Chapter 1
Brussels, October 1978
TWO DEATHSâEACH PURPORTEDLY A SUICIDE, each with its roots deep in the secret world, each with its own perplexing mysteriesâwrenched Pete Bagley, retired and somewhat besmirched spy, from the complacency of his pleasant exile and set him on the twisting path back to the shadowy battlefields of his previous life. It would be, he fully recognized, his final mission, his last chance to set straight the betrayals, both personal and professional, that had scarred not just the agency, but also his own family of spies. And like every old man who at last musters the courage to confront unfinished business, he could only hope that it was not too late.
THE FIRST DEATH HAD OCCURRED without Peteâsâheâd been christened Tennent, but his mother early on had started calling him Pete and the name stuckâimmediate knowledge; at the time heâd been living a retireeâs life of contemplative leisure with his wife and his books in the pretty city of Brussels. In fact, the suicideâif that was what had really happenedâhad been kept a closely guarded secret, and it wasnât until a month or so had passedâthe shared time line was deliberately murkyâthat the Soviets allowed the grim news to leak. Of course by then, in the aftermath of the menacing arrest and the ensuing diplomatic blowup, there was no longer any operational reason for secrecy. Still, the battle-scarred cold warriors in the SB, as the CIAâs Soviet Bloc Division, where Pete had once served as deputy chief, was known, couldnât help but wonder if the normally reticent KGB hoods had only grown talkative because they couldnât resist giving the knife they had planted deep into the heart of Moscow Station another vindictive twist.
The least disputed parts of this drama began to play out on the evening of July 15, 1977, a deceptively calm and quiet summerâs night in Moscow. A cooling breeze floated off the Moscow River, party apparatchiks hurried across Red Square on their way home from work, and lovers abandoned the pedestrian bustle of Prospekt Mira to disappear hand in hand into the secluded nooks of the Apothecary Garden. But it was a time of high alert in Moscow Station. In the boxlike seventh-floor spookâs nest hidden away in the US embassy on Novinskiy Boulevard, the spies were hoping that tonightâs operation would calm their worst fears.
When an agent goes silent, there can be many benign reasons. Operatives, too, have their quotidian, overt lives to live. They can catch the flu, grow frazzled trying to placate the demands of a relentless boss, get roped into entertaining visiting in-laws, or even mark the wrong date on their calendars. But hard-nosed professionals wearily concede that the search for excuses is largely wishful thinking. When a usually productive Joe canât be contacted, when he misses a rendezvous or doesnât service his dead drops, the truth is staring you in the face with a sickening inevitability: Heâs been compromised, no doubt languishing in a cell in the Lubyanka, if he hasnât already been summarily dispatched by a firing squad.
Tonight would bring clarity. It would resolve once and for all the disquieting questions surrounding the all-star agent the station was running deep inside the enemyâs citadelâthe spy code-named Trigon.
Four years earlier, in a steamy Turkish bath in BogotĂĄ, Colombia, a CIA officer with only a towel wrapped tight around his waist for a semblance of operational propriety had sidled up to Alexander Ogorodnik, a silky midlevel diplomat at the Soviet embassy, and had launched into his recruitment pitch. Thereâs no transcript of what was said, but presumably the CIA recruiter would have first methodically recounted all the reckless behavior that in the course of just a brief posting had characterized the married foreign service economistâs very undiplomatic life in Latin America; e.g., his frenetic juggling of romances with several of his colleaguesâ wives, his illegal wheeling and dealing of automobiles purchased at diplomatic discounts, his teetering pile of debts, and, not least, the recent announcement by his young Colombian mistress that she was pregnant. The implication wouldâve been clear: If the Americans without really trying had discovered all this, how long would it take for the diplomatâs Soviet comrades to catch on to his shenanigans? And it wouldâve been unnecessary to point out that the dour Russian foreign service bureaucrats were as unforgiving as they were judgmental. Then when the CIA man saw that it wasnât just the steam that was causing the diplomat to sweat, heâd munificently offer up a way out of all this mess: a chance to earn the sort of money that would make old problems go away, as well as finance new ones.
The moments that follow any approach are always pregnant, a tense time when things might veer off in any direction. Thereâs no telling if the prey will scream with indignation, or if heâll slink off shamefaced to put a bullet in his head. However, Ogorodnik, according to the bemused CIA accounts, didnât hesitate. He promptly announced that heâd never been a fan of the Soviet system. In fact, he insisted, heâd always been a capitalist at heart. And as if to prove it, he quickly proposed a very lucrative arrangement for his services.
A crash course in tradecraft was conducted over several weeks in a room in a Hilton hotel in downtown BogotĂĄ. Shooting documents with a tiny T50 camera concealed in a fountain pen as well as mastering the protocols for dead drops can be a tricky business. Yet to his new handlersâ delight, the diplomat was a natural. With surprising speed, the agent code-named Trigon was up and running.
Only it wasnât long before disappointment set in. The camera work was first-rate, the deliveries flawless, but top dollar was being shelled out for bargain-basement product. The spymasters in Langley had a bad case of buyersâ remorse.
Then in 1974, Ogorodnik was transferred back to Moscow and given a desk in the Ministry of Affairs that gave him access to a steady stream of top secret memos and planning documents. And just like that, the CIAâs high-priced investment turned prescient. Trigon was soon making regularly scheduled drops of rolls of T50 films that, when developed, brought a treasure trove of secrets into focus. Moscow Station now had eyes in the enemyâs house. Langley was head over heels.
But after nearly two high-flying years, the exuberant mood had grown subdued, even a bit glum. Warning signs had begun to appear. In January 1977, a CIA officer skied through a fresh blizzard of snow to the designated drop site in a forest on the outskirts of Moscow. Nothing could be found. Perhaps the snow had deterred Trigon, the optimists wanted to believe. So after an uneasy month of waiting, Moscow Station tried again: A hollowed log filled with previously requested communication gear was left at the usual site. It was never retrieved. But then in April, Moscow Station broke out in cheers when Ogorodnik left a cache of film canisters as scheduled. Only once the stationâs tech officers sorted through the material, there were renewed doubts. Every spy has his own handwriting, the way he goes about his clandestine tasks, and to the discerning eyes of the analysts at the embassy, this cache didnât seem to be Trigonâs handiwork. It was too sloppy, assembled without his usual meticulous tradecraft.
Yet refusing to accept the unacceptable, Moscow Station decided theyâd give Trigon one more try. A coded message was sent by shortwave radio requesting that if he was ready to resume work, he should send the prearranged signal.
And to the rekindled excitement of the true believers in Moscow Station, he did. A red dot appeared on a âChildren Crossingâ traffic sign adjacent to a Moscow school.
There were naysayers, though, who had misgivings. They dismissed this signal as a lure. To their skeptical eyes, the red dot was clearly stenciledâand no genuine fieldman would stick his head out of the shadows long enough to execute that sort of painstaking procedure. Further, the stenciled dot was colored in a red as bold and bright as the Soviet flagâand that, too, didnât seem a secret agentâs furtive doing. It was all too deliberate; in the field, subtlety was the guiding rule.
In the end, both sides agreed there was only one way to find out for sure.
UNBUTTONING HER BLOUSE, THE SPY attached the tiny radio receiver to her bra with a Velcro tab. Her long, streaked blond hair hid the earpiece. If the KGB watchers were tailing her, sheâd now be able to eavesdrop on their transmissions. But that, she realized, offered only small reassurance. If the opposition was on to what was going down, that meant it was already too late. For Trigon, and for herself.
It was just after six on that July evening in Moscow when Marti Peterson, a willowy thirty-two-year-old and the first female case officer ever assigned to Moscow Station, left her apartment and headed off for the drop. She clutched a bag containing what looked like a lump of black asphalt. A closer examination of the shard, however, would reveal a secret compartment; inside were messages and a new, improved miniature camera that the tech wizards at Langley had fabricated just for Ogorodnik.
As Peterson got behind the wheel of her squat Zhiguli, she wanted to believe that all would go well tonight. The sexist dinosaurs at the KGB, sheâd been assured by her gung-ho station chief, would never suspect that the agency was running a female officer in Moscow, let alone a young and attractive one. And after two cautious years in the city, she, too, remained convinced that her cover had not been blown; to the First Department watchers who kept a vigilant eye on embassy personnel, she remained just another clerical worker, a woman of no intelligence interest. But Peterson also knew that the KGB routinely blanketed the city with a small army of its operatives. They had roving cars, pavement artists, as well as hidden cameras all over Moscow. And on a summerâs evening when the sun stayed high in the sky till absurdly late, when even at ten p.m. the shadows would only be gloaming, the watchers would have nature on their side, too.
With the careful, well-practiced discipline of an agency professional, Peterson went through the maneuvers to shake any tails. She drove around the city, turning left and right at whim, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror. When she was convinced that no one was following, she parked and headed to the subway. She rode to the first stop, then switched lines, traveling now in the opposite direction. Studying the faces reflected in the train window, she looked for a sign that sheâd been targeted. But even as she decided there was no cause for alarm, Peterson knew that if the A team was out tonight, theyâd know better than to stare.
Peterson got off at the sports stadium at Luzhniki, and, luck on her side, a soccer match had just ended. She floated along in the sea of departing spectators and let the crowd carry her forward, until once again she was assured that no was paying any attention to her. Then she slipped out of the swarm and hightailed it to the drop point, arriving with a well-trained sense of timing at precisely the prearranged tick of 10:15.
An ancient stone tower, crenellated like a turret from a medieval fortress, rose up from a railroad bridge that spanned a lonely stretch of the Moscow River. The stairs inside the tower were slippery, the old stone worn with age, and she trod with care. Peterson silently counted forty steps and then looked up to find the casement window where sheâd been told it would be. Starlight seeped through, casting opaque shadows on the thick, dark walls. She placed the asphalt shard exactly one armâs length from the windowsill. No one would notice it, unless, of course, they knew where to look.
Her instinct was to rush down the stairs, to get away as quickly as possible, but with a leisureliness that was all discipline she descended slowly. One step after another, she made her way. The space was as tight as a cocoon; she felt trapped, thereâd be nowhere to flee if she had to run. In her desperation, she listened for stray night sounds.
As she exited the tower, three men rushed toward her. She saw them coming; their shirts were very white against the backdrop of the river, the old gray stones, and the incipient night. At that horrible moment, a number of thoughts raced as if in a single instant through her mind. The hoods had no need to follow her because they knew where she was going even before sheâd left her apartment. That meant Trigon had been burned. Yet she couldnât be sure, so she needed to warn him to stay away. At the top of her lungs she heard herself yelling, âProvocation! Provocation!â And even as she screamed, there was a wild moment when she considered jumping into the river, executing a swan dive like a spy in a Hollywood movie. But at the same time she decided itâd be a doomed escape; if she survived the impact, theyâd send out boats to scoop her up.
All at once they were on her. One of the men ripped her blouse, searching for the wire, and he let his hands linger, enjoying the hunt. Three against one, and she knew there was no way to spring free, but her rage was fueled by the intrusiveness of the assault. She fought back wildly; hands balled into fists rained blows. They grabbed her arms, fixing them tightly to her sides, so she let loose with a kick. It landed with power, straight into a groin, and her victim fell to the ground with an agonized scream.
But now a van had pulled up and more of them piled out. She was surrounded, and someone started taking photographs, the flashbulb going off like tracers in the night. âLet me go!â she yelled. She could see theyâd retrieved the hunk of asphalt, and one of the Russians had raised it above his head, rejoicing like an athlete whoâd just scored a goal. She insisted that it was all a mistake. Call the American embassy, she exhorted. But she knew like any professional would that there was no way out.
The van took her to the Lubyanka, and they led her handcuffed across a long concrete courtyard. Peterson feared that sheâd be locked in a cell for a few days, and the thugs would work on her until she signed a confession. Instead, a team of interrogators put on an elaborately orchestrated show. She was seated at a table in a windowless room, and with the cameras rolling to preserve every incriminating moment, the asphalt chunk was brought in. The headman, as self-satisfied as a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat, began emptying the contents from the hidden cavity: a coded message imprinted on 35 mm film; a black fountain pen that concealed a camera; and, spoils for the traitor, tight rolls of rubles and emerald jewelry. Petersonâs face remained rigid, betraying nothing.
Later that night she was released, and a stolid American consular officer drove her straight to the embassy. The universal frame of mind at Moscow Station was one of despair, but the debriefing had to be done while Petersonâs memory was fresh. At three thirty that morning, an enciphered summary of the debrief was sent as a Flash signal to Langley. Peterson flew out of Moscow later that day, officially branded a persona non grata. If sheâd been asked, sheâd volunteer that the feeling was mutual.
And now the waiting began. Yet the only question that remained was how bad the news would be.
IT COULDNâT HAVE BEEN WORSE. There were two versions of Ogorodnikâs fate, both of them leaked over the next couple of months through semiofficial Soviet channels, and while the details of what had happened on the night of June 21, 1977ânot quite a month before Peterson was sandbaggedâdiffer, the woeful punch lines were identical.
One grisly account had a tough-guy squad led by a general from the KGBâs Seventh Directorate pounding down the door of Trigonâs apartment on Krasnopresnenskaya Embankment. The invaders swiftly uncovered the cached CIA communications equipment, and, obeying the Kremlinâs predetermined decision that a trial would be an embarrassing formality, they executed Ogorodnik on ...
