Myerson: “Go on, Charlie.”
“Me: Item two. As far as we know, the computer information coming through from agent Poltov is still clean. If not accurate it’s at least plausible to our scientists who’ve been analyzing it as it comes through. As of last night, when I had my third interview with Poltov, he claimed he’d been neither harassed nor approached.”
Ross: “How do we know he’s not lying about that? How do we know he hasn’t been doubled?”
Myerson: “Intuition, Charlie?”
Me: “No. Logic. If they knew he was feeding us they’d stop him or falsify the data. They’ve done neither. Therefore they don’t know he’s ours.”
Cutter: “Fascinating.”
Me: “I knew you’d be the first one to see the point, Joe. Your mind’s always six steps ahead of everybody else’s. Next to me you’re the best.”
Cutter: “I might put it the other way around, there, Charlie.”
Me: “You’d be wrong. Your talent’s equal to mine but I still have the edge in experience.”
Ross: “Well, maybe they only managed to break the codes that dealt with Begorenko and Rastovic. Isn’t that possible? Maybe they’re still working on the rest of the codes over at Cryptanalysis in the Arbat. Suppose they don’t break Poltov’s code until next week after we’ve cleared him? Then what?”
Me: “No. The Russians haven’t broken any of our codes at all. They haven’t had time. The fire was set Monday. Begorenko died Thursday night late, or if you prefer Friday morning. It takes longer than that to break a top-class code, even with the aid of the best computers. Unless you’ve got help from somebody on the other side.”
Cutter: “The two suicides, Begorenko and Rastovic — let me get absolutely clear on this. They were on separate capers? They had nothing to do with each other? They didn’t even know of each other’s existence? They had separate Controls, separate cutouts, separate and distinct codes?”
Sneden: “Correct. Total strangers to each other. One in Moscow, one in Leningrad.”
Myerson: “But they were both blown. And the only thing they had in common was that both their names were in the safe on the third floor.”
Ross: “Leaving us no choice. We’ve got to shut down all the operations. Including Poltov.”
Sneden: “Well, no. Charlie’s just got through saying Poltov’s secure. How can we shut him down? It’d be a disaster for us when we’re this close to getting the final data on the MIG-32. Nobody wants to close Poltov down. He’s the most valuable agent we’ve got anywhere in the world at this moment in time.”
Me: “I agree with Dennis. Poltov’s secure. I vote we let him continue running.”
Myerson: “I don’t follow your reasoning at all. How can we let him run? If it’s only a matter of time before they break the code on his file too—”
Me: “I told you. They don’t have Poltov’s file. They don’t have any files.”
Cutter: “Charlie’s right.”
Myerson: “Somebody please tell me what’s going on here.”
Me: “Dennis, you can tell him or I will.”
Cutter: “I think the cat’s got Dennis’s tongue. I guess you’ve got the floor to yourself, Charlie.”
Me: “All right. Not without regret. The Russians never got near the safe; if they had, Poltov would have been transferred, killed or doubled by now. Therefore the information on Begorenko and Rastovic was given selectively to the KGB by someone who didn’t mind betraying in essential information but balked at selling the hard stuff. It had to be someone inside this Embassy, of course — someone who set the fire so as to make it look as if the safe had been compromised. That way we wouldn’t look for a spy in our own ranks; we’d look for a spy in a Russian fireman’s uniform instead. That gets our culprit off the hook, covers his tracks. That’s what the distraction was for.”
Sneden: “That could have been anybody.”
Cutter: “Dennis, you’re the only one who had access to both codes — the two governing Begorenko and Rastovic.”
Me: “And you use that old-fashioned lighter, Dennis. Most of the other smokers here use matches or butane disposables. They don’t own lighter fluid. You do.”
Cutter: “How much did they pay you, Dennis?”
Dennis Sneden was ash-white but he held his tongue and refused to meet anyone’s eyes. Misery wafted off him like the smell of decay.
I said, “Most of the files are routine information-gathering capers. We buy information whether it’s important or not. It all goes into the hopper. Most of it, individually, isn’t important to our security. Begorenko sold us statistical data on collective farm output and miscellaneous agricultural information. Rastovic kept us posted on personnel shifts in administrative commissariats in Leningrad. I guess Dennis felt he could sell those without bruising his conscience too badly. He knew his professional future was dim. He wanted a cushion — money for his retirement. A little supplement to the pension. What was it, Dennis? A few hundred thousand in a Swiss account?”
He didn’t answer.
Cutter said, “But he’s still loyal enough to protect the vital mission. He couldn’t sell Poltov to them.”
I said, “That was his mistake. Dennis, you really should have blown Poltov. We might never have found you out.”
Sneden said quietly, “What do you take me for?”
None of us needed to answer that. After a moment Sneden crushed out his cigarette. “Do I get killed or what?”
Myerson smiled at me. “Charlie broke the case — we’ll leave the disposition to him.” He got up and wandered out of the room, having lost interest in the proceedings. The bastard. He wanted to force me to order an execution — he knows I don’t kill people. He thinks it’s because I’m squeamish — it doesn’t occur to him that it might be a matter of moral scruple.
I looked at Joe Cutter and Leonard Ross. Neither of them was at all amused. Cutter said, “He’s a class-A wonder, Myerson is.”
Ross, who is young and collegiate and manages to retain a flavor of naïveté despite several years in the service, brooded at Dennis. “Why the hell did you do it?”
Dennis sat listlessly with smoke trickling from his nostrils. He only stared bleakly at the tabletop; he neither stirred nor responded to Ross’s question.
I said, “I don’t see any need for blood. Dennis, are you ready to sign a confession?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Joe Cutter said, “You could commit suicide.”
“Not me.”
“Then you haven’t got a choice.”
“What if I deny the charges?”
I only stared him down and he understood. If he didn’t cooperate he’d be terminated — if not by me then by somebody else working under Myerson’s instructions.
“If I sign a confession what happens then?”
I said, “You go to prison. It’s the best we can do. We can’t have you getting bitter and selling the rest of your inside knowledge to the Comrades. After a few years you’ll get out on parole after the information in your head has become obsolete.”
Cutter said, “Take the deal, Dennis. It’s a better offer than you’d get anywhere else.”
Dennis took the deal.
I drove out to the airport with Joe Cutter. When we queued for our flight he said, “One of these days Myerson’s going to force you to kill somebody, or get killed.”
“He keeps trying to,” I agreed. “He’s perverse.”
“Why don’t you get out, then? God knows you’re old enough to quit.”
“And do what?” I walked away toward the plane.
Charlie in the Tundra
“Attu,” Myerson said.
“Gesundheit,” I replied.