by James Grady
Kevin returned to his seat. He barely resisted the temptation to stroll casualty up the aisle to see the three suspects. If he looked at them, the "dirty one" in the trio might notice him.
The 9:40 flight from Berlin had been an uneventful journey to England. As the plane taxied to its disembarking point, the passengers noticed a large number of emergency vehicles and trucks converging on an overturned baggage cart near the main terminal. While the plane .slowed to a standstill, the pilot, speaking first in English, then in German, bade farewell to his passengers and thanked them for flying his airline. He also announced that because of a minor accident, their baggage dispersal would be slightly delayed. He apologized for the inconvenience and wished them an enjoyable stay in London.
Kevin stood on the edge of the anxious crowd assembled in the waiting room. Most of his fellow passengers watched the chute periodically spew forth baggage which was eagerly claimed by passengers from earlier flights. Kevin watched the crowd.
Tyler Cassil had been with MI5, Britain's major counterintelligence force, for eleven years. For queen and country he had performed a number of chores quite well. He took pride in his work. Unlike many of his fellow officers, Cassil didn't mind working with the Americans. A rumor which had recently come to his attention through a friendly neutral party even claimed Cassil enjoyed working with the hotshot Yankees. Cassil himself wouldn't go quite that far, although he did admit that working with the Americans could be quite amusing and occasionally instructive. And they certainly ran a cushy budget show. The particular case be was involved in that morning was quite amusing. Cassil strolled to the wall where Kevin stood, leaned against it and said, "And how was your flight, old chap?" Cassil thought Americans in England felt cheated if they weren't periodically addressed as "old chap."
Kevin looked at the short, seedy Englishman, whom he knew, and said, 'Fine, thank you. What are you doing here?"
The two men spoke softly. The nearest person was ten feet away, and neither of them worried about what-the aging spinster could hear at that range.
"Oh, just a day's work," replied Cassil easily, "the SB [Special Branch] fellows got a request for some info from your local. That naturally prompted our desire to help, and we offered our services. Your local thanked us politely, but said w~ weren't needed. Our assistant chief worried that perhaps your London man didn't have enough authority to ask for our assistance, so he got on the scramble phone to a deputy in your shop, and presto, within half an hour your London control told us we could help you flush a Russki on this flight.
"We helped SB arrange the baggage delay so the passengers could be checked out as much as possible before they scattered across our Merry England, and downstairs our people are running the X rays over the pieces belonging to the three major suspects. Can't tamper with them much more because you never know what clever tricks Uncle Boris builds into his stuff so he can tell if you've been at them. Hope you don't mind."
Kevin smiled at his companion. M15, worried about Americans pulling a coup in England without Her Majesty's Secret Service's knowledge, tracked down Kevin's work with the Special Branch and applied enough pressure to be let in on the game. Kevin wondered and worried about how much M15 knew. The more people involved in a covert intelligence operation, the less covert the operation became. But politics, thought Kevin, is politics.
"On the contrary, you seem to have things well in hand. Do you have anything definite yet?"
"No, nothing definite, but I think we're doing very well. None of the three suspects are booked out on flights to Canada or the States, but that means nothing, since our boy will probably change identities for that segment of the run. We're still digging, but I already have my favorite.
"The least likely is Johan Ristov, who had twelve B. His cover is a Polish professor, and we're having trouble verifying that, which could mean something. But his passport and travel papers list him as sixty-three, and he looks at least seventy. I can't picture him on any kind of active run, which, I understand, is what this is all about."
Good, thought Kevin, they don't know many details about the mission. He said nothing when Cassil paused. "My number two choice," continued Cassil, "'is Sean O'Flaherty, supposedly an Irish national. We're running into some discrepancies between what his passport says and what we have on record, but I think that's because he's dirty in another way. If he is up to anything, I'll bet it's smuggling or IRA business.
"Which leads us to number three, Ivan Markowitz of seat forty-two B. He caught our eye first time through the list. His cover is good on the surface, but our computers turn up no mention of him in any open Polish sources: nothing in newspapers, trade journals, government reports, party membership rolls, honors lists or anywhere, all of which is rather strange for an official so important and trustworthy he gets sent off to a trade exposition in London by himself. We're having the MI Six boys-without telling them anything, naturally-check over their sources, and I understand your people are doing the same. However, that will take some time. This Markowitz is medium age, good physical shape, and my bet. What do you think?"
"Given all that, I agree. I take it your people will be running the SB boys and working with us?"
Cassil grinned. "Let's just say we're operating in an advisory, facilitative capacity. You'll be running the show, and you'll get all we can give you, but we want in as far as we can. Of course, SB will act as our major team"
"Of course," replied Kevin, returning Cassil's smile. "Put the main group on Markowitz. I want him completely covered, but give him absolutely no reason to suspect we've got him under surveillance-no sneaky search or other heavy stuff. I want him in a tight box, but a big enough box that he doesn't bump into the walls. You might pass the word that anybody who blows this is in big trouble with Uncle. Big trouble."
Cassil nodded slowly.
"Put auxiliary teams on the other two until they're cleared. You might also have the SB keep light tabs on the rest of the passengers, just in case."
"You certainly are going to a lot of trouble to cover all your bets. Is this that big?"
Kevin ignored his colleague's prying. "Keep your people and Six digging on Markowitz's background; we'll do the same. Be ready to cover anybody and everybody Markowitz contacts. Let your people know he may turn rabbit and run under a new identity at any time. They should be prepared for that. At the same time, perform the normal check on him that you do on all the trade exposition people. If you have a leak, maybe that will keep Boris from knowing we're curious."
"And is there anything else you Yanks would like? Perhaps a tap on every line in London, just in case someone named Markowitz calls one of our citizens?"
Kevin studied the Englishman carefully. It was a joke, a joke to open Kevin up for more questions, to break the ice for more fishing expeditions in the future. At least, it could be that, Kevin thought. "No," he replied, "I don't think that will be necessary."
As he turned and walked to pick up his luggage, which had just emerged on the conveyor belt, Kevin heard the Englishman's snorting, half-deriding, half-humorous retort.
As the 9:40 flight from Berlin to London circled Heathrow Airport for a landing, two West German intelligence technicians carefully removed the camera from the ticket booth at the Berlin departure gate. The film had long since been sent to the processors, but the camera had been left in place until the departure gate was not busy. The technicians took their time removing the camera. They were watched only by an American CIA adviser and a bored janitor waiting to clean up the mess they made. Occasionally a passenger walked by, but none of the travelers paid any attention to the workmen.
It took fifteen minutes to remove the camera. The three intelligence operatives checked the ticket booth once more to be sure they had forgotten nothing, then they departed, leaving the more mundane task of sweeping up to the janitor.
The janitor didn't mind. He had been watching the activity at this particular departure gate for almost the entire day, even before he came on shif
t for his custodial duties. His vigilance had been rewarded, for faces made familiar by careful study of candid photographs had been busy at the gate before and after the plane's departure. He even found some new suspicious faces, faces which watched the crowd just a little too much and too well to be tourists. These latters faces he memorized to describe later to a competent artist. The janitor took his time cleaning the departure lounge, very carefully avoiding any attention from his superiors. After work he took his normal route home. But when he reached the block in which he lived, he abruptly darted down' an alley, hopped a low fence and dodged through several buildings. He then walked along back alleys and dark streets for several miles until he came to a telephone box. He dialed a number he had memorized the day before. After exchanging a complicated code sequence, the janitor said, "They've risen. Go." He hung up and leisurely strolled home, his day's work complete.
The man the janitor spoke to was a KGB courier. The courier had come to Berlin specifically to receive that short message over the telephone. While in Berlin the courier contacted no one, including the local KGB control. As soon as he received the message and the -command, the courier left for the return journey to Moscow. His itinerary included a stop at Prague, where he would phone a Moscow number and repeat verbatim the message he had been given in Berlin. The courier had no idea what the message meant. If an unfriendly intelligence agency intercepted the message, either when it was transferred from the janitor agent to the courier or from the courier to his superior in Moscow, the interceptor would have a hard time connecting his new intelligence data with the flight which left Berlin for London at 9:40 that morning.
Division Commander Ryzhov, called his very nervous Bureau Chief Serov immediately after hearing from Prague. "They have risen to the bait," Ryzhov said calmly, "their hunt is on and it is in their hands now."
Serov knew better than to ask who they were. For one thing, the line was probably tapped, and for another, such a question would show stupidity. Serov really didn't have to ask. Gamayun had*been on his mind constantly for the last few days, and he knew of nothing else important enough for Ryzhov to call him about. "I suppose that's good," Serov commented carefully.
"Well," came the disdainful reply, "good, bad or indifferent, it's out of our hands now. The ball rolls, as the Americans say."
"What if something goes wrong?" Serov wanted to make sure this point was ' very clear. He hoped someone besides Ryzhov had a tap on his line.
"Well, if something does go wrong-though I can't understand what, since we covered all the contingencies, didn't we?-Krumin will just have to handle it. With our assistance, of course."
"But what if ?'
"Comrade Serov," the crisp voice interrupted, "Krumin will handle it."
….
While Nurich slept peacefully in London, his hotel room surrounded by a small army of British and American intelligence agents, Malcolm prepared for his first day of "work" as a demographic surveyor for the Defense Mapping Agency.
The Defense Mapping Agency exists and has conducted perfectly legitimate surveys south of the area Malcolm would investigate. True, the legitimate surveys looked for different material in different ways, but Malcolm thought his cover as a government official allowed him sufficient freedom of action. In making its rural surveys, the DMA works closely with the Extension Service of the Department of Agriculture. The Department of Agriculture has a county extension agent in every county surveyed by the DMA. The extension agent provides valuable guidance to the surveyors. Malcolm had called the county extension agent the night before. The two men scheduled a breakfast meeting for seven that morning.
Malcolm didn't like mornings. Actually, he didn't dislike mornings per se, he disliked getting up early. Early for Malcolm usually meant before seven thirty in the morning. Consequently, Malcolm disliked many mornings. He lay in bed for ten minutes after the alarm clock the old lady provided him for "Wake-Up Service" blared through the room at 5:45 A.M. Get up, Malcolm, he finally said to himself, once again you're an eager government employee, only this time you're with the Defense Mapping Agency. He repeated the name to himself several times, sarcastically ingraining the cover in his mind.
Because he slept in and had an appointment, Malcolm excused himself from the exercises McGiffert had insisted he do every morning. Malcolm found exercising alone in his room discouraging and, boring. He showered, shaved and for once got his contacts in with relative ease. He tried to work up enthusiasm for the day as he brushed his teeth, telling himself, not too credibly, that his sloth came from laziness, not anxiety.
At least I don't have to wear a suit and tie, Malcolm thought as he pulled on his jeans and blue denim work shirt. As he tightened the laces, he wondered who had broken in the work boots Carl had provided. Malcolm looked out the window. The sun was up. A large bank of clouds seemed to be moving in from the northern horizon. The trees he saw through the window swayed with the wind. The wind had blown ever since Malcolm arrived in the town. The motel proprietress told him the wind always blew. Malcolm decided to wear his short suede jacket.
He unlocked and opened the combination-lock briefcase, carefully pushing the special button hidden on the side. If he hadn't pushed the button, a blasting cap would have exploded as soon as he opened the case. He removed his clipboard, a portfolio of specially printed survey forms, some pens, pencils, maps and a pair of binoculars, transferring them to the khaki Army shoulder-tote bag he had purchased at a surplus store in Great Falls. Carrying a briefcase which might explode in his face made Malcolm nervous.
Malcolm smiled as he stuffed his official paraphernalia into the knapsack. He also put in a copy of a new spy thriller to read when he got the chance. He looked in the bag. There was still enough room for the sack lunch he would buy at the restaurant and his two thermos jugs, one for coffee, one for milk. Malcolm turned back to the briefcase and stared at his gun.
A good deal of time and planning had gone into selecting a weapon for Malcolm, a selection in which he was given no choice. He had no idea the matter had been so complicated. The decision had to be made Malcolm's first day at the farm, following his initial session on the pistol range. McGiffert made Malcolm fire ten different pistols of varying caliber and type, both automatics and revolvers, thereby acquainting him with the different types of guns he might find as well as introducing him to firing pistols. Although Malcolm had shot two men with a pistol, he had little experience and no formal training. McGiffert also wanted to watch Malcolm handling different types of weapons so he could offer the best suggestion to the old man.
"I go wi' a revolver," McGiffert told the old man at their meeting following the. first firearms session. Malcolm was in another room learning how to burgle and search. McGiffert spoke only to Dr. Lofts and the old man.
"It's simpler to use," the instructor continued, "and wi' the degree of sophistication he'll get in three days, simplicity will be a big help. The doctor says a .357 Magnum like the Colt Python or any of the Smith & Wesson models are out because our boy mighf have bad memories from last time. I don' agree, but then guns, not heads, are my job."
McGiffert paused, waiting for a rebuke, and was mildly surprised when none came. The old man and Dr. Lofts regarded him attentively, but impassively. The instructor swallowed and continued.
"I don't think our boy could handle anything above a .38, and anything below that is awfully light. We can' count on him hitting a vital zone with his first shot if he should have to use his gun. That means he has to carry a stopper, something that will at least temporarily neutralize his opponent wherever Malcolm shoots him, within reason, of course. That means nothing less than a .32, an' I don' even trust that. We're back to a .38 an' like I said, a revolver. Since he has to carry it concealed, that means a short barrel, no more than four inches. I say two inches.
"Given all this, I say go wi' a Smith & Wesson .38 bodyguard airweight. It's hammerless, won't snag on clothin', and wi' a two-inch barrel it's less than seven inches long and do
esn't quite weigh a pound. It has only five rounds, but it's powerful enough and accurate enough-as Malcolm might use it-to do the job. We can outfit him wi' a shoulder and a belt holster. It's small enough he should be able to carry it concealed somehow. After watching him shoot, I also think it will suit him well enough.
"Although," McGiffert said, "perhaps we should give him an S&W .357 wi' a short barrel. A little more bulky, but almost twice the stopping power, six rounds---"
"I think," the old man interrupted, "the .38 hammerless will do quite nicely. We don't foresee our boy having to use a weapon anyway, although I want you to make sure he is as good as possible.
"I also want you to order him to carry the gun with him at all times. It will help impress him with the seriousness of his work, keep him, alert, and may even give him confidence. I don't think we have to worry about him acquiring false confidence from carrying a weapon. It will be too new to him, and you will, of course, impress upon him that he is no expert. It's spring in Montana. He'll need a jacket or a sweater most of the time anyway. It should be easy for him to conceal a weapon. If he should be seen with a gun, well, many Westerners carry them, not as many in Montana as in Texas, but between that local habit and a cover story about snakes embellished with a little impression of a gun nut, our boy should be able to pull it off. We'll arrange for him to have' a suitable federal license, just in case."
"I just hope he ne'r has to use it," McGiffert said softly.
….
Malcolm stared at the gun comfortably nestling in the soft brown leather shoulder holster. The carefully stitched leather on the shoulder holster and on the hip holster beside it, the dark blue, clean, hard metal, the checkered brown grips, all gave an impression of careful, controlled, competent finality. He had worn the gun on his tour of the missiles and felt ludicrous the whole time. Then he had been protected by Air Force guards who seemed at home with weapons strapped to their hips. Now, alone in the field with no competent backup, he felt even more ludicrous when he thought of the gun riding with him, hiding in his armpit, peeking out from underneath his jacket. The gun's air of finality also bothered Malcolm more than he wanted to admit. He looked at his tote bag then discarded that idea: With his luck he would drop the tote bag in the restaurant and out would pop the gun. Sighing away a memory of McGiffert's stem, worried face, Malcolm closed and locked the briefcase, the gun inside.
