Death of a Spy Read Online Free PDF Page A

of the FSB in Moscow to cover his rear. If the operation that was planned for three days from now went forward as scheduled and the weather didn’t cooperate, at least he could say General Titov was briefed by our top meteorologist and signed off on going forward with the operation. Blame him .
    The meteorologist finished his presentation just as Titov finished slicing a final half-inch-long strip of calloused skin off his toe.
    “Yes, yes, thank you, Captain,” said Titov, flicking the skin into a nearby waste bin. “Your contribution is appreciated.”
    “Is there anything else you require, General?”
    “No.”
    Titov clicked the Disconnect button on his computer screen and leaned back in his chair. He was tired, especially after that business with the American. His arms felt heavy in a way that they never used to when he’d been a young man. It made him grateful to be sitting in a heated office rather than out in the field, where he’d spent most of his career. How he’d grown to hate the cold. He ran a hand over his balding scalp, and thought about how surreal it was that Bowlan had surfaced at a time like this.
    Then again, the Americans were famously incompetent when it came to fielding operatives who were fluent in Georgian. Certainly the CIA operations officers who operated out of the embassy in Tbilisi were a sorry lot. So Bowlan had been a logical choice—his Georgian was excellent, his Russian even better, and the fact that he was white haired and wrinkled had made him easy to dismiss as a potential spy.
    The FSB officers who’d stopped Bowlan at the border between South Ossetia and Georgia had just been erring on the side of caution, because Bowlan was a foreigner in a place that saw few. His papers had checked out; he’d been carrying a pocket camera, but none of the photos on them—mainly of local wineries—had raised suspicions. And his cover story had been deemed plausible—he’d claimed to be a supermarket box-wine importer searching for new suppliers.
    But when the FSB check had triggered a possible facial-recognition match with a former Moldovan CIA station chief, Titov had been notified. He’d known right away who it was. It had been over twenty years, but he’d never forgotten that face, had never forgotten what Bowlan had done.
    Titov’s phone, which sat beside a heavy brass double-headed-eagle paperweight, rang. He answered it.
    “Someone came for the personal belongings we left at the Dachi.”
    “Who?” asked Titov.
    “Two Americans. One is James Keal. He’s CIA, works out of the embassy here in Tbilisi. The other we haven’t identified yet.”
    “Video?”
    “You should have it.”
    Titov clicked around on his computer. He did.
    “Where are they going?”
    “The hospital. Keal has booked a flight for the body that leaves tonight.”
    “You have a man there?”
    “Yes. And the coroner and morgue director have been cooperative.”
    “I’d like a confirmation when the body has been accepted for transport.”
    “Understood.”
    Titov hung up and clicked on the file he’d been sent. The video camera had been hidden in the smoke detector above the bed.
    For the first thirty seconds, Titov watched, unperturbed. It was just two unimposing men cleaning up after a dead geriatric.
    But then…
    It can’t be .
    Titov watched as the unidentified one yanked Bowlan’s camera out of the suitcase. His motions were quick, and reptilian. There was no hint of a smile on his face. No hint of empathy for the deceased.
    The cheeks had filled out, the hair was shorter and now streaked with gray at the temples. But the dark eyes, the sharp chin, those thin lips…Titov knew those lips. Ordinarily they weren’t distinctive, but when pressed together into a mean expressionless slit, or curled into a half sneer…
    Titov stood watching the video for a few seconds more, transfixed as his breathing accelerated.
    Could he be wrong ?
    No. That was Saveljic.

6
    Tbilisi, Georgia

    Mark stood in