Page 74 of Denied Access

With the pistol still pointed at Fred, Petrov opened the SUV’s passenger door, exited the vehicle, and walked away.

CHAPTER 40

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

IRENEhad thought that morale at CIA headquarters had been bad.

It hadn’t.

At least not compared to the gloom that permeated the “yellow submarine.” The enclosure was nestled within the US embassy and served as the CIA’s tiny secure workspace. This was where the men and women who manned the agency’s most important station plotted surveillance detection routes, war-gamed recruitment pitches, and identified targets. This was where assets were run, and stolen secrets disseminated in secure cables back to Langley. This unassuming space was the agency’s equivalent of the Situation Room.

This was Moscow Station.

Or at least it used to be.

If before the yellow submarine had been the site of triumphant celebrations for missions gone right and a well of positive energy as audacious operations were plotted and war-gamed, now the vibe was decidedly different. Rather than the command post for an advancing army, the sterile confines felt like a different kind of gathering.

A wake.

“Would you like more coffee?”

Irene shifted her contemplation from the folder of documents spread out on the conference table in front of her next to the fire-engine-red secure speakerphone with its flashing green light to one of its would-be warriors. The woman hovering by her shoulder had been assigned the unenviable task of babysitting the Washington visitor until the acting chief returned from his meeting with the ambassador. Relations between the State Department and CIA were almost always tenuous, as their guiding principles were quite different.

At his core, a good diplomat was the kid in high school who fearlessly interposed his body between two of his classmates about to come to blows. State Department employees genuinely believed that every conflict could be resolved through diplomacy if the relevant parties negotiated in good faith. While ambassadors primarily served as the president’s spokesperson to a foreign nation’s leadership, they also strove to strengthen the relationship between the two countries.

Stealing another nation’s secrets tended to have a detrimental effect on this goal.

“No, thank you,” Irene said. “Forgive me for asking, but what was your name again?”

“It’s Elysia. Elysia Nicolas. And there’s no need to apologize. If I’d been through what you’d just experienced, I’m not sure I’d be able to remember myownname.”

Irene filed that comment away for further consideration later.

The welcome she’d received from Lieutenant General Grigoriy Petrov had been abrupt, but not particularly traumatizing, though this was beside the point. The glimpse into the case officer’s mindset was much more troubling. The men and women of Moscow Station were afraid of their own shadows.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

It wasn’t that the case officers were inflicted with timidity so much as it was an oversize opinion of their adversary. The blown operationhad infected this place with doubt, and for an organization that relied on a certain bit of swagger, self-doubt was just as big a killer as Russian counterintelligence officers.

Maybe more so.

“How long have you been in Moscow, Elysia?” Irene said.

The pretty young woman pursed her lips. She was in her early twenties with shoulder-length brown hair and a runner’s build. She didn’t look young so much as innocent. Irene wondered if she’d ever looked so youthful.

“About four months I guess,” Elysia said.

“How much operational work have you done in that time?”

“Very little. I’m still learning the streets. I was scheduled to unload a dead drop last week, but the officer I was assisting called it off.”

“Why?”

“I thought the drop site was compromised. Turns out, I was right.”

Irene turned to see a newcomer standing just inside the yellow submarine’s soundproof door.

“Oh, hi, Duane,” Elysia stammered, her face turning red. “I was just getting Irene here up to speed. I thought—”