The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

  “Some dessert?” Castle asked. “A meal like that calls for dessert.” He looked up from the menu. “I barely glanced at the files.”

  Listening to Castle was like looking through a child’s kaleidoscope. “Just what is it that you and Duff have in mind?”

  “All you have to do is study the files, rake over the data, backwards and forwards. Maybe talk to a couple of people. Then come up with some recommendations for action,” Castle said. “Two weeks, maybe three at the outside.”

  Trosper sighed. “I suppose Emily wouldn’t mind a little more time over here,” he said uneasily.

  “Then it’s a deal?”

  Trosper nodded.

  Castle continued to study the menu. “There is one other thing,” he murmured without looking up. “Though it’s not necessarily cause and effect.”

  Trosper closed his eyes and bowed his head, waiting for the blow to fall.

  “A week, maybe ten days after I called for the Troika files, Volin walked out of the apartment we had for him. We haven’t had a trace of him since January ’92.”

  Trosper forced himself to look up and open his eyes. “Is this where I am supposed to grin and say ‘snookered again’?”

  “As I said, it may not have been cause and effect.”

  Despite himself, Trosper began to laugh.

  Castle smiled. “What in the name of heaven is Blueberry Slump?”

  “What’s that tie you’re wearing?” Trosper asked. It was green, with small red figures, like potted plants.

  Castle glanced down at his chest. “Sometimes irreverently described as ‘a pansy rampant on a bed of thorns,’ it belongs to one of the British military intelligence outfits. They presented it to me after an all-skate we had a few years ago.”

  7

  Washington, D.C.

  “I’ve got the big picture, just tell me what you found, and what’s to be done about it.” Duff Whyte, still thin from his illness, shifted uneasily in his high-backed leather chair. Despite his gray flannel suit, double-twist poplin shirt, and heavy foulard tie, there was the usual hint of the American West about Whyte. Even seated, the Controller’s every movement suggested a self-reliance that Trosper, because of his childhood devotion to cowboy films, would always associate with the open prairie.

  “What you have,” Trosper began, “is hours of recorded lie-detector testings on the three alleged suspects, security background files, and upwards of four hundred pages of typed transcripts of the oral interrogations.”

  Castle sat, Gabriel-like, to the right of the Controller’s old-fashioned desk, and appeared immersed in the complex geometrical doodle he was sketching on a memo pad.

  “What about their conclusions?” Whyte asked.

  “The panel decided that the allegation couldn’t be proved,” Trosper said, “and that although none of the three was necessarily guilty, none could be proved innocent.”

  “Your view?” It was Castle’s first question, and he did not look up from his pad to utter it.

  “The panel wasn’t qualified,” Trosper said. “I’d guess Dwyer was more concerned that there would be no leaks or gossip within the Firm than he was about picking the strongest team. Neither Logan, a reports officer, nor Wasserman, from the I.G. Staff, had any operations experience. Bill Murphy was from the security office, but his only experience was in background investigations.”

  Castle nodded agreement.

  “They established,” Trosper continued, “that each of our three suspects had been in, or could easily have got to, the areas cited by Volin — Paris, Munich, Geneva, Mexico City — at about the times he specified.”

  “At least, our villain had orthodox taste in venues,” Whyte sniffed.

  “Unfortunately the panel ignored the fact that at any given time, there were certain to be dozens of other American officials kicking around in the same watering holes,” Trosper said. “State, Commerce, Agriculture, the Pentagon, even Treasury has people abroad, any one of whom might have been mistaken by Volin’s alleged source.” He waited before adding, “Along with that, the panel neglected to study the work history of the trio and to identify any sensitive data known to them and subsequently found to have been compromised.”

  Trosper turned from Whyte to Castle. He recognized Castle’s complex doodling as a bit of business usually employed to rattle an agent or a briefing officer engaged in a rehearsed and too slick presentation, and was irritated to find himself responding to it. He glanced at Whyte, who, with a dismissive wave of his hand in Castle’s direction, motioned Trosper to continue.

  “Because no real effort was made to collect collateral data before the questioning began, the panel had too few questions for each suspect. This meant that they fired their best ammunition in the first few hours of questioning. After that, the interrogations degenerated into mindless repetition of identical questions and even simpler denials. ‘You’re a traitor.’ ‘No I’m not.’ ‘Yes you are.’ ‘Prove it.’”

  Trosper caught a flicker of reaction from Castle.

  “Obviously it wasn’t quite that bad, but it went on for hours.”

  Whyte glanced expectantly at Castle, but the chief of Special Operations remained buried in his notepad.

  “Someone should have reminded them that if an interrogator needs the answers to four questions, he’d better wrap them in twenty others whose answers he already knows,” Trosper said. “That’s the only way to keep a running check on any games a suspect might be playing.”

  “So, what do you recommend?” Whyte asked with an impatient gesture.

  “There’s no evidence that the three were guilty of anything,” Trosper said. “I suggest that you have someone interview each of them and go over the few questions I’ve attached to my report. If this doesn’t show anything, and if there’s no evidence from other sources, I recommend that you restore all three to full benefits.”

  “But no return to duty?” Whyte asked.

  Trosper shrugged. “Folsom is well fixed. A personal letter telling him that the slate is wiped clean would probably take care of things as far as he is concerned.”

  “Alex Findley, what about him?” Whyte glanced impatiently at Castle.

  “Once you’ve been outside for a while things begin to look different,” Trosper said. “I’m not sure that Findley would want to come back. But you can always make an offer.”

  Castle stirred. “Friesler?” he asked softly.

  “From what Folsom told me, I’m sure Lotte Friesler will expect to be reinstated the moment she’s cleared,” Trosper said.

  With a faint sigh, Castle picked up his notepad, jammed the top onto his thick fountain pen, and stuffed the pen into his breast pocket. He turned his full attention to Whyte and said, “I think it’s time for you to put Alan more fully into the picture.”

  Trosper leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling as if making an appeal to heaven, and then bent forward toward Whyte. “I really dislike being blindsided by my own team,” he said.

  “It’s not that at all,” Whyte said quietly. “I wanted your opinion before you saw the new evidence.”

  “We got this yesterday,” Castle added with uncustomary haste. He pulled two folded sheets of typewriter paper from the leather folder on his lap. “This is Xerox,” he said with a trace of apology. “The original was addressed to a letter drop we used in the Tomahawk case and was mailed from a post office in New York.” He looked across the desk to Whyte for support.

  “You know about Tomahawk, Alan?” Whyte asked. “Pyotr Skoblin — a senior colonel, with two tours at the Soviet mission to the U.N. in New York. He was promoted to general after his return to Moscow. A year or so later he was arrested and allegedly executed a couple of months after Yeltsin took over.” Whyte raised his eyebrows and shrugged to underline the coming irony. “Moscow Center hardliners gave a long account of the case to the Russian press and on the sly slipped a couple of Western writers a few more details. All of this, I presume, to make sure that Yeltsin a
nd those who follow realize just how much they must depend on a strong intelligence and security service.”

  Trosper nodded. Skoblin’s arrest and execution had complete coverage in the spy-hungry British press.

  “What’s more,” Castle laughed, “the American press thought it was a CIA case.”

  “Has the moment arrived when I’m supposed to ask just what this has to do with me and my … ah … brief assignment to review the Troika files?”

  “You’ll want to study the letter, but the obvious connection is that the author, who claims to be a Moscow Center illegal, offers to play ball if I agree to handle him more competently than the Firm did the investigation of the Troika.” Whyte smiled grimly. “Aside from that, you’ll remember that ‘Troika’ was an informal usage, known only by the security panel, two secretaries, and our three former colleagues.”

  “You’ll also want to keep in mind,” Castle said, “that when Moscow spilled most of the details of the Tomahawk operation, there was no mention of the letter drop. That suggests the writer has access to data I consider sensitive.” Castle unfolded the letter and appeared to be making a final check of the contents before letting it out of his grasp. “What’s more, the knowing reference to the way Troika was investigated, and the fact Tomahawk was Skoblin’s cover name, could only have come from a source within the Firm.”

  Duff Whyte inhaled sharply and leaned across the desk toward Castle. “From a source inside the Firm, Tom? Why not a one-time-lucky audio operation? Or a bit of paper that went astray, perhaps left in a pants pocket and pinched by a hotel maid? What about a bit of indiscreet chatter on some monitored telephone? Such things have happened to every goddamned service in history.” Whyte’s face was flushed. “Thanks to the Department of State’s nice-Nelly approach to security, the Russian embassy is perched on the best spot in Washington to eavesdrop on ninety percent of the government’s telephone calls without a single Russian tech even leaving the building! With facilities like that, I’m surprised Moscow even bothers with any damned agents at all.”

  For once Castle seemed off balance. “Of course, Duff, but … ”

  “We’ve been over this before,” Whyte said, his voice rising. “Every pissant security lapse isn’t necessarily a signal that there’s a penetration agent a few feet down the hall from my office.” In frustration, Whyte thumped his open hand on the desk. “Just once I’d like to feel sure that I’m not the only one around here who can balance plausible suspicion and raging paranoia … ”

  “That’s precisely what you pay me to do,” Castle said. “If you think I can’t make allowances for coincidence, plain bad luck, and momentary lapses in judgment, then … ”

  Trosper raised his hand and snapped his fingers twice. It was one of the signals used by the Special Forces long-range scout teams trained to operate too deeply within enemy territory to risk even a whisper.

  Whyte turned from Castle to glare at Trosper.

  “If you two don’t knock it off, you’ll have me feeling like a twelve-year-old watching a family shoot-out … ”

  There was a moment of quiet before Castle said, “I was out of order. Je m’excuse, Duff.”

  “Too much on my plate,” Whyte apologized.

  “Before I tiptoe out,” Trosper said, “there’s one question.” For the first time he had the undivided attention of both men. “Do we know how Moscow learned Tomahawk’s pseudonym? I know it sometimes happens, but is it possible that an agent as important as Tomahawk ever got to know the codename the Firm assigned to him?”

  “Paranoia notwithstanding,” Castle said slowly, “there’s no reason at all to believe Skoblin ever learned that our in-house name for him was Tomahawk.”

  As he reached for the letter, Trosper reflected on his half-finished manuscript on fighting ships. He reminded himself of Emily’s interest in remaining briefly in the Washington area, and of the comfortable apartment Whyte had arranged for them to use. He knew that if he asked even one more question, he would be stepping into a maze that could only lead to the further involvement he had promised himself to avoid.

  He waited in silence, the office a tableau vivant. Finally, admitting defeat, he turned to Castle. “Two more questions — are the Troika comment, the letter drop, and the compromised codename the only bona fides your volunteer had to offer?”

  “Not half,” Castle said quickly.

  “Second, am I supposed to assume that there must be more to all this than the likelihood that the defector Volin has assumed a new identity and has come back to us for a second helping?”

  Castle shook his head. “Just read the document, and check the Winesap file.”

  As he folded the letter and stuffed it into his breast pocket, Trosper glanced at Whyte, who had begun to leaf through a sheaf of cables, and turned to Castle, who was unable to suppress a slight smile. “Snookered once, snookered again,” Trosper muttered.

  Whyte looked up. “That reminds me,” he said. “Young Widgery has been cooling his heels in New York. On the chance you can use a caddy, he’ll be working with you for the present.”

  “Who Widgery?” Trosper asked impatiently.

  Castle stirred. “’Tis Widgery who brought us Winesap,” he said softly. “Miss Pinchot will have the Winesap file on your desk by the time you get back.”

  8

  Washington, D.C.

  The typing was ragged, and the margins were close to the edges and bottom of the pages. The “e” had shouldered itself a bit above the other characters, and the capital “T” and “N” were slightly askew. It would be easy enough for the Magicians to identify the typewriter and country of origin. With luck, and if the machine was old enough, a microscopic measurement of the wear on the most common letters in the various tables of frequency — in English, e-t-a-o-n-i-r-s-h — might even indicate the language that had most frequently been punched through the keyboard. But this was a technical problem, and something for the experts.

  He took a sip of the tepid coffee and reminded himself to make sure the Controller s secretary brought him tea instead of the anemic coffee that was one of the lesser amenities of the Controller’s mess. He turned again to the text. The date, typed in the upper right corner, was in European style, “10.IX.93,” and no effort was wasted in the blunt salutation.

  Dear Sir:

  My present circumstances mandate that I have a proposal of interest to you. I am in the U.S. illegally, sent here after much training and preparation to represent certain clandestine interests of the new Moscow Center, the SVR as you know it.

  Because of present international situation, and ostensible détente in intelligence strife, my chiefs informed me that my work has been suspended. My record and accomplishment is such that I am offered the possibility of returning to Moscow for assignment, or to remain here until I will be reactivated in future. But if I am staying here I will not be paid until I will be reactivated.

  After three years hard training and perfecting cover, I prefer not to work in Russia at present. I choose to remain here and develope available business opportunitys. For this I need financial support originally promised by the Center.

  My proposal is following: For $300,000 in cash I will disclose one very important Moscow Center activity that will positively not be set aside for considerations of present policy of good relations. The affaire is too important to Moscow and is very serious from your security points of view.

  I understand you get many propositions like this. But my offer is authentic. To prove I have special knowledge. I give the following.

  a. I am sending this letter to an address well known to you. It also known in Moscow, and was used by one of your men. You called him Tomahawk.

  b. As second prove, I recommend that you have a trusted person check up on the traitor Gholam. For detail you must look in your active sources list.

  c. Because I risk my life in dealings with you, I insist that you Mr. Whyte take personal interest in my offer and that you insist it be handled more profe
ssionally than your bureau showed in the TROIKA investigation.

  This will convince you that I am valid collaborator. Because my business opportunitys are ephemeral, and to be dealt with quick, I must know soon if you are interested in my proposal. You must contact me by putting and advertisement on PERSONALS page of BLOOD ’N GUTS magazine in next issue. Address advertisement to SINON and give me address where I can write one of your best men.

  SINON

  Clipped to the last page of the letter was a note from Miss Pinchot to Castle. “Blood ’N Guts is one of the smallest of the several guerrilla/soldier-of-fortune/survivalist magazines. It lives up to its title in every respect, and is filled with allegedly first-person accounts of guerrilla activity, tips on counter-terrorist tactics, dirty fighting, etc. There is also advice on how to survive when ‘they’ — never very clearly identified, presumably the readers supply their own demons — try to take over and redblooded chaps must use desperate measures to survive. I suspect that most of the readers are fantasists, although the magazine is also sold in Army PX’s here and abroad. Oddly enough, the material is consistently well written.”

  Trosper read Sinon’s letter again, more slowly. The written English was clumsy, but effective enough to be rated by the language staff at the Fort as “operationally fluent, adequate for field use.” Trosper’s familiarity with three foreign languages had irrevocably corrupted his ability to spell in English, but as he continued to read he underlined numerous misspellings, errors in syntax, and mistakes that a non-native speaker might make when reaching too far for a synonym. Or, as he reminded himself, errors that might be made by a person pretending not to write fluent English. The erratic use of the definite article was characteristic of native Russian or Polish speakers using English.

  The letter had been mailed from New York in an envelope addressed to Mrs. Jane Noldy Womack, 73 Blossom Path, Baltimore, Maryland 21210, and was prepared exactly as specified in the Tomahawk communications plan. “Mrs. Womack” was the non-existent sister of Ms. Bertha Noldy, a retired, regular-army master sergeant, who had been recruited by the support staff to serve as a letter drop. As far as the Baltimore postman might know, “Mrs. Womack” lived with her sister, Sergeant Noldy. Had the local postman been suborned to keep a mail-cover on Mrs. Womack, he would have reported that she received one personal letter and Time magazine every week, and the Readers Digest monthly. Although she also received the usual lashings of junk mail — magazine subscriptions were a sure way of inspiring enough advertising mail to add verisimilitude to an otherwise fallow letter drop — the only regular personal correspondence Mrs. Womack received was the weekly envelope with a Cleveland postmark, and an occasional letter from Europe.