“You wish to speak?” Federov said in English.
Jenkins nodded. “I do.”
“All right, but if you want us to cooperate, you’ll have to come to Lubyanka,” Federov said, trying to sound disinterested. “You’re the person making the proposal. We’re willing to listen, but if you want to talk to us, you must come over.”
“Ya dumayu, chto ya dostatochno blizko. Krome togo, korotkaya progulka po russkomu kholodu khorosha diya zdorovya, net?” Jenkins said, deliberately speaking Russian. Ordinarily he never would have divulged how much Russian he knew or understood, but he wanted Federov to believe he controlled this meeting. I think I am close enough. Besides, a short walk in the Russian cold is good for the health, no?
Federov glanced at him, and the two men held one another’s gaze. Saving face—projected strength—meant everything to Russian men. Jenkins purposefully broke eye contact first.
“Besides, the noise in here makes it next to impossible that anyone could hear us or record our conversation,” Jenkins said in English. “I think that is best to suit our purposes this morning. I assume you do also, which is why we’re here.”
Federov stared at the screen. “Perhaps we should start with your purpose?” he said.
“Fair enough. As I said on the phone, I’m an American businessman with information I think the Russian government would appreciate.”
“What kind of business?”
“Security.”
A grin inched across Federov’s lips. “In Russia, some would say we have enough security, maybe too much.”
“And in the United States, some would say we don’t have enough to protect us from those who seek to harm us.” He sighed. “My job is a convenience for my presence in your country.”
“Why don’t you tell me why you are here.”
“Have you ever visited Mexico City?” Jenkins asked.
Federov’s eyebrows inched closer together. “No. I have not.”
“You’re too young.” Jenkins estimated Federov to be midforties. “In my day, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a Russian KGB officer in Mexico City.”
“And what was your business in Mexico City?”
Jenkins smiled. “Throwing rocks at Russian KGB officers.”
Federov glanced at Jenkins for a moment, then laughed.
“Yo era un turista estadounidense en México,” Jenkins said in Spanish. I was an American tourist in Mexico.
“I see. So tell me, what then is the nature of your information?”
“The names of Russian KGB officers I hit with those rocks.”
“I do not understand.”
“Stones that found their mark.”
“Russian KGB officers who defected?”
“No. Those who stayed.”
“I see.” Federov was clearly intrigued but would not show it. He shrugged. “This was many years ago. The Soviet Union is no more. What makes you think we would still be interested?”
“Yes, I’ve read all about glasnost and perestroika. So perhaps I am wrong in my assumption that someone like me would have anything of value to offer this new Russia.”
“Perhaps not,” Federov said, but then added, “one can only try.”
Jenkins nodded. It was time to boat the fish. “Alexei Sukurov. I believe he was a former colonel in your KGB, and for forty years he provided the United States with valuable information regarding Soviet weapons technology. The operation went by the code name Graystone.”
“I have not heard of this man.”
Jenkins smiled. “Because he would be an embarrassment to your country. Look him up, Mr. Federov. If he interests you, let me know.”
“How long will you be in Moscow, Mr. Jenkins?”
“One never knows,” Jenkins said, noting that Federov had not asked where he was staying.
“And if this man is of interest, what is it that you would want in return?”
“What every American wants,” Jenkins said. “What every Russian wants, at least from what I saw on my brief walk this morning. We’re all capitalists now, aren’t we?”
7
The call to Jenkins’s burner phone came the following afternoon, as Jenkins hurried up the carpeted runner into the Metropol Hotel’s marbled lobby after another round of largely unnecessary meetings with LSR&C’s Moscow office. He’d scheduled the meetings only because he wanted to give Federov time to do his due diligence on Alexei Sukurov. According to Emerson, Sukurov, a high-ranking KGB officer, had for years provided the United States with detailed information on Soviet technology before his death. His name itself was, therefore, inconsequential. The hope was Federov would be curious about whether Jenkins had access to more relevant but equally sensitive information.
The call confirmed Federov was curious.
The FSB officer again requested that Jenkins come to the Lubyanka Building. Again, Jenkins declined. He suggested instead that they meet in a restaurant. In an effort to soothe Federov’s ego, Jenkins further suggested that Federov pick him up at the hotel, then drive until satisfied Jenkins was not being followed by any CIA case officers—a procedure which, in Jenkins’s day, had been called “dry cleaning.”
An hour later, Jenkins walked down the steps outside the back of the hotel. While he waited, heavy snowflakes drifted on a light breeze before settling on the paved courtyard like fall leaves, tempering sound and giving Moscow a tranquil feeling.
A black Mercedes pulled into the courtyard and stopped at the base of the stairs. Federov sat in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield. Jenkins heard the click of the door locks disengage, and the valet pulled open the rear door. Jenkins slid into the back seat behind Federov. The block of cement drove. They did not exchange pleasantries.
The driver merged onto surface streets. Jenkins noticed both men checking mirrors for a tail.
The driver made a sudden and sharp right turn, forcing Jenkins to grab the ceiling handle and fight against the centrifugal force threatening to throw him across the back seat. The bottom of the car scraped concrete. The wheels bounced. When they stopped, the headlights illuminated a narrow brick alley, barely the width of the car. The driver shut off the ignition and killed the lights. Then he and Federov quickly exited the car. Federov opened the back door.
“Step out, please.”
Jenkins stepped out, hoping this was not their final stop. The alley reeked of the sour scent of garbage.
The driver patted down Jenkins from his head to his feet. When he’d finished, he nodded to Federov, who gave a hand signal down the alley. Headlights from a second car, parked in an arched tunnel, illuminated the alley. The car inched forward from its hiding place. Three men, one as tall as Jenkins, emerged from a red Audi and walked quickly and silently to the black Mercedes. The tallest sat in the back. The new driver drove down the alley, turning right on the intersecting street.
Jenkins followed Federov and his driver to the Audi and climbed into the back seat. They exited the alley in the direction they had entered. The block of cement resumed making unexpected turns and slowing and accelerating to time traffic signal lights. When satisfied no one followed, the driver pulled to a stop on Tverskoy Boulevard in front of a Baroque-style building with a gold plaque bearing the name Café Pushkin.