Sinders coughed and lit another cigarette from the stub of the other. “What did he say. Exactly?”
“Only that Philby’s cell was four. The fourth’s the guy who inducted the others, the controller of the cell and the main link to the Soviets. Rumor was he’s up there. VVIP.”
“What sort? Political? Foreign Office? Gentry?”
Rosemont shrugged. “Just VVIP.”
Sinders stared at him, then went back into his shell. Crosse swung into Sinclair Road, and stopped at his own apartment to let Sinders off, then drove to the consulate that was near Government House. Rosemont got a copy of the fingerprints then guided Crosse to his office. The office was large and well stocked with liquor. “Scotch?”
“Vodka with a dash of Rose’s lime juice,” Crosse said, eyeing the AMG files that Rosemont had put carelessly on his desk.
“Health.” They touched glasses. Rosemont drank his Scotch deeply. “What’s on your mind, Rog? You’ve been like a cat on a hot tin roof all day.”
Crosse nodded at the files. “It’s them. I want that mole. I want Sevrin smashed.”
Rosemont frowned. “Okay,” he said after a pause, “let’s see what we got.”
He picked up the first file, put his feet on the desk and began reading. It took him barely a couple of minutes to finish, then he passed it over to Crosse who read equally fast. Quickly they went through the files one by one. Crosse closed the last page of the last one and handed it back. He lit a cigarette.
“Too much to comment on now,” Rosemont muttered absently.
Crosse caught an undercurrent in the American’s voice and wondered if he was being tested. “One thing jumps out,” he said, watching Rosemont. “These don’t compare in quality with the other one, the one we intercepted.”
Rosemont nodded. “I got that too, Rog. How do you figure it?”
“These seem flat. All sorts of questions are unanswered. Sevrin’s skirted, so’s the mole.” Crosse toyed with his vodka then finished it. “I’m disappointed.”
Rosemont broke the silence. “So either the one we got was unique and different, written differently, or these’re phonies or phonied up?”
“Yes.”
Rosemont exhaled. “Which leads back to Ian Dunross. If these’re phony, he’s still got the real ones.”
“Either actually, or in his head.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s supposed to have a photographic memory. He could have destroyed the real ones and prepared these, but still remember the others.”
“Ah, so he could be debriefed if he … if he’s cheated us.”
Crosse lit another cigarette. “Yes. If the powers-that-be decided it was necessary.” He looked up at Rosemont. “Of course, any such debriefing would be highly dangerous and would have to be ordered solely under the Official Secrets Act.”
Rosemont’s used face became even grimmer. “Should I take the ball and run?”
“No. First we have to be sure. That should be relatively easy.” Crosse glanced at the liquor cabinet. “May I?”
“Sure. I’ll take another shot of whiskey.”
Crosse handed him the refill. “I’ll make a deal with you: You really cooperate, completely, you don’t do anything without telling me in advance, no secrets, no jumping the gun …”
“In return for?”
Crosse smiled his thin smile and took out some photocopies. “How would you like to influence, perhaps even control, certain presidential hopefuls—perhaps even an election?”
“I don’t follow you.”
Crosse passed over the letters of Thomas K. K. Lim that Armstrong and his team had acquired in the raid on Bucktooth Lo two days before. “It seems that certain very rich, very well-connected U.S. families are in league with certain U.S. generals to build several large but unnecessary airfields in Vietnam, for personal gain. This documents the how, when and who.” Crosse told him where and how the papers had been found and added, “Isn’t Senator Wilf Tillman, the one that’s here now, a presidential hopeful? I imagine he’d make you head of the CIA for these goodies—if you wanted to give them to him. These two’re even juicier.” Crosse put them on the desk. “These document how certain rather well-connected politicians and the same well-connected families have got congressional approval to channel millions into a totally fraudulent aid program in Vietnam. 8 millions have already been paid over.”
Rosemont read the letters. His face went chalky. He picked up the phone. “Get me Ed Langan.” He waited a moment, then his face went suddenly purple. “I don’t give a goddamn!” he rasped. “Get off your goddamn butt and get Ed here right now.” He slammed the phone back onto its hook, cursing obscenely, opened his desk, found a bottle of antacid pills and took three. “I’ll never make fifty at this rate,” he muttered. “Rog, this joker, Thomas K. K. Lim, can we have him?”
“If you can find him, be my guest. He’s somewhere in South America.” Crosse put down another paper. “This’s Anti-Corruption’s confidential report. You shouldn’t have any trouble tracking him.”
Rosemont read it. “Jesus.” After a pause he said, “Can we keep this between us? It’s liable to blow the roof off a couple of our national monuments.”
“Of course. We have a deal? Nothing hidden on either side?”
“Okay.” Rosemont went to the safe and unlocked it. “One good turn deserves another.” He found the file he was looking for, took out some papers, put the file back and relocked the safe. “Here, these’re photocopies. You can have ’em.”
The photocopies were headed “Freedom Fighter” dated this month and last month. Crosse went through them quickly and whistled from time to time. They were espionage reports, their quality excellent. All the items dealt with Canton, happenings in and around that vital capital city of Kwantung Province: troop movements, promotions, appointments to the local presidiums and Communist Party, floods, food shortages, the military, numbers and types of East German and Czechoslovak goods available in the stores. “Where’d you get these?” he asked.
“We’ve a cell operating in Canton. This’s one of their reports, we get them monthly. Shall I give you a copy?”
“Yes. Yes thank you. I’ll check it out through our sources for accuracy.”
“They’re accurate, Rog. Of course top secret, yes? I don’t want my guys blown like Fong-fong. We’ll keep this between you’n me, okay?”
“All right.”
The American got up and put out his hand. “And Rog, I’m sorry about the raid.”
“Yes.”
“Good. As to this joker, Lim, we’ll find him.” Rosemont stretched wearily then went and poured himself another drink. “Rog?”
“No thanks, I’ll be off,” Crosse said.
Rosemont stabbed a blunt finger at the letters. “About those, thanks. Yeah, thanks but…” He stopped a moment, near tears of rage. “Sometimes I’m so sick to my stomach what our own guys’ll do for goddamn dough even if it’s a goddamn pile of goddamn gold I’d like to die. You know what I mean?”
“Oh yes!” Crosse kept his voice kind and gentle but he was thinking, How naive you are, Stanley!
In a moment he left and went to police HQ and checked out the fingerprints in his private files, then got back into his car and headed haphazardly toward West Point. When he was sure that he was not being followed, he stopped at the next phone booth and dialed. In a moment the phone was picked up at the other end. No answer, just breathing. At once Crosse coughed Arthur’s dry hacking cough and spoke in a perfect imitation of Arthur’s voice. “Mr. Lop-sing please.”
“There’s no Mr. Lop-ting here. Sorry, you have a wrong number.”
Contentedly Crosse recognized Suslev. “I want to leave a message,” he said continuing the code in the same voice that both he and Jason Plumm used on the telephone, both of them finding it very useful to be able to pretend to be Arthur whenever necessary, thus further covering each other and their real identities.
When the code was
complete, Suslev said, “And?”
Crosse smiled thinly, glad to be able to dupe Suslev. “I’ve read the material. So has Our Friend.” Our friend was Arthur’s code name for himself, Roger Crosse.
“Ah! And?”
“And we both agree it’s excellent.” Excellent was a code word meaning counterfeit or false information.
A long pause. “So?”
“Can our friend contact you, Saturday at four?” Can Roger Crosse contact you tonight at 10:00 P.M. at safe phones?
“Yes. Thank you for calling.” Yes. Message understood.
Crosse replaced the receiver.
He took out another coin and dialed again.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Jason, this’s Roger Crosse,” he said affably.
“Oh hello, Superintendent, this’s a pleasant surprise,” Plumm replied. “Is our bridge game still on for tomorrow?” Did you make the intercept of the AMG files?
“Yes,” Crosse said, then added casually, “But instead of six could we make it eight?” Yes, but we’re safe, no names were mentioned.
There was a great sigh of relief. Then Plumm said, “Shall I tell the others?” Do we meet tonight as arranged?
“No, no need to disturb them tonight, we can do that tomorrow.” No. We’ll meet tomorrow.
“Fine. Thank you for calling.”
Crosse went back down the crowded street. Very pleased with himself, he got into his car and lit a cigarette. I wonder what Suslev—or his bosses—would think if they knew I was the real Arthur, not Jason Plumm. Secrets within secrets within secrets and Jason the only one who knows who Arthur really is!
He chuckled.
The KGB would be furious. They don’t like secrets they’re not party to. And they’d be even more furious if they knew it was I who inducted Plumm and formed Sevrin, not the other way around.
It had been easy to arrange. When Crosse was in Military Intelligence in Germany at the tail end of the war, information was whispered to him privately that Plumm, a signals expert, was operating a clandestine transmitter for the Soviets. Within a month he had got to know Plumm and had established the truth of this but almost immediately the war had ended. So he had docketed the information for future use—to barter with, or against a time he might want to switch sides. In espionage you never know when you’re being set up, or betrayed, or being sold for something or someone more valuable. You always need secrets to barter with, the more important the secrets the safer you are, because you never know when you or an underling or overling will make the mistake that leaves you as naked and as helpless as a spiked butterfly. Like Voranski. Like Metkin. Like Dunross with his phony files. Like Rosemont with his naive idealism. Like Gregor Suslev, his fingerprints from the glass now on record with the CIA and so in a trap of my own choosing.
Crosse laughed aloud. He let in the clutch, easing out into the traffic. Switching sides and playing them all off against each other makes life exciting, he told himself. Yes, secrets really do make life very exciting indeed.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
9:45 P.M.:
Pok Liu Chau was a small island southwest of Aberdeen, and dinner the best Chinese food Bartlett had ever had. They were on their eighth course, small bowls of rice. Traditionally rice was the last dish at a banquet.
“You’re not really supposed to eat any, Linc!” Orlanda laughed. “That sort of dramatizes to your host that you’re full to bursting!”
“You can say that again, Orlanda! Quillan, it’s been fantastic!”
“Yes, yes it was, Quillan,” she echoed. “You chose beautifully.”
The restaurant was beside a small wharf near a fishing village—drab and lit with bare bulbs and furnished with oilcloth on the tables and bad chairs and broken tiles on the floor. Behind it was an alley of fish tanks where the daily catch of the island was kept for sale. Under the proprietor’s direction they chose from what was swimming in the tanks: prawns, squid, shrimps, lobster, small crabs and fish of all kinds of shapes and sizes.
Gornt had argued with the proprietor over the menu, settling with what fish they could agree on. Both were experts and Gornt a valued customer. Later they had sat down at a table on the patio. It was cool and they drank beer, happy together, the three of them. All knew that at least during dinner there was a truce and no need for guards.
In moments the first dish had arrived—mounds of succulent quickfried shrimps, sea-sweet and as delicious as any in the world. Then tiny octopus with garlic and ginger and chili and all the condiments of the East. Then some chicken wings deep fried which they ate with sea salt, then the great fish steamed with soy and slivers of fresh green onions and ginger and laid on a platter, the cheek, the delicacy of the fish, given to Bartlett as the honored guest. “Jesus, when I saw this dump, sorry, this place, I figured you were putting me on.”
“Ah, my dear fellow,” Gornt said, “you have to know the Chinese. They aren’t concerned with the surroundings, just the food. They’d be very suspicious of any eating place that wasted money on decoration or tablecloths or candles. They want to see what they eat—hence the harsh light. Chinese are at their best eating. They’re like Italians. They love to laugh and eat and drink and belch….”
They all drank beer. “That goes best with Chinese food though Chinese tea’s better—it’s more digestive and breaks down all the oil.”
“Why the smile, Linc?” Orlanda asked. She was sitting between them.
“No reason. It’s just that you really know how to eat here. Say, what’s this?”
She peered at the dish of fried rice mixed with various kinds of fish. “Squid.”
“What?”
The others laughed and Gornt said, “The Chinese say if its back faces heaven it’s edible. Shall we go?”
As soon as they were back on board and out to sea, away from the wharf, there was coffee and brandy. Gornt said, “Will you excuse me for a while? I’ve got some paperwork to do. If you’re cold, use the forward stateroom.” He went below.
Thoughtfully Bartlett sipped his brandy. Orlanda was across from him and they were lounging in the deck chairs on the aft deck. Suddenly he wished that this was his boat and they were alone. Her eyes were on him. Without being asked, she moved closer and put her hand on the back of his neck, kneading the muscles gently and expertly.
“That feels great,” he said, wanting her.
“Ah,” she replied, very pleased, “I’m very good at massage, Linc. I took lessons from a Japanese. Do you have a regular massage?”
“No.”
“You should. It’s very important for your body, very important to keep every muscle tuned. You tune your aircraft, don’t you? So why not your body? Tomorrow I’ll arrange it for you.” Her nails dug into his neck mischievously. “She’s a woman, but not to be touched, heya!”
“Come on, Orlanda!”
“I was teasing, silly,” she told him at once, brightly, taking away the sudden tension easily. “This woman’s blind. In olden days in China and even today in Taiwan, blind people are given a monopoly on the art and business of massage, their fingers being their eyes. Oh yes. Of course there are lots of quacks and charlatans who pretend to have knowledge but don’t, not really. In Hong Kong you soon know who’s real and who isn’t. This is a very tiny village.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his neck. “That’s because you’re beautiful.”
He laughed. “I’m supposed to say that.” He put his arm around her, bewitched, and gave her a little hug, very conscious of the captain at the helm ten feet away.
“Would you like to go forward and see the rest of the ship?” she asked.
He stared at her. “You a mind reader too?”
She laughed, her lovely face a mirror of joy. “Isn’t it the girl’s part to notice if her … if her date’s happy or sad or wanting to be alone or whatever? I was taught to use my eyes and senses, Linc. Certainly I try to read your mind but if I’m wrong you must tell me so that I can get better. But if I’m
correct … doesn’t that make it grander for you?” And so much easier to ensnare you beyond escape. To control you on a line you can so easily break if you wish, my art being to make the too thin line like a steel mesh.
Oh but that was not easy to learn! Quillan was a cruel teacher, oh so cruel. Much of my education was done in anger, Quillan cursing me, “For chrissake can’t you ever learn to use your bloody eyes? It should have been crystal clear when I came here that I was feeling rotten and had a rotten day! Why the hell didn’t you get me a drink at once, touch me gently at once and then keep your bloody mouth shut for ten minutes while I recoup—just tender and understanding for ten bloody minutes and then I’d be fine again!”
“But Quillan,” she had whimpered through her tears, frightened by his rage, “you came in so angrily you upset me and th—”
“I’ve told you fifty times not to be upset just because I’m bloody upset! It’s your job to take the tension out of me! Use your bloody eyes and ears and sixth sense! All I need’s ten minutes and I’m docile again and putty. For chrissake, don’t I watch over you all the time? Don’t I use my bloody eyes and try to defuse you? Every month at the same time you’re always edgy, eh? Don’t I take care to be as calm as possible then and keep you calmed? Eh?”
“Yes but d—”
“To hell with but! By God, now I’m in a worse temper than when I came in! It’s your bloody fault because you’re stupid, unwomanly, and you of all people should know better!”
Orlanda remembered how he had slammed out of the apartment and she had burst into tears, the birthday dinner she had cooked ruined and the evening wrecked. Later, he had come back, calm now, and had taken her into his arms and held her tenderly as she wept, sorry for the row that she agreed was unnecessary and her fault. “Listen, Orlanda,” he had said so gently. “I’m not the only man you’ll have to control in this life, not the only one on whom you’ll depend—it’s a basic fact that women depend on some man, however rotten and evil and difficult. It’s so easy for a woman to be in control. Oh so easy if you use your eyes, understand that men are children and, from time to time—most of the time—stupid, petulant and awful. But they supply the money and it’s hard to do that, very hard. It’s very hard to keep supplying the money day after day whoever you are. Moh ching moh meng … no money no life. In return the woman’s got to supply the harmony—the man can’t, not all the time. But the woman can always cheer her man if she wants to, can always take the poison out of him. Always. Just by being calm and loving and tender and understanding for such a short time. I’ll teach you the game of life. You’ll have a Ph.D. in survival, as a woman, but you’ve got to work …”
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