The reverie stopped when the train did. Foley removed his hand from the overhead rail and looked around…
And there he was, actually looking at him, and the face went into the mental photo album.
Bad tradecraft, buddy. That can get your ass killed. Never look right at your case officer in a public place, Foley thought, his eyes passing right over him, no expression at all on his own face as he walked past the guy, deliberately taking the long way to the door.
ZAITZEV WAS IMPRESSED by the American. He’d actually looked at his new Russian contact, but his eyes had revealed nothing, had not even looked at him directly, but past him to the end of the carriage. And, just that quickly, the American had walked away. Be what I hope you are, Oleg Ivan’ch’s mind thought, just as loudly as it could.
FIFTY METERS UP on the open street, Foley refused even to let his hand go into the coat. He was certain that a hand had been there. He’d felt it, all right. And Ivan Whoever hadn’t done it looking for change.
Foley walked past the gate guard, into the building, and went up in the elevator. His key went into the lock, and the door opened. Only when it was closed behind him did he reach into the pocket.
Mary Pat was there, watching his face, and she saw the unguarded flash of recognition and discovery.
Ed took the note out. It was the same blank message form and, as before, it had writing on it. Foley read it once, then again, and a third time before handing it over to his wife.
Mary Pat’s eyes flared, too.
It was a fish, Foley thought. Maybe a big one. And he was asking for something substantive. Whoever he was, he wasn’t stupid. It would not be easy to arrange what he wanted, but he’d be able to pull it off. It just meant making the gunnery sergeant angry, and more important, visibly angry, because the embassy was always under surveillance. Something like this could not appear routine, or deliberate, but it didn’t have to be an Oscar-class bit of acting either. He was sure the Marines could bring it off. Then he felt Mary Pat’s hand in his.
“Hey, honey,” he said, for the microphones.
“Hi, Ed.” Her hand entered his.
This guy’s re[al], her hand said. He answered with a nod.
Tomor[row] mor[ning], she asked, and got another nod.
“Honey, I have to run back to the embassy. I left something in my desk, damn it.” Her answer was a thumbs-up.
“Well, don’t take too long. I have dinner on. Got a nice roast from the Finnish store. Baked potatoes and frozen corn on the cob.”
“Sounds good,” he agreed. “Half an hour, max.”
“Well, don’t be late.”
“Where are the car keys?”
“In the kitchen.” And they both walked that way.
“Do I have to leave without a kiss?” he asked in his best pussy-whipped voice.
“I guess not” was the playful reply.
“Anything interesting at work today?”
“Just that Price guy from the Times.”
“He’s a jerk.”
“Tell me about it. Later, honey.” Foley headed for the door, still wearing his topcoat.
He waved to the gate guard on the way back out, a frustrated grimace on his face for theatrical effect. The guards would probably write down his passage—maybe even call it in somewhere—and, with luck, his drive to the embassy would be matched against the tapes from the apartment, and the Second Chief Directorate pukes would tick off whatever box they had on their surveillance forms and decide that Ed Foley had fucked up and indeed left something at the office. He’d have to remember to drive back with a manila envelope on the front seat of the Mercedes. Spooks earned their living most of all by remembering everything and forgetting nothing.
The drive to the embassy was faster than taking the metro at this time of day, but that was factored in to everything else his working routine encompassed. In just a few minutes, he pulled into the embassy gate, past the Marine sentry, and took a visitor’s slot before running in, past some more Marines, and up to his office. There he lifted the phone and made a call, while he took a manila envelope and slid a copy of the International Herald Tribune into it.
“Yeah, Ed?” The voice belonged to Dominic Corso, one of Foley’s field officers. Actually older than his boss, Corso was covered as a Commercial Attaché. He’d worked Moscow for three years and was well regarded by his Station Chief. Another New Yorker, he was a native of the Borough of Richmond—Staten Island—the son of an NYPD detective. He looked like what he was, a New York guinea, but he was a quite a bit smarter than ethnic bigots would like to have admitted. Corso had the fey brown eyes of an old red fox, but he kept his intelligence under wraps.
“Need you to do something.”
“What’s that?”
Foley told him.
“You’re serious?” It wasn’t exactly a normal request.
“Yep.”
“Okay, I’ll tell the gunny. He’s going to ask why.” Gunnery Sergeant Tom Drake, the NCO-in-Charge of the Marine detail at the embassy, knew whom Corso worked for.
“Tell him it’s a joke, but it’s an important one.”
“Right.” Corso nodded. “Anything I need to know?”
“Not right now.”
Corso blinked. Okay, this was sensitive if the COS wasn’t sharing information, but that wasn’t so unusual, was it? Corso reflected. In CIA, you often didn’t know what your own team was doing. He didn’t know Foley all that well, but he knew enough to respect him.
“Okay, I’ll go see him now.”
“Thanks, Dom.”
“How’s the boy like Moscow?” the field officer asked his boss on the way out the door.
“He’s adjusting. Be better when he can skate some. He really likes hockey.”
“Well, he’s in the right town for that.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Foley gathered his papers and stood. “Let’s get this one done, Dom.”
“Right now, Ed. See you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 14:
DANGER SIGNAL
IF THERE IS ANYTHING CONSTANT in the business of espionage, it is a persistent lack of sleep for the players. That comes from stress, and stress is always the handmaiden of spooks. When sleep was slow in coming for Ed and Mary Pat Foley, they could at least talk with their hands in bed.
He’s re[al as] h[ell], b[aby], Foley told his wife under the covers.
Y[ep], she agreed. Have w[e] ev[er] had a g[uy] fr[om] that far in [side]? she wondered.
N[o] way Jose, he replied.
Lan[gley] will flip.
B[ig]-time, her husband agreed. Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs, full count, and the pitcher had hung a curveball right over Main Street, and he was about to stroke it over the Scoreboard. Assuming we don’t fuck it all up, Foley warned himself.
Want me to get inv[olved]? she wondered next.
Need to wait n s[ee].
A sigh told him, Yeah, I know. Even for them, patience came hard. Foley could see that curveball, hanging right over the middle of the plate, just about belt-high, and the Louisville Slugger was tight in his hands: his eyes were locked on the ball so tight that he could see the stitches turning as it approached—and this one was going out of the park, going down-fuckin’-town. He’d show Reggie Jackson who was the hitter on this playground…
If he didn’t fuck it up, he thought again. But Ed Foley had done this kind of operation in Tehran, had developed an agent in the revolutionary community, and had been the only field officer in the station to get a feel for how bad it was for the Shah, and that series of reports had lit up his star at Langley and made him one of Bob Ritter’s varsity.
And he was going to take this one deep, too.
At Langley, MERCURY was the one place that everyone was afraid of—everybody knew that an employee there under foreign control could damned near bring the whole building down. That was why they all went “on the box” twice a year, polygraphed by the best examiners FBI had—they didn’t even trust CIA’s own polygraph experts for that tasking. A bad field officer or a bad senior analyst could burn agents and missions, and that was bad for everyone involved—but a leaker in MERCURY would be like turning a female KGB officer loose on Fifth Avenue with an American Express Gold Card. She’d be able to get anything her heart desired. Hell, the KGB might even pay a million bucks for such a source. It would bust the Russian exchequer, but they would cash in one of Nikolay II’s Fabergé eggs, and be glad for it. Everyone knew there had to be a KGB counterpart office to MERCURY, but nobody in any intelligence service had ever bagged a Russian national from there.