Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

L ANGLEY , V IRGINIA

Though Maggie was an excellent cook, her husband, Paul, was also quite skilled in the kitchen. This morning he had whipped up a classic French omelette aux fines herbes incorporating chives, parsley, and tarragon from their own garden. He served it with fresh-squeezed orange juice, French-press coffee, and a perfectly crusty baguette from their favorite little bakery in McLean.

Maggie relished unhurried mornings like this—the sun streaming through the windows, she and Paul sharing different sections of the newspaper, simply easing into the day. It both grounded and reminded her of what she was grateful for.

They were halfway through breakfast when the call came in. One of her analysts overseeing the Belarus desk had uncovered something. How soon could Maggie get to the office?

The answer, of course, was right away. Though she drew a bright line between work and home, she understood that there were certain times, especially involving matters of national security, where that line needed to be crossed. Like a surgeon who was on call, it was simply part of the job.

Because of the time element, Maggie was forced to forgo her beloved bicycle and drive one of their cars to work.

In addition to her beautiful Cape Cod, Maggie's grandmother had also left her an indomitable red Volvo, which, despite having almost one hundred thousand miles, was still in fine shape. Conroy hated it almost as much as he did her bike.

With its manual transmission, crank windows, and factory-installed AM/FM radio, it was a reminder for Maggie of simpler times and all of the wonderful trips she and her grandmother had taken—Colonial Williamsburg, Assateague Island, Gettysburg, Harpers Ferry… adventure was only a drive away.

Those had been the days. Life had been so new, so exciting. There was a carefreeness to that era. No cell phones. No computers. No email. You really could disconnect and disappear. People didn't expect to be able to reach you instantly, day or night.

Yes, back then the U.S. was still embroiled in the Cold War, but people took vacations. They left the office behind, in every sense of the word—physically, mentally, emotionally. You didn't feel constantly tethered, nor did you feel as if you could receive a yank on that tether at any moment, pulling you back to headquarters.

It really was a simpler time. It was probably why she enjoyed sitting down to breakfast with Paul, riding her bike, and, when forced to drive, rolling into the CIA in a car that probably ought to be in the Smithsonian Institution. It was her silent protest against the speed and hyperconnectivity of current times. Things only slowed down if you applied your own brakes and took control of the precious short time allotted to you in life.

Rolling through the front gates and security checkpoints at CIA headquarters, Maggie parked her old red Volvo and, grabbing the insulated mug of fresh coffee Paul had pressed for her while she was getting dressed, headed inside.

Having spoken with Holidae Hayes, she knew today was going to be an important one. It had made waves not only in Russia House, but across the entire leadership at the Agency, when it became quietly known that Harvath had succeeded in securing Langley a role in debriefing Leonid Grechko. While she hadn't approved of Conroy's methods, she had to give him credit: leaning on Harvath had paid off, big-time.

That said, moving Grechko to a makeshift safehouse in the South of France wasn't anyone's idea of the proper way to keep him safe. If Langley had its way, the Russian defector would be sitting in a much more secure facility. But it wasn't up to Langley. It was up to Grechko and, for the moment, S?lvi Kolstad, which created an added headache for the CIA.

The Norwegians were exceptional allies. The relationship between the CIA and the NIS ran deep. Norway's ambassador was beloved in D.C. Keeping a secret, like the whereabouts of Grechko and S?lvi, from Oslo was like juggling a hand grenade with the pin removed. The damage it could cause to U.S.–Norway relations was incalculable.

The CIA Director wanted the pin put back in the grenade. He didn't care how S?lvi communicated with her superiors, or what she said. She did, however, need to let them know what was going on, ASAP. Langley did not want their Norwegian partners blindsided.

The message was transmitted to Conroy, who made it Maggie's responsibility, as she'd become the conduit for all things Grechko. Maggie then passed it to Hayes, who promised she would communicate with S?lvi. It was CIA bureaucracy at its finest, but it kept people in their lanes and actually allowed for things to flow.

The revelations that the attack in Oslo had been on an NIS safehouse, and that Harvath was bringing Grechko and S?lvi in, had happened after Maggie and Conroy had met with the CIA Director to discuss Russia's warnings of an alleged dirty bomb plot by Ukraine. All of that information was in the special update briefed to President Porter and his national security team.

Now Maggie had been called in early because even more intelligence had been developed. It needed to be reviewed and a decision made as to whether or not to include it in the president's daily intelligence briefing.

This was exactly the kind of thing Maggie didn't like to rush. She preferred to let the intel speak to her, to make its own case as to what it was. The less guesswork, the better. In short, she was at her best when she was being patient and methodical. If you moved too fast, you risked missing the big picture. To find an actual pattern, you had to sit, sometimes for a while, surrounded by the noise.

She hoped that wouldn't be the situation this morning. Supposedly, the Belarus team had seen some interesting things on the newest satellite imagery.

Badging in, Maggie dropped her briefcase in her office and then, insulated mug in hand, walked down to the collection of cubicles referred to as the "Belarus desk."

A junior analyst greeted her. "Good morning, ma'am," he said. "They're all waiting for you in the conference room."

All? Maggie thought to herself. They must have found something pretty interesting.

Following the analyst, she crossed the hall and entered the conference room. Satellite footage was playing on the large, flat-screen monitors. Members of the Belarus team sat around the conference table, briefing books and notepads scattered in front of them.

Standing at the head of the table was the team's lead analyst, a man in his late forties, named Christopher Dunlop.

"Okay, Chris," Maggie said, sitting down in the closest chair. "I left a hot, homemade breakfast with my husband to be here. What've you got for me?"

Dunlop didn't waste time. As he spoke, he drew attention to everything with a laser pointer. "We've been scouring every inch of Belarus that we have imagery for. Essentially, we're looking for any haystack where needles might be hidden. Early this morning, we think we found one.

"This is a military depot just east of the Belarusian town of Asipovichy. It originally had a double-layer security perimeter, which isn't enough fortification to securely house nuclear munitions. That, however, has changed. It now has quadruple-layer security fencing, all the trees within thirty meters of the outer fences have been cut down, and right up front, there's a new roof-covered checkpoint and a guardhouse. Several additional structures have also been erected that appear to be garrison garages, possibly for storing warheads, as well as Russian Iskander missile launchers."

Another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. "What about personnel? It takes a lot of manpower to guard and service the type of weapons we're talking about."

"Welcome to Tsel," Dunlop replied, pulling back on the imagery. "It's a village twenty klicks northwest of Asipovichy. Previously, it was a Soviet missile base. The name Tsel literally translates to—"

"Target," Maggie replied, finishing his sentence for him.

"Correct. After the Soviets left, it became headquarters for the sole active ballistic missile brigade of the Armed Forces of Belarus—the 465th. Five years ago, the 465th shut it down and moved to a new location. Ever since, we assumed that it had been abandoned. Apparently, that's now changed. In addition to trenching for cables, the barracks have gone through upgrades, and there's been a decided increase in activity in and around the base."

"Is there an actual around-the-clock presence?" Maggie asked. "Are there personnel living in the barracks?"

Dunlop nodded. "Affirmative."

"Has the 465th returned? Or is it another unit?"

"They're not Belarusian Armed Forces," he replied, advancing to fresh imagery. "They're actually Russians. We've traced several of their vehicles. They belong to the Wagner Mercenary Group."

"Why would Peshkov be using Wagner mercs to protect his nukes?" Maggie mused aloud. "That's the purview of the 12th Main Directorate back at Russia's Ministry of Defense."

"Two birds, one stone?" one of the analysts sitting nearby suggested.

"Go on."

"Even though Belarus is a satrapy of Russia, Peshkov can't fully trust the security of his nuclear weapons to them. He also can't afford to redeploy any competent troops away from the war in Ukraine. But by using Wagner Group operatives, he gets battle-tested Russians guarding Russian nukes without upending current Russian Army deployments."

Maggie nodded. "And sprinkled in with those battle-hardened mercenaries, he can include the specialists and engineers with the know-how needed to maintain those weapons."

Around the table, the analysts nodded their heads in agreement.

"Any other updates?" Maggie asked.

"Right now," Dunlop replied, "that's our most current intel."

Maggie stood from her chair. "Excellent job, everyone. I'm recommending this for today's PDB, so please get a write-up to my office straightaway."

As she exited the conference room, she checked her watch. Conroy would be in soon and she wanted to be the first person he saw.