In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  “That’s just the point. When you called Anna on Sunday, you increased your demands. You wanted a lot more. You thought she could lay her hands on a small fortune. But you miscalculated.”

  “Her word against mine.”

  “Precisely. But would you deny that you still have the negatives of those photographs?”

  “Yes. I’ve never had any such photographs or their negatives.”

  “Well, let me tell you something. Two agents are on their way back from Miami. They’ll be here soon. They’ve searched the Upstairs, and they’ve found the negatives. I wasn’t there, Anna wasn’t there, only the feds were there together with the Company station chief. Do you feel all right, Helm? You do look a bit pale.”

  Rust remembered the other raid on the Upstairs. The one Charles had been talking about. It was no search for evidence from Moscow. It had to be a proof-planting operation. Somebody had reported to Anna — or Ell, for all that! — that Rust might cause problems if he ever got out of the Soviet Union, so precautions had to be taken. Which would explain the date of the raid. Hal’s presence was unexpected and the raiders shot him.

  “You’ll look even paler, Ell, when I tell you why she’s invented this pack of lies.”

  “You’re a filthy bastard, Helm,” she hissed furiously, “and I’ll see you rot in jail even if they drag me through the courts with you, and even if your beloved brother also gets a taste of the dirt.” She spun around to spit in her husband’s face: “I thought you’d be man enough to stand up for me, but then I must have forgotten that you’re a cripple. God only knows why I loved you, why I went on and on, trying to cover up for that foolish mistake I made in Leningrad, paying Helm to keep you out of a scandal that might have ruined your career. At least now I know, it wasn’t worth it.”

  “You’ve been under tremendous pressure for days, honey. Take a Valium, lie down, and let me deal with this the proper way.”

  “Don’t you patronize me.”

  Rust leaned a little forward. His muscles strained as he prepared to lunge at his brother at the first sign of his deciding to use that gun under her provocation. “She’s right, Ell, she doesn’t need any patronage. So you’d better keep us both covered with that gun. Because she’s KGB. She had me tortured. And she may still have a trick or two up her sleeve.” Rust noticed that for the first time, his brother looked startled by what he had said. “She took me to that isolated house on Long Island to make sure that my screams would not be overheard by anyone when they used a centipede on me. That thing didn’t travel from the East Indies for nothing. They knew, and Anna must have known, too, what agony it would cause. But nothing mattered, not as long as they retrieved all the info I’d brought out of Russia. And they wanted all the names of people who’d helped me over there.”

  “Rubbish,” said Repson. His voice lacked total conviction.

  “Don’t you find it a hell of a coincidence that Anna has a sudden urge to confess our old affair, and the blackmail and the payments, just when I’m about to disappear without a trace after telling you that I’m carrying some vital information?”

  She smiled. “And who do you think will believe this lungful of shit?”

  Repson’s eyes kept jumping from him to her and back.

  “Nobody will believe me, sweetheart, not until Jake Schramm and Sir Charles and Company security get here — any moment now.” Rust stopped. Suddenly he could foresee the whole scene. And he was sorry for his brother. He wanted to see him embarrassed. Now that he did, the sight made him feel uneasy. Anna turned her back on them. Rust ignored her. “You know something? It’ll take a long time to clear yourself, Ell. And I could suggest to you to get out of the Company as soon as they let you. Save yourself the troubles of fighting. Don’t shorten your life by years. Avoid the ulcer and the rest. It would be wise counsel, I know, but I won’t suggest it. Because if I did, I’d make the same mistake as you made when you suggested just that wise course to me six years ago. Remember? It came soon after I’d found my father. You said I must get out of the Company. You warned that they’d hound me out. Or even worse, they’d drag me in completely. Until then, I only looked like good agent potential with a cover of journalism. But then, out of the blue, I could have become an important puppet. You warned that I’d soon lose my independence no matter how dear it was to me. Not because I’d find it so great to belong to the CIA, but because espionage was the most contagious of all games, and once I was infected, I’d be ready to do just about anything for the privilege of remaining a player. You even warned that if I didn’t get out fast, they’d pressure me to turn that poor, shivering old man into an agent. And I listened to you. Because it made sense. Because it would have been unfair to infect that helpless old man and endanger his last few years. So what happens now? It turns out that he may be a player in his own right!” He laughed. And it hurt him. “So I won’t suggest that you should get out and brood for the rest of your life. Put up a fight. Clear your name if you can. And remain a player whatever the consequences.”

  Repson looked disturbed. Then slowly the worry creases in his face dissolved in a smile. “You know something? I’ve never heard you say so much in one go.”

  Rust could not help smiling with him. Despite all the pain, doubts, animosity and accusations, an almost forgotten comradeship was rekindled for a few seconds. They were brothers against the world, two little boys taking on parents, school, neighborhood gangs, all corners. “You know something, Ell? I think you … ”

  “I know what you think.”

  “And I know what you think that you know what I think.”

  “And I know what you know and I think you stink.”

  They both laughed without a single sound. It was hardly more than a belly convulsion killed in its infancy by parental frowns of disapproval across the breakfast table.

  “I wish you luck, Ell. You’ll need it, too, if you’re a traitor. But even if you’re not, it’ll take a lot of scrubbing to be rid of the stink Anna’s touch has left on you.”

  “How very touching,” said Anna. “Particularly when coming from a blackmailer.”

  Two men entered through the door at the far end of the room. One of them carried a tape recorder. “That’ll do, sir,” he said to Repson.

  “Is it all on tape?”

  “Yes, sir. And we can authenticate it in addition to your and Mrs. Repson’s statements. You won’t need the mike anymore.”

  Repson rested the gun on his lap and reached under his tie. He removed the hidden clip microphone and handed it to the agent. “He’ll need a lawyer, I guess.”

  “It’s up to him, sir. He’ll be cautioned properly.”

  “I want to see your badges,” said Rust.

  Both agents identified themselves. They were FBI. Or so it seemed. But Rust remembered O’Connor, the bearer of his father’s message, who claimed to be CIA. And then Mann and George. Who also pretended to be Company men. It would be pointless to argue with these two. Schramm must have thrown a tight net around the house by now. They would soon verify if these were bona fide agents. He hoped they were. It would help to prove Ell’s innocence. A buzzer sounded. It elated him. With Anna caught, with Mann and George dead, with Charles and Jake proved trustworthy, there was every reason to hope that Yelena was safe, no matter what the pain had squeezed out of him.

  Repson flicked the switch of the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Adams to see you, sir.”

  “Adams?” Repson looked perplexed. Adams was the deputy director of CIA Security. “Of course. Ask him to come up, will you?”

  The silence was almost total. Rust noticed that Anna moved noiselessly a little farther away from the group. She had always been a light mover. Repson switched off the intercom: it sounded like a minor explosion.

  Adams came in, accompanied by Schramm, Charles and three other men. “Can we have some more light in here, please?” he asked softly. He viewed Anna and each of the men in turn. His eyes settle
d on Rust. “Thank you, Helm. I guess we may owe you quite a bit. I mean, if you have done what you seem to have done.”

  “Please don’t jump to easy conclusions, sir,” said Repson. “You ought to consider the documents in this folder first, then listen to the tape recording — ”

  Adams stopped him with a wave of his hand and turned to Schramm: “You got the tape?”

  “Yes, sir.” Schramm took a cassette out of his pocket. “We found it in an upstairs room on Long Island. The place was wired crudely but effectively. These are a woman’s recorded screams, begging for help, the things she could be expected to shout when in trouble. If it was played through a speaker and heard through several doors, it would sound muffled, but very realistic.” He looked at Rust, who nodded. Adams turned to Anna: “The voice will be subject to the usual ident process, of course. Do you wish to make a statement on this, Mrs. Repson?”

  “I don’t know who’s screaming on your tape or where it comes from, but I can tell you now that I haven’t been to New York for months.”

  “Suit yourself. We also have your fingerprints from that house.”

  “Why shouldn’t you? If somebody tries to frame me, nothing is easier than to deposit a few things anywhere with my prints on them.”

  Adams was about to say something, but Repson interrupted him. “Were you or were you not in that house, Anna?” he asked her.

  “What house?”

  “You must tell me, Anna. Did you go to New York to meet Helm at Idlewild? How did you find out the code? And why? Why did you go there?”

  “I’ve told you. I wasn’t there. Helm’s a liar.”

  Schramm stepped forward. “It’s no good, Mrs. Repson. These two of my men were there, waiting for Helm at Idlewild. They saw you two together, right?”

  The two agents confirmed it. “That was her, all right. We lost them at the tollgate at … ” He was fishing some notes out of his pocket. “At, er … I can give you the exact time, sir, if you just bear with me for a moment.”

  Everybody in the room was watching the agent and waiting for him to complete his statement. Rust tried to detect any sign of emotion on Anna’s face but could not. Nobody but Rust paid much attention to the squeak of a wheel — not until it was blanked out by a loud report. Blood spurted from Anna’s neck and sprayed Rust, who had flung himself at his brother’s arm. Repson was still firing, but the second and third bullets punctured only the Afghan run in front of the wheelchair. With her eyes unable to focus, Anna’s dissipating gaze fell somewhere between the brothers. “Whatever it may seem … I’ve loved you … I … ” Blood flooded her mouth and drowned her voice. There was no way to tell whom she had addressed.

  Thursday, October 4

  De Gaulle threatens to resign if referendum rejects his proposal for direct election of President. U.S. Secretary of State Rusk presses friendly countries to introduce at least limited boycott of fast-growing Cuba-bound shipping; some support, but outright opposition by Canada and Brazil. Jim Clark [Lotus] wins U.S. Grand Prix.

  *

  BACK FROM HIS HONEYMOON, CIA DIRECTOR MCCONE was confronted with the astonishing discovery that western Cuba had not been overflown for almost a month. A special session of the Committee on Overhead Reconnaissance was convened right away. The urgent need of information ought to have been obvious to all COMOR members, but advocates of the “play safe” principle emphasized the risks in the resumption of regular U-2 flights with full coverage. Alternative proposals were examined. Sending unmanned balloons or remote-control drone planes would involve no gambling with human lives, but such techniques would be no substitute for the intelligence-gathering superiority of the U-2s. The meeting was unable to break down the opposition to the spy flights because, particularly in the suspected areas, the Cubans were already known to possess an almost fully operational network of surface-to-air missiles. It was decided that more expert opinions should be invited; the question of overflights would then be given further consideration at the next meeting, almost a week later.

  The decision bugged McCone. He could have invoked Presidential backing for the immediate resumption of overflights, but he was not convinced that he had a good enough case against the experts. Besides, to seek urgent, direct contact with the President — away briefly on the Congressional campaign trail — would place undue emphasis on the previous month’s delay, and damage the Company which was far from being JFK’s favorite anyway. Better wait until a natural opportunity arose, such as bumping into Bobby Kennedy at the French embassy dinner.

  Before leaving for the embassy that evening, the Director inquired about the microdots that had reached Langley by some round-about way with the help of an outsider by the name of Rust. They were being developed and evaluated, he was assured, and could be in his hands with a full report within an hour or two.

  Over drinks before dinner he managed to snatch a private word with the Attorney General about the special session of COMOR. Kennedy fired a volley of uncomfortable questions at him. “Is it possible that somebody on COMOR has sabotaged the program?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. No single individual has that sort of power on the Committee.”

  “Would anybody be able to exert that kind of indirect influence to achieve the long gap in overflights?”

  “Well, anybody putting up a convincing enough argument would have some influence.”

  “Do you admit then that somebody might have done it deliberately with malicious intent?”

  “Admit is a strong word, Mister Attorney General.”

  “Is it or is it not conceivable?”

  “It’s not inconceivable.” The Director did not try to conceal his annoyance. “Are you bent on changing our traditional roles?”

  “In what way?”

  “Suddenly it’s you who sees spooks and saboteurs everywhere. It used to be you who associated us with that kind of paranoia.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the Ambassador’s wife who blasted them with an avalanche of party-talk. McCone was rescued from her a few minutes later when he was asked to answer an urgent call from Langley.

  Jake Schramm had a distinct sensation that soon he would go crazy. He had never felt so completely gagged and bound by red tape. He had seen the blown-up pictures from the microdots in Rust’s dictionary, but since he had handed them over through the proper channels to the Directorate of Operations, there was nobody who would tell him about their fate and evaluation or even the projected follow-up action, if any. Yet Rust kept pressing him all day for just such information. Although Schramm had great respect for regulations governing essential secrecy, he felt that Rust, in view of his trouble over the delivery of the microdots, was entitled to know if they were considered to be worth anything.

  In his own mind, Schramm had no doubt about the value of the pictures. One was a map showing the Cuban locations of projected medium-and intermediate-range missile sites. Three pictures came from Odessa. In two of these, the loading of crates and missile trailers aboard Russian freighters could be seen. The third depicted the “restricted” outer port area where the freighters of the first two pictures were berthed. One photograph was a close-up of a huge, peculiar crate on the open deck of the Poltava. Identification should be no problem for trained CIA crate-ologists. The rest of the eight pictures were from Cuba. They showed the unloading of crates and missiles in two, possibly three, Cuban ports. Yes, Schramm understood the problem: the photographs might well have been produced by the KGB disinformation department to serve some as yet unfathomable espionage maneuver. And yes, it was possible that Rust had been used as an unsuspecting pawn in some mysterious game, although that could be contradicted by the desperate KGB bid to capture and interrogate the messenger. But surely such doubts should not be a reason for treating Rust as a suspect. Yet this exactly seemed to be the case. He was in the hands of counterintelligence. On medical advice, he had been moved to a small sanatorium, used almost exclusively by the Company, hidden amo
ng trees on a private estate, and conveniently situated only three miles from Langley. His room in an isolated bungalow was under constant surveillance. Schramm was allowed free access, but he had a feeling that the aim was to listen in on his conversations with Rust. He tried to arrange permission for a visit by Sir Charles, but failed. Now he had to drive back into town to break the news.

  “I’m sorry, Charles, no go.” He expected the older man to hit the roof. He was wrong.

  “I understand, dear boy. It’s in the nature of counterintelligence to live up to its name and run just such a course. One wonders if ‘subintelligence’ would be a more appropriate name. Give him my regards, will you?”

  “If they still let me see him.”

  “How is he?”

  “Enjoying a routine post-mission high, I guess, but it won’t last long. The shrinks want to put him under a few days’ sedation to avoid the risk of a nervous breakdown. But debriefing is considered to be more urgent and important.”

  It was almost 10:00 in the evening when Schramm arrived back at the sanatorium, but Rust’s room was still crowded and lively. Apart from the two men who had conducted his debriefing all day, Repson was there. He looked pale and drawn, and Schramm knew why: in addition to the shock of the revelations about Anna, he himself might be subject to lengthy and harrowing investigations from which he might never recover fully even if cleared. He was probably allowed to visit his brother only because their conversation and nonverbal exchanges would be monitored closely as well as taped and filmed. “How’s Anna?” Rust asked.

  “Do we have to?” Repson’s face was twitching.

  “Please.”

  “She’ll live.”

  “Good. I want to be there when they strap her in the chair. Are you coming?”

  “I’d have preferred it if you hadn’t interfered.”

  “I’m sorry, Ell, but you went crazy at the time.”