Checkpoint Charlie (15 page)

Cutter: “Why wasn't it locked?”

Sneden: “Ease of access. We had five different Controls in and out of it all the time. Plus myself and occasionally the First Secretary. If we had to unlock the damn thing every time…”

Myerson: “All right, all right. Let's hear from Mr. Dark.”

Me: “A couple of curious items. See what you make of them. Item one — evidence of arson. Traces of lighter fluid residue in the wastebasket where the fire started. Any comments?”

Cutter: “The fire had to be set by somebody inside. It was burning before the Russian firemen arrived. Elementary conclusion: a saboteur among us. Elementary question: to what purpose?”

Me: “Elementary answer: to cover something up and/or provide a distraction. Agreed?”

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?”

*   *   *

D
ENNIS 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

“A
TTU,”
Myerson said.

“Gesundheit,” I replied.

He sneered. “The island of Attu. Westernmost island in the Aleutian chain off the coast of Alaska. Nearer to Siberia than to North America. Pack your woolies, Charlie.”

I scowled. “Attu has been of utterly no importance to anybody since May 1943. Is this your version of sending me to Siberia? What are my transgressions?”

“They are too many to enumerate. In fact it might be an interesting idea to see about stationing you there permanently. Do you have any idea how many American soldiers got frostbitten up there in the War? He blew cigar smoke in my face. “The limo's waiting — Ross will brief you on the way to the airport. It seems one of our gadgets is missing.”

*   *   *

“I
T WOULD
be tedious for us if the Russians got their hands on it,” Ross said in the car on the way to my digs to pick up my clothes. “We'd have to change our codes and computer cypher programs.”

“Is the pilot all right?”

“Concussion and a few fractures. He should be fine, eventually. Up there they learn how to crack up easy. The Air Force collected the plane and most of the debris and barged it over to the island of Shemya — it's only a few miles away and that's where the Air Force base is.”

“I know.”

“You've been there before?”

“Twenty-odd years ago on the U-2 program.”

Ross was intrigued; he's still a collegiate at heart — young enough to be eager-beaverish. “What's it like up there?”

“The end of the world.”

*   *   *

R
OSS SAT
on the windowsill and watched me pack my thermal socks and longjohns. “Anyway,” he said, “it wasn't until they hauled the wreckage back to Shemya and sorted through it that they realized the computer code transceiver was missing. Conclusion is it's still on Attu but they're reluctant to send a team of men back to go over the crash site with microscopes — if the Russians espied the activity they'd realize something important is missing. I suppose if we merely send one man to scout around it won't draw that much attention from their satellite cameras. But one thing I don't understand — why'd they pick on you? It's not your sort of job. Why not use an Air Force man already stationed up there at Shemya? It's only a few miles away.”

“It wasn't an Air Force caper,” I said. “It was ours. The pilot was ours, the mission was ours and the CCT box is ours. I'm sure the Air Force volunteered to keep looking for it but the Agency told them to lay off —‘We'll take care of it ourselves.' The usual interservice nonsense. As for why me, it's probably because I've been there before. And because if there's a miserably uncomfortable job Myerson always likes to see that it gets tossed in my lap.”

“Why don't you quit, Charlie? He makes your life hell and you're past retirement age anyway.”

“What, and give Myerson the satisfaction of knowing he drove me out?”

*   *   *

T
HE LONG TRIP
entailed a change of planes at Seattle, an overnight stop in Anchorage and an all-day island hopping flight out the thousand-mile length of the Aleutian chain aboard one of Bob Reeve's antiquated but sturdily dependable DC-6 bush transports. Flying regular schedules through that weather Reeve's Aleutian Airways has somehow managed to maintain an astonishing record of safety and efficiency—indeed, it is one of the few airlines in the world that conducts a profitable business without Government subsidy.

I was dizzy from crosswind landings and wild takeoffs at Cold Bay, Dutch Harbor and the Adak Naval Base. We bypassed Amchitka because they had fog blowing across the runway at ninety knots. Eventually we mushed down onto Shemya, the penultimate Aleutian— a flat dreary stormy atoll hardly big enough to support the runways of its air field. It was only October but the island was slushy with wet snow. A typical grey Aleutian wind drove the cold mist through me as I lumbered down the portable aircraft stairs and ducked into the waiting blue 4x4 truck.

The only above-ground structures were the enormous reinforced hangars that sheltered our DEW-Line combat planes and the huge kite-winged high-altitude spy planes that had supplanted the U-2 in our Siberian overflight program. The hangars were left over from the War — they'd been built to house B-29 Superfortresses for the invasion of Japan that never eventuated. Everything else on the island — a top-secret city housing several thousand beleaguered Air Force personnel — was underground out of the weather. The weather in the Bering Sea is the worst in the world.

I checked in with base command and was trundled to a windowless motel-like room in Visitors' Quarters; ate an inadequate supper in the officers' cafeteria and then went to visit the injured pilot.

He was a chunky Texan with thick short sandy red hair, freckles and an abundance of bandages and plaster casts. His eyes were painfully bloodshot — evidence of concussion.

“Paul Oland,” he said. “Afraid I can't shake hands, Mr. Dark. Pull up a pew there.”

I sat, not quite fitting on the narrow chair. “How're you making it?”

“They tell me I'll be flying again in a few months, to my surprise. Sheer dumb luck. I should've been dead.”

“Tell me about the accident.”

“Well, I'd been at 120,000 feet over Kamchatka and I was on my way back with a lot of exposed film. They've recovered all the film, by the way. It's all in the debriefing report.”