“That’s fine. I suppose you have some questions, about Felicity.”
Joyce glanced from one to the other. He had questions the dude probably didn’t want to answer. Judging by the way the foxy young lady was looking at the man, Joyce might soon be able to pick up a pretty good fee from the gent’s wife.
7
Laidlaw was late and drove accordingly, steering his gray Mercedes rapidly through the midafternoon traffic on suburban McLean’s Dolley Madison Boulevard, from habit discreetly glancing into each Volvo station wagon, Chevrolet Citation, and Volkswagen Rabbit as he passed it, making certain of the occupants. Most were women; none suspicious.
Ahead was the large green and white highway direction sign that was easily the laughing stock of the world’s intelligence agencies. It said “CIA.” Another post-Watergate “reform.” Nothing sacred. Nothing secret.
He drove on for more than half a mile, then turned left onto a narrow, dead-end road and followed it nearly to the end, turning left again onto a curving gravel drive that led to a large white Federalist house set off in the trees. The neighbors likely had a vague idea of what the house was used for, and the Russians no doubt had a very exact idea, but Thatcher and Laidlaw weren’t worried about that. They used the safe house mostly to avoid their colleagues.
Nodding, again discreetly, to a security man standing back among some walnut trees to the side of the house, Laidlaw entered the front hall, grimacing at the din of homogenized “beautiful music” blaring forth, an indication that Thatcher had already arrived.
Madeleine, Thatcher’s secretary, was in the library, typing into a portable computer terminal, the earphones of a Sony Walkman on her pretty head. The tape would not contain music but conversations, probably French-Canadian ones at this juncture. Madeleine was fluent in four languages, and had an excellent ear. She smiled at Laidlaw and removed her earphones, wincing at the blast of violins playing “The Shadow of Your Smile.”
“He’s in the basement room,” she said, speaking loudly to overcome the music. “Mr. Mendelsohn’s with him. May I fix you a martini?”
This was another advantage to working in the safe house. Laidlaw nodded, not at all discreetly. Madeleine was one of the few people Laidlaw trusted to prepare a martini according to his requirements.
Descending the carpeted stairs and passing through the two sets of soundproof doors, Laidlaw found Thatcher and Mendelsohn sitting side by side at the long conference table in the center of the room, which looked as though it might better serve a New York advertising agency, except for the photographs of burned corpses on the wall. They were from Jimmy Carter’s ill-fated Iranian desert raid. Thatcher liked to put them up at the beginning of a project, as a reminder of what they were about—and at what cost.
Thatcher was wearing a trim tan summer suit, for which he had much too muscular a build, and was drinking beer from a freshly iced stein. Mendelsohn, in a dark, baggy vested suit too warm for the season, was, as always, drinking a thick dark sherry, his eyes eerily luminous behind his thick-lensed glasses. He had come to look much like his hero, mentor, and former superior, James Angleton. A really old spook, he had joined General Bill Donovan’s Office of Strategic Services immediately after graduating from the University of Chicago during World War II.
Mendelsohn was also being called back from retirement, as he had been seven times before. With the passing years, Mendelsohn was becoming the Admiral Rickover of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Laidlaw seated himself on the other side of the table. “My apologies for being so late,” he said, as a hanging cloud of Mendelsohn’s cigarette smoke drifted in front of him. He fanned the air with his hand. He liked Freddy Mendelsohn, but thought him a little daft.
“Those goddamn Canucks are stiffing us,” Thatcher said. “They’ve just iced three of our guys in Vancouver and Kopinski in Winnipeg. They’ve all been indefinitely detained under one of those World War One vintage emergency acts.”
“Who is doing it?” Laidlaw asked. “This man Sebastien?”
“No. It’s the RCMP again.”
“The RCMP? They were removed from counter intelligence by Act of Parliament.”
“And Harry York has probably overruled Parliament again. On the quiet.”
“Ever the rugged individualist,” said Mendelsohn.
“Vancouver, Winnipeg,” said Laidlaw. “Anywhere else?”
“Two of Sebastien’s larger-size thugs caught Mason in a men’s room in Montreal and gave him a new face. He’ll be on medical leave for three months.”
“Have we complained?”
“To our closest ally? No, the deputy hasn’t even told the White House, and won’t. The Old Man is so mad about their throwing our oil companies out he may nuke Montreal next time the Expos beat one of our teams. The deputy is very nervous.”
“What have you gotten from the Russian section?”
A momentary unhappiness crossed Thatcher’s face. He did not much like the man who had taken his place. “I looked at everything they had as of eleven A.M. this morning,” he said. “Zero. The Reds have gone limp. I don’t think they have a single active operation. They’re not doing anything that might attract attention to themselves.”
“And, consequently,” said Mendelsohn, with his ghastly grin, “they are attracting inordinate attention to themselves.”
It was an intelligent ploy, if intended as a diversion. The curious Americans would be diverted, not merely in a different direction, but in all directions, looking to see where the Soviets might finally move. But diverted from what?
“Has the KGB reinforced Ottawa station?” Laidlaw said.
Thatcher shook his head, then said: “They don’t need to. They have half of Dzerzhinsky Square there already.”
True enough. Because of Canadian laxity and the wide-open border with the United States just to the south, the Soviets had made the Canadian capital a spy nest worthy of the old days in Berlin.
Madeleine entered with Laidlaw’s martini. She brought it straight up in an old-fashioned cocktail glass, properly chilled, and with three olives. The proportion of gin to vermouth was a modicum off, but she had made an excellent try. If Laidlaw were ever to be permitted a secretary again, he would find a way to acquire Madeleine.
As she left, Thatcher turned to a control console by the wall behind him, and flicked some switches. The lights dimmed and a map of Canada flashed on the screen at the end of the room. Thatcher ran his fingers quickly over the keyboard of the computer video display terminal and at once province boundary lines appeared in place, then population figures. Ontario, 8.6 million; Quebec, 6.3 million; British Columbia, 2.7 million; Alberta, 2.1 million; Manitoba, 1 million; Saskatchewan, 977,000. Ontario was big, but much surrounded. A rebellious Quebec alone would be a major preoccupation. A rebellious Saskatchewan would even be a major preoccupation. It had been in 1869 and 1885, when the French half-breeds called the Métis reached for guns to settle land claims the Ottawa government had ignored. Laidlaw had just been reading a background research paper on them. One of the leaders, Louis Riel, was hanged. The other, Gabriel Dumont, fled to the United States and joined Buffalo Bill Cody’s wild west show. A Canadian book about him was selling quite briskly—in all the western provinces.
Thatcher punched another cue into the computer and crosshatch shadings appeared on the map, denoting population density. Canadians had settled at the bottom of their country like sediment in a bottle of wine.
“Ninety percent,” said Thatcher, drinking his beer. “Ninety percent of the people in that great big goddamn country live within a hundred miles of our country.” He punched up the DEW line, the NORAD bases, Sault Sainte Marie, and other locales on the map. “How the hell are we going to handle this?” he said.
“There was once a contingency plan for an invasion of Canada,” said Mendelsohn. “It was drawn up in 1919.”
“There still is an invasion plan and it was drawn up by the Pentagon last year,” Thatcher said. “But it
won’t help with this. The United States of America is not going to declare war on Canada. Not yet.”
“If there is anything like a civil insurrection up there, there’s no question we will become involved,” Laidlaw said.
“Consider the nature of this administration,” Mendelsohn said. “Nearly seventy percent of Canada’s energy industry is American owned. ‘Property has its duties as well as its rights.’”
“Edmund Burke,” said Thatcher.
“Benjamin Disraeli,” Mendelsohn said. “There are also the Great Lake ports to worry about. Sault Sainte Marie, the Saint Clair River, Niagara, the Saint Lawrence Seaway. You might see the White House wanting to occupy Montreal.”
“That’s too goddamn bloody to contemplate,” Thatcher said. He punched up an aerial photo of Montreal on the screen, then had the computer provide a close-up view of the park on Ille St. Helen, complete with picknicking families. “I just can’t see American soldiers killing Canadians.”
“I can see the Eighty-second Airborne Division doing what it’s told,” Mendelsohn said.
Thatcher grimaced and returned the map of Canada to the screen. “What happens then?” he said. “How do we contain the conflict? What happens to NATO? Do the French and British come in? If they do, on whose side? Do the Rooskies just sit back and enjoy the show? Or do they send subs into Hudson Bay? Or do they make a move somewhere else? How would we stop them? How would we stop this thing from spreading to Europe?”
“There is no definite answer to any of that,” said Mendelsohn, “but the computer can make some interesting projections.”
“I know,” Thatcher said. “I had it doing that yesterday. It came up with one that had the civil war lasting into the Canadian winter with half the Canadian population dying. Another had Russian tanks in Paris.”
“Eleven million,” said Mendelsohn. “A negligible sum, by Pentagon nuclear war standards.”
“Not by my standards.”
“Of course not, William.”
Mendelsohn and Laidlaw sat silently watching Thatcher sit silently. He was not only their superior, but their only link to a useful function with the agency, and they were sensitive to his moods. They would defer to his direction of the conversation. It seemed to Laidlaw he might be reconsidering the entire enterprise.
“I can’t understand why the White House isn’t more concerned about this,” Thatcher said, finally.
“For the same reason the Carter White House wasn’t concerned about the Iranian revolution,” Laidlaw said. “‘Ignorance is bliss.’”
“Thomas Gray,” said Mendelsohn. “‘On a Distant Prospect of Eton College.’”
“The White House will not become concerned until the American public is concerned,” Laidlaw said.
“And the American public doesn’t pay any attention to Canada,” Thatcher said. “Never has. Even though the conditions for this thing have been there for three or four years.”
“Evident to anyone who would visit a Montreal slum or an Edmonton country club,” Mendelsohn said.
Laidlaw contemplated the map. “We must consider who else may be in this,” he said. “The non-Canadians. The others.”
“Others,” said Thatcher. He lighted a cigar, a favorite Havana. The unhappiness that came upon his face this time remained.
“We could be exaggerating all of this,” said Mendelsohn. “We could. Harry York might still withdraw his amendments.”
“He won’t,” said Thatcher, touching the keyboard again. The computer responded by marking the locations of Canadian military bases on the screen. The Canadian army was small, and widely scattered. “He thinks his amendments will avoid civil war. And Alberta wants amendments. Saskatchewan wants amendments. The goddamn Yukon wants amendments.”
“Harry York could be persuaded. ‘Be a craftsman in speech that thou mayest be strong, for the strength of one is the tongue, and speech is mightier than all fighting.’”
“Is that from the Bible?” Thatcher asked.
“Ptahhotep. An Egyptian. Thirty-four centuries before Christ,” Mendelsohn blew forth another great cloud of smoke.
“The deputy tried,” Thatcher said. “York told him to go to hell.”
“He could be dealt with on a more permanent basis,” Mendelsohn said, glancing at the silent Laidlaw, who only stared at the screen.
“Possibly. If absolutely necessary,” Thatcher said. “But I hate that. And the president would hate that. And he’d have to give the go. There could be hell to pay, Freddy. We could only make things a hell of a lot worse.”
“Who gains from this?” Laidlaw said. “Canada dies and who prospers?”
Thatcher punched three keys on the computer. The large map of Canada disappeared, replaced instantly by one of the entire globe as seen from directly above the North Pole. The changed perspective presented a much overlooked truth: Canada had not one but two very close neighbors, the United States and the Soviet Union.
“Okay,” said Thatcher. “There’s the obvious.”
“‘The gods love the obscure and hate the obvious,’” Mendelsohn recited.
“Not the Bible,” Thatcher said.
“Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. India. Fifth century B.C.”
Laidlaw gave Mendelsohn a nasty look. “There is everything for the Russians in the death of Canada,” he said. “We are rearming. We have reinstated the draft. We have the Stealth bomber. We are deploying the MX and are closing the ‘Window of Danger.’ Europe is accepting the new generation of missiles. The Mideast is becoming stable now, as is Africa. We have the Far East well in hand. With the new treaties with Mexico, we have Castro effectively countered. We are reasserting ourselves. But it could all be undone, for a time, for a significant period of time. A major crisis on our own border would suffice, chaos and bloodshed on both sides of the border.”
Thatcher’s fingers flicked over the keyboard and a map of Europe came onto the screen. An additional cueing superimposed the locations of Soviet armored divisions: on the borders of Poland, on the border of Yugoslavia, on the border of Rumania, on the border of Turkey. He shifted to a map of the Mideast with similar troop dispositions, on the border of Pakistan, and on the border of China, on the border of Iran. Iran.
“It concentrates the mind, does it not?”
“They’ve been there for more than a year,” Thatcher said. “We’ve gotten used to them. I haven’t seen an NIE on their Iranian group in five weeks.”
“There’s the obvious,” Laidlaw said. “We’ll also have to consider the obscure.”
Thatcher keyed in a long sequence of instructions to the computer. At once it began flashing individual maps upon the screen. By the time it was through with this series, the computer would have shown a map of every nation extant. If some curious person checked the memory data banks to learn which country Thatcher and the others had been interested in, the data banks would tell them: “all.”
“Okay,” said Thatcher, turning away from the psychedelic effects of the flashing screen. “Let’s get going. Hugh, we’re getting low on time. How soon can you move?”
“At once. If you still want to.”
“Of course. Do you want to bring an A-team in with you? Or do you still want to try this Dennis Showers gambit?”
“I want to take some elements of an A-team in. I wanted to use Showers. Unfortunately, what I wanted is not going to be possible. He’s been reached by Max Diehl of the NSC. Reached, and, I fear, contaminated.”
“As we desired,” said Mendelsohn.
“Reached and contaminated,” said Laidlaw. “Nothing else we desired has happened. He’s been very uncooperative. Extremely uncooperative. I fear he would resist us at every turn, possibly cause some serious damage. It wouldn’t be the same as it was with Jack Spencer. The best spies are those who want to be spies, and Dennis Showers demonstrably does not.”
Mendelsohn was grinning eerily, like a cat with a fresh kill.
“What about the hook?” said Thatcher. “Didn’t you
try the hook?”
“No. I fear it would be counter productive; certainly a waste of time.”
“You’re wrong, Hugh,” said the grinning Mendelsohn.
“We’d have to invent this guy, Hugh,” said Thatcher. “Friend of Porique. Westchester WASP gone Frog. Perfect cover. Knows Canada like his wife’s ass. He’d be one of our best insertions, Hugh. It could really pay off.”
“I’m sorry,” Laidlaw said. “It was my idea, but it isn’t working. It’s a waste of time. It can’t be done.”
“‘The world would sleep if things were run, by men who say, “It can’t be done,”’” recited Mendelsohn. “Philander Johnson. A minor American poet. He was born after the Civil War and died just before World War Two.”
“Please, Freddy,” said Laidlaw.
Mendelsohn reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder, emptying it with a graceful flourish on the table.
“‘We must know as much as possible, in our beautiful art,’” he said. “Henry James.”
“What’s all this?” said Thatcher.
“I took the small liberty of putting a mail intercept on Mr. Showers,” Mendelsohn said. “Here’s the catch for the last few days.”
“Mostly bills,” Thatcher said. “Expensive stores. So what? The president could shut us down for your doing this.”
Mendelsohn reached deftly into the pile with his long spiderlike fingers and plucked out a Xerox copy of a brief letter. The letterhead was that of a New York State college.
“Mr. Showers has made an inquiry after the present whereabouts of one Hope Felicity Stuart,” he said, leaning back triumphantly. “Hugh, I think you’re going to be his case officer after all.”
Pavl Kodakov looked nothing at all like a spy and very little like a Russian. Tall and extremely thin, he showed the fondness shared by many of his Russian colleagues for western clothes and consumer goods, but not for the usual sort. Kodakov loved leisure suits, caring little that they were no longer in style. He loved white shoes and white belts, aviator glasses and loud ties. On any feeder airline flying the South or Midwest, he would look like half the passengers, a simple Rotarian from Paducah or Muncie.
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