He couldn’t make the call from his office. It just wouldn’t do. Nor did he wish to do so from his home. The call would cross a river and a state line, and he knew that for security reasons there were special provisions for telephone calls made in the DC area. They were all recorded on computer tape, the only place in America where that was true. Even so, there was a procedure for what he had to do. You were supposed to have official sanction for it. You had to discuss it with your section head, then with the chief of the directorate, and it could well go all the way to the ‘front office’ on the seventh floor. Ritter didn’t want to wait that long, not with lives at stake. He took the day off, not unreasonably claiming that he needed the time to recover from all the travel. So he decided to drive into town, and picked the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History. He walked past the elephant in the lobby and consulted the YOU ARE HERE plate on the wall to find the public telephones, into one of which he dropped a dime and called 347-1347. It was almost an institutional joke. That number connected him to a telephone that rang on the desk of the KGB rezident, the chief of station for Washington, DC. They knew, and knew that people interested knew they knew. The espionage business could be so baroque, Ritter told himself.
‘Yes?’ a voice said. It was the first time Ritter had done this, a whole new collection of sensations – his own nervousness, the evenness of the voice at the other end, the excitement of the moment. What he had to say, however, was programmed in such a way that outsiders could not interfere with official business:
‘This is Charles. There is a matter of concern to you. I propose a brief meeting and discussion. I’ll be at the National Zoo in an hour, at the enclosure for the white tigers.’
‘How will I know you?’ the voice asked.
‘I’ll be carrying a copy of Newsweek in my left hand.’
‘One hour,’ the voice grumbled. He probably had an important meeting this morning, Ritter thought. Wasn’t that too bad? The ClA field officer left the museum for his car. On the right seat was a copy of Newsweek he’d purchased at a drugstore on the way into town.
Tactics, Kelly thought, turning to port, finally rounding Point Lookout. There was a wide selection. He still had his safe house in Baltimore with a false name on everything. The police might be interested in talking to him, but they hadn’t made contact with him yet. He’d try to keep it that way. The enemy didn’t know who he was. That was his starting place. The fundamental issue was the three-way balance among what he knew, what he didn’t know, and how he might use the first to affect the second. The third element, the how, was tactics. He could prepare for what he did not yet know. He could not yet act upon it, but he actually knew what he would do. Getting to that point simply required a strategic approach to the problem. It was frustrating, though. Four young women awaited his action. An as yet undetermined number of people awaited death.
They were driven by fear, Kelly knew. They’d been afraid of Pam, and afraid of Doris. Afraid enough to kill. He wondered if the death of Edward Morello had been a further manifestation. Certainly they had killed for their safety, and now they probably did feel safe. That was good; if fear was their driving force, then they had more of it now that they felt it a thing of their past.
The worrisome part was the time element. There was a clock on this. The police were sniffing at him. While he thought there was nothing they could possibly have to use against him, he still couldn’t feel good about it. The other worry was the safety – he snorted – of those four young women. There was no such thing as a good long operation. Well, he’d have to be patient on one thing, and with luck, just the one.
He hadn’t been to the zoo in years. Ritter thought he’d have to bring his kids here again now that they were old enough to appreciate things a little more. He took the time to look at the bear pit – there was just something interesting about bears. Kids thought of them as large, animated versions of the stuffed toys they clutched at night. Not Ritter. They were the image of the enemy, large and strong, far less clumsy and far more intelligent than they appeared. A good thing to remember, he told himself, heading over to the tiger cage. He rolled the Newsweek in his left hand, watching the large cats and waiting. He didn’t bother checking his watch.
‘Hello, Charles,’ a voice said beside him.
‘Hello, Sergey.’
‘I do not know you,’ the rezident observed.
‘This conversation is unofficial,’ Ritter explained.
‘Aren’t they all?’ Sergey noted. He started walking. Any single place could be bugged, but not a whole zoo. For that matter, his contact could be wearing a wire, though that would not have been in accordance with the rules, such as they were. He and Ritter walked downthe gentle paved slope to the next animal exhibit, with the rezident’s security guard in close attendance.
‘I just returned from Vietnam,’ the CIA officer said.
‘Warmer there than here.’
‘Not at sea. It’s rather pleasant out there.’
‘The purpose of your cruise?’ the rezideat asked.
‘A visit, an unplanned one.’
‘I believe it failed,’ the Russian said, not tauntingly, just letting ‘Charles’ know that he knew what was going on.
‘Not completely. We brought someone home with us.’
‘Who might that be?’
‘His name is Nikolay.’ Ritter handed over Grishanov’s paybook. ‘It would be an embarrassment to your government if it were to be revealed that a Soviet officer was interrogating American POWs.’
‘Not a great embarrassment,’ Sergey replied, flipping briefly through the paybook before pocketing it.
‘Well, actually it would be. You see, the people he’s been interrogating have been reported as being dead by your little friends.’
‘I don’t understand.’ He was telling the truth, and Ritter had to explain for a few minutes. ‘I did not know any of that,’ Sergey said after hearing the facts of the matter.
‘It’s true, I assure you. You will be able to verify it through your own means.’ And he would, of course. Ritter knew that, and Sergey knew that he knew.
‘And where is our colonel?’
‘In a safe place. He’s enjoying better hospitality than our people are.’
‘Colonel Grishanov hasn’t dropped bombs on anyone,’ the Russian pointed out.
‘That is true, but he did take part in a process that will end with the death of American prisoners, and we have hard evidence that they are alive. As I said earlier, a potential embarrassment for your government.’
Sergey Voloshin was a highly astute political observer and didn’t need this young CIA officer to tell him that. He could also see where this discussion was headed.
‘What do you propose?’
‘It would be helpful if your govemrnent could persuade Hanoi to restore these men to life, as it were. That is, to take them to the same prison where the other prisoners are, and make the proper notifications so that their families will know they are alive after all. In return for that Colonel Grishanov will be returned unharmed, and uninterrogated.’
‘I will forward that proposal to Moscow.’ With a favorable endorsement, his tone said clearly.
‘Please be quick. We have reason to believe that the Vietnamese may be contemplating something drastic to relieve themselves of the potential embarrassment. That would be a very serious complication,’ Ritter warned.
‘Yes, I suppose it would be.’ He paused. ‘Your assurance that Colonel Grishanov is alive and well?’
‘I can have you to him in … oh, about forty minutes if you wish. Do you think I would lie about something as important as this?’
‘No, I do not. But some questions must be asked.’
‘Yes, Sergey Ivan’ch, I know that. We have no wish to harm your colonel. He seems to have behaved rather honorably in his treatment of our people. He was also a very effective interrogator. I have his notes.’ Ritter added, ‘The offer to meet with him is open if you wish to make use of it.’
Voloshin thought about it, seeing the trap. Such an offer, if taken, would have to be reciprocated, because that’s the way things were. To call Ritter’s hand on this would commit his own government to something, and Voloshin didn’t want to do that without guidance. Besides, it would be madness for CIA to lie in a case like this. Those prisoners could always be made to disappear. Only the goodwill of the Soviet Union could save them, and only the continuance of that goodwill would keep them healthy.