Code to Zero

by Ken Follett

  "Anthony, we've both known Luke for twenty goddamn years. He's never been interested in politics!"

  "That's the best cover of all."

  Billie hesitated. Could it be true? No doubt a serious spy would pretend to have no interest in politics, or even to be a Republican. "But Luke wouldn't betray his country."

  "People do. Remember, when he was with the French Resistance he was working with the communists. Of course, they were on our side then, but obviously he continued after the war. Personally, I think the reason he didn't marry you was that it would conflict with his work for the Reds."

  "He married Elspeth."

  "Yeah, but they never had children."

  Billie sat down on the stairs, feeling stunned. "Do you have evidence?"

  "I have proof--top-secret blueprints he gave to a known KGB officer."

  She was bewildered now, not knowing what to believe. "But even if all this is true--why did you wipe out his memory?"

  "To save his life."

  Now she was totally baffled. "I don't understand."

  "Billie, we were going to kill him."

  "Who was going to kill him?"

  "Us, the CIA. You know the Army is about to launch our first satellite. If this rocket fails, the Russians will dominate outer space for the foreseeable future, the way the British dominated America for two hundred years. You have to understand that Luke was the worst threat to American power and prestige since the war. The decision to terminate him was made within an hour of our finding out about him."

  "Why not just put him on trial as a spy?"

  "And have the whole world know that our security is so lousy the Soviets have been getting all our rocket secrets for years? Think what that would do to American influence--especially in all these underdeveloped countries that are flirting with Moscow. That option wasn't even tabled."

  "So what happened?"

  "I persuaded them to try this. I went right to the top. Nobody knows what I'm doing, except the Director of the CIA and the President. And it would have worked, if Luke hadn't been such a resourceful fucking bastard. I could have saved Luke and kept the whole thing secret. If only he had believed that he lost his memory after a night of heavy drinking, and lived the life of a bum for a while, I could have kept the lid on. Even he would never have known what secrets he gave away."

  Billie had a selfish moment. "You didn't hesitate to blight my career."

  "To save Luke's life? I didn't think you'd want me to hesitate."

  "Don't be so goddamn blase, it always was your worst fault."

  "Anyway, Luke fouled up my plan--with your help. Is he with you now?"

  "No." Billie felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck.

  "I need to talk to him before he does himself any more damage. Where is he?"

  Acting on instinct, Billie lied. "I don't know."

  "You wouldn't hide anything from me, would you?"

  "Sure I would. You've already said your organization wanted to kill Luke. It would be dumb of me to tell you where he is, if I knew. But I don't."

  "Billie, listen to me. I'm his only hope. Tell him to call me, if you want to save his life."

  "I'll think about it," Billie said, but Anthony had already hung up.

  8.30 P.M.

  The instrument compartment has no doors or access hatches. To work on equipment inside, engineers at Cape Canaveral have to lift the entire cover. This is awkward but saves precious weight, a critical factor in the struggle to break free of earth's gravity.

  Luke put down the phone with a shaky hand.

  Bern said, "For Christ's sake, what did she say? You look like a ghost!"

  "Anthony says I'm a Soviet agent," Luke told him.

  Bern narrowed his eyes. "And . . . ?"

  "When the CIA found me out, they were going to kill me, but Anthony persuaded them that it would be just as effective to wipe my memory."

  "A vaguely plausible story," Bern said coolly.

  Luke was devastated. "Jesus Christ, could it be true?"

  "Hell, no."

  "You can't be sure of that."

  "Yes, I can."

  Luke hardly dared to hope. "How?"

  "Because I was a Soviet agent."

  Luke stared at him. What now? "We could both have been agents, without knowing about each other," he said.

  Bern shook his head. "You ended my career."

  "How?"

  "You want some more coffee?"

  "No, thanks, it's making me dizzy."

  "You look like hell. When did you last eat?"

  "Billie gave me some cookies. Forget food, will you? Tell me what you know."

  Bern stood up. "I'm going to make you a sandwich, before you faint."

  Luke realized he was painfully hungry. "That sounds great."

  They went into the kitchen. Bern opened the refrigerator and took out a loaf of rye bread, a stick of butter, some corned beef, and a bermuda onion. Luke's mouth began to water.

  "It was in the war," Bern said as he buttered four slices of bread. "The French Resistance was divided into Gaullists and communists, and they were manoeuvering for postwar position. Roosevelt and Churchill wanted to make sure the communists couldn't win an election. So the Gaullists were getting all the guns and ammunition."

  "How did I feel about that?"

  Bern layered corned beef, mustard, and onion rings on the bread. "You didn't have strong feelings about French politics, you just wanted to beat the Nazis and go home. But I had another agenda. I wanted to even things up."

  "How?"

  "I tipped off the communists about a parachute drop we were expecting so they could ambush us and steal our ordnance." He shook his head ruefully. "They screwed up royally. They were supposed to run into us on our way back to base, apparently by accident, and demand a friendly share-out. Instead, they attacked us at the drop point as soon as the stuff hit the ground. So you knew we had been betrayed. And I was the obvious suspect."

  "What did I do?"

  "You offered me a deal. I had to stop working for Moscow, right then, and you would keep quiet about what I had done, forever."

  "And . . . ?"

  Bern shrugged. "We both kept our promises. But I don't think you ever forgave me. Anyhow, our friendship was never the same afterwards."

  A gray Burmese cat appeared from nowhere and meowed, and Bern tossed a sliver of meat to the floor. The cat ate it delicately and licked its paws.

  Luke said, "If I'd been a communist, I would have covered up for you."

  "Absolutely."

  Luke began to believe in his own innocence. "But I might have become a communist after the war."

  "No way. It's something that happens to you when you're young, or not at all."

  That made sense. "I might have spied for money, though."

  "You don't need money. Your family is wealthy."

  That was right. Elspeth had told him. "So Anthony is mistaken,"

  "Or lying." Bern sliced the sandwiches and put them on two non-matching plates. "Soda?"

  "Sure."

  Bern took two bottles of Coke from the refrigerator and opened them. He handed Luke a plate and a bottle, picked up his own, and led the way back into the living room.

  Luke felt like a starved wolf. He finished the sandwich in a few bites. Bern was watching with amusement. "Here, have mine," he said.

  Luke shook his head. "No, thanks."

  "Go ahead, take it. I ought to go on a diet anyway."

  Luke took Bern's sandwich and tore into it.

  Bern said, "If Anthony is lying, what was his real reason for making you lose your memory?"

  Luke swallowed. "It has to be connected with my sudden departure from Cape Canaveral on Monday."

  Bern nodded. "Too much of a coincidence otherwise."

  "I must have learned something very important, so important that I had to rush to the Pentagon to talk to them about it."

  Bern frowned. "Why didn't you tell the folks at Cape Canaveral what
you had learned?"

  Luke considered. "It must be that I didn't trust anyone there."

  "Okay. Then, before you got to the Pentagon, Anthony intercepted you."

  "Right. And I guess I trusted him and told him what I had found out."

  "And then?"

  "He thought it was so important that he had to wipe my memory to make sure the secret never got out."

  "I wonder what the hell it was."

  "When I know that, I'll understand what happened to me."

  "Where will you start?"

  "I guess my first step is to go to my hotel room and look through my stuff. Maybe I'll find a clue."

  "If Anthony wiped your memory, he must have gone through your possessions too."

  "He would have destroyed any obvious clues, but there may be something he didn't recognize as relevant. Anyway, I have to check."

  "And then?"

  "The only other place to look would be Cape Canaveral. I'll fly back tonight...." He checked his watch. It was after nine o'clock. "Or tomorrow morning."

  "Stay the night here," Bern said.

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. I don't like the idea of you spending the night alone. Go to the Carlton, pick up your stuff, and come back here. I'll take you to the airport in the morning."

  Luke nodded. Feeling awkward, he said, "You've been a heck of a good friend to me over this."

  Bern shrugged. "We go back a long way."

  Luke was not satisfied with that. "But you just told me that after that incident in France, our friendship was never the same."

  "That's true." Bern gave Luke a candid look. "Your attitude was that a man who betrayed you once would betray you twice."

  "I can believe that," Luke said thoughtfully. "I was wrong, though, wasn't I?"

  "Yes," Bern said. "You were."

  9.30 P.M.

  The instrument compartment tends to overheat prior to takeoff. The solution to this problem is typical of the crude but effective engineering of the rushed Explorer project. A container of dry ice is attached electromagnetically to the outside of the rocket. A thermostat switches on a fan whenever the compartment gets warm. Just before takeoff, the magnet is disconnected and the cooling mechanism falls to the ground.

  Anthony's yellow Cadillac Eldorado was parked on K Street between Fifteenth and Sixteenth, tucked in behind a line of taxis waiting to be summoned by the doorman of the Carlton Hotel. Sitting in the car, Anthony had a clear view of the hotel's curving driveway and brightly lit carriage porch. Pete was in the hotel, using the room he had rented, waiting for a phone call from one of the agents who were watching out for Luke all over town.

  A part of Anthony hoped that none of them would call, that Luke would somehow make his escape. Then, at least, Anthony would be able to avoid making the most painful decision of his life. The other part of him was desperate to find out where Luke was and deal with him.

  Luke was an old friend, a decent man, a loyal husband, and a terrific scientist. It made no difference in the end. During the war, they had all killed good men who just happened to be on the wrong side. Luke was on the wrong side in the Cold War. It was knowing the guy that made it so hard.

  Pete hurried out of the building. Anthony rolled down the window. Pete said, "Ackie called in. Luke is at the apartment on Massachusetts Avenue, Bernard Rothsten's place."

  "At last," Anthony said. He had posted agents outside Bern's building and Billie's house, anticipating that Luke might go to his old friends for help, and it gave him bleak satisfaction to have been right.

  Pete added, "When he leaves, Ackie will follow him on the motorcycle."

  "Good."

  "Do you think he'll come here?"

  "He may. I'll wait." There were two more agents in the hotel lobby who would alert Anthony if Luke should go in by another entrance. "The other main possibility is the airport."

  "We have four men there."

  "Okay. I think we have all the exits covered."

  Pete nodded. "I'll get back to the phone."

  Anthony brooded over the scene to come. Luke would be confused and uncertain, wary but keen to question Anthony. Anthony would try to get Luke alone somewhere. Once they were on their own, it would only be a few seconds before Anthony had the chance to draw the silenced gun from the inside pocket of his topcoat.

  Luke would make a last-second bid for life. It was not his nature to accept defeat. He would jump at Anthony, or dive at the window, or run for the door. Anthony would be cool; he had killed before, he would keep his nerve. He would hold the gun steady and pull the trigger, aiming for Luke's chest, firing several times, confident of stopping Luke. Luke would fall. Anthony would move close to him, check his pulse, and if necessary administer the coup de grace. And his oldest friend would be dead.

  There would be no trouble about it. Anthony had the dramatic evidence of Luke's betrayal, the blueprints with Luke's handwriting on them. He could not actually prove that they had been taken from a Soviet agent, but his word was good enough for the CIA.

  He would dump the body somewhere. It would be found, of course, and there would be an investigation. Sooner or later the police would discover that the CIA had been interested in the victim and would start asking questions, but the Agency was experienced in fending off inquiries. The police would be told that the Agency's link with the victim was a matter of national security, and therefore top secret, but had nothing to do with the murder.

  Anyone who questioned that--cop, journalist, politician--would be subjected to a loyalty investigation. Friends, neighbors, and relatives would be interviewed by agents who referred darkly to suspected communist affiliations. The investigation would never reach any conclusion, but all the same it would destroy the credibility of the subject.

  A secret agency could do anything, he thought with grim confidence.

  A taxicab pulled into the hotel's driveway, and Luke got out. He was wearing a navy topcoat and a gray hat that he must have bought or stolen some time today. Across the street, Ackie Horwitz pulled up on his motorcycle. Anthony got out of his car and strolled toward the hotel entrance.

  Luke looked strained but wore an expression of grim determination. Paying the taxi driver, he glanced at Anthony but did not recognize him. He told the driver to keep the change, then walked into the hotel. Anthony followed.

  They were the same age, thirty-seven. They had met at Harvard when they were eighteen, half a lifetime ago.

  That it should come to this, Anthony thought bitterly. That it should come to this.

  >>><<<

  Luke knew he had been followed from Bern's apartment by a man on a motorcycle. Now he was strung taut, all his senses on alert.

  The lobby of the Carlton looked like a grand drawing room, full of reproduction French furniture. Opposite the entrance, the reception desk and concierge's desk were set into alcoves, so that they did not spoil the regular rectangle of the space. Two women in fur coats chatted with a group of men in tuxedos near the entrance to the bar. Bellhops in livery and desk staff in black tailcoats went about their business with quiet efficiency. It was a luxurious place, designed to soothe the nerves of jangled travelers. It did nothing for Luke.

  Scanning the room, he quickly identified two men who had the air of agents. One sat on an elegant sofa reading a newspaper, the other stood near the elevator, smoking a cigarette. Neither looked as if he belonged here. They were dressed for work, in raincoats and business suits, and there was a daytime look to their shirts and ties. They definitely were not out for an evening in expensive restaurants and bars.

  He thought of walking right out again--but where would that leave him? He approached the reception desk, gave his name, and asked for the key to his room. As he turned away, a stranger spoke to him. "Hey, Luke!"

  It was the man who had walked into the hotel behind him. He did not look like an agent, but Luke had vaguely noticed his appearance: he was tall, about Luke's height, and might have been distinguished, except that he was
carelessly dressed. His expensive camel-hair topcoat was old and worn, his shoes looked as if they had never been shined, and he needed a haircut. However, he spoke with authority.

  Luke said, "I'm afraid I don't know who you are. I've lost my memory."

  "Anthony Carroll. I'm so glad I've caught up with you at last!" He held out his hand to shake.

  Luke tensed. He still did not know whether Anthony was enemy or friend. He shook hands and said, "I have a lot of questions to ask you."

  "And I'm ready to answer them."

  Luke paused, staring at him, wondering where to begin. Anthony did not look like the kind of man who would betray an old friend. He had an open, intelligent face, not handsome but appealing. In the end Luke said, "How the hell could you do this to me?"

  "I had to do it--for your own good. I was trying to save your life."

  "I'm not a spy."

  "It's not that simple."

  Luke studied Anthony, trying to guess what was in his mind. He could not decide whether he was telling the truth. Anthony looked earnest. There was no expression of slyness on his face. All the same, Luke felt sure he was holding something back. "No one believes your story about my working for Moscow."

  "Who is no one?"

  "Neither Bern nor Billie."

  "They don't know everything."

  "They know me."

  "So do I."

  "What do you know that they don't?"

  "I'll tell you. But we can't talk here. What I have to say is classified. Shall we go to my office? It's five minutes away."

  Luke was not going to Anthony's office, not before a whole lot of questions had been answered to his satisfaction. But he could see that the lobby was not a good place for a top-secret conversation. "Let's go to my suite," he said. That would get him away from the other agents but leave him in control: Anthony on his own would not be able to overpower him.

  Anthony hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind and said, "Sure."

  They crossed the lobby and entered the elevator. Luke checked the number on his room key: 530. "Fifth floor," he said to the operator. The man closed the lift gate and threw the lever.

  They did not speak as they went up. Luke looked at Anthony's clothes: the old coat, the rumpled suit, the nondescript tie. Surprisingly, he managed to wear his untidy garments with something of a careless swagger.