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“What do you consider ‘low-end’ jobs?” asked Jamison.
“For example, chefs for wealthy people. Security guards at sensitive corporate facilities. You would be astonished how lacking they are in vetting their security forces. We would never do it that way in Russia. Americans outsource everything. And these companies cut costs. And background checks are expensive and take time. We deploy personal drivers for executives and former government officials. It is amazing how chatty they are in their cars, as though the driver is deaf. Flight attendants on private aircraft. Domestic help, cleaning crews, and nannies with your class of movers and shakers, particularly on both coasts. Personal assistants to these same people. IT personnel who gain access to passwords and clouds and the most sensitive data, and who are on-site listening to everything. Attendants of all ilk at high-end hotels, restaurants, spas, and private retreats. Again, Americans talk as though these peons do not exist. And these peons just soak it up. Indeed, I have been on your Acela train. I simply sit there and listen to people loudly talking on their phones: lawyers and corporate executives, journalists and television news presenters, and even your government officials, giving away the most critical data like it is nothing. In my country they would be shot. I turn my recorder on and sip my drink and it is so easy. That is why we have people who work there and also wherever sensitive information can be captured by seemingly insignificant people. America is one gigantic leaking balloon and it is truly wonderful.”
Jamison glanced worriedly at Decker, who kept staring at Egorshin.
“The list of these types of occupations goes on and on. The opportunities for us are endless. My agents are well trained for all that they have to do. Their work credentials are authentic. Then they just have to do their jobs and the information flows nonstop. We will bury your country without firing a shot or launching one missile. We won’t have to, because you are simply defeating yourself by your own stupid carelessness. And we will be there to step in as the victor.”
Jamison said, “I thought all of your spying was done in the cyber world now. Hacks and bot armies to sway public opinion.”
Egorshin shrugged. “Cyber warfare certainly has its place. And it has worked well for my country against the United States and others. But while bot armies and hacking and message multiplication and the spread of false stories are effective, there is, in my opinion, no substitute for boots on the ground, what you call human intelligence. People gathering information directly from the source. Humans can deceive in infinitely flexible, subtle ways that you cannot duplicate by writing lines of code.”
“I guess I can see that,” conceded Jamison.
“Now tell me about Mitzi,” said Egorshin.
“Why?” asked Decker.
“I have an interest. What will happen to her?”
“No telling yet. Depends on her degree of guilt.”
“She may have no guilt at all.”
“We believe that she set up her father.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“How can you possibly know that?” asked Jamison.
Decker was staring strangely at Egorshin but remained quiet. He closed his eyes, and in the depths of his memory he reread his most recent email from the medical examiner.
No familial ties to Meryl Hawkins.
Decker opened his eyes and refocused on Egorshin. “I’ll give you a little more debriefing. I just found out that the DNA under Abigail Richards’s nails was contaminated with a third party’s DNA. I thought it was Mitzi Gardiner. But the test showed the third party was unrelated to Meryl Hawkins.”
“So the person was not Mitzi,” said Jamison.
Decker didn’t seem to hear her. He kept his gaze on the Russian. “You know, I always wondered about the name.”
“Peyton is a typical American surname.”
“No, not your fake name. Mitzi’srealname.”
“Why wonder about that?” said Egorshin, his features tightening a bit.
“I looked it up a while back because it’s unusual for an American. Mitzi is a nickname that Germans give daughters who are named Maria.Youwere born in Germany.”
Egorshin shook his head. “My father was Russian. Egorshin is not German. And East Germany was far more like Russia than West Germany.”
“Maybe your father was Russian, but you and your family still lived in East Germany. And your mother was American.”
“I see you have done your homework. But what is your point? Mitzi Gardiner is not German. She was born here.”
“Yes, she was. And you’re sixty-two years old. While Mitzi is forty.”
“Decker,” said Mars. “What are you getting at?”
Decker kept his focus on Egorshin. “Mitzi’s mom worked in the cafeteria at Ohio State while you were a student there. At age twenty-two you would have probably been in your senior year. She was a few years older than you.”
