“When pressed for evidence to back up Poland’s charges, Mr. Wiatr responded by revealing that U.S. intelligence reports from Moscow showed a direct link between French economic subsidies and the Russian oil and gas embargo aimed at his country. Highly placed sources inside Poland’s own spy agency confirmed his account…”
Oh, hell. Hell and damn. No wonder Ostrokova and her assistant had looked at her so suspiciously. The Poles had unwittingly blown her cover.
“… Apparently in reaction to the news, angry mobs attacked EurCon consulates in Warsaw, Gdansk, and Krakow. Police armed with tear gas and water cannon turned them back in bitter street fighting that left several dozen people injured — some seriously. In a bid to restore public order, Poland’s Roman Catholic primate and other church authorities have appealed for calm…”
With her mind in turmoil Erin looked away from the violent pictures flashing across the screen. She felt ill. Just when all her work was really starting to pay off, this had to happen. She saw Banich watching her sympathetically. “Now what happens? Will the Russians expel me?”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. Kicking you out would only give us the chance to bring in someone they don’t know about. Why risk that when they can just keep closer tabs on you?”
She nodded. Given the way Russians thought, that made sense. But then another, darker thought struck her. “What about the people I’ve been getting information from? What happens to them?”
As always, Banich gave it to her straight. He reserved deception for his country’s enemies. “They’re in trouble. The Russian government’s goons will be backtracking every move you’ve made since you came to Moscow. Anybody you’ve made contact with is automatically suspect. And if the FIS finds hard evidence that they fed you data?” His mouth turned downward. “Espionage and treason are still capital crimes in this country.”
Erin choked back tears. This was worse than her worst nightmare. She’d put people who had trusted her in mortal danger.
Banich took her face gently between his hands. “This is not your fault, McKenna. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He sighed. “This comes with the territory. Sometimes the information we gather leaks out. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes because it’s necessary. And sometimes because someone higher up the ladder screwed up. But people always get hurt.”
He brushed away a single tear trickling down her cheek. “Blaming yourself won’t change that.”
Erin breathed out softly. Did he know the effect he was having on her? “Then where do I go from here?”
Banich gave her a small, sad smile. “You keep your head down. Stay inside the embassy compound as much as possible.”
“But…”
He laid a finger across her lips. “You have to. The FIS isn’t yet what the KGB used to be, but some of its agents are still thugs. They could try to set you up or use you to set someone else up — say, a prominent reformer Kaminov wants out of the way.”
“What about my work?”
Banich nodded. “That’s a problem. Hennessy, the others, and I will try our best to cover some of the same ground, but we’re going to be stretched pretty thin. You still have your taps into the state computer system?”
“I think so. At least until they change the passwords and access codes.” Erin felt calmer now, better able to think clearly and plan ahead. “And even then their security people might leave some holes I can burrow in through.”
“Good.” He stepped back, visibly turning more professional and more formal. “All right, McKenna, we’ll take a hit on this, but we’re still in business. Find out how much access you still have and let me know as soon as you can. I’ll have to report to Langley. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Erin watched Alex Banich walk away, again armored in polite indifference. But she’d seen him drop his guard. The workaholic CIA agent had a human side, after all. And she liked it.
The ten-story, prefabricated apartment building had been shabby when Hungary’s old communist government first constructed it. Now, after decades of neglect and overcrowding, it could only be called squalid.
On the seventh floor, Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky squeezed past the bicycles chained to the banister and made his way down a cramped, dimly lit hallway. Cracked, unpainted concrete walls and the sour, unwashed smell of too many people living with too little running water spoke volumes about the miserable existence endured by Budapest’s poorest citizens.
He paused outside Apartment 7-E and checked the hallway to either side. All the doors were shut. Even though he had come wearing civilian clothes, the building’s inhabitants were nowhere in sight. They must have a nose for policemen, he thought wryly. Well, perhaps he would soon need to learn their instincts.
Despite all his bold thoughts after leaving Solicitor Bartha’s office, it had taken Hradetsky a long time to find the right man. Although Vladimir Kusin was well known in the city, no current directory listed his phone number or address. And even a famous man could vanish among the capital’s two million people — especially with help from his many friends and supporters.
So, after spending nearly two weeks beating his head against a brick wall of feigned ignorance and outright evasion, Hradetsky had decided on a riskier, more direct approach. That was why he’d come here, to the apartment occupied by Kusin’s wife. Officially she and her husband were separated and in the midst of a messy divorce. Well, he had a hunch that the separation and the divorce were both a smoke screen — one designed to protect the woman from excessive police scrutiny and harassment. He was here to play that hunch.
He knocked once. “Mrs. Kusin?”
The door opened immediately. “I am Mara Kusin.”
Hradetsky nodded. The photo he’d seen in her police file matched the woman in front of him: a young-looking, thickly built woman with two teenage children.
He saw no point in hiding his identity. “I am Colonel Hradetsky, of the National Police.”
Kusin’s wife blanched, then steeled herself. She nodded quietly, guardedly. She must be used to trouble.
“May I come in?”
For an instant, a surprised look flickered across her face. Policemen were rarely so polite. She stepped back into the dingy apartment and stood waiting, her arms folded across her chest.
Hradetsky stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind him. He didn’t want prying ears to hear what he had to say.
He did not bother asking her where her husband was. Even if she did know, the last person she would tell was a police colonel. “I am not here in an official capacity. But I do have a message and important information for Vladimir Kusin. It is essential that I speak with him.”
“But I don’t know…”
“Of course you don’t.” Hradetsky shook his head. “All I ask is that you get this to him — wherever he is.”
He handed the woman an envelope containing a brief summary of the information he’d been given by Bela Silvanus, along with a schedule of public places where he would wait for contact over the next three days. When she took it, he felt his neck muscles tightening. He’d done it. He was committed now. Going to Solicitor Bartha with his concerns could be passed off as misguided bureaucratic maneuvering. Contacting an active member of Hungary’s banned political opposition could not.
Hradetsky sat on a park bench with his eyes slitted against the welcome spring sunshine, trying hard not to let his nerves get to him. That wasn’t easy. This noontime rendezvous outside the sprawling, neoclassical Museum of Fine Arts was the last of the three options he’d given Mara Kusin. Had the opposition decided to ignore him as a possible
Or worse, had his message fallen into the wrong hands? The European Confederation’s German liaison, Rehling, and his Hungarian subordinates were strengthening the nation’s internal security apparatus with every passing day. They might have been paying more attention to his activities than he’d imagined.
He studied the office workers crowding the square more closely, wondering if any of them were agents assigned to watch him. Then he shrugged, almost amused at his own developing paranoia. How could he tell? There had to be several thousand people eating lunch in the vast open space dominated by the winged statue of the
