memory, mouthing a silent vow to keep him safe.
“General, it is an honor to share this food. And it is a privilege to know you,” said Nate. “Our work is just beginning, but it has been spectacular.”
“Then let’s get to work,” said LYRIC, straightening and avoiding Nate’s eyes. “Turn on that infernal machine of yours while I brief you.” They sat on a log and LYRIC talked nonstop, a palette of variegated subjects, precisely remembered, meticulously ordered, the baritone words measured, unstoppable. Important points were signaled by a raised finger, an arched eyebrow. Occasionally there would be a personal digression, the grieving, lonely old man would be briefly revealed, then the ramrod general would resume the debriefing.
Nate was thankful for the TALON balanced on his knee—there was no way he could have kept up by taking written notes. LYRIC was still a new asset, so he let him orate; the stuff was pure gold anyway. Tech-transfer operations, thrust-vector research, the new PAK FH stealth fighter, target-acquisition radar on the BUK SA-11 used by Ukrainian separatists. Specific military reporting requirements were being codrafted with the Pentagon, and Nate would have to handle the general’s steely pride and galloping ego when the time came to direct him to actively collect specific intelligence.
“Your superiors in Langley must plan ahead,” lectured LYRIC, looking over at Nate. He fired up a cigarette and clicked his lighter shut. “Right now they are exulting and wallowing in the initial deluge of my information. Those who crave credit are preening before a mirror. There is excitement, a rush to standardize production of finished intelligence, the inevitabledebate about how to handle the new source.” LYRIC tilted his head up in contemplation, pausing as if giving dictation.
“You and your chief in the station in Athens properly should rebuff any attempts by Langley to assume control of the case. If you need ammunition, you have my permission to tell them the agent—what is my cryptonym by the way?—refuses handlers from Washington. Do not tell them I refuse to speak to anyone
but you
—that is one of the hallmarks of an operations officer fabricating a case. Simply say that I want only locally assigned handlers with superb area knowledge.” LYRIC looked over at Nate as if he were a clerk in a Dickensian counting house.
“I am your case officer,” said Nate. “And you met the deputy chief of Station, who can act as backup.”
“A pity he speaks no Russian.” LYRIC sniffed, looking down and flicking ash off his sleeve.
“I’m sure Gable deplores not speaking Russian as much as you regret having so little English,” said Nate. It was time to touch the brakes, lightly, and bleed some speed off LYRIC’s ego. The old man looked up sharply at Nate, wordless, then smiled faintly and nodded. Message understood, a page in the agent-handler dance card turned, respect given and received.
“And my cryptonym?” asked LYRIC, once again the curmudgeon spy.
“BOGATYR,” lied Nate, who had no intention of telling the bombastic LYRIC his compartmented CIA crypt.
Bogatyr,
the mythical Slavic knight of the steppes around LYRIC’s birthplace, Nizhny Novgorod.
“I like it,” said LYRIC, breaking down his finished cigarette and slipping the filter into his pocket.
“What kind of bullshit is that?” said Gable. He and Nate and COS Tom Forsyth were sitting in the ACR, the acoustically controlled room-within-a-room inside Athens Station. They sat hunched around the conference table, Nate’s TALON in front of them, connected to a laptop. Nate had been translating highlights of his two hours in the Meteora woods with LYRIC.
“BOGATYR,”
said Nate, “like a Russian samurai. He’s got a heroic image of himself. I made it up on the spot.”
Gable shook his head. “Okay,” said Forsyth, already five steps ahead. “Keep him happy, keep him talking. A general officer can be tough to
“General, it is an honor to share this food. And it is a privilege to know you,” said Nate. “Our work is just beginning, but it has been spectacular.”
“Then let’s get to work,” said LYRIC, straightening and avoiding Nate’s eyes. “Turn on that infernal machine of yours while I brief you.” They sat on a log and LYRIC talked nonstop, a palette of variegated subjects, precisely remembered, meticulously ordered, the baritone words measured, unstoppable. Important points were signaled by a raised finger, an arched eyebrow. Occasionally there would be a personal digression, the grieving, lonely old man would be briefly revealed, then the ramrod general would resume the debriefing.
Nate was thankful for the TALON balanced on his knee—there was no way he could have kept up by taking written notes. LYRIC was still a new asset, so he let him orate; the stuff was pure gold anyway. Tech-transfer operations, thrust-vector research, the new PAK FH stealth fighter, target-acquisition radar on the BUK SA-11 used by Ukrainian separatists. Specific military reporting requirements were being codrafted with the Pentagon, and Nate would have to handle the general’s steely pride and galloping ego when the time came to direct him to actively collect specific intelligence.
“Your superiors in Langley must plan ahead,” lectured LYRIC, looking over at Nate. He fired up a cigarette and clicked his lighter shut. “Right now they are exulting and wallowing in the initial deluge of my information. Those who crave credit are preening before a mirror. There is excitement, a rush to standardize production of finished intelligence, the inevitabledebate about how to handle the new source.” LYRIC tilted his head up in contemplation, pausing as if giving dictation.
“You and your chief in the station in Athens properly should rebuff any attempts by Langley to assume control of the case. If you need ammunition, you have my permission to tell them the agent—what is my cryptonym by the way?—refuses handlers from Washington. Do not tell them I refuse to speak to anyone
but you
—that is one of the hallmarks of an operations officer fabricating a case. Simply say that I want only locally assigned handlers with superb area knowledge.” LYRIC looked over at Nate as if he were a clerk in a Dickensian counting house.
“I am your case officer,” said Nate. “And you met the deputy chief of Station, who can act as backup.”
“A pity he speaks no Russian.” LYRIC sniffed, looking down and flicking ash off his sleeve.
“I’m sure Gable deplores not speaking Russian as much as you regret having so little English,” said Nate. It was time to touch the brakes, lightly, and bleed some speed off LYRIC’s ego. The old man looked up sharply at Nate, wordless, then smiled faintly and nodded. Message understood, a page in the agent-handler dance card turned, respect given and received.
“And my cryptonym?” asked LYRIC, once again the curmudgeon spy.
“BOGATYR,” lied Nate, who had no intention of telling the bombastic LYRIC his compartmented CIA crypt.
Bogatyr,
the mythical Slavic knight of the steppes around LYRIC’s birthplace, Nizhny Novgorod.
“I like it,” said LYRIC, breaking down his finished cigarette and slipping the filter into his pocket.
“What kind of bullshit is that?” said Gable. He and Nate and COS Tom Forsyth were sitting in the ACR, the acoustically controlled room-within-a-room inside Athens Station. They sat hunched around the conference table, Nate’s TALON in front of them, connected to a laptop. Nate had been translating highlights of his two hours in the Meteora woods with LYRIC.
“BOGATYR,”
said Nate, “like a Russian samurai. He’s got a heroic image of himself. I made it up on the spot.”
Gable shook his head. “Okay,” said Forsyth, already five steps ahead. “Keep him happy, keep him talking. A general officer can be tough to
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