Benford groaned at that. “There is no replacement SRAC. Our inscrutable colleagues from China Operations requested and received the last two available systems, which already are slaved to satellites in geosynchronous orbit to cover the Asian theater. They would not give up either one of them. Their refusal was polite but implacable, which I believe once again proves my contention that operational offices acquire the cultural characteristics of their target countries. Quite inscrutable.
“The SRAC larder is now officially bare. The last time this happened, the Carter White House suggested we use HF radio and Morse code. The Acting Director just ordered that R&D for the next generation of SRAC be put on hold. He wants to divert the tech budget to launch satellites that calibrate global warming. Orders from the NSC.”
“Are you fucking shitting me? Leave inside assets without covcom?” said Gable.
Benford ran his fingers through his already anarchic hair. “I am throwing histrionic fits at every leadership meeting, but the bureaucrats are unmoved and singularly focused on the one degree Fahrenheit change in global temperature since Charlemagne. Hearsey is racking his brains on cobbling together some sort of emergency-signaling gear, but as of today we’ve got nothing on the shelf for her.
“We will have to rely on personal meets for the time being,” said Benford, wearing his February face. Every person in the room knew that each time Moscow Station—or any denied-area station—tried a personal meet, the probability of catastrophic flap (and loss of agent) rose to 90 percent. Opposition surveillance had to get it right only once, and your agent was dead. Russia, China, Cuba, North Korea, it didn’t matter.
“Personal contact with Domi is coming up in three days,” said Gable. “They got a good operator to meet our girl?”
“Case officer named Ricky Walters,” said Benford, reading off a cable from Moscow Station. “Looked him up. Good on the street, ice for nerves, likes the ladies, but no zipper trouble in Russia. He looks okay.”
Gable grunted. “In her current pissed-off state, she’s not gonna be happy without covcom. Hope he doesn’t try to get saucy with her,” he said. “He’ll start his return SDR with a kick in the nuts. She doesn’t need another Romeo. Nash is pissing her off enough as it is.”
“Tell me that’s still not a problem, Nash and DIVA,” said Forsyth.
“They’re fucking in love,” said Gable, holding up his hands. “I know, I know, but if you fire Nash, Domi might flat-out quit on us; she’s in that frame of mind lately. So you tell me what’s worse, them belly thumping or her quitting.”
“We may be able to put some space between those thumping bellies,” said Benford. “The Aussies have a clambake brewing in Hong Kong, and they think they might need a Russian speaker. If we send Nash it’ll keep him away from her for a while. We can only hope that an extended separation will result in atrophy of one or both of their libidos.” No one laughed.
“Christ, is there any good news? What about that illegal in New York?” said Forsyth.
“Everything’s done,” said Gable. “Hearsey spritzed the phone and we wrapped it so Domi could load the dead drop in some crazy little 1805 Jewish cemetery on West Eleventh Street in the Village. Thirty moss-covered tombstones on a little triangle of land behind a peeling wall. You’d walk by it all day without seeing it. She put the package behind the middle headstone of three against the brick wall; it tilts forward, so she wedged the package down low. We left it alone, lots of apartment windows around. That gal could be watching the drop.”
“We’ll give it some time, to insulate DIVA, then go up to New York with fifty UV flashlights and bag us an illegal,” said Benford.
After New York City—even including Staten Island—feeling the energy, and prosperity, and
