He cut the connection and bellowed out, “Marv, I want two cars and six men from the Office of Security, armed and wearing civilian clothes, waiting in the garage in ten minutes. Waldo, get me a read-out on a female American name of Ept, I’m spelling that E-P-T, first name, Agatha, she works for the US Patent Office.” He reached for the red phone and the clipboard filled with unlisted numbers that even the phone company couldn’t locate and dialed one of them. After four rings the DD/O’s Chief of Operations, Jack McAuliffe, came on the line. “Mr. McAuliffe, this is Manny Ebbitt, the night duty officer in the Operations Center—“
“What’s with the Mr. McAuliffe, Manny?”
“I’m calling on official business, Jack, so I thought—“
“You thought wrong. What’s up?”
“Looks as if we’ve got a walk-in.” He explained about the call from the American woman who said she worked for the patent office; about the Russian attaché asking for political asylum in exchange for unspecified information. Waldo came across the room on the run and shoved a paper under Manny’s eyes. “I’m getting a confirmation on the American woman, Jack—Ept, Agatha, forty-two, divorced, an associate researcher at the US Patent Office for the past nine years. Normally I’d check with my division chief but Leo’s on a plane heading for Europe. You probably know that. So I decided to check in with you.”
Jack, who had seen his first defector in a Berlin safe house over a movie theater a lifetime ago and had personally handled half a dozen since, was all business. “All right. I’ll authorize you to talk to the Russian. Make sure he’s not some journalist playing footsie with the Company. If he’s really Russian, if he’s really a diplomat, if he really has access to secrets, string him along. See if you can get an idea of what he has to offer. See what he wants in return. Don’t commit yourself. Don’t commit the Company. Bear in mind that if he is the genuine article the optimum solution, from our point of view, is to talk him into remaining as an agent in place inside the Soviet embassy, at least until his tour of duty expires. Bear in mind, too, that even if he looks like the genuine article he could still be a dispatched agent sent to feed us malarkey. If you’re satisfied, instruct him to phone the Ept woman at midweek. Since all Russians diplomats work for the KGB, directly or indirectly, he could claim he’s having an affair with this woman from the patent office, or trying to, in order to get hold of American patents. We could eventually supply him with some. The Russians who look over everyone’s shoulder at the embassy ought to swallow that.”
Marv came back into the Operations Center and gestured with two fingers to indicate that the cars were waiting in the basement. “Okay. I’m on my way,” Manny said.
“You’re taking security with you?”
“Two cars. Six people.”
“Spread them around to make sure you’re not walking into a nest of vipers. Take one man inside with you just in case. Tape the conversation with the Russian if he lets you. Call me as soon as you come out. I’ll alert your father and counterintelligence. Angleton will want to be brought in on this. We’ll meet in the DD/O’s office first thing tomorrow to see if we want to pursue the matter.”
Manny waved for Waldo to take over the catbird seat, grabbed his sports jacket off the back of a chair and a small battery-powered tape recorder from a shelf and headed for the door.
For once, the long night watch had turned out to be more intriguing than one of those Cold War spy novels.
Agatha Ept lived in a no-frills six-story apartment house constructed, according to the date over the door, in 1946, a time when returning GIs were flooding into the Washington area after the war. Located in the heart of a lower-middle-class neighborhood outside the Beltway a stone’s throw from Rockville, with ugly fire escapes clinging like limpets to its brick sides, the building was saved from falling into the category of a flophouse by a conspicuous neatness. There were trimmed hedges on either side of a heavy glass outer door leading to a straightforward well-lit vestibule, leading to a heavy glass inner door that could only be opened if you had a key or someone in the building buzzed you through. Five of Manny’s shadows from the Office of Security, checking with each other on small walkie-talkies, had quietly spread out around the building, covering the front and back entrances, the underground garage and the poorly lit bushy areas under the two fire escapes. The sixth shadow hovered behind Manny as he pushed the chrome button next to the name “Ept, A.”
Almost instantly a woman’s voice burst over the intercom. “Who’s there?” she demanded.
“It’s the person you spoke to earlier this evening,” Manny replied. “Marty?”
Manny realized he was dealing with a smart cookie. “Not Marty. Manny.”
“What’s your birth sign, Manny?”
The shadow from Security tapped a forefinger against his forehead to suggest that the woman was off her rocker. Manny said, “I’m a nonpracticing Capricorn.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing out on. I’m on the fifth floor, second door to your right when you get off the elevator.”
The lock in the glass door buzzed. Manny and his shadow pushed through into the building. Agatha, standing at the door of her apartment when they emerged from the elevator, turned out to be a tall, reedy woman with bright eyes and delicate features. When she flashed a nervous smile she looked as if she had more than her share of teeth. “Which one of you is the nonpracticing Capricorn? And who the hell is the one who isn’t?” she wanted to know.
“I’m Manny, he’s my security blanket,” Manny explained.
“He can’t come in,” Agatha declared categorically. “My Russian said he’ll talk to you and no one else.”
“Let me take a quick look around,” the security man said. “If everything looks kosher I’ll wait out here.”
“Do I have a choice?” Agatha asked Manny.
He screwed up his face.
“All right. Just a quick look.”
Agatha let the two men in and locked the door behind them with the safety chain. The security man ignored the Russian, who was watching from the kitchenette, and proceeded to throw open doors and run his hand under the tops of tables and along the arms of chairs. He disappeared into the bedroom, then came out and nodded at Manny. “I’ll be in the hallway if you need me,” he said.
Manny walked over to the political attaché and offered his hand. “My name is—” he started to say in Russian.
The Russian gripped it firmly and answered in Russian. “It’s you, the Manny from the telephone conversation. I am Sergei Semyonovich Kukushkin.”
Manny set the portable recorder down on a coffee table and started to open the leather flap. “What are you doing with the machine?” the Russian demanded.
“I’d like to record the conversation.”
The Russian shook his head emphatically; his long, vaguely blond hair, already disheveled, flew off in all directions. “Nyet, nyet. If you please, I am not wanting that.”
Manny looked at Agatha. “Would you mind?” he asked, nodding toward the bedroom door.
“I’d mind if I thought someone would notice.” She smiled encouragingly at the Russian and disappeared into the bedroom.
Kukushkin snatched a glass filled with an orange liquid from the kitchenette counter. “Juice of carrot,” he said, holding it up. “You want some?”
Manny shook his head. “I was hoping it might be whiskey.”
The Russian said unhappily, “The lady is vegetarian.”
Manny motioned him toward a couch and settled into a chair facing him. He decided to see how well Kukushkin spoke English. “Where do the KGB watchdogs at the Soviet embassy think you are right now?”
Kukushkin looked confused. “What means watchdog?”
“Your security people? Your SK?”
“Ahhh. Watchdogs. I sign out going to movie theater.”
“What film are you supposed to be seeing?”
“Young Frankenstein.”
“What time does it finish?”
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“Ten-forty. Bus takes me back to embassy by eleven, eleven-fifteen.”
Manny looked at his wristwatch. “That gives us forty minutes if we drop you at a bus stop near the theater. Do you know the plot of Young Frankenstein?”
“I know enough—I read criticism of film in newspaper.”
Manny studied the Russian. He was forty-five, give or take a few years, of medium height, handsome in a rough way with the heavy shoulders and thick body of a wrestler. His gaze was straightforward and unwavering. The only outward sign of uneasiness was his habit of flicking the nail of his middle finger back and forth against his thumbnail.
Manny had the queasy feeling that he was dealing with a professional. He switched back to Russian. “Agatha said you were a political attaché…”
Kukushkin produced a sour grin. “Political attaché is my diplomatic cover. My real name is Klimov. Sergei Klimov. I have temporary rank of captain in KGB.” The Russian’s fingernails clicked like a metronome. “To speak openly, I was expecting the meeting to be with someone more senior. You are too young. If I need brain surgery I would not want a young surgeon.” He added in English, “Same reasonment is holding true for spies.”
“I’m senior enough to deal with this, I promise you. You want to give me a brief rundown on your background?”
Kukushkin nodded reluctantly. “My pedagogic background is study of capitalist political model. Before assignment in Washington I was attached to Directorate S of the First Chief Directorate, which responsible for running KGB officers and agents operating abroad under deep cover. During that assignment many many cables passed through my hands. Arrived Washington fourteen months ago. Principal job in Washington is analyzing relationship between your White House and the two branches of your Congress. Seven months remain on normal tour, though sometimes tour stretching to two and a half, three years if SK agree.”
“You want to come over to our side?” Manny said carefully.
“I want political asylum in America.” The Russian looked as if he were about to throw up. “For me,” Kukushkin added. “For my wife. For my seven-years daughter.”
“Why?”
“I do not understand your why.”
“What made you decide to come over?”
“Look, I understand motive is important so you can make judgment if I am genuine or false defector, but we are not having much time for this tonight. I will say you that one of ironies of Cold War is that KGB operatives, especially those who have been posted to the West, have a better understanding of the capitalist world’s strengths and weaknesses than average Russian. I am living proof of this. I am disillusioned with corruption, with inefficiency of our Soviet Socialist model. I believe in Mother Russia, not Soviet Russia.” Kukushkin leaned forward and spoke with stifled passion. “I will say you honestly there exists another reason. My wife is heart sick—she was taking medicine before many years. She is treated by Russian doctor at embassy. I want to have her American doctor and American medicine.”
“How long have you been disillusioned?”
One of Kukushkin’s large hands floated off his lap, palms up. “Disillusion is something not growing like mushroom over one night. Many, many years it grows until your brain and your heart are poisoned.”
“Were you disillusioned when you arrived in Washington fourteen months ago? Was your wife in need of medical help when you came here?”
The Russian nodded warily; he wasn’t sure where this line of questioning was leading.
Manny pushed himself to the edge of the chair. “Why didn’t you come over fourteen months ago?”
Kukushkin’s gaze wavered from Manny’s for the first time. “Ne vozmozhno!” he said, lowering his voice and uttering the words with great intensity.
Manny persisted. “Why was it impossible?”
His nails clicking into the silence, the Russian considered the question for a moment. “KGB rezident in Washington, Borisov, is schoolmate from Lomonosov University—for two years we roomed together. Rezident is very open with me, telling me many things when we drink whiskey in his office late at night. From him I know that KGB has what you call a mole inside your CIA with code name SASHA. This SASHA, he is having very important position”—one of Kukushkin’s thick hands measured off rungs on a ladder—“somewhere high up in your organization. Impossible to come over when SASHA in Washington—he would be one of first in CIA to find out, he would alarm our SK people. The Russian trying to come over, his family”—he slashed a forefinger across his throat—“kaput.”
Assuming Kukushkin was the real McCoy, Manny knew that he had gotten his hands on a gold nugget. “Are you saying that SASHA is not in Washington?”
The Russian nodded grimly. “Borisov is telling me that both SASHA and his cutout are out of the city.”
Manny asked quietly, “Can you identify SASHA?”
Kukushkin’s fingernails fell silent. “I do not think even rezident knows his identity, only that he exists. But you already know that SASHA is not in Washington. I am able provide other particulars…I am able to say you another time when he is not in Washington. I am able to say you the first initial of his family name, along with one other important biographical detail. In return for political asylum for me, for my family, I am ready to help you narrow list of suspects.”
“You two know each other?” the DCI, Bill Colby, asked as the Company’s legendary chief of counterintelligence, James Jesus Angleton, carefully folded his brittle body into a chair at the head of the table.
“We’ve never met,” Angleton murmured.
Jack McAuliffe did the honors. “This is Manny Ebbitt—one of the rising stars in the Soviet Division.”
“It’s a honor to meet you, Mr. Angleton,” Manny volunteered.
Angleton peered down the table at Manny, fixing his brooding Mexican eyes on him. “So you’re Elliott’s boy,” he said.
From his place alongside Colby, Ebby remarked testily, “Yes, he is.”
“Everyone has a cross to bear,” Jack quipped, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. Nobody smiled.
Suppressing a chain-smoker’s hacking cough, Angleton bent his head and lit a cigarette from the stump of another that had burned down to his dehydrated lips. “I’d like to get started,” he said impatiently. “I’m supposed to be briefing the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board at eleven.”
Manny was more than a little intimidated to be in the presence of the institutional legend who went by the in-house code name of Mother. For more than twenty years Angleton had kept his lonely vigil, turning over stones and looking for worms of treason; he traced every operational failure to the presence of a Soviet mole inside the Company, every operational success to Starik’s diabolical efforts to advance the mole’s career. In Manny’s Soviet Division, people spoke about Mother in hushed tones. Someone would brag of having caught a glimpse of him in a corridor, a drawn, gray, hunched specter prowling Langley with his hands clasped behind his back and a faraway gleam in his eyes. Scuttlebutt had it that Angleton was past his prime, living on borrowed time, incapable after a four-martini lunch of working his way through the mountain of cables and files heaped on his desk. At regular topsider staff meetings on the seventh floor of what Company hands now called the “Campus,” Angleton was said to rant about his latest theory. One week he would claim that the Sino-Soviet split and the seeming independence of Dubček in Czechoslovakia or Ceaucescu in Rumania or Tito in Yugoslavia were the dirty work of KGB disinformation specialists trying to lure the West into thinking the Soviet monolith was breaking up. Another time he would ramble on about how his nemesis, Philby, who fled to Moscow in the early 1960s after finally having been exposed as a Soviet spy, had recast the posture and character of the Soviet intelligence service. Under Philby’s stewardship, Angleton would claim, it had become more subtle; more stiletto than blunderbuss. Angleton went so far as to see Philby’s handiwork when KGB operatives traded in their easy-to-spot baggy trousers and wide cuffs for tailored
suits. Inside the Company, there were caustic complaints that Angleton’s paranoid hunt for moles had paralyzed Soviet ops; that he’d hurt the Company more than any Soviet mole could. Angleton still had his defenders, though their ranks seemed to thin out with each passing year. Every intelligence organization needed a resident paranoid, they would argue; Angleton was the Company’s. And the fact that he hadn’t uncovered a single Soviet mole inside the CIA didn’t mean there wasn’t one.
Colby sat back and crossed his legs and regarded Manny over his eyeglasses. “Why don’t you begin,” he said.
“Yes, sir. I received the phone call from the woman named Ept, Agatha, at approximately nine thirty-two—“
“Nine thirty would be approximately,” Angleton remarked. “Nine thirty-two is precisely.”
Manny looked up from his notes, the faintest of smiles pasted on his lips. “I take your point, sir. The Ept woman claimed to work for the US Patent Office, a fact I was able to verify—“
“You were able to verify that someone named Ept, Agatha, was on the Patent Office payroll,” Angleton interjected. “You did not verify, nor, as far as I know, have you verified, that the woman claiming to be Ept, Agatha, was in fact the same Ept, Agatha employed by the US Patent Office.”
Ebby kept his mouth shut. Colby glanced at Angleton. “You’re nitpicking, Jim. Why don’t we let him finish.”
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