Thin, balding, gangly, Nelson Agger was the kind of man whom field operatives
were prone to underestimate; what he may have lacked in physical courage he made
up for by his adroitness at office politics. Whatever else the bureaucrat might
be, he was a survivor.
He was also an oddly likable soul. It was hard, in the abstract, to explain why
Janson got along with him so well. Part of it surely had to do with the fact
that Agger had no illusions about himself. He was a cynic, yes, but unlike the
sententious opportunists who populated Foggy Bottom, he never made any bones
about it, at least not when he was around Janson. The dangerous ones, in
Janson’s experience, were those with grand plans and cold eyes. Agger, though no
tribute to his profession, probably did more good than harm.
But if Janson was honest with himself, he had to admit that another reason they
got along was the simple fact that Agger liked and looked up to him. Desk
jockeys, defensive about their role in the system, usually affected a measure of
condescension toward the operatives. By contrast, Agger, who once laughingly
referred to himself as “the gutless wonder,” never bothered to hide his
admiration.
Or, for that matter, his gratitude. In years past, Janson had occasionally seen
to it that Agger was the first person to receive a particular piece of
intelligence; in a few instances, Agger was able to tailor his analytic reports
to make them seem prescient by the time the intelligence cables reached their
channels. The baseline of mediocrity in intelligence analysis was such that an
officer needed only a few such assists to acquire a reputation for excellence.
Nelson Agger was precisely the sort of person who could help him. Whatever
Agger’s shortcomings in the world of international intelligence, he had
extremely sharp ears for intelligence internal to his division—who was in favor,
who was not, who was thought to be losing his edge, who was believed to be on
the rise. A tribute to his political skills was that he had become a
clearinghouse for gossip without ever being known as a gossip himself. Nelson
Agger could shed light on what was going on if anybody could. Nothing could take
place in Athens sector without the knowledge of the small, tightly knit CIA
station.
Now Janson sat in the back of a café on Vassilissis Sofias, just opposite the
American embassy, sipping a mug of the strong, sweet coffee the Athenians
favored, and phoned the station switchboard on his dual-mode Ericsson.
“Trade protocols,” the voice answered.
“Agger, please.”
A few seconds, during which three clicks could be heard; the call would be taped
and logged.
“May I say who’s calling?”
“Alexander,” Janson said. “Richard Alexander.”
A few more seconds. Then Agger’s voice came on the line. “It’s been a long time
since I’ve heard that name,” he said. His voice was neutral, unreadable. “I’m
glad to hear it now.”
“Fancy a glass of retsina?” Deliberately casual. “Can you get away now? There’s
the tavernos on Lakhitos … ”
“I have a better idea,” Agger said. “The café on Papadhima. Kaladza. You
remember it. A little farther, but the food’s excellent.”
Janson felt a small stab of adrenaline: the counteroffer had come too quickly.
And they both knew the food at Kaladza was terrible; it had been a subject of
their conversation when they last spoke, four years ago. “The worst in town,”
Agger had said, taking a mouthful of doubtful calamari and looking green.
Agger was telling him that they would both have to take precautions.
“Sounds great,” Janson said heartily, for the sake of anyone else who was or
would be listening. “Got a cell phone?”
“In Athens, who doesn’t?”
“Take it. If I get held up, I’ll let you know.”
“Good idea,” Agger said. “Good idea.”
From the café on Vassilissis Sofias, Janson observed Agger leaving from a side
door and making his way down the street, toward the naval hospital and the
street that would lead toward Kaladza.
Then he saw what he feared he might see. In Agger’s wake, a woman and a man
emerged from the bland, gray-brick office building adjoining the embassy and set
off in his direction. He was being tailed.
And the desk man did not have the rudimentary field skills to know it.
Whoever had been listening in on their phone conversation had recognized the
legend name and responded immediately. Janson’s relationship with Agger had
doubtless been taken account of, the possibility of his making contact with the
analyst anticipated.
Now Agger joined a crowd of pedestrians heading toward the Parko Euftherias, and
the man and woman merged into the sidewalk traffic.
Kaladza was too dangerous; the rendezvous would be on a terrain he chose. Janson
slipped a wad of drachmas beneath his coffee mug and left for the Lykavittós.
The Lykavittós was the tallest hill in Athens, and its forested crest swelled
from the city like a green dome. The Lykavittós was as good a candidate for an
off-the-books briefing as any. What made it attractive to visitors was that it
afforded a breathtaking view of the city. What made it attractive to him was
that the high ground would make it hard for a surveillance team to take up
position undetected—especially if he staked it out first. At the moment, he was
armed with only a small pair of binoculars. Was he being paranoid to worry that
this would not suffice?
The funicular departed every twenty minutes from the top of Ploutárkhou Avenue,
in the upscale Kolonaki district. Alert to any sign of professional interest,
Janson rode the railway up the hill past the tiers of well-tended terracing;
there was the gratifying sense of leaving the smog behind as they climbed up
nearly a thousand feet. The summit was ringed with observation decks and cafes.
At the very top was a small white chapel, Agios Georgios, St. George’s, a
nineteenth-century edifice.
Now Janson telephoned Agger on his cell phone. “Change of plans, old bean,” he
said.
“They say change is good,” Agger said.
Janson paused. Should he tell him about the tail? The slight tremor in Agger’s
voice told him that it would be best not to. Agger would not know how to shake
his followers, and an uninformed attempt would only make him an easier mark.
Besides, being aware of them might overstrain the man’s nerves—might spook him,
send him scurrying back to the office. Better to give him an itinerary that gave
him a shot at shaking his pursuers willy-nilly.
“Got a pen?” asked Janson.
“I am a pen,” the analyst sighed.
“Listen carefully, my friend. I want you to take this series of street trams.”
Janson proceeded to detail a complex sequence of transfers.
“A pretty roundabout route,” Agger said.
“Trust me on this,” Janson said. What would hold back a professional watcher
wasn’t the physical task of keeping up with him; it was the diminishing odds of
doing so without being noticed. In a situation like this, covert operatives
would desist surveillance rather than risk exposure.
“Right,” Agger said with the voice of someone who knew he was in over his head.
“Of course.”
“Now, when you finally get off the cable car to Lykavittós, you’ll take the path
toward the Theatre of Lykavittós. We’ll meet in front of the fountain of
Elijah.”
“You’ll have to give me, what, an hour?”
“See you then.”
Janson tried to sound reassuring; Agger’s voice was nervous, even more nervous
than usual, and that was not good. It would make him cautious in a
counterproductive fashion, too attentive to incidentals, too indiscriminate in
his vigilance.
Janson wandered past a hillside café—a cheerful-looking spot with lime-colored
plastic chairs, peach tablecloths, a slate terrace. Nearby was a sculpture
garden planted with marble figures of modern vintage. Wandering through was a
pair of teenagers wearing white muscle shirts that draped loosely around their
unmuscular chests, whipped this way and that by the breeze. An addled-looking
woman clutching a bag filled with stale pita fed already overfed pigeons.
Now Janson stationed himself within a dense copse of Aleppo pine and took an
inventory of the others in the area. On sweltering days, many Athenians sought
refuge here from the heat and the smarting nephos. He saw a Japanese couple, one
holding a tiny videocamera in his hand, the size of an old Instamatic, a
testament to the ingenuity of consumer electronics. The man was posing his wife
against the dramatic backdrop—all Athens at her feet.
As five minutes stretched into ten and then fifteen, more people came and went
in a seemingly random procession. Yet not everything was random. Thirty yards
below to his left, a man in a caftanlike shirt was sketching the landscape on a
large pad; his hand moved over it in large, looping gestures. Janson focused his
binoculars, zooming in on his strong, powerful hands. One hand loosely gripped a
stick of charcoal and was filling the pad with random squiggles. Whatever he was