“The first airplane to land at Bodrum when it reopened was the C-17 carrying our investigation team. At that point, the Lear was still in place, and a certain Navy lieutenant commander spotted it and somehow recognized it as an agency asset. Yesterday the CIA received an informal inquiry from ONI—they were looking for information on this Lear.”
Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, “That girl has a nose like a bloodhound.”
“Yeah. Wonder where she got that?”
The President ignored the remark. “And what was Katie told?”
“One of her coworkers at ONI actually made the request to the CIA. The agency didn’t deny the jet was theirs, but they didn’t provide anything more. This whole exchange, however, did get kicked upstairs at Langley. Given that this aircraft was in Bodrum to collect a high-level defector…it ruffled some feathers on theseventh floor. Director Stephens mentioned it when I talked to him earlier tonight.”
“Where is the Lear now?”
“It’s on its way home. Leaving it in Turkey would only have brought trouble.”
Ryan began to see where Mary Pat was going. “So Katie knows this jet she spotted is a CIA air asset. She also knows that a VIP aircraft crashed and that sabotage is a possibility.”
“Correct. She’s also probably just learned, as we have, that one passenger appears to be missing. Regardless of whether it turns out to be Klaus, Katie is going to realize that there was more to this VIP flight than a routine economic conference.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s how I’d read it if I was in her shoes.”
“The question is, do we need to do anything to manage this?”
Ryan found the answer surprisingly simple. “Katie’s walking close to the sun, but she probably doesn’t realize it. The fact that she’s my daughter is immaterial. We do exactly what we’d do if any other officer in the United States Navy stumbled onto this.”
Mary Pat considered what that would be. “Maybe fess up in a generic way. Get word to her through command channels that the CIA was trying to extract a valuable asset from Morocco.”
“I think that should do it. It’s the truth, and it’ll remove any suspicion that the agency is being evasive. It would also give her and Conza one more reason to get to the bottom of this sabotage question.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. Now…can I go to bed?”
14
The Aquarium
GRU Headquarters
Moscow, Russia
0840 Local Time
The ground on which the building rested had a long and consequential history. At the coronation of the last czar, Nicholas II, over a thousand people were trampled to death when a burgeoning crowd panicked. It was the place where, in 1910, Boris Rossinsky became the first Russian to achieve powered flight. The plot of land was eventually christened Khodynka Airfield, and for decades it served as Moscow’s primary aviation hub.
In more recent years, however, Khodynka’s fate had taken a decidedly more terrestrial turn. The airfield closed in 2003, its standing as a gateway for commercial flights long ceded to Sheremetyevo. The original terminal and buildings, reflective of once-lofty ambitions, were bulldozed in favor of acres of brutalist architecture. Concrete and glass became the prevailing theme, and none were more heavy-handed than the vast complex known as “the Aquarium.”
This was the headquarters of the GRU, Russian military intelligence.
Andrei Malenkov strode purposefully down the familiar hallway of the executive wing. For years he had been a fixture in these corridors, making routine visits when not in the field doing Russia’s dirty work. He had never actually been issued an office here, having spent his career bounding across the world, and so he passed through the place today much as he always had, like a comet making a regular orbital return. Secretaries and department heads watched him with a jaded eye. On one hand, they knew he was important. On the other, they knew he was no longer part of the official GRU hierarchy. One year after his abrupt expulsion, some viewed Malenkov with disdain for whatever secret transgressions had led to his demise. Others, surely, looked on with jealousy.
He made the final turn to the most gilded hallway. On one side were framed portraits of the agency’s former directors, each seeming more brooding than the last. Malenkov had once aspired to put his picture on this wall. Today he was glad he had not.
He entered the anteroom of GRU director Gennady Vasin without pause. His secretary, a prim young blond woman Malenkov had never seen—Vasin went through them like candy—affected a professional smile.
“The director is expecting you,” she said. “Go right in.”
Malenkov countered her gaze sharply, his eyes lingering long enough, just leeringly enough, to stir discomfort. He entered Vasin’s office and found the director seated at his desk signing papers. He didn’t even look up when Malenkov came through the door.
Vasin reveled in such gamesmanship, almost as much as Malenkov enjoyed ignoring it. The two had endured a long and fractious relationship, rivaling one another for the highest postsin the agency. Two years ago, Vasin had been promoted to head the GRU. Malenkov had taken charge of the SSD, a new offshoot of the agency. Technically the SSD was a subsidiary of the behemoth from which it had been carved. Practically, however, indeed by design, the SSD was a freelance entity that answered to no one. Then, one year ago, the purge had come. Vasin had taken distinct pleasure in firing Malenkov, only to see his former rival somehow land on his feet. Today the men shared no professional link whatsoever—at least, none beyond their mutual animosity.
