Farrell continued to watch through the lens. The expression of bewilderment and shock on the man’s face quickly gave way to resignation as he was led away to one of the waiting cars. Then, police cruiser in the lead, one of the policemen driving the Buick, the convoy roared off, leaving the phone booth deserted once again.
Farrell quickly packed up the camera and lens in an aluminum case. He jumped out of the van’s rear doors, tore off the red tag from the aerial and climbed into the driver’s seat. Turning the ignition key, he smiled in relief as the engine came to life easily.
He paused for a moment wondering as always where his photos might end up. On the desk of the Bureau Chief? In the Kremlin? Well, it didn’t matter really. He’d done his job.
He shoved the van in gear and pulled onto the expressway. With any luck he’d be home in time to help with the turkey.
One
It was nearly nightfall as the jumbo jet burst through the heavy dark sky over Washington and touched down at Dulles International Airport. The chirp of tires and sudden reverse thrust of engines jolted John Trask, brought him to the surface of an uneasy slumber. He rubbed a bony hand over his sharply chiseled face, blinked out the window at the airport lights flashing by and unbuckled his seat belt.
Once inside the terminal, Trask eased through customs and immigration. Diplomatic status has its rewards, he thought, smiling at the novelty of traveling under his own name. He moved quickly to beat the crowd to the ground transportation exit and scanned the rank of taxis for the car that would take him to Langley.
There was snow on the ground and the night sky promised more of the same. In a moment he was joined at the curb by a much younger man and directed to the waiting car. Trask eased in the back seat, and closed his eyes as the driver negotiated the airport traffic and angled towards the Virginia Expressway.
Gratefully, he sank back against the seat, feeling the fatigue spread through him. But even his weariness could not stop the jumble of thoughts racing through his mind. It was happening again. Just when he thought he had the answer, it slipped away, triggering the familiar signs he’d grown to trust that meant something didn’t quite fit.
The arrest of a Soviet official—especially one without diplomatic immunity—was always welcome news, but this one didn’t make any sense at all. Why would a senior trade delegate, with an unblemished record, jeopardize his career and usefulness to Moscow with a stupid blunder?
Yes, the stakes were high and the target, seemingly ready-made: a dissatisfied young naval officer, up to his neck in debt with access to a guidance system project. Normally an ideal situation, but not for Dimitri Zakharov. He was an old hand and knew better than anyone how Moscow viewed mistakes. The evidence was undeniable. The photos wrapped it up very neatly and were no doubt giving the Kremlin fits. Too neat? It all stacked up on paper, but Trask couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong.
Zakharov had seemed oblivious to the FBI surveillance. There were several meetings on film and the financial arrangements were astonishingly amateurish. Cash wrapped in brown paper and deposited the morning after a drop. Still, the material he was buying was top grade so maybe he could be excused the indiscretion and the speed of the operation.
Moscow normally took months to set up a recruitment. Zakharov had moved in on the naval officer in weeks. Maybe he was coming over. It was an unusual approach, but it had been done before. To avoid suspicion in Moscow, a would-be defector forces an arrest, then quietly disappears into a new life, new identity and leaves the Kremlin to wonder what went wrong.
For the moment, Trask discarded these thoughts. He had his own defector to worry about. An American defector.
“How much further driver?” Trask asked. He sat up straight and lit a cigarette. He’d lost track of where they were.
“Not long, sir,” the driver replied. “Turnoff is just coming up.”
Trask looked out at the rolling hills blanketed with snow as the car swung off the George Washington Parkway and sped up to the Langley complex. Identification cards were checked quickly and they were waved through towards the seven-story main building. The car submerged into the basement garage. Trask nodded his thanks to the driver, grabbed his briefcase and took the elevator to the Director’s conference room. Only the quiet hum of the heating system and the faint throb of the computer center broke the stillness.
Trask saw he was the last to arrive. They all looked up as he entered. Eugene McKinley, sitting in for Director Richard Abrams, a young aide from the State Department, a gruff looking Admiral from Naval Intelligence, and of course, Charles Fox, old friend, former mentor, looking a bit tired, a bit older, but Trask was happy to note, the sparkling blue eyes were bright as ever.
“Ah, John, at last,” Charles said rising. “Good to see you again. How are things in Moscow?”
“Fine, Charles. Good to see you. It’s been too long.” They clasped hands warmly, memories reflected in both their eyes. Field work in Budapest, debriefings in Berlin and Prague. They had crisscrossed Europe together. Looking at Charles Fox, one would be surprised to learn that this urbane, distinguished gentlemen had once run one of the most effective networks in Eastern Europe. It was just too bad about Prague, Trask reflected.
He nodded greetings to McKinley and was quickly introduced to the others. A Filipino mess steward brought in coffee and sandwiches while Trask dropped into one of the easy chairs arranged around the fireplace. The blazing logs gave off a pleasant aroma of cedar and pine. A fireside chat, Trask thought. This should be interesting. Abrams from State, looking far too cool and young for such a job, shuffled through a pile of papers and munched on a ham sandwich. The admiral puffed sullenly on his cigar and stared into the fire. The amenities were quickly over as Eugene McKinley led off.
“Well, gentlemen, shall we get started,” he began. He was a beefy man and bulged under his dark suit. His face was pink and freshly shaved. “The Director asked for this meeting to iron out the initial details, give us a starting point so to speak, and hopefully, after tonight we’ll have our bearings. As I’m sure you’re all aware, the Director is devoting his time, as is the president, to the current situation in Iran.” He looked around the group for confirmation and found it in the expressions and silence of everyone present.
It was unthinkable, but fifty-two Americans were at the mercy of a fanatic Islamic leader and the U.S. Government, with all its power and resources, was seemingly helpless. Everyone there silently contemplated the consequences of an unfound solution.
Trask wondered if it were true that at the time of the hostages were taken, there was not a single operative in Iran with the exception of those in the embassy.
McKinley broke the silence and turned to Abrams from State. Trask eyed him coolly. Sharp, perhaps too sharp. He had Ivy League written all over him and reminded Trask of those young, ambitious men of the long but not forgotten days of Watergate who had hovered about the Nixon White House.
“Richard, suppose you bring us up to date on the Zakharov arrest,” McKinley said.
Abrams barely referred to his notes as he began. “Dimitri Zakharov, a senior official of Amtorg, the Russian trade organization based in New York City, arrested December twenty-four by an FBI surveillance team. At the time of his arrest, he was in possession of highly sensitive classified material secured from,” he paused to check the name,” Lieutenant Mark Hopkins, U.S. Navy.” Abrams flicked a glance at the Admiral and got a stony stare in return.
“What about this Hopkins?” Charles interrupted.
“I was coming to that,” Abrams said. He seemed slightly annoyed at Charles’s question. “Hopkins, age thirty-seven, was working on a guidance control project. I don’t really know all the details, but he had apparently gotten above his means. New house, new car, charge accounts, and of late, some gambling debts.” Abrams paused again. “As we all know, this is exactly the tailor-made situation the Soviets ferret out these days.”
No one disagreed with Abrams. Blackmail,
subversion, compromise, even the odd assassination were still very much a part of the Soviet arsenal but in recent years, they had gone right to the core of things—money.
“Hopkins was put under routine surveillance as part of a periodic security check when he was accidentally seen in the company of Zakharov,” Abrams added.
“Accidentally?” Charles broke in again and exchanged the briefest of looks with Trask, who was thinking the same thing.
“Well, not exactly by accident.” Abrams appeared slightly flustered. “He and Zakharov were spotted together in the same restaurant on two separate occasions. Coincidence was ruled out enough to step up surveillance on Hopkins and take a closer look at Zakharov, although at the time of his arrest, his record was clean.”
“Maybe somebody should have been a little more careful with Zakharov,” the admiral put in from behind a cloud of smoke. His edginess was understandable. Hopkins was the navy’s responsibility and the admiral would be held accountable.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with the admiral,” Charles said.
“Oh, certainly Zakharov had been routinely checked out a number of times, as I’m sure you’re well aware, Mr. Fox, the FBI’s most conservative estimates set the number of Soviet operatives at about three thousand. Or, in effect, one in three Soviets in the U.S. are engaged in some type of clandestine activity. That requires a lot of manpower to keep track of them all.” It wasn’t the State Department’s fault Abrams was saying.
“Yes, quite right,” Charles said, shrugging at the admiral.
McKinley looked like he’d heard it all before and Trask noted that Abrams was now regarding Charles with a good deal more interest. He shuffled his papers and continued.
“Over the next several weeks, Hopkins and Zakharov met several times in which no exchange was detected. Naval Intelligence was alerted. Hopkins’ record was spotless, but he was engaged in highly sensitive work. The meetings became more frequent and less covert. Parks, hotels, bars, convincing the FBI something was in the offing.”
Everyone digested the information Abrams read out in his precise, clipped tones. Even if both were out of character, a high-ranking Soviet official and a naval officer in a sensitive job spelled just one thing.
“At first,” Abrams continued, “the FBI thought there might be some sort of sting operation through naval intelligence. Unhappily that turned out to be negative. Finally, Hopkins was discovered lifting photo-copied material and later dropped. But the actual exchange was not detected.”
“And the material?” Charles asked.
“Low grade stuff,” Abrams said, smiling reassuringly. “It was obviously a first step so a decision was made to allow Hopkins to go all the way in hopes of a bigger drop.”
What was Charles after? Trask wondered. He knew the mechanics of an operation better than anyone. Was he just trying to keep Sonny Boy on his toes or was something bothering him as well? He looked forward to a private talk with Charles.
Abrams rearranged his notes and continued. “There was a hurried meeting before Christmas Eve, quite in the open this time. The FBI pulled all the stops, and on Christmas Eve, Hopkins made a drop in a phone booth on the New York Thruway. A few minutes later, it was recovered by Zakharov. Both were arrested immediately. Hopkins of course, will be court martialed.”
“What’s the man’s state?” Charles asked, turning to the admiral.
“He’s made a complete confession, claims the money was too good to pass up. His family is taking it pretty hard. His wife apparently knew nothing, but his father is also Navy, which makes it difficult. Looking at Hopkins record, well, financial problems or not, it was a shock to everyone.”
Charles sat back in his chair and stared pensively into the fire. He only half heard McKinley’s question. “What about Zakharov?”
“He’s being held pending further investigation, and although he doesn’t have diplomatic immunity, the Soviets have lodged the standard protest over his incarceration and accused us of withholding information. I assume, however, Zakharov will stand trial and be sentenced by Federal Court following lengthy debriefings. Returning him to Moscow is naturally out of the question and for once we can do more than simply declare him persona non grata.” Abrams paused dramatically, to ensure he had everyone’s attention. “Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you what an opportunity this is.” His attitude was almost as if he’d single handedly brought about Zakharov’s capture.
“Yes, well, I think John has something to add that might complicate matters,” McKinley said. All eyes turned to Trask who had been quietly absorbing Abrams’ monologue and Charles’ probing.
“Yes, John, what’s all this about a defector coming home?” Charles sat up and faced Trask.
“Defector? I...” Abrams was clearly perplexed.
“Sorry, Richard,” McKinley said. “This is all pretty recent. That’s why we recalled John from Moscow. He’s senior man and talked to Mason himself.”
“Mason? Is that the defector’s name?” Abrams was frantically searching through his papers.
“No, Owens is the defector,” McKinley said. “Well, go ahead, John. It’s your show from here.”
Trask got up and stood in front of the fireplace. “I guess I should start from the beginning. Five years ago, in late 1974, Robert Calvin Owens, an employee of Triton Industries in Sunnyvale, California, turned up on the doorstep of the Soviet embassy in San Francisco. He was five years back from Vietnam and seemingly on the verge of a brilliant career in microchip technology, Triton’s specialty. Owens’ mother—he has no other family—was shocked and his friends, what there were of them, were dumbfounded. The Soviets, of course, could hardly contain their excitement. Silicon Valley is one of their prime targets, and with Owens background, they didn’t stop to ask questions. He was on the first plane to Moscow before anything could be done. Since then, we’ve had only sketchy reports about his whereabouts, but we do know he was assigned to Bureau T in Zelenograd, the Russian version of Silicon Valley.” Trask paused, aware of the attention of the others.
“Three weeks ago, an American couple, Arthur and Joan Mason, were in Moscow, sightseeing in Red Square. Owens apparently appeared out of the crowd, brushed against them and stuffed a note in Mason’s pocket.”
“What did it say?” Charles asked.
Trask paused again, looking around the group. McKinley stared into the fire; Abrams clutched his briefcase and listened open-mouthed. The admiral reached for another cigar.
“It was a simple message: My name is Robert Owens. Can I come home?”
“Extraordinary,” Charles said. He searched Trask’s face for some sign.
“And you interviewed Mason?” McKinley asked, looking away from the fire.
“Right. I have a transcript of the interview. Mason came directly to the embassy with the note. He was quite sure it was Owens. They had worked together briefly at Triton, but he said Owens seemed to be almost making sure he was recognized. I have the note also.” Trask opened his case and took out a sheet of paper. “This is a photo copy,” he said, handing it around. “We’ve done a preliminary hand writing check but it will get a full analysis.”
“Any report yet?” Charles asked, looking at the note.
Trask lit a cigarette and nodded. “This is either Owens’ hand or an excellent forgery.”
“Forgery?” Abrams was sitting on the edge of his chair. “But why would you suspect forgery? I mean...”
“I didn’t say we suspect anything,” Trask shot back. He looked at Charles and saw the realization already spreading over his face. Only Abrams and the admiral didn’t know, he guessed.
“But I don’t see the connection between this and the Zakharov arrest,” Abrams said. “This...” His voice trailed off as if he suddenly realized his own execution was known to everyone and he was just finding out for himself.
“Tell him, John,” McKinley said.
Trask stared for a moment at Abrams. Time to drop the bomb and send this whiz kid
back to State with his tail between his legs.
“Moscow wants a trade,” he said evenly. “Owens for Zakharov.” He threw his cigarette into the fire and listened to the silence. Charles, he noted, was smiling.
Abrams began to stuff papers into his briefcase. “Oh really, I mean how can we even discuss this. A defector, a traitor for a top Soviet caught in the act. I’ve no doubt the Russians would like Zakharov back. Of course they want a trade.” Abrams ignored the admiral, but looked imploringly from McKinley to Trask to Charles.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be worked out, Richard, and we’ll expect full cooperation from State on this. Thank you for your part. We’ll take it from here,” McKinley said, clearly dismissing Abrams.
Abrams nodded and was joined by the admiral as McKinley accompanied them out. Trask and Charles were left alone.
“Well, John, you’ve managed to pull out another surprise,” Charles said.
“I don’t know what I’ve pulled out, Charles. I’m only a messenger on this one. But anyway, you’re ahead of me on surprises. Are you back in the fold or is this a special guest appearance?” Neither man would mention Prague.
Charles shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. They keep threatening to retire me and I keep resisting. I do some consulting now and then for the Eastern desk. Still, perhaps this means something substantial is in the works.”
Trask nodded. “I guess it will be a routine exchange, but we’ll have to see what Eugene says.”
“Yes, I’m inclined to agree, but it does seem a bit strange, Zakharov’s arrest, I mean. Still, as you say...” Charles seemed preoccupied, drifting off before Trask could pursue him. McKinley returned and broke out a bottle of brandy.
“Now then,” he said, sitting down and filling three glasses. “Let’s get down to business. I’m afraid our young man from State is a bit miffed. The Zakharov case was his baby and he’s been liaison with the FBI. I couldn’t resist letting you break the news, John. The president has already been advised, of course, so I think Abrams can stand a little feather ruffling.”
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