the KGB way. Keep your enemies even
closer than your friends.”
Nothing he confessed sparked a backlash from her gift. His
hunger to avenge his father’s death seeped through his pores, loomed heavily on
the conviction in his expression and the acid in his voice. His account of his
family turmoil was remarkable, compelling, and surreal. The FBI powers that be
wouldn’t doubt for a second his motivation when they learned of his
cooperation.
Confident of his intent, J.J. set up a communications plan
and gave him the code name Karat because encryption codes were as good as gold. They would make periodic phone
calls for updates and mark signals for emergencies. She also provided him with
a throw-away cell phone to be used in only the most catastrophic situations. He
concealed it inside the crumpled piece of paper stuffed in his new tennis
shoes. After asking the mall cops to apologize to the embassy personnel for the
misunderstanding, she called Tony, told him about the potential coup, but one
question nagged.
Who had recruited whom?
Plotnikov served as a code clerk, one of two to three embassy
personnel responsible for transmitting and receiving every classified and
unclassified communication to and from Moscow Center, Russian intelligence
headquarters. He owned the proverbial keys to the kingdom—encryption keys as it
were. If he passed those codes to U.S. Intelligence, the FBI could decrypt
intercepted Russian classified communications.
In his first dead drop, he identified every intelligence
officer he’d ever contacted in the residency and Moscow Center, many of whom
the FBI knew nothing about. The Agency helped run a few name checks, unaware of
the source’s true identity, and the consensus was clear that whoever passed the
intelligence was “the business.” His second drop contained even better
intelligence, the names of SVR officers involved in operational activity. He
gleaned them from reports he transmitted through secure channels to the Center,
as the diplomatic reports from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs didn’t require
the same security.
Even then Karat had only given the Bureau a few gold nuggets. To seal up the leak and identify
the mole, the FBI needed Fort Knox, the identities of American government and
military employees cooperating with Russian intelligence service. If he passed
the codes used to transmit counterintelligence message traffic, they‘d find ICE Phantom . She had no doubt. So J.J.
pressed for the intel. And pressed hard.
Karat hemmed and hawed, suggested he’d
see what he could do. Weeks later, during a pre-scheduled phone call, he came
through, or so he intimated.
Karat told J.J.
he had compiled the information she needed and he’d soon make the drop that
would provide a trove of information, some of which would identify the mole.
He’d schedule the drop as soon as he could do so without alerting internal
security.
Per Director Freeman’s orders, only five people in the Bureau
maintained access to Karat’s “ duplicate”
file—J.J., Tony, AD Cartwright, Director Freeman, and their boss, Jack
Sabinski. And still that number was too high.
She’d compromised herself and her career, overstayed her
long-vanished welcome in the FBI in order to protect Karat and his family. If anyone—Jack or, God forbid, the
Director—ever found out the depth of her deception, she wouldn’t have to worry about
quitting. She’d be fired on the spot.
“I understand how
important family is to you, Viktor,” she remembered saying to him as their
first meeting drew to an end. “I’ll do everything in my power to protect you
and your family. You will not meet
your father’s fate, not on my watch. That’s a promise.”
It all seemed so easy at the time. Like every other agency in
the Intelligence Community that was aware of the breaches, she believed the
mole to be CIA, not FBI. She’d made a promise she thought she could keep. All
she had to do was conceal his debriefings within
closer than your friends.”
Nothing he confessed sparked a backlash from her gift. His
hunger to avenge his father’s death seeped through his pores, loomed heavily on
the conviction in his expression and the acid in his voice. His account of his
family turmoil was remarkable, compelling, and surreal. The FBI powers that be
wouldn’t doubt for a second his motivation when they learned of his
cooperation.
Confident of his intent, J.J. set up a communications plan
and gave him the code name Karat because encryption codes were as good as gold. They would make periodic phone
calls for updates and mark signals for emergencies. She also provided him with
a throw-away cell phone to be used in only the most catastrophic situations. He
concealed it inside the crumpled piece of paper stuffed in his new tennis
shoes. After asking the mall cops to apologize to the embassy personnel for the
misunderstanding, she called Tony, told him about the potential coup, but one
question nagged.
Who had recruited whom?
Plotnikov served as a code clerk, one of two to three embassy
personnel responsible for transmitting and receiving every classified and
unclassified communication to and from Moscow Center, Russian intelligence
headquarters. He owned the proverbial keys to the kingdom—encryption keys as it
were. If he passed those codes to U.S. Intelligence, the FBI could decrypt
intercepted Russian classified communications.
In his first dead drop, he identified every intelligence
officer he’d ever contacted in the residency and Moscow Center, many of whom
the FBI knew nothing about. The Agency helped run a few name checks, unaware of
the source’s true identity, and the consensus was clear that whoever passed the
intelligence was “the business.” His second drop contained even better
intelligence, the names of SVR officers involved in operational activity. He
gleaned them from reports he transmitted through secure channels to the Center,
as the diplomatic reports from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs didn’t require
the same security.
Even then Karat had only given the Bureau a few gold nuggets. To seal up the leak and identify
the mole, the FBI needed Fort Knox, the identities of American government and
military employees cooperating with Russian intelligence service. If he passed
the codes used to transmit counterintelligence message traffic, they‘d find ICE Phantom . She had no doubt. So J.J.
pressed for the intel. And pressed hard.
Karat hemmed and hawed, suggested he’d
see what he could do. Weeks later, during a pre-scheduled phone call, he came
through, or so he intimated.
Karat told J.J.
he had compiled the information she needed and he’d soon make the drop that
would provide a trove of information, some of which would identify the mole.
He’d schedule the drop as soon as he could do so without alerting internal
security.
Per Director Freeman’s orders, only five people in the Bureau
maintained access to Karat’s “ duplicate”
file—J.J., Tony, AD Cartwright, Director Freeman, and their boss, Jack
Sabinski. And still that number was too high.
She’d compromised herself and her career, overstayed her
long-vanished welcome in the FBI in order to protect Karat and his family. If anyone—Jack or, God forbid, the
Director—ever found out the depth of her deception, she wouldn’t have to worry about
quitting. She’d be fired on the spot.
“I understand how
important family is to you, Viktor,” she remembered saying to him as their
first meeting drew to an end. “I’ll do everything in my power to protect you
and your family. You will not meet
your father’s fate, not on my watch. That’s a promise.”
It all seemed so easy at the time. Like every other agency in
the Intelligence Community that was aware of the breaches, she believed the
mole to be CIA, not FBI. She’d made a promise she thought she could keep. All
she had to do was conceal his debriefings within
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