The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

Sauté diced white onions and minced garlic in butter in a soup pot, stirring until softened. Add chopped coriander, salt, and pepper. Add peeled, cubed potatoes, whole lettuce leaves (do not trim the ribs), and water to cover. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer until potatoes are soft. Purée liquid to a velvety texture, whisk in butter, and season to taste. Serve hot or at room temperature.

31

League of Nations

“You’re as bad as Angleton,” said Acting Director Farrell to Benford, who was standing in front of the spotless desk in the DCIA’s office on the seventh floor of Headquarters. Unsullied by cables, memos, or ops plans, the Director’s workspace contrasted wildly with Benford’s desk three floors down in CID, which more closely resembled downtown Tokyo after Godzilla walked through. “You counterintelligence fanatics waste time chasing shadows that don’t exist.” Angleton had been the zealous messianic CI chief in the seventies who saw Soviet disinformation and provocation under every rock. Benford shifted his feet slightly.

Farrell was a lank-haired economics analyst from the Directorate of Intelligence who was, in the eyes of the jaundiced workforce in Langley, an unlikely pick to run the Agency, even temporarily. He had dishwater eyes, a waxen complexion, a reedy cartoon voice, and an abiding, singular interest in promoting himself. Farrell had first been noticed by POTUS as a fellow internationalist with a healthy dislike of CIA cowboys. Farrell had further endeared himself to the White House after publicly declaring he would credit the assessments of Headquarters-based analysts regarding the political situation in any given country, rather than rely on the estimations of the Chief of Station on the ground, an apostasy increasingly in vogue after the drowning of DCIA Alex Larson. As Farrell’s comment became common knowledge, operations officers in the foreign field continued their work, silently toasting the Acting Director at recruitment dinners worldwide.

“This mole is hardly a shadow,” said Benford, controlling the impulse to tell this ponderous bureaucrat he was a preening cockatoo. “His existence has been corroborated by a sensitive asset in Moscow.” The Director snorted.

“It’s always the same,” Farrell said. “Sensitive asset says something, and we go off on a wild-goose chase. It’s absurd. What asset reported this?” The Director had the right to ask about any source, including true name, but Benford protected his restricted-handling cases jealously, usually referring to them only by cryptonyms.

“DIVA, our top source in Russia, her intelligence has been impeccable, she’s stolen secrets from inside the Kremlin itself.”

Farrell made a face. “I prefer to avoid that hackneyed phrase, ‘steal secrets.’ Stealing implies extralegal and morally reprehensible methods.”

“It’s the definition of espionage, since Judas kissed Jesus,” said Benford. “What do you call it?”

Farrell looked up, nettled at his tone. The two men glared at each other. “We don’t steal secrets,” he said.

Benford kept a straight face. “I’ve heard that homily before, somewhere. It’s as imbecilic now as it was then.”

Farrell swiveled in his chair, turning his back on Benford. “I didn’t call you up here to listen to your old-line retrogressive cant. I called you because I understand you are not fully briefing the three nominees for the Directorship. You are to brief them all unreservedly, with no evasion, including the reporting from this star asset of yours. Do you understand? Full briefings.”

“The asset is in a precarious position. The intelligence can be sourced directly to her,” said Benford, already knowing what he was going to do.

“Stop this pedantry,” snapped Farrell. “The nominees all have top-secret clearances. Brief them. Everything. Am I clear?”

“You’re going to get your ass fired, Simon,” said Forsyth. They were sitting in Benford’s office. Lucius Westfall was squeezed on the couch, trying to keep a teetering stack of files from falling on him and onto the floor.

“We suspect that one of the candidates for the next Director of the Central Intelligence Agency is a mole run by Moscow Center. The Kremlin’s candidate. If MAGNIT is selected as DCIA, the Agency will cease to exist, and the United States will be blind to overseas threats. It will be worse than Philby, worse than Ames or Hanssen.”

“We’d have to exfil and resettle hundreds of assets,” said Forsyth. “Not just the Russians, but sources in China, North Korea, and Cuba.”

“The cereal aisle at the supermarket in Alexandria is going to look like the League of Nations, with all the ex-agents grocery shopping,” said Westfall, who once babysat for a Chinese defector, and knew how impossible most defectors could be.

“Those will be the ones we agree to settle. There will be a lot of low-level Joes left behind, who’ll be tossed in jail, or retired without pension,” said Forsyth.