The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

  Volin’s smile was ingratiating. “There you have it,” he said, his hands palm up as if offering Zitkin an invisible gift. “The scheme that Golobev had started years earlier was beginning to take shape. What deeper cover for a Russian illegal than to be a trusted clerk in the Iranian foreign office, and an American agent as well?” Volin snickered. “Don’t you see? No trace of the Russian service anywhere?”

  “Yes,” Zitkin said. “I see.”

  “Later, Gholam, who’d been studying English, is transferred from Vienna to New York — the Iranian mission to the U.N.” He touched his finger to his nose and cocked his head. “Again, it made me wonder if Golobev had a little help from someone inside the ministry … ”

  Zitkin nodded.

  “Whatever the explanation, the move was exactly what Colonel Golobev wanted — a deep-covered illegal agent completely unknown to anybody, with a perfect job, and able to service any agent, no matter how sensitive and in an area tough to work in. So, Golobev goes to New York to brief Gholam on his role. All Gholam knows is that he’s to be the contact point for a big shot agent. Even the local rezidency is cut out — all they have to do is pick up the agent’s encoded messages from Gholam and hand the incoming Moscow messages to Gholam to pass to the agent. Once, maybe three times a year, Moscow sends a colonel to meet the agent. The most that anyone outside Moscow knows is that they’re servicing a high source — aside from that, nothing. Perfect security.”

  Volin paused to consider the impact of his story, and to encourage a favorable comment or at least a smile. But Zitkin remained silent, tilting back in the heavy wooden chair, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Perfect security, you think?” Volin said. “Not quite. There’s one big problem. Crafty as he is, Golobev had a bit more business that required him to stop in Prague on the way back to Moscow. After business, he has a big vodka dinner with Kozlov. Then, like he’s talking at the training center, impressing everyone with how to do long-range business, Golobev tells his old protégé Kozlov the whole story.”

  “And later,” Zitkin said, “Kozlov tells most of the story to you?” Volin nodded. “It was at our last meeting here in Prague, before I left for Germany and New York. This time, it was Kozlov who was drinking heavily and trying to impress me with how much he knew and how important my work as an illegal agent would be … ”

  “Did he give any particulars on the agent — name, description, even a codename?”

  Volin shook his head. “Not a word of description, nor any name at all. The only hint, and I can’t be absolutely sure, but there was one hint. Once Kozlov seemed to slip and say something that sounded like Bronze when he referred to the American agent. But I’m not sure, and he only did it once … ”

  In the monitoring room Trosper shook his head and muttered, “It ain’t necessarily so, Inspector. Three of my colleagues were sacked because that creep chose to authenticate one of his stories with the lie that a Moscow agent’s last name began with an ‘F’ … ”

  In the interrogation room, Volin grinned broadly, his confidence restored. “And that is some of what Anderson will pay us a lot of money to learn … ”

  Zitkin leaned forward and picked up the papers on his desk. “Have you any other information on the agent?”

  Volin shook his head slowly before saying, “Not enough to make much difference. The guy is supposed to be so important, he tells Moscow when he will meet his case man — weekends, or holidays, when the man is free of his government work. Otherwise he’s either a high government official, or very close to someone able to report information and to influence policy as well. He’s a mix, part a highly paid mercenary, a little bit idealist. But as Kozlov said, a valuable friend of Russia.”

  For the first time Volin leaned back in his chair, for a moment relaxed. “All I — all we — have to do is tell the Americans to follow Gholam and he will lead them straight to the important source.”

  “Is that everything you have for sale?”

  Volin lowered his eyes and shook his head in apparent disbelief.

  “Isn’t this enough? Just a whisper to Moscow could mean the end of everything for me … ”

  “Quite possibly,” Zitkin said with the semblance of a reassuring smile. “If not one way, another … ”

  Trosper moved closer to the false mirror. He could see Volin’s confidence melt.

  Zitkin made another note on the pad in front of him, and looked up to stare speculatively at Volin. “On the basis of what you’ve freely told me, you’re in this country illegally, traveling on false papers. So, before you start peddling information, any information, to anyone, there’s a legal problem to straighten out. In the circumstances, I have the option of recommending that you be deported to Russia or sent out of the Republic to Austria or Germany. If you work it right, the choice might be yours. These decisions will be strongly influenced by what you have to say about the time you spent here, in Prague, while still affiliated with the Russian intelligence services.”

  “But … ”

  “You should think of this detention as being as much in your interest as in ours,” Zitkin said. “Sometime, and it could be very soon now, your former comrades will learn what you’ve been up to. At that time you’ll need whatever friends you can find.” Zitkin smiled. “In the meantime, I urge you to be very careful indeed.”

  Volin moved, as if to protest again.

  “In the interests of keeping you alive, you will remain in custody for the present.”

  Zitkin flipped a switch on the intercom and bellowed, “Syrovy!”

  39

  New York

  “I’m going to look damned silly if this doesn’t come off,” Grogan said. “Thanksgiving morning, and I’m responsible for putting two teams on the street and for God knows how long.” He glanced at Trosper. “What’s more, I’ve got a boss sitting on each shoulder.”

  Widgery leaned back from the video screen in the surveillance van. “If there’s any more coffee in that thermos, I could use another splash.”

  “It’s ten-fifteen, and you’re the only one who can put a positive make on Winesap. Maybe you ought to slow down on the diuretics until you’ve got some idea how long we’re likely to be in here.” Mike Grogan had logged his share of stakeout time.

  Widgery rubbed his eyes and turned back to the screen.

  There was no rear exit from the apartment building and both the lobby entrance and the narrow passage along the side of the building leading to the back service door opened onto the sidewalk on East 81st Street. Winesap could not step out of his apartment building without passing the surveillance van parked across the street, nor could he avoid the stakeout and backup teams positioned to cover the intersections at Lexington Avenue and at Third Avenue.

  The Winesap surveillance began Thanksgiving morning at six, the day following the meeting in Whyte’s Washington office. It was not the stormy session Trosper expected when he learned that Grogan would be shepherded by a delegation from FBI headquarters — the deputy chief of operations, the chief of counterintelligence operations, and the deputy chief of the legal staff.

  Thomas Augustus Castle’s entrance, five minutes after the group had assembled, brought the clatter of coffee cups and perfunctory joking to term. With his red leather folder and thick gold fountain pen in hand, Castle quickly made the rounds of the visitors. He clapped Trosper on the shoulder and said, “Handcuffs, I do declare … ” From across the room, Grogan raised his voice: “It would have been worth a second trip to Prague to see that.”

  “We’ve got the makings of a long weekend,” Whyte said as he slipped into the chair behind his desk. He glanced at Castle, who, in apparent deference to the guests, had refrained from doodling. “Why don’t you get things started, Tom?”

  Castle touched his reading glasses, and cleared his throat. “This holiday weekend could give us a shot at catching our man Winesap at his real work — a Treff with an American agent important enough to be handled with unusual secu
rity precautions … ”

  “Since we’re talking on the record,” Charlie Mayo interjected, “can we say an ‘allegedly important American agent’?” The FBI’s deputy chief of operations was not one to miss the opportunity to make the Bureau’s presence known.

  Castle stopped abruptly, adjusted his reading glasses, and took a deep breath. “By all means, let’s call him an allegedly important American agent.”

  “That’s not what I was driving at,” Mayo said quickly. “I meant, could this guy be a sleeper, who’s on the shelf now, but to be activated later? That might account for his being dealt with by a low-level type like Winesap?”

  “Perhaps,” Castle said. “But with things the way they are in Russia, I wonder how long Moscow could afford to let any agent doze?”

  Roger Brooks, chief of FBI counterintelligence, scowled, “I’ve always thought sleepers were invented by the hack who dreamed up the nutty notion that Moscow Center had built a perfect little American town just to condition agents for life in the States … ”

  Grogan laughed and said, “Sure, and about the time they finished the village, some youngster would have recommended the agents do it the easy way — apply for a scholarship and spend an all-expenses-paid year or two at MIT or UCLA.”

  Castle continued to speak. “If Volin had it right, Bronze may be a prima donna, but he’s obviously of real value to Moscow. And that means bales of cash and lots of tender care.”

  “All the same,” said Charlie Mayo, “we’ve seen some cutbacks in personnel, and a few agents discarded. That suggests money and manpower problems … ”

  Roger Brooks stirred, but before he could risk his future by modifying his chief’s assessment, Trosper intervened. “The new management obviously intends to clear out the mare’s nest they inherited, but I can’t see any of the young Turks dropping a useful contact, let alone a productive spy, no matter how risky and expensive the case might be to handle … ”

  Brooks glanced gratefully at Trosper as Whyte impatiently signaled Trosper to leave well enough alone.

  “The new Moscow crowd are anything but ‘young Turks,’” Castle said sharply. “They’re the cream of the crop of operations men whose entire experience came in the last ten or fifteen years when ideology played no role at all in Moscow operations.” He pulled his half-frame glasses farther down his nose and gave each of the Bureau men a momentary glance. “So, let’s table the speculation and agree there’s reason to hope that this is a plausible weekend for Winesap to service his unknown chum — and while we’re at it let’s start calling him Bronze. If the codename is good enough for the SVR, we might just as well use it. If we’re as lucky as we deserve to be, Winesap might even go face-to-face.”

  “Come on, Tom,” Mayo said. “You’re not suggesting that we actually plan to be lucky?”

  Castle shrugged. “At this point, I’ll settle for Winesap leading us to a dead drop.”

  Mayo and Brooks groaned in chorus. “If all Winesap does is service a dead drop, we’ve really got our toe in a crack … ”

  Whyte nodded. “If there’s no personal contact — and we’d better knock wood — we’ll all have something to look forward to over the Christmas and New Year season.” The raised eyebrows and grim smiles were gratuitous. The cost and logistics involved in an around-the-clock surveillance in New York City during the Christmas shopping and tourist season lay well within the collective imagination.

  “But why is Moscow using your man Winesap?” Brooks asked. “At best he doesn’t seem any more than just up to the job?”

  “Because Winesap’s a near-perfect live letter drop — well established in New York, and covered as an Iranian clerk and as an American spy,” Trosper said. “Aside from the few seconds a month in brush contacts, there’s no way he might be linked to Bronze. When Moscow wants a substantive face-to-face with Bronze, the Center can set it up anywhere — hereabouts, or out of the country, perhaps even in Moscow. Winesap would never even learn about it.”

  They talked until Mayo said, “Just remember this. Money is tight. I’m understaffed. Time is precious.”

  “Tell me more,” Whyte said pleasantly.

  Charlie Mayo nodded and snapped his briefcase shut.

  As Ralph Nugent got up to leave, he spoke for the first time. “Before we break, I must remind everyone that the law comes first.” The lawyer’s glance passed swiftly over Whyte but lingered on Grogan and Trosper. “The rules of evidence are to be scrupulously respected. There will be no intimidation. No provocation. No deals. No kidnapping.” He turned slightly, just enough to focus on Trosper. “And certainly, no citizen’s arrest.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Whyte. He got to his feet and glanced at Trosper. “I’m sure we all understand that.”

  *

  Widgery clapped his hands and thrust himself closer to the screen. “Tally-ho,” he whispered, pointing at the screen. “Right there, raincoat, baseball hat, airline bag … ”

  “For Christ’s sake, speak into the mike,” Grogan said in a low voice. “Put it on the air, and stop the fox-hunting crap.”

  Widgery fumbled with the microphone. “Tango, Tango … ”

  The Tango team was in place at Third Avenue and 81st Street. “Damn it all anyway,” Widgery spluttered. “He’s done a spin, reversed, and headed in the other direction … ”

  “On the air,” Grogan demanded. “Into the mike … ”

  “Erase Tango, erase Tango,” Widgery cried. “It’s Love, repeat, Love … ”

  The Love team was at Lexington and 81st Street.

  Grogan and Trosper leaned over Widgery’s shoulder to watch as Winesap walked slowly out of the surveillance camera range.

  “You know what?” Trosper’s voice was low and confiding as he turned to Grogan.

  “Nope … ”

  “It wouldn’t be much of a problem if we were to tag along — Comrade Winesap’s never laid eyes on either of us.”

  “Don’t be so damn silly. I’ll have seven or eight people on him, and just as many in a floating reserve by the time he gets to the corner.”

  “Just stick the radio on your belt, rig the earphone, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not procedure,” Grogan said slowly.

  “We’re both of us better able to tell if Winesap is making a meet than any of your guys … ”

  “Nonsense, my people are as good as they come … ”

  “There’s no risk if we just tag along … ”

  “You haven’t got the slightest idea where he’s heading … ”

  “You want to bet?” Trosper pulled on his raincoat.

  There was a static squawk as Widgery turned up the volume on the radio monitor. Then, “Sugar Sugar, Love Love.”

  “He’s going south on Lexington,” Widgery explained to Grogan. “From now the teams will use numerical codes,” he added helpfully as he picked up a red china pencil and turned to the plastic-covered street map.

  Trosper glanced uneasily at Grogan’s darkening face. “There’s nothing we can do here, why not just tag along for a while?”

  “Damn it to hell.” The sleeve of Grogan’s raincoat snagged as he wedged through the narrow door to follow Trosper out of the van.

  40

  New York

  Trosper edged toward Grogan until they stood like strangers impatient tor the traffic light to change.

  “Even money he’s headed for the parade?”

  “In your hat,” Grogan said. “It’s been a one-to-ten bet ever since he crossed 71st Street at Lex.” He spoke softly, exhaling his words in a monotone, without glancing at Trosper or moving his lips. “I wish to hell we’d figured this out yesterday and planned for the traffic. We’re not in the best shape.” Without waiting for the light to change, he sprinted across 69th Street, a perfect rendition of the jagged, twisting style of a broken field runner.

  Trosper lingered, waiting until the light was green before crossing.


  On the opposite side of Lexington Avenue and a hundred yards ahead, Winesap strode purposefully along.

  Across town, the annual Thanksgiving Day parade had begun to move from Central Park West down Broadway toward Herald Square.

  The heavy, low-hanging clouds and scattered light rain had reduced pedestrian traffic, making it easier for Grogan’s squad to keep Winesap in a long box — three watchers ahead and four behind, all moving in tandem with their target.

  On the west side of the avenue, a man and woman ranged eighty yards ahead, their measured pace keeping a constant distance ahead of Winesap. Across the avenue, and more nearly abreast of the target, a single man carrying a plastic shopping bag strolled as if unaware of the threatening clouds. Behind Winesap, two men, one with a furled umbrella, the other wearing a raincoat and cap, chatted amiably as they kept Winesap in view. On the opposite side of the avenue, two women kept pace with the men.

  A box is not the easiest surveillance to maintain, but Grogan’s team executed it as deftly as any Trosper had seen.

  Behind the box, the second and third teams of watchers — the float — were ready on radio signal to take over from the deployed team, to spill into the subway, dash for a bus, or take up a stationary watch if Winesap were to step into a building. To the rear, and out of Trosper’s sight, a radio van with masked antennas served as a mobile control base in contact with the watchers on all four corners of the box and with the float. Strung out behind the float, three nondescript vehicles leisurely leap-frogged one another, ready to respond on the signal that Winesap had hailed a taxi or been picked up by a moving car.

  Pedestrians were still sparse as Trosper stepped up his pace to close within a few feet of Grogan, now only a block behind Winesap.