Molly Farrell was in Tehran as well and had been for more than a year. Billy McHugh had come with Paul but was not with him on this mission. Zivic had dossiers on both of them as well. Molly FarrelTs twin specialties were electronic surveillance and the construction of explosive devices in miniature. The latter skill always struck Zivic as unseemly for a proper young lady from Radcliffe who had also been a nationally ranked tennis player while in college. The American privileged classes were a well-known breeding ground for shrill feminists and unkempt radicals but hardly of amiable and athletic female assassins.
In the midst of the chaos, Molly had remained calmly on station, where she intercepted a coded directive from Moscow to the Soviet Embassy in Tehran. Although she could not decipher it without access to the Cray-1 system in the now-captured American Embassy, she was sufficiently familiar with Russian traffic to recognize the Mama's Boy designation and a set of hyphenated digits that appeared to be map coordinates. Since the message originated in Moscow and not Tehran, she reasoned that it could not simply be information on Mama's Boy's activities. She had to assume they were planning some action against him, at the very least to thwart his mission.
With her own chain of command in a state of collapse, and not trusting it to act quickly enough in any case, she called Colonel Zivic and asked for an immediate meeting to discuss “the man in the Talish Mountains.” When Zivic agreed to the meeting, she felt sure her interpretation was correct. It told her that Zivic had to be aware of Paul's activities. Molly had met Zivic on several occasions and considered that their relationship was respectful. But she had no reason to expect his help, or anything resembling professional courtesy, without offering a specific incentive. The incentive Molly offered was that she would take out five KGB and GRU officers at random if anything whatsoever happened to Paul Bannerman.
“All that for a contract agent? You hardly know the man.”
“He's my friend.”
“In two months' time he has become such a friend? This is a man to be envied.” Zivic cared nothing about Bannerman. The plan to kidnap him, though in his opinion pointless, was a matter of indifference to him. Miss Farrell, however, was something else entirely. A most interesting young lady. “Is it permitted to ask if there is a romantic attachment?”
Molly didn't answer. Zivic presumed it to be so. More's the pity. He wondered if this Bannerman appreciated her. As for himself, he did not appreciate being threatened. Not even by a young lady he rather liked.
“My dear Miss Farrell,” he asked patiently, “what would have been wrong with asking a simple favor?”
“What would you want in return?”
“Another favor, naturally.”
The notion that it might be a physical favor never crossed her mind. “I won't double for you, Colonel.”
“Will you sleep with me?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No qualifiers. Just yes. Zivic was at once excited and disappointed. “As much as this may surprise you, Miss Farrell, I do not regard the temporary use of your body as a personal favor. Nor do I regard treason as a favor.” He reached for a phone. “I will see to Paul Bannerman. And I will consider that each of you is in my debt. This is fair?”
“This is fair,” she answered.
Within that hour, to Molly's even greater surprise, Colonel Anton Zivic was accompanying her in a civilian Aeroflot helicopter en route to the Talish Mountains and the spot designated by the map coordinates that Zivic plotted for the pilot. Using a loud hailer, Molly announced her presence on board, repeating her message until one of Paul's guides flashed a recognition signal and waved her in. Paul and the rest of his team approached the hovering craft cautiously, then, satisfied that there were no armed men aboard, clambered into the helicopter, which took off immediately and headed into the setting sun. An hour later, flying at treetop level, it landed in a barley field several miles inside the Turkish border. Zivic offered Paul and Molly cognac from a flask he carried. Paul, who had been chatting cordially with Zivic, accepted. Molly hesitated.
“Merely a civilized gesture,” he told her. “It is not drugged, I promise you.”
Paul nodded encouragement. She took the small enameled cup and sipped from it.
”A thirty-minute walk to the southeast,” he told Paul, “you have an airstrip. I would have taken you closer but it is a secret installation and to show such knowledge of it would have been a rudeness.”
“I understand.” Paul offered his hand. “Thank you, Colonel.”
Zivic clasped it, then extended his own hand to Molly. When her hand rose, he kissed it.
“To friendship,” he said.
Three months later, at Roger Clew's request, Paul set up a station in Rome. His diplomatic cover was an R-2 rating as a Foreign Service Reserve Officer with the United States Information Agency. His R-l was a legitimate career diplomat who ignored Paul entirely. Paul's specific charge included all paramilitary and counter-terrorist activities from Rome, north. South of Rome, particularly around Naples, the Mafia performed his function with even greater efficiency.
Molly Farrell came with him, as did Carla Benedict, who came down from Germany, and Billy McHugh, who wandered in several weeks after that. McHugh had made his own way out of Iran, doing nearly as much damage to the revolutionaries as Iraqi minefields would do later. Dr. Gary Russo, John Waldo, Harry Bauer and Janet Herzog all joined Paul in Rome. A few months after Paul's arrival, Colonel Anton Zivic showed up under a similarly transparent diplomatic cover. He was, legitimately enough, a Soviet Military Attaché, although he was GRU and not regular Army, and his purpose was neither espionage nor subversion, since these were strictly the province of the KGB, an organization Zivic was known to detest. What he seemed to be, based on the organization he was building and the contacts he was cultivating, was something approximating Paul's opposite number.
“You don't think it's awfully strange that he's here?” Molly asked Paul. “It has to be more than coincidence.”
“It's not coincidence at all,” Paul told her. “Zivic would have promptly reported to Moscow that he helped us and that we now owe him. They know that if they put him in Rome I'll probably cooperate with him wherever I can. They're right.”
Molly understood, though with reservations. She realized that the popular view of rival intelligence organizations was a holdover from the Cold War era. A world of shadowy figures, implacably antagonistic, forever lurking about and hatching plots against each other. In actual fact, they frequently cooperated in situations where their interests coincided. Most knew each other by sight and by name because they attended the same parties. They were on the same guest lists because they all tried to cultivate the same influential friends.
“I promised him a favor.” Molly had told Paul everything. “What do you think he'll ask me to do?”
“Possibly nothing,” he answered. “He knows he has no hold on you except your word and he won't count on you keeping it now that the need is past. He didn't take your retaliation threat seriously, by the way. He knows you make little bombs but he has trouble believing that you actually use them.”
“Then why did he help?”
“The same reason I would. Zivic tends to take the long view. I do owe him now. And by rescuing me he effectively disrupted my mission so he did his own job at the same time. Incidentally, I'm having dinner with him tomorrow night.”
“You are?”
“Might as well.”
“You've talked to him?”
“Oh. He sends his regards.”
Molly made a face. “But he actually told you he didn't take me seriously? That wasn't just your opinion!”
“Don't sulk about it. It's better that way.”
“You're taking him to the Ranieri?” she asked idly. The restaurant she named was just off the Via Condotti a few yards from the Spanish Steps. The Ranieri and the Hassler Roof, which was also nearby, were not so much favorites of Paul's as they were favorites of Rome's entire diplomatic and i
ntelligence community, and of high-rolling deal makers of every description.
Paul nodded absently.
On the following evening, just as Paul and Anton were completing their fish course, the maître d' announced that there was a call on the house phone for Signore Zivic. The colonel, now dressed in an excellent Italian suit, took the call in a carved wooden booth resembling a confessional. He brought the receiver to his ear.
“Good evening, Colonel,” he heard the voice say. “This is Molly Farrell. Do you remember me?”
“With great affection, Miss Farrell.”
“I just wanted you to know that when you helped my friend, you didn't do it for nothing.”
“That is my hope,” Zivic frowned. He did not know quite what to make of this. Surely she knew that he was dining with her friend and that she was interrupting a productive discussion.
“Is anyone near you?”
“I beg your . . . no, no one is near.”
“Would you turn your earpiece to face the wood on your left, please? Keep it away from your face and tell me when you've done it.”
“This has the sound of a demonstration, Miss Farrell.”
“Please do it. Are you ready?”
He did as she asked. “It is ready.”
A popping sound. Not much louder than a wine cork coming free. Zivic flinched reflexively. A small metallic object appeared in the wood panel, deeply imbedded. Now he examined the earpiece. Its surface was barely disturbed. One of the holes seemed slightly larger than the others. He returned it to his ear with some reluctance.
“This is very impressive, Miss Farrell. I am forced to acknowledge that your threat had substance.”
“Thank you. And I'll keep my part of the bargain depending on the favor.”
“You are a most interesting young lady. Buona sera, Miss Farrell.
“Colonel?”
“Yes?”
“When you asked if I'd have sex with you and I said yes. Do you remember what you said?”
“I remember.”
“Thank you for that, too.” She hung up the phone.
On a professional level, Paul was furious. We are not, he told her, in the business of showing off. What would you have done if he wasn't impressed? Blow up a busload of Russian tourists?
“I realize it wasn't the smartest thing. I just wanted him to know.”
“Smart would have been leaving well enough alone. Chances are he'd never have called in his marker. He's also not a man to anger.”
“He's not angry. He likes me.”
Paul knew that. He saw the pleasure on Zivic's face when he returned to the table, and his obvious enjoyment in telling the story of his phone call. But he was not about to give Molly the satisfaction of hearing him say it.
“Who says so?” he asked.
“He sent me roses today.”
Not two weeks passed before Zivic called in his favor from Molly. He handed her a key to his apartment and asked if she would sweep it for listening devices at least weekly.
“That's the favor?” she asked.
“That's the favor.”
“Your own people can't do this for you?”
“Yes. But they will take the opportunity to place their own. You, I think, will not.”
Several years passed before he called in his favor from Paul. They were wearying years for both men, although Zivic felt that Paul had the better of their two worlds. As a contract agent, as Mama's Boy, Paul could decline assignments that he considered stupid or pointless, or even tedious. Unlike Anton, he did not have to produce reams of intelligence reports, numbing pages of statistics or economic surveys that were seldom read and even less frequently actionable. Nor did he have a quota of business and social contacts to make in the event they might be of some future use. Zivic enjoyed no such discretion. Further, while Paul could choose his operatives, Zivic's were for the most part assigned to him and inevitably included a number of KGB informants and tiresome party zealots.
At last, Roger Clew was recalled to Washington and promoted two grades. Roger and Paul handpicked one of Clew's deputies to become Paul's liaison. At about that time, however, Palmer Reid was named Director of Operations for Western Europe and immediately insisted upon the following: Paul Bannerman would swear an oath of service to the United States of America. He would accept a civil service rating and become a salaried employee; and he would report directly to Reid's assistant, one Charles Whitlow. Paul ignored him. There was no shortage of other governments desirous of his services, including that of Colonel Zivic.
Although Paul's interests and those of Anton were fundamentally opposed, they often coincided. Where they were opposed, Paul and Anton sometimes made a game of them. Paul would, for example, occasionally accept assignments to affect the outcome of the Italian political process. Paul would work to defeat the communist mayoral candidates in Marxist-leaning towns such as Genoa and Turin, while Anton schemed with equal vigor to discredit the Christian Democrats, an expensive dinner or case of wine riding on the result.
Their interests generally coincided in the area of counterterrorist activities. Paul detested these people not so much for the randomness of their atrocities as for the pointlessness of them. He would kidnap suspected terrorists, expose them to the questioning of Dr. Russo, and then, feeling no pity at all, dispose of what was left of them like so much rotted meat.
“What is your cause?”
“Justice for the Palestinians.”
“Why do you kill the innocent?”
“No Christian or Jew is innocent.”
“What would satisfy you?”
“Justice for the Palestinians.”
“Would the killing then stop?”
“Retribution would then begin.”
“Against whom?”
“You. All of you.”
“When might there be peace?”
“There can be no peace.”
“Very well. Who are the members of your group?”
“I tell you nothing. I spit on you.”
Within hours they would beg to tell.
Colonel Zivic, Paul knew, had questioned just as many, with similar results. Terrorists, in Anton's view, were no less inimical to the interests of his own country than to the welfare of an Ohio family standing in line at Rome's Da Vinci Airport. They were useless as weapons against United States interests because they were uncontrollable. They were insects, and yet they could cause great fleets to move. Zivic feared them more than he feared any American rocket. They could not destroy great cities, perhaps, but they could turn cities into fortresses. Even countries. France was already requiring visas of all foreigners, a patently absurd measure that would not deter a terrorist in the slightest, serving only to inconvenience the innocent. Cruise ships such as the QE2 denied entry to all but ticketed passengers so that no Arab or Irish terrorist or vengeful Argentinean posing as a visitor could bring a bomb on board. A pathetic measure. As if a terrorist organization would balk at the added expense of a ticket.
It seemed to be only the beginning. And it was certainly not just the Arabs. The Red Brigades of Italy and Germany, the Irish Republican Army, the Basque and the Puerto Rican separatists had formed a loose confederacy. One would do the work of the other in return for money or arms. With either of these groups, an interrogator would look in vain for cogent political objectives until he realized that the only real objective was self-perpetuation. But neither Paul nor Anton bothered to look for reasons anymore. They simply destroyed them as they were found. Neither kept prisoners or turned them over to legal systems, because a live prisoner inevitably resulted in a new act of terrorism intended to secure his or her release. They were both tiring of the futility of it, the impoverishment of reason; Zivic more quickly than Paul
The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) Page 19