The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Forsyth put down a copy of DIVA’s report. “How did the Nokos get this technology?” said Forsyth. “The RGB can’t tie their own shoes. All they normally do is shoot coup plotters inside their own country. You’re telling me they’re running an American source in-country? No way.”

“Someone’s passing the technology,” said Hearsey. “The translated Korean document DIVA provided has verbatim US terminology: ‘conduction path,’ ‘ionized gas,’ ‘compact pulsed power.’ The Nokos aren’t coming up with that on their own.”

“Got to be Beijing,” said Gable. “I bet the MSS popped some California peacenik working in a navy lab who’s dedicated to trans-Pacific harmony; or a zit-faced contractor in DOD who wants a Corvette; or a weapons officer on board a frigate who’s in love with a Chia Pet from Shanghai who’s keeping his personal railgun on pulsed power.”

Westfall squirmed in his seat. Benford saw it and pointed at him. “Westfall, you have a view on the issue?” Gable slid the doughnut box down the table, as a collegial encouragement to speak up. Westfall let the lid of the box drop when he saw Gable had eaten the last two doughnuts and the box was empty.

“I don’t think Beijing wants Pyongyang to have the bomb,” Westfall said. “The Chinese think they still control the Nokos with food shipments and military aid. They like that the West comes begging for help in moderating North Korean behavior. And they ultimately know that once Pyongyang has a reliable nuke and a delivery system, their pit bull has slipped the leash, and is likely to do anything. Even against them. I looked it up: flight time of a basic Rodong-1 ballistic missile for the eight hundred kilometers from Sohae satellite launch center to Tiananmen Square is about five minutes, not even time for the politburo to kiss one another good-bye. Nope, China doesn’t want them to have the bomb.” There was silence around the table. The kid wasn’t dumb.

“A real Ulysses P. Grant,” said Gable. “So who do you think’s running our railgun mole?”

Westfall looked over at Nate. “DIVA’s the only one who can tell us that,” he said. “But if she can’t find a name pretty darn quick and Pyongyang figures out how to squeeze a uranium device into a warhead, the Seattle Space Needle is gonna be ground zero.”

NATE’S AEGEAN GREEN BEANS

Top and tail green beans. Mix minced garlic, parsley, dill, mint, salt, and pepper. Layer thin-sliced onions on the bottom of a Dutch oven, cover with a layer of crushed tomatoes, beans, the herbs, abundant olive oil, another layer of onions, tomatoes, beans, herbs, and olive oil. Finish with a layer of onions and drizzle with more olive oil. Simmer covered until beans are very soft and tender. Season and add lemon juice. Serve warm or at room temperature.

4

Stealing Secrets

Alexander Larson, the sitting Director of CIA, was the first DCIA in thirty years to have come up through the operational ranks. He was a mustang, like the OSS-vintage directors who led the Agency in the fifties and the sixties—before the unrelieved string of successors selected from the military, or from the unctuous halls of Congress, or from the ranks of the Directorate of Intelligence—and tried their hands at directing an organization the arcane mission of which they imperfectly understood and had never experienced firsthand. Some directors were disasters, some of them unmitigated disasters, and a precious few achieved a certain synergy with the notoriously skeptical and ungovernable workforce at Langley before they left. The confirmation of veteran ops officer Alex Larson as DCIA broke the drought.

Alex Larson had gone through training at the Farm in the early seventies with Simon Benford. Larson the smooth extrovert became friends with Benford the irascible misanthrope, the result of an unlikely personal chemistry that had endured thirty years. It was logical that their disparate personalities would push Alex into the overseas clandestine service and the business of recruitment of foreign assets, and that Benford naturally would gravitate to the slough of counterintelligence and counterespionage. Geographical separation over the years did not dull the friendship, which automatically renewed itself whenever their paths crossed. Now Larson was DCIA. He knew his rumpled friend was brilliant, and had the tenacity of a pit bull, albeit with a maloccluded bite. Benford consulted with him often.