Best Man

by Doug Raber

  I introduced myself to several other guests, one from Italy and two others from Ukraine. All were part of their diplomatic missions to the U.S., and I identified myself in my role of international trade negotiations with Biggers & Hayes. In the Washington tradition, we traded business cards.

  Similar interactions continued for at least another hour, by which time I could see the crowd begin to diminish. It was time for me to leave. The Ambassador was engaged in what seemed to be a serious discussion with the ambassador from Poland, so I found the Commercial Officer, whom I had met earlier and expressed my thanks for a lovely evening.

  I found myself surprisingly tired when I returned home. Not because I had been doing anything strenuous but because I had been so fully engaged. As I changed out of my suit, I permitted a glance in the bedroom mirror, and I smiled knowingly. I was back, and it felt good.

  The next week, I received two more invitations, and the week after it was four. After a month, it settled down to a steady stream of a half-dozen per week, hardly surprising in view of the fact that more than one hundred fifty countries maintained diplomatic missions in Washington. There were more invitations than I could accept, but I attended as many receptions as possible in my efforts to build up a strong social network. If nothing else, it appeared that it would be of great value for Biggers & Hayes.

  • • • • •

  As the weeks and then months progressed, I found myself falling into a rhythm. Two or three evenings per week, usually on weekdays, I would attend a gathering at one of the embassies, usually choosing those where my networking efforts might prove most rewarding.

  I found myself meeting so many new faces, it was difficult to keep track. The business cards helped, and I soon discovered that enough photographs were posted on the web that I was able to create a file on my computer pairing most of the names with a photograph or two and whatever pertinent information I had gleaned from my conversations.

  I spent many hours studying this list, and it paid off. If I had met someone previously, I was able to impress them with my recollection of details that most people would have forgotten. At the same time, it seemed that in earlier years, my memory had been so strong that such a device would have been unnecessary. Consequently, I was slightly chagrinned, even though nobody else knew. The embarrassment was nevertheless sufficient that I named my computer file accordingly as names.secret.doc. It struck me that Cynthia had been right. I had secrets, and they made me happy.

  Upon reviewing my evening after one of the receptions, I made a discovery that must be quite common for those whose careers have progressed through several decades. The diplomats I met were younger than ever before.

  Of course, that was only my perception. Statistically speaking, the men and women representing their countries at these gatherings illustrated a range in age that had not shifted in many years. Certainly, some of the old hands retired, only to be replaced by new and younger individuals, but the age distribution was the same. The change was entirely within myself. It was I who was getting older. I had not quite reached fifty, but I was no longer the young man I had been at the time of my first trip to Prague.

  Several times, I met someone who, upon hearing my name, would respond with surprise, or at least curiosity. This is illustrated by the following exchange.

  “Timothy O’Connor? It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Really?” The information surprised me.

  “Yes. You were part of the negotiations in Geneva. Our former minister, Koba Mikoshvili, spoke very highly of you. He said you always had the information that would allow him to enhance his understanding, to strengthen his position.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, vaguely recalling the man. “Koba was always a good person to work with. He understood the need to get things done.”

  • • • • •

  After six months had passed, I began to find myself increasingly restive. I had met innumerable people, established many new relationships, and uncovered copious amounts of useful information. Yet information was a commodity, and what value did it have if I could not use it to carry out commercial transactions? It was the one aspect of my new career phase that Cynthia had not explained. What was I to do with all this information?

  The answer came unexpectedly, in the way of so many things that have happened during my life. I was between conversations at a reception in the French embassy, and I took a sip of the champagne that had been given to me by one of the serving staff. The drink was not to my liking, and I must have reacted in a way that showed, for over my shoulder I heard the voice of someone who had clearly noticed my displeasure.

  “Even in France, one cannot always be certain that the champagne will be to one’s liking.”

  Afraid that it might be one of the French diplomatic staff, I forced myself to adopt a neutral expression, but before I could turn, the man continued.

  “Perhaps it would be preferred if I could offer you one Czech beer.”

  I turned in astonishment.

  “Josef!”

  It was all I could say.

  “How are you, Mr. Timothy O’Connor? There have been several years gone by since we last saw each other.”

  “I thought you … It is good to see you … Mr. Janoušek. I last saw you in Prague, perhaps five years ago. But it seems you did not see me.”

  He cocked his head and looked at me with a puzzled expression.

  “If I did not see you, then I cannot remember. You did not attempt to speak with me? Something was wrong, perhaps?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Josef. I saw someone across the square, and I thought it was you. When I looked again the person was gone. It is nothing of significance. What is important is that we are here together now.”

  He extended his arm, and we shook hands warmly.

  “It is good to see you,” I said. “How long will you be here in Washington?”

  “It is my posting, Timothy. Since five days ago. This is my first official activity, and I will remain in Washington at least one year.”

  “Marvelous.”

  I looked to the sides and over my shoulder, but nobody was close enough to overhear.

  “Perhaps we might have lunch one afternoon? Or dinner one evening? That would be allowable for your new assignment?”

  “For sure, it would be. My assignment is to be diplomatic. To meet people and to exchange informations. Nothing new, Timothy. Always, it is the same.”

  He smiled. It was a broad, warm smile. Any concerns I might have held disappeared with it. My network was being revived. It had already come back to life.

  During the next few months, the other members of my network reemerged as well. Sometimes it seemed too much of a coincidence to be possible, but I witnessed the events with my own eyes. At the German embassy late one afternoon, I was chatting with the director of their Information Center. We were conversing in German and I was delighted when he complimented my command of the language.

  At one point in the conversation, he paused as though he was trying to remember something.

  “Herr O’Connor. I just realized that your name is familiar. One of the new members of our political department told me that he had once worked with an American who lived in Washington. I’m sure it was you, unless there is someone else with a very similar name.”

  “How interesting,” I said. “And who would this person be?”

  “Herr Volkmann. Dieter Volkmann. He is here today. Over there.”

  I didn’t recognize the man he waved to. Not at first. But he recognized me, and when he smiled, there was no question.

  “Dieter!”

  “My old friend,” he said as he walked up.

  “Herr Meineke,” he said to my conversation partner. “You are speaking with a great hero. Herr O’Connor made the reunification happen almost by himself. We must drink a toast to him.”

  Similar reunions unfolded as the weeks progressed. Next was Vasili Yevchenko, and finally Reza Kashani,
the last two reunions taking place at the Dutch and British embassies. Reza had been posted to the Pakistani embassy, which maintained a special section for the interests of Iran.

  Each reunion seemed to be fortuitous, and I found it implausible that serendipity could be so omnipresent. Yet the statistical probability was of no consequence. What mattered was my network. My network was fully back in place.

  Exchanging information, however, remained somewhat awkward. I would often observe one or even two of my agents at a diplomatic reception, but the opportunity to speak with them did not always present itself. And passing a piece of paper or film could be even more difficult.

  Even more daunting were the challenges of exchanging information with my American counterparts. In order to maintain their cover, they could not be seen with me on a regular basis, and this produced a level of isolation that prevented me from distributing useful material to my network. The connections were there, but a key part of the machine was missing.

  • • • • •

  My breakthrough came when Dieter made a suggestion during an innocently framed conversation. We were attending a function at the German embassy on Reservoir Road.

  “You live not so far from here, am I correct, Timothy?”

  “Yes. Only half a mile.”

  “Then we should go walking some afternoon. Perhaps along the towpath. Or just along the side of the reservoir. Quite often I walk by the reservoir. It’s just up the street, and I use the crosswalk where there is a mailbox.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That would be pleasant. I will walk past the mailbox tomorrow just to see.”

  With that simple exchange, we had agreed upon the location for a dead drop and the time that I would check it. Things were starting to move along.

  As I neared the mailbox the next afternoon, I spotted the location without difficulty. The mailbox rested on a small concrete slab atop the sidewalk, and one corner of the slab extended several inches into a grassy strip. Beneath that part of the slab was an opening that was a perfect place for hiding a small piece of paper or envelope.

  I removed the postcard from my pocket and inspected it. It was a typical advertising insert from a magazine that would bring more junk mail to my house. I dropped it into the mailbox. Then I paused to tie my shoe, placing my foot at the corner of the concrete slab as I did so. I could feel the piece of paper, and I palmed it with no difficulty. A few yards down the street, I placed it in my pocket, not wanting to read it until I was safely home again.

  The message was brief.

  “At four p.m. on Sunday, I will be walking to the Fletcher Boat House.”

  It made me smile. I hadn’t been there in ages. Maybe not since I used to spend my Saturday afternoons fishing with Angie.

  When we approached each other that Sunday afternoon, Dieter and I were both surprised at the chance encounter, but deciding to make the most of a small piece of good luck, we walked together for a few minutes. No one was near, and we could talk freely. More important, he gave me a film canister.

  “This has microfilm of all my country’s positions on the Middle East, especially with regard to Israel. You understand, Timothy, that we cannot make public statements, because they could be given an improper interpretation. Not after what happened in Germany.”

  “This will be appreciated. I will have something for you next week.”

  “Saturday, not Sunday. One day earlier,” he said.

  “Agreed. And one hour earlier, as well. We must not show a pattern.”

  • • • • •

  The next step forward came from Josef, who was a regular guest at many of the receptions I attended. One evening he waited until we were by ourselves, clearly wanting to say something privately.

  “Your home is large?” he asked.

  “Not large by American standards. But compared with European houses? Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Here is what you must do, Timothy. You must have better opportunities for talking privately. These gatherings work okay, but they are too crowded. You should have smaller affairs and invite the people who can best share informations.”

  “At my house, you mean. Yes, I imagine I could do that. It might be nice. There was never a reason before now.”

  “It has many advantages. All is discreet. There are no bugs, nobody watching. At these embassies, it seems maybe half the people are security agents. You could have useful conversations. Get new information. Give new information. And there is no suspicion, because you are doing only what you say you will be doing. You will be having a party.”

  For a few weeks, Josef’s proposal was never out of my mind. I could find no downside to the idea, and the potential value was enormous. All I had to do was invite a few of the minor diplomatic functionaries who attended the embassy receptions, and everything would appear normal. Not the same people every time, but not all new each time.

  It also gave me greatly increased control over my network. If I had any concerns that Dieter, Reza, and Josef might be talking among themselves without keeping me fully informed, all I had to do was invite them sequentially rather than all at once. Then I could disburse the information I considered relevant to the right people at the right time. The decisions would be mine and not theirs. It was brilliant.

  My home turned out to be a perfect venue for these soirees. The old sunporch had been greatly expanded during the renovations ten years earlier, and a bit of sprucing up was all that it needed. With some new furniture, that space alone could handle a crowd of thirty with no difficulty, although I quickly realized that the logistics were much better with only fifteen or twenty people. A crowd that size was large enough that they could entertain themselves yet small enough that I did not have to spend all my time tending to details.

  At least in the beginning, these affairs were not lavish, but as time went on, I found myself thriving on the compliments they invariably generated. It took some effort to keep the affairs modest, but they certainly became more extravagant as time went on. Modest appetizers from the nearby Italian restaurant were replaced by sumptuous canapés from the best caterer in the city, and the simple choice of red or white wine evolved into a full bar and the best champagne.

  • • • • •

  We used the dead-drop technique for several years, until I decided it was no longer safe. I had no concern that our technique would be discovered by the authorities, because our tradecraft was too good. Even if the scheme were to be exposed somehow, strings would be pulled by my friends in the appropriate U.S. agencies. But if someone in my network were compromised by his home government, the results would have been more troublesome.

  Reza, for example, had to deal with the entire range of politicians in a system that combined elements of a conservative theocracy with those of a more liberal democracy. He was always uncertain of whom he could trust and who might suddenly betray him.

  Iran had experienced the horrors of chemical weapons during its war with Iraq in the 1980s, and they subsequently signed and later ratified the Chemical Weapons Convention in 1997. But there were still doubts among other countries, and an unclassified 2001 report to Congress from the CIA indicated a belief that Iran was in possession of nerve agents.*

  From that perspective, you can imagine my reaction when I reached beneath the mailbox for a message I had expected from Reza and touched a sticky substance on the corner of the scrap of paper. I wiped my hand as quickly and thoroughly as possible and rushed home to scrub myself completely in a hot shower. Even before I reached my house, my chest felt tight, and I found it difficult to breathe. I was in a complete panic, and I burned the message as soon as I had memorized the details of the scheduled meeting.

  For several days, I was afraid to leave my house, although the nausea and headaches dissipated within twenty-four hours. By the time I was able to fully regain my equanimity, it was too late to do any forensic analysis. The message was gone, and my skin and clothing had been washed multiple times. There was nothing left to analyze.
But the recognition that someone could attack me in such a devious manner necessitated that I no longer use the dead drop. Other methods of communicating with my agents would have to be employed.

  • • • • •

  Many important events took place during this part of my life, but one stands out as singularly noteworthy. I received a call in my office.

  “Mr. O’Connor? Here is Oleg Zirikov. I am deputy assistant to head of mission here at Russian Embassy.”

  “Yes, Mr. Zirikov. How may I be of assistance?”

  “We are holding small entertainment. Tomorrow afternoon. We are asking you to please attend. At the embassy. Five o’clock.”

  The invitation was odd. Diplomatic gatherings were normally planned well in advance, if for no other reason than the necessity of vetting all the guests by the appropriate security officials. I thought it must have something to do with Vasili, maybe a late cancellation, and he knew I could be counted on to accept a last-minute invitation.

  I used my best diplomatic voice.

  “I should be delighted, Mr. Zirikov. Thank you very much for asking me.”

  “Here it is our pleasure. And no special dress is necessary. Normal business suit.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.

  I paged through the morning newspaper and looked online to see if I could locate any news reports that might shed some light on the situation. Perhaps a retirement party or a cultural event. But I found nothing. At least not at first.

  Suddenly, however, it became obvious. The Russian President had been in New York to address the United Nations, and a story in the Washington Post reported that he would join President Bush at Camp David* at the end of the week. The conclusion was inescapable. The Russian President was on his way to Washington, and his embassy would hold a reception in his honor. And I had been invited.

  You might assume that this was merely another gathering with important political figures to which I had been invited. But you would be wrong. This was not just another political figure — it was Vladimir Putin. The same Vladimir Putin who had first been pointed out to me as a rising star more than a decade earlier in Dresden by Dieter Volkmann.