Best Man

by Doug Raber

  At that instant, I understood the meaning of the phrase that something could make your blood run cold. I felt as if the blood in my veins had nearly frozen solid. I had just been invited to a reception where the guest of honor was someone who presented an immense threat to me. I had lived in deep fear of the man for more than ten years, and now I would be an innocent entering the lair of the lion. Was I being invited to my own execution?

  I thought back to the time I saw Pamela in Vienna, and I remembered my reaction. She had been with Putin. I had been sure of it. And then, later, in Graz, I had identified the same man again. A man who might have been attempting to follow me. A man who seemed to pose a direct threat to my personal safety.

  Following those earlier times, Putin had completed his rise in the KGB, and he had become President of Russia only six months before the election of George W. Bush* as his American counterpart. I had heard stories of how he dealt with his enemies, and it offered me no solace. I was frightened, though I understood what my role must be. Indirect though it may have been, Vasili Yevchenko had asked me to attend the reception, and I could not refuse my own agent.

  These events took place at a time of heightened tension between the U.S. and Russia. Our invasion of Iraq had cost much good will* between the nations, yet it was at a time when the United States desired greater Russian cooperation with respect to the growing nuclear threat that was evolving from the undercover research efforts of the Iranian regime. It was a time when diplomatic niceties were essential and international flaps were to be avoided at all cost.

  The most difficult and frightening part of the afternoon was over quite quickly. Upon my arrival at the Russian embassy, I joined the other guests in the receiving line. I recognized several people in the line, including the ambassador, whom I had met on a previous occasion. And I spotted their trade representative, with whom I had consulted numerous times for Biggers & Hayes. One man stood out, however, seeming much larger than one would otherwise have concluded from his height. It was Vladimir Putin.

  I steeled myself, knowing that I must not allow others to become aware of my terror. I was able to smile graciously and utter a few words of banal pleasantries to the other diplomats as they greeted me. And then, I found myself next in line. There was nobody between me and Putin.

  One of his aides leaned in and whispered something in his ear, and his expression changed.

  “Mr. O’Connor.”

  “Mr. President.”

  “We are pleased you could attend.”

  “I thank you for inviting me.”

  “It was, I think, necessary.”

  His statement made me uneasy. Why did he say it was necessary? He focused his gaze, and it seemed to me that his eyes were boring into my very soul.

  “You have done many important things in diplomacy, Mr. O’Connor. In Berlin, in Paris, and Geneva.”

  I was flattered that he thought my contributions to those negotiations had been important enough to merit his attention.

  “And Vienna.”

  His smile, artificial as it might have been, had faded, and his expression became what I would have expected from an assassin as he raised his knife. From anyone else, the mention of Vienna would have been another compliment, but in the present circumstances, I thought it was more likely a warning. He was telling me that he knew it all. That he knew I had seen him with Pamela that time in Vienna. He offered not praise but a threat.

  I forced another smile, and he did the same. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. He turned to the next person in the line, and one of his aides whisked me away, back into the general population that was in attendance. Drinks, appetizers, and small talk. Nothing else of significance happened that day.

  I had no doubt that he knew everything. Who I was. What I did. Who I worked with. When we spoke for that brief moment, I thought perhaps I had looked the devil squarely in the eye. And he had looked back at me in a way that would forever ensure my reluctance to do him harm.

  * * *

  34

  Amanda

  Much to my surprise, invitations to the soirees at my house became highly prized among the people I had met in Washington diplomatic circles. I had been afraid that I would have to work hard to convince people to come, but it was the opposite. My friends wanted to join these gatherings, and that was no surprise. But even my most casual contacts began to accept every invitation, and I began to receive subtle hints of other names to be invited.

  The parties grew larger, sometimes more than fifty guests, and they became more frequent. Events that at first were held at an interval of six or more weeks became monthly and then bimonthly occasions. Everyone wanted to be there, and they all wanted to be seen there. They could partake of excellent food and drink, and they could do it while taking part in pleasant conversations and catching up on the latest gossip.

  For some who came to these gatherings, their goal was not to engage in idle chitchat but to deliver or receive information. Stated more candidly, the soirees became a hotbed for spies. It was an ideal setting for people to move from one group to another, telling stories, laughing loudly, or whispering quietly in someone’s ear. I began to confirm my earlier suspicions that some members of this international circle of acquaintances were less concerned with diplomacy and much more focused on intelligence.

  And it provided perfect cover for my own activities, because I was different from the others. Always a gracious and charming host, I had no need to whisper any secret to a guest. Nor was there any need for me to be ready to receive a message that a guest might place discreetly in my hand. Others might have been doing this, but my network was never involved with anything so clumsy.

  There were always a few other Americans at these parties, and one of them would be my point of contact. I did not always know precisely who it was, but I was meticulous in following the guest-list suggestions I received from Pamela Tremont. I would have much preferred trading information with Pamela in the more intimate manner we had used in the past, but times had changed, and I rarely saw her in those days. When I did, it was no more than a cup of coffee at a downtown Starbucks or possibly a glass of wine at the end of the day.

  It took some time to devise a safe and reliable method for trading information with my contacts. There would be the one American agent, and typically no more than one or two members of my network. It was far too risky to even contemplate bringing Josef, Dieter, Vasili, and Reza to a single gathering. It could compromise me, and it could put the entire network in jeopardy. Usually, only one of them would be present on a particular evening, although I occasionally made an exception if I wanted to exchange information quickly with both of them.

  Considerable planning went into development of the protocol. Clearly, we were experts at making brush passes, but it was hardly a technique that could be sustained over time during gatherings when my home was to become a veritable nest of spies. Anything that involved me directly would help an observer identify my agents, and I could not permit that to happen. Whatever technique I designed had to be something normal. So that is where I focused my attention.

  What is normal? What activities correspond to normal activity at a social gathering? Answers to the question are straightforward. They drink, they eat, and they engage in conversation with others. All very public activities that are inappropriate for sensitive exchanges. What I needed was a dead drop. Potted plants in the living room were always a possibility, but it would quickly be noticed by an observer if repeated on subsequent occasions.

  I returned time and again to my list. Drinking, eating, talking with others. The answer was unmistakable once the thought drifted through my mind. It was the first activity on the list. Drinking. Not the drinking itself, but the consequence. What is the consequence of consuming multiple glasses of any beverage? And I am not referring to the possibility of becoming intoxicated. It is much more fundamental. Those individuals will need to use the bathroom.

  The technique might not work at an em
bassy or hotel, but my guests, or more specifically, my agents, would know that they would have complete privacy for a minute or two when the bathroom door in my home closed behind them. The technique did not become trivial, however. If Josef, for example, place a folded message inside the medicine cabinet, what would prevent another guest from checking the contents of the cabinet later that evening? The message would be discovered at once.

  Logical persons might think that hiding the message inside a bottle of prescription medications might provide the necessary protection from discovery, but they would be wrong. From extensive experience, mostly by overhearing conversations of others, I was aware that medicine cabinets were often the primary target of a visitor’s curiosity. People wanted to know what medications others used. Were they ill? Were they being treated for emotional disturbances? Sexual dysfunction? At the level of a pill, the more intimate the better.

  But the ranking was turned on its head if any sort of bodily fluid or other contact might be involved, and that provided the answer to my dilemma. I was not concerned with someone carrying out a forensic analysis, only with their curiosity. And I concluded that they were unlikely to go searching through the wastebasket. Not a wastebasket in a bathroom. And even less likely to pick through the waste to see if something interesting might have been wrapped inside a piece of soiled toilet paper. Nobody was going to unwrap and examine what appeared to be a discarded tampon.

  The only difficulty I needed to get past was to be sure that the trash was not emptied before I could recover whatever information had been left for me. That actually turned out to be quite easy, because the caterers were not tasked with general cleaning. They only had to remove the detritus associated with the food and drink they had brought to my home in the first place. A separate cleaning crew would come the next morning to make the entire house neat and spotless once more, but any information left for me would be long gone before they arrived.

  You may have noticed that I have not addressed how I passed information in the opposite direction. The answer to that question follows the same pattern as I just described. The information would be contained in a small packet, usually a small flash drive or memory card which had become available in sizes that were remarkably small. These could be hidden in locations that would be almost impossible for others to discover.

  Once again, I am not suggesting that a good forensics team could not discover them with a careful search. Instead, I am making the argument that one of my guests, stopping in the bathroom for a minute or so for the ostensible purpose of having a pee, would have no chance of finding such a small packet. Moreover, I employed techniques such as sticking the item to the underside of a vanity drawer with a piece of chewed-up bubble gum. If someone encountered the gum, it was usually sufficient motivation to discontinue the search. Nobody wants to handle someone else’s spit.

  The procedures worked perfectly for quite a long time. Which is not to suggest that they stopped working well. It means only that new techniques, new people, and new goals evolved over the course of time. The entire program of my soirees was a wonderful success, and it was fun as well. My parties were an absolute must for anyone in diplomatic circles, and even people who had nothing to contribute began to search for invitations. I remember walking along the aisle in the grocery store one afternoon, and I heard snippets of a conversation from beyond the shelf stacked high with breakfast cereal.

  “Are you going to Timothy’s on Saturday?”

  “Unfortunately, not. But I’m still hoping for the next one. One of my colleagues is working on it for me.”

  When I reached the end of the aisle, I paused to sneak a glance. Both were complete strangers. But rather than being annoyed about their groveling behavior, I was flattered. I had become a celebrity.

  • • • • •

  The actual work I was doing in this time frame was of great personal reward to me, but its value to others was much greater. The major geopolitical issues of the day all involved the Middle East. And by that I really mean Iran and Iraq. The invasion of Iraq, first described as an overwhelming success, had quickly deteriorated into an unmitigated disaster. Our soldiers were dying, and the promise of democracy was decaying as quickly as the evidence for nonexistent weapons of mass destruction that had led us to Baghdad in the first place. Iran was trying to restore a sense of balance with its own nuclear program, and almost nobody was pleased.

  On the other hand, the situation provided me with lucrative new opportunities to work with Iran through Biggers & Hayes. In this activity, Dieter was of enormous value. Germany, as a key trading partner with Iran, could provide the access I needed, allowing me to circumvent the restrictions that had been placed on direct U.S. trade with Iran. It was of particular sensitivity that the technology I was trying to deliver to Iran was directly applicable to their nuclear program, potentially to enrich uranium for a nuclear weapon. These efforts required us to maintain an incredibly high level of security. Everything was secret, and nobody else could know about it.

  The challenges were immense, but we were able to overcome them. Biggers & Hayes received a very tidy sum for assembling the deal, although payment was routed through the Czech Republic, by way of a nonexistent company created by Josef. In principle, it was a straightforward commercial arrangement between a major German manufacturer and one of Iran’s leading petroleum companies, although the sale had been routed by way of a Russian company through the work of Vasili, and the materials would be guided by Reza to their final destination in Iran. Government officials in each of the four countries would remain completely in the dark.

  • • • • •

  Shortly after completion of the Iranian deal, I got my next big break. Everything came about by accident, just as it had so many times before. I had walked down to the supermarket to pick up a few items, and as I was leaving the store, I noticed a woman struggling with her groceries. She had two paper grocery bags, filled to their tops, that threatened to tip and spill their contents into the parking lot.

  “Could I be of some assistance?”

  “That would be great. I think if I can get them balanced right, I’ll be fine.”

  I took one of the bags from her.

  “Just point out your car, and I’ll put it in the trunk for you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not driving.”

  “Really? I didn’t think anyone other than myself did that any longer. Walking to the grocery, I mean.”

  She laughed. It was a delightful laugh, and I noticed for the first time how pretty she was. Much younger than I but very much a grown woman.

  “I don’t even have a car these days. We live just up the street on forty-ninth. I’ll manage just fine.”

  My first reaction was one of disappointment at her use of the word we. A husband at the minimum and maybe kids to boot. For several seconds before that, my imagination had allowed her to be single, available, and attracted to me. But some things are not to be, I decided.

  “Let’s start walking,” I said. “When we get to your place, I’ll be halfway home, and you won’t have to worry about spilling all your food. This bag already has a tear at the top, and it could get really messy for you.”

  “You’re very kind. Mr. …”

  “O’Connor. Timothy O’Connor.”

  “Okay, Mr. Timothy O’Connor. Please accept the thanks of Ms. Amanda Stone.”

  Her smile was engaging.

  “I’m cooking tonight for my group.”

  “Your group?”

  “Yes. Four of us. We’re all students.”

  “Really.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Yeah. At Georgetown. The School of Foreign Service.”

  “Very good.”

  “Grad student,” she said. “Just in case you were about to tell me I didn’t look young enough to be a student.”

  I could only begin to stammer something.

  “I wouldn’t …”

  She laughed again.
That same enchanting laugh.

  “Sorry. I’m just teasing you. But I’m really not the traditional age. The State Department is sending me to get a graduate degree.”

  “How long have you been at State?”

  “Ten years. Mostly working on trade issues between Germany and Iran.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It would take too long to explain. Let’s just say we have some overlapping interests.”

  “You work for State? Or you did?”

  I hesitated.

  “No. I’ve never worked at State. But I’ve worked with them a few times. My business is import-export. I manage the D.C. office of a firm called Biggers & Hayes. But tell me, what are you studying?”

  “It’s a mouthful. My program is Eurasian, Russian and East European Studies.”

  “Now you are teasing me.”

  “No. Cross my heart. That’s really what I’m doing. Why does it seem strange to you?”

  “Not strange. Just a coincidence. It’s been my area for twenty-five years.”

  “Really? Now your teasing me.”

  “Yes, really. And no, I’m not teasing.”

  “Could you tell me about it sometime? I don’t mean to be forward, but I’m sure my housemates would love to meet you as well. You probably know more about our subject area than our professors.”

  “I would be delighted.”

  She turned when she reached the sidewalk to her house, and when we reached the steps, I set the other grocery bag on her porch. I wanted no hint of impropriety. No suggestion that I might invite myself inside.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. O’Connor.”

  “Timothy. Please.”

  “Okay, Timothy it is. Timothy and Amanda.”

  I smiled, and I reached in my pocket for one of my cards. I wrote a number on the back.