“An operation she’d conducted had revealed the names of five sleepers.”
“Russians?”
“Apparently. Two couples and—Donald Wilson,” said Berg.
“Jesus,” said Devin.
“Here’s the thing. Technically the agency only knew about the two couples. Helen had only shared Donald Wilson’s name with me, and I’ve never repeated it at Langley.”
“Why would she do that?” said Devin.
“The FBI and CIA investigated the couples thoroughly. They turned out to be retired and living on pensions. Dead ends. None of them even remotely linked by work or social circle to the government or companies that contracted with the government. They were classified as low to no risk to national security and put on a travel watch list. Don’t get me wrong. They were ‘illegals,’ as far as we could tell. Cold War relics based on their ages. Sleepers in the truest sense of the word. But everyone agreed that hauling them in for interrogation or deportation would alert the Russians and possibly create some kind of ripple effect that would undermine ongoing espionage investigations. The FBI was working Operation Ghost Stories at the time. Did you ever work on that one?”
“I had just finished training and reported to the Special Surveillance Group when they made the arrests,” said Devin.
“The FBI’s decision to back off the identified sleepers made more sense in light of those arrests. They took down ten active spies with Operation Ghost Stories, some who were making dangerous inroads within the Beltway—instead of busting a few retired schoolteachers and steelworkers,” said Berg. “Helen had guessed as much and withheld Wilson’s name. She never said why, but she felt there was more to Wilson than the others. One name consumed her for two decades.”
Devin opened his backpack and removed the file his mother had put together.
“My mother says this is an executive summary of her conspiracy,” said Devin, placing it on the table.
Berg looked extremely uncomfortable in the file’s presence. As though its contents might be radioactive.
“Have you looked at it?” asked Berg.
“No,” said Devin, pushing it toward Berg. “You first. I want your opinion before I read it.”
Berg took the file and opened it, just before two sweating bottles of ice-cold beer arrived. Less than a minute later, he closed it and pushed it back across the table—his face impassive.
“You didn’t finish it,” said Devin.
Berg took a long swig from his bottle before answering. “I’ve seen enough to warrant a visit to the Bat Cave.”
“That’s it?” said Devin. “What did it say?”
Berg shook his head. “You need to read it yourself. Then we need to take our lunch to go. We may not be safe here.”
Devin opened the file and started reading. By the time he finished skimming his mother’s summary, he wondered if he shouldn’t go back and tell Frank to hold off on refurbishing the boat. If any of what his mother had written turned out to be true, he didn’t foresee a lot of time in his immediate future for sailing lessons. For the first time ever, he actually hoped his mom had been crazy, because if she had been sane all along, the United States of America had one hell of a problem on its hands. The kind of problem that could dramatically and permanently alter the course of the nation’s trajectory—in the wrong direction.
CHAPTER 13
Devin’s mother hadn’t been kidding when she’d written “sketchy neighborhood.” After conducting an abbreviated surveillance-detection route, which took them over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and up through the back roads of eastern Maryland, he’d approached Baltimore from the northeast along US Route 40. He knew they were in for a treat when they got off the Route 40 bypass at Federal Street. The area started out fine but got progressively worse as he navigated the mile and a half west to the provided address.
Boarded-up windows and doors. Knee-high weeds growing through the cracked sidewalks. Corner convenience stores with faded signs—no real indication whether they were open or closed for business. Men huddled on stubby concrete stoops, eyeing him warily as he drove. The words NO SHOOT ZONE spray-painted on the sides of buildings or larger pieces of plyboard.
The number of abandoned buildings and commercial structures increased the farther west he drove, until he reached a one-block section that looked as though it had been scheduled for demolition. The block ended at a tall stone wall topped with cyclone fencing and barbed wire. A sturdy barrier designed to keep troublemakers out of the Green Mount Cemetery, which lay on the other side. He turned left on the street next to the wall and followed it south until he could bypass the cemetery.