The Missing Spy Read online

  Like the game of chess, a tiny detail overlooked could lead to checkmate, and that’s what Patrick was making sure of as he pored over the subway map. He preferred Line 1; its stations were the most beautiful, something he couldn’t overvalue in the otherwise drab city. But that couldn’t be a priority now. He followed one possible route. Would it allow him to lose tails and still be plausible for his work? More importantly, would he be able to meet Bishop at the precise time?

  If not, Patrick wondered if it would cost Agent Bishop his life.

  He estimated he would miss Bishop by three minutes, at best.

  He tested another route. But it included a line he had never traveled before. Anybody watching would follow him intently if he took a subway he had never used before. He discarded that option and decided he would soon use all the subway lines regularly.

  Patrick rubbed his eyes to refocus on the subway map. He needed a good route for the meetup; Agent Bishop’s life could depend on it. He poured himself a drink, realizing that it was going to be challenging to plan the perfect path for his brush pass with Agent Bishop. Beginning to fear it was impossible, he started weighing the possibilities of putting Agent Bishop at risk. Would he not meet with him? Or, would he take a calculated risk and meet with him via a potentially unsafe route?

  Without a wife or girlfriend to comfort him, Patrick knew he needed a break. He gulped down his drink and studied the flyer he had received along with the postcard, hoping for inspiration.

  It was late when Patrick found a plausible subway route that he could take the following morning. The ballet flyer had proven crucial. The route, after one transfer, a brush pass with Bishop, and then another transfer, would land him near a ballet company where he could plausibly do research for an article about ballet. Having solved the problem, Patrick wondered what would happen if he were followed. Patrick had not felt followed in quite a while.

  During Patrick’s first year in Moscow, the KGB followed him every day, sometimes obviously. However, Patrick had played the role of a bumbling sports reporter perfectly. He wasn’t too proud to show his ignorance of more cultural matters like the ballet. The KGB would have reasonably concluded that Patrick really was a clueless idiot. And other CIA personnel, even Billy, Edwards, and Fitzpatrick whom he knew best, would report the same to the KGB if they were compromised.

  What Patrick found the most difficult was not revealing how well he spoke Russian. He, in fact, spoke Russian excellently. He spoke so skillfully that, if needed, he and Agent Bishop could exchange coded phrases quickly and quietly. That was not possible for even an intermediate skilled Russian speaker. He often had to bite his tongue around other Americans whose accent and grammatical blunders hurt his ears. And his ego. But he could live with that as long as he handled America’s best asset. And when he spoke haltingly and poorly, it only further convinced the KGB that he was an incompetent American boob.

  After not sleeping well—Patrick was tormented trying to figure out Agent Bishop’s reason for calling the urgent meeting—Patrick followed his normal routine. Eggs. Lousy coffee, though it was the best he could get even with Embassy connections. Out the door and on the way to the subway, a few glances at the clock to make sure he would get on the correct train. He had one transfer, then the brush pass, then another transfer, and then the ballet.

  Minutes later, Patrick entered the subway car that would take him three stops. Then he would get off and transfer.

  The paranoia of Moscow must be rubbing off on me, Patrick thought to himself. Agent Bishop might be in danger for his life, but it’s also possible he has something incredibly valuable to pass off to me. Something that could break this Cold War. Something that could save American lives.

  Patrick decided he would try to be more optimistic. This optimism made Patrick glance around the crowded Moscow subway that morning. As was typical, everybody kept to themselves, eyes glued to the floor. Although everybody felt as though they were living in a worker’s paradise, none of them wanted to express too much happiness about it to anybody. Nobody wanted to draw attention to themselves.

  Patrick counted off the stops and then hurried out with the crowd and worked his way to the adjoining station.

  The clock looming over the metro platform informed him that he was a few minutes early and had to wait.

  Better than a few minutes late, Patrick thought to himself with relief.

  Patrick controlled his breathing as the subway arrived, and he forced himself to calmly board the necessary subway car.

  The brush pass would come next.

  As with the previous subway, nobody made eye contact, talked, or smiled. Holding onto a pole while standing, Patrick forced himself to do the same. Looking down at the floor, he recalled everybody surrounding him. The seats were full, and those standing were packed in tightly.

  Perfect for a brush pass, Patrick thought to himself. No Agent Bishop yet, though.

  Patrick counted the stops as others came and went. He only had three more stops, and still no Agent Bishop.

  Unless he was so good not even I noticed, Patrick thought to himself. But he didn’t dare check his pocket. Patrick calmed his nerves by reminding himself that Agent Bishop might not make it to the brush pass. But that only tempted more anxiety: was Agent Bishop’s time up?

  The subway was reaching the final stop at which Patrick would have to get off.

  Patrick couldn’t help but glance up. A man holding a folded Pravda quickly looked away.

  Patrick looked back down.

  Am I just being paranoid? Patrick wondered.

  Patrick’s instincts kicked in. If that man were KGB, watching him, any contact with Agent Bishop could be disastrous.

  The last stop was coming. If Agent Bishop were on the subway and ready for the brush pass, he would have to do it soon.

  Patrick forced his eyes to the floor, refusing to glance about to see if he could spot Agent Bishop.

  Patrick coughed a few times, hoping it would alert Agent Bishop if he were nearby.

  There it was again. The man reading the newspaper looked at him.

  Now Patrick felt confident that this man was KGB. But was the KGB observer for Patrick? Or was he for Agent Bishop?

  Something got ahold of Patrick, who was tired and frustrated playing the game passively, even though he was in the belly of the beast. Patrick took a few steps over to the man reading the Pravda and looked him in the eyes.

  Intentionally speaking in halting Russian, he smiled broadly and said, “Did you find anything interesting? In the newspaper?”

  The man stammered and replied, “Everything is normal.”

  Now Patrick was more confident he was needling a KGB observer.

  Patrick extended his hand and said, “Hello I’m Patrick, I’m an American. I do newspaper stories on sports and culture. As a good citizen of Moscow, what do you love about sports and culture in Moscow?”

  “A ballet is good, I hear,” the man answered confidently.

  Patrick held the man’s eyes for a few moments, sensing that everybody around them was trying not to look, having heard an American speak with a fellow Muscovite. The subway came to a stop, and Patrick went to get off.

  “I was just on my way to do a story on the ballet. Funny, that,” Patrick said with a slight smile. Patrick got off the subway and emerged a few minutes later back onto the streets of Moscow. He felt the exterior of his pocket.

  It was empty.

  He was relieved Agent Bishop hadn’t made it, but he was uncertain if that was good or bad news.

  Patrick would have to go to the backup dead-drop point for Agent Bishop. He could plan for that in the afternoon, but his thoughts were elsewhere as he sought to interview anybody connected to this ballet studio.

  Patrick knew he would probably get in trouble for being so aggressive with the man following him on the subway. But at this point, Patrick didn’t care. He sensed his time in Moscow was almost over, and he enjoyed for the first time playing with a KGB man.
He looked forward to having a laugh over the whole affair with Billy the next time they met at a pub. Billy always enjoyed a good laugh over a drink, especially if it was about the inanities and tedium regarding working behind the Iron Curtain. He decided to submit his report via Edwards who would, no doubt, sympathize with his frustration. And then Edwards would pass it on to Fitzpatrick who would, hopefully, gloss over the report. Perhaps he would avoid censure.

  Either way, Patrick wasn’t going to get it as severely from his superiors as the KGB observer was going to get it from his. He just hoped Agent Bishop was still safe and that the world was not on the edge of WWIII.

  2

  Washington D.C.

  September 7, 2002.

  Daniel stood back at a distance from the funeral. He held his hands in his pockets and looked up to the overcast sky. He hoped it wouldn’t rain before the funeral ended. After several minutes, the huddled masses of people dressed in black slowly dispersed from the graveside. Daniel tried to spot the woman he was looking for. Finally, only three people remained.

  The two older people must be the dead man’s parents, Daniel thought to himself, and the last person must be her. Daniel took a few steps closer. It was Tina, the woman he needed to talk to.

  As Tina walked away from the grave site with her head down, Daniel carefully approached and said, “My condolences, Tina.”

  The young FBI agent with brown hair nearly as dark as her black coat looked up at Daniel. He sensed she struggled to remember where she knew him from.

  “Daniel?” she said. “You’re the guy who got whisked away by the government from your own party? Last January, right?”

  “That’s me,” Daniel affirmed, referring to when he had first met Tina at a party months ago before his job unexpectedly took him away to Central Asia.

  “I didn’t recognize you at first,” Tina said. “You seem a lot more… Different.”

  Daniel hoped she was referring to his stronger physique, now that he had been following Rex’s strict training regimen. But Daniel wasn’t talking with her for personal reasons.

  “I heard about what happened to your partner,” Daniel said. “I’m really sorry about that.”

  “Thanks,” Tina said. “If you don’t mind, I need to—”

  “Can I take you for breakfast?” Daniel asked. “I know a great place nearby, whether you prefer bacon, pancakes, or something else.”

  “I really need some time and space,” Tina said as she continued walking past Daniel. “It’s hard enough, but when it’s somebody I cared for more than just a work partner—”

  “Tina, the breakfast is professional,” Daniel said. He wondered if she had been romantically involved with her partner.

  “I still need a little extra time and space,” Tina answered. “I’m taking at least two months leave. You always know it’s possible that somebody’s going to die, but I guess I never thought it could be him. And so fast.”

  “From what the news is saying,” Daniel said, “he died doing the right thing.”

  “We unexpectedly came upon suspects,” Tina said clinically. “Before we recognized the threat, one of them fired at my partner. But before that, I had felt a tingle, that something wasn’t right. Every bone in my body told me to draw my firearm and put the man on the ground. But going by the book didn’t allow me to shoot because of a tingle. Protocol killed my partner. If I’d gone with my gut, he would still be alive. I wish he were just another agent to me, but he’s not.”

  “Another possibility is that you could’ve killed an innocent man.”

  “No, that’s not possible,” Tina disagreed. “I’ve gone over this in my head a million times, and trust me, I don’t want to talk about it more.”

  “Okay,” Daniel said as he walked beside Tina, farther away from the gravesite. “But I don’t think you want to pass this breakfast up. Like I said, it’s professional, and after what happened to your partner, I think you’re going to like it.”

  Tina gave Daniel a sideways glance.

  “I can’t explain here,” Daniel said. “Trust me on this one.”

  Tina conceded, and Daniel drove her to Officer Carter’s favorite breakfast restaurant about fifteen minutes away. Benny’s Pancake House was a breakfast joint that was mostly frequented by blue-collar workers. Officer Carters had a soft spot for it in her heart; she always had a back room reserved for such meetings.

  When they walked into the back room and Tina saw Officer Carter, Tina gave Daniel a suspicious look. Officer Carter sat at the table with a cup of coffee, dressed in a white pantsuit. Tina probably recognized another tough-as-nails-woman when she saw one, but she couldn’t figure out how she was connected to Daniel.

  “Have a seat, Tina,” Officer Carter said. “I know you just lost your partner, which is tough. But hear me out. Hear Daniel out.”

  Tina sat down, and a waiter came in and delivered a plate of fresh bacon. Daniel sat down next to Officer Carter, who indicated to the waiter to close the door and to not bother them. After the door shut, the din of the breakfast restaurant was nearly gone, and the three of them were alone.

  “Help yourself,” officer Carter said, pointing to the bacon.

  “No appetite, thanks,” Tina said.

  “Let me be blunt,” Daniel said. “Officer Carter and I have looked at your training profile and what you’ve done since you’ve been on the job. You have incredible instincts, and you have street smarts. That is exactly what we are looking for.”

  “What do you mean?” Tina asked. “I already have a job with the FBI. I already get to use those.”

  “I’m heading up a new team that is going to be focused on global counter-terrorism,” Officer Carter explained as she reached for a piece of bacon. “Officially, it’s called the MDF. A Multi-Disciplinary-Force. The team includes language and cultural experts like Daniel, computer experts like Jenny, whom you know, and special operations soldiers from all branches of the military, should we need to bring force to bear. But we need somebody like you who is familiar with using force, but also has more investigative skills, plus, as a woman, though it’s not politically correct to say it—”

  “My good looks,” Tina said bluntly. “I’ve read enough spy novels. I’m not whoring myself out. I’ve earned my spot.”

  Daniel looked away, embarrassed. Anybody could recognize that Tina was attractive, and he was thankful that she was willing to bring that fact out into the open.

  And this is why Officer Carter is here for the pitch, Daniel thought to himself.

  “And let me be equally candid with you,” Officer Carter said, and took a sip of coffee. “We must use every advantage we have in the War on Terror. That might include your looks. But you have my word that, at most, we will use your good looks to lure them in, but then you castrate the bastard before it gets any further than that.”

  Tina raised an eyebrow before saying, “I don’t know. It’s a big change. I need some time. I feel like I’ve hardly gotten started with the FBI, and I’ve already lost my partner. I just need some time.”

  “We don’t have time,” Daniel said. “The terrorists will strike again. We don’t know where, we don’t know when, but the clock is ticking until the next attack. The anniversary of 9/11 is four days away. You can bet the terrorists have a plan. It’s going to happen again. We don’t have a lot of time, so take a day at most. If you decide not to join us, just remember that this conversation never happened, and we wish you the best. But you and I both know that your partner died because the system failed him. You two did everything by the book, what was right. And he ended up on the wrong end of that. We’re dealing with global terrorism, and the gloves have come off. We have a lot more latitude as to how we take out the bad guys.”

  Tina stared at both Daniel and Officer Carter while she thought.

  “I like the sound of that,” Tina finally said as she reached for a piece of bacon. “But I’ve got one more question. Is the name MDF intended to make congressional bean counters
think that the MDF budget is for medium-density-fiberboard? If so, count me in.”

  “She’s politically savvy too, not just street-smart,” Officer Carter observed.

  Daniel looked forward to having Tina on the MDF team.

  Monday morning, two days later.

  “I don’t like the feel of this,” Rex said over the radio.

  “Me neither,” Daniel responded. “That’s why we send guys like you.”

  “Yeah, right,” Rex replied simply.

  Daniel stood behind Jenny at her computer in her office in Washington D.C. Muhammad, Daniel’s most recent Arabic-speaking recruit, sat at a computer next to her. An empty seat was next to him. It had been for Max, Daniel’s Russian-speaking recruit, but he couldn’t make it. Tina, still awaiting full clearance, was observing, but not participating.

  Daniel had explained to the MDF team that Rex and his men were approaching a small cabin that was off the grid, deep in the Virginia woods. It belonged to a suspected bomb maker. With the first anniversary of 9/11 approaching, everybody was on high alert.

  As Daniel and the others waited for another update from Rex, a man with slicked-back dark hair entered and lingered in the background. Daniel didn’t have time to question him. The credentials on his badge were sufficient.

  “When is that drone going to be overhead?” Rex asked over the radio.

  “Bad news,” Daniel responded. “It won’t be. Despite the high level of threat, we don’t have the authority to use a drone to spy on a US citizen.”

  Daniel rightly guessed Rex was cursing the system that gave the MDF team clearance to raid the cabin but withheld an overhead drone.