The First Billion

"Belgium, eh?" Kirov covered the timetables, bus schedules, and flight itineraries he had been studying, then stood and accepted the package. "What could it be, then? Chocolate? Some Flemish lace?"

He, too, was wearing a blue suit, but its boxy cut, worn serge, and frayed sleeves identified it as a trophy of Soviet tailoring. Still, the creases were razor-sharp and the jacket spotless and wrinkle-free, the result of habit, discipline, and his grandmother's three-kilo iron.

Turning the package over, he checked the franking. The postmark revealed it to have been mailed from Amsterdam the first of May, six weeks earlier. Amsterdam was, of course, in Holland, not Belgium, but he didn't feel like burdening Levchenko with the information. The caliber of probationers being what it was, Kirov supposed he should be grateful the fool hadn't thought Amsterdam in Africa.

"Sign here, General."

As Leonid Kirov scribbled his signature on the clipboard, he could not help but feel bitter and shortchanged. Twenty years earlier, the nation's top graduates had clamored to join the KGB. To say one worked for the komitet gave one a prestige no amount of money could buy. No more. Enterprise, not espionage, had become the career of choice among tomorrow's leaders. Money was what mattered. The crème de la crème of Moscow University and its brethren was not impressed by a starting salary of $150 a month. Waiters at the Marriott Grand Hotel on Tverskaya Ulitsa earned more.

A last look at the deliveries prompted a sigh of disgust. Only two other names were listed on the delivery sheet. One was his own, dated two weeks earlier, signifying receipt of a reconditioned toner cartridge he'd purchased with his own money. Handing back the clipboard, he grunted his thanks. "You may go."

Levchenko gave a flaccid salute and exited the office, slamming the door behind him. Instead of firing off a rebuke, Kirov merely sighed with disgust. Very soon all this would change. Men like Levchenko would be shown the door. Fresh toner cartridges would be found in every laser printer. The Service would cast off its dusty veils and reclaim its proud birthright. And in his new mood of cautious optimism, Leonid Kirov decided the Service wasn't dead. It was just sleeping.

With a few crisp strokes, he gathered the paperwork for his upcoming trip, slipped it into his briefcase, then tucked the briefcase under his desk. Then he patted his breast pocket. The plane ticket was there. Sunday, 11 A.M. Novastar Flight 44. Moscow to Perm. A top-secret trip to the Arctic Circle.

Only then did Kirov's eyes return to the glossy brown parcel.

"Lapis," he whispered. Finally!

Lapis was the work name of an agent he had inserted into Philips, the Dutch electronics behemoth, three years earlier. In early May, Lapis had called in a state of high excitement. He had managed to photograph documents relating to a new eavesdropping technology Philips was developing for the Dutch Intelligence Service. Within Philips, the project was graded "eyes only," and its timely exploitation would allow his department to hack into the Dutch spy service's mainframe and read its take as if it were their own. Six weeks later, the film had arrived. Kirov couldn't help but shake his head. Gone were the days of the diplomatic pouch and emergency couriers. There was no cash in the budget for private jets or even economy-class tickets on KLM. As for commercial courier service, Federal Express had canceled its account two years back on grounds of nonpayment. These days, the Service sent and received its mail through the Russian post, like anyone else.

Six weeks!

A gentle shake of the package caused a small hard object to carom inside its folds. It was the film, no question. And despite his dismay, he felt a current of excitement rattle his bones. This was work, he told himself. This was the Service. Running an agent instead of worrying about copiers and toner cartridges.

Leonid Kirov had spent his entire career with the komitet. His postings had ranged from Brazil in the sixties to Hong Kong in the seventies, and finally to Washington, D.C., in the last tumultuous years of the regime. His specialty, then as now, was industrial espionage, and in his position as chief of FAPSI he oversaw all espionage measures implemented to advance the country's scientific and technological capabilities.