The Seventh Floor, page 24
They were walking over a terra-cotta floor, and there was piano music. They marched through the gargantuan atrium, the scent of citrus returning, the world serene except for the tinnitus, and they crossed the path toward Frankie’s room and he tripped over a low wall and toppled, buns overhead, a felled log, smack into a koi pond, and Procter remembered that one of the bellmen had said these were sensitive fish, quite old in fact, and that made her wish Theo was here, and Frankie was squirming and shouting in the water. Through the haze came the sound of fins slapping and sloshing, and the Russian stood in the pond, his suit soaked clean through, looking to the glass enclosure above, and he cast a spout of vomit into the night sky, his eyes shut as if in prayer.
33
LAS VEGAS
By the time Procter stumbled past in the late morning, the fish pond was drained and there were a few guys in there wearing waders that said: HOUSEKEEPING SERVICES BIOHAZARD TEAM. Procter got a table at the restaurant off the atrium and ordered coffee. In her pocket were the photos lifted from the REMORA files and Petra Devine’s unofficial stash—the only documentation she’d brought for this chat. Frankie appeared, alone, an hour later. Sam a few minutes after that, looking awful; perhaps worse than when CIA got him back in Vienna. A night with Frankie had wrecked Jaggers as thoroughly as a hostile Russian interrogation. For a long while they ate a Vegas breakfast: midday, indoors, sunglasses, silence.
“Where’s the annual ledger on your gaming after last night, Frankie?” Procter asked on her third cup of coffee.
“Perhaps close to even,” Frankie said. “Fuck, who knows?” He sipped his coffee, grimaced, and snapped for a lychee martini. The waiter brought the drink, and Procter clinked her coffee mug to his glass.
“We can do this in Russian if you want,” Procter said, in Russian. “But regardless of the language, you need to talk to me, Frankie. Or I am going to murder you.”
Frankie did not respond, or even nod. He called to the waiter for steak and eggs.
“I want to talk about the SVR’s Special Section,” she said, also in Russian. “Few basic questions. I put up with last night’s gong show for this.”
Frankie paled at another sip of the martini. He pressed his palms into the table; Procter worried he might fall out of his chair.
“This is a friendly chat,” Procter said. “Off the record. No recording devices. No cables on the back end. No paper.”
He took another sip of his martini. His hands floated low, to the table, while his eyes soared to the glass crown of the atrium. “Does Charles speak Russian?” Frankie jerked a thumb at Sam.
“Not so much,” she said.
“English fine,” Frankie said, in English. “And, look. I told your people all about Special Section when defect. Three years now, Artemis. Information”—here he paused for a moment to consider the appropriate word—“elderly. And I drink. So much I drink. Erase brain.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Fully aware, Frankie. Let’s test it, though, eh? Stir that cranium stew for a few minutes, give me a spoonful?”
He licked foam from his lips. “Okay, Artemis and Charles, fine. Fine. Where I start?”
“Beginning,” she said. “You start at beginning.”
“Okay,” Frankie said, with annoyance and a long pause, as if he could barely remember where the beginning might be. “Maybe four years ago SVR reorganize. They lose primo Euro sources. So they do, eh, how do you say, eh . . . gopher hunt.”
“They what with gophers?” Procter said.
“A hunt for a gopher,” Frankie said, “A gopher hunt.”
“What’s a gopher hunt?” Sam asked.
“To find spies,” said Frankie.
“Ah, you mean a mole hunt,” Procter said.
“Right,” Frankie said. “Right, right. Mole hunt. Mole hunt. Mole hunt”—his mouth widened with each o, as if he might swallow it. “And here they find nothing, but still few poor bastards get shot. Make point. But executive brass say we gotta fix some shit, we gotta plug leaks in departments, and how we gonna do that? When you gotta problem in America, waddya do? More committees. Russia same. So they rip key sources out of Line KR. Out of American Department. Out of Fifth Department. On and on. Give them to old bastard ratfuck named Rem Zhomov. Clever. Big brain. Old school. He a general but operational. Rare, very rare. But he have SVR Director’s ear. He do work because he love, you know? He love the work. And he become proposer of new theory, new idea. He say, look, we want two big things. We wanna know what Americans up to. Basic intel. Plans and intentions, whatever. Two: We want wreck America itself. Active-measures shit, you know, I see in eyes you know, why you come to Las Vegas for this? You know.”
Frankie looked toward a gardener pruning a tree inside the atrium. A lime had bounced from a branch to roll along the paving stones.
“This is why we’re here, Frankie, keep going,” Sam said. “We paid our dues last night, so you keep on rolling.”
“Fine, fine, Charlie, fine and dandy”—said with menace. “Well, Zhomov, he huge prick, always looking for the fuck-over, that how you say it? He grab the good cases from the departments and lines and run them from Special Section. He snaggled the best handlers and bring them to Special Section. Honcho budget. And he careful, too. Separate network inside SVR, okay? No mixing. Special Section not appear on documents. This why when I defect they accuse me lying, you see? The Section like ghost. Whispers.” He brought a finger to his lips and blew across it.
His food arrived. Procter couldn’t make eye contact with the eggs and it didn’t look like Sam could, either. Frankie slid the martini away, bracelets and watch jangling over hairy wrists as he unrolled silverware from the napkin. “Russian special services fight like any other place,” he said. “That how I came to hear whispers and meet Zhomov and some his guys. SVR pissed at FSB, not new thing, yes, but SVR little shit brother to FSB cousins inside Kremlin. Lost at everything. Potato chip on shoulder, yes, that how you say?”
“Yes,” Procter said, “exactly right. Potato chips on the old shoulders. Go on.”
A few seconds passed as Frankie chewed his steak, then he said: “SVR crave seat at table. FSB big gorilla, SVR want weapon shoot gorilla, maybe put head on wall, turn foot into garbage pail, fur to rug, all that.”
In his past life, Procter remembered from the cables, Frankie had fancied recreational poaching on his African safaris. Sam lifted his coffee to his lips. Then, thinking better of it, set down the untouched mug and just stared at it as Frankie went on.
“Special Section trot down Kremlin to advertise,” Frankie continued. “And Zhomov say to us, look, fellas, we got shit in America. The CIA sometimes catch big Russian fish, we get hooks into little guys. Bottom-feeders. Military guys on coke. Douche at thinking tank. Congressional staffer hiding gayness. And, fine, he admitted, no need turn them away, right? We take what we get. But we need group of snipers. Long shots, low chance. But if we getta hit, head explode on impact. Important heads. I speak metaphor. Not wet work. Special Section no murder shop. Special Section chasing big American pelts to recruit. Using best officers. And patience.”
Frankie’s tone had become respectful, Procter noticed, a reluctant reverence for Zhomov.
“See, Ms. Artemis, common knowledge in Kremlin that half of SVR reports are bullshit. Sorry, no. Like eighty percent. Mostly bullshits. It like this in CIA? Of course. Big organization full of humans. You got humans, you got problems. Tough shit. Special services expected to produce reports. Intelligence.” Here he inserted air quotes. “And so SVR officers provide what asked for. Reports. Paper. Quality not priority concern. Priority is numbers. And this disgust Zhomov. He say in his pitch, look, we get two, three sources with real access and there’s business. But we gotta be patient. Gotta look for the right prospects. Gotta point at right target. Sniper, not shotgun, he say this, the clever ratfuck.” Here Frankie squeezed the trigger on his imaginary rifle, aiming straight through Procter, toward the lime tree.
Frankie pushed aside his half-eaten meal and snapped for another lychee martini. He’d stopped talking to watch a woman walk through the atrium. Another silence descended upon the conversation.
“You said part of the section’s work was active measures,” Sam said. “How’s that different from any other shop at SVR? Everyone thinks about the espionage business that way out in the Forest.”
Frankie drank half his martini upon arrival, wagging a no-no finger as he wiped his mouth. “Not that way, different. Different methods. Patience. Zhomov say, look, guys, what rat out Ames and Hanssen? They work for us, our best boys, now they in prison or dead. We give CIA and FBI bread crumbs when we snatch up hard and fast. Americans are decadent but not stupid. Shoota bunch of spies and CIA feels Moscow penetration. They search based on access. Hard to find goph-, I mean moles, but not impossible, and maybe not so hard when we arrest twenty at once. We blow our source. No, Zhomov argue for patience. He say we recruit, we develop. We not be dumbass, go slow. We protect monster sources. He say goal, ultimately, is destruction of CIA. Has to be, Frankie said, and guys, everyone in briefing is nodding, smiling. Destroy CIA? Well, now they eat from Zhomov palm.”
“Did Zhomov say,” Procter asked, “how they would target the Americans? Or run them?”
Frankie’s head was caged in the fingers of his hand; through them he dueled with the idea of finishing breakfast. Scraping up a tentative forkful of jiggling egg, Frankie said that Zhomov had offered little by way of detail, but that he’d emphasized the quirks of running fellow intelligence officers as sources. “Zhomov preach idea that intel guys different cookie jar,” Frankie said. “Blackmailed Congress staffer gets website where he types shit. Intel guy’s not gonna say yes because he know better. He know about SVR fuckups. Gonna say fuck off on the commo. Zhomov saying this because he trying to steal officers and budget from other departments, and chiefs there fighting his ass bigly. Zhomov say, look, guys, we have some success and handling gonna be different. Gonna take more people. Gonna take more steps. Gonna be slower. Don’t push my ass, Zhomov pretty much say, not much nicer. He say you want results, you pay for it. And I gonna give you results. Don’t push my ass.”
And at this point, Procter, knowing the answer but still compelled to make the journey, asked: “Did Zhomov have any assets inside CIA?”
Frankie drained the martini. Snapped for another. “Ms. Artemis, I spend three months in house by D.C. I talk to hundred you people: job, friends, family, enemies, rumors, Kremlin floor plan, houseplants in Putin office. You think I forget if Zhomov say he had someone? No, waddya think I hiding? No, Zhomov had no one back four years ago. He starting Special Section then. He come for money and show us how he badass. No moles then. Early days.”
“Zhomov’s crew,” Sam said. “You remember them? His guys?”
Frankie, stirring his fork aimlessly through the food, made a wet noise and said: “Same answer, Charles, I told your people the names I knew. All in the reports. They show me stack of pictures and I try my best.”
“I’ll try again,” Procter said. “How do you know if someone is Special Section? There’s no org chart, right? No paper trail connecting someone to it?”
“Bingo,” he said. “Zhomov tap officers from the lines and departments to work for him. He use guys from all departments, but they not Special Section on papers, just in reality.”
“I brought pictures,” Procter said, “of a few guys.” From her purse she spread a line of five photographs. “Mind humoring me, Frankie? I know your brain is a boozy mush and all, but I’d like you to tell me if any of these handsome gents are fellow travelers with Rem Zhomov.”
The martini arrived; he raised it toward the glass ceiling before emptying it in a single pull. Now, as he regarded the line of photos, a shadow seemed to cross his face, perhaps the recognition that he was now on the verge of crossing over from rehashing old background to offering something far more direct and dangerous, and for which, if word were to travel to Moscow, he might find himself in the crosshairs. Frankie put his head down on the table and pretended to snore.
“Or maybe,” Procter said, scooting in her chair to speak directly into his ear, “I have your handler-turned-babysitter make a few calls around town. Throw a wrench into your gaming habits. Look at whether you’re paying taxes on all those winnings. Or maybe I go into that flop house of a villa and shake a few of those nice ladies awake, see if anyone wants a couple grand to tell a bunch of casino hosts you’ve been handsy, grabbin’ cooches and whatnot. Hell, maybe you’ve got a problem, Frankie, you’re a serial grabber of high-end cooch, and there are just going to be bunches of ladies coming forward with awful stories about this high roller putting sweaty paws on them, and you know what’s worse, he says his name is Frankie but he sounds like a Russkie. Sweats like one, too. Smells of onions and beets and vodka. Oh, it’ll be gut-wrenching stuff about exploitation and hush money and Russian imperialism and the goddamn patriarchy. Bad for Frankie Potnick, your American alter ego. And bad for the Fyodor inside Frankie’s skin. The kind of incident that gets your picture in papers that could find their way to the Kremlin. Putin might take a gander and say: That snake is in Vegas. Maybe he gets someone to come out here and wet your shorts with nerve agent or, if they’re in a more traditional mood, toss you from one of the Sky Suites over at the Aria. Splatter you like a pizza flung onto the Strip during a rager.”
Frankie raised his head, thin smile trickling across his face. He ordered another martini and the waiter’s eyebrows fluttered with shock, then sorrow. Head hung, he tramped off to the bar.
“You born wrong place, Ms. Artemis,” he said. “Shoulda been Russian.”
“Roditely e Rodinu ne vyberaut,” Procter said, and shrugged. You don’t pick your parents or your motherland.
Frankie stared at the pictures, working up the courage, the skin around his eyes stretching and quivering while he reviewed the lineup. Procter could not tell if one of them had caught his eye but he was unsure, or if the faces drew him back to the nightmare of his defection, or if he knew straightaway and could not decide if he should speak the truth. His fingers wiggled in the air, curling into a fist that he rubbed along the polished table as if working out a stain. For a long while he wrestled with himself in silence.
“Him,” he said at last, tapping his finger on one of the photos.
“Know what he did for Zhomov?”
“Old hand in the Fifth, I believe. Odd jobs. Fixer. He close to Zhomov. He and Zhomov boys together in Petersburg.”
“How sure are you?”
“Mostly.”
“You looked for a good while to be fully sure, if you don’t mind me saying, Frankie. Kind of dragged that out.”
“I was thinking of lie.”
“Couldn’t manage one?”
“Brain is mush, as I say. Arrivederci, Ms. Artemis and Mr. Charles. I cover breakfast. Adios.” Frankie called the wrong villa number to the waiter and slipped away, out the atrium and toward the pool.
In Procter’s room the photo Frankie had selected sat on the desk alongside a clump of hair ties she’d excavated from the bottom of her suitcase. The picture, a headshot, included her short caption at the bottom: Rodion Vissarionovich Pletkov, Colonel, SVR, Fifth Department (Europe).
REMORA. An old Zhomov disciple.
Tangles within tangles, she thought, and wondered if she had ever been more tired.
Sam and Procter sat down in her room and for three hours they went through it all, front to back. They knew Theo had lied, for instance, about the batting order for the March meeting with REMORA in France, and worried that an innocent explanation was unlikely; they knew that Theo, Mac, and Gus had offered differing versions of the arrival order that also veered off from the cable record; they knew that REMORA was one of Zhomov’s men; they knew that Debs had booted Petra Devine from CIA for questioning the REMORA case and kicking up shit about a molehunt; they knew that Mac had not mentioned his stopover visit to New York Station and the briefing with Gus and Debs; they knew Gus had FISA on him after Moscow and might still now; they knew Debs had gotten the White House hooked on the intel and used the addiction to burnish her credentials. Lastly, they knew that the mole was still operating: they could not interpret the Tarrman roll-up and CLAW disappearance any other way.
What they did not have, plainly, was any hard proof. Certainly nothing that two disgraced officers could bring forward in hopes of being taken seriously. “And, to be frank, Jaggers,” the Chief said, “I don’t think we’re going to get it. I think we have reached the limits of these little chats.”
And so Procter proposed—and Sam agreed—that they slink to their separate corners. She to Florida, he to Northern Virginia, in a kind of ritual time-out to figure if they might take an alternate, and far riskier, path. That road, they both knew, would shift the trajectory of their investigation: from a series of innocent-seeming discussions—with some thin veneer of operational cover for each—to a real-world interference in CIA operations that would do far worse than just blow exhaust across their faces if it backfired.
Sam also sensed, but did not say, that the Chief had not yet come to terms with the fact that a good friend had betrayed her—betrayed them all. Had the notoriously unsentimental Procter’s clarity of vision been blurred by a suspect list made up of her old friends? Perhaps some distance was required before that grim reality could cover the chasm between the Chief’s head and heart. Sam had noticed, for one damning example, that throughout their debrief, the Chief refrained from merging the conclusions of her chats in Virginia with the golden nugget gleaned from Frankie: If REMORA was one of Zhomov’s men, that made REMORA the likely handler of the mole. The case was inside out.
