An embarrassed grin. ‘Spent a lot of my time inside.’ The manager thought that was pretty good.
‘Good for you, well, just wanted to see if everything was okay.’
‘No problems here,’ Kelly assured the man, closing the door before he could ask anything else. He needed a nap. It seemed that all of his work was at night. It was like being on the other side of the world, Kelly told himself, lying down on his lumpy bed.
It was a hot day at the zoo. Better to have met in the panda enclosure. It was crowded with people who wanted to gawk at this wonderful goodwill gift from the People’s Republic of China – Chinese Communists to Ritter. The place was air conditioned and comfortable, but intelligence officers usually were uncomfortable in places like that, and so today he was strolling by the remarkably large area that contained the Galapagos tortoises, or turtles – Ritter didn’t know the difference, if there was one. Why they needed so large an area, he didn’t know either. Certainly it seemed expansive for a creature that moved at roughly the speed of a glacier.
‘Hello, Bob.’ ‘Charles’ was now an unnecessary subterfuge, though Voloshin had initiated the call – right to Ritter’s desk, to show how clever he was. It worked both ways in the intelligence business. In the case of a call initiated by the Russians, the code name was ‘Bill.’
‘Hello, Sergey.’ Ritter pointed to the reptiles. ‘Kind of reminds you of the way our governments work, doesn’t it?’
‘Not my part of it.’ The Russian sipped at his soft drink. ‘Nor yours.’
‘Okay, what’s the word from Moscow?’
‘You forgot to tell me something.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you have a Vietnamese officer also.’
‘Why should that concern you?’ Ritter asked lightly, clearly concealing his annoyance that Voloshin knew this, as his interlocutor could see.
‘It is a complication. Moscow doesn’t know yet.’
‘Then don’t tell them,’ Ritter suggested. ‘It is, as you say, a complication. I assure you that your allies don’t know.’
‘How can that be?’ the Russian demanded.
‘Sergey, do you reveal methods?’ Ritter replied, ending that phase of the discussion. This part of the game had to be played very carefully indeed, and for more than one reason. ‘Look, General, you don’t like the little bastards any more than’we do, right?’
‘They are our fraternal socialist allies.’
‘Yes, and we have bulwarks of democracy all over Latin America, too. Did you come here for a quick course in political philosophy?’
‘The nice thing about enemies is that you know where they stand. This is not always true of friends,’ Voloshin admitted. That also explained the comfort level of his government with the current American president. A bastard, perhaps, but a known bastard. And, no, Voloshin admitted – to himself – he had little use for the Vietnamese. The real action was in Europe. Always had been. Always would be. That was where the course of history had been set for centuries, and nothing was going to change that.
‘Call it an unconfirmed report, check up on it, maybe? Delay? Please, General, the stakes here are too high for that. If anything happens to those men, I promise you, we will produce your officer. The Pentagon knows, Sergey, and they want those men back, and they don’t care a rat-fuck about detente.’ The profanity showed what Ritter really thought.
‘Do you? Does your Directorate?’
‘It sure will make life a lot more predictable. Where were you in ’62, Sergey?’ Ritter asked – knowing and wondering what he’d say.
‘In Bonn, as you know, watching your forces go on alert because Nikita Sergeyevich decided to play his foolish game.’ Which had been contrary to KGB and Foreign Ministry advice, as both men knew.
‘We’re never going to be friends, but even enemies can agree to rules for the game. Isn’t that what this is about?’
A judicious man, Voloshin thought, which pleased him. It made for predictable behavior, and that above all things was what the Russians wanted of the Americans. ‘You are persuasive, Bob. You assure me that our allies do not know their man is missing?’
‘Positive. My offer for you to meet your man is still open,’ he added.
‘Without reciprocal rights?’ Voloshin tried.
‘For that I need permission from upstairs. I can try if you ask me to, but that also would be something of a complication.’ He dumped his empty drink cup in a bin.
‘I ask.’ Voloshin wanted that made clear.
‘Very well. I’ll call you. And in return?’
‘In return I will consider your request.’ Voloshin walked off without another word.
Gotcha! Ritter thought, heading towards where his car was parked. He’d played a careful but inventive game. There were three possible leaks on BOXWOOD GREEN. He’d visited each of them. To one he’d said that they actually had gotten a prisoner out, who had died of wounds. To another, that the Russian was badly wounded and might not survive. But Ritter had saved his best piece of bait for the most likely leak. Now he knew. That narrowed it to four suspects. Roger MacKenzie, that prep-school-reject aide, and two secretaries. This was really an FBI job, but he didn’t want any additional complications, and an espionage investigation of the Office of the President of the United States was about as complicated as things could be. Back in his car, he decided to meet with a friend in the Directorate of Science and Technology. Ritter had a great deal of respect for Voloshin. A clever man, a very careful, methodical man, he’d run agents all over Western Europe before being assigned to the Washington rezidentura. He’d keep his word, and to make sure he didn’t get into any trouble about it, he’d play everything strictly by the exacting rules of his parent agency. Ritter was gambling big on that. Pull this one off in addition to the other coup in the works, and how much higher might he rise? Better yet, he’d be earning his way up, not some fair-haired political payoff, but the son of a Texas Ranger who’d waited tables to get his degree at Baylor. Something Sergey would have appreciated, in good Marxist-Leninist fashion, Ritter told himself, pulling onto Connecticut Avenue. Working-class kid makes good.
It was an unusual way to gather information, something he’d never done before, and pleasant enough that he might even get used to it. He sat at a corner booth in Mama Maria’s, working slowly through his second course – thank you, no wine, I’m driving. Dressed in his CIA suit, well-groomed and sporting a new businesslike haircut, he enjoyed the looks of a few unattached women, and a waitress who positively doted on him, especially with his good manners. The excellence of the food explained the crowded room, and the crowding explained why it was a convenient place for Tony Piaggi and Henry Tucker to meet here. Mike Aiello had been very forthcoming about that. Mama Maria’s was, in fact, owned by the Piaggi family, now in its third generation of providing food and other, less legal, services to the local community, dating back to Prohibition. The owner was a bon vivant, greeting favored customers, guiding them to their places with Old World hospitality. Snappy dresser, too, Kelly saw, recording his face and build, gestures and mannerisms, as he ate through his calamari. A black man came in, dressed in a nicely cut suit. He looked like he knew the place, smiling at the hostess and waiting a few seconds for his reward, and Kelly’s.
Piaggi looked up and headed to the front, stopping only briefly to shake hands with someone on the way. He did the same with the black man, then led him back past Kelly’s table, and up the back stairs to where the private rooms were. No particular notice was taken. There were other black couples in the restaurant, treated the same as everyone else. But those others did honest work, Kelly was sure. He turned his thoughts away from his distraction. So that’s ??nr? Tucker. That’s the one who killed Pom. He didn’t look like a monster. Monsters rarely did. To Kelly he looked like a target, and his particulars went into Kelly’s memory, alongside Tony Piaggi’s. He was surprised when he looked down and saw that the fork in his hands was bent.
‘What’s the problem?’ Piaggi asked upstairs. He poured each of them a glass of Chianti, good host that he was, but as soon as the door had closed, Henry’s face started telling him something.
‘They haven’t come back.’
‘Phil, Mike, and Burt?’
‘Yes!’ Henry snarled, meaning, no.
‘Okay, settle down. How much stuff did they have?’
‘Twenty kees of pure, man. This was supposed to take care of me and Philly, and New York for a while.’
‘Lot of stuff, Henry.’ Tony nodded. ‘Maybe it just took them a while, okay?’
‘Shoulda been back by now.’