The Seventh Floor, page 37
“I wouldn’t press it,” a guy named Tobin had called out from down the bench.
“Why’s that?”
“Eh . . . I’d just leave her well alone.”
The third Procter sighting was at the annual Memorial Ceremony in the spring. Only one star went up that year, and to the public the recipient was anonymous. Lambert, though, knew that it was for a former case officer named Sam Joseph, who’d been killed by the Russians in the Mason affair. Lambert had followed every detail of the investigation, but the part about the Russians murdering someone on U.S. soil had been so thoroughly compartmentalized that even he’d been left off the distro. Lambert only had Joseph’s name and that flash of context because Sweet had overshared once, while planning for the event, grumbling that Artemis Procter had pointedly declined to speak at the closed, classified version of the ceremony for Sam. “What the hell is wrong with her, exactly?” Sweet had asked. “Twenty-five fucking years with her, and I still don’t know the answer.” And Lambert hadn’t known, either, nor was he read in on Sam Joseph, so he merely shrugged and they moved on to other business.
The Memorial Ceremony was a brisk affair, complete with the usual speeches at the Memorial Wall by Director Gosford and DDO Sweet. Lambert caught the spray of curly black hair out in the crowd, a few rows in front of him, legs crossed, face impassive when he managed to score a quick glance. She was sitting with Raptis and Monk from Russia House. She listened, expressionless, and left quickly after the ceremony.
Later, when the DDO was meeting with Sam’s family, he asked one of the SAs about Procter.
“Oh sure,” the SA said, still facing his computer screen. “Chief of Moscow X once upon a time, right? She’s done a bunch of spooky stuff against the Russians. She was Chief in Damascus back in the day. Few other places.”
“I heard,” Lambert said, “that the Russians tried to blackmail her. Put some rather revealing pictures on the web. They say she nearly killed the Russian pitching her.”
“Sounds made up,” the SA said, and paused. “But they do call her the Angel of Death, you know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“There are stories,” the SA whispered, now turning to face Lambert. “From Afghanistan. From Syria. You kill one of ours, she kills you. She has the stars tattooed on her back. One for each officer avenged. But, I mean, come on. Those are probably just rumors, right?”
That Evening Lambert rode the elevator down from the Seventh Floor for a smoke in the courtyard, tracing a meandering path that took him through the hallway near the lobby. He saw the curly hair peeking out from behind a column as he approached. She was facing the Memorial Wall, and, from his vantage, seemed very close to it, along the far end with the newest stars. Lambert considered stopping for a look, but he did not have anything to say to her, and he did not want to risk being spotted. Walking by, he looked down the steps and snatched one brief, clean glance of Artemis Aphrodite Procter through the columns. She had a hand extended to touch the newly etched star. He thought her lips were moving, but he could not be certain. A column had broken his view, and she was gone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The third one came a little easier than the second. But not by much. As with the first two novels, this book only exists because it had so many friends helping the story (and its author) along the way.
Spy fiction aficionados will note that The Seventh Floor tips its hat on occasion to John le Carré’s exceptional novel Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Like Le Carré, the essential double-cross at the heart of my story draws on the success seen by the British secret services during World War II, when its famed “Double-Cross System” managed to flip the entirety of the German spy network in Britain for the purposes of feeding disinformation to the Nazi High Command. For intrepid readers looking for more, I recommend the interesting—but admittedly dense—Double Cross System, written by, J. C. Masterman, one of its chief strategists. Hundreds of additional books and articles were consulted while writing this novel, too many to name here, but suffice it to say that aspiring Dermatologists seeking an education in the dark arts of mole-hunting should find no shortage of material. One need only search the name of a famous, or infamous, traitor, and you’re off to the races.
I am supremely grateful to my agent, Lisa Erbach Vance, who sagely shepherded the novel through the perilous and uncertain journey from unruly Word document to finished book.
Tremendous thanks to my editor at Norton, Star Lawrence, who continues to bet on me and who sharpens my writing and storytelling with each novel.
I am indebted to the team at Norton: Nneoma Amadi-obi, who expertly wrangles it all; Dave Cole for his keen eye on the manuscript; Kyle Radler and Steve Colca for getting the word out.
To Mark Richards, Diana Broccardo, the indomitable Lisa Shakespeare, and Rachel Nobilo at Swift Press, for launching my books and spreading the word across the Atlantic, and for several exceptional bottles of Domaine de Bargylus whilst in London: thank you. Tremendous thanks also to Caspian Dennis, who makes it all happen across the pond.
Bill and Lorenzo served as field guides to Las Vegas, the habits and habitat of the high roller, and also generously shared many of the stories that comprise Frankie, Sam, and Procter’s wild night out on the town. Here in the real world, more than a year on from that Vegas visit, and I have barely recovered from the whirlwind tour.
Dave Michael again submerged the writing in a world of pain, and the story is so much better for it. Thank you, Dave.
Former CIA comrades graciously contributed time and insight to this novel: Glenn Chafetz, John Sipher, and Mark Pascale helped this unreformed analyst navigate the world of modern-day tradecraft and counterespionage. Don Hepburn again advised on all manner of CIA tradecraft, Marc Polymeropoulos offered a groaning portfolio of Agency prank stories and his war zone experiences. Charles Finfrock had extremely useful insight on the brave new(ish) world of ubiquitous technical surveillance. Steve Slick, Lizzy M., Anna Connolly, and Christina Hillsberg generously read early drafts and provided invaluable comments and insight. Several other former colleagues and friends, nameless here, shared their insights and experiences and read early drafts. As always, all lapses in operational wisdom and tradecraft are my own.
Jan Neumann, a former FSB officer, yet again helped me ensure I didn’t mess up Moscow, the Russian, or the secret services too badly.
Frank Montoya read several versions of the manuscript, offered wise counsel on all things Feeb, and saved me from numerous forensic errors.
Jenny Green called a spade a spade and told me plainly what needed fixing. I am grateful for a frank conversation in a Galveston kitchen that helped put the story on the right path.
Mike Green again served as the book’s resident doctor—thank you for your counsel on all manner of calamities and illnesses, from the strain of a rough interrogation to hemorrhoids.
Thanks are also due to Joe L. for his help designing Peter and Irene’s choice of weaponry, and to Gordon Corera for his insights on Russian illegals.
Several other dear friends read versions of this novel and offered help along the way. Kent Woodyard, Erin Yerger, Becky Friedman, Jaclyn Edwards, Alex Blackwell: all took the time to read and offer helpful feedback and encouragement.
As always I must give my love to my children, Miles, Leo, and Mabel, who, to this author’s tremendous relief, are not yet interested in books without pictures.
Finally, and most importantly, my deepest love and gratitude goes to my wife, Abby. She is my first reader, greatest champion, fiercest (and most loving) critic, and most wonderfully prescient muse. The book simply would not exist without her.
Also by David McCloskey
Moscow X
Damascus Station
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by David McCloskey
All rights reserved
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ISBN 978-1-324-08668-0
ISBN 978-1-324-08669-7 (epub)
W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10110
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David McCloskey, The Seventh Floor
