by Stuart Woods
“Thanks for telling me, love, now you go and have a seat, okay? I think I see some sweet rolls over there, too, and some orange juice.”
The boy bounded off with his camera.
Agent Madison indicated a closed door. “Conference room, there,” he said.
“Has it been swept?” she asked.
“We think of everything,” the agent grinned.
“I’d like you and your partner inside, please. There’ll be an arrest to be made. You’ll hear the evidence.”
Madison beckoned to another man sitting in the lounge. “This is Special Agent Ward. Ward, we’re going to the meeting. There’ll be an arrest.”
“Are you armed?” Rule asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Madison replied.
“Good,” Rule said, “let’s go.” She opened the door and walked into the room, followed by the two agents. The director sat at the opposite end of a small conference table, with Alan Nixon on his right and Ed Rawls on his left. Simon stood to one side behind the director, leaning against the wall. Rule sat down at the end of the table. The FBI men stood behind her.
“All right, Mrs. Rule, let’s have it,” the director said.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Rule said. “Thank you for getting up so early to meet me.”
“It wasn’t by choice, Katharine,” Nixon blurted. “Now let’s get on with it.”
Rule unsnapped the plastic brief case she had placed on the table. “Gentlemen, by now you are aware that the Soviet Union attempted to launch an invasion of Sweden yesterday.”
Simon spoke up. “We’re getting all sorts of reports. We haven’t put it all together yet.”
Rule ignored him. “The invasion was planned and was to have been directed from a Soviet base known as Malibu, on the Latvian coast, at Liepaja, by a man named Majorov, once head of foreign operations for the KGB.”
“Yes, yes, Katharine, we know all about your theory,” Nixon said.
“It’s no longer a theory, Alan,” Rule replied, taking the stack of computer diskettes from her briefcase. “These represent all of the data stored on Malibu’s computer—including all of the plans for the invasion. I assure you that the closest inspection will prove them to be genuine.”
“How did you come by that?” Simon asked.
“Later, Simon,” Rule said. “But I’ll tell you now, these records also include the personal files of Majorov, himself, and they are very revealing.”
Simon came off the wall. “Kate, this is neither the time nor the place.”
“On the contrary, Simon,” she replied, “this is both the time and the place. Now shut up until I have finished.” She was trying hard to keep her temper in check.
“Go on, Mrs. Rule,” the director said.
“These personal files of Majorov’s,” Rule continued, “reveal that his plans for invading Sweden were greatly assisted by a mole in the Swedish Ministry of Defense, known as Seal. Seal’s name is Sven Carlsson; he was Head of Chancery in the ministry until his arrest yesterday. I’m told he has been talking ever since.”
Rule shifted her weight. A part of her was gloating, but she dreaded what had to come now. “The files also reveal that Majorov had a mole in the Central Intelligence Agency,” she said, and paused. Her audience sat, frozen. “He was known as Ferret, and his name is not mentioned in the files. However, the files do give something of his history. He was a field agent in Stockholm in nineteen seventy and seventy-one, and there he met Majorov, who was serving as Head of Station in the Soviet Embassy, under the name of Firsov. There, he was suborned by Majorov, how I don’t quite know, yet. Considering who the man is and his record in the agency, it is hard to fathom.” She turned slightly and addressed Ed Rawls. “What was it, Ed, a woman? Blackmail? Certainly not ideology.”
The whole room turned to look at Rawls, who was pale, but said nothing.
“To continue,” Rule said, “Rawls also met Malakhov in Stockholm, only briefly, he contends, but two years ago, when Malakhov suddenly decides to turn in New York, who does he demand to debrief and run him? Ed Rawls, of course, whose career during the previous ten years, aided by feeds of information from Majorov, has been a shining one. It was all abroad, though, and Majorov wanted a mole at Langley, so he fed us Malakhov, and Ed Rawls held the spoon.”
Simon had taken a seat and was holding his head in his hands.
Rule took a deep breath and continued. “Then, Ed, because of his spectacular career and great work with Malakhov, gets appointed deputy to Deputy Director of Operations, and he is poised to empty the Agency’s files into Majorov’s in basket. Then, he makes two discoveries. First, an extremely stupid disinformation operation called Snowflower, which was designed to make the Soviets think the Swedes were going to join NATO, and which was all too successful, since it gave Majorov the initial impetus for his invasion plan. Second, he discovered that I was onto Majorov, and that nobody believed me. Then he really got clever.”
“Are you guessing at all of this, Rule?” the director suddenly asked. “Or is this more of your theories?”
Suddenly, Ed Rawls came alive. “Shut up and listen, you great fucking oaf,” he said to the director, “There’s a pro talking. You might learn something.”
“Thank you, Ed,” Rule said. “Rawls saw what a time bomb Snowflower was, since he knew about Majorov’s invasion plans, and when he heard about my theories at the meeting in your office, Simon, he knew he had found the fuse. Ed began encouraging me, while, no doubt, bad mouthing me to you lot behind my back. He fed me Malakhov, who whetted my appetite. He sent me an old military journal in the interoffice mail, which had Majorov’s appointment announcement; he really kept me going. Of course, he planned to see to it that I would fail, but after the invasion of Sweden had come off, he would have seen that the press got wind of Snowflower and of my valiant, but failed attempt to get somebody to warn the Swedes. The Agency would have been skewered both ways—the Agency, arguably, had caused the Soviets to take steps to defend their Baltic flank in the first place, and the Agency also would have failed to warn the Swedes of what was about to descend upon them.”
Now the director was looking pale. He motioned Alan Nixon to pour him a glass of water from the flask on the table.
“So,” Rule continued, “had the invasion come off, the press would have conducted the largest roasting of a government agency in the history of the nation. Simon, of course, would be out on his ass for dreaming up Snowflower, and who would his replacement be? Why, his deputy, Ed Rawls, of course, who was in Eastern Europe when Snowflower was born, and whose hands would, therefore, be clean. Then, Mr. Director, assuming you survived until the president’s term expired—which would be doubtful—a new president might be leary of appointing another political crony and, instead, opt for a professional. Who would then be in line for the job of Director of Central Intelligence? Ed Rawls, of glowing repute, hero of the Malakhov defection.” Rule stopped and poured herself some water. “Everybody got the picture, now?”
Everybody was staring at the table, except Ed Rawls, who was staring at the FBI men.
Rule looked over her shoulder. “All right, Agent Madison,” she said, “you can arrest Mr. Rawls, now.” She took a Xerox copy of Majorov’s files from her briefcase and thumped it onto the table. “That will be everything you’ll need to back the complaint. I’ll give you a corroborating statement later. You’ll need to make an immediate arrest of Malakhov, too, before he has time to bolt. Ed, you’ll give them Malakhov’s new address, won’t you?”
Rawls nodded. He seemed unable to speak.
“Mr. Rawls?” Madison said.
Ed Rawls stood up slowly. Madison and Ward put him against the wall and began searching him.
“Look for a pill or a needle,” Rule said. “I want him alive to stand trial.”
The agents continued their search for another three minutes. “He’s clean,” Madison said finally, pulling Rawls’s hands behind his back and snapping on handcuffs. “Let’s go, Mr.
Rawls.”
As they started out of the room, Rawls stopped where Rule was sitting. “Katie,” he said, “I’m sorry about that business at Stockholm airport. I had no idea, I swear.”
Rule stood up, drew back, and hit him as hard as she could with her open hand. Rawls, in spite of his bulk, was knocked reeling into Agent Ward.
“Now get him out of here,” Rule said, her voice shaking with anger, The others were on their feet. “Sit down, all of you,” she barked. “I’m not through, yet.” They shuffled back to their seats.
“Now, gentlemen, we get down to how much of this becomes public.”
“Katharine,” Simon broke in, “you can’t still be serious about going to the press.”
“You’re goddamned right, I am,” Rule said. “The only thing open to discussion, now, is how much the press gets. This is what I propose. Mr. Director, when we leave this room, you make a short statement, to the gathered press outside, that a high official of the Central Intelligence Agency has been arrested and will be charged with spying for the Soviet Union. There’ll be a firestorm of press coverage and congressional investigation, of course, but the Agency can weather that in time. What the agency can’t weather is the continuing presence of any of you three gentlemen.”
“What?” Alan Nixon almost screamed. “You expect us to leave?”
“I don’t see how any of you can possibly stay, Alan. I not only expect you to leave,” Rule said, “I insist. You, Simon,” she pointed a finger, “have hatched, without congressional approval, a harebrained operation that nearly resulted in the Soviet conquest of eight and a half million Swedes; and of all the thousands of personnel of the CIA, you chose the biggest traitor since Benedict Arnold as your deputy. That won’t stand scrutiny in the Congress or in the press.”
She pointed at Nixon. “You, Alan, colluded with the Deputy Director for Operations to conceal the existence of Snowflower and to thwart my efforts to expose the Soviet’s plans, even to the extent of threatening me with transfer or internal investigation. After a congressional investigation, you’d go on the same day as Simon.”
She pointed at the director. “You, sir, approved and encouraged the Snowflower operation, and since the day you were appointed, you have consistently moved to cripple the acquisition of human intelligence, as opposed to the use of high technology. You’re a walking hazard to the American intelligence services you direct. If any of this airs, your friend, the president, will fire you out of hand.”
Rule stopped talking, and nobody else seemed to want to talk. The director had had turned an ashen color, and Rule thought he might be genuinely ill until he spoke.
“You will accept nothing else but our resignations, Mrs. Rule?” he asked, and she was touched by the pleading in his voice.
“I’m offering you your reputations, all of you,” Rule said, “and your pensions. Get out within thirty days—on any excuse you like—or everything goes to the press. And I hope you will believe me when I tell you that I have taken all the necessary steps for this to be made public if, for any reason at all, I should be unable to do it myself.”
“I believe you, Katharine,” Simon said quietly.
“I want your answers now, before you meet the press,” Rule said.
One by one, the three men nodded. “All right, Mrs. Rule,” the director said. “You’ve won. You have my word. I’ll go within a month.”
“So will I,” Nixon said.
“All right, Katharine,” Simon sighed. “But what about you? You don’t really believe you have a career left, do you? Nobody likes a whistleblower but the press. Nobody in the Agency will ever trust you again.”
“Maybe, maybe not, Simon,” she replied. “In any case, I’ll be resigning, myself, when I’ve seen the three of you go.”
The director stood up. “Unless you have anything else, let’s get this over with.”
“I’ve nothing else,” Rule replied. “I’ll leave you to deal with the press.”
She waited for the three men to precede her, then walked into the lounge. “Come on, Peter,” she called to the boy. “Let’s go meet Will.”
“Is Will here, too? Oh, boy!”
“Yes, and we’ve got to catch the shuttle home.”
“Well, it won’t be as much fun as the helicopter,” Peter replied.
On the nearly empty shuttle to Washington, while Peter slept in her lap, Rule told Will about the meeting she had just left.
“You know,” she said, “sometimes winning isn’t all that much fun. Careers destroyed, a monumental shakeup at the Agency in the wake of Ed Rawls’s arrest it’s going to be a godawful mess.”
“I like you for not gloating,” Lee said, “but maybe the Agency needed something like this. It’s bound to be a better place when the dust has settled. And you’ll have done it.”
“Thanks,” she said, “And listen, when the Swedes are through talking to the press, and when you’ve kept your promise to talk to that reporter, it’s going to make a lot of noise, you know. It’s just the sort of thing that might make a candidate for the Senate race in Georgia stand out from the pack.”
“That’s a thought,” Will said. “Let’s see how it goes. How would you feel about being a Senator’s wife?”
“Let’s see how it goes,” Rule replied, squeezing his hand.
“Kate,” Will said, “you told them you were going to resign from the Agency. Are you really going to do that?”
Katharine Rule smiled broadly. “Let’s see how it goes,” she said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In roughly chronological order of their contributions, the author wishes to express his great gratitude to: Richard Cohen, for thinking of me when he had an idea and for his efforts on behalf of this project; Ebbe Carlsson, for his friendship, his enthusiasm, his warm hospitality in Stockholm, and his many introductions to invaluable contacts (and my apologies for naming two such unfortunate characters after him); Admiral Sir Ian Easton, Royal Navy (ret.), for his insight into strategic considerations and his good company; Richard Clurman, for unearthing vital information with such blinding speed, and for his friendship; Stafan Skott for background and for introducing me to my first Russian; Clive Egleton for introductions; Colonel Jonathan Alford Royal Army (ret.) of the Institute of Strategic Studies in London, for listening to me without laughing and helping me bolster my theories; Captain John Coote, Royal Navy (ret.) for technical advice, useful chats about submarines and introductions; Jan Henrik and Babro Schauman for my first close look at the Baltic and for generous hospitality in Helsinki; Ewan Hed-man, for his contacts and kindness in Stockholm; Raymond Benson, Counselor for Public Affairs at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, for invaluable background, contacts, and experiences in that city, and Shirley Benson, for her kind hospitality and for all the caviar I could eat; Lyndon Allin and Nicholas Burakow of the American Consulate in Leningrad for introductions and hours of fascinating conversation, and Mary Ann Allin for her warm hospitality and equally good conversation; Anne Eaton for her kind introductions in the Soviet Union; Tom Susman, for sharing his intimate knowledge of Washington; John Packs of Senator Edward Kennedy’s office, for his help with arrangements in the Soviet Union; Commander Richard Compton-Hall, Royal Navy (ret.), director of the Submarine Museum at Portsmouth Naval Station, for sharing his intimate knowledge of submarines in general and minisubs in particular; Wendell Rawls, Jr., for introductions and encouragement; Bo Erikson of the Swedish Ministry of Defense, for nonclassified information on Swedish defenses; David Binder of the Washington Bureau of the New York Times, for sharing his knowledge of American intelligence institutions and for introductions; Eric Swenson, my editor, for his continuing interest and support of my work, and for his patience, good humor, and warm friendship; Judy Tabb Woods, who married me in the middle of all this, and who nurtured and protected my peace of mind while I finished it. And to anyone whom I may have stupidly forgotten.
Finally, I must give my greatest thanks to those people I cannot name for fear of ca
using them embarrassment or worse: in Sweden, members of parliament, of the foreign ministry, of the defense ministry, of naval intelligence, of the counterintelligence department of the State Security Police, and of the executive branch of the Swedish government; in the Soviet Union, those refuseniks, ordinary citizens, and high officials who, no doubt without realizing it, gave a writer background, color, and a taste of real life in their country—and especially those who were reputed to be and might even have been KGB; in the United States, to those CIA contacts, loyalists all, who gave me a peek at practice and procedure and let me know what about their organization they love and what makes them angry.
All of the above people share whatever success this book may achieve, but none of the responsibility for the manner in which I may have distorted, ignored, or disagreed with their views in order to tell a story.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For the purposes of this book, I have driven from office the President of the United States, the Director of Central Intelligence and all his employees, the representatives from Georgia in the United States Senate, the Prime Minister of Sweden, his Minister of Defense and other employees of that ministry. In their places I have substituted persons of my own choosing, which is the constitutional prerogative of novelists. Names of characters were chosen from the ranks of friends and scrambled, or simply made up, and are not intended to represent any real person. Anybody who thinks he is characterized in this book is wrong, guilty of wishful thinking, or crazy.
This manuscript was written on two personal computers, an AT&T 6300 with a Peachtree Peripherals hard disk (using WordStar software, which I do not recommend to anyone), and a PolyMorphic 8813, an ancient, but honorable machine with its own proprietary word processing software. Frank Stearns Associates of Vancouver, Washington transferred the material on PolyMorphic disks to IBM compatible disks. The copyeditor’s corrections were entered on the computer, and the finished manuscript was supplied on disk to the typesetters.