The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

  “Paul’s the bald guy, just coming in,” Trosper said, and got up to make the introductions. Webster shook hands with Grogan and sat down.

  “You should have let me know you were coming,” Webster said. “I had no idea you were in town.”

  “We got here last night.”

  Webster glanced at Grogan. “You both family?”

  “In a sense,” Trosper said. “Mike’s with the Bureau … ”

  “You mean this is business? Another one of your off-the-books stunts?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly what?” Webster demanded, his face flushed. “Don’t bother to answer, I’ll tell you exactly what’s not going to happen in my front yard … ”

  “We need a little help, that’s all,” Trosper said softly. “Nothing difficult.”

  “Not without specific authorization from the Controller personally.”

  “First, I need to send an urgent cable, and want an answer in my hands before breakfast … ”

  “First, as far as I’m concerned, I need to get permission even to talk to you,” Webster said. “The last I heard, you’re retired and living in London.”

  “I’m not retired, damn it, I left … ”

  “All the more reason I’m not doing a thing without authorization.”

  “We need a car, nothing fancy, but it must have military plates … ”

  “When pray, would this be?”

  “At breakfast when you bring the answer to my cable,” Trosper said. “We really are under the gun.”

  “What cable?”

  Trosper pulled a folded sheet of hotel stationery from his pocket and began to write. “Top Secret, Eiderdown, Controller Only.

  “1. Regret attempt empty Sinon drop failed when Sam Anderson intercepted by local security. Released within two hours, but ordered to leave CR.

  “2. Altho drop allegedly empty, Anderson subsequently informed by friendly local authority that Sinon message stated subject reference cable is longtime, trusted Moscow Center agent, now stationed US Forces Heidelberg area. Request immediate name search with any indication his access to classified data last several years.

  “3. Details aborted Sinon Prague meeting will follow.

  “4. Essential have any background subject before 2200 hours local.”

  Trosper handed the message to Grogan. “This will go straight to Duff Whyte, with a copy to Castle.” He waited before asking, “Is there anything you want to say to your people?”

  “At this point, I think benign silence is my only hope,” Grogan said.

  Trosper wrote another few words and turned to Webster. “Send this with the same heading.” Webster looked at the cable: “Subject of ref cable is probably identical with Captain (not repeat not Lt. Colonel as reported by source ref cable) George Pickett, listed in Heidelberg area military phone book and presumably assigned Seventh Army Hdqs.”

  Webster read the cables slowly, shaking his head.

  “We really do need the answer and the car before breakfast,” Trosper said. “And, I’ll have a background cable with some details later this afternoon.”

  “Is this all Top Secret Eyes Only Oval Office, or can you give a simple country boy some idea what the hell you’re up to?”

  “We’re just going to drive to the army housing complex in Heidelberg and have a look around,” said Trosper. “I don’t want to do it in a rented car, or a taxi. It shouldn’t be any problem … ”

  “When you say there shouldn’t be any problem,” Webster said, “it reminds me of one of the famous last words in ’Nam — ‘Don’t duck, men, they’re our guys.’”

  “Before breakfast?” Trosper said.

  “Whatever happened to orderly procedure, looking before you leap?”

  Trosper smiled politely.

  Webster got up and pulled on his coat. “Do you guys know this is a sort of famous place?”

  Grogan groaned.

  “We pretty well covered that before you got here,” Trosper said. “But now that I think of it, it was the Osteria Bavaria where Hitler used to go for lunch. He came here for hot chocolate and those gooey little cakes.”

  23

  Washington, D.C.

  “Mr. Castle is here.” Duff Whyte’s secretary spoke softly into the intercom.

  “Send him in.” The Controller looked up from his desk and waited. Despite the intimacy of their working relationship, the chief of Special Operations always paused for a few moments before knocking and entering. Months earlier, on a particularly busy day, Whyte’s patience wore thin. “You’ve got as many special clearances as I have, why in hell don’t you just step into the office when Mrs. Sloane tells you I’m waiting?”

  Castle was unmoved. “It’s only correct to give you time to secure any sensitive paper before I barge in here.”

  As usual the chief of Special Operations wore an all too snug dark suit, and candy-striped shirt with white collar. He eased himself into the chair to the right of Whyte’s desk.

  “You’ve read Alan’s message?”

  Whyte nodded. “It was decent of that Czech cop … ”

  “Zitkin,” Castle murmured.

  “ … to give him the message on the quiet.”

  “If he really was one of Moravec’s youngsters, I’m not surprised. The old general knew a thing or two about people and the racket.”

  “What about this colonel … ?”

  “First, there doesn’t appear to be any Lieutenant Colonel George Pickett,” Castle said. “But there is a Captain C. George Pickett. He’s on duty with the Seventh Army in Heidelberg. Before that, he was at the Pentagon, and briefly low man in the military attaché office in Prague. I haven’t got very much, and didn’t want to pursue it until talking to you. It’s rather tricky asking the Pentagon for an officer’s 201 file and service record without giving any indication of why we’re interested.”

  “Tell me about it.” Whyte was rarely ironic, but he had spent an hour reviewing the clerical and administrative manning table and was impatient.

  Castle opened his red leather folder and appeared to be studying a single sheet of paper.

  “Insofar as I can be trusted, will you please let me in on what you’ve uncovered.” When irony failed, Whyte occasionally resorted to sarcasm.

  “Sorry, Duff.” Castle looked up, apologetically. “Miss Pinchot has a friend — a close friend I suspect — at the Pentagon.”

  “I might have known.”

  “He doesn’t know Pickett personally, but he remembers him from the Joint Chiefs — he was either assigned to the SSD or worked closely with them before he was transferred to the attaché office in Prague … ”

  Whyte raised his eyebrows. “Oh, oh … ”

  “He was there for about eighteen months before being transferred to Seventh Army Headquarters at Heidelberg.”

  “Was this before the end of his regular tour?”

  “Yes, but it seems the Pentagon was actually cutting back their staffing of the Prague office,” Castle said.

  “Is the SSD still the Special Security Detachment?”

  “That’s it, the ultra-high-security outfit that handles all of the Top Secret special briefing and cryptographic product.”

  “Just our luck, a wafflebottom.”

  Castle nodded. It was an inheritance from wartime OSS slang and had originally referred to communications engineers. In recent years the usage evolved and the term had broadened to include the specially cleared personnel who dealt with codes and ciphers.

  “Will we never learn?”

  “It may not be as bad as it looks,” Castle said. “Miss Pinchot’s friend described Pickett as a sideboy, one of the career assistants who have propped up the senior staff of every army in history. They remember everything, have a perfect understanding of the pecking order, and know where the bodies are buried. They handle most of the paperwork, meet all the deadlines, and make sure that the right officers get the right papers at the right time. Without these clerks, the
generals couldn’t even have a war.”

  Whyte nodded impatiently. “You say clerks, but the SSD is still one of the more sensitive elements in the Pentagon, and Pickett is a captain … ”

  “Clerk is a misnomer,” Castle said. “Call them sophisticated executive assistants. Pickett is a reserve officer. As far as Miss Pinchot’s source could say, his only qualification for the job was a good memory and a squeaky clean security background. He comes from some small midwestern town.”

  Whyte wondered what Castle’s notion of such a town might be, but he pushed the thought aside and nodded wisely.

  “There’s a breed of man,” Castle continued, “born to push papers. It’s a comfortable life, but it’s not a fast track, particularly for a reserve officer competing with all the Academy ring-knockers now that the military is, as the Pentagon puts it, ‘down-sizing’.”

  “There are people like that in every organization,” Whyte said, “and they always outlive their value.”

  “Exactly,” said Castle. “If there is anything to Sinon’s allegation, somewhere along the line Pickett might have realized that he’d blown his career, and would be headed for selection out at the exact time he needed the most income, educating children and such. Maybe some Moscow Center sharpie on the military attaché circuit in Prague noticed Pickett, and made the right assessment. Maybe they hit him in Prague, perhaps even here in Washington after he got back ahead of his normal tour and was worried about the Pentagon cutback. If Moscow didn’t offer him a chance to pile up a tax-free nest egg, maybe he fell for some blackmail caper.”

  “Perhaps,” Whyte said, “He just remembered Johnnie Walker, the navy commo man, and approached the Russians with a cash-and-carry proposition.”

  Castle shrugged. “There’s been a double dozen of these episodes in the last six years, and there’s not a dime’s difference between them.”

  “It’s plain bad management,” said Whyte, “to let any lesser mortal hang around the mighty too long. After a couple of years, they begin to think — rightly or otherwise — that they’re just as smart as the boss. That can make for a sour outlook, particularly if there are any money problems.”

  “That’s one aspect that may amuse you — our source says that Pickett’s wife is well heeled.”

  “I’m told this works better in some agencies than in others,” Whyte said, with a grin. “But let’s not remind the Director of that. Hereabouts that cover went out of fashion about the time Benedict Arnold considered it.” He leaned back, his hands behind his head. “You’ve already sent this, the facts at least, to Alan?”

  “He’s got it by now.”

  “Then there’s nothing for it — you’ve got to go to the Pentagon and the Bureau and put it all on the record,” Whyte said.

  Castle looked decidedly unhappy. “I think we should wait,” he said. “All we’re working on is an allegation from an unknown source that the Firm is penetrated. And all we have on Pickett is an unsubstantiated allegation by the same unknown source. At this point, it doesn’t seem fair to risk compromising what may be left of Pickett’s career on what may be just a by-blow.”

  “What about the Bureau? They’ve got a stake in this.”

  “They’ve got Grogan on the scene,” Castle said. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t do a little checking on our own before we start shouting to the entire community.”

  Whyte had long realized that Castle’s basic philosophy — never tell anyone anything, ever — was essentially sound, but like most dogma it needed constant interpretation. “Three days,” Whyte said. “After that, we tell the Pentagon and the Bureau exactly what’s up. We simply cannot play operations games with anything as sensitive as the SSD.”

  “Five days,” Castle bargained. “There’ll be some delay, Alan didn’t say exactly why he and Mike Grogan are driving to Heidelberg, but I suspect Alan wants to get some sense of Pickett in his own environment.”

  “Four days, starting right now.” Whyte picked a sheaf of cables from his in-tray. Without looking up he said, “And see that you get a line on the wife — with two out of three spies using rich relatives to explain their cash flow, the security office should be thoroughly experienced by now.”

  24

  Heidelberg

  “It’s hard to tell which is number twenty-four, but I think it’s the second house from the corner,” Grogan said.

  He leaned back in the seat. “Just what is it you really want here? You can’t very well drop in on Pickett’s boss or even have a chat with the local security officer.”

  “Just as I told you in Munich, I’m not going to talk to anyone,” Trosper said.

  “You mean we drove all the way here on that racetrack — the Autobahn — just to case this place? It’s exactly like every other house that size in the compound — immaculate duplex, lawn, hedge, flowers, and apple pie in the oven.”

  “Believe me, if I knew what I was looking for, I’d tell you,” Trosper said. “If there were files, I’d study the files, just the way you would. But there aren’t any files. When there’s no paper, I like to get out and take a look at things. It can’t do any harm … ”

  “Instinct,” Grogan said. “In ten minutes, you’ll be admitting that you guys work by instinct.”

  Trosper slowed the car to a stop directly in front of the two-story building. “Now that we’re here, I’ll just deliver this little box.” He twisted around and pulled a gift-wrapped box from the back seat.

  “You’re not going in there … ”

  “I can’t leave the candy on the front steps,” Trosper said. “If a general saw it, there’d be hell to pay, maybe a court-martial.”

  “You’re fishing without a hook,” Grogan said. “I knew damned well we shouldn’t have driven up here.”

  “I won’t go in if there’s anyone at home — I’ll just give them the candy and the card from one of their old friends.” Trosper slipped out of the seat belt. “Two o’clock in the afternoon, parking an army-plated sedan right in front of the house, and carrying a gift, is enough to convince any of the nosy neighbors that we’re not ripping off the joint.”

  “We’re not going to do a damn thing,” Grogan said. “I’m sitting right here.”

  “Okay, if you insist, but one guy sitting in a car will surely look like a getaway driver — don’t they teach you things like that in the Bureau?”

  “Goddamn it, this is breaking and entering, I don’t care what country were in … ”

  “It’s not breaking and entering if the key’s where the maid said it would be.”

  “Four minutes,” Grogan said. “You’ve got four minutes in the house and not a second more.”

  Trosper glanced at the door. Two brightly polished brass locks. Damn and blast. He should have known better than to assume there would be only one lock. If Widgery had understood the maid properly, she said “the key” was beside the door, not “keys.” He handed the brightly wrapped candy to Grogan and pushed the bell again as he stooped to turn over the small white stone beside the bottom step. Two keys. Twice lucky. So far, so good. The first key opened the heavy dead bolt, and the second fitted the polished doorknob. He swung the door open and stepped quickly inside.

  “Mrs. Pickett, Mrs. Pickett … anybody home?” Trosper called heartily.

  “Four minutes,” Grogan whispered. “Four minutes, we’re out of here.”

  “Stop whispering and talk normally,” Trosper said cheerfully. “Scoot upstairs and sort out the bedrooms. Check for anything that looks like the hobbies your everyday spy might have — fancy shortwave radio equipment, odd cameras, darkroom facilities — anything that doesn’t quite fit an over-age captain and his family.”

  Grogan glared at Trosper and went up the carpeted stairs two at a time.

  The oblong living room was framed by a fireplace at one end, a picture window facing the street, and a dining area beside French doors leading to a small patio with an elaborate gas grill and green plastic garden furniture. A twenty-inch TV s
et dominated the living room. Heavy gold velour upholstery brightened the room but emphasized the bulky army-issue furniture. On a coffee table, a heavy crystal ashtray lay between a silver cigarette box and a five-inch, silver cigarette lighter, an exact enlargement of the pocket lighter Dunhill had introduced in the thirties.

  Trosper glanced quickly around the room. Enough expensive knickknacks were strewn among the Quartermaster furniture to stock a swank gift shop. Over the mantelpiece, a large oil, à la Cézanne, hung in a heavy, antiqued frame. A side table supported a collection of color photographs of the family. Captain and Mrs. Pickett alone, Captain and Mrs. Pickett with son and daughter, and a separate portrait of the children.

  Although he preferred mug shots and candid snaps to studio portraits, Trosper paused to study the photographs, each matted and ringed by broad silver frames. With two exceptions the portraits were conventional, mass-market products, drained of content by the set-piece lighting arranged to erase any hint of character. One photograph of Pickett, which seemed intended to cast him as an aggressive young executive, stood out from the others. The careful lighting and camera angle chosen by a local German photographer showed Pickett’s high forehead and large dark eyes to advantage. But by accident or sly design the photographer failed to mask a skewed, tentative aspect in Pickett’s expression. The same photographer portrayed Mrs. Pickett, hair freshly sprayed, thin lips pursed, as conventionally plump and utterly vacuous.

  Trosper stepped quickly into the hall leading to a study and bedroom. In the bedroom, more photographs of the children, ages eight and ten, Trosper guessed, and a double portrait of an older man and woman. The man, unmistakably Pickett’s forebear, posed stiff, in a white shirt, flowered tie, and light suit. His hair, shaved short at the sides, had been slicked down for this uncomfortable session. The starched shirt collar gaped from the man’s neck, and revealed a line precise as an equator, separating the tanned upper neck from the bleached area habitually concealed beneath a work shirt. A farmer, Trosper realized, perhaps a cattleman. The woman, less clearly but surely also Pickett’s parent, stared gamely straight into the lens. Her graying hair, done within the hour, he guessed, completed an image that said, “I’m as good as any, and better than some.” In the lower right corner of the photograph, inscribed in a precise hand, “For Clyde and Tiffany, and little Josh and Kimberly, from Mother and Dad, Christmas 1991.” A twelve-inch TV crowded a corner of the room.