"Have you had your lunch?" Swan asked. "The kitchen could do something quickly."
"Couldn't possibly." Emerson waved aside the thought of food. "A small cognac might help."
"On the sideboard, as you know."
Emerson splashed some cognac into a glass and forced himself to sip slowly, striving to emulate the older man's casual air. He had just poured out to his friend the secret he had preserved for thirty-five years. He had held back nothing; he had told it all, going back as far as his Leningrad childhood, the NKVD school at Gaczyna, the massacre at the River Elbe, the subsequent years of deception, the awakening message in this morning's paper, and the meeting at the House of Joy. He had opened the bag and spilled it all out on the table in an orgy of confession - omitting only one thing.
"And then, after Anya Ignatiev had finished with him in the barn, and I knew the essential details about Point Balboa, the boy was shot and killed."
"Twenty Americans all told," Swan murmured.
"Yes. Twenty."
What difference then if he, the new James Emerson, ne Yuri Volanov, had pulled the trigger to dispatch his namesake? Twenty American soldiers had died that awful spring day on the Elbe. He was as responsible for the deaths of the other nineteen as he was for the boy born in Point Balboa. It had been an act of war - an undeclared war, then, but nonetheless real. That's how he had thought of it, if at all;
since then he had not thought of it at all. until now. He had been visited by no nightmares or daytime demons. The accumulation of the years, all thirty-five of them, had washed over him as the waters of Lethe and allowed him to forget.
Until now . . .
Throughout the recital Swan had done nothing more than ask an occasional question. He had shown no anger, only a kind of resigned acceptance. It was almost as if he were listening to the confession of some embezzlement or a sexual aberration.
"You're taking this too well," said Emerson, setting down his cognac. "I expected a different reaction."
"Outrage? Moral indignation?"
"Yes. Surely this can't be all that common an experience for you."
"Not this particular experience . . . no, not at all. After all, how many old and trusted friends am I likely to have who are serving officers in the KGB?"
"'Old and trusted friends,'" Emerson repeated, with a grimace. "So, among other things, you feel personally betrayed."
"Let's not bother with words like that." Swan waved smoke away from his eyes. "Over the years I've had the sad experience of viewing every kink and quirk of the human condition in this job. I've dealt with every sort of man and woman that the good Lord created, and some, no doubt, who managed to escape his attention entirely. Once you've done that, you tend to grow tolerant of other people's weaknesses."
"A saintly attitude. It does you credit. You always were a saintly sort of man."
"Don't crowd me, James. I'm not showing everything I feel."
"Ah, so you are outraged. That's much more human. And better," he admitted, "for me."
"No. Outraged is not correct. Disgusted is more the word."
"Because of the twenty men," Emerson muttered.
"That was wartime. You didn't kill them. No . . . I'm disgusted because you didn't come to me years ago with this."
Emerson shook his head. "That's easy to say now. You see, there was always a chance that they'd leave me alone."
"There was never any chance of that, and you were a fool to think that there could be." Swan's lips were drawn in a thin line. Then the line eased, and he sighed. He tapped his teeth with the stem of his pipe. "What puzzles me is why you ran right out and made that damn telephone call. What was the hurry?"
Emerson looked surprised. "It never occurred to me not to."
"Training?"
A slow nod. "It sounds odd, but yes. Even after all these years. My teachers at Gaczyna were quite thorough." He closed his eyes and recited, "Awakening procedure requires that the field agent respond to the request for a treff by calling the designated telephone number without delay." He opened his eyes and repeated, "Without delay."
"I see." The pipe stem went tap, tap, tap. "And so you went trotting off to your treff like a good little boy, ready to give the Russkies whatever they wanted."
"I gave them nothing, Edwin. That's my point. That's why I feel justified in coming to you."
"You get no points from me for that. They didn't ask you for any hard information."
"Not in that sense, no. It would have been simpler if they had. My decision would have been more apparent to everyone, including you. But you're right - I came to you after the fact." He tried to smile. "There's a consolation, of course. If I'd come to you before I knew what they wanted, you wouldn't know I was the key to Homefire."
Swan nodded, conceding the point, his calm demeanor masking an inner joy that his estimate of the forthcoming coup had been so accurate. "Amazing," he murmured. "The defection of a high-level American official to the Soviet Union. The first time ever! An American Kim Philby! I remember," he mused, "how the Brits suffered over that one. Wouldn't the world laugh now - at us. It would have been a magnificent stroke if Moscow could have pulled it off." More sharply, he said to Emerson, "How was it left between you and the Ignatiev woman?"
"Another treff on Monday to make arrangements for my . . . departure. I gave her my assurances of complete cooperation. I was very convincing."
"And then you came straight to Uncle Edwin. Why?"
Emerson sat up straight in his chair. "That should be obvious. I'm an American. This is my country. I have no intention of going to Moscow. I almost laughed in her face when she said she was sending me home. What the hell does she know about my home? I am home."
"Yes, of course you are," Swan said softly. "Would you care for some tea?"
"No, I couldn't."
"It's no bother, you know. I'd simply call down for it."
"Edwin, my stomach is so jumpy today that I can't handle anything. I mean, can you imagine me living in the Soviet Union? Living in a tiny apartment, eating black bread and herring? It's laughable, just the thought of it."
"Our Russian friends dine very well at a certain level," Swan observed. "And you're a Hero of the Soviet Union. I should think they'd let you skip the herring."
"You know exactly what I mean. It's not my way of life."
"Quite. Am I to take it, then, that you decline to return to the Soviet Union for reasons of culinary preference?"
"For God's sake," Emerson growled, "stop trying to make a joke of it. Can't you see howl feel?" He got up from his chair and paced across the room, turned at the window and paced back with his head sunk low and his hands clasped behind his back.
"I didn't have the good fortune to be born in this country," he said slowly, "and so I was never exposed in my childhood to the myths and the half-truths that children are taught about America the Beautiful. Instead, I came here as a young man trained in the ways of the country by the NKVD. In many ways they trained me well. They taught me to talk, act, think, and dress American. But in other ways their teaching was faulty. They taught me that the drive to open the American West was a perfect example of Yankee imperialism, but they never told me about the pioneer spirit that made it possible. They taught me all about the oppressed minorities, but they never told me about the immigrant parents who slaved in sweatshops so that their children could be doctors and judges. They taught me about the corruption of the American system of government - the bribes and the payoffs, the political deals - but they never told me that that system, as corrupt and as inefficient as it can be at times, is still the safest and sanest way for men to govern themselves. They taught me nothing about the essence of this country. I had to find that out myself, I had to rediscover America, and as I did I came to know her as no other person possibly could. No native- born American certainly, not even an immigrant searching for streets paved with gold, could ever ..."
He stopped and looked around helplessly.
"Say lo
ve," Swan said softly. "It's quite an acceptable word."
Emerson nodded. "Thank you. Yes, love. No one else could ever love this country the way I do, because no one ever came to it the way I did. Determined to destroy it. And now, thirty-five years later, I am determined never to leave it. And I won't. You're quite right, Edwin; it isn't just the herring and the black bread. I may be a serving officer in the KGB, but for the last thirty years I've been just as good an American as you, no matter how I started out."
"Yes, of course. No one doubts that." Swan took a snowy handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose. He took his eyeglasses off, stared at them against the light, then began to polish them vigorously. "Sit down, James, please."
Emerson seated himself and said with composure, "Which is why I've come to you."
Swan replaced his glasses and stared at him intently. This really isn't my pigeon, you now. You really should have gone to the FBI."
"One hears certain things," Emerson said vaguely. "You apparently have a rather unusual latitude within the Agency."
"God bless the Washington rumor industry. I suppose you mean that Gang of Four nonsense that people are always talking about."
"I've heard the phrase used," Emerson admitted.
"There's not much to it."
Emerson shrugged. "It really doesn't matter," he said. "I didn't want to go to a stranger. I came to you because in all this world - and I don't mean only Washington - you are the man I most trust and respect. I need your help. If you can't give that to me, then I need your advice."
"I'm flattered."
"Wouldn't dream of taking my business elsewhere," said Emerson, trying to smile. "Perhaps I will have that tea, after all."
Swan unfolded himself from the chair with an old man's economy of motion and went to the telephone table. He spoke softly into the instrument, then came back and settled himself in again. "You realize that you're in a devil of a mess, don't you?"
Emerson made a steeple of his fingers, lacing them together and staring at Swan over the tip of the spire. "I'm a sleeper, Edwin, not a spy. Since the war I've done nothing illegal except for the manner in which I came into this country. But you're right - it's a hell of a mess."
"I didn't mean with us so much. I meant with your own people."
"I prefer not to think of them as mine."
"As you wish. However . . . He was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Yes, come in." The door opened, and a liveried waiter wheeled in a table set for tea. "Just leave it, Bernard, we'll help ourselves."
When the waiter was gone, he said, "James, would you mind pouring? These hands of mine ..." His voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence; then he spoke again. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you about the long arm of the KGB. They want a high-level American defector, someone they can parade before the cameras of the world as living proof of the desirability of the Soviet system. They want you back in Moscow badly. It's my belief they'll stop at nothing to get you there. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do. That's one of the reasons I came to you. Lovely tea. Is it Cloud Mist?"
"Dragon Well. They keep it for me here. What did you have in mind, James?"
"Immunity, plus a new name, new papers, plastic surgery if necessary, relocation, the whole package. Your people have done it before."
"Not as often as you might think, and what do we get in exchange for all this?"
"Edwin, I've already given you the connection with Anya Ignatiev. Anything else I know is thirty-five years out of date. I'm not an active agent - I'm a sleeper. What you're really getting is a successful conclusion to Homefire. Isn't that enough?"
"It's considerable," Swan conceded.
"Does this mean that you'll deal with me?"
Swan thought for a moment. "Yes," he said. "I'll deal. I'll get you out of your mess."
Setting down his cup, Emerson let out a deep breath. "I never doubted that you'd help, but I must admit that I'm relieved. I came to the one man I can trust. You've given me a good birthday present."
Swan's pale eyes glittered behind the heavy glasses. "You realize, of course, that you'll have to tell Rusty."
"Tell her what?"
Swan looked surprised. "About yourself, of course. Everything you've just told me."
"Edwin, she knows. She's known for years."
Swan's face went blank with amazement. "You told her?"
"Many years ago, just after we were married." Emerson wiggled uncomfortably in his seat and looked away. "You know how it is with Rusty and me. We have a good marriage; we trust each other. I had to tell her. I couldn't have lived with it otherwise."
"And so you broke your cover and told your wife! Good lord, James . . . what a rotten spy you would have made! What was her reaction?"
"What you'd expect. She felt betrayed, deceived. It was a bad time for us both, but after a while she learned to live with it. Just as I did."
"And she's kept the secret all these years," Swan marveled.
"That's right."
"Amazing. All these years, that remarkable woman I've admired so much ... all along she knew that you . . ."He broke off, shaking his head.
Emerson said anxiously, "There won't be any trouble for her, will there? I mean, I'm assuming that whatever you do for me you'll be doing for her as well."
"No, no trouble." Swan thought for a moment. "No, I can assure you of that. Wherever you go, Rusty will go with you. That's a promise."
"We only have until Monday. Can you work that quickly?"
"Just barely. We have the holiday weekend to contend with, but we'll manage." Swan rose, an indication that it was time to leave. "I'll be in touch with you within twenty- four hours. Right now, I want you to go home and stay home. Don't leave the house under any circumstances. You understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Twenty-four hours. You'll hear from me by tomorrow evening. Until then, your job is to stay calm and leave things to me."
"I will. I'm placing myself in your hands, Edwin."
Emerson rose. It was not the custom of the two men to shake hands, but they did so now, firmly. At the door Emerson hesitated, then turned.
"Edwin, I have one thing more to say to you. We've known each other many years. I flatter myself that we have always been far more than business associates, and in the past twenty years a good deal more than close friends. I've treated you in many respects like a father... so I understand a bit of how you must feel right now. What I'm trying to say . . ."
"There's no need for that," Swan managed to interrupt. "Sons are born to disappoint their fathers. You lived by your lights, and in the end you acted honorably. There's something to be proud of in that."
"Thank you." Emerson's voice was husky. "I've never done anything to harm my country. You know that, don't you?"
"I do," Swan assured him. "And the country is in your debt for what you are doing now. Think about it that way, if you can."
"I will. And I thank you for saying it." Emerson blinked his eyes rapidly, then shook his head. "I'll wait to hear from you."
Swan closed the door behind him. He went back to the tea table and poured what was left in the pot into his cup. The tea was cold. He grimaced and set it aside, then picked up the scrambler telephone, a duplicate of the one in his office, and made arrangements for a conference call with Wolfe, Andriakis, and Krause. Once all three were on the line, he gave them a precise report of his conversation with Emerson.
When he was finished, Andriakis whistled softly and said, "Christ, what a beautiful scheme."
"If it had worked," Krause pointed out.
Wolfe simply said, "Congratulations, Edwin."
"It's too early for that," said Swan. "Let's examine the ramifications. First of all, it's clear that the man cannot be allowed to return to Moscow. That leaves us several alternatives. The first is to let him hang. Not literally, but turn him over to the FBI and let him stand trial."
"Impossible," said Wolfe. "That would be almost as bad as lettin
g them get away with it. The Assistant Secretary of Defense is a Soviet agent . . . can you imagine what the media would make out of that? We'd be doing the Russians' work for them."
The other two made noises of agreement.
"The next alternative," Swan continued, satisfied, "is to give Emerson what he wants. Asylum and a new identity. Any comments?"
This time it was Andriakis who responded, his voice low and thoughtful. "Those change-of-identity deals look good on paper, but you can't hide a man from the KGB forever. I mean, he's not a small-time hood. We'd be spending the rest of our lives keeping Emerson's cover for him. It's not worth it."
"I agree with you," said Swan. "He was naive to think that we'd do it. But that's the point. He is naive. Which leaves the final alternative."
"We're wasting time," said Krause.
Swan's voice was reproving. "I'm trying to do this in an orderly fashion. Let's examine the possibilities."
"They've already been examined," said Wolfe. "With due respect, Edwin, Gerard is right; we're wasting time. We can't let the man go back to Moscow, we can't put him on trial, and we can't let him loose. The man has to be sanctioned."
"You'll never get approval from Christianson," Andriakis warned. "We're supposed to be out of that business."
"That's Edwin's department. He can handle it."
Swan sighed. "Yes, it would have to be kept within the Fifth. I could present it to Christianson . . . afterwards. A fait accompli. An accident, of course, or something like that." He hesitated, then said, "Do I hear any comments?"
There was silence on the line.
Swan said, "Under the circumstances, I'd like to hear your actual approval or disapproval of this project. Joseph?"
"Extraction," said Wolfe.
"Gerard?"
"Extraction," echoed Krause.
"Peter?"
"Just make sure it looks good," Andriakis said.
"Very well," said Swan. "I'll report to you all when the extraction has been concluded."
He hung up the telephone and sat staring for quite a while at the door through which Emerson had passed, and only then did he realize that he had not wished his old friend a happy birthday.
The Sleeping Spy Page 8