Chapter 29

  Anya woke with a gasp, heart pounding. She'd been dreaming, a dark dream of something evil and unseen coming for her. The illuminated dial on the clock next to her bed read 3:33. She got out of bed, put on a robe, and went into the kitchen.

  She'd never get back to sleep. Anya turned on the light, put a kettle on for tea, and sat down at the kitchen table. She wasn't worried about waking her mother. Yulia always took a sleeping pill that knocked her out until morning.

  She pulled the kettle off the stove as it began to whistle. As she went through the familiar steps of making tea, her mind swirled with thoughts and images. Mikhail and Grigori. Cameras flashing at the medal ceremony. The way she'd caught General Kerensky looking bored. Tarasov's platitudes about heroism and sacrifice. Stepanov, his certainty he could have her because he wanted to.

  Because she was powerless.

  Powerless to resist the advances of a man who could destroy everything she'd worked for.

  Powerless to prevent men like him from risking catastrophic war with America.

  It pissed her off.

  She'd sworn an oath of loyalty when she entered the military. But where did her loyalty really lie? Was it to her superior officers, men like Stepanov? To her government? She'd joined the Army to protect the people, the Motherland. She hadn't joined it to blindly follow Russia's leaders over a cliff.

  Anya didn't believe for a moment that Russia could win a war with the United States. Tarasov and his generals had started down a road that could end in the destruction of everything. She wasn't confident sanity and common sense would prevail. She could do nothing or she could act, but there wasn't anything she could do on her own. She needed serious help. There was only one obvious choice.

  The Americans.

  If she went to them, they had the power to do something. But if she went to them, it would make her a traitor.

  Her position at CSS and high security clearance gave her access to a wide range of classified military information. If the Americans knew what Tarasov and the generals were planning, they might be able to stop things from escalating before it was too late. It was the only option she could think of. The idea made her feel sick to her stomach. If she took that step, there could be no turning back.

  Was it treason to betray your country in order to save it?

  It was Sunday. Unless she was ordered in, she didn't have to go in to work today. She began thinking about how to make contact with the Americans. She couldn't go anywhere near the American Embassy without being photographed and questioned. She couldn't call. Every call to and from the embassy was recorded and analyzed.

  She racked her brain. She needed a go-between, someone who had a reason to help her. Someone who was unhappy with the regime.

  Vlas. He hates Tarasov and his cronies. He might help.

  Anya knew Vlas Sokolov from an economics class she'd taken at the University. He'd been her professor. They'd formed a friendship that extended beyond the classroom, based on a mutual love of coffee and chess.

  Chess was a national obsession in Russia. Sokolov was ranked at the expert level, several hundred points above Anya. She would never match him, but she enjoyed the challenge of the game, the need to think several moves ahead and anticipate her opponent's strategy.

  She hadn't seen Vlas for several years. She wasn't sure what had happened to her old professor since then, but she knew he no longer taught at the University. Sokolov had made the mistake of publishing one article too many expressing dissatisfaction with the economic policies of the regime. Anya had no contact information for him, but that wasn't a problem. Unless he had greatly changed, she knew where he would be on a Sunday.

  It was going to be a warm spring day, ideal for playing outdoors. Unless something had happened to him, Professor Sokolov would be at the chess ground in Presnensky Park. The park was home to Presnya, one of Moscow's many chess clubs. There were always people there, looking for a game.

  She looked at the clock on the wall. It was still many hours before she could go to the park.

  The adrenaline rush fueled by her anger had worn off. Suddenly, she was tired. She decided to go back to bed and try to get a few hours of sleep before her mother woke.

  Hoping she didn't dream.

  Chapter 30

  Anya had always liked Presnensky Park. Moscow had many beautiful parks, but this one always felt special to her. It was crowded with people enjoying the fine weather. She passed a bench flanked by two large chess bishops carved in stone and entered the chess area that was a key attraction of the park.

  A giant chessboard in black and white stone was laid out on the ground. Sometimes games were played here with life-sized pieces. Nearby were rows of tables where people sat absorbed in the game. Nearly all of them were occupied.

  She looked for Professor Sokolov and spotted him sitting at a table, chess pieces arranged on a board, waiting for someone to sit down and challenge him to a game. He looked worn, older than the last time she'd seen him. He wore a shapeless brown jacket, dark pants, and brown shoes that had seen better days. Long gray hair escaped under his brown cap and fluttered in the spring breeze. His glasses were slightly crooked on his nose. One of the earpieces was taped to the frame.

  She sat down across from him.

  "Hello, Professor. I thought I would find you here."

  Sokolov's face lit with pleasure.

  "Anya. Wonderful. I have been reading all about you."

  "You shouldn't believe everything you read in the newspapers, Professor."

  "How long has it been? Three? Four years?"

  "More like five," Anya said.

  Sokolov studied her. "There was a picture in Izvestia of Tarasov presenting a medal to you and your mother. I was sorry to hear of your brother's death."

  "Thank you."

  Sokolov turned the board toward her.

  "You can have white. Has your game improved?"

  Anya reached out and moved her Queen's pawn two spaces forward, the first step of the Ruy Lopez opening.

  "I doubt it, Professor."

  Sokolov countered with a similar move.

  "I don't think you came here to play chess with me," he said.

  "You always were good at reading me, Vlas. No, I didn't come here for that. I'm hoping you can help me with something difficult."

  She moved a knight near her pawn. Sokolov brought out a knight.

  "Are you in trouble, Anya?"

  "Not yet."

  "How can I help?"

  She hesitated. Had he changed? Was he still the opponent of the regime he had once been? If she told him what she wanted, she was putting her career and her future in his hands.

  She brought her bishop out, gaining control of part of the board. She reached out and touched his hand.

  Her voice was quiet.

  "Do you still oppose what is happening in our country?"

  The park was noisy with people talking and the sound of children playing. Even so, Sokolov lowered his voice.

  "I will always be opposed to these people. They are contemptible creatures, incompetents. They care about nothing except power. Certainly they don't care for us, or all these people here."

  He gestured with his hand to take in the park.

  She moved a pawn one square forward, thinking about what she was going to ask him to do. Once the words were out of her mouth, there was no going back. Not only that, she would be involving him, putting him at risk.

  There was no other way. She took a deep breath.

  "I need to get a message to the American Embassy," she said. "I thought perhaps, with your contacts..."

  "Do not say any more," Sokolov said. "Not here. There is a café not too far from here, on Rochdelskaya Street. It is called the Black Queen. Meet me there half an hour after we finish the game. First we must play it out, for appearances sake."

  Fifteen minutes later, Anya tipped over her king.

  "Thank you for the game," she said, loud enough to be heard at the next table.

  She got up and walked away. She didn't see Major Petrov standing some distance away under the trees.

  Petrov had waited outside Anya's apartment earlier, thinking how she'd never made any effort to hide her contempt for him, how she thought she was too good for him. Petrov's job was to spy on Stepanov and report back to his superiors in the GRU. Stepanov had started making obvious moves on her. By now he was probably fucking her.

  Petrov told himself she was too close to Stepanov and needed to be observed. If something turned up that reflected badly on her, well that was too bad. He hoped she was up to something. It would look good in his reports.

  He'd followed her to the park, careful that she didn't see him. He'd watched her sit down at a chess table and begin a game. Petrov couldn't hear what Volkova was saying, but it was obvious she knew the man she was playing against.

  He took a small camera from his pocket and photographed them sitting at the table. The game progressed, ending with Volkova's defeat. She shook hands with her opponent, got up and walked away. The man put away his chess pieces, picked up his board, and walked off in the opposite direction.

  Petrov waited a moment before following her, keeping a good distance behind. She would never believe it was a coincidence if she saw him. He followed her through the park and out the other side. She kept walking, sometimes stopping to look in a shop window. Then she went into a café called the Black Queen.

  He knew the place. It was popular with the chess crowd.

  He couldn't follow her in there; she'd see him. He took up station across the street. A few minutes later, Petrov saw the man she'd been playing chess with in the park enter the café.

  A satisfying feeling of righteous judgment came over him. She was conspiring with this man. There couldn't be any other reason to meet him here, after seeing him in the park. An innocent cup of coffee? If that was so, why not walk to the café together? Why pretend to separate? Whoever the man was, he'd be in the database. All citizens were. It wouldn't take long to identify him.

  Colonel Ivanov would be pleased. It ought to be enough to bring her in. They'd find out what she was up to.

  Petrov had no doubt about that.

  Chapter 31

  Art Greenwald sat in his office on the top floor of the American Embassy in Moscow, trying to work out the answer to a crossword clue. What the hell were "Armada Leaders?" Five letters across. It was making him crazy.

  Greenwald was CIA Chief of Station in Moscow, a plum assignment given only to career officers with field experience who had proved themselves in lesser administrative posts. At least, that was the way it was supposed to be. In practice, the position was as much a reward for success in playing the political games permeating Langley as it was for competence. Greenwald was good at his job, but he wasn't a risk taker. He was biding his time, hoping for a promotion and reassignment to Virginia.

  Greenwald was in his late fifties. It had been years since he'd had to maintain himself in the peak physical condition necessary for survival on the street, and it showed. A small paunch pushed out against the buttons of his Brooks Brothers shirt. He was starting to go bald and had begun trying to conceal it, with only partial success. His eyes were light blue. At the moment they were sore from squinting at the damned crossword puzzle.

  A knock on his door was a welcome distraction. He looked up.

  "Come in, Jeremy."

  Jeremy Coates was listed as a second cultural attaché on the Embassy roster, a description that fooled no one in the Russian security services. It was a position Greenwald himself had once held in the early years of his career. Coates acted as Greenwald's eyes and ears on the street. He was useful for the kinds of assignments that required getting your hands dirty.

  Coates was a little under six feet tall. He had short brown hair, brown eyes and broad shoulders. Sometimes when he'd had too much to drink or when he was stressed, he spoke with a Midwestern accent that revealed his Iowa roots. He spoke Russian fluently, which was one of the reasons he had been posted to Moscow.

  People had trouble remembering his face. It was one of his best assets as an officer.

  He handed a large envelope to his boss. It was addressed only to "CIA." The envelope bore no stamp or return address.

  "This came in this morning," Coates said. "You need to look at it."

  "No stamp, no address. It didn't come in the mail. How did it get here?"

  "Good question. It was left on the reception desk downstairs. Best guess is one of the locals the embassy hires for maintenance of the public areas."

  "What's inside?"

  "If it's legit, it's a gift from heaven. Take a look, you'll see."

  Greenwald opened the envelope. It contained several sheets of paper. The top piece was a letter, typewritten in Russian. He began reading.

  To the person in charge of American CIA operations: I am an officer working in the Ministry of Defense with access to the highest levels of military planning. I am a patriot who is concerned for my country. I see what our leaders are doing and fear for the future. I wish to provide information in the hope it can be used to prevent war. I do not want anything in return. I want to protect my country.

  To prove I am sincere, I provide a complete list of logistical and operational directives for the current offensive in Syria.

  If this is of interest, I will be in Presnensky Park on the bench with two bishops between 12:30 and 1:00 on Sunday. I will be reading War and Peace. Your contact must wear a red flower.

  Greenwald looked at the accompanying sheets of paper.

  "Has anyone checked this out?"

  "Yes. As far as we can tell, it's accurate. It fills out some of the blanks about what's happening in Syria."

  "This is very detailed. Whoever put this together must have serious access."

  "That's what he says," Coates said.

  "It could be a set up. Disinformation. The FSB would love to get something they could use against us."

  "It could be, but if they want to create an incident, there are easier ways to do it. This material exposes vulnerabilities in the Russian operation. They wouldn't give us something like this as bait."

  "This is a Langley wet dream. If it's real."

  Greenwald thought about how bringing in a highly placed source in the Russian Ministry of Defense would enhance his career. It was a no-brainer.

  "This is Friday," he said. "I want you in that park on Sunday."

  "FSB knows who I am," Coates said. "I sit down next to the source, he's blown."

  "They know who you are, but they aren't always following you. Change your looks, you're really good at that."

  Greenwald was right, Coates was good at it. He came from a family of professional actors. His father had always assumed his son would follow in the family tradition, and had taught him the art of making himself look like someone he wasn't. He hadn't become an actor, but the skills Coates learned at his father's knee turned out to be useful anyway.

  "You know how to spot surveillance," Greenwald said. "If you think you're being followed, walk on by. Make sure whoever is on that bench sees the flower you're wearing. They'll figure it out. If you don't think it's safe to make contact, memorize the face."

  "All right."

  "Listen, Jeremy, this is a big deal if it's genuine. You have to make the asset feel safe. He has to trust you. Set up a way to make contact as needed. Find out what he wants."

  "He said what he wants. To prevent a war."

  "Yeah, maybe. Maybe not. There are lots of reasons why people betray their country. Find out if he's sincere. If we can get him to take money or get him to sign something, he's ours."

  "So much for trust," Jeremy said.

  "Trust is an overrated word," Greenwald said.

  Coates looked at the unfinished crossword.

  "Is that from the Times?"

  "Yeah. 25 across is driving me crazy."

  "Prows," Coates said.

  "What?"

  "25 across. Armada Leaders. The answer is prows."

  "I'll be damned. I never would have thought of that."

  Chapter 32

  Sunday in Moscow was the kind of day when it was easy to believe life was good and one lived in the best of all possible worlds. The trees were green with renewed life. Birds sang in the branches. Bursts of color bloomed in flower beds placed beside the walkways.

  Anya entered Presnensky park a little after noon. She wore a light-colored silk blouse and a dark skirt that reached below her knees. She made her way through the park to the bishop's bench and sat down. At the other end, an old man sat reading a paper. A wooden cane rested against his leg. She looked at her watch. It was almost 12:30.

  When she'd given the letter to Vlas, something had changed inside her. It felt like she'd entered an altered reality. All her senses were heightened. She remembered that not long ago she'd wished things were more interesting. Her wish had come true, but not in the ways she'd imagined. Her future had once looked secure, if somewhat dull. Now it felt uncertain, threatening.

  She took out a paperback copy of War and Peace and began to read.

  "Excuse me."

  It was the old man at the end of the bench.

  Anya looked up from her book. "I'm sorry, what?"

  "I notice you are reading Tolstoy. An incredible picture of a world long gone, don't you think?"

  She looked at him. There were thousands like him in Moscow, veterans of one of the many wars, Afghanistan or Chechnya. He was dressed in a mix of clothes that clearly came from charities or thrift shops. He wore large, tortoiseshell framed glasses and an old barracks cap. She couldn't quite place his accent.

  Then she noticed the flower in the lapel of his moth-eaten army jacket.

  Flustered, she looked at him.

  "Talk normally," Coates said. "Two strangers discussing Tolstoy."

  "Yes, I agree," Anya said. "Tolstoy creates a reality that no longer exists."

  "May I see your copy?"

  Anya handed the book to him. He flipped through the pages, held the book open and handed it back to her.