The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

  “I am home,” Alizadeh said weakly. “I’m home in bed, sick … ”

  “I mean you should go all the way back home … ”

  “Which home?”

  “I think you must go home where Mr. Wright is going. It will be more healthy there — good doctors. Do you understand?”

  “I think so … ”

  “Do you remember the travel agency plans?”

  “What plans?”

  “I mean the plans for if you had to make a sudden trip home — where Mr. Wright has gone?”

  “I think so … I have it all written down.”

  “Then you have everything you need to make a trip right away?”

  “I think so … Except for money,” he added quickly.

  “Okay, you’ll get a letter tomorrow with some money to help with your travel plans … ”

  Alizadeh groaned loudly, and whispered, “But don’t forget there are three of us.”

  “I know that, but are you sure that you understand everything?”

  “I think so … ”

  “Just remember this — Mr. Wright is very sick. He will not see you again. It is important that you not try to reach him until you are both home again.”

  “I understand everything, but … ”

  “I have to go now.”

  “But … ”

  “Goodbye, and have a nice trip.”

  Trosper handed the phone to Mrs. Alizadeh and turned to Grogan. “Did you get any of that?”

  “I think so,” said Grogan, aping Alizadeh’s accent. “The jig’s up and everyone is bugging out?”

  “That about covers it,” said Trosper.

  45

  Washington, D.C.

  Whyte glanced at his watch as Trosper and Grogan made their way to the empty chairs at the foot of the long conference table. “I know it’s almost ten,” Whyte said, “and I’m sorry to have dragged you both down here after your long day in New York. It’s just that our FBI colleagues and we agree that there isn’t much time left.”

  Charlie Mayo and Roger Brooks nodded agreement.

  Castle peered over his half-glasses along the table to Trosper and smiled politely. “At least you got to enjoy a snack on the plane — was it chicken or couldn’t you tell?”

  “To get things started,” Whyte said, with an irritated glance at Castle, “do we agree that the SVR has reason to believe that their creature Slocombe is in trouble?”

  Without looking up, Castle said, “Yes.”

  Charlie Mayo cleared his throat. “That’s the FBI’s position, and if there’s any doubt about it, we have some further information on Boris Danilov, second secretary at the Russian mission to the U.N., the fellow Alizadeh picked out of the mug book as Mr. Wright. Danilov left Kennedy Airport for Moscow last night. We’re to understand that he left for a routine consultation in Moscow.”

  “Danilov has diplomatic immunity, but Moscow whisked him out all the same,” Castle said. “They’re running scared.”

  “This confirms what Alizadeh was told on the telephone this afternoon,” Grogan added.

  “Are we still certain that there isn’t enough evidence to bring Slocombe to trial?” Whyte was touching all bases.

  Brooks shook his head. “Not unless you can jolt him into a plea bargain … ”

  “Not a chance,” said Trosper.

  “Two questions,” said Castle. “Did the SVR arrange for Alizadeh’s recall to Tehran, or has it come as a surprise to them?”

  “It was a surprise to the New York rezidency,” said Grogan. “If Moscow had been behind it, they would have alerted New York.”

  “Second, has Slocombe been warned that he may be in trouble?”

  “Right now Moscow is trying to decide if this is a real emergency,” Trosper said. “They’ll not tell Slocombe he’s looking at life in prison if they can avoid it. The only lead to Slocombe is Alizadeh, and they’ve ordered him back to Moscow rather than risk VEVAK thumping a confession out of him.”

  “Moscow may also figure that Alizadeh’s only a one-thump prisoner,” Grogan said. “One thump and he’s changed sides.”

  “The moment Moscow learns Alizadeh has jumped,” Castle said, “they’ll have no choice but to offer Slocombe escape and asylum … ”

  Trosper shook his head. “That may frighten Slocombe, but he’s got too much of a bump on himself even to consider spending his sunset years in some Kuibychev suburb. He’ll have no trouble convincing himself there’s no way we can prove a case against him.”

  Whyte turned to Mayo. “What about his finances?”

  “We’ve found ample money,” Mayo said, “but no trace of anything like the cash Comrade Ames was tossing around. Slocombe’s just bought an expensive boat, but it’s financed through the State Department credit union.”

  “Slocombe is bright enough not to pay for a boat with cash he carries around in a shopping bag with a GUM Moscow logo on it,” Trosper said.

  “I’ve kept State informed of our investigation from the moment we identified Slocombe,” Mayo said. “The Secretary has tabled the ambassadorial nomination and will take no action until he hears from us. Then, all things being equal, State Department security officers will confront Slocombe. If he doesn’t admit to any malfeasance, they’ll lift his diplomatic passport and put him on administrative leave. At that point, we’ll begin surveillance.” Mayo nodded to Whyte before saying, “An open surveillance tends to convince suspects that we mean business — even more so if the press gets wind of it.”

  “That gives us two days before Slocombe is warned,” Whyte said.

  “Thirty-six hours maximum,” Castle grumbled.

  Trosper turned to Grogan and whispered, “Just about now, I’d like someone to say that the Firm’s role is finished.”

  “You think they dragged us down here to say thanks and goodbye?” Grogan muttered.

  Whyte glanced at Mayo, who turned to Castle, who nodded to Whyte, who addressed himself to Grogan and Trosper.

  “You may have wondered why we asked you both to fly down tonight when we might have used the red phone,” Whyte said.

  “Oh, yes,” said Trosper.

  Grogan smiled uneasily.

  “While we still have a few hours to ourselves,” Whyte said, “it seems to Charlie Mayo and me that there’s something to be said for someone having a little chat, an unofficial and deniable chat, with Minister Counselor Slocombe before his Russian friends tip him off and he has a chance to get all iron-assed about everything.”

  “It can’t work,” Trosper said.

  Grogan’s expression froze.

  “An unofficial approach, taking him by surprise, is all we have left,” Mayo said. “Someone has to do it.”

  Trosper shook his head. “Not I.”

  “I’d like you to do it,” said Whyte. “There’s nobody else.”

  46

  New York

  Slocombe looked up as Trosper came in, and waved casually toward a chair. “Give me a moment with these cables,” he said as he continued to read.

  No greeting. No notice taken of or apology made for the time spent waiting in the outer office. And no clue as to whether Slocombe had been warned of trouble.

  Trosper glanced at the table near his chair and stretched to tug a copy of Sports Illustrated from beneath Foreign Affairs still snug in its uncut plastic mailing wrapper. He began to flip the pages, ignoring the text and pausing only to study the more spectacular photographs. He knew the first few moments with Slocombe would be critical, and on the Metroliner that morning had tried to fashion a plan for the interview. But nothing worked. It was hopeless to plan without knowing what Slocombe knew. The diplomat held every advantage.

  Trosper would not look up from his reading until Slocombe moved to open their interview.

  “Your magazine of choice came with this temporary office,” said Slocombe as he laid his reading glasses on the desk and squinted in Trosper’s direction. He dropped the sheaf of cables into the out-tray and said
, “Because I’m treading water with our delegation to this year’s General Assembly, I have to take potluck on everything, even office space.” He paused to make a minute adjustment in the position of a discreet gold cufflink. “These annual U.N. meetings are tiresome enough, but every new administration pays off their big campaign contributors — undertakers who call themselves obsequy counselors, and used-car merchants who say they’re on sabbatical from the motor trade — by making them honorary delegates to the General Assembly. There’s no end to the damnable cheapening of our diplomatic service.”

  Slocombe’s sigh was comprehensive, intended to encompass grievances he had not troubled to mention. “Meanwhile, the confirmation of my promotion and assignment rests at the bottom of some clot’s ‘urgent action’ box.”

  Trosper turned another page before tossing Sports Illustrated onto the table and watching as it slipped to the floor.

  “And why, pray, are you still scuffling around in New York?”

  “I’ve been asked to bring a security situation to your attention,” Trosper said.

  Slocombe’s eyebrows lifted. “A security situation?”

  “A security problem, if you prefer.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “It concerns your relationship with the former U.S.S.R. and the government of Russia.” Gently, gently, Trosper counseled himself, just the tip of the knife.

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Slocombe spoke without the slightest change of expression or hint of body language.

  He had not been warned. No one had that much self-control.

  “To be blunt, I’ve been sent here because there’s reason to believe that you’re involved in a clandestine and illegal contact with the Russian intelligence services and had the same relationship with the former Soviet intelligence.”

  Slocombe shoved himself back from his desk. His chest heaved as he took a deep breath. He stared at Trosper, exhaled slowly, and pulled himself forward, his expression stiff with the trace of an incredulous smile. “Is this some lunatic, cold warrior speculation of yours? Of yours personally?”

  “It’s well beyond speculation at this point.”

  “By what authority do you come into this building and to my office with this incredible nonsense?”

  “No authority whatsoever,” Trosper said, “and that’s precisely why I’m here. I’ve been asked to discuss this with you informally because when the hard-ass authorities take over, and the media arrive, the legal proceedings will come under a public scrutiny so intense that you can’t even imagine it.”

  To slow the pace of the confrontation, Trosper picked Sports Illustrated from the floor and tucked it carefully under Foreign Affairs on the side table. “The idea is that we might come to an arrangement that will help satisfy the authorities and perhaps lead to minimizing the damage and fallout that are otherwise a dead certainty.”

  “I should order you the hell out of this office this minute.”

  Trosper shook his head. “I really don’t recommend that.”

  “You and your confederates are out of your bloody, scheming little minds … ” Slocombe’s face flushed, his fingers drummed along the edge of his desk. “You damned well forget who I am and what I represent.”

  “I know exactly who you are and what you represent, and I can assure you our data are firm and will be convincing in court … ”

  “In court?” Slocombe lowered his voice.

  “Where else?”

  “What a monstrous world we live in,” said Slocombe, “when an acquaintance, even a colleague of sorts, can come into one’s office spewing threats without so much as a preamble of any land, or even an explanation.” As Slocombe struggled to control his breathing, the color leached from his face.

  “Preambles be damned — you know exactly what kind of a world it is,” Trosper said. “And people like you have helped make it what it is.” It was like the diplomat, Trosper realized, to appear as concerned about the form of the confrontation as he was to the threat to his career.

  “In the time you have left in my office, you’d best come to the point,” Slocombe said. “I’ll deal with the legal and bureaucratic aspects of your slander in due course.”

  Trosper shook his head. “I still don’t think you understand. You’re known to have maintained a clandestine relationship with Soviet and Russian intelligence. I’ve been sent here to make you an offer because I have no official status, and am quite anonymous.”

  “What offer could you possibly be authorized to make to me?”

  “In return for the truth of how you became involved, and exactly what has happened since, you may have a chance to avoid an international scandal, personal disgrace, and almost certainly prison.” Trosper waited before saying, “I’m speaking bluntly because everything you have, and everything you pretend to be, is at stake, and there’s no room for any misunderstanding.”

  Blotches of color were coming back to Slocombe’s face. “Now that I’ve heard what you were sent to say, I want you the hell out of my sight. I suggest you tell your various superiors that your allegations are absolute crap and exactly what I might expect from you and those you represent.”

  Trosper shook his head. “Neither of us has time for that nonsense. You’re just as aware as I am of the back-room data and files that have been leaking out of Moscow for the past three years — enough of it has your name on it to make a solid case against you.” He waited, hoping to observe Slocombe’s reaction. There was none. “And that was before we began making independent observations of our own.”

  “Just what in the name of Christ do you think would make me even consider any relationship that went beyond the propriety and the documented accounts of my work with the stable of sources and contacts I’ve spent my career developing?”

  Trosper shook his head. “Now, you really surprise me. In wartime the motivation for what you so delicately call a ‘relationship’ is pretty damned simple. People with the guts to fight do so for political and moral reasons.”

  “By God, Alan, that really is a joke,” Slocombe said. “The idea of you and your crowd talking about political and moral values turns my stomach.”

  “In peacetime, money is the great persuader,” Trosper said. “After that there’s the need for recognition, even secret recognition, and revenge against a boss or system that doesn’t recognize one’s worth. For some, there’s the adventure of it, for a few, love can be a factor. In your case, I’d say that vanity, a simple, overpowering vanity, played on by someone at least as bright as you, is at the root of it.” He moved closer to the desk before saying, “Along with that, your Moscow admirers will have lubricated your conscience with a comfortable secret income.”

  “Are you actually suggesting that because I’ve been sidetracked a few times by incompetent political appointees and cretinous civil servants, I leaped into the arms of the first secret policeman who bought me lunch?”

  “Not at all,” Trosper said. “I’m certain their cultivation of your ego went on for some time.”

  “Ha … ”

  “And it would have taken even more time before anything tangible could safely have been introduced.”

  “Tangible?”

  “Not necessarily entirely tangible,” Trosper said. “It probably began with them feeding you background on negotiating or policy positions, perhaps a pending change in the leadership — the sort of data you could use in a brilliant forecast of Moscow policy. And to thicken the broth, I imagine occasional perceptive glimpses into the inner workings of other powers — Germany, Japan, the U.K. — were dropped on your plate. That’s the sort of thing your Moscow friends buy from your opposite numbers in those countries.”

  With his elbows on the desk, his slim fingers forming a temple, Slocombe’s eyes never left Trosper. “I find you and your crowd contemptible, as well as quite mad.”

  “The more ‘tangible’ aspect comes later in cases like yours,” Trosper said. “After the insights and news tips, and a
few discreet but pricey gifts, cuff links, a watch, perhaps something in the white gold that most of us confuse with stainless steel, the veil is dropped. A regular stipend, ‘A little something to help with expenses,’ your worldly friend might have said — ‘The least we can do for you, what with all the time you’re spending putting things in focus for us.’”

  “You’re talking rot,” Slocombe said slowly.

  “I’m talking about a really admiring friend,” Trosper said. “A senior man, sophisticated, cultivated, gifted in diplomacy, a fellow who understands and appreciates your real stature as no one ever has. That’s the kind of friend Moscow has produced for a couple dozen people quite like you.”

  “Your imagination is sicker than I might have dreamed,” Slocombe said.

  “Perhaps I haven’t gone far enough afield,” Trosper said. “On occasion, Moscow has turned up one of those personal eccentricities, something that used to be a bit too indelicate for polite society. Among themselves they call it a hook.”

  “It’s you and your kind who are sick and corrupt … ”

  “I mean an eccentricity that the victim may never even have admitted to himself, something that the right provocation and perhaps a drop or two of a drug might uncork,” Trosper said. “The Moscow people have a nose for those things — like what they call ‘discipline,’ ladies with whips, chains, weird masks, and all the other fittings. Or maybe some youngster, who needs the comfort of an older and experienced man of the world?” Trosper smiled. “Surely some of this must sound familiar?”

  “You absolutely disgust me … ” Slocombe pushed himself back from the desk, farther away from Trosper.

  “On a more practical level,” Trosper said, “I have to remind you that photographs of you meeting a courier really do exist … ”

  “Photographs?” Slocombe said loudly. “You taunt me with photographs? Come to my study, I’ll show you photographs. Pictures of me with a score of people, three presidents, prime ministers, foreign ministers, the Pope — and a dozen Russians, all of them spies for what I know. Bring along your secret police friends, they should be able to sort them all out.”