“It’s doubtful,” Geoffrey Whistle interjected thoughtfully. “With that bastard’s political predilections, he’d have been crawling all over our backs long before this if he’d had that kind of information.”
“What about Peters, Beeler?” Shue asked tersely.
“Peters’ story is essentially the same as Alexandra Finway’s. Both are the same age, and both come from families with long traditions of government service. Peters is an expert in electronics and explosives, especially plastique. Peters stayed with the dragons until the program was dissolved, at which time he requested permission to become a regular agent. He was turned down and cut loose. He probably would have been rejected even if it weren’t for the unique circumstances of his work as a dragon; the last reports from his controller indicate that Peters was showing signs of mental instability. As a dragon he was reliable, cool, and highly effective, but he was unpredictable if he considered his personal honor threatened.”
“Would you describe him as paranoid, Mr. Beeler?” Vincent Scapelli asked.
“I’m not a psychiatrist, sir,” Harry said, “and the controller doesn’t use that word in his report. From what I’ve read, I’d describe him as a very mean and dangerous man. At least he was when he worked as a dragon. He’s a man who probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill over an insult.”
The Director of Operations tapped his fingers on his desk and seemed about to speak. Harry waited expectantly, but Harley Shue had apparently had second thoughts about whatever he had been going to say, and he remained silent. Harry resumed his report.
“Peters expressed a lot of bitterness about being turned down for regular employment, and the agency was afraid he might start telling dragon stories to unauthorized personnel. He was yellow-flagged for two years after the dragons were disbanded, but as far as we could tell, he never broke confidence. The flag was dropped, and he doesn’t show up in the files after nineteen seventy-three.”
“Well, he’s shown up now,” Vincent Scapelli said in a strained voice.
Harry looked inquiringly at the older man. “Sir?”
“Sit down, Beeler,” Shue commanded.
Harry moved around the empty chair and sat down. The steel surface was hard and uncomfortable. He folded his arms across his chest, but kept both feet flat on the floor.
“Beeler,” Shue continued, “you’ve done an excellent job in a very short period of time. How do you assess the chances of one of your researchers putting together all of this information?”
“There’s always that risk, sir. They’re all very bright and, naturally, each person knows different bits and pieces of what I’ve just reported. I tried to minimize the risk by keeping the teams physically separated and working in discrete time frames.”
“Good. Would you like some coffee? Something to eat?”
Shue was being positively munificent, Harry thought. He was being stroked, which no doubt meant that his task was going to be a major one. Very dangerous. He said, “No. Thank you, sir.”
“Very well.” Shue removed his glasses and wiped the lenses carefully with a linen handkerchief. “Vincent,” he continued when he finished, “would you brief Beeler and the Director, please?”
“I spent three hours with Alexandra Finway yesterday afternoon,” Vincent Scapelli said, moving to the edge of his chair. In contrast to Harley Shue’s studied pace, Scapelli’s delivery was quick and tense, his voice breathy. “She’d been approached the day before by Peters; Peters told her that the agency wanted the two of them to go to San Sierra with some group of tourists in order to stop an attempted assassination of Salva. Thank God she was enough of a professional to ask us for a second confirmation.”
“But there are no more dragons, are there?” Whistle asked. His voice was anxious and uncertain. He glanced nervously at his Director of Operations, obviously requesting his own confirmation. “Peters hasn’t been tasked by us, has he, Harley?”
Harley Shue swiveled in his chair and smiled benignly at the CIA Director. “No, sir. I can give you absolute assurance that the dragons were disbanded many years ago, and that Rick Peters has not been tasked by us.”
Harry decided that his character would begin to take a more active role in the proceedings. “Even if the dragons were still operational,” he said, “Peters’ story wouldn’t be plausible. Why would dragons be used to protect Salva?”
“Mr. Peters had a rather interesting tale to tell Mrs. Finway,” Shue said drily. “Vincent?”
Harry turned to the aging administrator and watched the man tug nervously at his shirt cuffs as he spoke.
“Peters told Alexandra that Salva had been conducting secret negotiations with State that could lead to San Sierra coming over to our side.”
“Jesus Christ,” Geoffrey Whistle breathed, leaning forward.
Vincent Scapelli looked inquiringly at the head of the agency, and Whistle gestured for him to continue.
“Naturally, a realignment of San Sierra with the United States would cause the Soviet Union considerable distress,” Scapelli resumed in a thin, dry voice. “At the same time, it would re-establish the integrity of our hemispheric sphere of influence. In such circumstances, Salva would be infinitely more valuable to us alive than dead. Almost as important, if Salva were killed, the Third World nations—indeed, the rest of the world—could never be convinced that the CIA was not responsible. It seems Peters was very convincing. You see the problem, of course.”
Harry nodded. “Interesting fantasy. Did Mrs. Finway think to ask why the agency would want to task two people who were never regular operatives to begin with and who haven’t worked for years?”
“She did,” Scapelli said, nervously licking his lips. “Peters told her that we didn’t have anybody else. According to Peters, they were the best choice because of their past reputations as revolutionaries; there would be no chance of the Sierrans turning down their request for visas.”
“When did Peters say that this assassination was supposed to take place?”
“Friday night, January twenty-fifth, at the Sierran-USA boxing matches that are scheduled to take place in Angeles Blanca on that date.”
“The assassin?”
“He told her the identity of the assassin was unknown, but that we’d determined he’d be in the tourist group leaving for San Sierra the week of the boxing matches. Peters claimed that we wanted him and Alexandra to go with the group and identify and kill the assassin before he could kill Salva.”
Harry was already fairly certain where he was going, and for a moment his fear almost ate through the protective membrane that was the character he was playing. The character did not worry about Sierran prisons or firing squads; Harry did. If he were to go to San Sierra, he thought, he wanted to know the precise nature of the wind that was blowing him there.
“Actually, it does sound like a good foundation for an assassination plot,” Harry’s character said evenly. “But Peters’ story is a fantasy. He’s obviously trying to run a game on Alexandra Finway. May I ask what our specific concern might be?”
“Half of the fantasy just happens to be true,” the Director of Operations said drily, staring at Harry through his thick lenses. For the first time his deep, reedy voice showed signs of tension and emotion. “Mr. Peters seems to be a remarkably prescient story teller.”
“Manuel Salva is thinking of lining up with the West,” Whistle said tightly. The Director shifted uncomfortably in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “This fact is known only to the President, a very few people at State, myself, Director Shue, and now you two gentlemen. It’s absolutely incredible that this Rick Peters should be talking about something that’s top secret.” He paused, shook his head. “The man knows things he shouldn’t,” he added unnecessarily.
Harry felt a muscle on the inside of his left thigh begin to twitch. He realized with some surprise that at the moment the real Harry Beeler was more intrigued than afraid. “Maybe Peters doesn’t really know anything,” he offered. “
As Director Shue said, only half of Peters’ fantasy is true, and Peters doesn’t even realize it.”
Scapelli cleared his throat and nodded in tentative agreement. “That’s quite possible. Peters seems to have a number of details wrong. For example, Salva’s more afraid of economic collapse than he is of the Russians, as Peters claimed. The Russians are pumping millions of rubles a day into San Sierra, and the economy’s still sinking. Salva knows we’re the only country that can keep San Sierra afloat over the long haul. Also, he’s having to deal with the rising expectations of his people.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Whistle said apologetically.
“It’s possible that the whole thing is made up as far as Peters is concerned,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly and looking at Scapelli. “The man’s banged a very big bell he didn’t even know was there.”
“But what’s he up to?” Geoffrey Whistle asked distantly, his voice betraying his confusion and concern.
Harry glanced quickly at Harley Shue. Their eyes met, and for the briefest moment there was an intimate, veiled communication between them, a shared contempt for their mutual superior. The contact was broken as Shue turned his head a fraction of an inch and flashed light in Harry’s eyes.
“Peters must be planning to kill Mr. Salva himself,” Shue said matter-of-factly.
“Jesus!” Whistle said. He half rose from his chair, then sat back down again hard, scraping the chair legs on the wood floor. “Jesus. What does he want with the Finway woman?”
“She’s his cat’s paw,” Harry said, glancing back and forth between Shue and Scapelli. They were three professionals war-gaming now and enjoying it. “For some reason, she seems to be an essential part of his plan.”
“Why Alexandra?” Scapelli asked in a hoarse voice.
Harry thought about it for a few moments, then said, “Who else with even a peripheral connection to American Intelligence is he going to run that story by? Let’s suppose for the sake of argument that Peters has figured out a way to use her, and only her. What use could that be? Their past connection to the CIA, however tentative, could be the answer. Maybe Peters has figured out a way to publicly link Alexandra Finway to the agency after the fact. Maybe he has documents, proof of the dragons’ existence. Peters cancels out Salva and manages to pin the assassination on us. He uses the woman to accomplish something he told the woman they were supposed to stop someone else from doing. Cute—and vicious. It would fit into Peters’ profile.”
“Shit,” Whistle mumbled. He glanced at his watch. “I’d better call the President right away.”
“Perhaps we should wait a few minutes on that, sir,” the Director of Operations said, his tone disarmingly soft and solicitous. “We wouldn’t want to unduly alarm the President until we’re reasonably sure of our facts and assumptions, and the difference between them. If Peters does intend to use the Finway woman in an assassination, it seems to mean that he’s not going to be a kamikaze. He’s planning to get out of San Sierra alive. That leaves us with the question of just how Mr. Peters intends to assassinate Salva—if he intends to assassinate Salva. The bouts are scheduled to be staged in Tamara Castle, and that’s pretty tight quarters for an assassin who intends to walk away from the mess. I’m sure the President will want our clear thoughts and recommendations on this matter. We may want to discuss it a bit further before you make a formal presentation of what we know.”
Somewhat confused, Harry considered Shue’s questionable argument, turning it over in his mind and probing what he considered to be its myriad soft spots. He glanced up and found Shue looking at him, his eyebrows arched slightly, expectantly. And Harry understood. He was, he thought, about to become a party to the manipulation of the CIA Director, and he suppressed a smile as he shifted in his chair.
“Peters may not be the actual assassin,” Harry said. “He could easily be the point man for somebody else. It’s possible that Peters’ responsibility is simply to maneuver Finway into position for a frame while a second man does the actual killing. Also, we have to bear in mind that Peters, as far as he was concerned, was lying to Finway. We can’t know for certain that Tamara Castle is really the intended killing ground, or even that the actual assassin will be part of the tour group.” He paused, glanced at Shue, and caught the almost imperceptible nod of approval. “It would certainly be interesting to find out who hired Peters.”
“That’s it,” Whistle said, slapping his hands against air where armrests would normally be and springing out of his chair. “The President has to be told. This thing is just too dangerous. I’m going to advise that State inform Salva of this Rick Peters business. We can let State and the Sierrans take it from there.”
Harry watched with intense interest and growing tension as Harley Shue continued to tap his fingers on the top of the steel desk. The Director of Operations waited until the CIA Director was halfway out the door before uttering the words that Harry had been certain were inevitable.
“I still think you might want to give this some further thought before you act, sir,” Shue said evenly, not even looking at the departing Director.
“Why is that, Harley?” Whistle asked impatiently.
The Director of Operations slowly rose from his chair, then leaned heavily on his desk with both hands. It was a masterful performance, Harry thought. The slight man’s bowed head and halting delivery gave the impression that he was only now sorting out his thoughts. Harry knew that was most certainly not the case.
“I think Beeler has a good point, and it has to be considered,” Harley Shue said quietly. “Beeler suggested to us the possibility that Peters actually knows nothing whatsoever about the talks between Salva and State. To borrow Beeler’s metaphor, not only was Peters ignorant of the ‘bell’ he banged, but he still hasn’t heard the sound.”
Shue paused for a few seconds while he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “However,” he continued at last, “we cannot be sure that such is the case. That’s why, in my opinion, we must be very careful how we proceed from this point. What concerns me is the distinct possibility that Peters did know exactly what he was talking about. There could be a leak at State.”
Whistle fumbled for the edge of the door, gripped it. “At State? My God, man, you’re talking about the Secretary himself and a few top aides.”
“Pardon me, sir,” Shue said evenly, “but I must point out that we know no more about what goes on in the top echelons of State than they know about what goes on here. I think we have to consider the possibility that someone at State is working against this country’s interests; we could be talking about a Soviet agent who’s managed to penetrate our top policy-making councils. But we don’t know. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s premature to offer these kinds of mere suppositions to the President. We need more information.”
Shue paused, obviously inviting a reply. The ashen-faced CIA Director simply stared at the smaller man, and Shue continued. “Besides, informing Salva would only postpone the inevitable. Whoever’s after Salva now will go after him again, at a different time and in a different place. We know about this plot; we may not be so fortunate the next time.”
Harry cleared his throat. “Sir, there’s also a good possibility that Salva could try to screw us.”
Whistle looked at Harry, slowly blinked. “What?”
“Peters told Alexandra Finway the same thing,” Vincent Scapelli said in a hollow voice. “My God, a lot of what we’re saying is almost a verbatim copy of what Peters told the woman. It’s almost as though he’s written a script for us to follow.”
Except that it would come as quite a surprise to Peters for him to find out there really were other players, Harry mused, but kept the thought to himself. “Peters knows the business,” Harry said, sensing that Shue wanted him to assume the lead for a while. “The plausibility of the details—what we would think, how we might react—in his scenario is probably what made Alexandra Finway take him seriously in the first place. Be that as it may, Salva will a
lmost certainly try to use the information we give him against us if he decides not to come over after all. Above all else, Salva’s a pragmatic man. At the very least, this information will give him a better bargaining position to get whatever he’s asking from us. If we stop Peters here, we tip our hand and the organization that hired him just finds someone else; if we leave it up to San Sierra’s DMI to snatch them, Peters can be counted on to try and bargain his way out with the information he has on the dragons. Either way, sir, Salva will have us by the short hairs.”
“State should have to bear some of the responsibility for deciding how to proceed,” Whistle said petulantly as he closed the door and walked slowly back to his chair. “And the President, of course.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Shue said quietly. “I’m afraid the President might well say it is our responsibility to at least make a strong recommendation for a course of action. In that vein, there’s something else Peters told Alexandra Finway that you might think especially prescient: he told her that the CIA was tasking them in this manner, secretly, in order to prove to the President and Congress that the agency needs an even stronger covert-operations capability than is currently authorized. Frankly, I like his reasoning. Handling this matter ourselves is not only the best way to stop the assassination, sir, but it is also an opportunity for us to hoist our own colors. Without knowing it, Peters may have afforded you a rare opportunity to lay the necessary groundwork for rebuilding the CIA in the way I know you want it done.”
Harry glanced quickly at Vincent Scapelli. The man looked ill. His eyes were dull, and the flesh around his mouth had a greenish pallor.
“What do you suggest we do, Harley?” Whistle asked carefully, staring at the floor.
Harley Shue’s response was immediate and forceful. “I recommend that we have Vincent give Alexandra Finway the second confirmation she requires. She’ll be led to understand that everything is exactly as Peters said it was. We’ll send Beeler along to keep an eye on things.”
Turn Loose the Dragons Page 7