The orchestration was complete. Ace, the maestro, was ready to conduct. Legs crossed, holding an unlit cigarette in a silver holder as his baton, the host awaited the sound of the chimes.
As a butler lifted her Halston-era cashmere cape off her naked shoulders, Viveca checked out the competition. The French actress was delicious and momentarily captivating, with a figure that made feminists attach strips to her posters that read FEED THIS WOMAN, but her mind was probably stuffed with fluff. Dorothy Barclay, on the contrary, was a heavy hitter: the DCI looked serious, purposeful, attractively forbidding, and her presence was freighted with being the first woman in that position of power; Viveca resolved to work on getting to know her. Evangeline Evashevsky seemed to her almost every senator’s first wife: dutiful, homespun, wary of attention paid her man by good-looking women. Let Irving cultivate her.
Ace had told her the German publisher’s wife would be a plain dumpling, but the agent was wholly misinformed; he must have been briefed on an earlier wife of the media baron. The fluidly gowned woman with him turned out to be a Finnish economist, articulate in several languages, who drew every man’s attention because her reputed brainpower came atop a statuesque figure and a classic Nordic face. She was the object of Director Barclay’s economic questioning early in the cocktail hour, and Viveca was sure Edward would be all over Sirkka von Schwebel in the forty-five minutes that Viveca required to slip out and do her newscast.
No competition at all was Liana Krumins. The Latvian’s long, dowdy Eastern European dress, inadequate makeup, and weird hairdo made her out of place in this sophisticated setting. Viveca noted how Davidov kept his distance from her; Ace tried to draw her out, failed, moved on; Edward observed her from afar, but made no effort to strike up a conversation; Irving, busy working over Davidov, had no time for her. Only the senator, a kindly soul, stayed by her side to put the girl at ease in a strange country, and she listened raptly to long anecdotes about his days as a cold warrior.
At Edward’s urgent glance, Viveca peeled the Latvian away from Evashevsky and invited her to watch a nightly newscast from the set later in the week. She would bring Edward along to pick up any revelations from the very young television reporter about the early life of the sleeper in the Berensky file. Viveca categorized the Latvian presenter as an uptight bumpkin out of her element and in dire need of a hairdresser; what had Irving and Michael Shu been so impressed about? The girl did perk up at the prospect of watching American television news in production.
Viveca noticed Davidov, cornered by Irving, looking uncomfortable and glancing her way. She knew the Russian was sizing her up: a short, thirtyish, intelligent-looking woman in a loose Donna Karan outfit with a long gold chain. Not especially threatening to his ego, as the brainy Finnish stunner probably was; the KGB man would probably trust the cool American newswoman more than the high-powered Irving Fein. She was sorry there was no time to get Irving to suggest some leading questions. Viveca picked up a plate of crudités, offered them to the two men, then handed the plate to Irving and left him standing with it as she took Davidov over to the couch and sat next to him.
“You mustn’t mind reporters,” she said, “they’re always working. I promise not to ask what brings you to America.”
The Russian official had never been in such an apartment before. Three stories tall in an old building on an avenue with long islands of shrubbery in the center, with the cathedral ceiling reminding him of St. Vladimir’s Hall in the Kremlin, and a garden of evergreens and crab-apple trees on the roof terrace; and this man McFarland was only a literary agent. Was all this possible, Davidov wondered, on a small percentage of other people’s earnings?
If Ace, as he knew not to call him, could live this well, he must be tightly associated with success. Doing business with him, the KGB man allowed himself to think, might not be a bad idea. The promotion of book business was surely the purpose of this dinner party, and it was suitable, in the all-capitalist world, that a social gathering serve a purpose. Davidov had discussed this invitation with his superiors and recommended to them he turn it down because of Director Barclay’s presence; they had overruled him, directed him to attend, and even cautioned him against wearing a wire. He was pleased at their expression of confidence in his ability to work in the field.
Every good party should have a surprise, which this one did before dinner was served. The Russian had not expected to be confronted with Sirkka von Schwebel. The striking Finnish economist was known to him: files recovered by the KGB from Stasi before they fell into the hands of the West included long reports from her about the operation of the Bundesbank. Rather than allow her to be exposed as an East German police informant, as tens of thousands were, Russian Foreign Intelligence had taken her under its wing and made her a productive agent, though not entirely trusted, because there was always the danger of public exposure as the flat rock of East German espionage was flipped over. She must live with that concern every day. FI had told him nothing about her, as usual, and he was reluctant to ask, but he was sure her service would be to exploit her Bundesbank links; he recalled she was reported to have access to a Federal Reserve asset in New York as well. She and Davidov had crossed paths once, before any of this, at a Helsinki academic conference, but his unprofessional interest in her had not been reciprocated.
Why was Sirkka here tonight? Her husband owned Fein’s publisher, and the couple’s presence at Ace’s party was logical enough. But Davidov wondered if she might be the sleeper’s Bundesbank source. If so, surely the two were separated by a cutout, but might she have any idea of the identity of Berensky in America? It was inconceivable to him that Fein and the CIA Director were not aware of her Stasi background, if not her present Russian FI employment.
Davidov reminded himself of the danger of his own bureaucratic overstepping: FI would hotly resent any contact initiated by KGB counterintelligence. Still, Sirkka and he were thrown together in the same room, possibly, though not likely, by coincidence.
He made a mental note to have his men currently trying to surveil the Memphis Merchants Bank, an effort which had grown out of a wiretap on Fein, run a check on Edward Dominick. To overcome the extraordinary security procedures in the Tennessee bank’s communications, they had aimed a long-range vibration sensor at the bank’s windows. One corner suite, probably the bank president’s, was equipped with a blocking device to vibrate the windows and make the pickup of conversations from a distance impossible. That was sophisticated enough a countermeasure to arouse suspicion. Was Dominick that Memphis banker? Unlikely, but easy enough to check. Was the well-protected banker the sleeper himself? Even more unlikely again, but no lead could go unfollowed.
In a nation of 250 million, the likelihood of a visiting KGB official running across the sleeper at the first American dinner party he attended was remote, to say the least, but why was he being led to suspect that? Answer: a deception was under way. An overhear pointing to a Memphis bank, followed quickly by a party with a Memphis banker: Davidov instantly sensed a dangle. He focused on its perpetrator; someone had drawn up the guest list for this party with infinite care, and that someone—Fein and the striking television newswoman?—also wanted to plant a seed in his mind that Edward Dominick might possibly be the sleeper.
Harry Evashevsky noticed Irving Fein, his back to the party, looking across Park Avenue through the cathedral window. He excused himself from his group to get at the platter of shrimps wrapped in snow peas, and took up a viewing position next to Fein.
“Dorothy told me on the plane up here,” he said to the reporter, “that you were up at Walt Clauson’s cabin this morning.”
“Your committee gonna look into that?”
“She says she thinks it was an accident. FBI does, too.”
“So?”
“You don’t buy that, I take it.”
“You knew Clauson, Harry. He belted ’em down like the rest of the old boys, but he was no big boozer. And do you suppose Walt would tie on a load if he ha
d a date next morning with a reporter? No way.”
“If you were to write a letter to the committee—”
“Never happen. I write in the paper, or in a book. Whyncha wake up the IG?”
“I remember when Clauson testified alongside a DCI, when we were being misled.” The old-timer had a way of rubbing the side of his nose with his thumb, a visual allusion to Pinocchio, whenever that former Director shaved the truth. “Might be a good idea to ask the Inspector General at Langley for a report about what Clauson was working on, just for old times’ sake.” He turned, and his gaze fell on the French actress. “My bride, Evangeline, was just asking me—how can a woman be so skinny and so sexy at the same time?”
Ari Covair took a long drink of sparkling water to assuage her hunger. She would have to pretend to be not hungry all through another delicious dinner.
Of the men at the party, Ace, harmlessly attentive, could probably do her the most immediate good; he was connected in Hollywood as well as New York. The Russian was the most attractive, face starkly planed, a mustache with authority, tightly coiled body; he could play the romantic espionage role he lived. The senator was cuddly, the famous print reporter a slob. The German multimedia magnate exuded the aura of power and would probably be dominant in bed, with the most profitable long-term possibilities for her career, but would be reachable on his cellular phone during an orgasm. Their eyes met and she looked down demurely; he would surely be on the phone to her the next morning.
The one Ari wished would offer her a ride home was the tall, easy-sounding banker with the knocked-about face and the soulful eyes. She sensed deep currents in him. But he had come to the party with the hard, bitchy-looking television news presenter, tough American to the core; poor fellow was the sort who needed the restorative of genuine femininity.
Edward Dominick found a spot in the elegant living room where he could observe Liana Krumins through a mirror, thereby seeming not to stare. Why was she so determined to make herself appear unattractive? Through dress, makeup, and hair, her self-effacement took an effort; moreover, she was hunching her shoulders, as if to protect herself in a cageful of predators.
The banker’s glance flicked to Irving Fein, who had given up on Davidov for the moment and had turned his attention to von Schwebel. Dominick was curious to see how his new associate worked in this situation, and how a director of the Bundesbank would react. He joined their conversation.
“I’m one of your authors.”
Von Schwebel nodded graciously. “I know, and we are honored.” The book publishing house was a relatively tiny part of the multimedia empire, but not insignificant: his recent acquisition of a prestigious house, with a history and a backlist, added intellectual weight to the commercial enterprise. He had been criticized for paying too much for prestige, but a publishing house had value beyond the accountant’s figures, bringing the firm’s executives into contact with such people as Ace McFarland had put together tonight. The German found this gathering most impressive.
“Took a lot of guts for you to buy a pig in a poke,” Irving observed.
Von Schwebel did not catch the American allusion, and was grateful when the tall banker explained. “Mr. Fein was complimenting you for the courage to believe in him and Ms Farr, without knowing much more about their project.”
“Ah, yes.”
“But I think you made a wise investment,” Dominick went on. “Fein here is a world-class investigative reporter, and Viveca gives a dimension to the story that you can exploit through all your media.”
Von Schwebel presumed this buttering-up was to cover a late delivery of manuscript, but he did not get involved in such detail. He saw the television newscaster putting on her long black wrap and slipping out. “Ms Farr is leaving so soon?”
“Just to do the nine-o’clock news,” Dominick said. “She’ll be back before the main course.”
Fein threw in a question abruptly: “What do you hear from the old Mariner?”
The German did not catch the meaning of what he assumed was another American idiom. He looked to Dominick for an explanation, but his face was impassive.
“Never mind. What was the biggest event in Germany in 1989?” Fein was a man with an inexhaustible supply of questions.
“That’s easy,” von Schwebel answered. “The fall of the Berlin Wall in November.”
“How could you have made a lot of money if you knew it was going to happen?”
“Nobody knew.” That was the truth. “Gorbachev’s announcement that the Red Army would no longer keep communist parties in power in Eastern Europe caught us all with flat feet, as you say.”
“But just suppose you did know beforehand? How could you make a bundle?”
“I am a director of the Bundesbank,” he said. “I could not ethically have done a thing.”
“But Dominick here doesn’t have that problem,” the reporter persisted. “How could he have cashed in on that news?”
“He is speaking hypothetically,” said Dominick, a little embarrassed. “I was as astounded as anybody at the Soviet move.”
“You would have bought the mark and shorted the yen and the dollar,” von Schwebel said. “In the last quarter of that year—I remember it well—the deutsche mark jumped twenty percent against the major currencies. With the sort of leverage that currency trading provides, any trader would have made ten thousand percent on his money before the year was out. Much more, even, if he was sophisticated in derivatives.”
Fein whistled. “Then right after the news broke, the smart money would go in the opposite direction, right? Sell on the news?”
“Wrong.” The German smiled, remembering. “The Bundesbank was talking down the dollar, because our perception was that the opening of Eastern Europe would stimulate Germany’s economy, ultimately raising our interest rates. Nobody realized—except the Soviets—what a drain East Germany would be on West Germany for years.”
“But sitting in the Kremlin, you’d know what a basket case East Germany was,” said Fein. “And you’d sell more dollars and buy marks. But I have a friend who tells me currency trading is awful risky—is he right?”
“Of course. But not if you had a crystal ball, which nobody does.”
“I read a translation of your wife’s article on the threat of disintermediation on banks in Sweden,” Dominick said, changing the subject. “Brilliant.”
“She will be pleased to hear that,” von Schwebel said. “Can’t say I read it myself.” He excused himself to get a drink; the conversation about the recent past depressed him. That was the time he divorced his wife and faced down her relatives on the board, and after a decent interval married Sirkka, only to discover her Stasi connection. How long had she been passing secrets of the Bundesbank on to Leipzig and then to Moscow? To this day, she did not know he knew of her espionage past, or how he had moved heaven and earth to prevent the Stasi file on her from being revealed.
He looked across the room at the KGB’s Nikolai Davidov politely chatting with the senator and the CIA’s Dorothy Barclay. It was the job of Davidov’s Fifth Directorate to help catch and kill the spies Barclay ran into the Kremlin, but this anomaly was to be expected in an age when the Russians allowed the FBI to open a Moscow field office, ostensibly for cooperative drug investigations.
Von Schwebel had little concern about the CIA’s knowing of Sirkka’s activities, but the KGB had taken her file out of Germany just in time; did Davidov know about her? He was in Federal Security, separate from Foreign Intelligence, but sometimes the top people shared information. Von Schwebel’s stomach constricted as the CIA woman was called aside by the host and the KGB man walked up to Sirkka; Davidov admired a pin she was wearing, and said something to her, it seemed in German; he couldn’t hear the words but she sighed and smiled a response. She had a heart too soon made glad.
Why, the German publisher asked himself, had the American reporter been asking about advance information from the Bundesbank? These things were never coincidences
. Could Fein be after Sirkka, despite the fact that an advance from one of von Schwebel’s companies was financing his investigation? That would be an awful irony, but American reporters were known to take a perverse delight in biting the hand that fed them. The media baron would have to tell the publishing subsidiary to get one of the editors in the trade book division to press Ace for more information about the Fein-Farr project.
“I take your point about currency trading,” Dominick said to Irving Fein.
“You got Mike Shu up to his ass in aluminum.”
“That’s going to be productive,” the banker insisted. “Dropped by more than thirty-five percent in 1989, with the Russians big players. But you may be right about currencies. We’ll get started on who speculated most successfully in the mark in ’89.”
“Explain it all to Mike. I’m just a country boy.”
Dominick smiled. “Who’s your next target tonight? Von Schwebel’s wife?”
“More your type, if you like to waste time.” Fein looked past the tall Finn, around the room.
“I have to hand it to you. Not many people would consider that woman a waste of time.”
Fein tapped the side of his nose. “I have a sniffer for news. I can spot a good source—von Schwebel is—and I can tell a trophy wife who’s not. But feel free to go after her, break poor Viveca’s heart. Do her good.”
Dominick, having established some rapport with his mercurial coventurer, did not bring up the time wasted on the red mercury blind alley. “I’ll work on our German friend over a cigar after dinner. How did Ace know to invite him?”
Sleeper Spy Page 28