Threat Vector

groups, and the park around the benches had many people sitting around even on this chilly morning. Valentin did not know whom he was looking for, so he just wandered in a large circle, tried to recognize any faces from his past.

It took a few minutes, but he saw a man in a beige trench coat standing under a tree on the southern side of the circular park. The man was alone, removed from the other people enjoying themselves, and he faced Valentin.

Kovalenko walked toward him warily. As he got closer he recognized the face. He could not believe it. “Dema?”

Dema Apilikov was SVR; he’d worked with Valentin in Beirut many years ago, and then he’d been posted under Valentin in London more recently.

Kovalenko had always thought Dema to be a bit of an idiot; he’d been a substandard illegal for a couple of years before becoming a paper pusher for the Russian spy service in the embassy, but he’d been honest enough and never so awful in his job as to get the ax.

Right now, however, Dema Apilikov looked pretty good to Valentin Kovalenko, because he was a lifeline to the SVR.

“How are you, sir?” asked Dema. He was older than Valentin, but he called everyone sir, as if he was nothing more than a paid servant.

Kovalenko glanced around again, searching for watchers, for cameras, for little birds Center might have sent to follow his every move. The area looked clean.

“I’m okay. How did you know I was here?”

“People know. Influential people. I’ve been sent with a message.”

“From who?”

“Can’t say. Sorry. But friends. Men at the top, in Moscow, who want you to know that they are working to extricate you from your situation.”

“My situation? Meaning?”

“I mean your legal troubles at home. What you are doing here in Washington, it is supported, it is considered an SVR op.”

Kovalenko did not understand.

Dema Apilikov clearly saw this and said, “Center. We know about Center. We know how he’s using you. I’m told to tell you that you have SVR sanction to continue, to see it to the end. This could be very helpful for Russia.”

Kovalenko cleared his throat and looked around. “Center is Chinese intelligence.”

Dema Apilikov nodded at this. “He’s MSS, yes. He’s also working for their military cyberwarfare directorate. Third Branch.”

This made instant and perfect sense to Valentin, and he was elated that the SVR knew all about Center. Indeed, apparently Dema knew more about Center than Kovalenko himself did.

“Do you have a name for this guy? Any idea where he’s working out of?”

“Yeah, he’s got a name, but I can’t give it to you. Sorry, sir. You’re my old boss, but officially you are outside the system. You are an agent, more or less, and on this op, I’ve got a script to give you and that’s it.”

“I understand, Dema. Need to know.” He looked around at the sky and it seemed bluer, the air cleaner. The weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “So… my orders are to keep working for Center until I get pulled out?”

“Yes. Keep your head down but carry out all orders to the best of your ability. I am allowed to tell you that while you may not go back to PR Directorate when you come back to work with us, due to the risk of exposure having you traveling abroad, you will have your pick of high-level postings in Directorate R.” PR Directorate was political intelligence, Kovalenko’s old posting and career track. Directorate R was operational planning and analysis. While he’d much prefer to return to his life as an assistant rezident in London, he knew that was out of the question. Working at the Kremlin for R, developing worldwide SVR ops, was a plum position for anyone in SVR. If he could get away from Chinese intelligence and back to SVR, he would not complain about Directorate R one damn bit.

Already he was thinking about going home to Moscow as a hero. What an incredible reversal of fortune.

But quickly he cleared his mind and got back to his situation. “Do you… do you know about Georgetown?”

Dema nodded. “Doesn’t concern you. The Americans will work out that the Chinese are doing this, and they will go after the Chinese. We are in the clear. You are in the clear. The Americans have enough on their plate at the moment.”

Kovalenko smiled, but his smile faltered. There was something else.

“Listen, one more thing. Center had a Saint Petersburg mafia group break me out of Matrosskaya. I had nothing to do with the death of the—”

“Relax, sir. We know. Yes, it was Tambovskaya Bratva.”

Kovalenko knew a little about this particular bratva, or brotherhood. Tambovskaya were tough guys who operated all over Russia and in many other European countries. He was relieved to know that the SVR knew that he had not been involved in the escape.

“That is a great relief, Dema,” he said.

Apilikov patted Kovalenko on the shoulder. “Just stick with this for now, do what they tell you to do. We’ll pull you out before too long, and get you back home.”

The men shook hands. “Thank you, Dema.”

FIFTY-SIX

On the third morning of his weeklong suspension, Jack left Columbia and drove with rush-hour traffic toward Alexandria.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he wanted to spend some time outside Melanie’s apartment while she was at work. He wasn’t thinking about breaking in — at least he wasn’t seriously thinking about breaking in — but he was considering peeking through the windows and checking through her garbage can.

He wasn’t proud about any of this, but for the past three days he’d done little but sit at home and stew.

He knew Melanie had done something to his phone back at his apartment before he went to Miami, and when Gavin told him, in no uncertain terms, that a bug had been put on the device, he realized he would be nothing more than a lovesick fool to think she had nothing to do with it.

He needed answers, and to get them he decided to go to her house and dig in her trash.

“Nice one, Jack. Your dad the CIA legend would be really damn proud.”

As he passed through Arlington at nine-thirty a.m., however, his plans changed.

His phone rang. “This is Ryan.”

“Hi, Jack. Mary Pat.”

“Director Foley, how are you?”

“Jack, we’ve talked about this. It’s still Mary Pat to you.”

Jack smiled despite himself. “Okay, Mary Pat, but don’t think that means I’m going to let you call me Junior.”

She chuckled at the joke, but immediately Jack got the impression that things were about to get serious.

She said, “I was wondering if we could meet.”

“Of course. When?”

“How does right this minute suit you?”

“Oh… okay. Sure. I’m in Arlington. I can run right over to McLean.” Jack knew this was big. He could not imagine everything the director of the Office of National Intelligence had on her plate at the moment. This definitely would not be a social get-together.