by Gil Hogg
Kershaw’s angry face had the eyes, jaw and mouth out of line. “You motherfuckers! You can’t leave me here!”
“You’ve got your sticks and the car,” I said, as I slipped behind the hedge on the sidewalk, followed by Yarham.
We crossed into a car park and paused in a garden, behind bushes near the entrance to the Hilton & Towers Hotel. I could hear the increasing wail of sirens.
“Do you think Kershaw will make it?” Yarham asked.
“The important thing is that we make it, Yarham. Think of the product.”
Kershaw’s indecent haste to get hold of the file we had risked our lives for left me with little sympathy. We strolled into the hotel lobby and went downstairs to the lavatories. I washed my face, combed my hair and we dropped the guns, gloves, black stockings and CIA passes in the trashcan. I tucked the papers into my shirt.
“I’m thinking of a beer,” I said.
“I have a fair thirst, sir,” Yarham said.
11
I settled with Yarham in a quiet corner of the Hilton’s Lincoln Bar, surrounded by empty couches and ordered Budweisers. A few distant patrons were gathered around the bar and at tables. We were in no danger of being overheard. As soon as the waiter had set the glasses, bottles and a bowl of peanuts on the low table and returned to the bar, I withdrew the file from my shirt, straightened the few pages it contained, and placed it beside the bottles on the table.
“Colonel Clark will no doubt be waiting anxiously to view the treasure trove,” Yarham said.
“Certainly, but don’t you think a good intelligence officer ought to read and understand the papers he risks his life for?”
“We’re not mere postmen,” Yarham echoed, craning his neck toward the papers.
The sound of numerous sirens seeming distant but actually close, entered the room.
“Kershaw’s a survivor. He’ll outrun the cops, dump the car and hobble into the night,” I said.
“He wasn’t exactly pleased when you told him to use his sticks.”
“I fear we’ve made an enemy, Yarham. He might complain to Clark, but how can he make it stick? We did the sensible thing.”
“He’s the sort who get even rather than angry.”
“We’ll take care. He so wanted to go pegging back to C3 with the file!”
“And the credit,” Yarham said.
All things considered, I was pleased with our evening’s work; it was my first active service operation. Yarham had provided cool support. I appreciated too that I had earned a measure of respect from him for my ingenuity under fire.
“By the way, sir, am I FBI Agent Docherty or Packard?”
I smiled, but with the papers under my fingers, I was preoccupied. This was the kind of moment I had joined the security services to experience, a glimpse of the secrets that shape our times. I had a heady feeling that was more than the beer. “You realise, don’t you, Yarham, that this is probably one of the most important pieces of secret intelligence in the world right now? God knows what the CIA are planning, but it must be something vital.”
“I do realise, Captain. God knows what it is, and soon, you.”
“Us, Yarham, us,” I said, unable to keep my attention off the documents.
“Do you think we left a… signature tonight?” Yarham asked cautiously.
It was worth thinking about. I reluctantly turned to this possibility. “I don’t think the CIA will know it was C3. Carmelli and one guard got a good look at both of us. But we’re new, unknown faces. We have to hope that our informer sabotaged the closed circuit film. What else will the CIA have?”
“The car.”
“It’s a cut-and-shunt job out of a junkyard with no prints. It doesn’t exist,” I said.
“And I suppose Carmelli can’t tell the true story,” Yarham grinned.
“He certainly can’t say, ‘I was in my room, boffing my secretary, when suddenly…’ I speculated. “No, he’ll probably come up with bullshit about toiling alone in the night, and being slugged by masked intruders.”
“Then with customary paranoia they’ll suspect every-body, Captain… Al-Qaeda and the Mossad, the FBI and MI6.”
“No shortage of suspects,” I agreed, sipping the beer and skimming the papers, handing them on to Yarham as I finished them.
I absorbed an obliquely written and somewhat shuffled story. When I had finished my quick study, I dropped the last page on the pile absently. I had a peculiar feeling. I waited for Yarham.
“What do you make of it, sir?” he asked, caressing his chin.
“No, what do you make of it, Yarham?”
“Well, it’s not a CIA plan, is it? It’s what the CIA are doing about a terrorist plan.”
“Yes, and they don’t seem to be doing much… dickering about… ”
“History repeating itself, sir.”
He was referring to the Cuban missile crisis in 1962, which I had read about, said to have been the most potentially dangerous moment in human history. What Yarham and I had just learned from the Very Restricted Knowledge file was that there was an operation by terrorists, nearing completion, to build secret missile launch sites in Cuba. The US coastline would be seconds away after firing, and Washington under two hours. It was anticipated that the low-flying rockets would be invulnerable to fighter attack, but if intercepted by defence missiles, would detonate their nuclear and germ warheads. It was 1962 all over again, with the terrifying technology of the new millenium.
Thinking about it, I said, “Whatever the CIA are doing, and this one file isn’t the full story, it’s not exactly a repeat of history. You remember how Kennedy dealt with the crisis?”
“You’re testing me, sir. He gave an ultimatum, threatening an all-out attack on the Soviet Union unless the missiles were withdrawn. And Krushchev blinked. Dear old Mother Russia had too much to lose.”
“Precisely, Yarham. Al Qaeda, in contrast, have nothing to lose. A threat to the bazaars of Baghdad, a few Saudi palaces and Dubai hotels means nothing to them. They’d welcome total immolation.”
“Could include Mecca.”
“It wouldn’t matter. This is a crusade by Saladin against Richard the Lionheart,” I said.
I pondered over the political sensitivity of the operation. The CIA had apparently discovered the plot without the aid of the NSA surveillance network – presumably from humint, flesh and blood spies in Cuba. The NSA had probably received sufficient intercepts of CIA business to understand that something questionable was happening, and their fellow agency wasn’t telling them. Hence Operation Screwdriver.
“I suppose they’ve always been fighting each other, the NSA and the CIA,” Yarham said.
“Never mind about the enemy when you can fight a friend,” I said.
“Think of the lives in issue,” he replied, long-faced.
“Never mind the lives, Yarham. Lives are just lives. Think of the reputations at stake. The President, his advisers, a generation of top Pentagon brass, not to mention the NSA and CIA bureaucrats, and the legions at GCHQ and in MI6. Their lives won’t be in danger. They have their bomb shelters. But their reputations are not going to survive very long in a radioactive cloud.”
“Reputations have a remarkable way of surviving, Captain, despite the muck. I can’t see our part in this tournament of masters.”
“They might give us some brown shoe polish for our cheeks and send us off to a Havana beach.”
“What do you suppose C3 is trying to do, apart from give the CIA a kick in the rear?”
“Ah, that’s the question. The only thing I can think of, is that C3, or perhaps it’s really the Disciples, want to zap Cuba, and maybe Dubai and Mecca too. This could be the excuse. A preemptive strike. They want to get tough. They want to discredit the President. And with General Madison alongside him as Secretary of State, they view him as a softie flopping on another softie.”
“I’m sure jihadis draw the line at Dubai, Captain. They probably enjoy staying in the hotels. I won’t say
no to another beer.”
I delivered Yarham in a cab to his apartment and waiting wife, and went on to the C3 bolt-hole in Georgetown where lights were still burning. Clark was waiting, coldly, with Kershaw, whose face buckled with ill-will.
“We thought you had hit trouble,” Clark said.
“Not at all. I lay low for a while.”
Clark licked his lips and paused. “You left Harold tonight,” he said reproachfully.
I gave Kershaw an ingenuous smile. “I took the steps necessary to ensure the mission succeeded. It was Harold’s decision to come with us in a disabled physical condition. I very much appreciate his dedication, but he was being too hard on himself.”
“Harold was in charge, and this was your first operation with us,” Clark said.
He sounded like a scolding schoolmaster. As a soldier he probably wanted to impose a military model of authority. I had stepped out of line big time. But in this game he knew that we made up the rules pragmatically as we went along.
“Harold drove the car,” I replied quietly. “There are ten fit people who could have done that. If it hadn’t been my first operation ( I let you call the shots) I would have objected to having a driver who could only move on crutches!”
Clark was deflating, and I now rested the captured file with its gaudy cover and large VRK lettering on the desk before him. His eyes became fixed on the file and my peccadilloes perhaps diminished in his mind.
“You’ve read it?” he asked suspiciously.
“In a public lavatory, in case somebody got it away from me later.”
“Well you know everything, don’t you?” Kershaw said, threateningly.
While Clark took notes, I explained the heist, including the FBI impersonation, and Carmelli’s amour. Having, I thought, won the opening exchange with Clark, I was flattering about Kershaw’s advice, his driving, and his determination to protect the file – which mellowed his scowl a little.
Clark congratulated me mildly, picked up the file, and shukked it affectionately. “A nice piece of humint. I’m always telling the sigint buffs, no matter how sophisticated they get, humint is crucial.”
“What’s the next step in Operation Screwdriver, Gerry?” Kershaw asked.
“We have to digest this first,” he said, dismissing Kershaw and me, and no doubt relishing the opportunity to devour the file alone. Kershaw had to limp away in ignorance.
“Would you like to know what was in the file, Harold?” I taunted as we progressed down the corridor.
“I can wait for the official version, rather than get a load of horse manure from you.”
As we left the building, I said to Kershaw, “I assume you lost the car, Harold, or are you keeping it for the maid to use when she goes to the supermarket?”
“I made out, after you dumped me,” he said, grimly.
I offered him a ride to the parking garage, indicating my understanding of the difficulty on crutches.
“When I want you acting as my medical orderly, I’ll let you know, smartass!”
I arrived at my apartment that night at two-thirty am. It was in full living order as a result of Carol Clark’s ministrations, and Yarham had swept the walls, floors and all the furniture and fittings and found no bugs. There was a note pinned on the door. You didn’t leave me a key. I’m at number 12. Laurie.
I felt encouraged by Laurie’s determination to see me that night, in fact I felt a surge of pleasure. I was still high on the adrenalin of the raid. I didn’t want to sleep. Laurie could easily have stayed at a hotel and waited until tomorrow. I had little compunction in knocking at the door of Number 12, which was on my floor, and in a short time, after the justified grumbles of my neighbour, a woman federal court employee, Laurie and her suitcase were in my apartment. I was full of anticipation, foreseeing a superb end to a successful evening.
Although Laurie was affectionate, once the door had been closed, and she had assured herself that I hadn’t been out on the town, she had a womanly curiosity about the apartment which she didn’t stifle. She was surprised. She broke away from my embrace and walked through the rooms flicking on the lights, putting her long legs down gingerly in this changed territory, rubbernecking.
She took in quickly the special touches that neither Roger Conway nor the NSA Regulations for the Housing of Overseas Personnel could have provided: the skilful use of the couches and carpets in pale greys, against the delicate reds, browns and greens in the drapes; the way a lamp with a big shade cast a soft moonlight on the shining mahogany dining table; the quiet abstract Klee prints on the walls; the dashes of colour from a few cleverly placed vases.
She finally turned slowly on her heel in the middle of the lounge to complete the panorama. “A decorator’s hand or a woman’s!” she pronounced.
I saw no reason to conceal anything, indeed I knew that the truth would be prised out of me to my discredit. “Gerry Clark’s wife helped me.”
“She helped you. Come on, Roger!”
“OK. She did it.”
“What’s she like?” The change of tack was as icy as it was sudden.
Laurie had scented that somebody else was trespassing on her territory, and regrettably I wasn’t in a position to say that Carol Clark was a portly sixty-year-old grandmother. Not only that, the unspoken question was, why hadn’t I waited to furnish the apartment with Laurie? It was what Laurie wanted and expected.
“She was very friendly, welcoming one of her husband’s staff,” I said blandly.
“I’m sure. How old is she? What does she look like, Roger?”
I pretended to make an assessment I’d never made before. “Oh, you know, late thirties, half-starved, straggly hair.”
“Liar.”
“Darling, it’s wonderful to know you care.”
“Uh-huh. A bored blonde.”
I didn’t admit that she was right on but feigned indifference.
“And who paid?”
Laurie knew all about allowances for state employees. “Yes, that’s an interesting point. C3 paid.” This was safer ground for me.
“I don’t understand… this place is… quite luxurious.”
“I guess they feel it’s a dangerous job, and their operatives need looking after. You ought to see Gerry Clark’s apartment.”
“How do you know what it’s like?”
In my innocent wish to be truthful, I was making it more difficult for myself. “I went there to dinner. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in antiques, I would say.”
Laurie nodded grudgingly, now no doubt thinking of Mrs Clark the hostess. I didn’t tell Laurie about the skimming practice which might well be contributing to the furnishings. I persuaded her to join me in a Scotch on the rocks, and we chatted about other things, but she mounted the bed that night like a suspicious lioness sniffing her lair. After all, she knew Mrs Clark had probably chosen the bed itself, but Laurie had a sense of delicacy which would not let her enquire into such awkward details. For my taste, our lovemaking that night was a little perfunctory as a result of this conversation, but it spiced what had been, all in all, a very exciting and memorable day.
12
I had never managed to find out anything about Nick Stavros’s role at C3 beyond my early conversation with Gerry Clark, when he seemed to imply that Nick had died on active service, and I had mostly put Nick out of my mind. I would have liked to know how Nick had stumbled across the Disciples, in his minor role, but in a way, that question too had been overtaken by my own personal involvement with Amory and Bolding.
The rather sultry Sally Greengloss had also remained no more than a number in my mobile phone with the advent of Carol Clark, and of course, Laurie. I was therefore surprised to receive a message from Sally via the British Embassy. She had no other way of contacting me. Hope things are going well for you. Give me a ring, and come round for a drink.
I called Sally, and two days later, on a Friday evening, went to her apartment at Du Pont Circle. She had been very casual about the invi
tation, but what was suggested on the telephone as an end-of-the-week drink and a hot-dog, perhaps with a few of her friends, happened as an elaborate and private dinner of caviar and champagne in her apartment.
I had expected that, caviar or not, we would talk about Nick, but Sally put the subject respectfully aside and I had to accede. We chatted about our personal adventures, laughed a lot, got mildly drunk, and I accepted Sally’s invitation to sleep on the couch in the sitting room.
It must have been about three am when I awoke, my bladder bursting. I extricated myself from the room quietly, padded to the lavatory and shut the door. Before me on the wall as I urinated was a large mirrored medicine cabinet, which I opened. I have found you can sometimes get a fresh insight into a person, if you look at the pills and potions that they take. I absently picked up one or two bottles and examined them – holistic pills, vitamin supplements, herbal extracts, alongside aspirin and cough mixture; nothing unusual. And then I saw that there was a sliding panel behind the bottles, not exactly secret, but unobtrusive. I slid the panel open. Contraceptive pills and tampons. I removed a plastic packet I found; it contained about a dozen disposable hypodermic syringes. There were two other vials of powder, unlabelled. Just at that point I heard Sally stir. I quickly replaced the articles, flushed the toilet and went back to bed.
“Are you all right, Roger?” Sally asked, appearing in the doorway.
“Sure.”
“I never asked you, but how are you getting on at C3?” she said, sleepily. “Does it make you wake in the night, sweating?”
“How did you know I was at C3?”
“You implied you were where Nick was.”
I was sure I hadn’t. “You could have rung me, then, instead of sending a note.”
“No. I don’t have any idea where C3 is sited. Nick never gave me a number. Are you liking it, Roger?”
I was surprised that Nick, who had been a stickler for following the rules, told her that he was in C3. Here we were, having this strange conversation in the middle of the night.