by William Hood
Pickett’s lips continued to move, but Grogan’s spirited recital of the Miranda caution drowned him out.
“Just to keep my oars in the water,” Trosper said quietly, “how about telling me how it all got started?”
Pickett began to blubber.
Trosper glanced around the restaurant. Pickett was again the focus of attention. “Why don’t we get this show off the road and up to my place?” Trosper said quietly. “We can talk things over, get to know one another … ” But a glance at Pickett made it clear that the sarcasm had passed unnoticed. He caught the waiter’s eye and mouthed, “L’addition.”
Pickett slumped forward, his crumpled red blazer at odds with the subtle gray upholstery of the chair. His disjointed responses to Trosper’s questions were punctuated with bursts of teary self-pity.
“Was it in Prague they set you up?” Trosper asked.
Pickett shook his head. “I met this girl in Prague, but I don’t think I was set up. She wasn’t like that at all … ”
“A Czech girl?” Grogan asked.
“Of course she was Czech, and couldn’t even speak much English,” Pickett said primly. “I had intensive Czech at the language school in Monterey, so I was really anxious to try it out with Milada.”
“Milada who?” Trosper asked.
Pickett was silent for a moment. “I won’t tell you, she’s had trouble enough.” He looked defiantly at Trosper and then turned to Grogan. “What’s going to happen to me now?”
“Where’d you meet the girl?” Grogan asked softly.
“I don’t really have to talk to you people … ”
“Yes, you do,” Trosper said flatly.
Pickett’s attempt to glare at Trosper failed when he blinked and tugged his tie into position. “She was standing around at a stamp show and auction, just a few weeks after I arrived. She seemed to be looking for someone. There was an empty chair beside me, and I beckoned to her. We didn’t even talk, not a word. But later I discovered she had got a part-time job at a stamp dealer I was using. At first we just said hello, she was so shy she scarcely seemed to notice me. Then one time she accidentally brushed against me, and began to blush and everything. It was like the devil in the flesh, you know? I never felt like that before, not even with Mrs. Pickett.”
“And then?”
Pickett shrugged. “I just lost my head. It was a few weeks later when she said she was pregnant. She never asked me for anything, except that I go with her to help her to arrange and to pay for … you know, a treatment. It was the only time she ever asked me for anything. But after we got there, just like all the security briefings, three thugs burst into the midwife’s apartment.” Pickett shook his head, and explained, “It’s midwives who do that in Czecho — the abortion stuff, I mean.”
“We understand,” Trosper said. “What about the three men?”
“You know what pee’d me off?”
“I can imagine a couple of things, but why not fill us in anyway,” Trosper said. He had had enough of Pickett’s piety.
“It all happened just the way we were warned about in the briefings — like a movie I’d seen before, a really rotten movie. I was sore about it, but I still felt bad for Milada. She didn’t have anything but the apartment, and she said she’d borrowed that.”
“Tell us about the Russians,” Trosper interceded. It was not the time to remind Pickett that Milada had been chosen for him, that her job at the stamp dealer’s and the borrowed flat had been arranged, and that all of it was just another bit of old-fashioned Moscow Center business as usual.
“If it wasn’t for the kids, I’d kill myself.” Pickett studied Grogan, looking for some sign of sympathy. “I don’t see how I can keep this from them. Whatever happens, the lads will never understand what I’ve gone through for them.”
“The Russians?” Grogan spoke softly.
“They weren’t too clever,” Pickett said.
“Just barely smart enough to truss you up like a Thanksgiving turkey … ”
Grogan’s frown silenced Trosper.
“I’d had enough Czech to know that only one of them spoke really native. The others were Russians just pretending. Mostly they spoke English. They said the three of us had broken very serious Czech laws … ” Pickett managed a twisted smile. “That was a laugh — three Russians pretending to be Czechs and worried about enforcing Czech laws.”
“Didn’t you tell them you had diplomatic immunity?” Grogan asked.
“Of course I did. When I showed them my diplomatic ID, they talked it over for a while and then said I could leave whenever I wanted to. They said they didn’t need me because they were going to make a big public case, photographs and everything, against diplomats like me turning Czech women into whores, and that the midwife who was just trying to help us would go to prison. Then, quarter of an hour later, the good guy sidles up to me and says that all this could be avoided if I’d just cooperate a little. Unless I played ball with some harmless information — like who does what inside the embassy — the pictures would go to the ambassador, the Pentagon, and all those magazines that print that stuff. That would have been the end of everything for me. My job, my folks, everything I worked so hard for. And it would be terrible for Milada and the midwife.” Pickett kept his eyes on Grogan, obviously hoping for some signal of understanding.
“What was the hook?” Trosper asked. There had to be more to it than Pickett had offered.
Pickett ignored the question, and stared desperately at Grogan. “Does this mean I could be court-martialed?”
“Court-martialed, just for being a venal little spy?” Trosper had had enough. “You’re damn lucky there isn’t a war on.”
Pickett dabbed at his cheeks and slumped forward, his head resting on his hands, the soggy handkerchief pressed against his eyes. “I don’t think I can take a trial, or even ask my family to go through what it would mean, the publicity and all … ”
“I don’t know … perhaps you can work something out,” Grogan said softly.
“If I come to any kind of trial, I might just as well be dead — it means the end of everything, no matter what the verdict is.” Pickett spoke without looking up, his voice muffled. “I don’t know how I can even tell my folks about it.”
“The Russians?” Trosper found it difficult to pity Pickett.
“If I could die now it would only be a little scandal, less publicity,” Pickett said as he straightened up and stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket. “There was one guy, who was nicer than the others. His English was pretty good, almost as if he’d been in the States. He was extra kind to Milada, and seemed to understand her. With me he kept harping on my folks. It sounds dumb, saying this to you people, but it got to me. Sometimes when he was talking Czech to Milada, I thought he had taken pity on her, maybe even liked her a little. The other guys were just jerks.”
Pickett stopped short, and stared wildly around the room. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me, what you’re trying to do to me. It’s as if my life is over and I’m already in hell … ”
“I want to know about the hook,” Trosper said. “What was it they really stuck into you?”
“What will happen to the children?”
“There’s nothing we can say about that now,” Grogan said casually. “We’re going to need to know about your communications, and when your next drop or meeting is scheduled. After that, I want to have a good idea of what you’ve been passing to the Russians. The sooner we get through this technical stuff, we can get on with the rest of it.”
Pickett nodded. “This one guy, the nice guy, was very good with Milada. He didn’t browbeat her, and treated her like a lady, all the while. Once or twice I thought he was even falling for her a little.” Pickett glanced at Trosper and then back at Grogan. “If I have to go to court I might as well be dead, no one will believe how this all happened. I never had any friends anyway, and now it’s all over.”
He reached out as if to shake hands or just to
touch Grogan. “I’ve got to talk to a chaplain — a minister, a priest, I don’t care who.”
“There’ll be time enough for that … ”
Pickett’s shoulders heaved and he shook his head. “They had photographs, everything we did together. I thought I was going to throw up. I come from a small town, it was the first time I’d ever been around a girl like that, ever.” He managed a smile. “I know women like Claudine only act as if they feel something, but Milada really liked me.”
Trosper got to his feet and moved closer to Pickett. “Listen to me,” he said, “I’m not interested in your running off at the mouth about your girlfriend. I’ve already asked you about the hook, and I want an answer.” He touched Pickett’s shoulder and then shook him gently, before saying, “There’s more to it than your little fairy tale about abortions. It’s time you leveled with us.”
Pickett’s eyes watered as he turned to appeal to Grogan. But Grogan remained stone-faced.
“I want to know exactly what they used to turn you upside down,” Trosper said.
“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” Pickett said slowly. He blotted his face with the sodden handkerchief. “I’d got in the habit of taking papers home to work on. When I knew Milada better, I used to stop at her place — a little apartment, two rooms. Even if it was provided for her, she’d worked hard to fix it up with nice ladylike touches.” Pickett stopped, and looked expectantly at Grogan.
“I’m sure she worked hard,” Trosper said. “But can’t you get it through your thick head that I’m not here to applaud one of your little tarts.” Even though it seemed to be working, he was sick of his bad cop routine.
“Easy does it,” Grogan said pleasantly. “This fella’s been through a lot.”
Pickett turned gratefully to Grogan. “So on the way home from the embassy, maybe two or three nights a week, when Tiff thought I was working late, I used to stop off to see Milada. There must have been someone hidden there, and when we were together in the bedroom, they probably took my papers next door and photographed them all … ”
“What kind of papers?”
“Routine stuff, like administrative things I was working on at the office … ”
“Was any of it classified?” Grogan spoke casually, like Pickett’s big brother.
“Of course, everything in the embassy was classified, but that’s one thing I know about. The classifications meant nothing, just routine paperwork, labeled secret but really not important at all in comparison with our briefing material for the ambassador, and cable traffic. Anyway, they must have photographed them over a month or so. It wasn’t a big security leak, but my letting the stuff get photographed looked bad, and with the other photographs of us and all, it would have been the end of everything if my boss or the ambassador found out.”
“And so you signed an agreement?” Grogan smiled.
“But it didn’t mean anything,” Pickett said. “I was just buying time until I could get transferred out of Prague and away from them.”
“But then they put the heat on? And demanded better material?”
“They kept on about it all the time … ”
“Until you began giving the better material — Top Secret codeword briefing data?”
Pickett shrugged helplessly.
“And this has been going on, what is it now, about two years?” Grogan paused, “Or a little longer?”
Pickett nodded.
Trosper remained silent, admiring Grogan’s avuncular manner. “And after you were transferred back to the Pentagon?” Another nod.
“What about money, when did they begin helping you out financially?”
“Before we left Prague, they began to help a little with our expenses … ”
“About how much these days?”
Pickett glanced sheepishly at Trosper, and began to twist his handkerchief into a cord.
“It was like a trust for the children … good colleges cost an arm and a leg nowadays.”
“About how much a month?”
“It depended on what I brought out, but was never less than three thousand a month, usually more, say at least forty-five thousand a year, but depending on what I gave over. I always wondered if my contact kept some of the money that was mine, but I never challenged him on it.”
“Who was your contact?”
“In Prague it was Sam, but I was only there another few months or so.”
“What about Sam, can you describe him?”
“Of course I can,” Pickett said. “He’s the one who spoke good English, with some plastered-on American phrases — ‘loved ones,’ ‘don’t lad around’ — a lot of stuff like that.”
“How old?”
“Forty-five, maybe older.”
If only he could have planned it a bit better, Trosper thought. It would have been done in a proper old-fashioned safe house, not a modern, comfortable clac. All of their chatter would have been recorded. There would be files in the back room and a bright young caddy who could be sent to get a registry photograph of Volin. But this was a new-look operation, with none of the familiar cold-war conveniences. There was one bright spot. From now on, Captain Clyde George Pickett was Grogan’s baby.
Trosper got up. The least he could do was make some coffee.
29
Paris
“That just about does it.” Grogan looked up from his sheaf of notes. “One more time, now, just to be sure I’ve got this straight. You are absolutely certain your wife knows nothing about your relations with the Russians?”
“I’d be crazy to trust her with a secret like that,” Pickett said with a smug smile.
“What about the money,” Trosper said. “Where does she think it comes from?”
“I’ve told her that I’ve already begun to work on the consulting office I plan to set up when we retire. That accounts for the time I have to spend away from home, and I’ve sworn her to secrecy about the money I’m already making on the side. She knows the army wouldn’t approve of my moonlighting, not to mention my not paying tax on it.”
“The money?” Grogan said. “Where is it?”
“Mostly in Switzerland, a bank in Bern. I’ve got a little reserve in my checking account in Washington, and a safe-deposit box.”
It had taken less than three hours to determine the essential details of Pickett’s recruitment, his communications, the data he was asked to deliver, and the information he had actually provided. Grogan pocketed his sheaf of notes and turned to Trosper. “Have you got anything else?”
“Not now, but we’ll need detailed physical descriptions of the Russians he dealt with, and particularly the fellow he called ‘Sam.’ But there’ll be time enough for the follow-up once we’re back in Washington.”
Grogan nodded. “Right now the thing is to get him the hell out of here and into the hands of the military in Germany … ” He glanced at Pickett, curled on a delicate chaise longue at the far side of the room, his face buried in a towel.
“We’d best rent a car, and drive straight through,” Trosper said. “I’ll have my people here cable Washington to alert the Pentagon and your office.”
Pickett sat up and tossed the towel aside. “In about an hour, Mrs. Pickett will be expecting me,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll have to pick her up, pack our things, and check out of the hotel if I’m going to drive all the way back tomorrow.” He paused before saying, “We’ve got to pick up the kids who are staying with friends down the street … ”
“You’ll stay right here tonight, and leave the driving to us tomorrow,” Grogan said sharply. “We’ll take care of your wife, your luggage, and the hotel.” He turned his back to Pickett and spoke softly to Trosper. “That silly bastard still hasn’t got it — he’s not leaving my sight until I hand him to the military cops.”
Over Grogan’s shoulder Trosper saw Pickett flinch. With an obvious effort, he straightened up, and began to take deep, measured breaths, as if this were a silent mantra, guaranteed to mend his broken nerve. He wedged
himself firmly against the back of the chaise and said, “I’ve had as much of this as I can take. I want a lawyer, and I want to see a chaplain … ”
Trosper glanced at Grogan and shrugged. “I’ve no idea how to arrange any of that tonight … ”
“I don’t think it will be possible until we get back to Heidelberg,” Grogan said. “It’s almost nine, and there’s no chance we could find anyone here.”
“I need to talk to someone … I want to have someone on my side … I want help.”
“Tomorrow,” Grogan said. “We’ll be able to work something out tomorrow.”
“This is the pits, the end of everything.” Pickett’s voice broke. “I’m better off dead … ”
“Easy does it, fella,” Grogan said. “It’s been a rotten day, but the pressure’s off now, things are bound to look better in the morning.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “Go in and wash up, take a shower or something.”
The phone rang. Trosper picked it up.
“Alan? This is Widgery.”
“Yes, indeed. How’s everything going?” And, he thought, why use our names on the phone? Why not John, or Jack, or Fred? Unless you think I’m too dumb to figure out who you are unless you advertise us both to anyone who might be on the wire?
“First, our friend did a little shopping at Fauchon’s. It’s absolutely fantastic, what a place. They’ve got fresh asparagus as big as bananas — where do you think they come from this time of year? You really have to go there sometime. You don’t have to buy anything, just check the place out.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Meanwhile, what happened after Fauchon?”
“She took the metro to Passy, walked straight to the Rue Pergolèse, and ducked into a really neat apartment building. I’d say she lived there. I hung out almost two hours in the cafe across the street, but there was no sign of her. Before I left the cafe, I made a collect call to Dad’s secretary in New York. Remember, I told you my parents were planning their annual trip? Well, they’re already here, at the Crillon. They had no idea where I was, but I called them. They’re leaving for Rome tomorrow, but I’m going to stay with them tonight. Incidentally, Dad invited you for breakfast if you can make it … ”