“Then let’s do it now,” I said, knowing she was trying to divine my intentions. If you had the power, Mol, you wouldn’t have to ask, I thought.
The banker took from a drawer a two-page form evidently designed for one purpose alone: intimidation. When she had filled out the form, he glanced it over, pursed his lips, then got up and consulted an older man, probably his superior. A few minutes later he returned, and with a nod he led us into an interior room lined with tarnished brass compartments that ranged from about four inches square to roughly three times that. He inserted his key in one of the smaller boxes.
He pulled the brass-fronted box from its slot and carried it to a nearby private conference room, where he placed it on a table, explaining to us that the French system required two keys to open a safe-deposit box: one belonging to the client, and the other to the bank. With a curt smile and a perfunctory nod, he left us alone in the room.
“Well?” I said.
Molly shook her head, a little gesture that conveyed so much—apprehension, relief, wonderment, frustration—and inserted in the second lock the tiny key that her father had hidden in the binding of Allen Dulles’s memoirs. Harrison Sinclair, rest in peace, never lacked a sense of irony.
The brass plate at the front of the box popped open with a tiny click. Molly reached her hand inside.
My breath caught for an instant. I watched her intently. I said, “Empty?”
After a few seconds she shook her head.
I let out my breath.
She pulled out from the safe-deposit box’s dark recesses a long gray envelope measuring perhaps nine inches by four inches. Quizzically, she tore open the envelope and pulled out its contents: a typewritten note, a yellowed scrap of a business envelope, and a small black-and-white glossy photograph. A moment later I heard her sharp intake of air. “Oh, dear God,” she said. “Dear God.”
FIFTY-SIX
I stared at the photograph that had so taken her aback. It was the most ordinary-looking snapshot taken from a family album: three inches by four, 1950s scalloped edges, even a crusty brown spot of dried mucilage on the back. A lanky, athletic-looking, handsome man stood arm in arm with a dark-haired, dark-eyed young beauty; in front of them, grinning mischievously, was a tomboyish little girl of three or four, twinkling light eyes, her dark hair cut in perfect bangs and tied in loose braids on either side.
The three of them were standing on the worn wooden steps of a large wooden house or a lodge, from the looks of it; the sort of ramshackle, comfortable summer house you might find on Lake Michigan or Lake Superior or in the Poconos or the Adirondacks, or on the banks of any rustic lake in any part of the country.
The little girl—Molly; there was no question about it—was a blur of hyperactivity, her image just barely captured by the wink of an aperture, for one sixty-fourth of a second or whatever it was. Her parents looked both proud and comfortable: a heart-melting family tableau that was so all-American, it was almost kitsch.
“I remember that place,” Molly said.
“Hmm?”
“I mean, I don’t actually remember much about it, but I remember hearing about it. It was my grandmother’s place in Canada somewhere—my mother’s mother. Her old house on some lake.” She fell silent, continued staring at the photo, probably culling the details: an Adirondack chair on the porch behind them, missing one slat; the large, uneven stones that made up the front of the rough-hewn house; her father’s seersucker jacket and bow tie; her mother’s prim floral summer dress; the India rubber ball and baseball glove lying on the steps beside them.
“How odd,” she said. “Sort of a happy memory. Anyway, the place isn’t ours anymore. Unfortunately. My parents sold it when I was still little, I think. We never went there again, except that one summer.”
I picked up the scrap of envelope, which bore an address or a portion of an address in a spidery European scrawl: 7, rue du Cygne, ler, 23. Paris, clearly, but what was it? Why here, locked away in a vault?
And why the photograph? A signal, a message to Molly from her late father—from (you’ll pardon the triteness) beyond the grave?
And I picked up the letter, which had been composed on some ancient manual typewriter and was rife with cross-outs and typos, and was for some reason addressed “To My Beloved Snoops.”
I looked up at Molly, about to ask what the hell that salutation was all about, when she smiled sheepishly and explained: “Snoops was his pet name for me.”
“Snoops?”
“For Snoopy. My favorite cartoon character when I was a kid.”
“Snoopy.”
“And … and also because I liked to open locked drawers when I was a little girl. Look into things that were deemed none of my business. Stuff that all little kids do, but if your father was CIA station chief in Cairo, or deputy director of Plans, or whatever he was, you get chided a little too much for your curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that. So he used to call me Snoopy, and then Snoops.”
“Snoops,” I said, trying it out impishly.
“Don’t you dare, Ellison. You hear me? Don’t you fucking dare.”
I turned back to the letter, so badly typed on creamy Crane’s ecru stock, under the Harrison Sinclair letterhead, and began to read:
TO MY BELOVED SNOOPS:
If you’re reading this—and of course you’re reading this, else these words will never be read—let me first express, for the millionth time, my admiration. You are a wonderful doctor, but you’d also have made a first-class spy if only you didn’t have such disdain for my chosen profession. But I don’t mean by that any hostility: in some ways you were right to take such a dislike to the intelligence trade. There is much in it that’s objectionable. I just hope someday you come to appreciate what’s noble in it, too—and not out of some sense of filial obligation or loyalty or guilt. When your mother’s cancer had progressed to the point that it was clear she wouldn’t be around for more than a few weeks, she sat me down in her hospital room—no one could hold court like your mother—and told me, with a wag of her index finger, that I should never interfere in the way you choose to live your life. She said you would never follow the conventional patterns, but in the end, wherever you wound up, no one would have a more level head, a firmer grasp on reality, a better perspective, than “dear Martha.” So I trust you’ll understand what I’m about to tell you.
For reasons that will soon become apparent, there’s no record of this box among my papers, in my Last Will and Testament, or any other place. In order to have found this note, you’ll have found the key I left (sometimes the simplest and most old-fashioned ways are the best) and also have gotten into the vault in Zurich.
Which means that you have found the gold, which I’m sure you’ll agree requires some explanation.
I’ve never much liked chases and hunts, so please believe that my intention was not to make things difficult for you—but to make things difficult for anyone else. Nothing in this game is foolproof, but if you’ve gotten this far, you’ll understand why I’ve done this. Everything is for your protection.
I am writing this a few hours after a momentous meeting in Zurich with Vladimir Orlov, whose name you may recognize as the last chairman of the KGB. I made an arrangement with him that I must explain to you, and I learned certain things from him as well, which I must tell you.
Because I am about to be killed. I’m sure of it. By the time you read this, I may or may not be dead, but I wanted you to know why.
As you know better than anyone, Snoops, money has never held an attraction for me, beyond what one needs for food and shelter. So I trust when you’re told that I was corrupt, an embezzler, and whatever else they may say about me now that I’m gone, you’ll know the truth. You know it’s nonsense.
But what you may not know is that as I write this, I’ve received a number of threats against my life, some of them hollow, some quite serious. They began (no surprise) shortly after I was appointed Director of Central Intelligence, when
I took it upon myself to clean house, launched my foolhardy crusade to clean up CIA. I loved the place; I believed in the place. Ben, I’m sure you understand that the way no outsider can.
Something terrible is happening deep within the bowels of CIA. There is a small group that over the years abused the intelligence they were privy to in order to amass huge sums of money. I set out, from my first day as director, to unmask them. I had my theories, but I needed proof.
The atmosphere around Langley at that time was like a tinderbox, ready to combust at the slightest spark from a congressional investigating committee, or an enterprising reporter from The New York Times. There was a lot of open talk in the hallways about getting rid of me. Some of the old boys hated me even more than they used to hate Bill Colby! I happen to know that several highly placed, extremely influential Washington power brokers went to see the President to urge that I be replaced.
You see, there were rumors floating around of corruption on a breathtaking scale. I had heard tales of a small, faceless group of past and present intelligence officials known as the Wise Men, who met in conditions of extreme secrecy. These Wise Men were said to be involved in massive fraud. It was believed that they were using intelligence gathered by the Agency to make huge amounts of money. But no one knew who these people were. Apparently they were so influential, so well connected, they had been able to elude detection.
And then one day I was contacted directly by a European businessman—Finnish, actually—who claimed to represent, as he put it, a “former world leader” who had “information” that might be of interest to me.
Protracted negotiations were begun, long before I even learned that the person he represented was none other than the last head of the Soviet KGB, Vladimir Orlov, who was living in a small dacha outside Moscow and wanted to leave the former Soviet Union and go into exile.
Orlov, the intermediary let me know, had an interesting proposition for me.
He needed my help in saving Russia’s gold reserves from the hard-liners who would any day, he believed, unseat the Yeltsin government. If I would help him remove a massive quantity of gold—ten billion dollars!—he would be prepared to give me a valuable file he had on certain corrupt elements in the CIA.
Orlov, the intermediary said, had in his possession a file documenting, in extraordinary detail, massive corruption within the CIA. Vast sums of money amassed over the years by a small group of CIA insiders, making phenomenal money using intelligence gathered from corporate espionage around the world. He had all names, locations, amounts, records. Full evidence.
I, of course, agreed. I would have agreed to help him anyway—you know how badly I wanted to keep Russia from returning to dictatorship—but the lure of this file made his offer irresistible.
As it turned out, Orlov appeared in Zurich without this file—it had been stolen out from under him, a fact that made me nervous indeed. Initially, I suspected a blackmail attempt, but I deduced he was genuinely a victim. And having gone this far, I had to complete the deal.
But I needed help in making such an enormous transaction—help that originated outside the Agency. Removed from any possible taint of corruption. It was imperative, given the huge sum of money we were dealing with. Also, all the financial arrangements had to be handled completely off the books.
So I turned to the one Agency man who was now an outsider, a man whose personal integrity was above reproach: Alexander Truslow. It was the biggest mistake I ever made.
I made Truslow the joint owner of the account at the Bank of Zurich to which I moved half the gold. That meant that neither one of us could move the gold without the other’s consent. And the gold could be moved or sold only when the account was activated—a mechanism that was triggered by access by either party. If ever a problem arose, I figured, we were both protected from any blame. I could not be accused of grand larceny on a world scale.
The other half we arranged to be transshipped by container through Newfoundland, by the St. Lawrence Seaway, into Canada. Or, I should say, Truslow arranged this.
But now something frightens me deeply. I fear for my life. As you know, Ben, we have people at Langley who are really quite skilled at making a murder look like a natural death.
So I am not long for this world.
I have only very recently learned that Wilhelm Vogel, who is running for chancellor of Germany, is being controlled by an enormously powerful German cartel. They seek, secretly, to rearm and rebuild Germany. Their intention is to control not only Germany, but through it, a unified Europe.
Their partners are this group within the CIA. The arrangement, I am told, amounts to a peaceful division of spoils. The CIA element will, through fronts, control the CIA, and by extension the economy of the Western Hemisphere. The German cartel will get Europe. All will become enormously, even inconceivably, rich. It is a new, corporate neo-Fascism—seizing control of the levers of government during this fragile and uncertain time.
The leader of the Americans is Alexander Truslow.
And I am powerless to do anything about it.
But I believe I will soon have a way to stop it. There are documents to reveal. They must come out.
If I am killed, you two must find them.
To that end, I leave each of you a gift.
I left very little in my estate to pass on to you, which hardly pleases me. But now I’d like to bequeath to each of you a small gift—both of them gifts of knowledge, which, after all, is the most valuable possession.
For you, Snoopy, it’s a memento of a very happy time in your life, in mine, and in your mother’s. The real riches, as you’ll learn, are to be found in the family. This photograph, which I think you’ve never seen, always conjures up for me a very happy summer we three spent.
You were only four, so I’m sure you don’t remember much if anything of it. But I, a confirmed workaholic in those early days as well, was compelled to take a month off after my emergency appendectomy. I think perhaps my body was telling me to spend a little more time with my family.
You loved it there—you caught frogs in the pond, learned to fish, to throw a softball.… You never stopped moving, and I’ve never seen you so happy. I’ve always believed that Tolstoy was dead wrong when he wrote at the beginning of Anna Karenina that all happy families are alike. Every family, whether happy or unhappy (and our family has been both) is as unique as a snowflake. I am allowed, my dear Snoops, to be sentimental and cornball once in my lifetime.
And for you, Ben, I give you an address of a couple who may or may not be alive by the time you read this. I fervently hope at least one of them is alive to tell you a very important tale. Bring this scrap with you; it will serve as your admission ticket, a passkey of sorts.
Because I believe what they have to tell you will relieve you of the terrible burden you’ve been carrying around with you for so long.
In no way, Ben, were you responsible for the death of your first wife, as this couple will confirm. How I wish I could have shared this with you when I was alive. But for various reasons, I could not.
You will soon understand. Someone—I think it was La Rochefoucauld or one of those seventeenth-century French aphorists—put it best: We can rarely bring ourselves to forgive those who have helped us.
And one last literary reference, a line from Eliot’s “Gerontion”: After such knowledge, what forgiveness?
All my love,
Dad
FIFTY-SEVEN
Tears coursed down Molly’s cheeks, and she bit her lower lip. She blinked rapidly and stared at the note, then finally looked up at me. I didn’t know where to begin, what to ask about. So I wrapped my arms around her, gave her a big, long hug, and said nothing for a long while. I felt her rib cage hiccup with quiet sobs. After a minute or two her breathing became more regular, and she pulled away from me. Her eyes shone, and for an instant they were the eyes of the four-year-old in the photograph.
“Why?” she said at last.
“Why … what?�
�
Her eyes searched my face, back and forth, back and forth, and yet she was silent, as if trying to decide for herself what she really meant. “The photograph,” she said.
“A message. What else could it be?”
“You don’t think it could be … a simple, straightforward gift from … the heart?”
“You tell me, Molly. Is that like him?”
She sniffled, shook her head. “Dad was wonderful, but you’d never call him straightforward. I think he learned how to be cryptic from his friend James Jesus Angleton.”
“Okay. So where was your grandmother’s house in Canada?”
Again she shook her head. “God, Ben, I was four. We spent exactly one summer there. I have virtually no recollection of it.”
“Think,” I said.
“I can’t! I mean, what is there to think about? I don’t know where it was! Somewhere in French Canada, probably in Quebec. Jesus!”
I put my hands on either side of her face, held her head steady, stared directly into her eyes.
“What are you—cut it out, Ben!”
“Try it at least.”
“Try—hey, hold on there. We have an agreement. You assured me—you promised me—you wouldn’t try to read my thoughts.”
trem … tremble … trembling?…
It was just a fragment, a word or a sound I suddenly heard.
“You’re trembling,” I said.
She looked at me quizzically. “No, I’m not. What are you—”
“Tremble. Trembling.”
“What are you—?”
“Concentrate! Trembling. Tremble. Trem—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “No, I do know. I do know. I heard you—you thought it—”
She looked back into my eyes, by turns defiant and bewildered. Then, a moment later, she said, “I really have no idea—”
“Try. Think. Trembling. Trembley? Canada. Your grandmother. Trembley or something? Was that your grandmother’s name?”
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