“Fourteen years. With his skills he could be anywhere. The Russian government didn’t do this to him so he could retire. They did it because he’s on some sort of a mission. He’s in some sort of deep cover. Has to be.”
“How deep can he be? He’s a Russian who looks exactly like the former head of GRU.”
Zoya responded, “And how many people know what the GRU head looked like fourteen years ago? And as for him being Russian . . . he’s like me, that doesn’t matter. We are a family of chameleons, trained by the government as infiltrators. He can integrate. He can blend. He can be whoever he wants to be, wherever he wants to be.”
“Even in America or in the UK?” Court asked.
She nodded. “That’s right. My mother helped create a network of sleepers, men and women who could infiltrate the West, not as Russians, but as locals. She was only involved with the language and customs aspect of their training; the sleepers worked with forgers, weapons experts, tradecraft instructors . . . I don’t know how much went into it. My dad was an early graduate of her training, and I met a guy tonight who, I’m sure, must have been one of her students.”
“Who?”
“Calls himself Fox, speaks with a refined British accent. Oxford, all the way. But he switched into Russian effortlessly to talk to me, and he was a native Russian speaker. I have the training to tell. I’m sure he is a sleeper Russian national, and his presence here only convinces me more that my father is close.”
“He’s here? In London?”
“According to Fox, he is.”
Court thought a moment. He didn’t want to drink any more; the last thing he needed was a headache on top of his myriad other complaints, so he just sat in the low light. Finally he said, “So . . . what if your father is still alive? What is it you hope to accomplish by confronting him? Just to ask him why he disappeared? Just to see what he’s been up to?”
Zoya shook her head. “No. Court, I have to find out about my mother and my brother. Maybe they are alive, or maybe they are dead but the stories I got weren’t real, just like his story wasn’t real.”
This confused Court. “You said Feodor told you himself he had cancer.”
Zoya swirled the vodka around in her cup. She stared at it as she said, “You know one way to get very intense, very fast-moving cancer?”
Court looked her over for several seconds. His incredulity remained. “Are you talking about radiation?”
“That’s right. Polonium-210. That’s right out of the FSB and GRU playbook. Used rarely, but used. I never saw any of my family’s bodies, and that always bothered me.” She looked up at him. “I have to know what happened to them all.”
“So, you are convinced your dad is alive, and that indicates to you that either your brother was murdered or he’s still alive. Ditto your mom?”
She grabbed the vodka bottle now, started to bring it to her mouth, but Court reached for it, took it from her hand. He was surprised that she made no protest. He saw how tired she looked, imagined the effects of the alcohol having even more impact on her brain than normal, but she was passive, not combative.
She said, “You wouldn’t understand. My father was a master of deception. Truly ingenious. He could pull off some sort of a plan like this.”
“A plan like what?”
“Honestly I have no idea. But he thought my mom was killed by the British, and he went crazy. If he faked his own death, I know it wasn’t to live his life in retirement. He was at the top of the intelligence community when this happened, remember. GRU is larger than SVR, more powerful. A man like my father wouldn’t run away from that unless his destination was even more important to him.”
Now Court furrowed his brow. “How does all this with you tie in with the hunt for the mole at Langley?”
“I have no idea. Maybe it doesn’t. But . . .” She rose, stepped over to her dirty clothes piled in the corner, and picked up her pack. From it she removed a small iPad and held it up to him. “But we might find answers in here.”
“You got that from Cassidy’s safe?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, let’s get cracking. I’ll call Brewer.”