The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Audrey’s scalp moved when she heard a thump-thump coming toward her out of the darkness on the boardwalk. In the fading light, the indistinct shape of a hunched-over human form gradually became clear, and Audrey thought of the irony of being accosted by an estuarine swamp creature while meeting her Russian handler in downtown Washington, DC. More likely it would be a paunchy Schedule C contractor, out at twilight looking for a young tug-mutton. She relaxed when a fogey in a floppy hat and flannel shirt approached. The old man was using a walker, and the thump of the padded legs of his appliance echoed hollowly off the planks. Audrey nodded pleasantly as he passed, but just got a harrumph in return from the miserable bastard, who was clearly hurrying to get off the island before it closed. After the man had disappeared around the bend there was no one else around, no sounds. All she had to do was wait for SUSAN to ghost up to her out of the dusk. Audrey patted her jacket pocket to make sure the thumb drive and two discs with the latest Office of Naval Research secrets were secure. She’d pass the drive and discs, verbally brief SUSAN on her confirmation, and listen to the Center’s ideas about communications options when she became DCIA and had a full-time security detail.

What Audrey Rowland did not realize was that the senior citizen fishing off the causeway, and the two biddies looking for birds, and the irascible crusty-pants hobbling behind a walker were all part of Simon Benford’s ORION surveillance team, a collection of retired CIA officers who were so adept, and patient, and effective, that they outperformed the crack FBI surveillance team known as the “Gs” who followed trained foreign intelligence officers for a living. The ORIONs’ skill was to anticipate where a target would go, get there ahead of the rabbit, and undetectably witness a clandestine act without the intelligence officer (and his American agent) ever having an inkling that they were covered. Benford once famously said that the difference between ORION surveillance and the FEEBS was the difference between a cat watching a bird, and a dog chasing a car. The ORIONs had been leapfrogging ahead of Admiral Rowland all day, totally unseen, anticipating her route-of-march—the overall vector of her travel—and logging her general direction, and when, near the end of the day, Theodore Roosevelt Island became a possibility, four of the dozen ORIONs covering Audrey had flooded the zone and were in place before she even pulled into the parking lot. The geriatric team—the two bird-watchers were grandmothers—reported that target demeanor indicated an imminent meeting. That was good enough for Simon. Benford had alerted the FBI arrest team to deploy accordingly, as the ORIONs had no arrest authority and could not detain a suspect by flashing their AARP cards.

Days before, the rendezvous had been made twenty-one nautical miles off the Black Sea coast of Russia. The USV had performed flawlessly, making contact with DDG-78, the USS Porter, an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer of the 6th Fleet, a little after 0100 in calm seas. The USV was hoisted aboard the helo deck by a specially fitted stern hoist, and rolled on a dolly out of sight into the aft helo hangar by bridge crane. Sailors who opened the USV hatch had been surprised to see a busty middle-age woman in a wet T-shirt emerge, holding a waterproof pouch. They had been further surprised to see the shrouded figure of an elegant gentleman in a suit sleeping in the second reclining chair who, on closer inspection, was determined to be dead. The executive officer on the Porter cleared the hangar of crewmembers at the behest of a short rumpled man wearing a navy peacoat who was accompanied by a taller civilian with salt-and-pepper hair, and a nervous young man with fogged-over spectacles.

Agnes had shaken hands with Benford and Westfall, hugged Forsyth, repeated “chalice, chalice, chalice,” until they told her to stop, they got it, and handed them the pouch with the thumb drive. They had all sat in the empty wardroom, sipping coffee, reading the thumb-drive report on a laptop. A plate of toast slices smothered in a white sauce with chipped beef, the navy staple known as “S.O.S.,” was put in front of her by a grinning steward. Agnes took a cautious sniff, tried a forkful, then had devoured the whole plate. She had not eaten in twelve hours. As she ate, she told them the rest about Dominika and Gorelikov. Forsyth reached over and squeezed her hand. Westfall had hurried away to send flash cables to Langley.