peggy refills her wine glass, finishing off the bottle.

“I decided to come home a little early, Peg. Things were quiet at work, and I have a late-night surveillance exercise in Dupont Circle. How’s the Judge?”

“He’s fine. Not in a great mood, as usual. Mom’s a little under the weather.” Peggy sips her wine. “I was thinking about spending a couple of weeks in Boston if you don’t mind. I meant to tell you.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” he says. The extended absence of his wife would certainly make it easier to carry out his plans for the coming weeks. “Go ahead and plan it. I’m going through a busy period, so it’d be good timing.”

“Why are you really home so early? That’s not like you – even when you have a late night ahead. Did something happen?”

“Actually, I have a surprise for you. An early birthday gift.” He crosses the kitchen, sets his brief case on the island, and hands her the two tickets to the musical that evening, mustering a smile.

Peggy glances at the tickets, at first with enthusiasm, then with furrowed brows. “What? Tonight? But we’d have to leave in a couple of hours. I need more time to get ready. Besides, I thought you had to work tonight.” She sits back down on the stool.

He sets his hand on her forearm. “I do. Look, I felt bad that I haven’t been able to take an evening off to go see this musical with you. So…I arranged with Cathy for the two of you to go together, to celebrate your birthday a week early.”

“Well, thank you, Ollie. I mean, it’s thoughtful of you, but you should have told me earlier. I would have appreciated having more time to get ready.” She looks at the empty bottle of wine and then at her watch, agitated. “It starts in just four hours! Look at my hair!”

Tempest hides his irritation. He has to make this work. “I’m sorry, Peg, you’re right. And, uh, Cathy’s picking you up in an hour. You have dinner reservations at six-thirty.”

Glaring at him, she pushes his hand away, swivels her barstool, and picks up her cell phone to call Cathy. Tempest smiles to himself. As exasperated as his wife is with him, there’s no way she’ll pass up an opportunity for an evening at the Kennedy Center. Maybe she’ll even apologize to him tomorrow.

***

Oliver Tempest sits at a desk in his small den, Peggy having left without another word. He mulls over his plans for the evening, trying to ignore unfamiliar thoughts of self-doubt. Accustomed to having more control over his espionage operations, he has now placed his trust and future in the hands of another intelligence service. He had taken a calculated risk in assuming that the SVR rezidentura in Washington has not been penetrated by the CIA or FBI. But as of two years ago, by the end of his counterintelligence assignment in Washington, he knew neither the Agency nor the Bureau had succeeded in recruiting anyone inside the Russian embassy.

He ponders his operational decisions over the past two weeks, trying to identify a possible misstep that might have led the Russians to ignore his offer to spy on their behalf. He hadn’t acted impulsively. He planned deliberately, executed the tradecraft properly, certain the SVR would accept his proposal and respond accordingly. Then why hadn’t the Russians made the dead drop two evenings earlier, as he proposed? Had they decided there was too much risk in running an anonymous volunteer, perhaps thinking his approach was a CIA or FBI dangle operation intended to lure them into a trap? Not likely – no dangle would provide the type of high value intelligence he passed to Natalya Vasilyeva. Had she not handled his package as he instructed?

***

Tempest had been meticulous in selecting two Russians to carry out the first part of his plan. Taking advantage of his counterintelligence assignment in Washington prior to assuming command of DRTC, Tempest drew on his knowledge of operatives in Russia’s embassy, many of whom are still there. He knew their SVR responsibilities and diplomatic cover roles, the restaurants they frequented, the names of their spouses and ages of their children, their weekend routines and their drinking habits. He knew who was skilled with tradecraft, and who was discreet and disciplined in their activities outside the embassy, which often draw FBI surveillance. Aware of the FBI’s limited resources, he knew which Russians the Bureau tended to ignore on the streets of Washington.

The first Russian selected by Tempest was the single, middle-aged Natalya Vasilyeva, an SVR administrative assistant. Vasilyeva had almost no social life, spending most of her time in the embassy or her apartment. According to FBI surveillance reports during her first six months in Washington, she was never observed engaging in operational activity; since then, she was consequently surveilled only rarely. He also knew from his time in the counterintelligence unit that she went on a short jog from her apartment through Rock Creek Park in Washington every Sunday morning at around 7 a.m. She lived in an apartment two blocks from the jogging trail on a quiet side street with little traffic on Sunday mornings.

The second Russian he chose was Colonel Yuriy Medvedev, head of the rezidentura’s “Line KR” section, the unit responsible for counterintelligence. Medvedev managed efforts to keep Russian intelligence operations in Washington from coming to the FBI’s attention. Tempest’s plan was to volunteer his services to the SVR in a letter to Medvedev that he would pass to Vasilyeva as she returned from her jog the following Sunday morning. He was confident Vasilyeva would get the letter into Medvedev’s hands securely. He selected Medvedev, in part, because of his reputation in the FBI for being a disciplined operator with a stable family life and no apparent vulnerabilities. He counted on Medvedev’s professionalism and discretion. Tempest also wanted to limit knowledge of the letter to as few people as possible in the Washington SVR rezidentura; he knew Medvedev, in his counterintelligence leadership role, would be among those made privy to Tempest’s introductory letter even if it were addressed to another officer.

Tempest crafted his letter to Medvedev late at night, two weeks earlier, with Peggy asleep. The letter offered his services to the SVR, describing the general nature of his access to high value intelligence and referencing an attached Top-Secret document mapping out the CIA’s strategic collection requirements against Russia. Intended as a framework to guide the intelligence collection of operations officers targeting Russia, the document identified issues of critical national security importance to the U.S. that could be addressed only covertly. It would demonstrate to the SVR his access to high level CIA strategic planning.

The real lure for the SVR was two intelligence nuggets included in his letter to Medvedev. The first was the identity of a Russian diplomat in Cairo recruited by the CIA nearly two years ago. A couple of months earlier, a CIA operations officer designated to replace the Russian diplomat’s handler in Cairo had gone through Tempest’s DRTC training in preparation for running the case. Halfway through the course, the operations officer informed Tempest that a decision had been made to terminate the case by the end of the year; the Russian diplomat’s intelligence production was poor and he had failed a polygraph test, prompting CIA speculation that he was a double agent. For Tempest, identifying the Cairo-based Russian diplomat in his letter was throwaway information. If the diplomat really was a double agent, the SVR already knew about his relationship with the CIA. If not, the case was about to be terminated anyway, so no harm done to the CIA, from Tempest’s perspective. His reason for including it in the letter was simply to give him credibility with Medvedev.

It was the second piece of information included in the letter that represented Tempest’s true objective for establishing a relationship with the SVR in the first place. Tempest chose his words carefully. “I have learned that a GRU officer assigned to the Balkans region under diplomatic cover has recently volunteered to spy for the CIA. I do not know the identity of the GRU officer (I have heard him referred to only in alias “Alex”) or his precise location. However, I know this will be of great importance to you and will pass along additional details as they become available.”

Tempest deliberately withheld information on Belgrade as the specific location of the GRU military intelligence asset, and on New Delhi as his most recent post. He did not want the SVR to begin investigating “Alex” and identify him as a traitor before Malcolm Edwards was in place and handling him for the CIA. He knew “Alex” was but one of many GRU officers active in the Balkans. Having arrived recently in Belgrade, he would start low on the Russian counterintelligence list of suspects. Once Edwards arrived, Tempest planned to reveal the Serbian capital as the location of the CIA’s operation. The SVR would be swift in identifying the GRU mole and collecting hard evidence to convict him as a traitor. They would then contrive an excuse to summon “Alex” to Moscow, where he would be arrested upon arrival. After finding out about his arrest, the CIA would have little choice but to pin responsibility on Malcolm Edwards for compromising the case. Even Edwards’s prominent father wouldn’t be enough to protect him. The leadership would recognize Tempest had been right to question Edwards’s tradecraft skills during DRTC training. And how better to make it up to Tempest than with a key operational assignment in the field? Of course, Belgrade would no longer be an option, but there would be others. Tempest would never again be doubted by his superiors.

In his letter to Medvedev, Tempest also intimated that he had knowledge of other Russian government officials on the CIA’s payroll. In fact, this wasn’t true. But the prospect of more revelations would prompt Medvedev to restrict all SVR planning related to Tempest to a select few Russian officers in Washington and Moscow, providing him with a measure of added security. And, if all went according to his plan, he would never have to make additional disclosures to the Russians. His temporary role as a mole would be complete.

After dispensing with the intelligence in the letter, Tempest directed that communication between himself and the SVR be handled impersonally, through signals and dead drops. He identified the location of a dead drop site at the foot of a walking bridge in a park near his home, where he had every reason to take an evening walk or jog without having to explain his absence to Peggy. He provided a primary drop schedule, alternate timing, and a two-way signal plan. Tempest kept the plan simple, limiting the potential for misinterpretation or tradecraft snafus. He instructed Medvedev to respond with an initial payment of fifty thousand dollars and a letter confirming the SVR’s interest in a long-term relationship. Most importantly, Tempest did not identify himself by name, position, or organization, signing the letter in alias “Ivan Nikto.” (He thought that a nice touch, as Nikto means “nobody” in Russian.) For if the SVR never learned his identity, there would be no danger of a mole in the organization revealing his treachery to the CIA. No, the SVR would never know his name and the CIA would never learn that he had acted, however briefly, as a mole.

The following Sunday, Tempest bumped Natalya Vasilyeva on a sidewalk outside her apartment building in Washington as she returned from her morning jog. He handed his package with the letter and Top-Secret strategy document to Vasilyeva with instructions to pass it to Medvedev. His first move was complete.

***

As he sits at the desk in his den reflecting on his recent actions, Tempest regains his confidence. There were no flaws in his planning. He can only hope the SVR had been forced to abort or delay the Tuesday dead drop until the alternate timing, tonight. If the drop is made, he will go forward with his plans and let the operation play out quickly. If not, he will drop contact with the Russians and hope the SVR still acts on the information in his letter, culminating in the arrest of “Alex,” the CIA’s Russian asset in Belgrade. After all, that is the endgame for Tempest. The faster he can extricate himself from the relationship with the SVR, the less risk for him.

Oliver Tempest does not consider himself a traitor. He is a patriot. He justifies his actions with an arrogant certainty that the incompetent Malcolm Edwards should never have been selected as the handler of such a high-value asset. Edwards, he believes, would have eventually compromised the “Alex” case, anyway, with his poor tradecraft. Tempest is simply speeding up the inevitable. And he wants to maintain contact with the SVR just long enough to ensure a suitable outcome.

In the dim lighting of his den, Tempest takes a sip of Gatorade and leans over his chair, picking up a backpack, placing it on the desk. He has set the stage for this moment. Already a regular late-evening jogger, Tempest has over the past two weeks adopted the military practice of running with a weighted backpack, intended to strengthen one’s core and shoulders. As he had two evenings before, he will jog into the park with the backpack, using it to transport the package if the SVR has made the drop.

Like anyone who has ever worked in espionage, Tempest knows the lives of moles tend to be short-lived, that most who accept the risk do so with a fatalistic outlook. This is especially true in the spy versus spy world of the U.S. and Russia, where there is plenty of historical precedent for a mole on one side being betrayed by a mole on the other. Things didn’t end well for the CIA’s Aldrich Ames and the FBI’s Robert Hanssen. Both spied on the U.S. for the Soviets, later the Russians, for years without detection. Both are spending their retirement in federal prisons. But Tempest considers them flawed spies. Ames revealed his identity to the Soviets, and later left a trail for the CIA to follow by carelessly disposing incriminating notes and buying new cars and a house he couldn’t afford on a government salary. And although Hanssen managed to avoid detection for far longer than Ames by keeping his identity secret from his handlers, in the end he drew attention to himself through his sloppy habit of checking FBI records to see if he had come under scrutiny. But the biggest mistake made by Ames, Hanssen and other spies who got caught was, in the view of Tempest, that they simply played the game too long, making their arrests inevitable. Tempest is smarter than Ames, Hanssen and the others: he will play the role of mole only long enough to achieve his goal and then get out. Yes, thinks Tempest, it is a risky game that only a few could win. In a perverse way he is buoyed by the challenge.

Tempest glances at his watch: 9:20 p.m. He grabs the weighted backpack, takes a final sip of Gatorade. Time for another jog in the park.

CHAPTER 14

THE QUESTION

Spencer Hale

As Colbie and I play H-O-R-S-E in Ravi’s driveway, Cal and Ravi sit in the house playing video games. They play for hours when they can get away with it, which they can during summer evenings. I play sometimes, but get bored pretty quickly. And I’ve started to think more about how I spend my time, whether whatever I’m doing is making me better at something or just wasting time.

Colbie’s usually more easy-going than I am. On the other hand, she’s the most competitive person I know. You should see her during a high school basketball game, where she banters with referees relentlessly. She works them, getting in their heads. Sometimes her comments get a laugh out of them. But the back-and-forth gets interesting when she’s the target of bad calls. During road games, Colbie usually responds with just an icy glare. Home games are a different story. Our team nickname is the Wasps, and our gym, which is always packed, is known as the Wasp’s Nest. Our fans – especially students – are rabid and vocal in expressing opinions about the officiating. And Colbie knows how to engage the home crowd to her advantage, responding to calls in a way that encourages them to explode with indignation. Her timing is always strategic, like in the fourth quarter of a close game when she senses her team needs a spark, even at the risk of picking up a technical foul.

Sitting in the front row of the student section, I’ve witnessed some memorable exchanges that make me think Colbie studies Winston Churchill’s most famous insults and figures out how to work variations of them into basketball games. Once, after calling Colbie for her third foul, a ref said to her, “If you keep reaching in like that, you’re gonna foul out.” Colbie’s response: “Good, because if you keep making bad calls like that, I’d rather be sitting on the bench.” The ref gave her a T. Another time, a ref said to Colbie, “Young lady, if you keep using your elbows when you rebound, somebody’s going to get a black eye.” Colbie: “Mr. Ref, in a week that black eye will have healed, but you will still be blind.” Another T.

Early in her freshman season, Colbie’s coaches got on her about hurting the team by picking up technicals. But by midseason it was obvious that referees returning to the Wasp’s Nest were reluctant to risk the wrath of the crowd with calls against the home team late in a close game. It also became clear that Colbie was by far the favorite player in our basketball program, boy or girl. From then on, the coaches just let Colbie be Colbie.

***

Ravi’s driveway is wide, flat and well-lit at night, perfect for H-O-R-S-E. I usually beat Colbie, mostly because my shooting range is a little longer than hers. But she’s a stronger ball handler than I am, so she likes to mix in moves that give her an advantage.

It’s warm out tonight, and we’re in the middle of our third match, tied one-apiece. It’s Colbie’s turn. She starts beyond the free throw line, dribbles with her left hand to the wing, and takes a jumper, calling “bank!” It goes in, off the board. She looks at me with a grin, adjusting the tie fastened to her long, blonde ponytail. Colbie knows I don’t like bank shots.

I grab the ball, get into position, and make the same move. The ball banks in.

“You’re getting better going to your left,” she says.

“Yep.”

Colbie picks up the ball and dribbles in place. She glances around, making sure there’s nobody else around. “Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think the mole will show up tonight? That he’ll pick up the dead drop?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I do. Pasha seems pretty confident the mole has crossed some sort of line, and doesn’t have much choice.”

Colbie tends to keep the conversation going when it’s just the two of us. I’m fine with conversations in a group, but, for some reason, I clam up a little bit when it’s just me and her.

Colbie dribbles once and takes a jumper from the wing. The ball rattles in and out.

I decide to make Colbie pay for that last bank shot. I walk to the corner of the driveway and launch a long set shot. Swish.

Colbie gives me a look, walking over to the same spot, unhappy with the distance. I pass her the ball. She takes one dribble and puts up a jumper. It’s on-target but short, glancing off the front of the rim.

“Game,” I say.

“Best three out of five?”

“Okay.”

Colbie has the first shot. She walks onto the grass behind one corner of the backboard. I know what’s coming. She looks up and lofts a high, soft floater over the backboard. It goes in.

“Ridiculous,” I say. “Why take a shot you’d never take in an actual ball game?”

“That’s why I took it, Spence. Because you’d never practice it.”

I shake my head, moving to the same spot and putting up a high arc shot. Too far, right over the rim.

“H!” says Colbie.

Staying with the same theme, Colbie walks to the free throw line. She takes two dribbles toward the hoop, tosses it underhand off the backboard on the move, grabs it in midair, and tries to lay it in. It misses badly.

“Serves you right,” I say, grabbing the ball.

“No guts, no glory,” says Colbie. “Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Would it be okay if I started joining you in your morning shooting drills in the park?” She brushes her bangs aside and stares at me with her brown eyes.

I look away, taking a fifteen-foot jumper from the baseline. Usually my best shot. Airball.

I expect Colbie to make a snarky remark, but she lets it go. “I could use the daily practice, too,” she says. “And with me feeding you, you could take more shots off a move without the ball, like you would in a game.”

She’s right. “Yeah,” I finally say.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Seven-thirty tomorrow morning, then?”

“Yeah.”

I hand Colbie the ball. She walks to the left side of the hoop and spins the ball on the tip of her right index finger. She tosses the ball, still spinning, a few inches up into the air, and then bumps it up with her right fist. The ball kicks off the backboard, spins to the right, and goes in.

I roll my eyes. Grabbing the ball, I mimic her shot. The ball spins around the rim, and falls out.

“Too much spin,” says Colbie. “We can work on that tomorrow morning.”

CHAPTER 15

THE JOGGER

At 9:32 p.m., a lone figure clad in shorts, a black t-shirt, and a ball cap enters Willow Creek Park, jogging slowly along one of two access paths leading from a neighborhood that runs along the eastern edge of the woods. Shouldering an olive-colored backpack, he slows as he enters the unlit park, stepping carefully. He turns left as the entry path intersects a primary trail, and heads south. A quarter mile in, he jogs around a curve approaching an intersection of the trail with another path from the neighborhood. Glancing up the path and seeing no sign of anyone else out, he slows his pace almost imperceptibly as he nears a white metal park sign mounted on a wooden post. Although he is in excellent physical condition from regular jogging, his heart is pounding. He sees what he’s looking for on the bottom-left corner of the park sign as he passes, and gradually increases his pace again, jogging along the fork leading to the west, away from the neighborhood and deeper into the woods.

He follows the winding path as it slopes gently downhill to a narrow wooden footbridge, slowing again and removing the backpack as he nears its right, front corner. He stoops down, pulls aside some brush, and picks up a small, cylindrical container lying in the vegetation. He places it inside the backpack, zipping it closed. He begins jogging again, pulling the backpack across the back of his shoulders as he crosses the bridge. He heads to the left at a T-turn and continues along a trail adjacent to another neighborhood at the park’s western edge. His eyes having adjusted to the darkness, he picks up his pace as the trail follows a semi-circular route back toward his neighborhood on the opposite side of the park. Ten minutes later he approaches the same white park sign he had observed earlier, this time from the reverse direction. He steps to the rear of the sign, pulls off a piece of vertically placed blue painter’s tape, and replaces it, horizontally.

His work done, he returns to the trail and lengthens his stride, energized, heading north. He exits the park into the neighborhood along the same access path he came in on.

***

Oliver Tempest turns on his desk lamp, checks to confirm the blinds in his den are closed, and sits down, the backpack in his lap. Unzipping it, he pulls out a dark green, plastic coffee container and removes the lid. Empty. He turns it upside-down and examines it, eying a barely discernable gap between the lateral surface of the cylinder and the base. Two separate pieces – a threaded concealment device. He twists the base counterclockwise until it comes off, revealing a small compartment containing a clear plastic storage bag. He unseals the bag and pulls out a small package: folded paper bound by a single rubber band.

Tempest sets it on the desk and stares at it for a moment, before wiping his sweaty hands on his shorts and taking a gulp from his Gatorade bottle. He takes a deep breath, trying to slow his pulse rate. Finally, he picks the package up again, removes the rubber band, and unfolds the paper to find a wad of cash inside. Setting the money aside, he examines the papers, two sheets, both typewritten. The top page is a letter that begins with the salutation, Dear Friend. After reading the letter and an accompanying list of follow-up questions under the dim desk lamp, he gets up, walks into the kitchen, uncorks a bottle of Peggy’s Merlot, and fills a glass. Tempest is not much of a drinker, but he has earned the right to celebrate.

He returns to his den, leans back in the desk chair, sips his wine, and contemplates the SVR’s response to his proposal. Exhausted after two nearly sleepless nights of mulling over possible explanations for the Russians’ missing the scheduled dead drop, his initial reaction is an overwhelming sense of relief. “A clean-up of beer cans in progress beneath the bridge…” It never occurred to him that the bridge he chose as the drop site might be a favorite location for late-night teenage drinking. The SVR had no choice but to abort the primary drop. And their proposal to use a nearby bridge for future communications is reasonable, under the circumstances. In fact, he had jogged across that bridge tonight shortly before arriving at the signal site the second time.

All in all, he is satisfied: the Russians expressed no qualms about his wish to remain anonymous and generally accepted his communications arrangements. He naturally had no intention of making contact with Natalya Vasilyeva again, and had expected the SVR to caution him against it. The list of follow-up questions is also as anticipated, focusing primarily on the precise location in the Balkans region of “Alex,” the GRU mole. Yes, everything was going according to plan.

Tempest’s second reaction is one of mild embarrassment. The problem with the bridge being used at night by partying teenagers is one that no operations officer could have foreseen. He won’t fault himself for that. The issue with the signals is a different matter. It is fairly standard practice, albeit simplistic, to use tape for signals. But given that summer thunderstorms in the Washington area are common, thumbtacks are a better choice than tape for signals. He wonders for a moment whether Colonel Yuriy Medvedev, the SVR counterintelligence chief in Washington, will look down on Tempest’s tradecraft skills as a result. Can’t be helped, he thinks. He will accept the SVR’s proposal for using thumbtacks.

Tempest takes a gulp of Merlot and begins mulling over his next step with the Russians. Then he rereads the opening of the SVR’s set of follow-up questions for him. “Thank you for your insights on our friend in Cairo. This is the type of timely and actionable information that we find most helpful.” This had been the SVR’s only reference to his information on the Russian diplomat working for the past two years as a CIA source in Cairo. No follow-up questions on that – the SVR had immediately shifted the focus to “Alex.” Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he had identified the diplomat in Cairo by name. Was the lack of follow-up on the Cairo case evidence of the SVR tipping their hand, suggesting they already knew about the case because they were running the Russian diplomat as a double agent? Did the Russians think he wouldn’t deduce that?

Tempest gets up, walks to the kitchen, and refills his wine glass, thinking through the ramifications. He returns to the den and begins pacing. Had the SVR suspected that his intelligence nugget on the CIA’s Russian asset in Cairo was throwaway information? That his sole intent in passing them the introductory package was to compromise the GRU case that Malcolm Edwards was designated to handle in Belgrade? That would complicate things for him. If he were to extricate himself too quickly from his relationship with the SVR, it might reinforce the view that his intent in volunteering was limited to revealing “Alex.” If such a conclusion ever made its way back to the CIA from other Russian sources, it might implicate Tempest, given his known antipathy for Edwards. He will have to plan carefully, going forward. He may have to provide a wider variety of intelligence to conceal his true intent. That will increase the risks, but Tempest is well-versed in deception and he has no doubt that he can manipulate the SVR’s perceptions.

Sitting back down, Tempest cautions himself not to overanalyze the Russians’ initial communication with him, and then glances at the desk, realizing he hasn’t yet examined the wad of cash. He removes the rubber band and counts the money. Ten thousand dollars, a fraction of the fifty thousand he requested. No surprise. He is an unproven, anonymous volunteer. The amount reflects both the SVR’s view of his potential as a source and its interest in pushing him to provide more intelligence, to earn the amount he requested. Fine. The money is unimportant to him.

Finishing his second glass of wine, he replaces the money and written communications in the coffee container, which he conceals in a space behind a set of files in the rear of his bottom desk drawer. He suddenly feels exhausted. Oliver Tempest needs to sleep. He will begin planning his next steps tomorrow.

CHAPTER 16

THE THIRD VISIT

As is his custom on summer nights, Pavel Fedorov sits relaxed in an easy chair in his family room, taking in a Thursday night baseball game the old-fashioned way, over the radio. Baseball had been foreign to Fedorov when he served in Washington as a young KGB officer. It wasn’t played in the Soviet Union until the late 1980s, after the International Olympic Committee added it to the Summer Games. Since his resettlement in the United States, and especially since the Montreal Expos relocated and became the Washington Nationals in 2005, Fedorov has become passionate about baseball and looks forward to early April and the beginning of the major league season every year. He had once traveled to Florida to follow the Nats in spring training with Clint Kilkenny, who taught him the finer points of the game. Fedorov has come to appreciate baseball’s history and tradition, the box scores, the beauty of a well-executed outfield assist, the thrill of every Stephen Strasburg strikeout.

Tonight’s game between the Nats and Phillies goes into extra innings, well past Fedorov’s normal bedtime. But, with one more visit to make to the woods tonight, he’s grateful for the voices of the talented Nats’ radio team of Charlie Slowes and Dave Jageler to keep him awake. He even resists the temptation of Scotch, knowing it would make him drowsy. The game finally ends with a walk-off homerun by the Nats’ Victor Robles in the bottom of the thirteenth inning. He is ecstatic with the dramatic victory, relieved that the Nats bullpen has done its job.

***

Fedorov and Tsarina return home from their third visit to the woods today. His legs ache, unaccustomed to so much walking. With the park closed for several hours since nightfall, they had encountered no one else throughout the walk. Fedorov sets his flashlight on the counter, next to Tsarina’s leash. He brought the flashlight as a contingency in the darkness, and is relieved he hadn’t needed it, had avoided drawing attention to himself. With the sky clear, the crescent moon provided just enough light to confirm that the coffee container had been retrieved, and that the mole had shifted the signal tape from vertical to horizontal. He is energized by the same sense of accomplishment he had always felt, so long ago, upon the completion of any successful operational act.

Fedorov finds himself wondering about the mole. Somewhere, he thinks, probably not far from here, a man who has decided to commit treason against the United States has just reviewed the contents of the dead drop. Will he accept the excuse described in the letter for aborting the primary dead drop timing? Will he go along with the proposed changes in dead drop sites and signals, eliminating future communications between the mole and the SVR? What are his motives for engaging in espionage? Money, revenge, ego? Is he anxious about the enormous risks?

These thoughts prompt memories of his own actions three decades earlier in spying for the United States, the constant anxiety, knowing the dire consequences of a single tradecraft mistake by him or the CIA. Fedorov has never second-guessed his own decision to act against Soviet tyranny, to do his small part to bring the Cold War to its only appropriate conclusion. He understands as well as anyone what the mole must be going through, the unrelenting fear of exposure. But he can’t comprehend what set of circumstances could possibly induce the mole to engage in treachery on behalf of Putin’s repressive version of Russia.

Knowing he will be unable to sleep, Pavel Fedorov returns to his easy chair, a tumbler with two fingers of Scotch in hand. He shuts down his mind and watches replays of the Nats’ win on Sports Center.

CHAPTER 17

SUSPICIONS

“Ah, there he is, he’s going out again, that’s number three!” says Mrs. Prattle, wearing a flannel nightgown and looking out the back window of her second story master bedroom. “His third walk in the woods today, Lionel! And it’s nearly midnight! Just what exactly is that man up to?”

She turns around to look at her husband, seated in his reading chair in the corner of the bedroom, leafing through pages of his latest copy of Global Debacle Weekly under the glow of a floor lamp. She doesn’t expect a response. There’s no indication whether Lionel even heard his wife. He’s too absorbed in trying to come up with apocalyptic-sounding quotes about the matters covered in his magazine.

Lionel Prattle is a pasty man who rarely ventures outdoors and hasn’t spoken a word to neighbors in years, as far as anyone remembers. An eminent futurist who has predicted five of the last zero world disasters, Prattle is quoted frequently by journalists looking for a sensationalist quote on imminent catastrophes. He had found a small measure of fame in the late 1990s, being among the first to predict a major threat posed by the “Y2K bug.” Shorthand for the year 2000, Y2K would allegedly cause planes to fall out of the sky, electric grids to crash, and the world banking system to collapse – all because computer systems stored only the last two digits of the calendar year, leaving them unable to distinguish between the years 2000 and 1900 as the world transitioned into the new millennium. He is rumored to have made a small fortune by investing in companies that sold software to airlines and other businesses seeking to avoid calamity. Lionel has since published books predicting, among other things, global famine and the death of millions of Los Angelinos from smog. The fact that none of his predictions has come true seems not to bother him, his wife, his publisher, or the journalists who quote him. Though his wife complains about him incessantly, she also takes great pride in his prominence.

Though her view of Fedorov’s backyard gate is largely obscured by a huge maple tree hovering above the certified wildlife habitat that is her backyard, Mrs. Prattle watches from the upstairs window as Fedorov emerges in the darkness, walking northward along the trail adjacent to her back fence, holding a leash.

“That old man has walked that dog following the same schedule every day, for years,” says Mrs. Prattle. “One walk, every morning shortly after sunrise, and that’s it, till the next morning.” She glances at her notes on a laptop. “I have it right here, Lionel. Yesterday, he took his normal walk, early. Then he took a second one in the late morning, and another in the early evening. Today, he took his morning walk, and then another in the late afternoon, and now he’s out again! The park closed hours ago, Lionel, he’s violating the law! Trespassing in the park! I’m telling you Lionel, that man is up to something, and I’m going to find out what it is and inform the authorities.”

As she loses sight of Fedorov in the woods, Mrs. Prattle pivots from the window to get her husband’s reaction. His reading chair is empty. She turns to the bed to find Lionel under the covers, snoring gently. The floor lamp is still on.

CHAPTER 18

THE STROLL

Spencer Hale

I arrive on my bike at the basketball court on Friday morning at 7:15 a.m., a few minutes earlier than usual, to get there before Colbie. I’m not used to doing drills with someone else, so I want to get warmed up first. I’m not sure what I think about Colbie joining me. Might work, we’ll see.

Colbie pulls up on her bike just before seven-thirty, steering with one hand, ball in the other. I’m taking mid-range jumpers, finishing my warm-ups.

“Hey, Spence!”

“Hey, Colbie.”

She’s wearing blue shorts with white stripes down the side, and a white, sleeveless shirt. A red band holds her blonde ponytail in place.

“When’d ya get here? Already warmed up?”

“Yeah, got here fifteen minutes ago. Wanna warm up first?”

“Nah, let’s get going.”

I’d thought about how to modify my drills for two people after our H-O-R-S-E match last night, which turned into a best-of-nine game (I won). We run through the same variety of shots I do on my own, except we mix in passes and a defender. Colbie and I are constantly in motion, alternating roles.

By the end, each of us has taken more than 200 shots. We lie on our backs in the grass next to the court, cooling down, water bottles in hand, staring at the sky. I lean my head against a basketball, and Colbie does the same.

“Well, whattaya think?” says Colbie.

“I think you’re pretty good for a girl.”

“Yeah, I know that already. I started on varsity last year, remember, Spence?”

“Yeah, I remember, Colbie. You remind me of that at least once a week.”

“What I meant was, what do you think about running two-player drills instead of your usual routine?”

“Yeah, I know what you meant. Okay, it was good. Less shots, but using more moves and taking shots off a pass. More game-like conditions.”

“So, I’m invited back tomorrow? And the next day?”

“Only if you think you can take the grind.”

Colbie grins. I finish off my water bottle. “So, uh, what’d you think, Colbie?”

“I think my right shoulder is sore.”

“That’s because you’ve been a slacker all summer. You’ll get used to it.”

Colbie sits up and closes the top on her water bottle. “Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“You want to go past the signal site? See if the mole left his drop unloaded signal?”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“You think Pasha would get mad at us? I mean, we wouldn’t stop and stare at the park sign or anything. Just walk past it on the trail and keep going, like we’re taking a stroll together in the woods.”

“I think it’d be okay. He told us not to go anywhere near the sites yesterday, but he didn’t say anything about today.”

“No, he didn’t. Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about Pasha? I mean, he was arrested by the Soviet Union for being a traitor. Is he any different from our mole?”

None of us has talked about that before, but I’ve thought about it. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, both would be considered traitors by their own countries, but I think Pasha did it only because he thought it was the right thing to do. That there was a right side and a wrong side during the Cold War, and he picked the right side. We don’t know why our mole decide to spy on the U.S., but I can’t imagine how someone could justify working for Russia against America, other than for selfish reasons.”

“Yeah, that’s what I think, too.” Colbie sits up. “Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go on that stroll.”

CHAPTER 19

THE SUMMER JOB

Spencer Hale

After making a complete loop around the southern end of the park, Colbie and I return to the basketball court to pick up our bikes. Stepping on rocks above the water line, Colbie and I carry our bikes across the stream and approach the fort. Cal ignores us, standing on the pitching rubber, going through his odd windup, and throwing a pitch that sails wide of the tire and into the backstop net. He’s limiting his throws to about sixty percent speed, under strict instructions from his coach to avoid injury.

“Where you guys been?” Ravi shouts down from the fort. “We’ve been waiting for an hour!”

“We did basketball drills,” says Colbie. “And then took a walk.”

Hearing this bit of news, Cal stops in mid-windup and stares at us for a second before resuming.

Colbie and I set our bikes under the fort and climb up the ladder, sitting across from Ravi. Cal throws his last couple of pitches and follows us a minute later, sitting aside Ravi and setting his glove on the table.

“How’d you throw ‘em today, Cal?” asks Colbie.

“Twenty – beat my record by two. And down to five wild pitches.” He grabs a bag of pretzels from the table. “So what’s the deal,” he asks. “You guys ran basketball drills together? Thanks for the invitation!”

I feel my face turning red, hoping nobody notices.

“Gimme a break, Calvin,” says Colbie. “You woulda been complaining after ten minutes. Besides, you were doing your baseball routine.”

Ravi is flipping a basketball in his hands, looking back and forth between me and Colbie. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Spence, you let Colbie run drills with you?”

I shrug. “I wanted to practice more shots off a pass. Can’t do that by myself.”

“More game-like conditions,” adds Colbie.

“And then you took a walk?” says Ravi. “Together?”

Colbie nods.

Ravi stands up, as it dawns on him. “You walked past the signal site!”

“Yeah, we did,” says Colbie.

“What?” says Cal. “Was it there? Was the tape horizontal?”

Colbie and I shake our heads. “We walked the big loop, past the park sign and around,” says Colbie. “We could see the back of the sign from the trail. No tape.”

“No tape?” says Ravi, standing up, agitated. “There was nothing there?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Bloody hell!” says Ravi. “Then what happened to it? If the mole didn’t come, then at least the vertical tape, the drop loaded signal, should still be there where Pasha left it!”

“Yeah,” says Colbie. “We don’t know what it means. Maybe Pasha didn’t make the dead drop, for some reason.”

We sit in silence for a while.

“Pasha might not be happy about you two walking past the site,” Cal finally says, glaring at his sister.

“Yeah,” says Ravi, sitting back down. “And you could’ve waited for me and Cal to join you. You gonna tell Pasha you went by the site?”

Colbie glances at me. “Yeah,” I say. “We have to. Have you seen Pasha walking Tsarina this morning?”

“No,” says Ravi.

“Maybe he took Tsarina out earlier,” says Cal.

“Maybe” says Colbie, “but we were all out here pretty early. Somebody would’ve seen him. We should go by his house. I hope he’s okay.”

***

Leaving our bikes at the fort, we walk to Pasha’s house, coming through the back gate. It’s a nice Friday morning, not too humid for a change, and we are surprised to find the backyard empty. He usually gets his yard work done early. His vegetable garden is dry. Tsarina greets us at the screen door, and we see Pasha sitting at his kitchen table, a cup of coffee in hand.

“Ah, my young intel team,” he says. “C’mon in.” Pasha rises slowly from his chair, and shuffles stiffly toward the refrigerator. “Care for some lemonade?”

I notice he has the air conditioner turned on for us.

“Are you limping, Pasha?” asks Colbie.

Pasha stops and steadies himself, leaning over, both hands on the counter. “Da, I’m not used to walking as much as I have the last couple of days. My bad knee has swelled up.” He’s wearing baggy shorts and we see for the first time that his left knee is the size of a large grapefruit.

“Sit down, Pasha” says Colbie. “Have you iced it?”

“Nyet.”

Colbie walks to the freezer and opens it, grabbing a bag of frozen green beans. She takes Pasha’s arm and guides him back to the table, where he sits. Cal, Ravi and I stand there like idiots.

“Spence, grab that footstool,” she directs, pointing to a corner of the kitchen. I bring it to Pasha, setting it on the floor. Colbie gently places Pasha’s left foot on the stool, his leg extended. She sets the bag of frozen beans on his knee. “There,” she says. “Keep it elevated, and we’ll keep the ice pack on it for twenty minutes.”

“Thank you, Colbie,” says Pasha, as we all sit down around the table. “Well, I have some news for the four of you. I went by the signal site late last night.” He glances around the table at us, staring back at him with blank expressions. His look becomes curious. “You look like you’re expecting bad news. Why?”

Everyone looks at me. I’m staring at my shoes. “Ah, Pasha,” I say, “Colbie and I took a walk around the park this morning, after my – our – shooting drills. There was no horizontal tape at the signal site. No tape at all.”

Pasha is silent for a moment. Then he says, “Were the two of you careful, no stopping at the park sign or dead drop site?”

“Yes,” says Colbie. “We didn’t even look at the drop site, and just walked past the signal site and stayed on the trail, around the loop. We kept ‘good demeanor,’ as you would say.”

“Khorosho,” says Pasha. “Okay. That’s fine. No reason for the mole to be out again this morning.”

I glimpse at Colbie. She looks relieved. So am I.

“Wait a minute, Pasha,” I say. You said, ‘no reason for the mole to be out again.’ You mean he came last night? Picked up the drop?”

Pasha grins. “Of course he came.”

We are confused. “Then why was there no signal from him this morning?” says Colbie.

“Ah, yes,” says Pasha. “There was no tape because I removed it late last night. The mole left his horizontal drop unloaded signal, and I needed to confirm it. And remove it. Remember, the mole’s original plan was to use the same signal site to communicate with the Russians before and after every drop. The tape has to be removed before the signal site is used again with the next drop. And, of course, we wouldn’t want the SVR to see a signal from him if they check the site.”

“He came!” says Ravi, jumping out of his seat, hands in the air. “We did it! The mole picked up the dead drop!”

Now we are all grinning.

“It’s time for a toast,” says Pasha. “To our initial success with Operation Hijack. I’m under strict instructions from Doctor Colbie to keep my foot elevated, so someone please grab the pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and four glasses.”

Ravi, Cal and I do the honors, filling the glasses. Pasha lifts his coffee cup. “I am proud of all of you,” he says. “We are off to a good start together. To teamwork! Na Zdorovie!” He sips and we do the same, smiles all around.

“Now I guess we have to wait a week-and-a-half for the mole’s response,” says Ravi. “I’m gonna be bored.”

Ravi’s right. I’ve always looked forward to summers because I can be lazy. No classes, no homework, no schedule or responsibilities. I can’t believe it was only three nights ago that I saw the Penguin and we uncovered the dead drop. We’ve packed more into the last couple of days than into all of our previous summers combined. I’m going to be bored, too. I look at Pasha’s leg, still propped up on the stool, bag of frozen beans on his knee.

“Pasha,” I say, “you told us yesterday you’d walk by the park sign every morning to check for an emergency signal, a red thumbtack, from the mole. How are you going to do that? With your bad knee, I mean.”

“Yeah,” says Cal, snapping his baseball repeatedly into the glove on his left hand. “You can hardly walk across the kitchen.”

“Da, I’ve been pondering that. We have to come up with a contingency plan for checking the signal site until the swelling goes down. I hope I won’t be out of commission for more than a couple of days, but I don’t know.”

“Spencer and I did it this morning,” says Colbie. “We could just make that part of our morning routine, after our basketball drills, until you recover.”

“A good solution,” says Pasha. “Tsarina will need to be walked, too. Perhaps you could come here after your drills, and bring her along with you.”

“That gives us a good excuse to visit you, too, Pasha,” I say. “If you aren’t able to walk Tsarina, it would be natural for us to help out. We wouldn’t even have to sneak in through the back gate to keep Mrs. Prattle from seeing us.” I glance at Ravi and Cal. Both look gloomy at being left out. “All four of us could do it.”

Pasha nods. “It’s set then. Whoever wants to come each morning after basketball can come here to get Tsarina. It should be after nine o’clock, given our emergency signal instructions to the mole. You should mix up your routes past the park sign each day, since you would do that if your only interest were walking Tsarina. Avoid showing any interest in the sign – but you already know that. And I will pay you twenty dollars a day.”

“No need to pay us,” says Colbie. “It’ll be fun walking Tsarina. And we’re happy to help you.”

“You are sweet, Colbie, but I insist. I may be Russian, but I am also an American capitalist, and you are providing a necessary service. And if you aren’t too tired from your earlier walk and basketball practice, you can start this morning. No need to walk past the signal site again – we won’t be hearing from the mole today. The leash is on the counter.”

CHAPTER 20

COMING CLEAN

Spencer Hale

I return home alone in the early afternoon, walking into the kitchen, setting my basketball on the counter and opening the fridge. My mom is sitting on the couch in the family room next to the kitchen, laptop propped up on her knees, typing away furiously. I hear the printer churning out pages.

“Hey, Spence,” she says. “Home for lunch?”

“Yeah, I’m starving.”

“Glad to see your appetite’s back. How’d your shooting drills go?”

“Fine.” I grab a container of leftover spaghetti from the fridge and put it in the microwave. “I ran ‘em with Colbie this morning.” I figure my mom’s gonna find out sooner or later, anyway.

She stops typing and looks up at me for the first time.

“You ran your drills with Colbie? Well now, that’s interesting, Spencer.”

I grab a plate and fork and set them on the counter next to the basketball. My mom is staring at me now. I return to the fridge, pull out the milk, and fill a glass.

“How did it go, Spence? With Colbie, I mean.”

“Fine. We’re almost out of milk, Mom.”

She sets her laptop next to her on the couch. “When are you going to ask that girl to a high school dance or something, Spencer?”

“It’s not like that, Mom. I just needed someone else so I could practice shooting off a pass.” I pull the spaghetti out of the microwave.

“Well, Colbie’s a very cute girl, Spence, and I’ve seen how she looks at you, although you probably don’t even notice, and you know what your dad says about Colbie, that she’s going to break a lot of hearts, and if you don’t ask her out first, then somebody else will and the heart that gets broken will be yours, and I don’t –”

“Mom.”

“Yeah, Spence?”

“What’re you doing this afternoon?”

She looks at her watch. “Shoot, I’m gonna be late!” She closes her laptop, jumps off the couch, and scurries to the printer, gathering up a stack of printouts. “I’m showing houses to a new client, gotta get ready to go.”

I sit down at the kitchen table with a giant plate of spaghetti, as my mom sorts through her paperwork. “So, I got a job today, Mom.”

“What, Spence? You’re full of surprises. What kind of job?” She shoves her paperwork and laptop into a briefcase.

“Walking a dog. Tsarina. For Mr. Fedorov.”

“Really? Such a sweet dog. I thought Mr. Fedorov enjoyed walking that dog, himself.”

“He does, but he has a bad knee. It’s just temporary, till his knee gets better. Colbie, Ravi, Cal and I are gonna do it together. Twenty bucks a day.”

“Well, good for you.” She hurries into the hall bathroom to do whatever it is she does to her hair when she’s in a hurry, which is most of the time. “It’ll be nice for you to learn responsibility,” she calls out from the bathroom, “and it will give you a little spending money that you could use to take Colbie to a movie or something, and –”

“Mom.”

“Yeah, Spence?”

“Did you know that Mr. Fedorov was a star basketball player in the Soviet Union? He almost played on their team in the Olympics.”

She exits the bathroom and grabs her briefcase. “No, I didn’t, but we know how much he loves basketball, he seemed like your biggest fan at games last season – I mean, your dad and I are your biggest fans – but how did you find out he played in the Soviet Union?”

“We’ve talked to him about it. Me and Colbie and Cal and Ravi. Pasha – I mean, Mr. Fedorov – is a really nice guy. He has a lot of interesting stories.”

“I’ll bet he does, but you be careful, Spencer, you know what Mrs. Prattle says about Mr. Fedorov, about his being a spy and all, although I don’t believe a word she says.” I shove a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth as she walks over and kisses my cheek. “I have to run, Spencer. What’re you doing this afternoon?”

“We’re meeting at the pool.”

“Well, good, I’m glad you’ll be outdoors. Don’t forget sunscreen! And clean up your dishes before you go.”

With a wave, she exits through the kitchen door into the garage.

There. I almost feel like I’m no longer keeping secrets from my parents.

CHAPTER 21

AN UNEXPECTED CALL

Oliver Tempest stares at the computer screen in his office, trying to keep his mind on work, something he has found increasingly difficult to do. He and his staff are between DRTC training courses, having just completed one and preparing to kick off another in two weeks. He glances at a document containing profiles of each member of the incoming class. In twenty minutes, he will chair a meeting with his deputies to discuss plans for tailoring weeks of DRTC street exercises to the field operational requirements of the students: an exhausting series of surveillance detection routes, brief encounters, brush passes, dead drops and signals. Simulating conditions in the field and the relentless scrutiny of foreign counterintelligence is a difficult task. But DRTC students are put under intense pressure, working day and night, spending their time planning or executing each operational task, grabbing a few hours of sleep when they can. This course preparation has always been Tempest’s favorite aspect of the job, akin to the planning that goes into any operation overseas, his strength as an officer. But he now finds his mind wandering to Malcolm Edwards.

Edwards had been DRTC-certified the previous week despite Tempest’s well-documented concerns about his tradecraft skills, and had wasted no time with his transition, flying to Serbia over the weekend to begin his assignment. His wife was left to deal with packing out and moving their family, which includes three young children. Given the CIA’s eagerness to revive the stream of intelligence from “Alex,” who has been kept on ice since relocating from New Delhi to Belgrade pending the arrival of his CIA handler, Tempest presumes that Edwards will hold his introductory operational meeting with the GRU asset in the coming days. It has been a week since Tempest picked up the dead drop from the SVR, leaving him just five days to prepare his next package, scheduled for the following Tuesday evening. He is pondering what to reveal to the SVR about the CIA’s operation in Belgrade and other intelligence he might include in the drop, when he is startled by the voice of his administrative assistant over the intercom.

“Oliver, you have a call from the ADDO’s office. Secure line two.”

“Thanks, Alice.”

Tempest is unaccustomed to getting calls from the office of the Associate Deputy Director for Operations or anyone else on the CIA’s seventh floor. Jesus, he thinks, why would he be calling me?

He pauses for a moment before picking up the secure phone and pushing a flashing button to connect. “Hello, this is Oliver Tempest.”

“Mr. Tempest, this is Robert in the ADDO’s office. Please hold for the ADDO.”

“Thanks.” He waits for nearly a minute before the booming voice of Stowe Akron comes over the receiver.

“Ollie! How are things in DRTC?”

“Fine, Stowe. It’s good to hear from you.”

“Listen, Ollie, I want to thank you personally for everything you’ve done with the DRTC program and for staying on there for another year. You and your team should be proud of your accomplishments.”

“We are, Stowe, thank you. I’m glad to be in a position where I can make a real difference.” What does Stowe Akron really want?

“Ollie, I know you have your hands full in preparing for the next DRTC course, but I want to stop by your office this afternoon to thank you and your staff in person. Would four o’clock be convenient?”

Dammit! “Of course, Stowe, I’m sure everyone here would be pleased to hear that directly from you.”

“Wonderful. And, of course, it’ll give me a chance to formally announce that you’ll be running the show there for another year.”

“Ahh…fine, then.” Tempest has not informed his staff yet of the extension of his assignment, assuming it would be handled through the usual bureaucratic written announcement.

“I’ll see you in a few hours then, Ollie.”

“I look forward to it, Stowe.”

Tempest hangs up the phone and leans back in his chair. Why does Stowe Akron want to make the announcement in person? Under other circumstances, Tempest would enjoy positive attention from the seventh floor, particularly in the presence of his staff, but his nerves are frayed and he wonders whether Akron has a hidden agenda. Tempest and the ADDO had come on board the same year at the CIA and gone through training together, but have never been close. The gregarious Akron struggled through training before surprising his classmates by skyrocketing through the ranks at the Agency, demonstrating an uncanny ability to convince well-positioned foreign officials to commit treason on behalf of the United States. Their paths had not crossed much during their careers, with Akron making a name for himself through several assignments in the Middle East, while Tempest served mostly in the countries of the former Soviet Bloc. He considered Akron a back-slapper and consummate politician, and knew that Akron thought of him, at least in their early training days, as an intellectual snob.

Tempest glances at his government-issued wall clock, grabs a stack of paperwork, and heads to the conference room to plan the running of the next DRTC course.

Distracted by the ADDO’s impending visit and Malcolm Edwards’s arrival in Belgrade, Tempest finds himself impatient and short-tempered in the planning meeting. He announces to everyone’s surprise an all-hands meeting for 4 p.m. to greet Stowe Akron, before brusquely delegating an extensive to-do list to his team and ending the session early. Well organized and efficient meetings are a point of pride with Tempest, who now wonders if his staff has begun to notice his pre-occupation and haggard appearance, counseling himself to be more careful with his demeanor in the office. Struggling to hide his irritation, he sets aside other work after the meeting to direct his assistant in rescheduling his afternoon appointments to accommodate his visitor and the necessary preparations.

The ADDO intensifies Tempest’s aggravation by arriving nearly an hour late, smiling broadly and offering no explanation. Listening to the burly ADDO address his staff, Tempest is reminded of why Stowe Akron has succeeded in the intelligence business, which is built on developing and maintaining personal relationships. Akron is charismatic, relaxed, disarming and likeable, qualities that Tempest has never quite managed to develop. Unlike Akron, Tempest has always been more comfortable dealing with colleagues through email, and with CIA assets through impersonal communications – secure electronic means or dead drops. In his more introspective moments, he understands that his personality traits do not lend themselves well to senior CIA leadership positions.

“Folks, I wanted to tell you personally what a positive impact you have had on the success of field operations over the past couple of years,” says Akron to the assembled Denied Region Training Center group, crammed into a bullpen area outside of Tempest’s office. “Good tradecraft doesn’t happen without good training. I don’t need to tell you that the number of high-profile cases compromised in the field as the result of tradecraft mistakes has gone down dramatically. The DRTC program has been revitalized, a reflection of the hard work, long hours and late nights all of you put in. It has not gone unnoticed, and I have been remiss not to come by and thank you earlier.”

Akron puts a hand on the shoulder of Oliver Tempest, standing next to him. “I know you are all aware that much of the credit goes to this man. I don’t know if Ollie’s told you, but he and I went through training together. Ollie is probably too polite to say it, but I was not the best student in those days. I’m not proud of it, but I spent more time drinking beer than I did planning my surveillance detection routes and training scenarios. I’m not proud to admit I was lucky to even pass the course. Not so with Ollie. His planning was methodical and his tradecraft was impeccable. He was the one our class always looked up to. And when the directorate leadership had the opportunity to lure him into taking over this program two years ago, we jumped at it. The one condition Ollie had in taking the job was a commitment from us to provide him with a strong, qualified staff – people like you. And the results speak for themselves.”

Tempest finds himself touched by the words of the ADDO and the applause of the DRTC staff.

“If I know Ollie, he’s getting uncomfortable with this and wants to get back to work” – this elicits a few nods from Tempest’s subordinates – “so I’ll wind this up with a couple of announcements,” says Akron. “First, talk is cheap, so I want to thank all of you in a more meaningful way by announcing that this staff has been awarded a Meritorious Unit Citation by my office. You should all expect to see a nice little bonus in your next paychecks.” More applause, this time louder and accompanied with smiles.

“Finally,” says Akron, “I want to formally announce that Ollie has graciously agreed, with a little urging from the seventh floor, to stay on board here, at the helm of DRTC, for one more year. I know you all share my view that the program is in good hands. Thank you, Ollie, and congratulations to all of you for a job well done.”

Akron lifts a plastic cup of champagne and leads the group in a toast, prompting another round of applause, more subdued this time. Smiling on cue and sipping his champagne, Tempest observes a few surprised glances exchanged by his staff. He is honest enough with himself to recognize that some on the DRTC team do not share Stowe Akron’s enthusiasm with the extension of his assignment.

After spending a few minutes making the rounds and shaking hands, the ADDO approaches Tempest. “Got a few minutes to chat privately, Ollie?”

***

Tempest sits across from Akron at a small round conference table in his office, the muffled chatter and laughter of his lingering colleagues audible outside his closed door.

“Thanks for your kind words out there, Stowe,” says Tempest. “I appreciate it, and know the rest of my team does, too.”

“Long overdue and I meant every word of it, Ollie.” Akron takes a sip of his champagne, sets it on the table, and runs the fingers of one hand through his reddish hair, just beginning to turn gray. He loosens the knot in his tie and unfastens the top button of his wrinkled white shirt. “Listen, Ollie, I know you’re disappointed about how things worked out with the Belgrade assignment. You might even feel that your concerns about the performance of Malcolm Edwards in DRTC were disregarded.”

Tempest maintains a poker face, not sure where the conversation is heading.

“I can only assure you that your views were taken into careful consideration,” Akron continues. “In the end, the collective view of the leadership was that Edwards was sufficiently prepared, through the fine training of you and your team, to handle the case, that he will rise to the occasion. He left for Belgrade over the weekend and is in place now. And I’ve persuaded Belgrade Station management – taking your concerns into account – to give him some time on the ground, a couple of weeks to get familiar with the city before he holds his introductory meeting with the GRU asset. We share your concern about maintaining the long-term security of this case, and, of course, we’ll be monitoring developments closely on the headquarters end to make sure the transition goes smoothly.” Akron flashes his trademark toothy grin.

Tempest nods politely, unwilling to appear placated, and knows it would be impolitic to question the extent to which the decision to assign Edwards to Belgrade was influenced by the fact that his father runs the European Division of the Directorate of Operations.

As if reading Tempest’s thoughts, Akron says, “You may have heard rumblings, Ollie, that the DDO is retiring at the end of the year. This is not for public consumption yet, but I’m in line to replace him, and Cleve Edwards will be replacing me as ADDO.”

So the rumors Tempest has heard are true, and the father of Malcolm Edwards would be moving to the seventh floor. “Congratulations, Stowe,” he says. “You’ve had a remarkable career.”

Akron shakes his head and leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced. “What I’m getting at here, Ollie, is that you’ve done your job.” His tone is firm, his smile gone. “You’ve resurrected DRTC training and effectively managed a very delicate situation involving Cleve Edwards’s son. That’s out of your hands now, and it’s time to put it behind you. Bide your time here and finish the fine work you’ve started. Pay your dues. There’s no need to make powerful enemies.”

***

Tempest has sequestered himself in his office, door closed, since Stowe Akron’s departure, avoiding the prospect of awkward interaction with his colleagues. The mini celebration in the bullpen had faded slowly with the last of the champagne, and one by one the members of the DRTC team had taken the self-seclusion of their mercurial boss as a signal to go home early for a change.

During the ADDO’s speech lauding Tempest’s performance, Tempest had actually allowed himself, briefly, to feel a sense of guilt over initiating, through his relationship with the SVR, the eventual downfall of Malcolm Edwards. But he should have known better. Akron’s true intent had become clear later, in their private meeting. The ADDO’s cautioning Tempest against making powerful enemies was a clear warning to drop his in-house criticism of Malcolm Edwards’s DRTC performance to avoid antagonizing his father. Others might have construed the advice as collegial, steering Tempest away from committing career suicide. But Oliver Tempest knows better. Bide your time. Pay your dues. Implicit in these comments, he is sure, is a reminder that Tempest has much to atone for, that he must still pay for past mistakes, that it is an operations officer’s tradecraft in the field – not in training exercises – that matters in the end. This, he knows, was the real message Akron meant to convey in his speech, his phony false modesty in comparing his own lazy, beer-guzzling months in training at the Farm to Tempest’s impressive student record: Hey, Ollie, who failed in the field when it really counted, and who are you to judge Malcolm Edwards?

Oliver Tempest sits alone at his office desk, now in complete darkness. He wonders how long he has sat like this. Hours – it is now late evening. It doesn’t matter. Peggy has been in Boston with her parents for three days, giving him more freedom to come and go as he pleases. To plan his next steps.

“Pay your dues?” What does Stowe Akron think he’s been doing for the past two years? Hell, for the past couple of decades!

Tempest looks out the window of his second-floor corner office, sees his Jaguar sitting under the glow of a lamppost in an otherwise vacant parking lot. The only sign of life is a well-lit manned security booth at the entrance gate in the distance. It occurs to him that the ADDO’s visit worked in his favor. Akron provided him with information that Malcolm Edwards would be standing down for a couple of weeks before establishing contact with “Alex,” giving the handler time to prepare and become familiar with the operational landscape on the streets of Belgrade. Not ideal for Tempest – he will have to buy a little extra time with the SVR before revealing additional information leading the Russians to “Alex.” He needs to keep the SVR’s focus off of the GRU asset until Edwards begins handling him. But he is also heartened with the knowledge of events to come. Once the Russians have that intelligence in hand, “Alex” will be wrapped up quickly, and Edwards will be brought home to explain what went wrong. The CIA’s subsequent counterintelligence investigation of the compromised case will quickly focus on the poor training record of Edwards in DRTC, as documented by Tempest, himself. Questions will inevitably be asked about how the Directorate of Operations leadership, including Stowe Akron and Cleve Edwards, could ignore Tempest’s concerns, especially since it involved the handling of a Russian military intelligence asset, one of the CIA’s most important cases. The investigation would inevitably conclude that Tempest’s concerns had been ignored only because Malcolm Edwards enjoyed the protection of Cleve Edwards and his cronies in the leadership.

Yes, Oliver Tempest will be taking down not only Malcolm Edwards, but the CIA’s next DDO and ADDO, as well.

CHAPTER 22

THE PHOTOGRAPHER

Spencer Hale

Colbie and I are now well into our second week of running basketball drills together, and it’s been better than I expected. Colbie’s had some good ideas that I probably wouldn’t have come up with. She lives a little bit farther from the park, so she’s started stopping by my house on the way, and we ride our bikes down together.

As we glide down the path approaching the court in the woods this morning, we’re surprised to find Pasha and Tsarina waiting there for us. Pasha is seated on a blue metal bench facing the court, with Tsarina lying in front of him, licking her paws. She jumps up and tugs at her leash when she sees us.

“Good morning!” Pasha calls out.

“Pasha, what are you doing here?” asks Colbie. “Shouldn’t you be resting that knee?”

We lay our bikes on the ground and walk over to the bench. I sit on the ground next to Tsarina. She nuzzles up against me as I rub her head.

“It’s time to exercise it a little bit, see how it feels.” He shrugs. “I’m not quite ready to start taking Tsarina on long walks again yet, but the swelling’s almost gone. Besides, I wanted to see how the two of you are coming along with your shooting.”

“Hey, you could coach our workout, Pasha,” I say.

He looks exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes. Colbie has started asking him every day if he’s taking good care of himself. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but he muttered something yesterday about not sleeping as well since he hurt his knee because he’s used to getting a lot of exercise, going on a long walk every day and working for a couple of hours in his garden. But today he looks happier than he has, probably just from getting out of the house.

“Nyet, Spencer, I am just here as an observer, a basketball fan,” says Pasha. “Now, show me what you two have been working on.”

“I don’t know if I can take the pressure, Pasha,” I say, “being critiqued by a guy who almost played in the Olympics.”

“You’d better not disappoint me,” he says.

Colbie and I run through drills for forty-five minutes, winding it up with free throws.

Pasha, who’s watched quietly until now, gives us a round of applause as we grab our water bottles. I sit next to him on the park bench, and Colbie sits in front of us on the grass with Tsarina. I’ve felt a little less exhausted each day after our workout – running two-man drills has made me more fit.

“Bravo!” says Pasha. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look this content.

“Whattaya think, Pasha?” I ask. “Give it to us straight.”

“I am impressed with your work ethic, both of you. Do you always run drills this hard and this long?”

“Yeah,” says Colbie, “but I think we both ran a little bit harder today because we have an audience.”

“Do you always run the same drills?”

“Mostly,” I say, “but we mix it up a bit and always add one or two new things each time.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” says Colbie. “Other things we should be working on?”

“Da.” Pasha sits back and looks up at the sky for a moment. “Your shooting fundamentals have become stronger, both of you. Perhaps it’s time to mix in more focus on footwork and ball handling.

He grabs the ball from my hands and pushes himself up from the bench, flexing his left knee. He palms the ball in one hand – I never realized how huge his hands are. He then demonstrates several drills we can work on individually, some that involve dribbling, some that don’t, never looking at the ball, always keeping his head up. I can tell what a great athlete he must have been in his youth. Despite his age, heaviness, and bad knee, he’s still pretty nimble with a ball. I can tell he enjoys the coaching, sharing his knowledge and love for the game.

“Try those,” Pasha says. He sits back on the bench, handing me the ball.

“Thanks, Pasha,” I say.

“How’s the knee feeling?” asks Colbie. “You might be overdoing it.” She can be a little bit motherly at times.

“It feels good. I think the exercise has even loosened it up a bit. I’ll walk back home from here. You two can take Tsarina on a longer walk if you like.” He glances around to make sure no one is in sight on the trail along the court, and lowers his voice. “No need to walk by the signal site today. I stopped by there on my way here. Figured I might as well leave the ready signal ahead of time for tonight’s dead drop. Perhaps you can bring Calvin and Ravi with you when you bring Tsarina home. We’ll discuss our evening plans then.”

***

Colbie and I conceal our bikes in the woods before starting our walk with Tsarina. A light breeze makes the heat and humidity more bearable than it’s been. We decide to walk to the south to avoid the area of the dead drop and signal sites. A few of the primary trails in the park are paved with asphalt, which seems silly because they tend to buckle in spots over the years due to weather extremes. But there must be hundreds of smaller dirt paths that wind through the woods, leading to and along the stream. I like these better because they’re more secluded and fun to explore. Colbie and I branch off on one of these paths into the woods, releasing Tsarina from her leash. She runs off ahead, occasionally stopping to sniff or make sure we’re still in sight.

“Want to let her swim again today?” I ask. Tsarina loves the water, and we sometimes let her jump in, even though that means having to wash her off with the garden hose in Pasha’s backyard afterward.

“Let’s give her a day off from swimming,” says Colbie. “It’ll give us more time to talk with Pasha when we get back, if we don’t have to wash her.”

We had been walking single file, me taking the lead, but then the path widens and Colbie walks alongside me. My hand brushes against hers for a moment and then again a second time, but neither of us pulls away. And then, next thing I know, we’re holding hands, our fingers interlaced. I’m not even sure which one of us initiated it, it just sort of happened. Neither of us says anything, and I hope I don’t have to because my mouth is suddenly dry. We haven’t seen Tsarina for a minute or so, and come around a bend just in time to see her jump from a bank into a deep part of the stream. Colbie and I laugh, which relaxes me.

“I guess Tsarina decided it’s up to her whether she swims,” says Colbie.

She lets go of my hand, grabs a stick, and throws it out into the water. Tsarina paddles toward the splash, tracks down the stick, and swims with it in her jaws back to shore. I sit down on the rocky bank, grab the stick from Tsarina, and toss it back out. Colbie sits down beside me and we watch Tsarina paddle. I take Colbie’s hand in mine again, more confident now.

“I think Pasha was testing out his knee this morning to make sure it’s strong enough to go out and pick up the dead drop tonight,” I say.

“Yeah, probably. You don’t think he’d let us do it, Spence?”

“No. I think he’s okay with us checking for signals, what he calls ‘passive tradecraft,’ but wouldn’t let us do anything that might involve risk.”

“You think he regrets letting us get involved in this?”

“Maybe, a little bit. He’s pretty protective of the four of us.”

Tsarina paddles to the bank, panting and dropping the stick in front of us. Colbie tosses it again. “Yeah. I wonder how much longer he’ll run with this before he turns it over to the CIA,” she says.

“Not much. I get the feeling he might prefer not to let it go beyond tonight’s drop. I hope the mole passes something that helps identify him.”

“Me, too. I’m worried about him, Spence. He seems to be under a lot of strain since he hurt his knee. He doesn’t seem healthy.”

“Yeah. Might be best to hand this thing off to the professionals soon.”

“Want to head back?”

“Yeah, I think Tsarina’s had enough.”

***

Colbie and I reach the paved main trail, putting Tsarina back on the leash and turning in the direction of the fort. As Colbie takes my hand in hers, I catch a glimpse of an older woman in the woods just off the main trail in the opposite direction, aiming a camera up into the trees, turning her back to us.

“Colbie, did you see who that was back there, taking pictures?” I say, after we go around a bend, the woman now out of earshot.

“No, who?”

“Mrs. Prattle.”

“Again? I think we’ve seen her out in the woods taking pictures of birds more times in the past week than in the last two years combined.”

“Yep.”

Tsarina stops to shake water off of her fur, getting both of us wet and making Colbie laugh.

“Maybe her husband is writing a book that all birds are about to become extinct, and she’s doing research for him,” I say.

Colbie jabs me in the ribs with her elbow. “Don’t be mean, Spence,” she says, but she flashes a grin that an enterprising toothpaste marketing team should put on TV commercials.

“Don’t you think it’s odd, though?” I ask. “I mean, she’s always been mostly content to take pictures of birds around that little pond and waterfall in her backyard. She’s quite proud of that certified wildlife habitat of hers.”

“Maybe Mrs. P just decided to expand her hobby, Spence,” says Colbie. “There are a lot more birds out here than in her yard.”

“I get it. But the timing seems a little too coincidental to me.”

“You mean it’s strange that her bird watching is finally, after all these years, taking her out into the woods right when all this stuff with the mole is going on?”

I shrug. “Yep. Right when we’ve started walking Tsarina for Pasha and looking for an emergency signal from the mole. Mrs. P is nosy.”

“You know what I think, Spence?”

“What do you think, Colbie?”

“I think you’re letting your imagination run a little too far with all this spy stuff.”

“Maybe.” Colbie can be more level-headed than I am. But I’m not convinced she’s right. After all, I’m a slightly trained junior intelligence officer. Then again, so is she.

***

Nearing the fort, I let go of Colbie’s hand. I’m not quite ready to reveal to Cal and Ravi that Colbie is now my girlfriend. At least I think she is. And I sure don’t want that getting back to my mom yet. As we go around a bend in the trail, we see a jogger coming toward us. He slows his pace when he sees us, and I see that it’s Carter Klein, Big Man on Campus. Heading into his senior year as captain of the Willow Creek football team, Klein is a linebacker who is being recruited by big-time colleges, but is always on the cusp of academic suspension for poor grades. He and a couple of his cohorts strut around campus like they own the place. When he reaches us, he stops. He’s shirtless and looks like he’s spent the early summer tanning and lifting weights.

“Whazzup, babe?” says Carter Klein, BMOC, pulling out his earbuds and wrapping Colbie up in a big, sweaty bear hug. Colbie cringes, holding her hands up and to the side, trying to limit contact. I hear the loud thump-thump of a bass coming from his earbuds. When the embrace continues, Colbie finally gives his shoulder blades a quick double-tap with her hands and pulls herself away. Klein ignores me completely. “How’s your summer been, Colbie? Haven’t seen ya around.”

“Fine, Carter, how ‘bout you?”

“Ya know, just staying in shape, getting ready for preseason practice in August. Got a recruiting call with an LSU coach in about an hour, so just getting a run in before that.”

That’s Carter Klein, BMOC, always making sure everyone knows what a sought-after star he is.

“Uh, Carter, do you know Spencer?” says Colbie. “Spence, this is Carter.”

Klein looks at me for the first time with a smirk of disdain. We are the same height, but he outweighs me by maybe forty pounds. One of my basketball teammates who also plays football says Klein is known to take steroids.

“Yeah, basketball player, right?” says Klein. “Second string, right?”

“Spence will be starting at point guard next season,” says Colbie.

“Hmm,” says Klein dubiously, exhibiting some of the rich vocabulary for which he’s known. He continues to lock eyes with me. I see that he’s also flexing, for Colbie’s benefit. He had approached her on campus at lunch last winter and asked her to a school dance, even though they’d never met. She initially succumbed to his charms and went with him to the dance, but that was the end of it. She told us afterward that he was “very handsy,” making her uncomfortable. Klein later asked her to the junior prom, and she turned him down. He’s not used to being rejected.

I maintain eye contact with him. “Soccer player, right?” I say. “JV team, right?”

Klein’s sweaty face reddens. He finally looks away first, glancing in amazement at Colbie and then back at me. “Football, dude, football. Everybody knows that.”

“Hmm,” I say, giving him my best dubious expression.

Klein decides he’s done with me, turning back to Colbie. “Hey, babe, there’s a party tonight at Patty Jacobson’s house. Her parents are out of town. Everybody’s coming. Gonna be epic. Pick you up around nine?”

“I don’t think so, Carter. I’m busy tonight.”

“Suit yourself, babe.” Klein puts his earbuds back in, another opportunity to flex his biceps. He gives me one last glare, no doubt meant to leave me trembling with fear.

“Nice tan, by the way,” I say. He doesn’t seem to hear me, already listening to the music and jogging away.

“Well now, that was mature, Spence,” says Colbie. “Just because Carter Klein, BMOC acts like a jerk doesn’t mean you have to out-jerk him.”

“He asked you out with me standing right here.”

“Doesn’t mean he knew you and I are…a thing.”

“It’s part of the guy code, Colbie,” I say. “You don’t ask a girl out when she’s with another guy, whether or not you know for sure that they’re a thing.” Way to go, Spence, I think. Had a girlfriend for maybe a minute-and-a-half, and already caused an argument.

“Guy code?” asks Colbie. “Really? What are some of the other elements of the code, Spence?”

“Can’t tell you. That’s part of the code. I’ve already said too much.”

Colbie shakes her head with amusement as we continue walking, taking my hand in hers again. This time I don’t let go.

Spencer Hale 1, Carter Klein, BMOC 0.

CHAPTER 23

ENDGAME PLANS

It’s Tuesday morning, and Oliver Tempest has made a determined effort to return to his old self.

During DRTC courses, he is consumed with work. Operational exercises on the streets are run day and night, seven days a week, with Tempest putting in nearly as many hours as his students. His staff considers him a control freak, reluctant to delegate authority even to his deputies. He occasionally attempts to rein in these impulses, but also believes his success in resurrecting the elite status of the Denied Region Training Center is a direct result of his micromanagement. Instilling tradecraft skills in operations officers preparing to handle the CIA’s most valuable assets under the eyes of the world’s most formidable counterintelligence services requires the high standards and attention to detail on which Tempest insists.

But in recent weeks he has been distracted at work, exhibiting anxiety and an uncharacteristic lack of self-control. His appearance has become gaunt and weary. He has pushed tasks onto others that he normally takes responsibility for, himself. Tempest knows as well as anyone that a spy must take care not to exhibit behavior revealing that he is living a double life, serving his own country by day and a foreign government by night. The operations officers on his staff, trained to study human behavior, couldn’t have helped but notice the changes in his management approach and physical condition, signs of preoccupation with matters outside the office. Perhaps his colleagues would chalk it up to his disappointment after yielding to pressure from the CIA leadership to stay on with DRTC for another year. But he can’t count on such presumption. Tempest consequently resolved to get some rest and reestablish the managerial style to which his staff is accustomed. With another week to go before the kickoff of the next training course and Peggy with her parents in Boston, he had enjoyed a rare weekend off to refresh and contemplate.

Invigorated, Tempest had started the work week yesterday with a Monday morning planning meeting for the upcoming DRTC course, a follow-up to the session that went so poorly the previous Thursday, just before Stowe Akron’s visit. He is pleased with the results, confident his colleagues see him as absorbed in his work and firmly in control. With the staff busy since the meeting carrying out preparations for the course, he’d been able to keep all day today free of appointments. The SVR is expecting a dead drop from him tonight, and he has needed the extra time to assemble its contents.

Having learned from Akron that Malcolm Edwards won’t begin meeting directly with Russian GRU asset “Alex” in Belgrade for a couple of weeks, Tempest must buy time by providing in tonight’s dead drop something of intelligence value that will keep Colonel Yuriy Medvedev and his SVR colleagues satisfied temporarily. Perhaps something of counterintelligence significance related to Russian interests in the Balkans, but not tied directly to Belgrade or “Alex.” He recalls seeing weeks earlier an electronic message from CIA headquarters sounding the alarm on increased Russian intelligence activities in the Balkans region. With his office door closed, he types a few search terms on his keyboard: Balkans, Russia, GRU, SVR. He limits his CIA intranet search to Directorate of Operations message traffic during the last three months.

The search yields a few dozen messages. He scrolls through them, sees what he’s looking for, and opens a document with a subject line that reads “Immediate Requirement for HUMINT on Russian Destabilization in the Balkans.” It’s a “book cable,” a message sent to all CIA operational units worldwide, authored by Russia House and marked Top-Secret. The cable opens with a primer on a clandestine Kremlin campaign to prevent the further expansion of NATO and the European Union into Southeastern Europe. Since the fall of the Soviet Union and communism in Eastern Europe, it points out, six former Soviet Bloc nations have joined NATO and four have joined the EU, something that was unthinkable only three decades ago. It asserts that Putin wants desperately to restore Moscow’s influence in the Balkans by tarnishing the image of Western-style democracy. The cable goes on to summarize intelligence on the subversive activities of the Russian Intelligence Service, the SVR, and its military intelligence counterpart, the GRU, to achieve Putin’s goals by targeting pro-Western authorities in Serbia, Macedonia, Montenegro and Kosovo.

It is the last two pages of the cable that will capture the attention of the SVR counterintelligence officers who view the contents of tonight’s dead drop. Having set the scene, the message goes on to inform CIA operations officers of a White House policy decision to revitalize American efforts to thwart Moscow. The National Security Council, it says, has consequently called on the Intelligence Community to expand intel collection from human sources – HUMINT, in spy jargon – on Russian covert action in the Balkans. It concludes with two pages of targeting guidance, identifying Russian government units around the world whose personnel have access to information on Moscow’s plans and intentions. The cable is a call to arms, instructing each CIA station in those regions to come up with a plan to pursue this as a high priority target.

This will do just fine, Tempest thinks. The book cable will prime the pump, meeting the Russians’ expectations for key intelligence from him in tonight’s dead drop.

And then he smiles to himself, realizing he can provide the SVR with a personal insight on the White House’s new hardline strategy in the Balkans. Gregory Rasmussen, the former head of Russia House, was recently reassigned as director of Russian Affairs at the National Security Council. The politically savvy Rasmussen had leveraged his friendship with the First Lady, a former college classmate, to secure his appointment to the NSC with direct access to the Oval Office. It is clear to Tempest that Rasmussen, known for advocating a tougher stance on Putin, is responsible for the policy shift. He decides to include this information in his letter to the SVR accompanying the printed book cable. It will be a nice touch: the SVR will expect correspondence from him to include occasional personal observations. His reference to the behind-the-scenes influence of a CIA colleague in the White House accomplishes that, perhaps also helping dispel lingering doubts the SVR might have about Tempest’s credibility as an anonymous source.

Besides, it gives him satisfaction to reveal this particular intel nugget. For Gregory Rasmussen is among those in the CIA’s chain of command whose harsh judgment of Tempest’s past mistakes in the field has contributed to his stalled career.

Medvedev and his SVR colleagues in Moscow will no doubt be disappointed that his intelligence doesn’t include further revelations on “Alex” or his location on the Balkans, but he will address that matter separately in his letter. Tempest will explain that although he has no additional information to pass yet on the Russian mole, he expects to have intel to share soon.

Satisfied with the planned contents of tonight’s dead drop, Tempest sends the Top-Secret cable to a printer in his office. He glances through the hardcopy, making sure there are no markings that identify it as coming from his office. It could have come from any CIA operations officer, and can’t be linked to him.

Four more weeks, he thinks. By then, Malcolm Edwards will be actively handling “Alex” in Belgrade. Four weeks from now – in his next scheduled dead drop after tonight’s – Tempest will simply inform the Russians that the GRU mole in Belgrade is being handled by a CIA operations officer named Malcolm Edwards. That will be enough. Under heavy SVR surveillance in Belgrade, Edwards will lead the Russians directly to “Alex.” There will be no need for Tempest to take any further risk. He will have achieved his goal. No one but Oliver Tempest will ever know of his brief, temporary role as an SVR source. Four more weeks.

CHAPTER 24

THE ANNOUNCEMENT

Spencer Hale

Leaving Tsarina tied to a tree in the shade, Colbie and I climb up into the fort to find Ravi and Cal playing video games on their phones, too mesmerized to have noticed us holding hands. Good. We tell them of our encounter with Pasha at the basketball court and that he had already left the ready signal for the mole’s dead drop tonight. We discuss Pasha’s knee and decide to find a way to help him tonight if he’ll agree to it. Even though his knee seemed better this morning, we’re worried he’ll overdo it and end up immobile again.

The four of us head to Pasha’s house, along the trail and through the back gate. We let ourselves in through the screen door. It’s sweltering inside. Pasha has been in the habit of turning the air conditioner on when he knows we’re coming, but not this time. Not a good sign. The scent of boiled cabbage has returned.

“Pasha?” Colbie calls out.

“In here!”

Tsarina runs to the sound of the voice, into the study, and we follow. Pasha is leaning back in his recliner, legs up on the footrest, a bag of frozen vegetables on his left knee, a cup of coffee in hand.

He looks up at Cal. “Well, Calvin, how’d it go today?” he asks. It’s become a daily routine for Cal to update Pasha on progress with his pitching control drills.

“Twenty-seven points today, Pasha. Only three wild pitches!”

“Otlichno! Excellent! A new record and more than halfway to your summer goal.”

Cal beams, always happy to get Pasha’s recognition. But Pasha looks exhausted.

“How long have you had the ice on your knee?” asks Colbie.

“Long enough.”

Colbie lifts up the bag of vegetables, squints at his knee.

“It’s fine, Colbie,” says Pasha. “The ice is just precautionary this time.” I hear a note of impatience in his tone that I haven’t heard before. I think he’s grown tired of his knee as a topic of conversation. Colbie locks eyes with him, purses her lips. These two are a lot alike, I think: stubborn and in charge. Finally, Colbie turns and heads to the kitchen to return the frozen vegetables to the freezer. As she returns to the study, Cal, Ravi and I sit on the floor, cross-legged, competing for Tsarina’s attention. Colbie half sits on the edge of the desk. We all sense that Pasha is in a no-nonsense mood.

It’s been exactly two weeks since we found the green coffee container left by the Penguin at the base of the walking bridge, and twelve days since the mole left the signal confirming he picked up the dead drop with our revised letter. Colbie, Cal, Ravi and I have talked about it some among ourselves, wondering if the mole would make his scheduled drop tonight and accept the changes to his communications plan proposed in our letter. Whenever we’ve raised it with Pasha over the last few days, he’s deflected the conversation. That’s not like him. Usually, he enjoys the planning, the mentoring, the speculation about the mole’s intentions. But he’s kept his thoughts to himself, probably waiting to see if he’d be physically ready to go tonight.

I kick off the conversation. “Pasha, we know your knee is feeling better and that you don’t want to involve us in leaving signals or picking up the dead drop, but we think you should let us help you tonight.” The others nod. “We can at least check for the mole’s drop loaded signal for you, and then place your signal once you’ve picked up the package. That would save you a lot of steps.”

Pasha shakes his head sternly. “Out of the question. My knee is good enough to do what needs to be done tonight.” His tone softens. “I appreciate your concern and willingness to pitch in more. All of you. But I’ve decided our role will end after tonight. It’s clear that this old body just doesn’t have the stamina to be out conducting spy operations anymore. And I’m not willing to put the four of you in harm’s way. It has probably been unwise of me to involve you at all. Karina often said I tended to let my ego get the best of me. Apparently, I still do.”

None of us is surprised, but Pasha can see the disappointment on our faces. “Look,” he says, “I couldn’t have taken things this far without you. You intercepted the dead drop, keeping it out of the hands of the Russians, and we seem to have succeeded in eliminating further communication between the mole and the SVR. If the mole accepts the instructions in our letter and leaves a package tonight at the new dead drop site, we’ll get additional incriminating evidence and perhaps information that can be used to identify him. I couldn’t be prouder of you, but after tonight we must turn this over to the CIA to finish what we’ve started.”

Colbie gets up from the edge of the desk, and walks over to Pasha, sitting on the armrest of his recliner. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “We understand, Pasha,” she says.

“How will you let the CIA know?” asks Cal. “Will you tell the hand-holder during your next visit?”

“No, Calvin,” says Pasha, releasing his footrest. “Help me up, Colbie.” She stands and pulls on one arm as he pushes himself up with the other. He walks to a bookcase and takes from a shelf a framed photograph, holding it up for us to see. “I’m going to tell her,” he says, pointing to a woman in the photo.

The photograph is taken at Nationals Park in Washington. Two men wearing Nats hats and jerseys are standing on either side of a young woman. One of the men is Pasha, a few years younger, a little less heavy, a wide grin under his bushy gray mustache. The other man is clean-shaven, gray-haired, with a muscular but smaller build than Pasha. Each of the men has an arm around the shoulder of the woman, who is slim with dark brown hair tied in a ponytail.

“This is Maddie Kilkenny,” says Pasha. “Clint’s daughter.”

“She’s a real firecracker!” says Ravi.

Pasha looks at Ravi, confused. “He means she’s very pretty,” says Colbie.

“Ah,” says Pasha. “She is that.”

“Is that her dad?” asks Cal.

“Da, Clint Kilkenny. This picture was taken just a few months before he died. He came from Arizona to visit Maddie before she was due to head out on her next overseas assignment. I surprised them with tickets to a Nats game. It was the last time I saw him.”

“She works for the CIA, too?” I ask.

Pasha replaces the framed photo on the bookshelf, returns to his recliner, and sits. “Da, Spencer. She followed in her father’s footsteps. I am not supposed to tell you that, since she works undercover, but you four have demonstrated the ability to keep a secret. And I plan to introduce you to her.”

“Where does she live now?” asks Colbie.

“In Eastern Europe. Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic. But she’s coming to Washington early next week for a seminar. She always checks in on me when she’s in town. I will tell her the whole story and give her the contents of the dead drop you found.”

“Boy, she’s in for some surprise,” says Ravi.

“Yes, and it will certainly interfere with her seminar,” says Pasha. “If I know her, she’ll much prefer focusing on this. She’ll get it into the right hands, and will want to get directly involved. But she’s not going to be happy with me.”

“Why not?” asks Colbie.

“She’ll tell me I should’ve turned it over to the CIA immediately. That I was crazy to be doing this at my age and involving four children. And, of course, it’ll be hard to argue with that logic. It’s a conversation I’m not looking forward to.”

“You want us to be there when you tell her, Pasha?” I say. “We can take some of the heat, tell her we talked you into it. Plus, she can’t get too angry in front of four sensitive and impressionable children.”

Pasha laughs. “Sensitive and impressionable, eh? You’re developing the manipulative skills of a veteran operations officer, Spencer.”

Ravi pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and clears his throat. I noticed he was getting squirmy, and figure he’s about to take the conversation in a different direction.

“Pasha,” he says, “in your KGB days, how would you have made sure you weren’t under surveillance if you were going out to pick up a dead drop?”

Pasha squints at Ravi. I can tell he’s wondering what Ravi’s up to, like I am. “Under different circumstances than we have here, if there were reason to believe I might be under surveillance, I would be more careful to carry out dry cleaning.”

“A surveillance detection route,” I say.

Pasha smiles. “Da, Spencer, you remember. An SDR, as the CIA calls it. And I would have colleagues set up countersurveillance in the woods.”

“How does countersurveillance work?” says Ravi.

“There are a couple of options. One would be for the countersurveillance team to be mobile, meaning out in the open on the trails, posing as walkers or joggers, observing me from a distance. That has to be carefully timed, to stay in sync with me. And it’s important they not appear to be conducting countersurveillance. As you know, natural demeanor is important.”

“And the other option?” says Ravi.

“Static countersurveillance. The team sets up in fixed – immobile – positions at a few predetermined observation points along my SDR, concealed just off the trails in the woods. As I go by, they would watch to see if I’m being trailed.”

“How would they know for sure if someone behind you is following you?” asks Colbie, “rather than just out for a walk? I mean, I know the park is technically closed at dark, so anybody in the woods would be a suspect, but it’s not that unusual for people to be out late. We come back from the fort after dark all the time in the summer.”

“That requires a good route design, Colbie, creating opportunities to identify surveillance by forcing them to react to changing circumstances. I’d include multiple transitions from one trail to another, to see if anyone makes the same sequence of turns. I’d use channeling – going from one part of the park to another where there is only one choice of trails, preventing them from tracking me along a parallel route, leaving them no choice but to settle in directly behind me. And choke points are helpful – places where multiple paths converge and can force surveillance to get closer to avoid losing me. It’s more difficult than you might imagine, to trail someone at a discreet distance without losing them. I’d also change my pace from time to time, slowing down or speeding up to gauge the reaction of anyone behind me.”

“I guess Tsarina would be good to have along for that,” says Cal. “She’d give you an excuse to slow down to let her sniff.”

“Da, Calvin. Someone who’s just out for a walk and happens to be behind me wouldn’t react. They’d just continue on past me, at the same pace. But a surveillant would have to decide whether to keep walking right past and accept being seen by me, or to act unnaturally by slowing down or stopping behind me at a distance, waiting for me to continue.”

“Which would be suspicious to your countersurveillance team,” I say. “So, it sounds like much of the SDR design in this case would be more for your countersurveillance team – and not so much for you – to spot somebody, right?

“Right, Spencer. All of these characteristics are designed into a route to create points where surveillance is vulnerable to identification by the team. Confirmation of surveillance usually doesn’t involve just a single indicator. Typically, there would be multiple sightings of at least one individual over adequate time and distance. Even a surveillance pro will reveal himself eventually – walking past several observation points on different trails, trying to conceal himself indiscreetly, making visual signals to a colleague, mimicking the pace of the target, or other behavior inconsistent with someone just out for a walk.”

“And what happens if your countersurveillance team determines you are being followed?” asks Cal.

“More signals, right?” says Ravi.

“Of course,” says Pasha. “One member of the team would be responsible for giving me an abort signal if I’m under surveillance, somewhere near the end of my SDR, but not too close to the dead drop site. Or, if I’m clean, a safety signal telling me to proceed with the pickup.”

“How would the signal be made?” says Colbie.

“Any number of ways. Could be a visual signal like the one I gave you two weeks ago – the green light to bring the coffee container from your fort to my house.”

“You took your Nats cap off,” says Cal.

“Da, it’s best to keep it simple. Cap off, safe to proceed. Cap on, abort. Or something similar.”

“So, Pasha,” says Ravi, “how ‘bout we set up countersurveillance for you tonight? We could help you plan a route, an SDR, and come up with four observation points, one for each of us. I volunteer to give you the safety or abort signal.”

Cal sits up straighter and scrunches his face, uncomfortable with the idea of countersurveillance in the dark.

Pasha smiles. “I wondered how long it would take you to get to that question, Ravi. But no, there is no need for that. I am not a foreign embassy official that anyone is keeping an eye on. I am an old man who walks his dog in this park every day. I won’t be under surveillance.”

“But, Pasha,” says Ravi, getting worked up. He takes off his glasses, wipes each lens on the front of his shirt, and puts them back on. He’s stalling, trying to figure out an angle to persuade Pasha to let us participate. Then I see the spark of an idea in his eyes. “Okay, I get that you wouldn’t be under surveillance on the way to the dead drop site from here. But what about after picking up the package? What if the mole is suspicious about our rewritten letter and decides to surveil the drop site to see who picks it up? He could follow you home, and could figure out who you are. He’d find out he wasn’t communicating with the SVR, after all.”

Pasha strokes his bushy mustache. “You are smart to think this way, Ravi. Any good intel officer must consider different scenarios that might play out, and have a contingency for each. But the mole is operating alone and would never do that. If he’s suspicious, he won’t leave another dead drop or go anywhere near the site. It would be too dangerous. But I see no reason for him to suspect the legitimacy of our letter. He’ll come tonight, but he’ll limit his time in the woods to making the drop and placing his signal. It’s good tradecraft.”

Ravi lowers his gaze, defeated. Pasha looks drained. “Well, my young intel team, I have a busy evening ahead of me, which means I need a nap.”

“What comes next for us?” I ask. “Do we come by tomorrow morning, as usual?”

“Da, Spencer. After your basketball drills. I will share with you whatever the mole leaves for us tonight. And Tsarina will need a walk in the morning. After tonight, I expect my knee is going to need a day off. In the meantime, I expect all of you to stay out of the woods tonight. Understood?”

We nod.

It looks like my busy summer is about to slow down. Back to just working on my jump shot and hanging out at the pool. Exactly what I’d been looking forward to for months. Except now I’m going to be bored stiff.

CHAPTER 25

A DISTURBING SUMMONS

Oliver Tempest slows his Jaguar to a crawl as he pulls up alongside a security booth outside the entrance of the Denied Region Training Center parking lot early on Wednesday morning. He opens his window and holds up his CIA identification card for the armed guard. An electronic gate slides open, and the guard waves him through with a casual salute. Accelerating into a near-empty parking lot, Tempest pulls into his designated space and grabs his briefcase.

Striding into the building, he is greeted by another uniformed guard, rising from a chair behind a gray metal desk. “Good morning, Mr. Tempest.” The seal of the Central Intelligence Agency is displayed prominently on the wall behind him. The same guard has greeted Tempest every weekday for the past two years, though Tempest has never bothered to learn his name.

“Morning,” says Tempest with a smile, holding up his badge. “Beautiful day out there.”

“Yes, sir, that it is!” says the guard, trying to hide his surprise, accustomed to nothing more than a solemn nod from Tempest. “Have a good day, sir.”

Tempest jogs up a wide carpeted staircase to the second floor, two steps at a time. He punches a cypher code into the keypad of a heavy metal door, entering the DRTC office and turning on a bank of lights. As usual, he is the first to arrive.

He is in good spirits. His second dead drop exchange with the SVR the night before had gone as smoothly as he could have hoped. He had jogged with his weighted backpack past the signal site, barely needing to slow down in the darkness to see the green thumbtack indicating the Russians were ready. He left the coffee container – concealing the Top-Secret document on Russian activities in the Balkans and his accompanying letter – next to the corner of the walking bridge cited by the SVR as the new dead drop site. His circuitous jogging route took him a second time past the park sign, where he replaced the green thumbtack with a white one: drop loaded. Finally, he returned briefly to the park much later to confirm the SVR’s receipt of the package, another green thumbtack, which he removed, leaving the wooden post bare in preparation for a dead drop response from the Russians in two weeks.

Entering his private office, Tempest sets his briefcase on his desk, turns on his workstation, starts a pot of coffee brewing, and sits at his desk. He enjoys this hour or so of solitude in the office every day, before his staff arrives and his hectic meeting schedule kicks in, the only uninterrupted time he has to read overnight CIA message traffic.

As Tempest waits for his computer to boot, he contemplates events of the previous night. He had felt an unexpected sense of elation upon returning home the second time from the woods in the darkness, knowing Colonel Yuriy Medvedev, the SVR’s counterintelligence chief in Washington, would be reading and analyzing the contents of his dead drop late into the night. Tempest has always found deep satisfaction with any successful operational act, but on this occasion the sense was magnified many times beyond anything he ever experienced as an operations officer. The handler, he now sees more clearly, never has as much riding on the outcome as the asset. The worst-case scenario for an operations officer with diplomatic immunity is being declared persona non grata by the host government. But being kicked out of a foreign country, having to return home and face questions from one’s superiors about a case gone bad, pales in comparison to the consequences for the asset: arrest, conviction, loss of career and family, life in prison. Or, for some, execution. Despite Tempest’s extensive experience in handling spies in foreign lands, he is a novice in playing the role of the asset, relying on the ability of unknown foreign intelligence operatives to protect him from exposure to his own government. Recalling the anxiety he experienced two weeks earlier when the Russians failed to make the first scheduled dead drop – and his subsequent uneasiness in accepting the changes to his original communications plan – he was profoundly relieved last night that the dead drop went as planned. For the first time, Tempest understands the unrelenting tension any asset experiences, the trust he must place in the tradecraft, discretion, and professionalism of his handler. This insight, he believes, will make him a better operations officer. It is a piece of wisdom that he resolves to instill more vigorously in CIA officers going through DRTC training. Tempest allows himself to imagine that his treachery will in fact serve the interests of the CIA and the United States.

Logging into the CIA intranet at his desk and preparing to look through overnight communications, he feels more tranquil than he has in months. The success of the previous evening provides a sense of certainty that his actions in recent weeks are coming to fruition, that he has manipulated the leadership of two intelligence organizations, the CIA and the SVR, masterfully, besting them at their own game. His past mistakes will soon be forgiven, his career resurrected.

Tempest glances through a couple of dozen operational cables, sorted by precedence – immediate, priority, or routine – confirming that none require action by his office. He gets up from his desk and pours himself a cup of coffee. Savoring his first sip, he sits back down at his desk and clicks on an icon opening his CIA secure email server. His attention is seized immediately by the two most recent emails in his inbox, both sent this morning by the office of the Associate Deputy Director for Operations. The first was sent nearly an hour ago by Stowe Akron, personally. The subject line reads, “IMPORTANT – Call My Office.” He opens the email. The message is terse: “Ollie call my office as soon as you get this to set up morning meeting here.” Tempest looks at his wall clock: 6:48 a.m. The ADDO had been in before six o’clock. It is unusual for Akron to send such a summons directly.

The second email is from Akron’s special assistant, Talia Briggs, sent twenty minutes later. He opens it with trepidation. “Mr. Tempest, please call me immediately on my direct line when you get in to arrange an emergency meeting with the ADDO this morning,” it reads. “You will need to clear your schedule for the rest of the week.” No explanation on the reason for the urgency or topic of the meeting.

Tempest stands abruptly and begins pacing the length of his office, coffee cup in hand. “Dammit,” he mutters, after spilling coffee down the front of his white shirt. He sets the mug on his desk and exits his office, walking quickly to the men’s room. As he dabs the front of his shirt with a wet paper towel, trying to blot out the coffee stain, he considers the possibilities. Emergency meetings on the seventh floor of headquarters involve matters of operational urgency, not administrative or training matters. Tempest currently has no official operational role, no direct involvement in active CIA overseas operations, so what could possibly prompt Stowe Akron to require the immediate presence of the head of DRTC at this hour? Something related to Malcolm Edwards and his case in Belgrade? No, Tempest’s peripheral link to the case involved simply overseeing the tradecraft training of Edwards. In fact, Akron told him directly only last week to drop his criticism of Edwards and move on. Is it possible the SVR has already acted on the intelligence he provided and arrested “Alex” in Belgrade? No, even if the GRU asset came under suspicion as the result of the fragmentary intelligence Tempest divulged, the Russians wouldn’t act in haste to arrest him. They would put him under discreet surveillance and wait to catch him red-handed in an operational act, communicating with his CIA handler, Malcolm Edwards. And, according to Stowe Akron, Edwards wouldn’t initiate contact with “Alex” for another week or so. Besides, the ADDO’s office wouldn’t involve Tempest in any operational discussions of the case in Belgrade, even if “Alex” were compromised.

Standing in front of the restroom mirror, Tempest grabs another paper towel and dabs his shirt, trying to dry the wet spot. He looks up, frowning at his reflection. It is not lost on him that his only current operational activity involves his illicit relationship with the SVR. He reminds himself that no one, even in the SVR, can possibly know his identity. His tradecraft has been impeccable. Still, he is troubled with the timing of the summons to headquarters, less than twelve hours after an operational exchange with the Russians. Could he be under suspicion? And why would he be directed to clear his schedule for the week?

As he returns to his office, his secure phone begins to ring. He assumes it’s the ADDO’s office and ignores it, refilling his cup of coffee and pacing again, buying time, forcing himself to regain a sense of calm. He realizes he is not being logical. If his communications with the SVR have been compromised, there is nothing in them that could be linked directly to him by counterintelligence units in the CIA or FBI. No, the ADDO’s urgent need to speak with him can’t possibly be related to his relationship with the SVR. What then?

Tempest sits again at his desk and looks back through cable traffic and emails to determine whether there is news of any other operational development that might have prompted the need for his presence in an emergency meeting on the seventh floor. Nothing.

He sips his coffee, counsels himself to act naturally, and finally picks up the secure phone receiver, connecting to the ADDO’s office. The call is picked up on the first ring.

“Talia Briggs, ADDO’s office.”

“Good morning, Ms. Briggs, this is Oliver Tempest.”

CHAPTER 26

THE LETTER

Spencer Hale

Colbie and I wrap up our Wednesday morning basketball workout after less than forty minutes, our shortest of the summer. Both of us shot poorly, with Colbie mentioning more than once that I lack my usual hustle. Frustrated, she finally suggests we call it quits early. I don’t argue.

“What’s the matter, Spence?” she says as we grab our water bottles and walk to the grass next to the court. The morning sky is overcast and there’s a refreshing breeze. Should’ve been a perfect day for a hard workout. She sits cross-legged, and I lie on my back next to her, still holding my ball. “You seem distracted or something. It’s not like you.”

I haven’t said much this morning and still don’t feel like talking. Holding the ball in my right hand above my chin, I flip the ball a couple of feet up into the air, snapping my wrist to create backspin. I catch the ball and repeat the motion a couple of times before responding. “I dunno, Colbie. Just not motivated today.”

“It’s the whole thing with the mole, isn’t it? You’re not ready to let it go after today.”

“Yeah, maybe not. Are you?”

“I think it’s for the best, Spence. Pasha’s right. We knew from the start that the time would come for him to turn it over to the CIA. Seems like the right time to me.”

“You’re being very logical, Colbie.”

“Sounds like another way of saying I’m right.”

“Maybe.”

“Say it, Spence.”

“Say what, Colbie?”

“Say, ‘you’re right, Colbie.’”

“Fine. You’re right, Colbie. There. Feel better?”

“Yep.” She grins, rolling onto her stomach, her face close to mine. I continue tossing the ball up in the air. “You’re just going to miss the adventure. We all will. But you know what, Spence? We’re gonna remember this summer forever. And that’s pretty cool.”

She lowers her face toward mine, locking eyes, and kisses me. On the lips. Our first kiss. She pulls back a little, still grinning, her brown eyes crinkled.

“You’re right, Colbie,” I say. “I’m gonna remember this summer forever.”

***

Colbie and I set our bikes under the fort, against the tree. Cal is leaning out, a bag of pretzels in hand. “You guys ready to head over to Pasha’s?” he calls down.

“Yeah, let’s go now,” I say. We’re anxious to find out if the mole left a drop last night.

Cal and Ravi scamper down the ladder. After we cross the stream, Colbie takes my hand in hers, with the other two well ahead of us. Ravi reaches the main trail first and stops, waiting. I see a big grin cross his face when he glances back at us. As Cal reaches the trail, Ravi jabs him in the ribs, pointing at me and Colbie.

“Ha!” says Ravi. “I was right! Pay up, Cal!”

Cal turns, sees me and Colbie walking hand-in-hand, and grimaces, removing his baseball glove and shoving it under an armpit. “Aww, man,” he says. “You win.”

“What’s this all about?” says Colbie as we step through the trees and onto the trail.

“I bet Cal that you’ve become Spencer’s boo,” says Ravi. “That you two are in a romantic entanglement. Five bucks, Cal!”

“Very impressive, Ravi,” says Colbie. “How’d you know?”

“Two weeks of intel training,” he says, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I’m now a student of human behavior. Practically an expert. A real, genuine authority.”

“Nah,” says Cal, “he predicted it when Spence let you join his basketball drills, Colbie.”

“It was inevitable,” says Ravi. “A slam dunk. A foregone conclusion. A hundred percent.”

“Yeah,” I say, “we know what inevitable means, Ravi.” I tug on Colbie’s hand and begin walking along on the trail. “C’mon you guys.”

***

Pasha is seated at his kitchen table, a mug of coffee in front of him. Ice-filled glasses sit on placemats in front of four empty chairs, a pitcher of lemonade in the middle of the table.

“Ah, right on time,” he says. He remains seated as we enter through the screen door. No air conditioning, but it’s cool enough this morning that it doesn’t matter. I barely notice the scent of boiled cabbage. Tsarina greets each of us.

Pasha glances at Cal. “Thirty points today, Pasha,” says Cal, without prompting. “Only two wild pitches. Best outing yet!” Pasha gives him a thumbs-up.

A stapled document sits in Pasha’s huge hands. He pulls another piece of paper from his lap, setting it on the table.

“How’s the knee, Pasha?” asks Colbie.

“It got a pretty good workout last night, but held up.”

“The mole came, then?” says Ravi.

Pasha nods. “Right on schedule. He used the same coffee container and made the drop at the bridge we directed him to use this time.”

“Then he accepted the instructions in our letter,” I say.

“Da, Spencer,” he says, with a tired grin under his bushy mustache. “He used a white thumbtack as his drop-loaded signal. No tape this time. There’s no indication he found our letter suspicious. Our mole still believes he’s communicating with the SVR.”

“What was in his package?” asks Colbie.

“Two things,” says Pasha. “There was an official CIA document describing Russian intelligence meddling in the Balkans. And there was this.” He picks up the single type-written page from the table. “A letter from the mole,” he says, handing the page to Colbie.

Colbie reads the letter aloud.

Dear Friends,

First, I wish to express my appreciation for your thoughtful response to my introductory letter. It’s clear you have put my security forefront in your preparations, accepting both my intent to remain anonymous and my communications outline. I concur with your proposed change in signals, certainly an improvement given weather conditions we must contend with occasionally. I also agree with using the walking bridge you suggested as an alternative to my original choice. Who would have thought teenage drinking could influence our choice of communication sites? It’s a useful reminder that we must be prepared to make minor adjustments to deal with the unexpected, and confirms that I have put my trust in the hands of professionals.

I am also grateful for your initial generosity in return for my information. Like you, I am confident our relationship will prove mutually beneficial for a long time to come.

I read your list of follow-up questions with great interest. I share your sense of urgency in learning additional details to help you identify GRU officer “Alex” and pinpoint his location in the Balkans. And, while I am unable to provide such data at this time, please know I am working diligently on this matter and have reason to believe that, in the coming weeks, I will be able to provide you with the specifics you seek.

In the meantime, I have enclosed an internal document on a closely related topic, describing perceived hostilities of your government to Western foreign policy objectives in the Balkans. It outlines a new White House policy response and National Security Council directives for countering this threat operationally. The very same elements in your service that wish to identify “Alex” should find this document timely and actionable.

Incidentally, White House anxiety about Russian behavior in the Balkans has been instigated by Gregory Rasmussen, a senior CIA officer recently assigned to the NSC as director of Russian Affairs. Rasmussen promotes a hardline policy toward Putin. He exploited his friendship with the First Lady, a former college classmate, first to secure entrée to the Oval Office, and then to gain the trust and ear of the president. Given his outsized influence in the White House and how he got there, you may share my amusement in the similarity of the names Gregory Rasmussen and Grigori Rasputin – it seems the “Mad Monk” has returned from the dustbin of history!

I look forward to our next exchange.

Sincerely,

Ivan Nikto

“Ivan Nikto?” says Cal. “We have a name for our mole!”

“Yes,” says Pasha, “but not a real name, Cal. Our mole is using an alias. Nikto means ‘nobody’ in Russian. He’s being clever. I’m sure he used the same alias in his first communication to the SVR.”

“Does the letter or document reveal more about who Ivan Nikto really is?” I ask.

“The Top-Secret document confirms our conclusion that he works in the CIA, in the Directorate of Operations. But that type of message is sent to personnel worldwide, so it doesn’t help narrow down what unit he works in.”

Pasha twists opens a bottle of ibuprofen sitting on the table, shakes out a couple of tablets, and washes them down with a gulp of coffee. His hand is trembling slightly, something I haven’t seen before.

“For your knee, Pasha?” asks Colbie. “Want me to get the frozen vegetables?”

“No thanks, Colbie. Just some tightness in my shoulders. Too much exercise yesterday and not much sleep last night.”

“What about the letter?” I ask. “Doesn’t sound like much new information there.”

“We learned that the Russian mole in the Balkans, the one he calls ‘Alex,’ is an officer in the GRU, Russia’s military intelligence service. We can assume he already revealed that in the first package passed to the SVR. The fact that he offers no more details about ‘Alex’ suggests he may have only limited access to the CIA’s Russian cases, meaning he probably works outside the Russia House inner circle.”

“But he sounds confident he’ll have more intel on ‘Alex’ soon,” says Ravi. “So he must have some link to Russia House or their cases, right?”

“Da, Ravi. He must have at least some peripheral connection to the ‘Alex’ case, or to someone who does.”

“What about that last paragraph about the CIA guy in the White House?” asks Cal. “And who the heck is Rasputin?”

“Grigori Rasputin was a Siberian peasant who gained enormous influence in the royal court of Tsar Nicholas the Second.”

“The last Russian Tsar, right?” says Ravi. “Before the Russian revolution.”

Pasha smiles. “Da. You really are something, Ravi.”

“If Rasputin was a peasant,” I say, “how did he get so much influence?”

“Rasputin presented himself to the royal court as a holy man,” says Pasha. “Nicholas and his wife, Tsarina Alexandra, thought he had special spiritual and healing powers. Alexandra believed he cured their son of a serious disease, and she grew dependent on him. By the end of the First World War, Rasputin was providing political advice. The ‘Mad Monk,’ as he was known, became a public scandal in Russia. And our mole seems to think this CIA man in the White House, Rasmussen, is exploiting his relationship with the First Lady to gain influence – just as Rasputin did with Alexandra.”

Pasha takes the letter from Colbie and sets it on the table with the Top-Secret document.

“So you’ll turn over all of this to Maddie Kilkenny,” says Cal. “When will you see her?”

“She’s due to arrive in Washington early next week,” says Pasha. “She’ll visit me within the first day or two.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, rubbing his left shoulder.

“I think we should take Tsarina for a walk and let you get some rest, Pasha,” says Colbie.

“Da, Colbie, I could use a nap.”

“Would you like us to keep Tsarina with us and bring her back in the afternoon, so you can sleep?” she asks.

“That’s okay, Colbie. You can just bring her back when you’re done with your walk. If I’m sleeping, just let her in the screen door.”

***

We exit through Pasha’s back gate, Colbie holding Tsarina on a leash. Cal and Ravi decide to go back to Ravi’s house to play video games, leaving Colbie and me to handle the dog walking. I think Cal feels a little awkward with me and his sister at the moment. And that’s fine with me.

CHAPTER 27

NEW MARCHING ORDERS

Oliver Tempest is unusually vigilant as he enters the CIA headquarters compound in Langley, Virginia. Agency personnel have become accustomed to looking for suspicious behavior as they approach the compound since a January 1993 attack in which a Pakistani terrorist opened fire with an AK-47 on cars waiting for a left turn signal leading into the main entrance, killing two employees and wounding three others. Tempest is focused not on civilians who might appear out of place, but rather on the demeanor of security personnel at the front gate and inside the building’s main entrance that might suggest he is under scrutiny. Seeing no sign that security has been instructed to be on alert for his arrival, he walks toward the elevator bank that will take him to the ADDO’s office on the seventh floor, more relaxed than he was in reading through his email an hour earlier. His phone conversation with Talia Briggs, Stowe Akron’s special assistant, shed no light on the purpose of his summons or the reason for clearing his schedule. She was courteous and businesslike, but also circumspect, telling him Akron would explain the situation upon Tempest’s arrival.

As he enters the ADDO’s suite from the wide, polished hallway, he spots a slim young woman in a blue dress and black heels standing at the desk of a matronly administrative assistant, in animated conversation. The young woman, a cup of coffee in hand, looks up at Tempest.

“Mr. Tempest?” she says.

He nods. Looking relieved, she walks quickly to him, holding out her hand. “I’m Talia Briggs. Thanks for coming in on such short notice, Mr. Tempest.” Her handshake is firm, self-assured.

“Please call me Oliver,” he says.

Talia Briggs turns to the administrative assistant. “Delores, can you let Stowe know that Oliver Tempest is here?”

The woman picks up her desk phone, punching the intercom button. “Sir, Mr. Tempest has arrived.” She sets the receiver down. “He’ll see you right away.”

Talia Briggs leads Tempest to Akron’s door, taps lightly, and opens it, motioning for him to enter ahead of her. From the doorway, Tempest looks into the spacious office, eyes a large wooden desk straight ahead, in front of a vacant desk chair. The inbox on the desk is overflowing with paperwork that requires the ADDO’s attention, the outbox empty. To the left is a sitting area with several brown leather armchairs and a matching couch along a bank of windows overlooking the picturesque, heavily wooded area outside the headquarters complex, along the Potomac River. The burly Akron springs from one of the armchairs to greet Tempest. The collar of his blue dress shirt is unbuttoned, his tie loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up. Another man remains seated in an armchair, his back to Tempest.

“Ollie, thanks for coming,” says Akron in a strangely subdued voice, stepping toward Tempest and shaking his hand. Akron motions toward the other man, who turns his head toward Tempest for the first time. Tempest tries to hide his surprise. “Ollie, I believe you know Cleve Edwards.”

Cleve Edwards, chief of European Division and father of Malcolm Edwards, stands slowly and extends his hand. He is tall and slender, dapper in a charcoal pin-striped suit that nearly matches his full head of hair and carefully trimmed pencil-thin mustache. “Hello, Ollie. Good to see you.”

“Likewise, Cleve.”

“Please have a seat, Ollie,” says Akron. Tempest sits on the leather couch, joined by Talia Briggs. Akron strides to his desk and pushes the intercom button. “Delores, can you bring a cup of coffee for Ollie?” he says. He turns to Tempest. “How do you take it, Ollie?”

“Black, please.”

“Black, Delores,” says Akron. He returns to his armchair next to Edwards and locks eyes with Tempest, his look grim. “Ollie, let’s get right to it. We have some bad news.”

Akron is interrupted by the administrative assistant, who enters the office and hands a steaming mug of coffee to Tempest.

“Thanks, Delores,” says Tempest. He steals a glance at Cleve Edwards, who is staring down at a coffee table in front of him, seemingly lost in thought, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

Akron waits until Delores leaves the office and closes the door before continuing. “There was an accident last night, Ollie. A car accident involving Malcolm’s family, just a few miles from here.”

“My god, Stowe,” says Tempest. “Was anyone hurt?”

Akron nods, looking at Cleve Edwards, patting him on the knee. “I’m afraid so. A drunk driver blew a red light in McLean. Ella Edwards was driving through the intersection in her SUV, with all three kids in the back. The youngest, Leslie, was badly hurt. Suffered a traumatic head injury.”

Tempest turns to Edwards. “I’m so sorry, Cleve. Will she be okay?”

Edwards clears his throat. “She’s in critical condition. It was touch-and-go last night, but Leslie’s a tough little girl. I just came from the hospital. The doctors have managed to relieve the fluid buildup on her brain and she’s stabilized. They’re optimistic now and will know more later this morning, once they’re able to get her in for an MRI.”

“How are Ella and the other kids?” asks Tempest.

“They’re okay,” says Edwards. “Minor scrapes and bruises. Ella’s at the hospital, the other kids are at home with my wife.”

“And Malcolm?” asks Tempest, now uneasy, anticipating where the conversation is headed, the reason for his presence. “I’m sure he’ll need to be with his family.”

“Malcolm caught a flight out of Belgrade this morning,” says Akron. “He’ll be home this evening.”

Sipping his coffee, Tempest decides to steer the conversation. “I assume that means either that the GRU case in Belgrade would need to be put on hold,” he says, “or that another operations officer would have to step in to handle the case temporarily, until Malcolm is able to return. I’d be happy to give you my thoughts on recent DRTC students whose tradecraft skills would be well-suited to Belgrade’s difficult operational environment.”

Stowe Akron shakes his head. “No, Ollie, that’s just it – Malcolm won’t be returning to Belgrade. Even if everything goes as the doctors hope for Leslie, she’s not likely to be released from the hospital anytime soon, and her recuperation could take months. Malcolm needs to be here, with his family.”

“Of course, Stowe. I understand. Family has to come first.”

Akron leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on his kneecaps. “Ollie, the situation with Malcolm’s family is awful, any parent’s worst nightmare. But, professionally, we are fortunate to have you available to replace him. As you know, you were the only candidate other than Malcolm that was ever under serious consideration to handle the GRU asset. I wish the circumstances were different, but from an operational standpoint it would have been even worse if Malcolm had already begun handling the asset, and then had to be replaced by another officer in mid-stream. Better for the long-term prospects of the case that you assume responsibility for handling ‘Alex’ from the start in Belgrade.”

Tempest realizes that Akron and Edwards are waiting for him to respond, to voice his willingness to do whatever is required of him on behalf of the CIA, but he finds himself momentarily speechless. It is Cleve Edwards who finally breaks the silence, misreading the reason for Tempest’s apparent reluctance to accept the very assignment he had lobbied for only weeks earlier.

“Ollie, I know this is a bit awkward for you,” says Edwards. “For both of us. I’m not going to pretend that I wasn’t aware of your criticism of my son’s performance in your training course. You may have even concluded that nepotism played a role in Malcolm’s selection for Belgrade. I can assure you it did not. I don’t need to tell you that matching operations officers to assignments overseas is as much an art form as it is science, that decisions are based on a wide range of criteria that go well beyond training performance and experience. In fact, I believe that my senior position in the Agency has posed a hindrance for Malcolm’s career more often than it has helped him, because he is sometimes held to higher standard. My point is not to argue the merits of the selection process, but to let you know that I respect your qualifications and that you have my full support as Chief of European Division in taking the Belgrade assignment. In replacing my son under these difficult circumstances.”

There is a knock on the office door, and Delores enters again. “Pardon me, Mr. Edwards, but you have a call on unsecure line two. It’s your daughter-in-law, calling from the hospital.”

“Take it at my desk, Cleve,” says Akron.

Edwards gets up and walks to the desk. Delores punches a button on the phone and hands him the receiver.

As Edwards speaks in low tones to his daughter-in-law, Talia Briggs turns to Tempest, speaking for the first time in the meeting.

“Mr. Tempest – Oliver – we’ve spoken with Russia House this morning. They’re aware of last night’s accident, and that you’ll be taking over Malcolm’s position in Belgrade. They are pulling together all the files on the GRU case for you. A desk has been set up for you in the Back Room, and Russia House is prepared to brief you as soon as we finish our meeting here. That’s why we wanted you to clear your schedule for the rest of the week.”

Edwards hangs up the phone and returns to the sitting area, but remains standing. “Good news,” he says. “They’ve scheduled an MRI for Leslie at 9:30 a.m. We’ll have the results later this morning.”

Stowe Akron stands. “You’ll want to get back to the hospital then, Cleve, to be with Ella. We can finish up here.”

“Yes.”

Tempest and Briggs stand, as Akron grasps the hand of Edwards. “Please give Ella my best, Cleve, and tell her Leslie is in our prayers. Let me know as soon as you hear the MRI results.”

Edwards shakes hands with Tempest and Briggs before exiting the office. Akron sits back in his armchair, Tempest and Briggs following his lead.

“Ollie, you have the complete confidence of me, Cleve, and Russia House for handling the GRU case. This is one of the most promising penetrations of Russian intelligence in years, especially with the White House badgering us for information on developments in the Balkans. I know this is sudden, but you’ll need to be on the ground in Belgrade as soon as you’re fully read in on the case. ‘Alex,’ the asset, is expecting contact by the end of next week.”

“Russia House has already started working on getting your diplomatic visa for Serbia,” says Briggs. “They’ll need your passport. They’re also looking into travel arrangements for you. You can work that out with them today.”

Akron stands, signaling an end to the meeting. Tempest’s assignment to Belgrade is a fait accompli.

Akron extends his hand. “Best of luck, Ollie. The case is in good hands.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me, Stowe,” says Tempest.

“I’ll walk you down to Russia House, Oliver,” says Briggs, “to make the introductions.”

As they exit the elevator on the first floor and make their way through the long corridor leading from the OHB, the early 1960s era original headquarters building, to the NHB, the new headquarters building constructed during the Reagan administration, Briggs tries to engage Tempest in small talk. Tempest struggles to respond, his mind on other things. He is about to take the reins of one of the CIA’s most significant cases, an assignment he had coveted. A case that could lead to his professional redemption, allowing him to shed a reputation for being more adept at training operations officers than executing sound tradecraft in the field. Running a GRU penetration asset that, thanks to his own actions, the Russian government is now urgently seeking to expose.

Oliver Tempest knows he will spend the rest of the day reading through the case history, learning everything he can about “Alex”: his career in the GRU, motivation for cooperating with the CIA, military intelligence responsibilities in Belgrade, political connections in Moscow, access to secrets, and track record as a source. He will begin the process of reviewing and fine-tuning whatever plans have been developed by Malcolm Edwards and Russia House for communicating with “Alex” in Belgrade.

But the most important preparations will come tonight, when Tempest’s skills as an operations officer will be put to the test in mounting a misdirection ploy, steering the focus of the SVR’s manhunt away from Belgrade. Preparations that will require arranging an unscheduled dead drop.

CHAPTER 28

THE EMERGENCY

Spencer Hale

After leaving Pasha’s house, Colbie and I agree there’s no harm in walking Tsarina past the signal and dead drop sites. After all, no scheduled operational activity is scheduled there for another couple of weeks. Passing the signal site, I notice there’s no thumbtack on the post.

“Nothing there,” says Colbie softly, after we go around a bend in the trail beyond the sign. We pause to let Tsarina sniff the base of a tree. “Pasha must’ve gone back to remove the signal last night.”

“I don’t think so,” I whisper. “It would’ve been the mole who removed it this time. He would have had to return to the site again last night to check for Pasha’s unloaded signal.”

“You’re right.”

Tsarina finishes sniffing, and as we continue along the trail in the direction of the dead drop site, we see a lone figure strolling toward us in the distance, a walking stick in his right hand. It’s mid-morning, and he’s one of the few people we’ve seen so far. As he gets closer, I see that he’s a short, middle-aged man with disheveled gray hair, built like a fire hydrant, with squat legs. But it’s his manner of walking I recognize. He waddles, taking short steps, his toes pointing outward. I’d seen him only once before, a couple of weeks ago. I tense up, but try not to show it.

“Good morning,” he says as he walks by. His accent is similar to Pasha’s. Russian. But it’s subtle enough that I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t recognized him.

“Good morning,” says Colbie with a smile. I nod in his direction.

After we go around another bend, I glance back to make sure he’s not behind us. “Colbie,” I whisper. “It’s him!”

Colbie glances at me curiously. “It’s who, Spence?”

“The Penguin. The guy that just walked past us. It’s him.”

“Are you sure?” says Colbie. We’re approaching the dead drop bridge. “What do you think he’s doing here, Spence?”

“It makes sense,” I say quietly. “The Russians have lost contact with the mole. It would be natural for the Penguin to return once in a while, hoping to regain communication with him. He’s probably on the lookout for another signal. Blue tape.”

“Yeah, they have to be anxious about it. He didn’t seem to be interested in us, though.”

“No reason to be. Just a couple of kids out walking a dog. But I think we’d better get back to let Pasha know.”

“Yeah.”

We complete a full loop around the woods, hoping to avoid crossing paths with the Penguin again. Finally, we turn onto the trail leading north toward Pasha’s backyard. Tsarina recognizes the gate as we approach, tugging on the leash. Colbie releases her as I open the gate, and Tsarina runs to the screen door, tail wagging, impatient.

“You think Pasha’s sleeping?” I ask.

“I hope so. He looked like he could use it.”

We follow Tsarina in. Walking around the kitchen and not seeing Pasha, Tsarina trots to the study. I lay the leash on the counter. We listen for Pasha’s voice, but there is only silence.

“Let’s head out,” I whisper. “We can come back later when Pasha’s up, let him know about the Penguin.”

Colbie looks down at Tsarina’s almost-empty water bowl and picks it up, walking to the sink to refill it. I decide to check the study, thinking Pasha might be dozing in his recliner. I glance in, through the doorway.

“Colbie!” I shout. “Get in here!”

Pasha is sitting in his office chair, slumped over the desk, his eyes closed and reading glasses askew. His coffee cup is lying on its side next to his right elbow, its contents puddled on the desk, dripping off the front edge onto his pants.

I grip his left shoulder, shaking it gently at first, then more firmly. “Pasha? Pasha!” No reaction.

Colbie runs into the study. “Spence, what’s the – Pasha!”

She grabs his left wrist, feeling for a pulse. She’s had CPR training. Feeling useless, I pick up a stack of mail lying in the puddle of coffee, moving it to the side.

“The spilled coffee’s still warm,” I say, “so he hasn’t been like this for long.”

“He’s breathing, Spence. And his pulse is strong.” Colbie pulls her cell phone from a pocket of her shorts. “I’m calling 9-1-1. Call Ravi and Cal and tell them to get down here now.”

Sensing the tension, Tsarina whimpers and crawls under Pasha’s desk.

“We have an emergency,” I hear Colbie say into her phone. “An elderly man is unconscious. He’s breathing and has a pulse.” As Colbie gives the operator Pasha’s address, Ravi picks up my call.

“What’s up, Spence?” He sounds distracted, probably in the middle of a video game.

“Ravi, we’re at Pasha’s house,” I say. “You and Cal need to get down here. Right now.”

Ravi hears the urgency in my voice. “Did something happen, Spence?”

“Yeah. Something’s wrong with Pasha. Colbie called for an ambulance.”

“Bloody hell. We’re on our way.”

I hang up. “What’d the dispatcher say?”

“Ambulance is coming. He said to make sure Pasha’s comfortable and that nothing is blocking his airway. Let’s pull him up off the desk.”

From behind, I hook my arms under Pasha’s and grasp them around his broad chest, pulling him back while Colbie supports his head, shifting the weight of his upper body against the high back of the chair. We see the light rise and fall of his chest.

“Still breathing,” says Colbie.

Soon, we hear sirens in the distance. I pull my phone out again.

“Who are you calling?” asks Colbie.

“My mom.”

She answers right away. “Hey Spence, I’m right in the middle of –”

“Mom, are you at home?”

“Yes, but I’m –”

“Mom, I need you to come down here. To Pasha’s house. Mr. Fedorov. I’m with Colbie and we think he had a heart attack or something.”

“Spence, okay, we need to call 9-1-1.”

“Colbie did. They’re sending an ambulance.”

“Good, stay calm, Spence. I’ll be right there.”

We wait helplessly for a couple of minutes, watching Pasha breathe. Colbie sits on the edge of the desk, her hand on his shoulder. “Hang in there, Pasha,” she murmurs.

I hear the screen door slide open and slam shut.

“Spence?” shouts Ravi.

“In the study!”

Ravi and Cal appear in the doorway, out of breath.

“What happened?” says Cal.

“We found him like this,” says Colbie. “Unconscious, but breathing.”

The sirens are close now. I jog to the front door and walk onto the front porch. My mom pulls up in her SUV. I meet her at the top of the driveway and she gives me a hug. An ambulance rolls up. My mom and I watch as two paramedics pull a stretcher from the back. As we lead them to Pasha’s front door, a police unit pulls up, followed by a fire truck.

A few neighbors, including Mrs. Prattle, emerge from their homes and begin to gather on the sidewalk out front. Let the rumors begin.

CHAPTER 29

NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH FODDER

Mrs. Prattle stands at the edge of her backyard pond, gently skimming leaves from the surface as a school of colorful koi glides gracefully among water lilies. The koi pond, aerated by an elaborate rock waterfall, is the centerpiece of her peaceful backyard birding sanctuary. Setting the skimmer down against the base of a large maple tree, she tosses a handful of wheat germ pellets into the pond, watching the feeding koi compete. The pleasant sound of cascading water is disrupted by the shout of a teenager riding his bike down a path into the woods between her house and Pavel Fedorov’s. Her sense of reverie broken, she notices for the first time the wail of distant sirens drawing nearer.

She straightens and catches a glimpse over her fence line of one of the pesky children who has walked Fedorov’s dog the past two weeks. It’s the Indian boy, riding his bike. He breaks to a stop, and looks back behind him.

“Bloody hell, Cal! Hurry up!” he yells.

“I’m coming!” shouts another boy, from the street. The second boy reaches the path on his bike a few seconds later, huffing with exertion. It’s the big pudgy kid, another of Fedorov’s dog walkers. “Jeez, Ravi, I’m right behind you, for crying out loud!”

The boys continue on their bikes, turning right onto the trail along Fedorov’s back fence. Realizing the emergency vehicles with their blasting sirens have entered her neighborhood, Mrs. Prattle becomes suspicious, wondering if the two boys have done something to draw the attention of the local police. Adjusting the brim of her shade hat, Mrs. Prattle decides to investigate. The sense of purpose lightens her mood considerably. Perhaps she will have more to report at the next Neighborhood Watch meeting.

***

Holding court among a small group of curious onlookers gathered on the sidewalk at the end of her driveway, Mrs. Prattle is squarely in her comfort zone. The emergency vehicles in front of Fedorov’s home are quiet now, but their lights continue to flash, lending a sense of drama that she relishes. Standing with her are Walt and Linda Griffin, a retired couple that lives across the cul-de-sac, and their next-door neighbor, Nick Carson, a young consultant who works from home when he’s not traveling. Their discussion – which up to now has involved mostly Mrs. Prattle engaging in speculation – is interrupted by a Swedish au pair named Anna, who works in a home up the street and is pushing a stroller carrying a curly-haired toddler dressed in pink.

“Anyone know what’s going on?” asks Anna.

The others turn to Mrs. Prattle.

“It seems something has happened to the old Russian,” she says. “Fedorov’s not in the best of health, you know, with his late nights, cigars, and drinking. The Russians certainly love their booze.”

“My god,” says Anna, “I hope Pasha’s alright. He’s such a sweet old man. Always has a kind word to say when I take Missy on walks. He knows how to make this little one smile.” She bends and pinches the cheek of the child in the stroller.

Mrs. Prattle purses her lips. “Hmm. You might have a different impression if you lived next door to him, as I do.”

“What do you mean?” asks Anna.

“You must have heard that he gets strange visitors a couple of times a month, people arriving alone, always at night, carrying booze.” Walt Griffin and Nick Carson share a glance, Carson rolling his eyes. “And the old Russian has kept strange hours lately, for another thing. Until a few weeks ago, he took his dog for a walk once a day in the woods, same time every morning. Now there are days when he takes several walks, some well after dark. It’s illegal to be in the park after sundown, you know. Trespassing at the very least!”

“I hope I’m still that active when I’m that age!” says Carson, trying to lighten the conversation.

Mrs. Prattle counters. “Then you’ll be interested to know that on some days he has those teenagers take that dog on walks for him! Why would he suddenly change his daily schedule after years of habit, I ask you? Going into the woods three times on some days, not going at all on others? He’s involved those kids in something nefarious, I’m telling you.”

“C’mon, Edna,” says Walt Griffin. “Pasha’s just a friendly old man, and those are good kids. Spencer always comes around the neighborhood during snowstorms to check whether older folks like us need help shoveling the snow. I hardly think that –”

Griffin is interrupted by voices from Fedorov’s home. They look up to see paramedics carrying Fedorov on a stretcher. An oxygen tube is attached to his nose, an intravenous tube to one arm.

Spencer’s mom emerges from the front door, in conversation with a police officer who is nodding and patting her on the shoulder.

“Ah, good, I see Carol Hale is there,” says Linda Griffin. “Maybe she’s been checking in on Pasha if his health hasn’t been good.”

“No, I’d have been aware of it, if she had been,” says Mrs. Prattle. “I’m sure that boy of hers called her. Yes, there he is now.”

Spencer and his friends exit the house, glumly following the stretcher down the driveway as Fedorov is loaded into the back of the ambulance. “Good job, you four,” says the ambulance driver to the teens before getting in and pulling out.

“They must have made the 9-1-1 call,” says Carson. “Good on ‘em!”

“Yeah,” says Linda Griffin. “Tough thing to go through at that age. I hope Pasha’s okay.”

The others nod, except for Mrs. Prattle.

***

Mrs. Prattle is aggravated with herself for letting the cat out of the bag with her neighbors in mentioning Fedorov’s recent strange behavior. She had planned to reveal this information in dramatic fashion next Thursday night, at the monthly Neighborhood Watch meeting. She hasn’t missed one in years. Discussion is typically mundane, revolving around the occasional package swiped from a front porch or the rare stolen bike. Though she considers herself the most vigilant person in the community, Mrs. Prattle usually doesn’t have much to report in terms of crime at Neighborhood Watch meetings. That, she often reminds her neighbors, is because she is never the victim, always alert and employing the latest crime prevention tips. In the absence of new developments to report, Mrs. Prattle normally offers advice to others, certain they see her as something of an expert.

But the next Neighborhood Watch meeting was supposed to be different. She knows her neighbors don’t share her suspicions of Fedorov. But now she is in a position to reveal her carefully documented record of his comings and goings, including his odd late-night visits to the woods in recent weeks. Surely others would see that the old Russian must be engaged in illicit activity of some sort. If so, how could they ignore his involvement of four neighborhood children?

And yet the neighbors she spoke to in the cul-de-sac seemed indifferent to her revelations. Perhaps the only way she can persuade them is to get to the bottom Fedorov’s activity, find out on her own what he’s doing in the woods. With Fedorov heading to the hospital, perhaps his scheme, whatever it is, will be put on hold. But maybe she’ll get lucky. Maybe the children’s involvement will continue in his absence. If so, Mrs. Prattle is determined to find out what they’re up to.

CHAPTER 30

BIG NEWS

The sun has set by the time Oliver Tempest arrives home from CIA headquarters on Wednesday night. He still hasn’t called Peggy in Boston to inform her of his Belgrade assignment. She’ll be thrilled by the prospect of returning to Europe, but that will be accompanied, he knows, by an eagerness to return home immediately to begin planning their relocation. There will be appointments with doctors to get medical clearance, with movers to coordinate the shipment of household goods, with realtors to organize the rental of their Virginia home. Visa and travel arrangements must be made. Peggy will have to manage this on her own, as she has more than once in the past. But the matters Tempest must attend to over the next few days cannot be accomplished in the presence of his wife. Avoiding the distraction of a pre-move frenzy means convincing her to spend a few more days in Boston.

He has put off the call long enough, but knows how to play it. Her initial aggravation with the imposition of dealing with relocation on her own will yield to the excitement of adventure, of leaving her dull life in the suburbs behind. Peggy answers on the second ring.

“Hello, Ollie. You home from work?”

He’s relieved that she sounds both sober and in an uncharacteristically good mood. He hears the sounds of a faucet running and dishes clinking in the background.

“Hi, Peggy, yeah, I just walked in. How’re things in Boston?”

“All’s well. Mom’s feeling better, good enough that we could leave her alone for the day. The Judge and I spent the afternoon at the Museum of Fine Arts. I haven’t been there in years.”

“Ah, good. I’m glad your mom’s better. Listen, Peg, I have some big news for you. Quite a surprise, really.”

“Hold on Ollie, I’m in the kitchen helping my mom clean up from dinner. Let me grab my glass of wine and sit in the living room so I can hear you better.”

Tempest glances at his watch, anxious to get the phone call over with and focus on his evening plans.

“Okay, Ollie, go ahead. What’s the big news?”

“I’ve been assigned to Belgrade, replacing Malcolm Edwards.”

“What, really? Oh my god! They’ve changed their minds then?”

“Not exactly, Peg. There was a serious car accident last night. Edwards’s wife and children were involved, and one of his young daughters was badly hurt. Malcolm’s on his way home now from Belgrade.”

“Wait, I don’t understand, Ollie. You mean Edwards isn’t going to return to Belgrade when his daughter gets out of the hospital?”

“No, she’s in critical condition. Looks like she’ll need long-term medical care. Edwards will stay here with his family.”

“Ollie, that’s wonderful! For us, I mean. You’ve worked so hard for this. This is exactly the assignment we were hoping for! Why don’t you sound more excited?”

“I am, Peggy. It’s just – you know, the circumstances with the little girl and all. And I’m a bit overwhelmed right now. I fly to Belgrade on Monday, and there’s a lot to do in the meantime.”

“Monday? So soon? You can’t put it off?”

“No, I gotta be there early next week.”

He steels himself for the question he knows is coming. “Will you be able to come back home later in the month so we can handle the move together?” says Peggy. “Or will you have to stay in Belgrade?”

“I’ll probably have to stay, Peggy. I’m sorry about that.”

“Wow, seriously? I guess I’ve done it before, but that’s a lot to put on me, Ollie. I wasn’t due to come home for another week, but fine – I’ll change my flight and try to get home tomorrow. The government really ought to make things easier for spouses, dammit.”

“You’re right, Peg. But listen, there’s no need to rush things on your end. I feel terrible about putting the move on your shoulders, and I think you should just stick with your original plans and stay in Boston and relax. You can always start making some of the pre-move arrangements from there if you want. And I’m going to be completely tied up with work until I leave on Monday, anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Besides, once you get to Belgrade with me, you’re not going to be able to see your parents much. Enjoy your time with them.”

“Okay, I guess you’re right. Ollie?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really excited about this.”

“Me too, Peg. Me too.”

***

Tempest sits at the desk in his den, still sweating after his jog in the woods to place the red thumbtack. Thank God the SVR had the foresight to add an emergency signal to his original communications plan, he thinks. The Russians had better be checking the signal site every morning, as they pledged in their letter.

He pulls his keyboard toward him, a cup of coffee in hand. He rarely drinks coffee at night. It interferes with his sleep. But he won’t be getting much sleep tonight, and could use the jolt of caffeine. He opens a new Word document on his desktop monitor and begins typing. “Dear Friends...”

CHAPTER 31

THE RED THUMBTACK

Spencer Hale

Drizzle falls from overcast skies as Colbie and I run through our basketball drills on Thursday morning. Tsarina sits with a bowl of water, her leash tied to a leg of the park bench, chewing on a stick and occasionally whimpering for attention. Both of us start out running the drills robotically, still stunned by Pasha’s collapse yesterday. My mom has been in touch with the hospital, and, with Pasha’s approval, the medical staff has been willing to share news of his condition with her. Turns out he had a mild heart attack as the result of overexertion, high blood pressure and dehydration. The good news is that his heart is strong. The doctors want to monitor him for a couple of days and get his fluid levels up, but expect to release him by Saturday. Pasha is awake and speaking, but they won’t let him take visitors or talk on the phone for now. I told my mom about Maddie Kilkenny in Prague, that she would want to know right away about Pasha’s condition, and she passed that on to a nurse. Tsarina slept with me at my house last night.

As we get midway through our drills, Colbie starts playing more aggressively, sparking me to do the same. We finish strongly, exhausted. It feels good to get a hard workout in. We sit on the bench for a few minutes to rest, but Tsarina is tugging on her leash and staring at us, eager for a walk.

“C’mon, Spence, let’s take her for a swim,” says Colbie. “We can just leave her water bowl here for tomorrow morning.”

I get up from the bench and untie Tsarina. We take a shortcut through the woods, Tsarina running up ahead of us, looking back occasionally to keep us in sight. When we reach the main trail, I hook Tsarina back onto her leash and we head toward the signal site. The sky has begun to clear and the light rain has stopped. We haven’t come across anyone else on the trail yet, probably because of earlier drizzle. Holding hands, we reach the junction of the trail with the path from the neighborhood on the eastern edge of the park, and turn right. Realizing that we’re following the same route we took yesterday, I find myself hoping we don’t run across the Penguin again. As we pass the park sign, Colbie gives my hand a hard squeeze. I see the reason a second later.

We continue around a bend, Tsarina tugging me along.

“You saw that, right, Spence?” says Colbie, her voice quiet and tense.

“Yeah.”

A thumbtack was on the wooden signpost that had been empty yesterday morning.

“I think it was red, Spence.”

“I think so, too.”

We stop to let Tsarina pee along the trail.

“You know what that means,” says Colbie. “Maybe we should go back to double-check it.”

“I don’t know, Colbie. Pasha wouldn’t do that. He’d say we were ‘heating up the site,’ drawing attention to it.”

“Yeah, I know. But there’s nothing unusual about turning back on a walk. We don’t have to stop and look at it, just walk a little more closely to the sign. We have to be sure, Spence.”

“Okay, that’s the most direct way to get to the fort, anyway. We’ll head there.”

“C’mon, Tsarina,” says Colbie. “Time to head back.”

As we turn and begin to retrace our steps, we see the figure of a woman standing still in the woods, a short distance from the trail. Her face is mostly concealed by a wide-brimmed hat, but I’m sure it’s Mrs. Prattle. She seems startled, turns her back to us abruptly, pointing a camera up into the trees. Is she following us?

Colbie and I exchange a silent glance. We pass Mrs. Prattle, rounding the bend, the park sign now visible. The angle of the sign and its squared post makes it easier to view, walking in this direction. The thumbtack is definitely red. An emergency signal from the mole, calling for a dead drop tonight.

***

“I say we just ignore the signal,” says Cal.

After Colbie and I arrived at the fort, I’d called Ravi to join us. He went to roust Cal, who was sound asleep. Tsarina is hooked to a tree below us, dozing in the shade.

“Think about it,” Cal continues, rubbing a baseball between his hands. “The emergency dead drop is supposed to be tonight, but if we miss it, the alternate would be the day after tomorrow. Saturday night. Pasha should be home by then and can decide how to handle it.”

“Maybe Cal’s right,” says Colbie. “We know Pasha wouldn’t want us to act on our own. He’d be furious. And what do we lose by using the alternate timing? Whatever the mole has can wait two days.”

Ravi leaps up from the bench. “How do we know that, Colbie? It’s an emergency signal! Whatever it is must be urgent. Critical. Time sensitive! And we have no way of knowing whether it can wait two days. We’ve learned how to handle this. Pasha will be mad, yeah, but if anyone will understand, he will.”

Cal is equally agitated. “It’s dangerous, Ravi!” he says, removing his baseball cap and slapping it on the table. His lips are stained orange from eating cheese puffs. “It’s not like we’re messing around with some school bully here. There’s a CIA mole who is committing treason. The Russian intelligence service is trying to figure out what happened to him and reconnect with him. Spencer and Colbie saw the Penguin in the woods yesterday! This can wait until Pasha’s out of the hospital.”

Ravi adjusts his glasses, glaring at Cal. “No, it can’t wait, Cal. We need to act. We’ll get whatever information the mole has tonight, and share it with Pasha this weekend. He can decide the next step. All we’re doing is picking up a package.”

“A package?” says Cal. “What are we, Ravi, UPS? It’s a dead drop, for crying out loud! And listening to you is what got us involved in this whole thing in the first place!”

“Exactly,” says Ravi. “And you should be grateful for that.” He crosses his arms over his chest as though the matter is settled.

It’s silent for a few moments, and then I notice the other three are all looking at me. I haven’t said much, mulling over the arguments on both sides, considering the consequences of acting or not acting in Pasha’s absence.

“Colbie’s right,” I finally say. “Pasha would not want us to do this. If we could talk to him, he’d tell us to wait until he’s home. And he’d probably handle the alternate pickup on Saturday night himself, no matter what his doctors’ orders are.”

Cal looks relieved. Ravi removes his glasses with a sigh and rubs his eyes. Colbie stares at me, one side of her mouth turned up in an expectant half-smile. “But…?” she says.

“But I think we have to act on this,” I continue. “I’m with Ravi. There’s risk either way, but there’s less risk in making the pickup tonight than there is in ignoring the mole’s emergency signal. Pasha says there’s no way the mole would lurk around the signal or dead drop sites after he makes a drop. And the Penguin has no way of knowing there’ll be a drop tonight. So I don’t see much danger for us. We’re just a bunch of kids who are in the woods every day, anyway. Adults pretty much ignore us.”

“And you think waiting two extra days is really too long?” asks Colbie.

“We don’t know. But I’d rather face having to explain that decision to Pasha than take the chance of missing something that can’t wait. Pasha should be home Saturday. We can pass along whatever the mole drops, and it’ll be back in his hands. Then Pasha won’t have to make a trip into the woods for the alternate timing on Saturday night in his condition.”

Cal’s not ready to give in. “What about Mrs. Prattle?” he says. “She seems to think that we’re up to something.” Colbie and I had told him and Ravi about her unusual behavior in the woods this morning.

“And Mrs. P is right,” says Colbie. “We are up to something. She may be just a busybody, but she’s a pretty perceptive one.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for her,” I say, “but she won’t go into the woods tonight after dark. She’s not one to break park rules.”

“Okay, but what about the coffee container?” Cal counters. “It’s in Pasha’s study, so the mole can’t use it for his drop.”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Ravi. “Pasha says just about anything can be used for concealment, as long as it’s protected and not likely to be noticed by someone else walking by. We’ll bring a backpack and pick up whatever’s there.”

Cal launches his final assault. “You guys seem to be sure nobody’s gonna be watching us pick up the dead drop tonight,” he says, “but it’ll be dark. How will we know for sure?”

“Countersurveillance,” I say. “Pasha told us how to do it, using a safety or abort signal. All four of us will need to be involved.”

Colbie nods. “Okay, then. It’s decided.”

Defeated, Cal crumples his bag of cheese puffs, tossing them on the makeshift table in front of us, the same table on which we’d opened the first dead drop from the Russians to the mole two weeks ago.

Ravi puts his glasses back on, all business. “Alright,” he says, “let’s come up with a plan.”

***

We talk through the sequence of events, careful not to omit any steps. The tradecraft cycle will begin with our replacing the red thumbtack with a green one, the ready signal. Since Colbie and I already walked by the signal site this morning, Cal and Ravi will handle this as soon as we’re done planning in the fort. The mole should pass the park sign sometime around 7 p.m., confirm our signal, and make the dead drop. He’ll then replace our green thumbtack with a white one to signal drop loaded. We’ll stay clear of the woods then to avoid crossing paths with him.

The rest of the sequence requires more detailed planning. We agree to return to the fort at dusk. At 8:45 p.m., we’ll head out together from here, in the direction of the signal site. Walking Tsarina gives us what Pasha would call a “pretext” for being in the park after dark, so we’ll bring her. Colbie and I will be responsible for picking up the dead drop and placing the unloaded signal, and Ravi and Cal for mobile countersurveillance, monitoring the area around both sites. Once we reach the main trail, Ravi and Cal will break away on a jog toward the signal site, as Colbie and I continue in the same direction at a relaxed pace. If there’s no white thumbtack signaling a drop, they’ll return immediately, and we’ll abort. If the signal is there, Ravi and Cal will continue just past the dead drop bridge, before turning back. If they see nothing suspicious, they’ll jog back past us and say, “See you back at home.” Colbie and I will unload the dead drop and replace the white thumbtack with a green one. On the other hand, if Cal and Ravi see any reason to abort, they’ll simply stop jogging when they see us, and we’ll all turn back together.

Either way, we’ll return to my house. None of us wants to stay in the woods any longer than we have to.

***

With our plan finally in place, Colbie grabs a green thumbtack holding up one corner of a Virginia Tech pennant in the fort, and hands it to Ravi. He and Cal climb down the ladder, unhook Tsarina from a tree, and head out to initiate step 1: the ready signal.

CHAPTER 32

THE PHOTOS

Peeking around a huge white oak, Mrs. Prattle trains her telephoto lens on a distant tree fort where the four teens have been holed up for nearly an hour. They appear to be in animated discussion, even arguing occasionally. She hadn’t counted on spending so much time in the park when she left home early this morning. She could use a bathroom, chides herself for drinking that second cup of coffee. But she is determined to see where they go from the fort.

***

She’d first seen the Hale boy and Callahan girl walking into the woods along the path between her home and Fedorov’s just before 7:30 a.m., deciding to tail them. From her upstairs bedroom window, she watched them turn left on the main trail heading into the woods. Nothing much suspicious there – they’d done the same every morning for the past couple of weeks. The only difference today is that the pair was on foot instead of on their bikes, probably because they had the old Russian’s dog with them. Each carried a basketball.

After giving them a head start of a couple of minutes, she followed the same trail, carrying her camera with the telephoto lens and wearing a flowery, wide-brimmed hat to shield her camera and face from the drizzle. Tracking the faint sound of bouncing basketballs, she discreetly confirmed the presence of the two on a basketball court, accessed by a smaller path through a narrow section of woods.

Mrs. Prattle left the trail then, hiking into a dense expanse of mature oak, hickory, maple, and dogwood trees, out of sight and to the southeast of the basketball court. There, she waited, biding her time by taking photos of birds, her ostensible reason for visiting the park. She managed some close-up shots of a red-bellied woodpecker, one of her favorites, diligently hammering out a nesting hole in the limb of a dead tree. After another forty minutes, both the echoing of basketballs and light rain mercifully stopped. Sitting quietly on a large rock, she listened intently for any indication that she had guessed right, that the two teens would venture further into the park, instead of heading home. Finally, she heard unintelligible conversation coming from the trail, catching occasional glimpses of the boy and girl, the dog nosing ahead of them on a leash. She got up from the rock and began hiking a route parallel to the trail, through the thicket.

Eager to determine whether the pair had more in mind than simply walking the dog, Mrs. Prattle stepped deliberately, stealthily, trying to avoid making noise that might alert them. Reaching a trail junction along the eastern edge of the park, they turned right and continued south. She lost them briefly as they went around a bend. When she next glimpsed them, she realized they had stopped, huddled on the trail, engaged in quiet conversation. They appeared tense, looking back and forth in both directions of the trail. She decided to move closer, hoping to catch snippets of conversation.

To her surprise, they turned around and reversed direction abruptly. Alarmed that she’d been seen, Mrs. Prattle turned quickly, pointing her camera up into the trees. She then waited until they were well past her before paralleling their route again, avoiding the trail, careful to keep her distance this time.

The pair took a semi-circular route, continuing well past the entry path to her neighborhood, before leaving the trail, crossing a stream, and climbing up a ladder into what appeared to be an old deer hunting stand attached to a maple tree. She’d never noticed it before. They were soon joined by the other two boys, who arrived on bikes, appearing excited and in a great hurry.

Having remained off of the trails, she was certain none of the children had seen her a second time.

***

Mrs. Prattle has been in the woods for more than two hours, exhausted, her bladder near bursting, glancing through her magnified camera lens every few minutes only to find the teens still in the deer stand, engaged in lively conversation.

Just as she is about to give up and return home, the Indian boy and the girl’s chunky brother emerge, quickly descending the ladder. They unhook Fedorov’s dog from a tree, help her cross the stream, and work their way through the woods to the main trail, heading north on a course that will take them past her lookout position, well-removed from the trail. She remains still, concealed in the woods, monitoring their progress.

The boys follow the same route the other pair took earlier in the morning, into the heart of the park, close enough now that she can observe them without her camera lens. They walk side-by-side, silent, purposeful, vigilant. As she shifts her position to remain hidden by the white oak, she is convinced by the boys’ determined demeanor that they have something more in mind than taking the dog for her second, long walk of the morning. She prays they will act soon, for the sake of her bladder.

Mrs. Prattle finally begins moving again, paralleling the boys’ route, better now with practice. Through the trees, she sees them slow as they approach a park sign their friends had passed twice this morning. As they stop at the sign, she maneuvers to get a clear line of sight, raising her camera to eye level. The chunky boy, wearing a baseball glove on one hand, bends down to pet the dog with his free hand while the Indian boy reaches his hand out at waist level to the wooden post of the park sign. She snaps several shots through her telephoto lens as the Indian boy pockets something and then reaches back a second time to the wooden post. The plump boy then rises to full height again, tugs on the dog, and the two boys turn onto the trail fork leading away from her to the south.

Lowering her camera, Mrs. Prattle turns, makes her way to the trail, and scurries home.

***

Hearing her tea kettle whistle, Mrs. Prattle gets up from the kitchen table where she has just finished transferring the photos from her digital camera to a folder on her laptop. She turns off the burner and pours hot water into a white mug bearing the phrase “Birding Is My Cup of Tea” in red lettering. She drops a bag of Earl Grey into the mug to steep, sets her kitchen timer for four minutes, and returns to the table.

She scrolls impatiently through the gallery of the early photos she’d taken of the red-bellied woodpecker and the children in the deer hunting stand, before focusing on the dozen shots of the two boys at the park sign. The wooden post is mostly obscured in the first few shots by the head of the chunky boy as he leans forward to pet the dog. In the fourth and fifth shots, she is able to see the wooden post clearly, the Indian boy reaching his hand toward it. The next four photos show the Indian boy reaching the same hand into the front pocket of his shorts and then back toward the post. The last three photos show the boys walking from the park sign, turning right on the trail, away from her.

Mrs. Prattle is startled momentarily by the emergence of her husband from his home office, adjacent to the kitchen.

“Did I hear the tea kettle?” he says.

“Yes, Lionel,” she says. “Water’s hot.”

Lionel Prattle pours hot water into a mug, grabs a tea bag, and returns to his office without another word, closing the door behind him. The bell rings on Mrs. Prattle’s timer. She removes the tea bag from her mug, sets it on a saucer, and takes a sip.

Her attention returns to her laptop. She clicks her mouse on the fourth photo of the boys at the park sign, zooms in on the wooden post. For the first time, she sees a small, circular shape on the post. It is red, no larger than a fingernail. She closes the photo, opens up the sixth one, taken an instant after the Indian boy’s hand had withdrawn from the post to his pocket, and zooms in again on the post. The small red spot is now gone.

Excited, Mrs. Prattle takes another sip of Earl Grey, sets down the mug, and closes the photo. She scans to the eighth shot, where the Indian boy’s hand had reached back toward the post, but his friend is blocking it. Frustrated, she looks again at the last three photos in which the boys have begun walking, opening the last one. Her camera had focused on the boys, but she can see the wooden post in the bottom left corner of the photo. She zooms in, sees a green circular object in the same spot as the red one in the fourth photo.

She leans back in her chair, grasps her tea mug in both hands, pondering her discovery. The Indian boy replaced a red marker with a green one. Why?

Mrs. Prattle decides to return to the park later, in the early evening when the children are likely to be eating dinner. She is determined to take a closer look, find out what the green circular object on the post is. If she can get to the bottom of it, link it to whatever illicit activity Fedorov is involved with, she will finally be taken seriously at the next Neighborhood Watch meeting, after all.

CHAPTER 33

THE MISDIRECTION PLAY

A grueling day of meetings and operational planning behind him, Oliver Tempest exits CIA headquarters at 5:20 p.m. on Thursday after turning down an invitation to join Russia House colleagues for a beer at an Irish pub. He navigates his Jaguar through the backstreets of Langley and McLean, trying to avoid heavy rush hour traffic inside the Capital Beltway, intent on having adequate time to prepare for his busy evening. He needs to put himself in a focused, operational mindset. This is no time for distraction-induced errors in tradecraft.

Stored on his home computer is an incomplete draft of his next – and final – letter to the SVR, one that must deflect the attention of their mole hunt away from “Alex” in Belgrade. After struggling to craft the letter the night before, he had given up and gone to bed, resolving to gather his thoughts today before finalizing the text. Inspiration had come in a morning meeting with the middle-aged head of Russia House’s counterintelligence section, the unit responsible for tracking and analyzing SVR and GRU operations worldwide.

Harriet Albright, a tiny woman with black-rimmed bifocals under a towering beehive style hairdo popularized in the 1950s, had started her Agency career at the age of nineteen in a clerical role before an enterprising manager recognized that her keen intellect and analytical skills should be put to better use. She has since developed an encyclopedic knowledge of Russian covert operations, going back to the fall of the Soviet Union. Known as “Sarge” for her brusque manner and unwillingness to suffer fools, Albright has mentored no fewer than three young officer trainees who went on to become division chiefs in the Directorate of Operations. With its leadership changing hands every year in the form of senior operations officers preparing to transition to prestigious assignments in overseas capitals, Russia House operates efficiently as the result of the expertise of uncelebrated headquarters-based personnel like Albright.

Tempest arranged to meet with Albright after learning she’d authored the Top-Secret document on Russian covert operations in the Balkans that he passed to the SVR in his dead drop two nights earlier. Albright initially focused her comments primarily on Serbia, given Tempest’s assignment to its capital in Belgrade, but he quickly steered the discussion to Russian military intelligence activities in the broader Southeastern Europe region.

Albright became particularly animated in recounting GRU destabilization efforts in the former Yugoslav republic of Montenegro, which gained independence from Serbia in 2006 and became NATO’s newest and smallest member in 2017. Tempest knew that recent Russian covert action operations in the Balkans included an unsuccessful attempt by the GRU in 2016 to topple Montenegro’s democratically elected government in hopes of derailing its NATO plans. He had been naïve, however, in assuming that the failed operation led the Kremlin to accept the nation’s pro-Western course. Albright described Montenegro, bordering the Adriatic Sea and half-covered in thick forest, as the current center for GRU clandestine operations throughout the Balkans Peninsula. After the botched coup d’état, the Russians doubled down with increased ferocity, deploying military intelligence officers to exploit Montenegro’s domestic vulnerabilities – organized crime, rampant corruption, weak government institutions, and ethnic divisions – to infiltrate all levels of society and aggressively advance a pro-Russian agenda. Moscow’s near-term goal, Albright told him, was to bring to power a pro-Russian political party, one that would withdraw Montenegro from NATO and disrupt plans to join the European Union. Such an outcome would have an adverse spillover effect on other countries in the region. Albright concluded the meeting by emphasizing the concern of the National Security Council that, if the GRU subversion efforts in Montenegro were not countered more effectively by the CIA, U.S. and NATO interests throughout the Balkans would be in jeopardy.

Tempest left the meeting elated. He had exactly the input he needed to misdirect the SVR.

***

Satisfied with his revised letter to the SVR identifying the Montenegrin capital of Podgorica as the location of the GRU mole, “Alex,” Tempest prints it out in his home office and places it in a manila envelope. He folds the envelope in half and wraps it in a black plastic trash bag, sealed with duct tape. It will have to do in the absence of the coffee container concealment device, which he passed back to the Russians two nights earlier.

After changing into his jogging gear, he places the package in his weighted backpack and glances at his watch. Six-thirty. Half an hour to go, but he’s ready, anxious to get started, hoping the ready signal from the SVR is in place. If all goes according to plan, his brief relationship with the Russians will be behind him in a few hours and he can focus on his assignment to Belgrade without further distractions. He mulls over contingency plans in the event his red thumbtack emergency signal has not been replaced with a green one or he is forced to abort. The alternate timing would be Saturday night. Tempest is prepared to deal with that if he has to, but knows Saturday would be his last chance, since he is scheduled to fly to Belgrade on Monday.

He muses over the irony in what he is about to do. For several weeks, he has laid the groundwork to reveal to the SVR information leading to the arrest of a GRU officer, a man he will meet for the first time on the streets of Belgrade in a week. A CIA asset who soon will rely on the tradecraft of Tempest to keep him secure. In the past two days he has come to know all of the details the SVR seeks about “Alex”: his true name, career history, and motivation for cooperating with the CIA. And yet Tempest now will direct the Russian mole hunt away from “Alex” and the Serbian capital, to the GRU presence in the bordering country of Montenegro. A nation that harbors the presence of GRU officers aimed at covertly bringing it and its neighbors back into Russia’s sphere of influence. He ponders how the SVR’s counterintelligence unit will react to the new information in his letter. Given the intelligence he has provided so far, the Russians should have little reason, at first, to doubt his latest disclosure. It will cast suspicion on the GRU unit in Montenegro and perhaps hamper the effectiveness of its covert action program in the Balkans. Tempest will have made a positive contribution to CIA’s efforts in countering Russia’s game plan. The SVR’s investigation is likely to conclude in the coming months that Tempest misled them, especially as his dead drop communications in Northern Virginia will have abruptly terminated by then, with no explanation. Russian intelligence will then have no choice but to discount all the information he provided, concluding that there never was a GRU mole in the Balkans. That the anonymous volunteer calling himself Ivan Nikto had been part of a CIA or FBI provocation or disinformation campaign.

Congratulating himself for his cunning, Tempest puts on his weighted backpack and sets out on his jog to the woods.

CHAPTER 34

A CHANGE IN PATTERN

Hunched over her kitchen table, Mrs. Prattle glances over the notes on her laptop. She had begun carefully recording the suspicious comings and goings of Fedorov and the teens from the old Russian’s home fifteen days earlier, when Fedorov’s decades-long habit of early morning walks with his dog in the woods had abruptly changed. Most of her monitoring has been from the windows of her second-floor bedroom, which offer a view over the top of her backyard fence. From there she is able to glimpse, through the limbs of the huge maple tree next to her koi pond, Fedorov’s back gate. The children have used this gate to visit Fedorov, sometimes multiple times a day, beginning on the very morning that the Russian’s pattern of activity changed.

Mrs. Prattle’s concentration is broken by chatter from the path alongside her yard. Glancing out her kitchen window, she sees the heads and shoulders of the Indian boy and his chunky friend, riding their bikes from the woods into the cul-de-sac. They are followed a few minutes later by the other two children, on foot and walking Fedorov’s dog. She watches through her front window to confirm that they are headed home. She looks up at her kitchen clock: 6:40 p.m. Dinner time. The kids won’t be back in the woods for at least another hour, if they return at all. She can investigate the colored markers on the park sign without crossing paths with them.

She rises from the table just as her husband exits his office, walking toward a door leading to the garage. “Where are you headed, Lionel?” she asks.

“Gonna mow the lawn,” he says. “Should be cool enough now.”

“If I’m not here when you finish, I’ll be on a walk in the woods.”

CHAPTER 35

AN ODD COINCIDENCE

Oliver Tempest hoped for a light rain this evening, just enough to limit foot traffic in the park. The day started promisingly enough, wet and overcast, but the skies gradually cleared, leading to a pleasant July evening. Jogging along the winding paved trail, Tempest sees a father watching three young children looking for fish in the stream, passes a woman pushing a stroller, and moves to the side to let an older man pass him on a bike. A perfect evening to be out in the park, he thinks – unless you’re trying to leave a dead drop with no one noticing. He will have to be extraordinarily vigilant tonight.

As he rounds a bend in the trail, the signal site comes into view. Tempest is surprised to see a woman in a flowery wide-brimmed hat stooping in front of the park sign, a digital camera in hand. She appears to be staring at the wooden post beneath the sign. On it, at waist height, is a green thumbtack – the ready signal. Unaware of his presence, the woman touches the thumbtack and backs up a couple of steps. She squats awkwardly and raises the camera to eye level. He sees a cardinal, the Virginia state bird, perched atop the sign, but the woman ignores it as it flies away, her camera angled down, directly at the thumbtack. As he slows his pace slightly, the woman snaps the shutter several times.

When the woman hears Tempest’s footsteps approaching, she rises abruptly from her crouch and turns, facing Tempest briefly. She is wearing a white V-neck shirt with the words Bird Nerd written above a graphic emblem of a vulture resting on a branch. She appears startled. Tempest smiles as he nears her, maintaining his relaxed demeanor and jogging pace, but the woman avoids eye contact and nervously moves away from the sign, scampering along the trail fork leading away from him, to the west.

Tempest continues jogging southward, his mind replaying what he has just witnessed. The woman certainly looked the part of birdwatcher. Then why the interest in a small thumbtack on a wooden post? Why photograph the post while ignoring a cardinal perched on the sign above? She’s probably a bit too old to be working in counterintelligence for the FBI or CIA, or as a support asset for the Russians, for that matter. And her flustered reaction to his presence lacked the composure one would expect in a trained operative. Still, signals generally go unnoticed by the public, and the green thumbtack had not. Tempest is troubled.

A minute later, he rounds another bend in the trail and sees the walking bridge ahead, the dead drop site. He has seen no one since he passed the woman with the camera. He slows his pace. He could pull the package from his backpack, make the drop, finish his jogging route and head home, his work complete. The woman is likely nothing more than a harmless middle-aged birdwatcher who lives nearby and found the thumbtack curious. If so, there is no threat to the dead drop.

But Tempest has been burned badly in the past by a failure to respond cautiously to possible surveillance. He can’t make the same mistake twice, must confirm that the woman is nothing more than she appears to be.

Tempest turns around and heads back in the direction of the signal site.

***

At the trail junction near the park sign, Tempest turns left and jogs in the direction the woman had taken, quickening his pace. Through the trees, he can make out portions of the path as it bends gently in the distance, finally glimpsing the woman’s head, bobbing up and down fifty yards ahead. She is walking quickly, looking straight ahead. He slows his pace to mimic hers.

When the woman reaches the western edge of the park, she takes the left fork in the trail and slows her pace. Tempest comes to a stop and lifts a foot onto a tree stump, pretending to stretch his hamstring as he watches. Through a gate, she enters the backyard of a home bordering the park, closing it behind her and disappearing from view. Who are you?

Then it dawns on him that he is familiar with the setting of the woman’s home. He slowly resumes his jog, striding along the woman’s back fence as he takes in the scene, wanting to confirm the location. After all, it has been many years. He passes her yard, sees a small path leading into the neighborhood between the woman’s home and that of her next-door neighbor.

Yes, Tempest, thinks, he is well-acquainted with the neighbor’s home. The last time he had been there, well over a decade ago, it had belonged to Pavel Fedorov, a former KGB officer who spied for the CIA and was resettled here after a Cold War era spy swap. Does Fedorov still live there? It would be a rather odd coincidence. One that Tempest will explore.

He decides to jog directly home, taking a route that avoids both the signal and dead drop sites. There will be no dead drop tonight. However likely it might be that Fedorov’s neighbor is simply a nosy birdwatcher, he will exercise caution and patience, verifying that she has no counterintelligence role before loading the dead drop on Saturday, the alternate timing. Oliver Tempest cannot risk history repeating itself.

CHAPTER 36

THE COUNTERSURVEILLANCE RUN

Spencer Hale

Eight-forty p.m. Five minutes to go. Sitting in the fort after sunset, we’ve calibrated our wristwatches and gone back over the timing of our dead drop pickup and countersurveillance plan. The chirping of crickets plays in the background over our hushed voices. All of us are nervous, but there has been no further talk of backing out, even from Cal.

I look at my watch for the thousandth time. “Eight forty-five,” I whisper. “Time to go.” I strap on a backpack to store the retrieved dead drop.

We make our way down the ladder and unhitch Tsarina from a tree. We can still see clearly in the twilight under a nearly full moon. We cross the stream and head quietly through the woods. There is no talk as we reach the primary trail, turning deeper into the woods, toward the signal site on the opposite side of the park. Colbie and I walk side-by-side behind Ravi and Cal, with me holding Tsarina’s leash.

When we get to the narrow path leading to the right toward the basketball court, Ravi and Cal slow. Ravi turns his head, glancing at me, somber. I nod. Ravi begins jogging, slowly at first, Cal a half-step behind. Their countersurveillance plan is underway.

Colbie and I continue walking at a casual pace, allowing Tsarina to stop and sniff along the trail. We lose sight of Ravi and Cal quickly. The sky has already darkened since we started. A few minutes later, Tsarina stops to pee.

“They should’ve reached the park sign by now,” Colbie whispers.

“Yeah.”

We resume walking. Soon, I hear footsteps. The sound is getting nearer, the pace too quick to be someone walking. We’ve seen nobody else in the woods since leaving the fort.

Then we see two figures coming toward us in the darkness, around a bend in the trail. I recognize Ravi’s short, quick gait. Cal is lumbering just behind him. As the two approach us, they slow to a walk. Cal is out of breath, hands on hips.

When Ravi reaches us, he shakes his head and holds out the palm of his right hand. In it sits a green thumbtack. “Our ready signal was still there,” he whispers.

No drop loaded signal. The mole’s operational window was two hours ago. We abort.

***

“How was your walk?” asks my mom, stooping to pet Tsarina in the kitchen.

“Fine,” I say. “You guys want some popcorn and something to drink? Cal, grab some sodas.”

My dad is in his recliner in the family room next to the kitchen, watching a TV space documentary on Neptune. “Hey, Cal,” he says, “bring me a soda, too, will ya?”

“You got it, Mr. Hale!” Cal is upbeat, relieved to be done with his countersurveillance work.

Colbie fills Tsarina’s water bowl and replaces it on the floor next to the back door. I put a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

“Calvin, why are you so sweaty?” asks my mom.

“I jogged a bit, Mrs. Hale. Trying to get in better shape for next basketball season.”

“Well, good for you, Calvin Callahan!” says my mom. “You know, you are such a good athlete and with your size you could become a real force on the baseball mound if you were in tip-top shape, and I hope you –”

“Aww, give him a break, Carol,” says my dad, turning up the TV volume.

“No, you’re right, Mrs. Hale,” says Cal, bringing a can of soda to my dad. “That’s my plan.”

“Oh, I got a call from the hospital!” says my mom to the four of us. “Mr. Fedorov is doing well. If he has another good day tomorrow, they expect to release him Saturday morning.”

“That’s great news!” says Colbie.

“Are you going to bring him home?” I ask. “Can we go with you?”

“No need, Spencer,” says my mom. “That’s the other bit of news. I offered to pick him up, but the nurse said Maddie Kilkenny has arranged to do it. Apparently, she was scheduled to fly to Washington early next week, anyway, and changed her itinerary to come back earlier when she learned about Mr. Fedorov’s heart attack. She arrives tomorrow night.”

The microwave dings. I pull out the bag of popcorn and pour it into a big bowl.

“You four headed down to the basement?” says my mom.

“Yeah,” I say. “That documentary dad’s watching on Neptune looks pretty tempting, but I think we’ll watch a movie or something.”

As I jog down the basement stairs followed by the other three, I hear my mom call out to Cal, who stops and seems to consider pretending not to hear her before turning and trundling slowly back up to the kitchen. I set the popcorn on the coffee table, grab the remote, and turn on the TV loud enough that my parents won’t hear our conversation. Ravi sets the green thumbtack on the table next to the popcorn. We have a lot to talk about. In a way, I think all of us are relieved by the mole’s no-show. Pasha can decide on the next step for Saturday night’s alternate drop. I just hope the mole didn’t abort because of a mistake in our tradecraft.

Cal appears a minute later.

“What’d my mom want?” I ask.

Cal sits down heavily next to Ravi on a couch across from me and Colbie. He holds up his hands, a spoon and container of yogurt in one hand, a can of diet iced tea in the other.

“She says these are a better alternative to popcorn and soda for my new fitness program.” He sets them aside on the table and grabs a handful of popcorn.

CHAPTER 37

THE BACK ROOM

On Friday morning, Oliver Tempest sits at a desk in the dimly lit, windowless vault of Russia House’s so-called Back Room, where the group’s most sensitive operations are managed. It occurs to him that the Back Room is the antithesis of Hollywood’s depiction of spacious high-tech CIA offices. The confined space is unglamorous, a series of cluttered cubicles ringed by a few private offices. The original color of the carpeting is unclear: it might have started out beige or gray, dirtied by years of coffee stains and foot traffic. The carpeting isn’t the only thing in the Back Room that appears grimy. While most headquarters office space is cleaned nightly by contractors who are cleared but nevertheless watched closely by low-level hourly employees, the musty vault is off limits to the cleaning crew. In one corner sits a large dingy refrigerator, with a coffee station on one side and scuffed wooden table on the other. Atop the table sit bottles of alcohol from around the world: Chilean pisco, Turkish rakı, Slovak slivovica, Greek ouzo, and naturally a variety of Russian vodkas. Back Room travelers are expected to contribute to the collection by returning from overseas with a bottle of a local favorite. The bottles are meant to be cracked open in celebration of major operational successes, but are in fact shared regularly at Friday afternoon cocktail hours when overworked staff can imbibe, relax, and curse CIA leadership decisions at the end of another tension filled week.

Access to the Back Room is limited. Desk officers provide historical knowledge of cases and operational support. Collection management officers evaluate and disseminate intelligence acquired from Russian assets in the field. Counterintelligence officers, led by Harriet Albright, monitor the threat posed by Russian intelligence to CIA operations globally. And senior operations officers on one- or two-year rotational assignments manage the headquarters end of clandestine operations targeting Russia. Within the CIA’s insular world of intrigue and deception, Russia Group’s Back Room is an island of its own, its personnel isolated from colleagues focused on less sensitive espionage. A culture of suspicion permeates the walls of the Back Room, hinting at dark secrets shared among a select few.

On the desk in front of Tempest is a stack of files containing all operational and intelligence reporting on the “Alex” case, from the time the GRU officer volunteered to spy on Russia near the end of his assignment in New Delhi, through his reassignment to Belgrade.

“Alex” is Konstantin Ivanovich Pavlov. On paper, the unmarried Pavlov appears to be a high-flyer, a successful military intelligence officer in his mid-thirties who has mastered several foreign languages, including English, and risen steadily through the GRU’s ranks. But it is evident to Tempest from the files that Pavlov’s impressive career trajectory is largely attributable to the patronage of his father, Russia’s deputy defense minister. Tempest has no doubt the case is legitimate. The intelligence Pavlov produced during the final weeks of his tour in India was extensive and damaging to Russian national security, and key elements tracked with the reporting of other assets. Pavlov also passed a CIA-administered polygraph.

Tempest rereads reporting by the polygrapher and a CIA psychologist who interviewed Pavlov in a New Delhi hotel room weeks earlier. Pavlov’s motivation for cooperating with U.S. intelligence and betraying Russia must be considered if he is to be handled productively and securely in Belgrade. It came up during the polygraph that Pavlov had approached the CIA just two days after returning to India from a brief trip to Moscow for meetings, including with his father. When indications of deception surfaced in his responses to questions regarding his integrity and GRU career, Pavlov finally admitted to the polygrapher that the trip to Moscow was prompted by accusations he had been pilfering funds from his monthly expense account in New Delhi. Confronted with a string of falsified receipts involving payments to his assets in India, Pavlov confessed to his father and the GRU leadership in Moscow that he had embezzled thousands of dollars from his monthly revolving fund over three years to support a lavish lifestyle. Any GRU officer without strong political connections would have been fired and prosecuted, but Pavlov survived. After accepting Pavlov’s apparent contrition and promise to pay back the stolen funds with interest, his embarrassed father finally ordered the GRU leadership to sweep the matter under the carpet. But Pavlov’s original onward assignment, a prominent GRU management position in London, was pulled. He was reassigned to a mid-level staff position in Belgrade. With these admissions to the CIA, Pavlov eventually passed his polygraph. Although the session raised serious questions about his character, it laid to rest any concerns about his bona fides and ongoing access to critical intelligence.

The psychological evaluation raised other issues that Tempest will have to contend with in handling the asset. The CIA psychologist described Pavlov as a risk-taker with limited emotional control whose professional decisions tended to be based on short-term, tactical thinking, with little regard for long-term consequences. Pavlov exhibits the characteristics of a narcissist, maintaining a sense of superiority and entitlement, blaming others for setbacks, taking no responsibility for poor decisions, and entertaining fantasies of revenge with every perceived slight.

In discussions with the CIA, Pavlov claimed his decision to spy for the U.S. was sparked by a simmering disdain for the GRU and the decision-making of its leadership – including his father. But the CIA psychologist believes his getting caught skimming funds created a personal crisis for Pavlov. Volunteering to the CIA offered a convenient, if temporary, escape from these troubles and an opportunity for retribution against the GRU. He finds thrill and adventure in living a double life. The prospect of eventual resettlement in the United States incentivizes him to produce high-level intelligence in the months or years ahead. But he also seems eager to reach the inevitable point when the revelation of his betrayal will end the career of his father – whose success he resents – in shame. And, consistent with his reckless personality, Pavlov has given little thought to his distant future, including how he might adapt to life in America without the friends, family, and culture he has known until now.

Tempest leans back in his desk chair, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, contemplating challenges that lie ahead in managing Pavlov. He is startled by a tap on the shoulder.

“I see that you’re already missing your quiet life in DRTC,” says Harriet Albright. She has a handbag over her shoulder. It’s already after 10 a.m. Albright often works past midnight, and rarely arrives in Russia House before mid-morning. She peers at him through black-rimmed bifocals. “You’re going to have your hands full with your new friend ‘Alex,’” she says. She seems oddly delighted by this. She turns and walks toward her Back Room office.

“Uh, Harriet,” says Tempest. “I wonder if you have a minute.”

“Yes?” she says, waiting for him to continue. He glances at her closed office door and she takes the hint. “C’mon in.”

He sits in one of two uncomfortable chairs across from Albright’s desk in her cramped, windowless office decorated with family pictures and the crayon art of grandchildren.

“So,” she says with a smirk, “hope you’re not already coming to me for advice on how to gracefully back out of handling ‘Alex.’ You know, if you can keep him on a tight leash for a couple of years, he’s gonna have access to intel that could blow GRU operations in the Balkans out of the water. You can become the man who saved NATO, Oliver.”

“That’d be nice, but I wanted to talk to you about Pavel Fedorov.”

“Fedorov?” Albright squints at him. “Ah, that’s right, you two have a history.” Almost as an afterthought, she gives him a sympathetic look, perhaps to show she’s not judging him.

“Does Russia House still send hand-holders over to his place a couple of times a month?” asks Tempest.

Albright leans forward, elbows on the desk, fists and jaw clenching. “Hand-holders yes, but no longer from here. Why in God’s name would the CIA send an operations officer from Russia House to meet a Russian who is a genuine Cold War hero? No, that would be too logical. So the idiots on the seventh floor decide Pavel Fedorov should be met by someone from the Asset Resettlement Center who can’t find Russia on a map and thinks the Cold War is a battle against climate change.” She takes a deep breath. “Why do you ask, anyway?”

“I haven’t seen him in years, and was hoping I might drop in on him before I leave for Belgrade on Monday. Thought he’d be interested that I’m heading to Russian intel’s playground and might have some words of operational wisdom for me.”

“I think that’s a grand idea.” Albright forms a steeple with her fingertips. Her smirk disappears and her tone becomes solemn. “There’s something you should know, Oliver. Pasha had a heart attack a couple of days ago. I understand he’s doing well and is supposed to be released from the hospital tomorrow. The Resettlement Center is supposed to send someone to his home tomorrow night to check on him. They still coordinate that stuff with us. I could arrange for you to fill in. I’m sure a visit from someone he knows would bring him pleasure.”

“I’d welcome that, thanks.”

“No thanks necessary. I adore that man, though I haven’t visited him in years. He is a true American patriot. He doesn’t crave the CIA’s attention and respect, but he has certainly earned it.”

Albright glances at a list of phone numbers taped to the wall next to her desk. She picks up the receiver of a secure phone on her desk and punches in a number.

“Good morning, Tom, it’s Harriet Albright.” With her free hand, she pulls back a lock of hair that has come loose from her soaring beehive hairdo, tucking it behind an ear. “Listen, I’ve called to do you an unsolicited favor. I’m sitting with an operations officer who is leaving for an overseas assignment on Monday and eager to say goodbye to Fedorov.” She gives a thumbs-up to Tempest. “My thoughts exactly, Tom. What time is it scheduled for?”

She glances at Tempest above her bifocals. “Does 7 p.m. work for you, Oliver?”

“No, I have an evening engagement,” he says. Sorry, that would conflict with my alternate dead drop timing, Harriet. “Mid-afternoon would be better.”

“You catch that, Tom?” She picks up a pencil and jots a note on a pad of paper covered in doodles. “Good. I’ll let him know.”

She hangs up with a look of satisfaction. “Three-thirty should be fine, Oliver. They’ll reschedule the time with Pasha. Tom said you should limit the visit to half an hour. Doctor’s orders.”

“Half an hour will do.”

CHAPTER 38

DEEP KIMCHI

Spencer Hale

The four of us sit in the fort, feet up on the rickety table, taking turns shooting the mini-basketball at the wall-mounted hoop. Everybody’s a trick shot artist in the fort. Colbie is working on a double bank shot: the ball glances off the fort ceiling and then the UCLA backboard before going in. She makes three in a row, a new record, before missing one. She and I are still dripping with sweat from our basketball drills.

It’s Saturday and the Fourth of July. Our community has an Independence Day tradition where the kids participate in an early morning parade, marching or riding bikes down the middle of the road from one end of the neighborhood to the other, carrying American flags. Adults line the parade route in beach chairs, cheering. This is the first year the four of us didn’t participate, feeling too old as high schoolers. My mom wasn’t happy about it. (“Spencer, childhood is fleeting…”) We’ll go to the swimming pool later. To celebrate the holiday, they’ll serve grilled hot dogs and hamburgers for lunch and dinner, and the pool will stay open late tonight so everyone can gather to watch the town’s fireworks show.

Pasha will return home this morning, if his doctors give the green light. My mom got a call last night from Maddie Kilkenny, who just arrived from Prague. Maddie suggested we come by with Tsarina at 2 p.m., giving Pasha time to take a nap and adjust to being home again. None of us is looking forward to telling him about the emergency signal and the mole’s no-show on Thursday, but it’ll be a relief to have him back to plan tonight’s alternate dead drop. We figure Maddie will be available to unload it if Pasha isn’t well enough, but maybe they’ll let us help out with the signals. We wonder how Maddie will react to news about everything that’s happened over the last three weeks, whether Pasha has already told her.

For now, we’re just killing time. It doesn’t take long before we get bored with the mini-basketball trick shots. Colbie has her nose in Huckleberry Finn. Ravi is playing some mobile video game involving combat with zombies. Every once in a while, he mutters “bloody hell” and takes a break for a few minutes, spinning a basketball on his finger. He’s getting better at it.

Cal cringes as he reads the ingredients on a pouch of food given to him by my mom. Convinced he has embraced better fitness, she appointed herself as his nutritional advisor. Yesterday, she went to a health food store and picked out seven different types of “alternative snacks” for Cal, one for each day this week. Next week, it’ll be a different series of snacks. Her theory is that by the end of summer, Cal will have enough exposure to healthy foods that he’ll be able to pick out his favorites and continue on his own. She gave him a pep talk that concluded with some kind of swearing-in ceremony, Cal raising his right hand and promising to set aside cheese puffs and pretzels for the rest of the summer in favor of a menu that my mom says will put him “on the road to athletic stardom.” Now, Cal may have many faults, but when he makes a promise, he keeps it. Of course, that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to gripe about it.

“Fermented cabbage, radishes, and anchovies!” says Cal. “Seriously? I hate those things, how am I gonna eat all of ‘em together, especially when they’re fermented?” He’s looking at a small pouch of kimchi, his Day 1 snack. With each snack, my mom has included a hand-written note explaining the benefits. He reads the Day 1 note aloud. “Kimchi, a Korean cuisine, is a source of fiber, vitamins, and minerals. And the fermentation is good for your digestive health, Calvin!” He looks at me. “Do you eat this stuff at home?” I shake my head, cringing.

Finally, Cal grabs a plastic fork my mom included and opens the kimchi pouch. A foul odor immediately fills the fort: a combination of dirty socks, rotten fish and the inside of a garbage can not cleaned in years.

“Bloody hell, Cal!” shouts Ravi, jumping up and dropping his phone. “Close that bag now!” Cal ignores him, which gets Ravi more revved up. “Seriously, Cal, that reeks. You’ve created a stench trench, a swampdonk, a burrito bum grenade! Either close that bag or leave!”

The odor is enough to pull Colbie from her book. “Yeah, Cal,” she says, “you gotta go.” She goes back to Huck Finn.

I’m with Ravi and Colbie, but feel some sympathy since my mom is the cause. “Just throw it out, Cal,” I say. “You don’t have to eat it.”

“Gotta keep my promise,” he says, getting up. He descends the ladder, kimchi and fork in hand, and sits on the trunk of an uprooted tree. With a look of determination, he takes a bite, scowls, and forces himself to swallow. He looks like he’s gonna hurl, but then he surprises me by taking another bite. Maybe my mom has figured out Cal, after all.

In the still morning heat, the rotten smell lingers in the fort for another half hour. “It’s after ten thirty,” I finally say. “Pool will be open soon. Let’s get going.” We’re less eager to get to the pool than we are to go past Pasha’s house and look for confirmation of his return.

Ravi, Colbie and I head down the ladder to join Cal, who is lying on the ground, his baseball cap pulled over his eyes, Tsarina and an empty kimchi pouch at his side.

“Death by kimchi,” I say.

“I can’t believe you ate the whole thing, Cal,” says Colbie. “How was it?”

“I feel a little bloated and gassy,” says Cal, struggling to get up.

“TMI,” says Ravi.

As we emerge on foot from the woods onto the trail, I see a shirtless jogger coming toward us. Here we go again, I think. Carter Klein, BMOC. He slows to a walk when he sees Colbie, removing his earbuds.

“Hey, babe,” he says, “whazzup?”

Colbie takes a step back when he approaches her with his arms raised, avoiding the sweaty hug this time. Left hanging by Colbie, Klein bends over and pets Tsarina instead. She growls at him. I’ve never seen her do that.

Rebuffed on two fronts, Carter Klein, BMOC goes with his next option: glaring at me through his oversized hipster sunglasses, with rainbow lenses and neon yellow frames. I hold his gaze. “Nice shades, Carter,” I say. Klein cocks his head to the side, unsure if it was compliment or an insult. Finally, he turns back to Colbie. “Going to the pool today, babe?”

Before Colbie has a chance to respond, we are all suddenly wrapped in the sour stench of kimchi. A look of confusion, and then disgust, crosses Klein’s face. “My god, what is that?” he says. Cal maintains a mask of complete innocence. When no one responds, Carter Klein, BMOC puts his earbuds back in, flexing for Colbie. “I really gotta go,” he says, running off.

“That was quite pungent,” I say.

“Yeah, good timing, Calvin,” says Colbie.

“I hope your Day 2 snack from Mrs. Hale isn’t fermented,” says Ravi.

As Tsarina pulls us along the path between Pasha’s and Mrs. P’s yards, we look for evidence of Pasha’s return. “There’s a car in the driveway,” says Colbie. I glance at the license plate as we reach the sidewalk. There’s a white-on-orange year sticker, indicating it’s a rental car, probably Maddie’s. “He’s home!” says Colbie.

What a relief. Pasha will be here to plan tonight’s alternate drop. We’ll see him in a couple of hours. I’d better start thinking about how I’m going to explain the events of Thursday.

***

As we stand on Pasha’s front porch at exactly two o’clock, worn out from the pool, I feel almost as nervous as that day a few weeks ago when I had to explain to him what Ravi and I were doing in his study. The doorbell is answered by a brunette in a blue sundress. Her shoulder-length hair is parted on the side and her eyes match her dress. She has a small, slightly upturned nose.

Maddie Kilkenny flashes a bright smile. Before she has a chance to speak, Tsarina tugs on the leash, tail wagging furiously, alternately sighing and yelping as though she’s trying to speak. Maddie bends down to hug Tsarina, who licks her face.

“I’m Maddie. Let’s see,” she says, squinting and turning to me. “You must be Spencer.” I nod. She correctly identifies Cal and Ravi, before turning to Colbie. “And you are Colbie. Pasha says you’ve helped him with his knee problems.” She opens the door widely, motioning us to come in. I glance next door before I enter. Mrs. P is sitting at her kitchen table eyeing us suspiciously. She seems to be taking notes.

“Your timing is perfect,” says Maddie. “Pasha has taken a nap and just finished a bowl of soup.”

“How’s he feeling?” asks Colbie.

“Very well. In fact, he already feels better than he has in weeks. And the doctor says he’ll stay that way, if he can manage his appetite for cigars and Scotch.”

She leads us into the kitchen, where Pasha is seated in his usual spot at the head of the table. He pets Tsarina, who has her head in his lap, and smiles at us. “Ah, I see you’ve all finally met,” he says.

Colbie leans over and gives him a hug. “We’re so glad to have you back and that you’re feeling better, Pasha,” she says. Ravi, Cal, and I take turns patting him awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Yes, and I owe it to the four of you,” he says. “Spasibo. Thank you. The doctor said my recovery would have taken much longer if you hadn’t gotten me to the hospital so quickly.”

“I understand lemonade is the choice drink around here,” says Maddie, picking up a pitcher from the counter and filling our glasses, gesturing for us to sit. She opens a bag of pretzels, fills a large bowl, and offers them first to Cal, who shakes his head.

“No pretzels, Cal?” says Pasha.

Cal shrugs. “I’m watching my figure,” he says.

“Boy, things have really changed in the three days I’ve been away,” Pasha says. “And “how’s the pitching going, Calvin?”

“Had my best outing yet this morning,” says Cal. “Thirty-five points. And only two wild pitches in the last three days.”

Pasha nods, glances at his watch, and clears his throat. “I have a visitor – a hand-holder – coming by at three-thirty, earlier than usual, and there are a few things I wanted to talk about before then with all of you here.”

I look at Maddie, whose look of mild curiosity tells me that she doesn’t know what’s coming. Pasha hasn’t told her about the mole yet.

Pasha turns to me. “Spencer, please get the coffee container from my study. It’s under the desk.” Maddie looks back and forth between me and Pasha, intrigued.

I return with the green container and hand it to Pasha. He removes the lid and pulls a stack of documents from the main compartment, setting them on the table. He hands the container to Maddie. “This is a concealment device, Maddie.”

She looks at him quizzically before looking inside and then turning it upside-down. She stares at it for a second, and then unscrews the bottom, revealing the hidden compartment. “So it is,” she says. She looks up at Pasha. “Where did it come from?”

Pasha points a finger toward his backyard. “The woods. Our intrepid young friends here found it one evening two-and-a-half weeks ago at the base of a walking bridge. In the compartment, they found ten thousand dollars. And these.”

He pulls two pieces of paper from atop the stack of documents in front of him, and hands them to her. The letter and intel requirements left by the Russians for the mole in the first dead drop. She reads through the letter first, and then the list of questions, her brows furrowed.

She sets down the pages and looks up. “A dead drop left for an anonymous mole.”

Pasha nods.

“A CIA mole who volunteered via a cutout with the initials N.V.,” says Maddie.

“Da. Natalya Vasilyeva.”

“Russian intelligence.”

“Correct,” says Pasha. “The SVR. We have confirmed that.”

Maddie sits back in her chair, placing the pages back on the table. She looks at Pasha and then each of us. “We?” she says. “Pasha, you still have the dead drop materials in your possession. Please tell me that you’ve alerted the Agency.”

“I’m doing that right now, Maddie.”

Maddie’s eyes narrow. “You’ve allowed nearly three weeks to go by without telling anyone until now? Pasha, have you been investigating this on your own?”

Pasha stares at the table. “Not exactly on my own, Maddie.” He motions to us with a sweep of his huge arm. “This capable intel team has been assisting me.”

Maddie gets up slowly from the table. She starts to say something and then seems to think better of it. I think she’s angry, but reluctant to show it because she’s worried about Pasha’s health and doesn’t want to increase his tension.

“I don’t expect you to agree with my approach, Maddie, but I hope you’ll at least understand that it wasn’t a rash decision,” says Pasha. “That it was based on consideration of unusual circumstances. And please remember as you pass judgment that I’m an elderly man in a fragile state of health.”

Maddie crosses her arms over her chest and rolls her eyes.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” says Pasha. “Spencer, please describe for Maddie what happened that night. How Operation Hijack got its start.”

I came prepared to explain the events of Thursday, starting with the emergency signal, so I’m caught off guard by Pasha’s instruction. I start a little nervously, fumbling my words and stuttering. But when Maddie sits back down and becomes absorbed in the story, I become more confident in my delivery.

I describe the passing squall that Tuesday night, the overdressed Penguin slipping on the footpath and cursing in Russian, crossing the bridge with his walking stick and green container, making the dead drop, wiping the back of the park sign before placing the blue tape signal, exiting the park just before the rain and wind subsided. Colbie takes up the story then, telling how we took the coffee container back to the fort and uncovered the contents of the hidden compartment.

Maddie remains quiet until we’ve finished. Her elbows are on the table, her chin resting on clasped hands. “Well, Pasha, if you were to involve teenage accomplices in an espionage operation,” she says, “you’ve been fortunate to have four resourceful and talented ones. But it sounds more like they’ve involved you in their operation.”

“Something like that, da,” says Pasha. “They wisely decided not to put the dead drop back in place and, uh, brought the matter to my attention the following morning.” He describes examining the site later, finding the blue tape on the ground below, and deducing the mole’s signal plan. He doesn’t share with Maddie that Ravi and I brought the intercepted dead drop to his attention by breaking into his study.

“And when you learned about the dead drop, you thought it would be a good idea to come out of retirement, put your counterintelligence hat on, deputize four teenagers, have a heart attack, and then surprise me with this information weeks later?”

Pasha shrugs. “Well, when you put it that way, Maddie…”

“How exactly would you put it?”

Pasha explains how his plans for informing the CIA via his hand-holder that evening had changed course when his visitor turned out to be a college student from the Asset Resettlement Center. How he made the decision that night to manipulate the mole by rewriting the SVR’s letter, proposing modifications to the signals and dead drop site location to eliminate communication between the mole and the Russians.

“So you loaded the dead drop two days later,” says Maddie, “the alternate, with the revised letter and the money.”

Pasha nods. “And the mole signaled confirmation of the pick-up.”

“Pasha, I understand your reluctance to pass the information and the dead drop materials to a college student summer-hire, but you could have arranged a meeting with someone from Russia House before the alternate drop. I don’t need to tell you the high stakes we’re dealing with here. A CIA mole who must be uncovered, and a GRU asset in the Balkans who needs to be protected. Because of your decision to handle this yourself, we’ve lost more than two weeks of potential progress on both fronts.”

“I don’t think so, Maddie. First, our mole has direct access to information on the GRU asset, linking him to Russia House. I didn’t know who I could trust there. I have no control over who the CIA would send to debrief me and didn’t want to inadvertently tip off the mole that the dead drop had been compromised. Second, we’ve eliminated the ability of the Russians to receive communications from the mole. And third, I believed I could operate more effectively than the Agency in the early stages because I am not encumbered with bureaucratic restraints. Besides, my intent was to run this only temporarily – until I had the opportunity to pass this on to someone I trust completely. And that, my dear, is you.”

“How can you be sure the original communications plan between the mole and the SVR was shut down successfully. That the mole has adopted your revised plan?”

Pasha picks up other papers from the table, a stapled document and single type-written page, the contents of the last dead drop. He hands them to Maddie.

She first reads the single sheet, the letter from the mole. “Ivan Nikto,” she says, reading the typed signature. “Ivan ‘Nobody.’ So, the mole has accepted the modified communications plan. He would have left this for you on Tuesday night, the next scheduled drop. Four days ago?”

“Da,” says Pasha, “the night before I ended up in the hospital.”

Maddie shakes her head. She scans through the stapled document, the Top-Secret cable directing CIA operations officers to begin collecting intelligence more aggressively on Russian meddling in the Balkans. “I remember reading this cable in Prague a couple of months ago.”

Pasha nods. “The mole either doesn’t have further identifying information on the GRU asset, or –”

“– or he’s buying time by passing the Top-Secret cable instead,” says Maddie, completing his thought. “So, that’s where this stands as of today? Three dead drops. The one left by the Penguin and intercepted by your young intel team. The one from you to the mole, with the revised SVR letter and the money. And the drop from the mole accepting the new commo arrangements and passing the CIA document. Anything else I should know before I go to Russia House with this today?”

Pasha shakes his head. “That’s it, Maddie.”

Colbie, Cal and Ravi look at me, catching Pasha’s attention. “Something I left out, Spencer?” he asks.

“Uh, yes, Pasha. Something happened while you were in the hospital.”

***

With the others chiming in with details, I describe for Pasha and Maddie the events of Thursday: Colbie and I glimpsing the red thumbtack emergency signal while walking Tsarina, Mrs. P’s suspicious behavior in the woods, our decision to unload the dead drop and set up countersurveillance, Ravi and Cal placing the ready signal, and finally the four of us returning to the woods at night, only to abort upon finding no drop-loaded signal from the mole.

Pasha becomes grim upon learning we decided to act on our own. So does Maddie, but by the time I finish, she has a look of amazement. “Well, Pasha, when you decided to come out of retirement, you really went all in. You trained your young team very well. Countersurveillance?”

Pasha shakes his head. “The four of you know I would have counseled you not to act on your own. You should not have gone into the park on Thursday night.”

“Yes, Pasha, we did know that,” I say. “You can blame me – I cast the deciding vote. I thought there was more risk in not responding to the mole’s emergency signal. That you would understand our decision, kind of like you thought Maddie would understand your decision to take things into your own hands.” I’d been rehearsing that last line, figuring it would be hard for Pasha to argue with.

Pasha’s eyes remain locked on mine for a few seconds. I think I see a little bit of pride on his face. He turns to Maddie, who is watching his reaction with raised eyebrows.

Pasha glances at his watch. “The mole’s alternate drop is tonight at 7 p.m., and I have a hand-holder arriving in less than an hour.”

“You’ll need to hurry your hand-holder out of here quickly,” says Maddie. “You can say you need to rest. And I need to inform Russia House immediately.”

“It’s too late to set up a CIA surveillance team to monitor the dead drop and signal sites tonight,” says Pasha, stroking his bushy gray mustache.

Maddie nods. “That would require casing the sites in advance to set up observation points. Not enough time. And we don’t want to risk alerting the mole by sending a group of people into the woods so close to the drop time. Surveillance planning will have to wait until the next dead drop.”

She picks up her phone, scrolls through contacts, pushes a button, and sets it on the table in speaker mode. The call is answered on the second ring by a gruff female voice.

“Albright.”

“Hello, Harriet, it’s Maddie Kilkenny.”

***

The woman from Russia House that Maddie spoke to, Harriet Albright, agreed to meet her at CIA headquarters at 3:30 with an experienced operational team, including FBI counterparts. Maddie will brief them and then return with Albright and her team to Pasha’s house at around 5 p.m. to plan the execution of tonight’s dead drop retrieval.

“Harriet Albright,” says Pasha. “Haven’t seen her in years. She used to visit me occasionally as one of the hand-holders. I didn’t know she was still in Russia House.”

“An old friend of my dad’s,” says Maddie. “She’s now the head of counterintelligence there. The right person to get on board with this tonight.” Her eyes scan around the table. “And you four will need to be here to answer any questions Harriet and her team might have, especially about the events on Thursday. I assume your parents know nothing about any of this?”

We shake our heads.

She gives Pasha a look. “Okay, we’ll arrange to give them an unclassified briefing this weekend. They don’t need to know the details, but they have to be aware their children have been involved in operational activity. I’ll discuss it with Harriet.”

Pasha stares at his hands. “Okay, time is short, and we have a ready signal to put in place,” he says.

“You can’t do it Pasha,” says Maddie. “You need to stay here and rest. And I need to get to headquarters.” She glances around the table. “Well, I guess the four of you aren’t finished serving your country yet.” She stands up. “We need a green thumbtack.”

“On top of my desk,” says Pasha. Colbie rushes to his study.

“Colbie!” Maddie calls out. “Bring Pasha’s laptop, too.”

Colbie returns with the thumbtack and laptop. Maddie opens the laptop and pulls up a Google map, typing in Pasha’s address. She expands the area on the map to include Willow Creek Park, and its main trail system. “Show me the location of the signal and dead drop sites,” she says. “I’ll need it for the headquarters briefing.”

I point an index finger at the two sites.

“And where’s your tree fort?” asks Maddie.

Colbie adjusts the map to zoom in on the area near the basketball court. “It’s right here,” she says, pointing.

Maddie stares at the map for a few seconds. “Okay, got it,”

Maddie grabs Tsarina’s leash from the counter. “Alright team,” she says, “time to take Tsarina for a walk past the signal site. Stay together, don’t linger when you put the ready signal in place, maintain good demeanor – but I guess you already know all that. Continue on a route that takes you back to your fort. You can stay in place there, and plan to be back here at 5 p.m. sharp. Be prepared to answer questions from Harriet Albright’s team.”

She attaches the leash to Tsarina’s collar and hands it to Colbie.

“You all have Pasha’s phone number, right?” asks Maddie. We nod. “If anything comes up, call Pasha. Take down my cell number, too. It’ll be turned off when I’m in headquarters, but you can leave a message.” We enter her number into our phones, and share our numbers with Maddie.

As we turn to head out through the screen door, Maddie wrinkles her nose. “What is that awful smell?” she asks.

We look at Cal, who shrugs. “Kimchi,” he says.

With great effort, Pasha pushes himself up from his chair and peers at us over his reading glasses. “I’m proud of you four,” he says. “Now get going. And don’t screw up.”

CHAPTER 39

THE VIGIL

Mrs. Prattle sits at her kitchen table, rereading the notes on her laptop. After photographing the chunky boy and his Indian friend swap out the red thumbtack for the green one on the wooden signpost on Thursday, she decided it would be easier to monitor the post rather than follow the teenagers’ movements. Early yesterday morning, Friday, she found the green thumbtack had been removed, with nothing in its place. She took two more strolls in the woods, once yesterday evening and another early this morning, with the same results. She wonders what the different colored thumbtacks signify and who removed the green one.

Since her walk this morning, she has focused on a flurry of activity next-door. At mid-morning, the old Russian returned home in a sedan driven by a slim brunette, who guided Fedorov, an arm around his waist, into the house. Fedorov had walked unsteadily. Mrs. Prattle heard from neighbors that he suffered a minor heart attack, but would be fine. She recognized the brunette, who has visited Fedorov many times over the years. Mrs. Prattle has wondered if she is Fedorov’s daughter, though there is no physical resemblance.

Mrs. Prattle glances at her record of today’s events. At exactly 2 p.m., the four teens arrived at Fedorov’s front door with the dog. The brunette invited them in. About an hour later, the children left for a walk in the woods with the dog, exiting from the back gate. The woman soon departed from Fedorov’s front door, jumping in her car and heading up the street. She appeared to be in a hurry. Mrs. Prattle recorded their departures on her laptop.

It has been quiet next-door for the last half an hour. Taking a sip of green tea, Mrs. Prattle senses motion along the path leading from the woods. She gets up from the table and shuffles to the window facing the old Russian’s driveway. She observes a man turn from the path onto the sidewalk toward Fedorov’s home with his head down and his back to her, a plastic bag under one arm. Dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, he turns up Fedorov’s driveway and approaches the front door. Another visitor. He waits for a minute facing away from Mrs. Prattle. The door is finally opened by Fedorov, looking stooped and haggard. Fedorov puts out his hand to greet his visitor. There is a pause, a look of confusion crossing Fedorov’s face. Then he breaks into a broad smile of recognition, steps onto the porch, and the two men embrace. Fedorov steps back, his large hands cupping the other man’s shoulders. As his visitor steps inside, disappearing from view, Fedorov glances to his right, sees Mrs. Prattle standing at the window, and waves a hand with a wan smile before entering and closing the door.

Mrs. Prattle returns to her laptop at the kitchen table and glances at her watch: 3:30 p.m. She records the old Russian’s latest visitor. She had been unable to get a clear look at his face, but he appeared to have a beard. He seemed familiar somehow, but she can’t quite place him.

She stares back out her kitchen window, continuing her vigil.

CHAPTER 40

A RENEWED ACQUAINTANCE

Seated across from Pavel Fedorov in the living room, Oliver Tempest takes a sip of the Scotch he brought. He’s not a whisky drinker, but is grateful for a few sips to calm his nerves ahead of his conversation with Fedorov and tonight’s dead drop.

“I’m sorry you can’t join me for a glass, Pasha,” he says.

“There’s nothing I’d rather do, Ollie, but the doctors are emphatic that I must cut back on Scotch, cigars and coffee – the very things that still bring pleasure to an old man like me.”

“I’m glad you’re taking their guidance seriously.”

“I don’t have much choice, I suppose. Karina always counseled me to pursue my bad habits in moderation, but I haven’t done that in her absence.” Fedorov takes a sip of lemonade and smiles. “Such a nice surprise to see you again, Ollie. How many years has it been?”

“Too many, Pasha. I’m sorry I haven’t come by more often.”

“It’s okay, Ollie. I know from experience that an operations officer’s time is limited. I take it you’re based at headquarters now?”

“Not exactly. I’ve been running the denied area operations training program for the last couple of years, and am about to head out on my next field assignment. I leave on Monday, and wanted to check on you before I left – especially after hearing about your heart attack.”

“That’s kind of you, Ollie. Tell me about your next assignment.”

“I’ll be serving in Belgrade station, managing a unit focused on the destructive activities of your former colleagues in Russian intelligence. It’s a great career opportunity.”

“That’s wonderful news! It must be one of the Agency’s highest national security priorities. I’ve been following media coverage of developments in the Balkans. Putin seems bent on stifling NATO and EU expansion plans at every turn.”

“Yes, that’ll be my primary focus.”

“I’m sure your last couple of years running denied area tradecraft training has prepared you well for the assignment. It’ll put you in the proper mindset for Belgrade, a challenging operational environment.” Fedorov pushes himself forward in his armchair, leaning in and locking eyes with Tempest. “And I’m so glad that your career is going well now, Ollie. I know how frustrated you were for many years after your assignment in Moscow. Intelligence services can be unforgiving – and often misplace the blame – after major operational flaps.”

Tempest takes a sip of Scotch, unconsciously seeking its warmth and soothing effects. “It’s been a long slog to redemption, Pasha, but I’ve managed to overcome the doubts of the leadership. I’m finally in a good place now.”

“Da, you clearly have the confidence of your superiors to land such an important assignment. I know I’ve told you this before, but not a day goes by where I don’t think about the events of that winter night in 1988 that led to my arrest and your PNG from Moscow. For such a young officer, your tradecraft was always impeccable. I trusted your meticulous planning and street instincts, and never understood how the KGB was able to uncover plans for our meeting that night. I’ve assumed they had information from a mole in U.S. intelligence, even though the CIA ruled out Ames and Hanssen. Perhaps there was a third mole. But I’ve also never stopped wondering whether I might have made a tradecraft mistake that night. Whether I might have failed to identify KGB surveillance and lured them directly to our meeting. If so, I am at fault for the damage it did to your early career, Ollie.”

Tempest lowers his gaze to the floor and adjusts his position in the wingback chair. “You shouldn’t blame yourself Pasha. I’ve never worked with anyone with better tradecraft skills or knowledge of the Moscow streets.” Against his better judgment, he drains the rest of his Scotch and sets his glass on the coffee table between them. “The counterintelligence investigation never revealed how the KGB uncovered our meeting that night. But I have no doubt that there was no tradecraft lapse by either one of us. Perhaps you’re right about a third mole. We’ll probably never know, Pasha.”

Fedorov rises with a grunt and picks up Tempest’s glass. “Let me refresh your drink, Ollie.”

As Fedorov ambles to the kitchen, Oliver Tempest recalls the events of that February night more than three decades ago that would define his career. Events that have led to his final dead drop in Willow Creek Park a few hours from now.

***

With a stellar training record, Tempest had been sent to Moscow as his first overseas assignment, a sign of CIA leadership’s confidence in his tradecraft skills and potential. His blank slate in field operations gave him one advantage: he was an unknown quantity to the KGB, less likely to draw heavy street surveillance than a veteran officer who might have crossed the Soviet radar screen previously. Tempest’s role in Moscow was limited to the secure handling of Pavel Fedorov, code named OLYMPIC. A complex communications plan was developed weeks earlier in Istanbul, where Fedorov had volunteered to the CIA. Personal meetings between Tempest and Fedorov were to take place on the streets of Moscow once every few months to refine operational details and to exchange intelligence, technology, and CIA collection requirements. Between meetings, Fedorov was to communicate intelligence using secret writing, SW, mailed to accommodation addresses in Europe controlled by the CIA. Fedorov’s messages were handwritten using SW carbon paper on the back of pre-written, innocuous-looking cover letters.

The KGB devoted extensive manpower to surveilling foreigners on the streets of Moscow, but their resources were not unlimited. Nor were they immune from manipulation by their targets. Tempest hit the ground running, establishing a pattern of visiting different parts of Moscow on a regular basis to sight-see, run errands, jog and so forth. Sometimes Peggy accompanied him, other times he went alone. He quickly familiarized himself with the city, identifying potential sites for signals, dead drops, and meetings. His movements were carefully orchestrated to lure his KGB surveillance teams into a state of boredom, convincing them he was not engaged in operational activities. Once the KGB became familiar with his habits, Tempest knew they would over time be more likely to let down their guard when he used these same routines as part of his surveillance detection routes on the way to meet Fedorov. During his first six months in Moscow, he held two productive meetings with Fedorov. He found it exhilarating.

His sense of confidence plunged in subsequent months, however, when the KGB began tailing him more frequently and aggressively. A meeting with Fedorov could take place only if Tempest were one hundred percent certain he was “black” – free of surveillance. The last three times Tempest conducted surveillance detection routes for scheduled meetings with Fedorov, he was forced to abort. On the third occasion, unlike the previous two, he wasn’t certain of the KGB’s presence: just minutes before scheduled contact with Fedorov, he heard through an earpiece a sudden increase in chatter on a radio frequency used by surveillance teams, prompting him to act with prudence, aborting the route. Although his CIA superiors in Moscow continued to express outward confidence in his tradecraft and judgment, he knew they were privately concerned that he was seeing “ghosts” on the streets – imagining surveillance when there was none, leaving him afraid to act. After the third aborted meeting, the chief of station opted for a contingency, directing another operations officer to meet Fedorov, using the alternate timing the following week. The other officer’s SDR and meeting went flawlessly, yielding the biggest intel dump yet from Fedorov.

Tempest’s own final, fateful meeting with Fedorov took place on Soviet Army Day in late February 1988, taking advantage of the KGB’s holiday-reduced manpower. It was a typically bleak winter night in Moscow. Several hours into his SDR, Tempest remained hypervigilant to his surroundings, the street noises and smells, the people, the cars. Looking for anything out of place, for repeat sightings of cars or people, for unusual interactions or demeanor, all while appearing natural.

For the first time, he felt a nagging pressure to proceed with the meeting, anxious to break his string of aborted contacts, praying that he had successfully eluded his KGB followers. As he walked down a quiet Moscow side street in darkness, snow accumulating on the pavement, Tempest tried to banish these thoughts. The worst thing that could happen was not to abort again, but to fail to identify surveillance, dragging them along to the meeting and compromising one of the CIA’s most important assets.

Tempest had left the embassy parking lot hours earlier by car with several colleagues, sitting in the back seat. On the seat next to him was a “Jack-in-the-Box,” a pop-up figure matching the size and shape of his torso and head. On the floor in front of him were a Russian-style hat and coat. An hour into the pre-determined route, the driver made a series of quick turns designed to evade trailing KGB vehicles temporarily, a few moments at a time, as Tempest donned the Russian coat and hat. On the fourth successive turn, Tempest leapt from the rear of the car, which then accelerated to its previous speed, the other back seat passenger deploying the Jack-in-the-Box in his place. Tempest immediately turned a corner on foot, entering a boutique hotel just as the lead KGB vehicle regained visual contact with the embassy car. He walked casually through the hotel lobby and exited through a door onto a different side street, looking the part of a working-class Russian.

Now that he had dodged vehicular surveillance, the goal of Tempest’s SDR was to flush out possible KGB foot surveillance. Twenty minutes later he entered an opera house, his first cover stop, purchasing two tickets to a performance the following week. He then got on a trolley bus, getting off three stops later, just as the doors were about to close. No one had gotten off the trolley after him. He took a long circuitous route on foot to a bookstore, where he leisurely browsed volumes on Russian history. His final cover stop was a small grocery store, where he purchased a handful of cigars, a gift for Fedorov.

At each cover stop, Tempest discreetly observed individuals who entered after him: their builds, facial features, and dress – especially their shoes. It was common for KGB followers to change their appearance by swapping out hats, coats or eyeglasses, making themselves harder to identify. But changing shoes is more difficult. He observed no repeat sightings of people or cars, no sign of surveillance.

Walking down a dimly lit street, Tempest glanced at his watch. He had been on the move for more than three hours, with just ten minutes to go before his scheduled contact with Fedorov, a few blocks away. He was nearly certain he was black, relieved after his frustrating sequence of aborted meetings. It was time for Tempest to initiate the final stage of his SDR, a provocative component designed to expose even the most discreet surveillance team, before committing himself to meeting Fedorov. He doubled his pace, turning down a narrow cobblestone passageway between two apartment buildings, walking another half-block and opening the entry door of the drab seven-floor building on the right. After stamping off the snow from his shoes, he walked casually up three flights of stairs, stopping on the fourth-floor landing. He listened intently as he caught his breath, knowing the KGB would have no choice but to follow him into the apartment building if he were being tailed.

Within seconds, he heard the entry door open and close, followed by light, unhurried footsteps up the stairway. When the sound of footsteps continued up the second flight, he began descending the staircase. As he approached the third-floor landing, a woman carrying an avoska mesh shopping bag in one hand, gripping the handrail with the other for support, reached the landing. She huffed with exertion. As they passed each other, she glanced his way, acknowledging him with a tired nod of the head, walking slowly with a pronounced limp. She was clad in a heavy wool coat, a gray kubanka hat made of arctic fox fur, a scarf wrapped around her neck and chin, and black-rimmed eyeglasses with thick lenses. It was impossible to discern her age or features. And then he saw them: her shoes, blue sneakers with three white vertical stripes on the side, the word Mockba – Cyrillic for “Moscow” – imprinted in white letters on the heel tab of each. He had seen a trim young woman wearing identical shoes enter the bookstore, his second cover stop, shortly after he did.

Tempest continued down the stairs, listening intently, hoping to hear a key inserted into an apartment door, indicating that the woman lived in the building. But the soft echo of footsteps continued slowly up the stairway until the sound faded entirely. He exited the apartment building, his mind racing, his heart pounding. As he walked down the cobbled passageway toward the side street, he thought back to the young woman in the bookshop. She was dressed differently, except for the shoes, with no headwear and nothing in her hands. She appeared to be in her late twenties, and had moved about the shop easily, with no limp. The woman in the apartment building had appeared plump, out of shape, and at least two decades older. The blue sneakers with white stripes were popular, produced by the Soviet government in an adidas factory that had been abandoned by the German company after the 1980 Moscow Summer Olympics. Initially, the Soviet government manufactured the shoes for military training, but now they were widely available to civilians in Moscow. Perhaps the shoes were merely a coincidence.

Reaching the end of the cobblestone passage, Tempest turned onto the side street in the direction of his initial contact point with Fedorov, glancing again at his watch. Five minutes to go. He had to decide now whether to proceed with the meeting or abort. He was trained to abort in these circumstances. Tempest quickly rehearsed the conversation he would have later that night with the chief of station: he had appeared to evade KGB surveillance after jumping out of the car, saw no indication of surveillance during multiple cover stops on foot over three hours, and finally decided to abort after seeing a familiar pair of sneakers that are common in Moscow, worn by women who appear to be of different generations and build. It was a conversation he dreaded. His fourth consecutive aborted meeting, raising inevitable questions about whether he had the nerve to operate on the streets of Moscow. Perhaps he was being overly cautious.

Tempest approached an intersection and made a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his career. He could turn right, walk one more block, and meet Fedorov at the corner of an unlit park. Or he could turn left and abort, returning to the embassy compound. He looked to the right, saw a hulking figure walking along the edge of the park in his direction. Fedorov. The street was otherwise deserted. Oliver Tempest turned right.

The two men hadn’t seen each other in months, and Fedorov greeted Tempest with a broad smile. Speaking in hushed tones, they exchanged packages as they strolled in the falling snow along the dark street adjacent to the park. Tempest provided a list of new intelligence requirements and written feedback from CIA analysts on the asset’s most recent production. Fedorov passed an envelope with several rolls of film containing photographs of KGB documents taken with a miniature camera. They concealed the packages inside their overcoats as Fedorov stopped to snip and light one of the cigars Tempest gave him. Though both men remained alert for surveillance, Tempest finally began to relax ten minutes into the meeting, convincing himself the blue and white Mockba sneakers were a fluke.

As Fedorov and Tempest turned a corner and began walking along another edge of the park, they were startled by the sudden emergence of several men from the park’s dark interior. The men moved onto the sidewalk, clearly intent on blocking the path of Fedorov and Tempest, who came to a stop and then separated. Fedorov crossed the street away from the park and Tempest reversed direction. The men who appeared from the park moved quickly across the street, intercepting Fedorov. After taking a few steps in the opposite direction, Tempest saw at least a dozen dark figures approaching him and Fedorov from the shadows, some shouting instructions to stand still. He looked for a place to ditch the package given to him by Fedorov, but it was too late. He was swiftly surrounded by KGB officials, some arriving on foot, others by car. Half a block away, he saw Fedorov being handcuffed and pushed into the backseat of a black Tatra sedan. As Tempest cited diplomatic immunity to protest the seizure from his overcoat pocket of the envelope containing damning evidence of Fedorov’s spying, he was interrupted by a young woman approaching the group on the sidewalk. She moved briskly, wearing blue Mockba sneakers with white stripes. Gone were the fur hat, scarf, and thick glasses.

“Hello again, Mr. Tempest,” she said in flawless English with only touches of a Russian accent. “You seem surprised that I’m not limping this time.” She handed him a hardcover book, “The Collected Works of V.I. Lenin,” in Russian. “I saw you looking at this in the bookstore, and bought it for you as a farewell gift. Perhaps you can read it on your trip home to Washington in a couple of days.”

Several hours later, Tempest was released into the custody of U.S. officials after being interrogated at the KGB’s notorious Lubyanka prison. At the U.S. embassy, he briefed the CIA chief of station on Fedorov’s arrest and documented the night’s events in a cable to headquarters. Tempest described his SDR and the sudden appearance of the KGB at the meeting in detail, but left out reference to the woman in the blue and white sneakers and her appearance at the bookstore and in the apartment building. He knew there would always be doubts about whether he had failed to identify surveillance. But if he were to have any hope of resurrecting his career, his narrative had to leave open the possibility that Fedorov was already under KGB suspicion. That the KGB had uncovered in advance, perhaps through a CIA mole, plans for the meeting between him and Fedorov that night, staking out the location and waiting for the document exchange to take place before pouncing.

Tempest was declared persona non grata by the Soviet government, departing with Peggy three days later. It would be nearly ten years before he saw Fedorov again, visiting him at the Russian’s home in Northern Virginia, representing Russia House as a hand-holder. On the few occasions they met again over the years, Fedorov has never expressed any suspicion that Tempest had made a tradecraft error or been less than candid in describing events leading to his compromise that night.

***

As Fedorov picks up the tumbler with two fingers of Scotch from the counter and prepares to return to the living room, he hears Tempest’s phone ring. Tempest answers and begins conversing in a hushed tone. Fedorov pauses in the hallway, wanting to give Tempest privacy. As he waits, he turns and looks at the green coffee container on the kitchen table.

It occurs to Fedorov that if Tempest’s visit had come just a week or two earlier, he could have briefed him on the mole. With the matter in Tempest’s capable hands, the CIA and FBI could then have handled the response to the mole’s emergency signal, with ample time to set up surveillance in the park tonight. An opportunity missed as a consequence of simple bad timing. But why not still take advantage of Tempest’s tradecraft expertise? He could be helpful in final preparations to unload the mole’s dead drop this evening. Fedorov is sure Maddie and Harriet would welcome Tempest’s presence at the five o’clock meeting.

Fedorov goes to the kitchen table, picks up the stack of dead drop documents, puts them in the coffee container, and replaces the lid. With Tempest’s tone and cadence suggesting that his phone conversation is coming to a close, Fedorov grabs the coffee container and glass of Scotch, and walks slowly back to the living room.

Tempest is standing with his back to Fedorov, gazing out the front window, cell phone to his ear. Fedorov sets the tumbler on the table, sits down with a grunt, and places the coffee container on the floor under his armchair.

Tempest turns from the window, facing Fedorov. “It’s all going to be fine, Peggy, I promise. I’ll call you back tonight around nine, okay?” Ending the call, he sets his phone on the coffee table and picks up the tumbler of whisky.

“How’s Peggy doing?” asks Pasha. “Looking forward to returning overseas, da?”

“Very much so. She’s a bit stressed about handling the move to Belgrade on her own, though. She’s in Boston visiting her parents.”

Tempest sits down and takes a sip of Scotch, glancing at his watch. “I’m under instructions to limit our meeting to half an hour, Pasha,” he says, mustering a smile.

“Actually, Ollie, I know it’s late notice, but I was going to ask if you might be able to extend your visit into the early evening.” He leans forward, hands gripping the armrests, preparing to pull the coffee container from under his chair. “A few of your colleagues are coming by at about five o’clock to –”

“Ah, that’s kind of you to include me, Pasha, but I have a busy evening ahead. Besides, I’m sure they’ll want to focus their attention on you after your health scare. I would just be in the way.”

“No, Ollie, it’s not…” Fedorov starts to clarify the purpose of his invitation, but stops himself. Hundreds of meetings with intelligence assets have tuned his instincts to detect subtle changes in behavior – heightened nervousness, a firmer tone, a preoccupation with conversation to come. Tempest has something on his mind. Perhaps he is just distracted with Peggy’s call, but it’s time to listen and observe. “You’re right, Ollie.” Fedorov sits back in his chair.

Tempest takes a small sip of Scotch, cautioning himself to limit his alcohol intake as he introduces the topic that prompted his visit. He must find out now, before going forward with tonight’s dead drop, whether the interest of Fedorov’s next-door neighbor in the signal site is a threat or just an odd coincidence. He will be direct with his questions – now is not the time for delicate elicitation. Tempest had been vigilant in exiting the woods today, alert for any indication that the neighbor might be outside, where she could recognize him from their encounter at the signal site two nights earlier. Though he had seen no sign of her, he remained cautious in approaching Fedorov’s front door, facing away from the neighbor’s home. But he had noticed Fedorov wave in that direction before closing the door. That gives him a narrow opening to bring up the topic.

“You’ve lived here for at least as many years as you did in Russia, Pasha,” he says. “How has life in American suburbia suited you? A little boring, perhaps?”

Fedorov smiles. “On the contrary, Ollie. I’ve experienced the American dream. No waiting in lines for bread. A park to walk Tsarina in every day. A vegetable garden in the backyard. Local high school sports events to attend. And mostly friendly people who welcome the presence of an old Russian in their neighborhood.”

“That’s wonderful. I saw you wave next-door when I arrived. One of your friendly neighbors?”

Fedorov laughs. “Ah, that’s Mrs. Prattle. I have yet to win her over, despite my best efforts. She’s always been a bit suspicious of me as a Russian. Fancies herself as something of a security look-out to protect the neighborhood. Rumor has it that she dutifully records each of my visitors. Probably recognizes many of my repeat hand-holders over the years.”

“Strange. Does she have a background in intelligence or law enforcement? FBI, perhaps?”

Fedorov’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Nyet, Ollie. Mrs. Prattle is just a curious but harmless birdwatcher with a skeptical view of anyone who speaks English with a foreign accent. She means well, but has far too much time on her hands.”

“Yes, I suppose every neighborhood has someone like that, for better or worse. Now that you mention it, I recall seeing her hovering at her kitchen window a few times when I visited you years ago.”

“I’m not surprised, Ollie. You’re a trained observer, and not the first hand-holder that’s noticed her interest in their visits here. Outside of bird watching, her favorite hobby seems to be keeping an eye on me.”

“Hmm, makes you wonder if there might be more to her than meets the eye, doesn’t it, Pasha?”

Fedorov smiles. “I think Mrs. Prattle is exactly what she appears to be, Ollie. What do you mean?”

“I’m sure you’re right, Pasha. I’ve come across her several times over the years when I’ve been out for a jog in Willow Creek Park. Mostly when I’ve been on the trail behind your house and she’s happened to be out in her backyard taking bird photos. But I’ve also come across her in the park taking an unusual level of interest in things outside of bird watching.”

Fedorov’s takes a sip of lemonade and cocks his head to the side. His concentration intensifies. “You jog regularly in Willow Creek Park, Ollie? I never realized you lived so close.”

“Yeah, in a neighborhood on the opposite side of the park from here. In fact, I came here on foot through the woods today. And I’ve taken up jogging regularly on the trails. I’m at an age where it’s become challenging to maintain a high level of fitness.”

“I remember you were always focused on fitness. Good for you, Ollie. Perhaps you’ll avoid some of the ailments I’ve been afflicted with.” Fedorov ponders the significance of this new information and weighs his next question carefully. “You said she takes an unusual interest in things outside of bird watching in the park. When did you last see Mrs. Prattle in the park, Ollie?”

Tempest adjusts his position in the chair and swirls the Scotch in his tumbler. He considers whether to push the topic further, and decides he needs more certainty. “That’s just it, Pasha – the strange part. I jogged past her on Thursday evening. She appeared very intent on photographing a mark of some sort on the post of a park sign. Took shots from multiple angles. Completely ignored a cardinal nearby. Odd for someone whose interest is in birds.” Watching Fedorov’s brow furrow, Tempest forces a smile. “I know she doesn’t fit the profile of someone involved in surveillance or counterintelligence, but under other circumstances I might – well, I might have thought she had uncovered a signal site and was documenting it.” Tempest forces a laugh, as if making fun of his own distrust in the behavior of a birdwatcher. “Perhaps my curiosity is a sign that I’ve been in the intel business for too long, Pasha.”

With conscious effort, Fedorov relaxes the grip on his glass of lemonade as he considers the proximity of Tempest’s home to the park, the timing of his presence in the woods, and the real motivation for Tempest’s visit. Tempest had jogged by the signal site on Thursday evening, during the very time window in which a CIA mole would have been looking for a ready signal before making a dead drop nearby. A mole who has passed intelligence to the Russians on developments in the Balkans, where Tempest happens to be headed on assignment in two days. He adjusts his feet, hoping Tempest doesn’t see the coffee container under his chair. He must avoid betraying signs of his mounting concern, the sudden tension that grips his chest and shoulders. Fedorov decides to put the CIA officer’s mind at ease, stroking his ego and providing the reassurance Tempest clearly seeks about the harmlessness of Mrs. Prattle’s role.

“You’ve always been a keen observer of human behavior, Ollie, an admirable trait in the spy business. And I’m not surprised that Mrs. Prattle, who has never held a regular job let alone one in counterintelligence, is also taking an interest in things that appear out-of-place in the woods. She is always looking for things to bring up at the monthly Neighborhood Watch meeting, to everyone’s amusement.”

Fedorov watches Tempest lean back in his chair and cross his legs, his posture more relaxed now. Time to steer the conversation away from Mrs. Prattle. “Ah, how I envy you, Ollie, heading back to the field, far from such melodramas of suburbia.”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to applying my observational skills on the streets of Belgrade, where it counts.”

“Belgrade will be a good test of your tradecraft, Ollie.” Fedorov eyes Tempest with consternation, grappling to find a way to confirm his suspicion that his former CIA handler, a man he once trusted with his life, is capable of such treachery. His thoughts turn to the letter from the mole in Tuesday night’s dead drop – the oddly personal observations in the paragraph about the CIA man at the White House. Given his outsized influence in the White House and how he got there, you may share my amusement in the similarity of the names Gregory Rasmussen and Grigori Rasputin – it seems the “Mad Monk” has returned from the dustbin of history!

“You’ll be operating on the front lines, Ollie. And I’ve gathered from recent discussions with visitors from Russia House that SVR and GRU interference in the Balkans now has the personal attention of the president. Something of a policy shift, it seems.” Fedorov has in fact had no recent discussions with his hand-holders about the Balkans.

Tempest nods. “An accurate observation, Pasha. The former head of Russia House was assigned a couple of months ago to head Russian Affairs at the NSC. I think he’s obsessed with stopping Putin from restoring Russia’s sphere of influence in the Balkans.”

“Ah, a worthy goal, it would seem. Former head of Russia House, you say? Anyone I might know?”

“Perhaps. Guy named Gregory Rasmussen. Served in Moscow as deputy chief a few years ago.”

“Rasmussen. I’ve heard the name, but haven’t met him. Seems unusual for a CIA officer to become so influential in White House policymaking, doesn’t it, Ollie? He must be well-connected.”

“Yeah. Rasmussen’s an old college friend of the First Lady, I hear. Used the relationship to maneuver his way into the Oval Office.” He grins, completely relaxed now, and downs the rest of his Scotch. He shakes his head. “Kind of a modern-day American Rasputin, eh Pasha? Our own ‘Mad Monk.’”

Fedorov leans forward to set his lemonade glass on a coffee table, willing his hand not to shake. He looks up, masking his distress with a tired smile. “Da, a fitting analogy, Ollie.” As he meets the gaze of the man who calls himself “Ivan Nikto,” Fedorov wonders about Tempest’s motivation for betraying his country. It can’t be political ideology. What, then? Money? Ego? Revenge?

Tempest looks at his watch. “Well, I’ve already overstayed my half hour, Pasha, and you mentioned you have other visitors coming soon.” As he stands up, his expression becomes concerned. “You look pale, my friend. You okay?”

“Da, I’m fine, Ollie. It’s just been a long week.” Fedorov stands unsteadily and remains in front of his chair, blocking Tempest’s view of the coffee container, worried that he will see it from the adjacent entry way at the front door. “Why don’t I show you out through the back door, Ollie? You can take a short cut into the park through my back gate.” Standing still in front of the armchair, he motions for Tempest to take the lead, toward the kitchen.

As he follows Tempest down the hallway past his study, Fedorov contemplates their shared history, wondering whether his former handler had also deceived him and the CIA about events leading to his own compromise on the streets of Moscow. He recalls the anguish of his arrest and imprisonment. It gives Fedorov little satisfaction knowing he will play a role in exposing Oliver Tempest, leading him to a similar fate. But for Tempest, there will be no spy swap.

Fedorov pulls open the screen door, relieved the meeting has come to an end.

Tempest shakes Fedorov’s hand warmly. “Please take care of yourself, Pasha.”

“I will. Thank you again for coming, Ollie. I wish you success in Belgrade.”

As Fedorov motions toward the back gate and Tempest steps out onto the back patio, a phone rings from the living room.

Tempest pats the front pockets of his khakis. “Ah, I must’ve left my cell phone in the living room,” he says, stepping back inside.

Fedorov raises his arm. “Let me get it for you, Ollie,” he says. He begins walking toward the living room, legs trembling, trying to summon the energy to move quickly.

“Don’t be silly, Pasha. I’ll grab it and be on my way.”

Tempest brushes past Fedorov, striding down the hallway and into the living room. Fedorov struggles in vain to keep up with him, to position himself in front of the armchair. Tempest bends over, picks up his cell phone, and glances at the screen, eyeing the missed call.

Fedorov enters the living room, breathing heavily with exertion, eyeing Tempest. “Glad you got that call, Ollie,” he says, hoping to draw Tempest’s attention to himself, away from the coffee container. “It saved you a trip back here.”

As Tempest turns toward Fedorov, pocketing his phone, he pauses, his eyes lingering for a moment in the direction of the armchair where his former KGB asset had sat just a minute before.

“Yes,” says Tempest, walking back down the hallway. “A stroke of good luck, Pasha.” As they return to the kitchen, Tempest replays Fedorov’s earlier words. …I was going to ask if you might be able to extend your visit into the early evening. A few of your colleagues are coming by at about five o’clock...

“Pasha, could I bother you for a glass of water before I head out? The whisky seems to have gone right to my head.”

“Of course, Ollie.”

As Fedorov grabs a glass from a cabinet and begins filling it, Tempest’s mind races through the circumstances and his options. Fedorov has in his possession the very concealment device used to exchange communications between Tempest and the SVR. When had he intercepted it? And how?

Tempest chides himself for carelessness in pressing too hard on Mrs. Prattle and then succumbing to Fedorov’s clever elicitation. Kind of a modern-day American Rasputin, eh Pasha? Our own ‘Mad Monk.’ Fedorov’s possession of the coffee container suggests that he also has Tempest’s letter comparing Rasmussen to Rasputin, passed in Tuesday’s dead drop. The old KGB officer had still been savvy enough to unmask Tempest.

But Tempest believes he can still protect himself from compromise to the CIA. If the Agency or FBI were already running an operation to monitor his communications with the SVR in Willow Creek Park, they would have custody of the coffee container sitting in Fedorov’s living room. Only Fedorov knows, and he didn’t suspect Tempest’s role until his visit this afternoon. No, the CIA has no knowledge of his betrayal yet. And Oliver Tempest has no choice but to keep it that way.

CHAPTER 41

THE DEPARTURE

Facing Fedorov’s front porch from her kitchen table, Mrs. Prattle takes another sip of green tea. There has been no activity next-door since the arrival of the bearded man a half hour ago. She wonders whether her time would have been better spent following the teens on their walk with the dog into the woods, whether she might have missed something important in deciding to monitor activities next-door.

As she sets her tea mug on the table and glances at the notes on her laptop, she hears a muffled shout from the direction of Fedorov’s home, followed by a loud thud. She gets up and walks to her kitchen window, looking for the source of the noise. Nothing. Then another loud thud. She waits for a minute in silence.

Mrs. Prattle turns back to the table, grabs her mug of tea, and walks quickly up the stairway to her bedroom. She looks out a side window which offers partial views of both the front and back of Fedorov’s house, waiting. Five minutes later, her patience and new vantage point are rewarded. She catches a glimpse through the trees as the bearded man strides quickly from Fedorov’s back patio to the gate. He’s clutching something under his right arm, but she can’t identify it.

As he turns toward her to exit through the gate, she sees his face clearly for the first time. Mrs. Prattle gasps and drops her teacup on the floor, leaning on the window ledge to hold herself upright. Fedorov’s visitor is the bearded man she encountered on Thursday evening in the park while photographing the green thumbtack on the signpost.

The man turns left onto the park trail, his pace suggesting he is in a hurry, and then disappears into the woods.

Mrs. Prattle rushes downstairs to the kitchen table and sits. She looks at her watch: ten minutes after four. After recording the bearded man’s rushed exit on her laptop, she ponders the noises she heard from next-door. Sounds of clear conflict. She wonders whether she can wait until the next Neighborhood Watch to report her observations.

CHAPTER 42

SURVEILLANCE

Spencer Hale

We’ve been killing time in the fort for twenty minutes since placing the ready signal and returning from our walk with Tsarina. Colbie’s reading Huckleberry Finn. Cal is repeatedly flinging his baseball into the web of his glove with a sharp snap of the wrist. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Tsarina is sitting in the shade below the fort, sound asleep.

Every couple of minutes, I stand and look through the binoculars for signs of activity in the woods. Not that I expect to see anything out of the ordinary, with the dead drop almost three hours away, but it gives me something to pass the time.

Ravi has finally got the hang of spinning a basketball on his fingertip and is trying to take it to the next level: keeping the ball spinning with his other hand while walking it from index finger to pinkie. He annoyingly narrates his progress like a sports announcer.

“Look at him go!” he says. “He must apply enough rotational force to overcome the coefficient of drag friction, using air flow to create aerodynamic lift. Bloody hell, the ball has been transferred all the way to his ring finger! All that’s left is the pinkie! Is there anything this young man cannot do? He’s a phenom, a prodigy, an uber-talent, a –”

Cal knocks the ball off before it gets to the pinkie.

“What’d you do that for, Cal?” says Ravi.

Each of us checks the time constantly. In about half an hour, we’ll head back to Pasha’s house for the five o’clock meeting.

Ravi starts over again with the spinning basketball, quietly this time.

I stand again and train the binoculars on the signal site, where two women have just passed by walking dogs together. I turn in the other direction, toward Pasha’s house, and am surprised to see movement in his back yard.

“Hey,” I say, “there’s a guy opening Pasha’s back gate!”

The others stand up, squinting in the same direction.

“Is he coming or going?” says Ravi.

“He’s leaving,” I say. “Guy with a beard. Looks like he’s carrying something. Kind of in a hurry.”

“What’s he carrying?” says Cal.

“Dunno. Can’t tell.”

“It’s a little after four o’clock,” says Colbie. “Must be Pasha’s hand-holder.”

“Maybe,” says Ravi, “but why would he be leaving out the back way? Wouldn’t he have come by car?”

I lose sight of the bearded man for a few seconds, and then he reappears as he turns onto the trail into the woods, in the direction of the signal site. He shifts the object he’s carrying from his left arm to his right. I adjust the binoculars, trying to see the object more clearly. It’s still mostly hidden by his arm, but I can make out a few details. I lower the binoculars.

“It might be the coffee container,” I say. “It’s green and about the same size, but I can’t tell for sure.”

We stare at each other in silence. I finally sit down.

“We gotta figure this out quickly,” I say. “I think Colbie’s right. The hand-holder meeting was scheduled to start forty minutes ago. It’s gotta be him.”

“But why would he be taking the coffee container,” asks Colbie, “if that’s what it is?” She and the others sit. “Maddie and Pasha would want to have it there for the five o’clock meeting. It’s evidence. No reason for the hand-holder to take it with him.”

“Unless…,” I say.

Cal stops playing with his baseball. “Unless what?” he says.

“Unless he’s the mole!” says Ravi. I nod.

“Bloody hell!” says Ravi. “If that’s him and it’s the coffee container, he probably took all the dead drop documents with him, too.”

“The hand-holder left on foot,” says Colbie, “so maybe he lives in the neighborhood on the other side of the woods. Pasha told us the mole must live close to the park, since he chose to use it for dead drops.”

“It fits,” says Cal. “We need to call Pasha and Maddie.”

“No time,” I say, standing up. “If he’s the mole and has all the evidence, we have to intercept him. Trail him. We can call on the way. Let’s go.”

***

We gather in the woods near the junction of the footpath from the basketball court and the main trail leading to the signal site. After running to arrive ahead of the hand-holder, we are out of breath, sitting in the brush among the trees with a pretty clear view of the trail. Colbie pets Tsarina, who stares at her, eager to get moving again. We try to appear natural in case the mole happens to see us.

From behind me comes a repeated thumping sound. I turn to see Cal, now recovered from the run, nervously snapping the baseball into his glove.

“Cal, stop it!” whispers Ravi. “Why’d you bring that, anyway?”

Cal stops and it’s quiet again, other than the chirping of birds and an occasional gust of wind rustling through the trees.

With no sign of the suspect hand-holder yet, I quickly try to call Pasha. No answer. I hang up and before I get the chance to try Maddie, I see in the distance the bearded man, wearing khakis and a polo shirt, approaching on the trail. Watching him through the trees, I can tell clearly now that the object under his arm is the coffee container. The others see it, too. We glance at each other, each of us sitting motionless, other than Colbie, who gently pets Tsarina, hoping she stays quiet and still.

The bearded man slows down for a second, shifting the coffee container to his other arm and pulling something out of a front pants pocket. It’s a cell phone. He taps on the screen a couple of times, and then holds it to his ear, resuming his quick pace as he gets closer.

A second later, I pick up snippets of the hand-holder talking on the phone. “…had a little emergency at home…the washer flooded…lots of damage.” As he reaches the intersection of the two trails nearest our position, I can hear him more clearly. “Please let Harriet know I had to miss my meeting with Fedorov this afternoon. Have her call me to reschedule it for tomorrow, if possible.” As he passes by, he taps on the phone again and puts it back in his pocket.

We sit quietly until the man is out of earshot.

“So he is the hand-holder,” says Colbie. “And he lied about not making the meeting.”

“Which means he’s the mole,” I say. “And he’s going to destroy the dead drop evidence.”

“How’re we gonna stop him?” says Ravi.

Cal removes his glove and starts nervously rubbing the baseball in his hands.

It’s Colbie who voices what all of us are thinking. “If the mole left the meeting with the evidence, what happened to Pasha?”

“I just tried to call him,” I say. “No answer. Time to call Maddie.” The call goes immediately to voicemail. I leave a quick message, telling her what happened, describing the bearded man, and letting her know that we are tailing him in Willow Creek Park.

I stand up. “C’mon,” I say, “let’s go.”

“What if he sees us?” says Cal.

“We’re just four kids walking a dog,” I say. “Stay together.”

On the main trail, we move quickly at first, trying to catch site of the mole again. Finally, we see him up ahead, approaching the signal site. He turns left at the fork, striding quickly along the rear of the neighborhood on the far edge of the park. We continue, careful not to get too close, but keeping him in sight.

The mole finally turns right on a path leading into the neighborhood. We slow our pace to allow more distance as we approach the exit path. We stop at the fork, peering around the corner of a backyard fence, eyeing his direction of travel. He turns left onto a sidewalk that runs parallel to our trail, his back to us.

“Cal and Ravi, stay here and keep an eye on the exit path,” I say. “Colbie, let’s move ahead. We can see from the trail how far he continues on the sidewalk. Cal and Ravi, if I give you a thumbs-up, head into the neighborhood and continue trailing him. We’ll catch up with you.”

Colbie and I continue quickly along the trail with Tsarina, slowing as we reach the gap between the first two houses. No sign of the mole. We wait a full minute. Nothing. Colbie and I return with Tsarina to Cal and Ravi’s position, behind the fence of a house on the right of the path into the neighborhood.

“No more sign of him,” I say.

“That means he went into the first house on the left of the entry path,” says Ravi. The rest of us nod. “That must be where he lives. Now what?”

“Colbie, try Pasha again,” I say. “I’ll call Maddie.” It goes right to voicemail. Maddie must still be in CIA headquarters. I leave her another message describing the location of the home we think the mole went into.

“No answer again from Pasha,” says Colbie with a look of worry.

“Let’s take a closer look at the house,” says Ravi.

We cross just beyond the exit path the mole had taken, and find a narrow gap between the slats of a high wooden fence surrounding the mole’s backyard. Stooping, we survey the yard. Not much to see. Mostly a well-maintained rectangular lawn and trees. There’s a brick patio along the rear of the house, with a barbecue and an umbrella table surrounded by four chairs. Just beyond the back right corner of the house is a wooden gate, an access point between the rear and side yards.

“We gotta do something,” whispers Ravi, removing his glasses and cleaning the lenses on his t-shirt. “We can’t just sit here and let him destroy evidence!”

“Yeah,” says Cal, who begins thumping his baseball into his glove again. “But what?”

Cal’s question is met with silence, except from Tsarina, who is busy gnawing on a stick.

CHAPTER 43

THE BRIEFING

A team of veteran CIA officers and FBI agents sits in stunned silence in the dingy bullpen area of Russia House’s backroom as Maddie Kilkenny briefs them on recent events in Willow Creek Park. When Maddie finishes, the somber mood gives way to animated expressions of astonishment over the role of a former KGB officer and four teenagers in an operation to unmask a CIA mole. Calls are made on secure phone lines to alert CIA and FBI leadership to the situation.

Ranking FBI special agent Javier Jimenez takes control of the discussion. “Based on contents of the documents exchanged in the dead drops, the mole must be assigned to Russia House, or someone privy to CIA’s Russian assets. How many people are aware of the ‘Alex’ case, Harriet?”

“Less than a dozen. I’ll pull out the bigot list. I’m on the list, of course. And I wrote the Top-Secret cable on Russian intelligence interference in the Balkans, the one passed by the mole in the dead drop on Tuesday night. Guess that makes me the leading suspect.”

“We’ll set up a joint task force to launch an investigation of suspects,” says Jimenez, “starting with those involved with the ‘Alex’ case.”

“We’ll need to alert the field station handling ‘Alex,’” says Maddie.

“I’ll take care of it,” says Albright. “Fortunately, there’s been a stand-down on the case, pending the arrival of his handler in a few days.”

“The mole claims not to know the location of ‘Alex’ in the Balkans yet,” says Maddie. “He may be someone on the periphery, without direct involvement in the case.”

Jimenez nods. “Maybe. But we’ll come back to that later. For now, we’ve got an emergency dead drop taking place in less than three hours. Let’s focus on managing that.”

The assembled team moves in front of a computer screen showing a detailed Google map of the area around Willow Creek Park. Maddie points out the locations of the signal and dead drop sites.

“Not enough time to set up surveillance around the sites,” says Jimenez. “And we don’t want to do anything that might spook him inside the park. Let’s keep in mind that there’ll be another dead drop scheduled in a couple of weeks. That’ll give us plenty of recon time to set up observation points around the sites then. For now, our best shot at identifying him is to set up fixed surveillance in vehicles in the adjacent neighborhoods to put eyes on the entry and exit paths.”

“It’ll have to be discreet,” says Maddie. “The mole is an operations officer. He’ll be looking for it.”

Jimenez makes a call ordering a surveillance team to assemble immediately at Fedorov’s home, which will serve as the base for final operational planning.

Further discussion of perimeter surveillance is interrupted by a phone ringing in Albright’s office. She takes the call, and returns a minute later, pulling Maddie aside.

“That was the duty officer,” says Albright. “He just got a call from the hand-holder who was supposed to meet with Pasha this afternoon. He had to postpone it.”

“Good,” says Maddie. “Pasha needs the rest.”

Albright glances at the wall clock. “It’s four-fifteen,” she says. “Time to head to Pasha’s. We can continue planning there.”

CHAPTER 44

COVERING TRACKS

Oliver Tempest sits at the desk in his den, frantic and sweating heavily from his brisk return from Fedorov’s home. He stares for a moment at the green coffee container on the desk, takes a deep breath, and removes the lid.

He glances through the documents in the container, realizing that they date back to the first dead drop from the SVR to him. Fedorov had somehow become involved in communications from the start. His anxiety mounts when he finds that there are two different documents from the SVR responding to his initial proposal to Colonel Yuriy Medvedev, the letter he passed to Natalya Vasilyeva on a Sunday morning after her jog in Rock Creek Park. One response is identical to the one he picked up in the first dead drop, accepting his offer while proposing a different bridge as a dead drop location and a change in signals – thumbtacks instead of tape, with a red thumbtack to be used as an emergency signal. He reads carefully through the other response letter: it is identical in many respects, but makes no mention of a change in signals or sites.

He considers the ramifications of his discovery. Fedorov had somehow intercepted the original letter from the SVR and modified it, effectively eliminating direct communications between Tempest and Medvedev. All subsequent dead drop communications had been between him and Fedorov. The old KGB officer, his former asset, had outwitted him, taking control of the operation. How? Was Natalya Vasilyeva or Colonel Medvedev a CIA asset? Had one of them passed to the Agency the letter offering his anonymous services to the SVR? No, the concealment device and all of the dead drop communications were in the possession of Fedorov. The contents of Tempest’s own dead drop last Tuesday were also there: the Top-Secret CIA document on Russian interference in the Balkans and his letter accepting the change in sites and signals. The same letter in which he cited Gregory Rasmussen’s influence in the White House, comparing him to Rasputin. Dammit! Fedorov was running the operation on his own and preparing to brief the CIA this afternoon.

Tempest opens his top desk drawer and rifles through the papers and pens, finally pulling out an old pack of cigarettes and book of matches. He had been a regular smoker early in his career, but had mostly kicked the habit, smoking on rare occasions to alleviate stress after a particularly tough day of work.

Leaving the dead drop materials sitting on the desk, he heads quickly out of his den, into the family room and out through the back screen door. He stops to light a cigarette, and begins pacing on his back patio. He glances at his watch: 4:30. A team from the CIA is scheduled to meet at Fedorov’s home in half an hour, expecting a briefing. There will be no briefing – Tempest had already seen to that. But when the CIA finds Fedorov, an immediate investigation and manhunt will be launched.

Tempest’s call to the Russia House duty officer that an emergency at home had prevented him from attending the meeting with Fedorov will provide a degree of cover, albeit flimsy. He doesn’t believe a witness could identify him as having been at Fedorov’s house, but Tempest will come under scrutiny and will have to cover his tracks as best he can.

Stubbing out his cigarette on the patio, he lights another and continues pacing. Before destroying the dead drop evidence, he will have to establish proof of a flooded washer to backstop his story. He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and calls Peggy. No answer. He leaves a message, informing her that the laundry room had flooded, resulting in drywall and floor damage. He asks her to call a handyman she has used for small tasks, telling her to schedule an appointment with him for after her return from Boston.

He stubs out his second cigarette, and heads back in through the screen door, jogging up the stairs to the laundry room. Tossing a handful of clothes from a hamper into the washer, he starts the cycle and then pulls the water hose out of the rear of the washer. The laundry room begins flooding.

Tempest hurries back downstairs to the fireplace in the family room. Grabbing several birch logs from the hearth, he stacks them on the grate, and lights the gas. The logs begin crackling.

CHAPTER 45

THE PLAN

Spencer Hale

We sit quietly behind the mole’s fence, frustrated with our inability to come up with a plan to stop the mole from destroying the dead drop evidence. Another call to Maddie goes unanswered. A distant wail of sirens coming from the opposite side of Willow Creek Park prompts an idea from Colbie.

“If we can’t reach Maddie or Pasha,” she says, “maybe we should make a 9-1-1 call about an emergency at the mole’s house. Maybe a burglary in progress or something. When the cops show up, it’d at least interrupt the mole, give us some extra time to reach Maddie.”

As we ponder Colbie’s suggestion, we hear the sound of a slammed screen door coming from the back of the mole’s house. We quietly adjust positions, stooping and peering again through the gap in the fence. The bearded man stands on the back patio, lights a cigarette, and begins pacing back and forth. He looks tense, like Cal does on the mound after a series of wild pitches. There’s something surreal about watching a man who has committed treason against the United States as he contemplates his next steps.

After a couple of minutes, he stubs out the cigarette with his foot, and lights another. More pacing, and then he pulls out his cell phone. After a moment he begins speaking, but too softly to make out his words. It sounds like a one-way communication, as though he’s leaving a message. Then the mole stubs out the second cigarette and walks back into the house, slamming the screen door behind him.

Cal starts flinging his baseball into his glove again. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. We talk more about Colbie’s idea of calling 9-1-1. I try one more call to Maddie. No luck. And then Ravi points a finger up in the air in the direction of the mole’s roof. Smoke is rising from a chimney at the back of the house, just to the left of the screen door.

“The mole lit a fire in his fireplace,” says Ravi. “In the middle of July. He’s gonna burn the dead drop documents!”

“Too late for 9-1-1,” I say. “We have to do something now.”

Cal removes the baseball from his glove, staring at it. “I have an idea,” he says. “How far do you think the sidewalk is from the front of the mole’s house?”

“I dunno,” says Ravi. “Maybe twenty yards or so. Why?”

“Sixty feet,” says Cal, as he resumes flinging the baseball into the web of his glove. “Perfect.”

“Spit it out, Cal!” says Colbie.

When Cal finishes explaining his plot for preventing the mole from destroying the evidence, we stare at each other for moment, mulling it over, kind of amazed. Usually Cal’s the one expressing caution, looking for reasons not to carry out someone else’s idea.

“Might work,” I say. “It’s all we got. But you’ll only get one shot, Cal, and you gotta nail it.”

“Yeah,” says Ravi. “You can’t be wild on this one, Cal.”

Colbie pats her brother on the shoulder.

I turn off the ringer on my phone and tell Ravi to do the same. “Alright, let’s go,” I say. “Afterwards, we all meet back at the fort.”

We begin moving quickly along the path into the mole’s neighborhood.

Stopping the mole is now in Cal’s hands. Literally.

CHAPTER 46

THE DETOUR

Weaving rapidly through traffic on the Capital Beltway, Harriet Albright sits hunched over her steering wheel when her cell phone rings. She glances at the caller ID: Maddie Kilkenny.

“Yeah, Maddie?”

“Harriet, we have a change in plans.” Her voice is hurried, tense. “You said Pasha’s hand-holder meeting was postponed. Do you know who the hand-holder was?”

“Yep, I set up the meeting myself. It was Oliver Tempest, at his request.”

“Tempest. The guy who rebuilt the DRTC training program?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Harriet, Tempest may be the mole.” Maddie describes the two voicemail messages she received from Spencer, followed by a series of missed calls. “The kids might still be outside Tempest’s house. Do you know where he lives?”

“No, but I’ll get it from the duty officer,” says Albright. “Dammit, Maddie, it fits. Tempest was just assigned on Wednesday to handle the ‘Alex’ case. That probably explains the emergency signal from him on Thursday. That bastard played me. And if he left Pasha’s house with the evidence…”

“I know. I’ll be at his place in ten minutes. And I’ll call the kids now and tell them to clear out. You’ll need to make a detour, Harriet.”

“One I’m very happy to make. I’ll let Jimenez know to meet me with some of the FBI team at Tempest’s place. We gotta move quickly if we’re going to recover the evidence. And I can’t wait to see the look on Ollie’s face when that conniving traitor finds out his sorry career is over.”

CHAPTER 47

THE DISTRACTION

Oliver Tempest sits at his desk and tosses the pack of cigarettes and matchbook into the top drawer. Listening to the running water upstairs in the laundry room and the crackling of logs in the fireplace, he is calm now, back in control. No one but Fedorov knows of his brief relationship with Russian intelligence. And Tempest has taken care of Fedorov. Soon, all remaining evidence of his role will be destroyed. He had already wiped his computer clean last night, using software purchased with cash to erase any sign of the documents he’d prepared for the SVR, letters linking him to the dead drops.

In forty-eight hours, Tempest will be flying across the Atlantic in business class, returning to the field. He’ll be back where he belongs, running one of the CIA’s most significant cases. Decades of operational purgatory and three weeks as a Russian asset will be put behind him. The only remaining loose thread is the matter of his having informed the SVR in his introductory letter to Medvedev of the presence of CIA asset “Alex” in the Balkans. He will have to manage “Alex” with impeccable tradecraft to avoid his compromise. But he also now knows that, with Fedorov’s interference in the operation, the SVR has received no communication from Tempest since the initial offer of his services. The Russians would likely conclude with time that his letter had been a provocation.

Tempest stuffs the dead drop documents into the coffee container and carries it to the family room, setting it on the hearth of the fireplace. He turns and walks into the kitchen, glancing upward. With water seeping from the laundry room above, a wet stain has formed on the ceiling. Perfect. A few more minutes of flooding should produce enough damage. His cover story for missing the meeting with Fedorov will stand up to scrutiny.

He returns to the family room, where the birch logs are now ablaze. He picks up the coffee container and removes the lid. As he prepares to toss the dead drop documents into the fireplace, he is interrupted by a loud crash and breaking glass from the front of his house. What the hell?

Setting the coffee container back on the hearth, he walks down the hallway along the kitchen to the living room, where he finds that a front window has been shattered. Through the broken window he sees an unfamiliar group of teenagers, three boys and a girl, standing in animated conversation on the sidewalk. The girl is holding a brown Labrador on a leash. When they see Tempest standing behind the window, two of them – the girl and a tall, chunky boy – start walking reluctantly to his front door, the dog leading the way. Stepping off the walkway to the door, the boy bends over and grabs something from the ground under the broken window. A baseball. A moment later, the doorbell rings.

Tempest doesn’t have time for this. They’ve already seen him, so he can’t ignore them. He opens the door.

The two kids stare at each other as though each is waiting for the other to speak, the dog tugging on the leash trying to greet Tempest, tail wagging. Finally, the girl, a pretty teen with a blonde ponytail and brown eyes, takes the lead.

“I’m sorry, sir. We were throwing a ball around out front. My brother here,” she says, pausing to glare at the boy, “threw it over our friend’s head and it hit your window.” The boy stares glumly at his shoes.

“I can see that,” says Tempest, trying to contain his irritation at the interruption.

“We’d like to pay for it to be fixed,” says the girl.

“That won’t be necessary,” says Tempest. “Just an accident. It happens. I’ll take care of it.”

“Please let us pay,” says the girl. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Listen,” says Tempest, “I’m in the middle of something right now, and –”

“No, we insist,” says the girl. “Perhaps you could just take down our phone number and call to let us know the cost when you have it repaired.”

“Fine,” says Tempest, pulling out his cell phone. “Go.”

“My name is Millicent Rawlings.” She provides a phone number, and Tempest pretends to record it on his phone.

“Fine then,” says Tempest. “I’ll be in touch.”

As he starts to close the door, the boy speaks for the first time. “Uh, sir, my high school baseball team is raising money for new uniforms next season, and I wondered if you might be interested in making a donation?”

Tempest finds himself unable to control his anger. “A donation?” he says. “You break my window and have the audacity to ask for a donation? No, I don’t think so. Goodbye.” As he starts to close the door, he glances down at the brown Labrador, still tugging at the leash, hoping for Tempest to pet him. He notices a dog tag engraved on the collar. There is a phone number and the dog’s name: Tsarina. The teens are walking Fedorov’s dog. It can’t be a coincidence. What the hell is going on?

He watches intently as the pair turns and walks down his driveway, onto the sidewalk and then down the path leading into the woods. The other two teens he had seen on the sidewalk are nowhere in sight.

Tempest begins walking back to the fireplace, apprehensively contemplating the actions of the teens, their connection to Fedorov, and the broken window. Hearing the sound of flooding upstairs, he decides to turn off the washer first. He jogs up the stairs and finds the hallway carpeting outside the laundry room soaked. Opening the door, he sees an inch of standing water on the floor. Good enough. He turns off the washer and hurries back down the stairs. Tracking wet footprints on the hallway floor, he glances at the kitchen ceiling. The drywall is now soaked and bubbling, drops beginning to pool on the floor below. His cover story is complete.

Returning to the family room, now overheated from the burning logs, he notices that the screen door is open. Hadn’t he closed it? He strides to the door and, as he slams it shut, he glances outside. The gate between his back and side yards is wide open. He is certain it was closed while he was pacing on the patio. What were those damn kids up to?

Staring at the gate, Oliver Tempest is gripped with sudden panic, his heart racing as the reason for the broken window and the visit from the teens dawns on him. Four kids connected to Fedorov. Slowly he turns to face the fireplace. The coffee container is gone.

CHAPTER 48

WAITING IN THE FORT

Spencer Hale

Ravi and I scamper up the ladder into the fort. I set the coffee container on the table, pulling up the front of my t-shirt to wipe sweat from my forehead. We had sprinted all the way back to the fort from the mole’s back gate. The execution of Cal’s plan had gone smoothly. In fact, everything was perfect – right up until Ravi and I turned the corner at a full sprint at the trail intersection next to the signal site. There we almost ran right over a short, stout man shuffling in our direction and carrying a walking stick. He staggered and almost fell before regaining his balance. As we slowed down and apologized, I recognized him: the Penguin. Out in the park again, probably in hopes of finding a blue tape signal and reestablishing contact with the mole.

The Penguin started to say something, and then stopped and stared at us. Actually, he stared at the green coffee container under my arm.

“C’mon, Ravi,” I said, “pick up the pace!”

We sprinted down the trail, turning onto the path past the basketball court and cutting through the woods, slowing only to cross the stream, stepping carefully over slick rocks above the surface. Along the way, I told Ravi that the man we almost ran over was the Penguin.

After we catch our breath in the fort, I grab the binoculars and survey the visible sections of the trail from the signal site. “No sign of the Penguin,” I say. “Or of Colbie and Cal.”

“The Penguin was hobbling,” says Ravi. “No way he could have trailed us here. And Colbie and Cal should be just a couple of minutes behind us.” Then he turns and looks at the coffee container on the table. “Let’s open it!” he says.

I remove the lid and am relieved to see documents inside. I pull them out and go through them. All the dead drop documents are there.

“We did it!” I say. “Stopped the mole from destroying the evidence!”

Ravi gives me a high five. Pulling out my phone, I glance at the screen, surprised to see four missed calls from Maddie. Then I remember: to avoid alerting the mole, Ravi and I had turned off the ringers before sneaking through his back door to swipe the coffee container while Cal and Colbie talked to him at the front door.

I call Maddie, who answers on the first ring.

“Spencer, thank God,” says Maddie. “You sound out of breath. Where are you?”

“I’m in the fort, with Ravi.”

I hear a trampling noise below, and glance out to see Colbie jogging through the woods toward the fort. She slows and looks behind her, where Cal is carefully navigating his way across the stream, breathing hard, his baseball cap soaked with sweat.

“Where are Colbie and Cal?” says Maddie.

“They just got here.”

“Okay, stay put. Harriet Albright and an FBI team are en route to Tempest’s – the mole’s – house. They should be arriving about now. You kids took more risk than you should have in tailing him, but you did a great job. I hope Harriet’s not too late, that he hasn’t destroyed the evidence yet.”

“It’s not destroyed,” I say. “The evidence.”

“How do you know that?”

“We have it in the fort. All of it – the coffee container and dead drop documents. We took it from him.”

“You…what do you mean, you took it?”

“Well –”

“Did he see you? The mole?”

“Well, yeah, he did, but –”

“Spencer, where is the mole? How do you know he didn’t follow you?”

I turn to Colbie, who has just sat down in the fort, catching her breath. “Any sign of him on your way back, Colbie?” I tap on my phone screen, putting Maddie on the speaker.

“No,” says Colbie. “He was still in the house when we left, and we didn’t see him on our run here.” Seeing the dead drop documents and coffee container sitting on the table, Colbie grins and gives me a thumbs up.

“Okay, good,” says Maddie. “I need to call Harriet to let her know what you just told me. Stay put, and I’ll call you back with instructions.”

Ravi looks at me, eyebrows raised above the rims of his glasses. “Uh, Maddie,” I say, “there’s one other thing you should know. The Penguin is here – in the park, I mean.” I tell her about Ravi and me almost running over him near the signal site. “He noticed the coffee container, Maddie. He turned and started following us. But he’s slow and Ravi and I were running. There’s no way he could have followed our route to the fort.”

Maddie sighs. “Alright, listen, I’m just turning onto Pasha’s street now. There should be an FBI surveillance team already there. I’ll show them the fort’s location on a map, give them a description of the Penguin, and send them your way immediately. Until they get there, lie low in the fort. Now I need to call Harriet and check on Pasha. Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no... Gotta go.” Maddie hangs up.

We sit in silence, wondering if something happened to Pasha.

A few minutes later, our phones all ding at the same time. It’s a text from Maddie: “FBI team en route to you now. Stay put.” Nothing about Pasha. Not a good sign.

As we’re putting our phones down, Colbie says, “Uh oh.” We follow her gaze into the woods, where the Penguin stands motionless on the other side of the stream, staring at us. He begins waddling back and forth along the stream, walking stick in hand, looking for a way to cross it.

Cal takes off his glove and starts rubbing his baseball. “Now what?” he says. “It’s gonna take the FBI team a good fifteen minutes to get here from Pasha’s.”

“I don’t think the Penguin’s gonna be able to cross the stream over those rocks,” says Ravi.

“He could go across the pylons,” says Colbie, “if he spots them.”

About fifty yards downstream are a series of round cement pylons that reach above the surface of the stream, installed for hikers to step across the stream safely.

Gazing up and down the stream, the Penguin starts moving in the direction of the pylons. He disappears behind the dense brush and woods along that section of the stream.

“He might’ve seen ‘em,” says Cal, setting his baseball on the table. “He could be here in a couple of minutes.”

When the Penguin doesn’t reappear after a few seconds, I grab the dead drop documents and hand them to Colbie. I replace the lid on the coffee container and set it on the ledge of the fort.

“Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do,” I say.

CHAPTER 49

THE PENGUIN’S RETURN

Having eluded FBI surveillance a couple of hours earlier on the streets of Washington, Anton Smirnov returns to Willow Creek Park late Saturday afternoon in casual attire, a walking stick in hand. It is his fourth visit there since loading a dead drop on a rainy Tuesday evening nearly three weeks ago. A dead drop for an anonymous American volunteer, almost certainly a CIA operations officer with extensive tradecraft experience. Since then, the case has gone stone cold. The CIA mole, who bore all the earmarks of a legitimate volunteer, had simply disappeared.

Today, as with his previous two visits to the park, Smirnov desperately hopes to find a ready signal on the park sign or any indication of activity from the CIA mole. Strolling past the signal site, he is disappointed again to see no blue tape on the back of the park sign. But something catches his eye, something he hadn’t seen in his previous visits. On the wooden post is a green thumbtack. Like tape, thumbtacks are often used as signals in the espionage business. How odd to see such a thumbtack on the very signal site selected by the mole himself. Probably just a coincidence. Maybe it once held a flyer for a family’s missing dog.

Smirnov continues past the signal site to the walking bridge designated by the mole as the dead drop site. He slows, looking discreetly for signs of a package in the brush at the base of the bridge. Nothing. More disappointment.

Smirnov finally turns and retraces his steps across the bridge, heading back to his car, parked in a neighborhood on the eastern side of the park. Nearing the signal site, tired and frustrated, he hears rapid footsteps coming toward him. As he cautiously slows his pace, two teen boys suddenly appear, sprinting around a blind corner, nearly running over him. Sidestepping to avoid them, he nearly falls before planting his walking stick to maintain balance. As the boys momentarily slow down and apologize, he recognizes one of them from a previous visit to the park. The boy had then been walking with a pretty girl and a dog in the same area. And then he sees it: under the boy’s arm is a green coffee container, identical to the concealment device he had used in the dead drop for the CIA mole.

With the boys resuming their full sprint down the trail, he turns and follows as quickly as his legs and heavy girth allow. But he has no real hope of keeping up with them. By the time he crosses the bridge where he’d left the coffee container for the mole weeks ago, he is nearly out of breath.

***

Smirnov is in the midst of the most challenging month of his career. It began with such promise in mid-June when Colonel Yuriy Medvedev, the counterintelligence chief in the Russian embassy, assigned him to handle an anonymous volunteer, probably in the CIA. Regarded as a talented officer with the best English-language skills in the SVR’s rezidentura, Smirnov nevertheless has little to show for his espionage efforts after more than two years in Washington. Now in the final year of his assignment, he knows his career will be forever defined by his handling of the American volunteer.

The operation had gone south from the start. Smirnov and his countersurveillance team were convinced he was clean when he placed the green coffee container at the base of a footbridge in Willow Creek Park and made the drop-loaded signal, a piece of blue tape placed vertically on the back of a park sign. When he returned to the park later that night, Smirnov was chagrined to find no drop unloaded signal from the American mole. The coffee container, along with ten thousand dollars and sensitive written communications, were gone.

Smirnov considered telling Medvedev upon his return that night to the Russian embassy that the American spy’s drop unloaded signal was there, that the case was on track. Instead, he opted to tell the truth. The hard-driving Medvedev initially responded stoically, assuming the American had retrieved the package and that his confirmation signal had fallen off in the wind and rain. But after the American failed to make his scheduled dead drop on a Tuesday evening two weeks later, Medvedev’s usual restraint dissolved in fury. “Ivan Nikto” had vanished, along with any chance of identifying GRU mole “Alex” in the Balkans. Smirnov’s tradecraft, and even his allegiance to Russia, has come under scrutiny, leaving him in professional turmoil. His career will depend on his ability to revive the case.

***

Smirnov stops for a brief rest as he reaches a small footpath leading left from the main trail. In the distance he sees what appears to be a basketball court at the end of the path. Had the boys turned onto the path, or stayed on the main trail? As he summons the strength to continue his search, he hears the steady patter of footsteps again, coming in his direction.

He steps off the trail, moving into a dense cluster of trees, concealing himself and trying to suppress his heavy breathing. To his disappointment, two different teenagers appear, running down the trail. A teenage girl, holding the leash of a brown Labrador trotting beside her, followed by a heavy boy struggling to keep up. Then he recognizes the girl: the one he had seen walking with a boy and the same dog on his last trip to the park. The very boy he had just seen running with the coffee container. Smirnov still has a chance. Tracking down the teens and coffee container is his only hope for finding out how his communication with the CIA mole had been derailed. To save his career.

Smirnov watches intently as the pair of teens and their dog turn at the intersection before running across the basketball court and into the woods beyond. When he finally reaches the court, there is no sign of them. He stiffly wills himself forward into the woods, trudging through the thick brush, finally reaching a wide stream. Had they crossed it? Catching his breath, he surveys the area around him. Then he sees, in the distance beyond the stream, a treehouse of some sort, fifteen feet above the ground. Seated in the treehouse are the four teens. A moment later, all are looking in his direction. He’s been spotted.

Smirnov resolves to get to the teens quickly and query them about the coffee container. He looks for a way to cross the stream, which is moving rapidly and several feet deep. There are rocks above the surface, but he is not nimble enough to cross them without slipping and falling. He walks back and forth, looking for an alternative. To his right, downstream, he spots a set of cement pylons rising above the stream’s surface, serving as a walkway. As he moves in that direction, he glances back at the fort. The four teens are still seated, watching him.

Heaving with exertion a few minutes later, Smirnov arrives at the treehouse. In the clearing underneath is a tire swing tied to the tree with a netted backstop behind it. He glances upward. The angle is too steep to see the teenagers. There is no sign of the dog. No sound from the fort. But he spots the coffee container, sitting on the outer ledge of the treehouse, directly above him.

With renewed optimism, he approaches the nearly vertical wooden ladder leaning against the opening into the treehouse. He pauses, wondering if he has enough strength to reach the top. He will take a friendly approach with the teens, using a cover story to explain his interest in the coffee container. When he learns how it came into their possession, perhaps he can piece things together, figure out a way to regain communication with the CIA mole.

Smirnov leans his walking stick against the tree and begins climbing unsteadily. After pausing several times to catch his breath, he finally reaches the top of the ladder and looks inside. The children are gone.

Heaving himself into the treehouse with a grunt, he sits on a bench, exhausted. He looks around him: two benches and, on a rickety table, a lantern, pair of binoculars, and a baseball glove.

He reaches out, grabs the coffee container, and removes the lid. Nothing inside. Then he unscrews the base. The concealed compartment is also empty. He sets the coffee container on the table, demoralized.

And then Anton Smirnov hears rustling sounds followed by the thud of something crashing in the brush below. He stands and looks down, leaning on the ledge for support. The four teens stand grouped together, staring up at him, grinning. On the ground next to them lies the ladder he had just climbed. There is no way down.

***

Ten minutes later, as Smirnov sits on a bench in the treehouse contemplating his ruined career, he hears voices and the sound of footsteps through the brush. Several men and women emerge from the woods in the direction of the fort. A couple of them look familiar. All have handguns drawn. The civilian clothes and weapons suggest federal law enforcement. One of the men shouts up at Smirnov: “FBI. Put your hands up!” Smirnov complies.

The feds spread out around the perimeter of the treehouse, watching Smirnov intently. As they get closer, Smirnov recognizes a few of them as members of FBI surveillance teams that have trailed them over the years on the streets of Washington. Two of the FBI team approach the teens, holstering their handguns. The kids respond to questions, occasionally pointing up in his direction, but Smirnov can’t make out the conversation. The girl hands a set of documents to one of the feds.

Finally, the FBI man most familiar to Smirnov from past surveillance picks up the ladder with the help of a colleague, leaning it up against the tree at the base of the fort. He pockets something handed to him by the boy who ran through the woods with the coffee container. After testing the ladder for stability, the fed climbs quickly to the top. There, he pauses and reaches into his pants pocket, holding up a pair of carabiner snap hooks. “The kids today are so clever, aren’t they, Anton?” He uses the hooks to reconnect the rails of the ladder to a pair of eye screws attached to the tree. “Good thing the ladder held firm on your way up, eh? You could’ve taken quite a fall.”

After hauling himself into the fort and sitting on a bench across from Smirnov, the FBI man picks up the coffee container and inspects it. “The SVR’s technical guys produce a hell of a nice concealment device these days,” he says. He puts the container back on the table.

“Well, Anton,” he says with a shake of the head, “I knew our paths would cross again, but I didn’t expect it to be in a tree fort in the woods of Virginia. By the way, I’m Bart Willis with the FBI.”

Willis extends a hand and Smirnov shakes it.

“It looks like you’ve found yourself in a bit of a bind here, Anton,” says Willis. “We have all the evidence we need to take down an American traitor and have you sent home persona non grata to Moscow. Gonna be hard to explain to Colonel Medvedev and the SVR brass how you got outwitted by four American kids. Might put a damper on your career prospects. But maybe we can offer you a way out, Anton. Another option.”

CHAPTER 50

THE REUNION

Spencer Hale

We stand grouped outside the door of Pasha’s hospital room. It’s Tuesday morning.

“Ah, I see our favorite patient has visitors,” says a young nurse standing at Pasha’s bedside. She presses a button raising the head of his bed a little higher, and plumps his pillow. Pasha looks pale, with purple bruises around his eyes and his head wrapped with white bandages.

“You ready?” the nurse asks him with a smile.

Pasha grins and nods his head. His face tenses a bit, as though even the small movement hurts.

“Okay, let’s limit it to twenty minutes,” says the nurse, who steps out of the room.

Maddie and Harriet take the lead, the other five of us filing in behind.

It’s been three days since any of us other than Maddie and Harriet has seen Pasha. Three days since the mole, a CIA officer named Oliver Tempest, hit him twice over the head with a bottle of Scotch, leaving him for dead. Paramedics had found him lying unconscious in his kitchen, blood pooling around his head. Fortunately for Pasha, they recognized quickly that he had suffered a blunt force trauma, resulting in a skull fracture and shearing of an artery. With the paramedics controlling the bleeding with pressure and bandages, he regained consciousness in the ambulance. After a CT scan at the hospital, neurosurgeons conducted an emergency craniotomy, removing a piece of his skull and a blood clot.

By the next day, Pasha had already recovered enough to be interviewed by a small FBI team, joined by Maddie and Harriet. Pasha had complained about the “waste of a good bottle of Scotch” when he learned how Tempest knocked him unconscious.

***

The last few days have been a whirlwind. Tempest, a thirty-six-year employee of the CIA, was arrested at his home at about the time I pushed over the ladder, stranding the Penguin in the fort. So far, he’s been charged with conspiracy to commit espionage with the intent to pass classified CIA information and documents to agents of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.

Maddie arranged a meeting at my house on Sunday morning with all of our parents to discuss our support in a “national security matter.” Harriet and an FBI lawyer also joined us. Maddie informed our parents that we played a “pivotal role” in identifying a CIA mole, after uncovering the coffee container with ten thousand dollars and communications from Russian intelligence in the hidden compartment. That we “wisely” alerted Pasha, a Cold War hero with close CIA connections. Maddie focused mostly on events of the day before, when the CIA and FBI first learned about the mole. Somehow, the way she spun the tale made our role in assisting Pasha in an international spy operation seem like the most uncontroversial thing in the world – like we were unselfishly helping him tend his garden.

The FBI lawyer told our parents he expected Tempest to plead guilty and be convicted without a trial, as part of a plea bargain to avoid the death penalty for treason. Our roles in identifying the mole, he said, would therefore never be made public. The lawyer told us that the FBI director would invite us, our parents and Pasha to a private ceremony to give us “Exceptional Public Service Awards.” We’re pretty pumped about that, although he said the awards have to be kept at FBI headquarters due to “secrecy considerations.”

Our parents, sworn to secrecy, were so bewildered that they were nearly speechless. Mostly, they just seemed proud of us, astonished that our summer activities involved more than hanging out in the fort, playing basketball, and going to the pool – without their having any clue.

Since then, my mom has treated me a little bit differently. No speeches full of run-on sentences about how it’s time to develop a strong work ethic. And the best part is that there’s no more talk about me getting a lifeguard job next year. That’s because I’ll be in training at the FBI. Yep, while interviewing us yesterday for witness affidavits, Special Agent Jimenez offered to sponsor me for a spot next summer in the Youth Leadership Program for high school students at the FBI Academy in Quantico. I accepted, of course. It’s got me thinking that an FBI career would be a good alternative to the NBA.

Special Agent Jimenez says the case against Tempest is “ironclad.” In addition to testimony from the four of us, Pasha, and Mrs. Prattle, evidence against Tempest includes ten thousand dollars in cash recovered from his desk drawer, and a handful of white and red thumbtacks identical to those used as signals by the mole, found in his weighted backpack. Testimony from the Penguin, who defected to the United States on Saturday night, makes the FBI’s case a slam dunk. The arrest of Tempest made international news yesterday, with an FBI press release that was sparse on details: no mention of us, Pasha, or the Penguin.

***

As we spread out around Pasha’s hospital bed, Colbie takes one of his huge hands in hers, giving it a light squeeze.

“Feeling any better today, Pasha?” asks Maddie.

“Da, a little better each day,” he says. “They’re taking good care of me here – for the second time this week. My head still hurts, but they’ve taken me off of narcotics today, so I can at least think more clearly.”

He looks at me, Colbie, Cal, and Ravi, standing side by side. “I’ve heard all about your exploits on Saturday night. You’ve served your country proudly.”

“We were trained by the best, Pasha,” says Colbie.

“And, Calvin,” says Pasha, “I wish I could have been there to see that pitch from Tempest’s sidewalk. Sounds like you’ve gained control of that fastball.”

“Yep,” says Cal with a grin. “And I finally reached my summer goal this morning in my pitching drills.”

“Fifty points?” says Pasha. “Congratulations, Calvin! A testament to your hard work.”

“Fifty-three points,” says Cal. “And not a single wild pitch!”

“The four of you make quite a team,” says Pasha. “Rescued the evidence. And left the Penguin marooned in the fort. That was quick thinking on your part, Spencer. Operation Hijack has finally come to its conclusion. Now how are you going to spend the rest of your summer?”

“We’ll keep walking Tsarina for you, Pasha” says Colbie, “till you’re back home.”

“We still have to read Huckleberry Finn for English class,” says Ravi. “Colbie’s the only one who’s even started it.”

“And each of us has to write a three-page essay on What I Did This Summer,” I say.

Pasha raises his bushy gray eyebrows. “Well, keep in mind that you’re still operating under –”

“– the need-to-know principle,” the four of us say at the same time.

Pasha smiles. “Tochno. Exactly. But something tells me you’ll find yourselves another, ah, less sensitive adventure to write about.”

Harriet pats Pasha on the shoulder. “The doctors tell us you’re expected to make a complete recovery.”

Without turning his head, Pasha shifts his eyes to the woman standing between Maddie and Harriet, wearing a t-shirt with “Early Bird” emblazoned across the front.

“And for that, I owe a special debt of gratitude to you, Mrs. Prattle,” he says. “I’m told I wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t called for paramedics as quickly as you did.”

Mrs. Prattle, who came with us to the hospital only reluctantly at Maddie’s urging, looks a little uncomfortable with the compliment and attention. “Just doing my job as a member of the Neighborhood Watch Committee, Mr. Fedorov.”

“Well, as soon as I get home,” says Pasha, “you can expect some fresh vegetables from my garden.”

Mrs. Prattle purses her lips. “No, thank you,” she says.

***

After returning from the hospital, we head to the fort. We sit there in silence for a minute, just looking at each other, already bored.

“Well, that’s it,” Ravi finally says. “Operation Hijack is over. Kaput. The fat lady has sung. You can put a fork in –”

“Yeah,” says Cal, “we get it Ravi.” He starts thwapping his baseball into the web of his glove.

Ravi picks up the basketball, gets it spinning on his index finger.

Colbie smiles at me. I can tell it’s kind of a pity smile, like she knows I’m sad about Operation Hijack coming to an end and wants to cheer me up. Then she picks up Huckleberry Finn and opens it, already on the last chapter.

I look off into the distance through the trees to where I can just make out the window of Pasha’s study. A month ago, that view made me think of a lonely old Russian who reads a lot of books and happens to enjoy watching high school basketball games. Now it makes me wonder about secrets and stories that might be hidden behind other windows in my neighborhood. About other adventures to come.

It also makes me think about how I’m going to fill my time between now and Labor Day, other than with basketball. I probably should get started on Huckleberry Finn if I’m going to finish it by the time school starts.

Nah.

“Hey,” I say, “anybody want to go to the pool?”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Writing a novel has to be among the most solitary activities in the world. It’s hard to imagine an undertaking that involves spending more time in one’s own head, other than becoming a monk or the Unabomber. But once the first draft is complete, the process takes on an interactive group dynamic. And I’m fortunate to count among my family and friends many who were willing to wade through a manuscript and pass along candid feedback. The final result was a much better story.

The seeds for this novel were planted during a “what if” conversation I had with my wife, Kelly, after the 2001 arrest of FBI special agent Robert Hanssen, who was charged with committing espionage on behalf of the Soviet Union and Russia for the better part of two decades. Hanssen communicated with his Russian handlers through signals and dead drops left in public parks in Northern Virginia, just outside of Washington, D.C. That news hit close to home for us, as residents of a quiet suburb near those parks, and especially for me, as a former CIA officer who came on board at about the time Hanssen’s treachery began. Kelly and I wondered: what if ordinary people stumbled across a dead drop left by an American traitor in a public park, and took matters into their own hands? Kelly said, “You should write that story,” and subtly encouraged me over the years to get started. Finally, her gentle prodding gave way to a threat: “If you don’t write it, I’m gonna do it myself.” I complied. This book wouldn’t have happened without Kelly’s support, input, and nudging. And if you don’t like the book, you can blame my lovely wife.

Our daughters, Meggie and Mandy, whose gleaming smiles belie a steely resolve and fierce competitiveness, were the inspiration for the Colbie Callahan character. M&M’s insights were instrumental in tightening up the story and developing realistic characters and dialogue. And a big thank you for the input and encouragement of my parents, Jim and Marilyn Roth; my future son-in-law, Marcus Parham; my siblings, Jeff Roth, Lisa Kammersgard, and Doug Roth and their families; and my brother-in-law, Kirk Jones, and his family, Sarah and JP.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to several former CIA colleagues who generously shared their ideas, guidance, and expertise. Duane Evans (author of the Afghanistan memoir Foxtrot in Kandahar and spy novel North from Calcutta) was instrumental from the beginning, guiding me through the process of completing a first novel while kicking around ideas to overcome plot hurdles. I’m also grateful to Jim Lawler (author of the Guild Series novels Living Lies and In the Twinkling of an Eye), whose keen eye for detail was essential in preparing the final draft for publication. A master at portraying the emotional intensity of relationships in espionage, Jim can come up with more ideas for another great spy story over a cup of coffee than most writers can in a lifetime. My old friend and colleague Mike Johnson went above and beyond in editing the original manuscript and helping me to shake off the tradecraft rust. I also appreciate the guidance of my former colleagues J.R. Seeger (author of many military-espionage thrillers, including the MIKE4 and Steampunk Raj series) and Alison Bouwmeester (author of Mission: Career Transition) in helping me navigate the world of publishing.

Many thanks to retired FBI special agent Chuck Shapiro, and to Alissa, for keeping me from straying too far from reality in describing the Bureau’s law enforcement role. And to Dr. Colleen Bannigan, who tutored me on emergency room procedures for treating a blunt force trauma to the head.

A shout out to Greg Gillam, whose thoughtful feedback on my first draft provided vital encouragement to move forward.

As a project comes to completion, writers tend to start mulling over their next one, and I owe special thanks to movie producer and screenwriter Duke Fenady for motivating me to consider turning The Dead Drop into a screenplay.

Finally, I’m grateful to many old friends whose feedback on early drafts was instrumental in molding the story into a final, better form: to my Bruin pals Peter (and Randi!) Reikes, Jack Noe, Joe Huhn, and Dave Byrd, all of whom may recall a more youthful (but equally fictitious) version of Stowe Akron; to my former high school basketball teammate Bruce Colin, who I first kicked around story ideas with more years ago than I care to admit; to my fellow Herndon Herfers, Todd Liebenstein and Bill Jones, whose appreciation for fine Scotch and cigars rivals that of Pavel Fedorov; and to my old buddy Jonathan, whose insights were valuable in providing depth to the setting and characters. Thank you all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James M. Roth is a former CIA officer who served in the Middle East, Europe, and the South Pacific. He received a bachelor’s degree from UCLA and lives in Northern Virginia with his wife Kelly and their English Lab Pasha.

Table of Contents

The Brief Encounter

The Coffee Container

Something Amiss

The Intrusion

The Confrontation

A Trip Down Soviet Lane

The Transfer

An Unusual Visitor

The Hunch

Operation Hijack

A Rare Early Exit

A Welcome Call

Ivan Nikto

The Question

The Jogger

The Third Visit

Suspicions

The Stroll

The Summer Job

Coming Clean

An Unexpected Call

The Photographer

Endgame Plans

The Announcement

A Disturbing Summons

The Letter

New Marching Orders

The Emergency

Neighborhood Watch Fodder

Big News

The Red Thumbtack

The Photos

The Misdirection Play

A Change in Pattern

An Odd Coincidence

The Countersurveillance Run

The Back Room

Deep Kimchi

The Vigil

A Renewed Acquaintance

The Departure

Surveillance

The Briefing

Covering Tracks

The Plan

The Detour

The Distraction

Waiting in the Fort

The Penguin’s Return

The Reunion

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Table of Contents

The Brief Encounter

The Coffee Container

Something Amiss

The Intrusion

The Confrontation

A Trip Down Soviet Lane

The Transfer

An Unusual Visitor

The Hunch

Operation Hijack

A Rare Early Exit

A Welcome Call

Ivan Nikto

The Question

The Jogger

The Third Visit

Suspicions

The Stroll

The Summer Job

Coming Clean

An Unexpected Call

The Photographer

Endgame Plans

The Announcement

A Disturbing Summons

The Letter

New Marching Orders

The Emergency

Neighborhood Watch Fodder

Big News

The Red Thumbtack

The Photos

The Misdirection Play

A Change in Pattern

An Odd Coincidence

The Countersurveillance Run

The Back Room

Deep Kimchi

The Vigil

A Renewed Acquaintance

The Departure

Surveillance

The Briefing

Covering Tracks

The Plan

The Detour

The Distraction

Waiting in the Fort

The Penguin’s Return

The Reunion

Acknowledgements

About the Author