Mary Dear - Redux Read online

  Chapter Sixteen

  YASENEVO. Mention that name to most Russians and you’ll probably get a blank stare. Mention it to anyone in the KGB and you’ll get a very different reaction.

  SMERSH, meaning ‘Death to Spies,’ or Smert Shpionam—a phrase said to have been coined by Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin himself—was made up of five sections. The first worked inside the Red Army, ferreting out dissident soldiers and summarily executing them. The second collected information, and during wartime, was responsible for dropping agents behind enemy lines. The third section was responsible for collating and disseminating information and issuing orders. The fourth investigated suspects and had the authority to make arrests. The fifth section was made up of three-man tribunals of high-ranking soviet officers who heard cases and passed judgment. All sentences by the tribunals were final and, if execution was ordered, carried out immediately.

  As far back as the Bolshevik revolution of 1917, this feared organisation was responsible for finding, blackmailing, kidnapping, or killing anyone who opposed the Communist regime, especially defecting Russians or Russians opposing the regime who lived abroad. Non-Russians too, who proved to be particularly antagonistic to the Soviets, were also selected for action by SMERSH.

  The old Soviet Union might be gone and the directorate names changed over and over, but espionage and counter-intelligence efforts—and attitudes—continued. The head of Foreign Operations was Yuri CheyNokov.

  Seated in his office, he was in the process of writing his monthly report for President Putin that included an update on recent terrorist atrocities against the United States. His phone rung and he answered it. The voice on the phone told him news that confirmed what he had been expecting. He was prepared. He hung up and dialled a number.

  ‘Dobroye utro. May I speak with Mr Yakov?’ he said.

  ‘I am sorry but there is no one here by that name.’

  ‘My apologies, I must have the wrong number.’ CheyNokov hung up.

  Alexéi Alexéievich had answered the call. He’d recognized the voice and the codeword ‘Yakov’. It meant a drop had been arranged at a specific location, one of many around the Moscow city centre. Alexéi put on a heavy overcoat, fur hat and gloves and left his small apartment in Chapaevsky Lane in the Leningradsky Prospekt area, and after a short walk arrived at the Metro station Belorusskaya. He bought a ticket to Park Kultury a station near Maxim Gorky Park.

  He boarded the metro and finding the compartment full, stood by the door until they got to Kievskaya where many people got off and he was able to get a seat. Soon he was at Park Kultury heading northwest over the river Moskva to Gorky Park. As soon as he entered the park he mingled with families and young children. He found the usual bench, sat down and waited until he was alone before reaching underneath the seat, locating the envelope that had been taped there and extracted it in one quick fluid movement. He stashed it inside one of the large pockets of his overcoat and retraced his steps back to his apartment.

  Alexéi Alexéievich was born in Kiev in 1960 and joined the Russian army in 1979. He was a dedicated party member whose ruthless, almost zealous approach to army life and love of unarmed combat, at which he was extremely adept, had set him apart from the rest of his comrades. He was of medium height and build, his blond hair cropped short, army style; and was extremely fit. If he had a distinguishing feature it was that he was un-remarkable, blessed with a forgettable face. Only his slate-grey cold eyes said this was a man one would not wish to meet.

  Alexéi came from peasant stock and had been brought up in a Christian home. He was devoutly religious and it had once been thought that he would join a monastery. His ruthless nature, so at odds with his Christian beliefs, did not bother him; it was as if he were two people.

  He was promoted and approached to join the KGB in 1985, where he found his true vocation. Yuri CheyNokov knew all about Alexéi, and that included his religious inclinations. He had a personal nickname for him, though he never used it to his face: He used to call him The Monk because he thought his devious character was not unlike that of Rasputin. When he decided that the time was right for him to start in covert operations, Yuri CheyNokov chose Grigori as Alexéi’s codename, Rasputin’s Christian name. There followed years of dedicated service and he became an invaluable asset. He had never been photographed and no one in the west had ever seen him—that is, those who had, were not around to tell the tale—but a Russian transmission intercepted by GCHQ had rendered his code name, Grigori. And to many an agent in the west, he became a bogyman to be respected and feared.

  Following the resignation of Colin Jackson as the Director of Central Intelligence, President Bush’s administration immediately pointed to Republican Nathan King, as its handpicked nominee. According to the White House, the rush to name a replacement was driven by worries of a possible terrorist attack on America in the wake of Jackson's untimely departure.

  When Dwayne Young received a call requesting him to attend a special meeting with the DCI, he was surprised. He did not get this type of request often. Whatever the Director wanted to say was usually left to the monthly meeting or secure telephone conversations and internal files that arrived from Langley. This had to be important. He got his secretary to book him on a late night flight to Washington and got on with the rest of his day. At seven in the evening he left his temporary office accommodation, his headquarters in 7 World Trade Center having been destroyed during the 9/11 attacks, and went home to pack an overnight bag. As he walked in the house he bumped into his wife Jenny coming out of the living room.

  ‘Hello hun, you’re early. Is everything okay?’ She went over and kissed him.

  ‘Yeah, fine; gotta go to D.C. tonight, I’m afraid. Sorry about the short notice.’

  ‘What, right now? Will you be gone long?’

  ‘No, it’s just an overnight thing, I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Want me to fix you something? Do you have time?’

  ‘About an hour before I have to leave, and yes please honey; one of your club sandwiches would be great.’

  Dwayne drove himself to LaGuardia and left his car in the overnight car park. After the short flight he landed at BWI where an agency car and driver was waiting for him. After loading his overnight case in the trunk they left the terminal and headed east on Elm Road toward Governor Harry R Hughes Drive. Dwayne was tired, and was wondering what the DCI would want to see him about that required a special trip. The driver was making good progress and had taken the exit onto I-495 heading towards Silver Spring. Dwayne must have dozed off because, when he opened his eyes, the driver was pulling up to the entrance of the Marriott Hotel on Old Chain Bridge Road, his usual hotel when visiting Langley. The driver left saying he would return to collect him at 9am the following morning. Dwayne thanked him and went to check-in. Tomorrow he would find out what all this was about; he had to admit that he was intrigued and not a little apprehensive. He unpacked and went to bed soon after. He wanted to be well rested for whatever lay in store.

  The following morning Dwayne was up early, and after a quick breakfast he was ready for the driver. Drawing up outside CIA headquarters, as he had done on numerous occasions in the past, Dwayne was reminded of the first time he’d visited the building. He’d been told it had been the dream child of former DCI Allen Dulles back in the 50’s who had visions of a college campus-style environment where intelligence officers could meet and work. It was an enormous and imposing building surrounded by large parking lots and landscaped areas where employees could relax when not on duty. It was impossible not to be impressed by this man-made monolith and the memory had stayed with him to this day. Dwayne arrived at the private office of the DCI to be greeted by his personal secretary.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Young, did you have a good flight?’

  ‘Just fine Mary, thank you. Got in late last night,’ and then he nodded at his bosses closed door.

  ‘He told me to tell you to go right in when you arrived, he’s been expecting you.
’ He walked up to the closed door, knocked twice and heard a faint voice say to come in.

  Nathan King’s office in the CIA’s HQ eight miles outside the District was a home from home. When Dwayne Young entered he found the new Director of Central Intelligence studying a file marked Classified.

  ‘Good morning Dwayne, I was about to have some coffee, will you join me?’

  ‘Yes sir, I’d like that very much thank you.’

  The Director spoke into his intercom.

  ‘Mary, two coffees when you have a moment, please.’

  The DCI looked up from the file. ‘Dwayne’ he said, closing the file and pushing it away from him. ‘I have just finished a very difficult conversation with the President.’ He paused letting the information sink in. ‘He wants to know what we’re doing about the classified information that’s been haemorrhaging from here, only he put it in somewhat stronger language.’

  Dwayne registered the stressed look on his boss’s face.

  ‘Yes Sir, I know, we’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of it.’

  Young was Section Chief in charge of Operation Shooting Star and had been under intense pressure for over three months to find and neutralize whoever was responsible.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you how urgent this is Dwayne, I need action immediately, the President isn’t going to forget this. He’ll just pile on the pressure, remember he’s up for re-election, he’s made the SDI project his baby and this failure on our part, as he put it, to stop the leak will be used by his enemies to crucify him. It’s costing lives; damn it; our people’s lives, and I need it to stop right now!’

  Dwayne was aware there was a mole in their midst but didn’t know who it was; nobody did for that matter. What he did know was that valuable information known only to a handful of people in the department was finding its way to Moscow.

  ‘It’s the strangest thing sir, we’ve tapped all the usual sources and we have come up empty.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in Mary, just set them down on the coffee table and we’ll help ourselves. Thank you.’

  His secretary put down the tray and left, closing the door behind her. Dwayne poured his boss his usual strong cup of black coffee and handed it to him before helping himself. Nathan King took a sip of his coffee before continuing.

  ‘Dwayne, there’s something else...something to complicate matters, if that’s possible. William Wild.’

  ‘Yes Sir, I know about him of course. He’s come out of nowhere to run for president. Calls his party The American Unification Party. He’s got the gun lobby on side, is offering more money to the pensioners, more policing, more education more everything. Surely no one’s taking him seriously, he’s a regular Santa Claus and not a word about how he’s going to fund it all.’

  ‘You left out bring our boys back from Iraq, but yes, as you say, it’s Christmas come early. I’m hearing bad rumours though. It’s all to do with who’s funding his campaign. There’s no proof but we think its drugs money. This guy’s a liberal in the loosest sense of the word. He’s talked about lowering the classification of marijuana and other softer drugs. Hell, he even has all the kids in the campuses hailing him as the new messiah. He’s in his early forties, dresses younger and, for my money: he’s a dark horse.’

  ‘Well yes, it’s the American dream, “all men created equal” and all that, I’ve heard the rumours and so far that’s all they are, but still...’

  Nathan King was silent for a moment marshalling his thoughts and when he spoke to Dwayne he looked like a troubled man.

  ‘I’m not saying he’s got a chance but can you imagine if the mob had their guy in The White House? There’s very little they would not do to achieve that and we sure as hell know they have the money.’

  ‘Right sir, I’ll get on it.’

  ‘Yes, but discreetly. If something is brewing let’s not spook them before we get to know who’s behind it. Concentrate on getting the mole for now.’

  ‘It might get a bit ugly, but I have an idea that I think might just work.’

  ‘Dwayne, do what you have to, but do it fucking soon.’

  The meeting finished an hour later and a worried Dwayne left Langley to catch a flight back to New York.

  The nature of the information that was being leaked was such that it was only known, could only be known, to very few people; trouble was they could be in any of the agencies that took part in the monthly situation meetings. Dwayne knew this but had refused to consider it. All of those people were his colleagues, some were his friends damn it, and the idea that lurking amongst them could be a traitor was not something he had been prepared to accept.

  Not, that is, until now.

  The next routine meeting was not for another month and he needed immediate action. He could not use his own department’s resources for fear of alerting the mole, so he’d decided to do some snooping and called his oldest friend to invite him to dinner that same evening.

  Jenny Young was not surprised when her husband said that he’d invited Milton and his wife Kathy to dinner. Dwayne had met Milton when he joined the FBI before the opportunity to join the CIA had cropped up. It had been a good career move and he had taken it but he and his wife had remained friends with the O’Brians. When they arrived for dinner at eight, Kathy followed Jenny into the kitchen and Dwayne took Milton to the den for a drink. They were both bourbon drinkers and Dwayne pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses out of the bar cabinet, some ice from the small fridge, poured a generous measure into each glass, and handed one to his friend.

  Milton was tall and thin. He was two years older than Dwayne and looked so much like Joe Friday, the character so ably portrayed by Jack Webb in the fifties hit series Dragnet, that his friends in the department would constantly rib him with the phrase that the detective made famous: ‘All we want are the facts Ma’am’, but all similarity ended with his outward appearance. Unlike his television counterpart, Milton was not at all dry and had a great sense of humour, something that made him a favourite with the men and women he worked with.

  ‘What’s up buddy?’ Milton said taking his drink.

  ‘That obvious, uh?’

  ‘You could say that, I haven’t seen you like this since we worked that case in Brooklyn in ninety-five. You want to tell me about it?’

  Dwayne played with his glass then set it down on the table.

  ‘Mil, I’ve got a serious problem. It’s a department thing, and I need someone on the outside that I can trust—and you, my friend, have drawn the short straw.’

  ‘Now you’ve got my attention’ Milton said looking up ‘what’s cooking that you can’t handle internally?’

  Dwayne told him and said that it would be a surveillance job on no more than five or six people at the most.

  ‘I really hate having to ask you to do this for me but I just can’t think of an alternative. I need you to do the job yourself; keep it from everyone at the Bureau, I just don’t want any tip-off that could spoil my chances of getting to the bottom of this.’

  Just then Kathy walked in followed by Jenny.

  ‘You two look like you’ve been caught with your hands in the cookie jar’ she laughed.

  ‘No peace for the wicked,’ Dwayne joked, looking at Milton for support. ‘Okay, guess you girls are feeling lonely, right? Can’t be away from your fellows too long before withdrawal symptoms set in,’ he teased.

  ‘You wish! You’re not expecting us to get our own drinks are you?’ She said in mock disbelief, ‘next thing you’ll be expecting dinner!’

  ‘I’ll get the drinks’ said Dwayne ‘you get the dinner.’

  Milton had joined in the fun but his mind was already troubled by what his friend had said. Still it could wait till tomorrow and he determined to enjoy the dinner that Jenny had prepared.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Milton O’Brian phoned Dwayne and arranged to meet him for a drink at Rudy’s Bar and Grill on 9th Avenue. Milton li
ked this place, a throwback from the 1930s that served cheap beer. They had agreed to meet at 8pm in the backyard garden, if a concrete box can be called a garden. Dwayne was into his second beer listening to the jukebox cranking out old jazz and classic rock when Milton arrived and pulled up the chair opposite.

  ‘One of the names on your list is Edward Garrett.’

  ‘Sure. I’m having to look at everyone...please don’t say he’s...’

  ‘No, but what do you know of his assistant, Richard Bland?’

  ‘I’ve met him a few times; so?’

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of snooping and checking on the list you gave me...’

  Dwayne was thinking that recruiting Mil had been a very good idea and waited for him to go on.

  ‘You didn’t mention it in your brief, but just to be thorough, I decided to add their immediate staff too. Well, I followed Bland and got lucky. He went into Cosi’s diner and I caught him having a heart-to-heart with a man in the back of the restaurant. When he left I followed the other guy and got a picture of him, ran it through our system and came up with a name that you might know—Esteban Blanco.’

  Of course Dwayne had heard of Blanco, his name was top of the hit parade at the monthly meetings.

  ‘Now that’s interesting, he’s a guy the DEA have been after for years. He’s part of that big cartel headed by Diego Montoya who was recently arrested by the Colombians; thing is, Blanco’s slippery as an eel. Could you hear what they were saying?’

  ‘Nope, and he wasn’t there very long. They exchanged a few words and he left. Anyway I thought it would be a good idea to find out where they could have met. Turns out Ed Garrett and Bland had been working on a joint operation with Scotland Yard and Interpol making good progress on busting the Colombian drugs trade.’

  Dwayne raised an eyebrow and Milton read his mind.

  ‘I called in a few favours, okay,’ Milton went on. ‘Well, as I was saying, Ed got a tip-off from the Yard and that’s when things got started.’