When Cooper awoke the morning after Heather and Jason left to return to school, a heavy mist swirled off the sea. Max looked up eagerly as Cooper grabbed his leash, and the two of them headed out. As they began their dawn walk along the Quoque beach, the foggy atmosphere made him think of the cold misty mornings on the flight deck of the USS Ronald Reagan.
After graduating as a mathematics major from Dartmouth, he’d decided he had enough set theory, differential equations, linear algebra, and topology. He wanted something more people-oriented and exciting. A college buddy urged him to join the Navy, and he took the plunge, qualified for flight school, and learned to fly fighter planes at Whiting Field in Pensacola, Florida. After his training, he joined Strike Fighter Squadron 22 and flew F-18 Super Hornets off the Ronald Reagan. Being one of the “Fighting Redcocks,” as the pilots in his squadron were known, afforded Cooper the camaraderie he craved, and combat sorties over Afghanistan filled his quota for excitement.
For many of his fellow naval aviators, flying became a way of life, but for Cooper, the exhilaration of flying wore off with time. “Like driving a fancy race car armed with missiles” was how he described it. After four years as a naval aviator, he was looking for alternatives when a CIA recruiter came knocking. The agency appealed to his patriotism, offered to teach him tradecraft and languages, and promised him a diplomatic cover position in an Eastern European embassy.
Seeking a new adventure, he jumped at the chance and, after eighteen months in training, arrived at his post in Vilnius. He’d met Maria on one of his trips home from Vilnius and had fallen in love. After they had been courting long-distance for a while, she wrangled a transfer to Lithuania, and they married two months later. While their marriage reinforced his cover, it dramatically increased their risk if the Russians caught him spying. At first, caught up in the seductive world of post-Soviet Eastern Europe, they lived with that added pressure. But that changed when they began to think about children. That’s when Cooper decided his covert life had run its course.
Thinking he’d like to become a diplomat, he took the LSAT, won a place in law school at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, and secured a leave of absence from the CIA. His experiences at the agency and in Vilnius led him to focus his legal education on national security issues. He had planned to return to the CIA but changed his mind after meeting with DOJ lawyers while researching a law review article on espionage prosecutions. They opened his eyes to the DOJ’s unique role in representing and advising the myriad US intelligence agencies, and he realized the potential for a broader and more influential role at Justice than at the CIA.
Although the DOJ preferred to hire lawyers with experience in private practice, Cooper’s outstanding academic record, first-rate recommendations from his law school professors, and experience in the Navy and the CIA won him a position. After that, his work at the DOJ opened all kinds of career opportunities, including stints as a US attorney investigating and prosecuting spies, defectors, and the trolls who contaminated US elections.
Upon his return to DC, he had reconnected with Roger Clayton, a friend from his undergraduate days at Dartmouth, who, at that time, represented his home state of Massachusetts in Congress. Politically, they shared a middle-of-the-road perspective and suffered through the country’s hard turn to the right under the Trump administrations. Registered as an independent, Cooper had feared for his job, but he’d kept his head down and survived the DOJ purges under Trump.
Ultimately, conservatives pushed the country too far to the right, and the ever-moving political pendulum swung back. Cooper took personal time to write position papers for Clayton and worked on his successful campaign for the Senate. At the end of his first term in the Senate, Clayton had run for president and ultimately won the White House. Cooper served on his transition team, briefing the new president on a range of legal and security issues.
After more than a decade in the DOJ, Cooper was now the deputy assistant attorney general responsible for counterintelligence in the National Security Division. Along the way, he had devoted nearly every waking hour to protecting his beloved country from foreign powers—mainly Russians and Chinese—who were unwavering in their efforts to spy on the US government and sow misinformation and discord among Americans.
He’d prosecuted spies who’d followed in the footsteps of Aldrich Hazen Ames, the Soviet double agent inside the CIA, and Robert Philip Hanssen, the FBI traitor who’d delivered countless classified papers to the Kremlin. He’d investigated people like Edward Snowden and Julian Assange, who released highly classified data out of a misplaced sense of self-importance. Cleaning out the thickets of deceit had become his life’s work, and there were, he was sure, more enemy agents hiding under deep cover and threatening America. His recent meeting with Ainsworth only reinforced that conviction.
As he and Max walked along the beach, the damp gray light filtering through the mist grew darker, like the harbinger of a coming storm. The eeriness fed Cooper’s melancholy mood. A ship’s horn sounded from somewhere far off the coast. Terns took flight and disappeared in the grayness, sandpipers ran back and forth at the edge of the surf foraging for food, and a red-beaked Oystercatcher probed the sand, searching for its favorite breakfast. Max eyed the birds but remained by his master’s side.
He and Max had gone only about a mile along the ocean’s edge when the dog stopped, wary of something ahead on the beach. Cooper reached down to stroke Max’s head. “What’s the matter, boy?” he asked, peering into the mist to glimpse whatever had alerted the retriever. He started to move forward again, but Max resisted, sensing some danger Cooper had yet to detect.
Moments later, Max growled as a man emerged from the fog. Fair-skinned, short and thin, bearded, maybe in his mid-sixties, with intense brown eyes behind wire-rim glasses and longish windblown gray hair, the stranger wore jeans over scuffed boots and a weathered oilskin jacket too large for his small frame. His presence surprised Cooper, who rarely encountered anyone on the beach at this early hour. This man wasn’t a neighbor.
“Good morning,” Cooper offered in greeting, to which the man replied, “And to you, as well.”
Cooper remained still, but Max barked as the man slowly approached. Cooper shushed the dog. The man stopped when they were six feet apart and spoke again. “I’m sorry to confront you like this, but I have little time and am desperate for your help.”
“Do I know you?” Cooper asked warily.
“No, but I know of you from Anya Petrovna . . . Petrov after she Westernized it.” His voice had only the slightest trace of an accent, which might have been Eastern European, but Cooper couldn’t be sure.
Anya Petrov. Cooper knew a great deal about Anya. At the mention of her name, an image of Anya’s face flashed into Cooper’s mind like a flat-screen TV coming to life. She’d come to the US from Russia at seventeen to attend Yale and immediately involved herself in various political activities supporting right-wing causes. Attractive and vivacious, she’d won many friends, some in high places. After graduating, she’d finagled permanent residency with the aid of a conservative senator and two like-minded members of Congress.
She’d been in the US for eight years before the FBI arrested her as a Russian spy and Kremlin provocateur. As the US attorney responsible for her prosecution, Cooper supervised an exhaustive investigation of Anya, uncovering her deep connections with conservatives in Congress, right-of-center organizations, and numerous government officials. Anya had fed Russian propaganda to contacts in news organizations and social media, spreading and retweeting Russian disinformation. He and his team had suspected that she served as a conduit between some of her many contacts and the Russian government but had been unable to find the proof necessary to prosecute those officials. Cooper had ultimately decided to deport Anya rather than prosecute her criminally and risk exposing sensitive surveillance techniques that the FBI and NSA had used to discover her activities.
This man’s use of Anya’s name suggested a connection with a foreign intelligence community. It wasn’t the way a US intelligence asset would introduce himself. Cooper had supervised the debriefing of many foreign intelligence operatives but had never been the first point of contact for one. That sent red flags aloft in Cooper’s mind. How had this man found him on this beach? On whose behalf was he acting? And, most immediately, what were his intentions?
“How do you know Ms. Petrov?”
The man ignored the question. “I am offering you information of great interest to the US government. I need your help and will trade my information for my life and freedom.”
Cooper studied the stranger, looking for insight into his sincerity. Something about the man’s faint trace of an accent, round face, and high cheekbones made Cooper think he was of Slavic origins. Even from behind his wire-rim glasses, his dark brown eyes radiated a striking intensity. Sensing concern, maybe even a touch of fear, but not hostility, Cooper was intrigued and sought to draw the man out. “Tell me your name and walk back up the beach with me.”
“In this country, I am called Jacob Freedman,” the man said as they fell into step with each other and Cooper led them back up the beach.
The stranger’s words invited Cooper’s follow-up question. “But that’s not your real name, is it?”
“Are you going to help me?”
“Well, Mr. Freedman, I can’t answer that until I know more about who you are and what you want, but I won’t rule it out.”
The man nodded. “Fair enough. I was born Mikhail Bortnik in Ropsha, outside Saint Petersburg. The KGB sent me to this country forty-five years ago with a false identity as the son of an American couple living in Germany.”
From his career in national security, Cooper knew about the dozens of agents that the Russian government had planted across the US. A few had been caught and prosecuted, but Cooper suspected that many more remained hidden. His instincts told him this stranger was working for the SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, or some other branch of the Russian security apparatus. “So, you were sent here on a string controlled by the old Soviet KGB?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to cut that string?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I fear they will recall me. That I will have to cut my ties here.”
“Back to Moscow?”
“Maybe not directly, but eventually, yes.”
“And if you don’t return?”
“It’s simple. They will kill me. You know how these things work.”
“Who will kill you?”
“My handlers. I know too much for them to risk my cooperation with US authorities. That’s why I am now in hiding and approached you here on this beach.”
“You’re prepared to name names, including your handlers and anyone else you know to be answering to Russian operatives? Anyone the Soviets or the Russians have recruited to spy on the US?”
“In exchange for protection, immunity, and a new identity. Yes.”
Foreign spies had various motives. Money, blackmail, and ideology were the usual incentives. Although he guessed the KGB had indoctrinated this man, Cooper was curious to hear it directly. “And why wouldn’t you just go back to Russia?”
“Russia is dying, and dying beasts are dangerous. Besides, my handlers would say that I have become weak and corrupted because, you see, I rather like the freedoms you Americans enjoy.”
Cooper guessed that Bortnik’s motivation for not wanting to return to Russia was complicated. His comment about dying animals suggested he had enemies in Russia. Or maybe he didn’t want to leave friends or a family or girlfriend in the US. Still, Cooper didn’t want to challenge the man prematurely. There would be time to probe motivations later when he knew more about this stranger. For the moment, he pursued a different question. “And before you became enamored of our Western freedoms, what drove you to spy for the Russians?”
“I had little to say in the matter. I was in KGB schools from childhood. Given my training, I knew no other path. When the KGB sought my services, I had no choice.”
“Why not turn yourself in to the FBI?”
“Not until I have assurances from your government. And not the FBI.”
Cooper understood why the man would insist on protection before providing information but was surprised by his distrust of the FBI. “And why not the bureau?”
“Because Russian agents have infiltrated your storied FBI at a high level,” Bortnik said in an eerily flat tone.
Cooper hid his surprise but wondered whether the accusation was true or a disinformation tactic. Successful spies were manipulative people by nature and training. Bortnik might well be throwing false shade at the FBI or attempting to manipulate the conditions of his surrender. Or possibly even to surrender only to renege and embarrass the US. “My government would have to know that you have significant verifiable information before agreeing to the arrangement you suggest.”
“I understand, and for that reason, I brought you something to work with. Something pretty, shall I say, tantalizing.”
Cooper didn’t respond. If Bortnik was for real, he might well have information critical to US national security. A Russian operative who’d successfully evaded US authorities for forty years would be a rich catch for US counterintelligence. Still, Cooper recognized the possibility of some false-flag ploy. Maybe even one aimed at him. He had reams of classified data in his head. Or if not him, perhaps others in the US government. Cooper had seen any number of traps set by foreign operatives.
Cooper stopped and, turning to face Bortnik, asked, “Where are you employed?”
“Until I went into hiding recently, I was an analyst on the Senate Armed Services Committee staff.”
Cooper again contained his surprise. “You have a security clearance?”
“Yes, of course. Top secret.”
That settled it for Cooper. Turning a Russian spy with a top-secret US security clearance who had information to trade with the US would be a significant coup. “Okay, Mr. Bortnik, You have my attention. What do you have to show your good faith?”
Bortnik slowly spread his arms, showing his hands before he said, “It’s Mikhail, please. And don’t be alarmed. I am going to reach into my coat for an envelope.” With deliberate slowness, Bortnik reached into his oilskin jacket and gradually withdrew a thick manilla envelope. “Inside, you will find a small sample—a teaser, shall we say—of the information that will interest your government. There’s also a burner phone.”
Cooper took the envelope. “Let me get you to a secure location, and I’ll arrange for you to have protection,” Cooper suggested.
“No,” Bortnik snapped. “Not until we have an agreement about my future.”
“I’d hate to risk losing you to your handlers before we have a deal,” Cooper said.
“That’s a risk I’m prepared to take,” Bortnik said confidently.
Fleetingly, Cooper considered trying to arrest the man but quickly dismissed the idea. Bortnik might be armed, and trying to overpower him could get messy. Besides, any aggressive act would likely make him disinclined to cooperate. “How can I reach you?” Cooper asked.
“You can’t. I’ll call you on the burner,” Bortnik said as he extended a hand. The two men shook before Bortnik turned away and, with a parting growl from Max, walked back into the fog and disappeared. Max, it seemed, was not a Bortnik fan.
Clutching the envelope tightly, Cooper led Max back to his cottage, wondering what secrets the parcel would reveal.
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