Like the old days. The notion disturbed him. He hadn’t worked for Intelligence since 1973, when Watergate had resulted in a massive house-cleaning of the agency. Despite his drinking, he’d still been valuable enough that he’d hoped to cling to his job as director of South American operations till he reached the age for retirement. But the political scandals after the break-in had required scapegoats, and a boozer made a good one. At sixty-two, he’d been forced to resign—at least he’d received his full pension—and with an alcoholic’s hatred of cold, he’d headed toward Miami.
Now he thought, Hell, I’m too old for games. A mail drop. What a crock. First they kick me out. Then they figure they can snap their fingers and I’ll work for them again. He stuffed the key in the paper bag and stepped from the alley. Well, They’d better figure one more time.
He walked half a block before he questioned his assumption. Maybe the key didn’t come from the agency. He frowned and paused. It might be from the other side. His head ached. Which other side, though? More important, why? Who needs a boozer? Even if I was sober, I’m out of practice. After nine years, I don’t know anything about the agency’s operations. What the hell?
The fierce sun stabbed through his tinted glasses, making him squint. His spine itched with the sense he was being watched. He glanced around him. Stupid, he thought. Pal, you’re not kidding you’re out of practice. An obvious move like that could have got you killed in the old days.
Not that it mattered anymore. Whatever game was being offered, he didn’t intend to play. Someone had wasted time and twenty bucks. All he wanted was to get back home, turn the fan on, and drink his toast to David Hartman. Drink a lot of toasts. And have a few more when his good old pal Phil Donahue came on.
He soon saw the entrance to his apartment building. The owner called it a condominium, but a tenement would have been more accurate. The wreck was fifteen stories high—the concrete so substandard it crumbled from the salty air, the glass so thin it shuddered from the noisy traffic. The halls smelled of cabbage. The plumbing knocked. Through the thin walls, Hardy heard every time his neighbor took a leak. Retirement Villa, the sign said. Premature burial, Hardy thought.
He reached the building and stared at the seagull dung mixed with feathers on the sidewalk before the cracked glass door. His stomach soured as he analyzed the pattern of his days—the bourbon, the game shows, the soaps, at last the news if he could keep himself awake that long, the midnight nightmares, the 3 A.M. sweats. Hell, David Hartman can wait, he thought and turned from the entrance, continuing down the block. He admitted to being a fool. The trouble was, in spite of his bitterness toward the agency and his premonition of trouble, he couldn’t stifle his curiosity. He hadn’t felt this interested since he’d watched last season’s hurricane.
Which postal station? Since he had to start somewhere, he chose the nearest one, stopping in alleys along the way to strengthen his courage with bourbon. The station was glass and chrome, long and low, flanked by palm trees that seemed to stoop from the heat. He walked through the hissing automatic door and smelled the pungent industrial cleaner the janitor used on the concrete floor. The postal boxes lined both sides of a corridor. He found 113 on an oversized door on the right-hand bottom row. Of course, every postal station in the city probably had a box numbered 113. The key might not fit, but when he drew it from the paper bag, he found the key turned smoothly in the lock. The box was so low that when he opened it he had to kneel to look inside. Because of the box’s size, he’d expected a package. But he found nothing. Hollow with disappointment, angry at being fooled, he almost stood before his instincts warned him. Why a bottom box? Because, even kneeling, you can’t see the top. To see the whole inside, you have to bend down toward the floor. If something’s attached to the top, the clerk inserting mail from the other side can’t see it. Not unless the clerk bent down to the floor, as Hardy did, and there it was, a small flat plastic container with a magnet sticking it to the top of the box.
His face red from bending over, Hardy pried the magnet free. Unsteadily, he got up. He glanced along the corridor of boxes. No one in sight. Instead of going to a safer location, he took a chance and yanked the flap on the container.
He frowned at another key. What the—?
Not a postal box key. It did have a number: 36.
He turned it over. Atlantic Hotel.
2
Saul tensed when he heard the key scraping in the lock. He crouched behind a chair, clutching his hidden Beretta, staring toward the gradually opening door.
He’d made sure the room was dark, tugging the drapes shut. The light from the hall streamed narrowly across the floor, then widened. A shadow obscured the light. An overweight man stepped slowly in, nervous, clutching something in a paper bag.
“Shut the door and lock it,” Saul said.
The man obeyed. In the dark, Saul switched on a swivel-necked desk lamp, aiming it toward him. There wasn’t any question now. From behind the lamp, shielded from its glare, he recognized Hardy. The man took off his tinted glasses, raising a hand to protect his eyes. Saul hadn’t seen him in thirteen years. Hardy had looked bad then. Now, at the age of seventy-two, he looked worse—puffy fishbelly skin, red blotches on his wrinkled cheeks, a distended abdomen from his swollen liver and the fluid an alcoholic’s body retains. His hair was gray, dull, lifeless. But at least it was combed. He’d shaved. He gave off no odor, except from bourbon. His clothes—a hideous flower-patterned shirt and electric-blue polyester pants—looked clean and pressed. His white shoes were freshly polished.
Hell, Saul thought, if I was a lush, I doubt I’d pay as much attention to my appearance. “Hardy, It’s good to see you. The light switch is to your left.”
“Who—?” Hardy’s voice trembled as he groped for the switch. Two lamps—on a bureau and over the bed—came on. Hardy squinted, frowning.
“You don’t recognize me? I’m insulted.”
Hardy continued frowning. “Saul?” He blinked in confusion.
Still keeping the Beretta hidden, Saul grinned and reached across the chair to shake hands with him. “How are you? What’s in the bag?”
“Oh…” Hardy shrugged, embarrassed. “Just a few things. I had an early errand.”
“Booze?”
“Well, yeah…” Hardy wiped his mouth self-consciously. “I’m having some friends over. I didn’t realize the liquor cabinet was empty.”
“Looks awful heavy. Set it on the dresser. Give your arm a rest.”
Bewildered, Hardy did what he was told. “I… what’s this all about?”
Saul raised his shoulders. “A reunion, I guess you could say.”
The phone rang. Hardy flinched and stared. It rang again. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” But Saul didn’t move. The phone stopped ringing. “For Christ’s sake,” Hardy said, “what’s going on? That Cuban—”
“Impressive, wasn’t he? I had to look quite a while before I found him. Just the right sneer.”
“But why?”
“We’ll get to that. Are you armed?”
“You’re kidding. With all these Cuban refugees?”
Saul nodded. Hardy was legendary for never going anywhere without a handgun, including to the bathroom. Once, to the dismay of the Secret Service, he’d worn a revolver to a White House conference with the president. Another time, during a prestigious dinner party, he’d fallen asleep from overdrinking, slumping in his chair till his handgun slipped from his shoulder holster, thumping on the floor in front of two congressmen and three senators. “Put it next to the booze on the dresser.”
“Why?”
Saul raised the Beretta from behind the chair. “Just do it.”
“Hey, come on.” Hardy’s eyes widened. He tried to laugh as if convincing himself this was a joke. “You don’t need that.”
Saul didn’t laugh, though.
Hardy pursed his lips. Nervous, he stooped to lift his right pant leg, showing a snub-nosed Colt .38 in an ankle holster.
“Still like those revolvers, huh?”
“You know what they used to call me.”
“Wyatt Earp.” Saul tensed. “Use just two fingers.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” Hardy sounded indignant. “I still remember the drill.” He set the handgun on the dresser. “You satisfied?”
“Not quite.” Saul picked it up. “I have to search you.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“I won’t tickle.” After frisking him, Saul showed particular interest in Hardy’s buttons.
Hardy blanched. “Is that what this is all about? A microphone? You thought I was wired? Why would I—?”
“The same reason we used the Cuban. We’re not sure if you’re being watched.”
“Watched? But why would anybody want to—? Wait a minute. We? Did you say we?”
“Chris is working with me.”
“Kilmoonie?” Hardy sounded confused.
“Good. The booze hasn’t ruined your memory.”
“How could I forget what you guys did for me in Chile? Where—?”
“That phone call was him from the lobby. Two rings meant he doubts you were followed. If he spots any trouble, He’ll phone again—one ring—to warn me.”
“But I could’ve told you I wasn’t followed.” He noticed Saul avoid his stare. “I get it.” He nodded grimly. “You figure I’m in no condition to spot a tail.”
“Out of action, a person’s skills get blunted.”
“Especially if he’s a lush.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Hell, you didn’t have to.” Hardy glared. “What made you sure I’d even come?”
“We weren’t. When the Cuban gave you the key, you could’ve dropped it down a sewer.”
“And?”
“We’d have left you alone. You had to prove you were ready to get involved—not just with us but with anything. You had to show you wanted some action.”
“No.”
“I’m not sure what—”
“You had another reason.”
Saul shook his head.
“The Cuban,” Hardy said. “I can see why you needed him. The key makes sense.”
“Well, then—?”
“But the postal box and the second key?”
“Added precautions.”
“No, you wanted to give me plenty of time in case I had to slip away and make a phone call. Chris would have seen me do it. He’d have called and warned you to run.” Hardy seethed. “So who the hell did you think I’d be working for?”
Saul debated. It was possible Hardy had been approached. On the other hand, Saul didn’t know where else to turn. He weighed the possibilities.
And told him.
Hardy looked stunned. For a moment, he didn’t seem to understand. Abruptly his face turned red. The veins in his neck bulged. “What?” His voice cracked. “Eliot? You thought I’d cooperate with that son of a bitch? After what he did to me, you figured I’d help him?”
“We weren’t sure. It’s been a lot of years. Maybe you’d changed. Sometimes a person forgets to be angry.”
“Forgets? Never! That bastard got me fired! I’d like to get my hands around his throat and—”
“Care to prove it?”
Hardy laughed.
3
Saul finished explaining. Hardy listened, eyes harsh, face even redder, feverish with hate. At last he nodded. “Sure. He turned against you, too. I’m not surprised. He turned against everybody else. The wonder is he took so long.”
“Keep talking.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Eliot always said if you want to learn a man’s secrets, ask someone who hates him.”
“You know more about him than anybody does.”
“I thought I did. I was wrong. But you were his rival. You investigated him.”
“You heard about that?”
Saul didn’t answer.
Hardy turned to the paper bag on the dresser. Yanking out a half-empty bourbon bottle, he twisted off the cap and raised it to his lips. He suddenly stopped, glancing self-consciously. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a glass.”
“In the bathroom.” Saul took the bottle from him. “But I’ve got something else for you to drink.”
“What is it?”
“Get the glass.”
Suspicious, Hardy obeyed. When he came back from the bathroom, his fingers tightened on the glass. He gaped at the bottles Saul had taken from a drawer and swallowed sickly. “No.”
“I need you sober. If you have to drink—”
“Vermouth? Is this a joke?”
“Am I laughing?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Maybe you won’t drink so much. In case you get tempted, though…” Saul took the whiskey bottles into the bathroom and emptied them down the sink.
Hardy moaned. “Sixteen bucks they cost me!”
“Here’s a twenty. Keep the change.”
“Sadist!”
“Think of it this way. The sooner we’re finished, the sooner you can buy more bourbon.” Saul went to the dresser and opened both kinds of vermouth—red and white—pouring them in Hardy’s glass. “In case your stomach’s stronger than I thought.”
Hardy scowled at the pink concoction. He reached, drew back his hand, then reached again—and drained the glass in three swallows. Gasping, he clutched the dresser. “Jesus.”
“You okay?”
“It tastes like Kool-Aid.” Hardy shuddered. “I’ll never forgive you for this.” But he poured another glassful. “All right, I’ve got to know. So how’d you find out I investigated him?”
“I didn’t.”
“But you said—”
“I had a hunch—given the way you felt about him. But I wasn’t sure. I figured if I asked, you might get scared and deny it. So I claimed I already knew, hoping you’d agree.”
“I have been down here too long.” Hardy sighed. “Okay, It’s true. But you had me scared for a minute. Nobody should have known. Believe me, I was careful. A job like that, I didn’t trust anybody for help. A little digging here, a little there. No obvious pattern. No time I couldn’t account for.” Hardy scowled. “Just my luck, Watergate came along. I wasn’t involved in the break-in. But Eliot and I had been rivals quite a while. He convinced the director to dump me. As an example. I can see the logic. Hell, I was—still am—a lush. But I can’t shake the feeling he saw it as a chance for a final victory.”
“You think he knew you were investigating him?”
“Obviously not.”
“What makes you sure?”
“He’d have had me killed.”
Saul stared. “You learned that much?”
“I was close. There was something. I could feel it. Some days I thought all I needed was one more fact. Just one more—” Hardy shrugged. “But he won. Outside, with no way to continue the investigation, I let the booze control me.” He held up his glass. “This is really awful.”
“Maybe you’d like some coffee?”
“God, no, that’s worse than the vermouth. Retirement.” Hardy brooded. “You get lazy down here. How was I supposed to finish what I started? I couldn’t get at the computers.”
“You wanted to stay alive.”
“Or I deserved to be fired. If I’d had any balls, I’d still have kept after him.” His forehead broke out in sweat. “It’s awful hot.”
Saul crossed the room, turning on the air conditioner beside the drapes. It rattled, sending a musty breeze through the room. “What made you want to investigate him?”
Hardy sipped in disgust. “Kim Philby.”
4
Back in 1951, Kim Philby had been a high-ranking member of Britain’s foreign intelligence network, MI-6. Earlier, during the Second World War, he’d helped to train the inexperienced recruits of America’s fledgling espionage network, the OSS. He’d offered advice when the OSS became the CIA in 1947. He’d come to Washington in 1949 to help the FB
I investigate Soviet spy rings, and indeed he’d been responsible for proving that a well-respected British diplomat, Donald Maclean, was a Communist agent. Before Maclean could be arrested, however, Maclean had been alerted by another British diplomat, Guy Burgess, himself an unsuspected Communist agent, who fled with Maclean to Russia.
The revelation of such deep Soviet infiltration shocked the Western intelligence community. Equally disturbing was the mystery of how Burgess had known Maclean was under suspicion. Preoccupied by that question, Hardy, then a junior officer in the CIA, had sat in his car in a Washington parking lot, waiting for a sudden rainstorm to end so he could run to his favorite bar for lunch, when a startling thought occurred to him. Foregoing his thirst, he quickly drove back to his office in one of the Quonset buildings that had crowded the Washington Mall since the war. Throwing his rain-drenched topcoat over a chair in his cubicle, he searched through several files, scribbling notes to document the pattern he suspected.
Burgess had warned Maclean. Burgess knew Philby, the man who accused Maclean. Indeed Burgess had once been a guest in Philby’s home. Had Philby made an inadvertent slip, letting Burgess know Maclean was in trouble?
That explanation made no sense. Philby had too much experience to reveal sensitive information to a friend of the man he planned to accuse.
Then what was the connection? Burgess, Maclean, and Philby. Hardy made a drastic leap in logic. What if Philby too was a Communist agent? What if Philby had accused Maclean but first had sent Burgess to warn him?
Why, though? Why would Philby accuse a fellow Communist agent? Hardy could think of only one reason—to protect a more important Communist agent who was close to being uncovered. But who’d be more important than Maclean? Hardy’s breathing quickened. Philby himself? By accusing Maclean, Philby would raise himself above suspicion. Perhaps, in his work with the FBI, Philby had discovered he was close to being identified as a spy.
Assumptions, Hardy thought. But where’s the proof? He suddenly recalled a Communist defector named Krivitsky who, years before, had warned about three Soviet agents in the British diplomatic corps. Krivitsky had identified one man by his last name, King (subsequently arrested), but Krivitsky had been vague about the other two: a Scotsman attracted to Communism in the ’30s, and a British journalist in the Spanish Civil War. The Scotsman had now been identified as Maclean. But who was the British journalist?
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