The Story of Henri Tod (2 page)

“Terrible business, that Bay of Pigs, what?”

“Yes,” Blackford said. “Terrible. It was quite terrible.” His memory moved, under its own inertia, to the final meeting with Sánchez Morano, at the waterhole-restaurant opposite the military airfield outside Miami. It had been very hot, humid. They had dined together, and spoken of D-Day. Sánchez Morano's skinny frame made his dark brown eyes especially luminous, and his excitement was palpable. But Sánchez and Blackford circled about the question of what day exactly the operation would go forward, as though the date had not yet been specified. In fact Fidel Castro knew the day, and would be waiting for Sánchez. What was not known to Sánchez, or to Blackford—or to Fidel Castro—was the paralyzing ambiguity in Washington of the commitment to Sánchez's mission. In pursuit of which mission he died. In a manner not to be confused with Heathcliff's, though both died of bullet wounds fired, so to speak, from their side of the line.

Blackford left his mother's house and soon discovered that his memory of London's streets lingered sufficiently to point him the way to Park Street, where at Number 74, nine years earlier, he had been given his first assignment. He knew that CIA safe houses were regularly changed, and wondered offhand how it came to be that he was now headed for the same address. Perhaps the houses were recycled—he didn't know.

The April wind was brisk, and as he fought against it he found himself idling, as he often did when in search of distraction, with mathematical calculations: How many safe houses would the Central Intelligence Agency need to have occupied in the course of nine years, assuming that the Agency required—he didn't know just how many safe houses the Agency had in London, even though Blackford Oakes was more now than a mere agent in the field, and so he would take an easy figure and guess—ten. So. How many houses in total would the Agency need to occupy over the course of nine years if each house were abandoned after two months (that, he had been taught by one of his instructors in Washington, was the rule of thumb)? That would be ten houses six times per year, equals sixty per year times nine years equals 540 houses. Enough to house the entire Russian secret service, given the cubic feet assigned in Moscow per family. Fascinating. To whom? Ah, Blackford, you are a cunning old bird. To nobody, that's to whom.

He was walking down Park Lane, and the streets began to look thoroughly domesticated as he approached the residential district in Mayfair. He looked at his watch. Time had not withered away the sacrosanct habit. The meeting had been called for 4:14, at which time, exactly, he would knock on the door. He was a minute early and so walked past Number 74 until he judged the interval correct. He stooped to tie his shoelace, and when he arose walked back in the direction he had come from to the entrance of Number 74 and knocked. The door was instantly opened.

Blackford permitted himself, if many months had gone by without seeing Rufus, to embrace him in the rather formal way in which grown men greet their fathers. Rufus instinctively resisted anything that suggested explicit affection, but a few years ago Blackford had said, “Rufus, I know it's unlikely in our line of business that you would ever be awarded a Nobel Prize, but suppose that you were: What would you do when the King of Sweden, with a check for forty-five grand in his pocket, approached you with a royal embrace?”

Rufus had replied only with his little half smile, saying nothing, as was his habit. Today, Blackford thought, Rufus almost reached the point of returning the embrace. Such was the impression Rufus gave when remaining motionless.

Rufus's notion of foreplay, Blackford thought, amusing himself; and said, “Great to see you, Rufus, you old superspy!”

Rufus winced—but he had endured worse. When tortured by the Nazis, in the early days of the war. Before his legendary escape, and his rise to eminence in his profession as the intelligence officer Ike trusted most.

Blackford had not seen Rufus since the funeral. Burying Rufus's wife had been a complicated affair, the Director acquiescing in the arrangements only after Rufus had agreed that the ceremony would be held at a small church in the Virginia countryside whose identity and location the dozen men closest professionally to Rufus were advised of only late in the morning. They were ready to set out to wherever the funeral would be. If any Soviet agent was there to photograph a dozen top American intelligence operatives among the mourners, he'd have had to be one of their number. And, of course, no one was permitted whose identity as a member of the Agency was not already known to the others. Over the course of nine years in the Agency, if you're involved in covert operations, Blackford reflected, you do get to recognize only about a dozen people.

Rufus had tried determinedly to retire, but after his last return to duty, the year before, his wife had said to him that she doubted he would ever be able to say no to a special plea by the Director. The very next day Rufus had pointedly refused to meet with the Director, who had proposed driving out to the country “just for a little casual visit.” Proud of his determination, Rufus rushed out to the rose garden to tell his wife, who was lying on the lawn, rose shears in hand, dead from a heart attack. After the funeral, Rufus returned the Director's call.

“Come in, come in,” Rufus now said to Blacky, pointing to the door of the living room. Beside the fireplace sat a gentleman very tall and thin, his bony cheeks pallid, eyes gray and a little sad. He rose, to just more than Blackford's six-foot-one-inch height, extending a long and tapered hand.

“Howdyoudo, Oakes.”

Rufus introduced Sir Basil Monk, and pointed to a chair. A clerk brought in tea, asking Rufus and Blackford whether they took milk or lemon. He did not need to ask his superior, who drank everything straight.

Sir Basil sipped his tea and lit a cigarette. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” he extended his cigarette case first to Rufus, then to Blackford, both of whom declined. “Habit I got into during the war. After the winter of '43 we all agreed not to share our cigarettes. Too scarce. Got into the habit. You Americans never did, by the way.”

“We even share our secrets,” said Blackford, cheerfully. His reference was to the American code dispatcher from the Pentagon who, a few weeks ago, had been convicted of selling materials to Soviet agents. Sir Basil looked up.

“Rufus, you have spoken to Oakes here about
our
problem?”

“Basil, I haven't seen Blackford for a year.”

“I see, I see. Very well, as my headmaster used to say, let us get into the business at hand
in media res
. Does the name George Blake mean anything to you?” He was addressing Blackford.

“No sir.”

“Well, we have just now got on to him. He has been serving as a double agent for eight years that we know of. And he has been attached to our military intelligence in Berlin. Moreover, we have established, belatedly, that Blake has been in possession of information that emanated from your embassy in Moscow. The chap declines to tell us how he got that intelligence. We have not given up on the effort to get from him that, er, information—”

“You are appealing to his patriotism?”

“We are appealing to his—how would my headmaster have put it?
—joie de vivre
. Meanwhile,” his mien was now totally grave, “we have got a most frightful problem. The crisis of Berlin is coming, there is no final agreement among the Allies about what is to be done, the PM has conferred with President Kennedy, President Kennedy has conferred with De Gaulle, I would not be surprised if President Kennedy and Mr. Khrushchev will be meeting, and the Soviet ultimatum is reiterated with increasing distinctness. You may as well be advised, Oakes, that I have been in charge of Her Majesty's intelligence in Berlin for over eight years.”

“You were Blake's boss?”

“I was Blake's boss. And if I were otherwise situated, I would devote my energies to forming the Committee to Restore Hanging for Traitors. But let me review the situation.”

Sir Basil might have been delivering a lecture on diplomatic history to a class at Oxford, Blackford thought. Although in the art of exposition, Rufus was no slouch. But he didn't have the rhetorical flair. With gusto, Sir Basil was back at Yalta, and then Potsdam, and then describing the
de facto
arrangements reached between General Lucius Clay, representing the Allies in Berlin, and Marshal Zhukov, representing Stalin.

“Let me attempt first a juridical summary, after which I shall follow with a geopolitical summary. But this I do on the understanding that the latter issues from my own understanding—which does not necessarily reflect what I certainly hope will be a crystallizing consensus among the leaders of our respective countries.

“Under formal agreements, signed by all relevant parties—our own countries, plus France—the City of Berlin, an enclave within East Germany, is jointly governed by representatives of the four occupying powers. No unilateral step taken by any occupying power suffices to abrogate that agreement.

“Second, all occupying powers enjoy the right of access to the City of Berlin. The whole world is aware that that right of access Stalin attempted to block in 1948. And the whole world knows that President Truman's airlift prevailed, and that the right of access to all of Berlin, was in effect revalidated, however grudgingly.

“Third, although not by written agreement but by evolution, early during the occupation civil authority over what is now called East Berlin was ceded to the Soviet Union, while authority over what is now called West Berlin was ceded to the Western powers. Now implicit in that
modus operandi
was the acknowledgment of the right of internal access. Those who live in East Berlin are free to go into West Berlin, and those who live in West Berlin have been free to go into East Berlin. And, of course, the crisis that's been generated is the result of the overwhelming traffic of East Germans—not merely East Berliners—into West Berlin. And from West Berlin, to West Germany. That drain is a social, economic, and psychological drain the Kremlin is certainly not willing, and probably not able, to continue to endure.”

“And their strategem,” Rufus volunteered, “is wonderfully elegant. The Soviet Union will proceed to consummate a peace treaty with East Germany, which thereupon inherits sovereignty over all of Berlin. Thereafter, Mr. Ulbricht, or more correct, Mr. Khrushchev's Mr. Ulbricht, proceeds to make all the decisions having to do with what may or may not take place in Berlin.”

“You know,” said Blackford, “I've actually forgotten—I was a student at the time. Why did the Allies go along with the fiction that East Germany was a separate country? Because it would logically follow that it could conclude any treaty it desired to with the Soviet Union, right? Or do I sound like Joe McCarthy?”

“I will handle that one, Basil. Blackford, in answer to your question: a) Yes, you do sound rather like Senator McCarthy; b) East Germany's ostensible sovereignty is subordinate to the antecedent rights of the occupying powers. Just as West Germany, although it is in most respects sovereign, would not have the authority, let us say, to deny us facilities for Radio Free Europe, so East Germany cannot deny us rights to Berlin we won in the course of winning a world war.”

“Bravo, Rufus,” said Sir Basil, standing and stretching his long frame. “I could not have put it better myself. The Sophists would have awarded you a first prize.”

Blackford had not spoken to Rufus since the Bay of Pigs, and wondered how the Sophists would handle that one. But retroactive diplomatic resourcefulness didn't help in handling current problems.

“Our instructions are very clear, gentlemen.” Sir Basil was still standing, and might have been addressing a regiment. “We must repair the damage done by Blake. Above all, we need intelligence. Our objective:
Find out what Khrushchev actually plans to do
. Find out what he plans in the way of using force if needed to accomplish his purposes, which are to seal off Berlin and stop the stampede from East Germany. And, if possible, find out exactly
when
he plans to move.”

And then, addressing Rufus, he picked up his umbrella and coat at the corner of the room. “You will call me tomorrow—correct, Rufus? And I will leave you now with Mr. Oakes. Gentlemen,” he said, letting his voice frame the desired cadence as he opened the door and stepped out, followed by his clerk.

Rufus and Blackford sat down opposite each other.

“Want more tea?” Blackford asked.

“No. Thank you.”

There was a pause. Blackford stood and began to pace the floor. “Seems to me, Rufus, that those bastards are always on the offensive. It would be nice for us to move every now and then, right?”

“We moved at the Bay of Pigs, Blackford.”

Blackford stopped. He thrust his hands into his pockets and said nothing for a moment. “Bull's-eye, Rufus. That's right. We took the offensive in Cuba.”

“Remember, Blackford, our friends in Moscow enjoy advantages we don't enjoy, in this case the fiction that East Germany is an independent country. And they are closing in. They have been talking now for months and months, laying the background. ‘Peace treaty' … ‘peace treaty' … ‘peace treaty.' That itself has an impact, like the repeated use of ‘disarmament.' Khrushchev is mobilizing right now, and he plans to move. Exactly when and exactly how are what we have to try to find out.”

“I wish it followed that if we did succeed in finding out, our people would come through with the right strategy.”

“That's not our business.”

“Oh hell, Rufus. I don't need to talk to you as one agent to another agent. Why don't we agree that once every five years we can take off our official hats and exercise normal American freedoms to analyze public policy?”

Rufus said nothing. In saying nothing he definitively cooled Blackford, who said now, with resignation: