“I’ve got a vague idea,” said the driver. “At 2330, you’re cutting it pretty close, sir.”
“OK—2300, then. And thanks.” Webb got out of the car, closed the door and waited until the brown sedan entered the flow of traffic on Seventy-second Street. He stepped off the curb and headed south to Seventy-first.
Four minutes later he stood in front of a well-kept brownstone, its muted, rich design in concert with those around it in the tree-lined street. It was a quiet street, a monied street—old money. It was the last place in Manhattan a person would suspect of housing one of the most sensitive intelligence operations in the country. And as of twenty minutes ago, Major Gordon Webb was one of only eight or ten people in the country who knew of its existence.
Treadstone Seventy-One.
He climbed the steps, aware that the pressure of his weight on the iron grids embedded in the stone beneath him triggered electronic devices that in turn activated cameras, producing his image on screens inside. Beyond this, he knew little, except that Treadstone Seventy-One never closed; it was operated and monitored twenty-four hours a day by a select few, identities unknown.
He reached the top step and rang the bell, an ordinary bell, but not for an ordinary door, the major could see that. The heavy wood was riveted to a steel plate behind it, the decorative iron designs in actuality the rivets, the large brass knob disguising a hotplate that caused a series of steel bolts to shoot across into steel receptacles at the touch of a human hand when the alarms were turned on. Webb glanced up at the windows. Each pane of glass, he knew, was an inch thick, capable of withstanding the impact of .30 caliber shells. Treadstone Seventy-One was a fortress.
The door opened and the major involuntarily smiled at the figure standing there, so totally out of place did she seem. She was a petite, elegant-looking, gray-haired woman with soft aristocratic features and a bearing that bespoke monied gentility. Her voice confirmed the appraisal; it was mid-Atlantic, refined in the better finishing schools, and at innumerable polo matches.
“How good of you to drop by, Major. Jeremy wrote us that you might. Do come in. It’s such a pleasure to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you again, too,” replied Webb, stepping into the tasteful foyer, finishing his statement when the door was closed, “but I’m not sure where it was we met before.” The woman laughed. “Oh, we’ve had dinner ever so many times.”
“With Jeremy?”
“Of course.”
“Who’s Jeremy?”
“A devoted nephew who’s also your devoted friend. Such a nice young man; it’s a pity he doesn’t exist.” She took his elbow as they walked down a long hallway. “It’s all for the benefit of neighbors who might be strolling by. Come along now, they’re waiting.” They passed an archway that led to a large living room; the major looked inside. There was a grand piano by the front windows, harp beside it; and everywhere—on the piano and on polished tables glistening under the spill of subdued lamps—were silver-framed photographs, mementos of a past filled with wealth and grace. Sailboats, men and women on the decks of ocean liners, several military portraits. And, yes, two candid shots of someone mounted for a polo match. It was a room that belonged in a brownstone on this street.
They reached the end of the hallway; there was a large mahogany door, bas-relief and iron ornamentation part of its design, part of its security. If there was an infrared camera, Webb could not detect the whereabouts of the lens. The gray-haired woman pressed an unseen bell; the major could hear a slight hum.
“Your friend is here, gentlemen. Stop playing poker and go to work. Snap to, Jesuit.”
“Jesuit?” asked Webb, bewildered.
“An old joke,” replied the woman. “It goes back to when you were probably playing marbles and snarling at little girls.”
The door opened and the aged but still erect figure of David Abbott was revealed. “Glad to see you, Major,” said the former Silent Monk of Covert Services, extending his hand.
“Good to be here, sir.” Webb shook hands. Another elderly, imposing-looking man came up beside Abbott.
“A friend of Jeremy’s, no doubt,” said the man, his deep voice edged with humor. “Dreadfully sorry time preludes proper introductions, young fellow. Come along, Margaret. There’s a lovely fire upstairs.” He turned to Abbott. “You’ll let me know when you’re leaving, David?”
“Usual time for me, I expect,” replied the Monk. “I’ll show these two how to ring you.” It was then that Webb realized there was a third man in the room; he was standing in the shadows at the far end, and the major recognized him instantly. He was Elliot Stevens, senior aide to the president of the United States—some said his alter ego. He was in his early forties, slender, wore glasses and had the bearing of unpretentious authority about him.
“… it’ll be fine.” The imposing older man who had not found time to introduce himself had been speaking; Webb had not heard him, his attention on the White House aide. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Till next time,” continued Abbott, shifting his eyes kindly to the gray-haired woman. “Thanks, Sister Meg. Keep your habit pressed. And down.”
“You’re still wicked, Jesuit.”
The couple left, closing the door behind them. Webb stood for a moment, shaking his head and smiling. The man and woman of 139 East Seventy-first belonged to the room down the hall, just as that room belonged in the brownstone, all a part of the quiet, monied, tree-lined street. “You’ve known them a long time, haven’t you?”
“A lifetime, you might say,” replied Abbott. “He was a yachtsman we put to good use in the Adriatic runs for Donovan’s operations in Yugoslavia. Mikhailovitch once said he sailed on sheer nerve, bending the worst weather to his will. And don’t let Sister Meg’s graciousness fool you. She was one of Intrepid’s girls, a piranha with very sharp teeth.”
“They’re quite a story.”
“It’ll never be told,” said Abbott, closing the subject. “I want you to meet Elliot Stevens. I don’t think I have to tell you who he is. Webb, Stevens. Stevens, Webb.”
“That sounds like a law firm,” said Stevens amiably, walking across the room, hand extended. “Nice to know you, Webb. Have a good trip?”
“I would have preferred military transport. I hate those damned commercial airlines. I thought a customs agent at Kennedy was going to slice the lining of my suitcase.”
“You look too respectable in that uniform,” laughed the Monk. “You’re obviously a smuggler.”
“I’m still not sure I understand the uniform,” said the major, carrying his briefcase to a long hatch table against the wall, and unclipping the nylon cord from his belt.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” answered Abbott, “that the tightest security is often found in being quite obvious on the surface. An army intelligence officer prowling around undercover in Zurich at this particular time could raise alarms.”
“Then I don’t understand, either,” said the White House aide, coming up beside Webb at the table, watching the major’s manipulations with the nylon cord and the lock. “Wouldn’t an obvious presence raise even more shrill alarms? I thought the assumption of undercover was that discovery was less probable.”
“Webb’s trip to Zurich was a routine consulate check, predated on the G-Two schedules. No one fools anybody about those trips; they’re what they are and nothing else. Ascertaining new sources, paying off informants. The Soviets do it all the time; they don’t even bother to hide it. Neither do we, frankly.”
“But that wasn’t the purpose of this trip,” said Stevens, beginning to understand. “So the obvious conceals the unobvious.”
“That’s it.”
“Can I help?” The presidential aide seemed fascinated by the briefcase.
“Thanks,” said Webb. “Just pull the cord through.”
Stevens did so. “I always thought it was chains around the wrist,” he said.
“Too many hands cut off,” explained the major, smil
ing at the White House man’s reaction.
“There’s a steel wire running through the nylon.” He freed the briefcase and opened it on the table, looking around at the elegance of the furnished library-den. At the rear of the room was a pair of French doors that apparently led to an outside garden, an outline of a high stone wall seen dimly through the panes of thick glass. “So this is Treadstone Seventy-One. It isn’t the way I pictured it.”
“Pull the curtains again, will you please, Elliot?” Abbott said. The presidential aide walked to the French doors and did so. Abbott crossed to a bookcase, opened the cabinet beneath it, and reached inside. There was a quiet whir, the entire bookcase came out of the wall and slowly revolved to the left. On the other side was an electronic radio console, one of the most sophisticated Gordon Webb had seen. “Is this more what you had in mind?” asked the Monk. “Jesus …” The major whistled as he studied the dials, calibrations, cable patches and scanning devices built into the panel. The Pentagon war rooms had far more elaborate equipment, but this was the miniaturized equal of most well-structured intelligence stations.
“I’d whistle, too,” said Stevens, standing in front of the dense curtain. “But Mr. Abbott already gave me my personal sideshow. That’s only the beginning. For more buttons and this place looks like a SAC base in Omaha.”
“Those same buttons also transform this room back into a graceful East Side library.” The old man reached inside the cabinet; in seconds the enormous console was replaced by bookshelves. He then walked to the adjacent bookcase, opened the cabinet beneath and once again put his hand inside. The whirring began; the bookcase slid out, and shortly in its place were three tall filing cabinets. The Monk took out a key and pulled out a file drawer. “I’m not showing off, Gordon. When we’re finished, I want you to look through these. I’ll show you the switch that’ll send them back. If you have any problems, our host will take care of everything.”
“What am I to look for?”
“We’ll get to it; right now I want to hear about Zurich. What have you learned?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Abbott,” interrupted Stevens. “If I’m slow, it’s because all this is new to me. But I was thinking about something you said a minute ago about Major Webb’s trip.”
“What is it?”
“You said the trip was predated on the G-Two schedules.”
“That’s right.”
“Why? The major’s obvious presence was to confuse Zurich, not Washington. Or was it?”
The Monk smiled. “I can see why the president keeps you around. We’ve never doubted that Carlos has bought his way into a circle or two—or ten—in Washington. He finds the discontented men and offers them what they do not have. A Carlos could not exist without such people. You must remember, he doesn’t merely sell death, he sells a nation’s secrets. All too frequently to the Soviets, if only to prove to them how rash they were to expel him.”
“The president would want to know that,” said the aide. “It would explain several things.”
“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” said Abbott.
“I guess it is.”
“And it’s a good place to begin for Zurich,” said Webb, taking his briefcase to an armchair in front of the filing cabinets. He sat down, spreading the folds inside the case at his feet, and took out several sheets of paper. “You may not doubt Carlos is in Washington, but I can confirm it.”
“Where? Treadstone?”
“There’s no clear proof of that, but it can’t be ruled out. He found the fiche. He altered it.”
“Good God, how?”
“The how I can only guess; the who I know.”
“Who?”
“A man named Koenig. Until three days ago he was in charge of primary verifications at the Gemeinschaft Bank.”
“Three days ago? Where is he now?”
“Dead. A freak automobile accident on a road he traveled every day of his life. Here’s the police report; I had it translated.” Abbott took the papers, and sat down in a nearby chair. Elliot Stevens remained standing; Webb continued. “There’s something very interesting there. It doesn’t tell us anything we don’t know, but there’s a lead I’d like to follow up.”
“What is it?” asked the Monk, reading. “This describes the accident. The curve, speed of vehicle, apparent swerving to avoid a collision.”
“It’s at the end. It mentions the killing at the Gemeinschaft, the bolt that got us off our asses.”
“It does?” Abbott turned the page.
“Look at it. Last couple of sentences. See what I mean?”
“Not exactly,” replied Abbott, frowning. “This merely states that Koenig was employed by the Gemeinschaft where a recent homicide took place … and he had been a witness to the initial gunfire. That’s all.”
“I don’t think it is ‘all,’” said Webb. “I think there was more. Someone started to raise a question, but it was left hanging. I’d like to find out who has his red pencil on the Zurich police reports. He could be Carlos’ man; we know he’s got one there.” The Monk leaned back in the chair, his frown unrelieved. “Assuming you’re right, why wasn’t the entire reference deleted?”
“Too obvious. The killing did take place; Koenig was a witness; the investigating officer who wrote up the report might legitimately ask why.”
“But if he had speculated on a connection wouldn’t he be just as disturbed that the speculation was deleted?”
“Not necessarily. We’re talking about a bank in Switzerland. Certain areas are officially inviolable unless there’s proof.”
“Not always. I understood you were very successful with the newspapers.”
“Unofficially. I appealed to prurient journalistic sensationalism, and—although it damn near killed him—got Walther Apfel to corroborate halfway.”
“Interruption,” said Elliot Stevens. “I think this is where the Oval Office has to come in. I assume by the newspapers you’re referring to the Canadian woman.”
“Not really. That story was already out; we couldn’t stop it. Carlos is wired into the Zurich police; they issued that report. We simply enlarged on it and tied her to an equally false story about millions having been stolen from the Gemeinschaft.” Webb paused and looked at Abbott. “That’s something we have to talk about; it may not be false after all.”
“I can’t believe that,” said the Monk.
“I don’t want to believe it,” replied the major. “Ever.”
“Would you mind backing up?” asked the White House aide, sitting down opposite the army officer. “I have to get this very clear.”
“Let me explain,” broke in Abbott, seeing the bewilderment on Webb’s face. “Elliot’s here on orders from the president. It’s the killing at the Ottawa airport.”
“It’s an unholy mess,” said Stevens bluntly. “The prime minister damn near told the president to take our stations out of Nova Scotia. He’s one angry Canadian.”
“How did it come down?” asked Webb.
“Very badly. All they know is that a ranking economist at National Revenue’s Treasury Board made discreet inquiries about an unlisted American corporation and got himself killed for it. To make matters worse, Canadian Intelligence was told to stay out of it; it was a highly sensitive U. S. operation.”
“Who the hell did that?”
“I believe I’ve heard the name Iron Ass bandied about here and there,” said the Monk.
“General Crawford? Stupid son of a bitch—stupid iron-assed son of a bitch!”
“Can you imagine?” interjected Stevens. “Their man gets killed and we have the gall to tell them to stay out.”
“He was right, of course,” corrected Abbott. “It had to be done swiftly, no room for misunderstanding. A clamp had to be put on instantly, the shock sufficiently outrageous to stop everything. It gave me time to reach MacKenzie Hawkins—Mac and I worked together in Burma; he’s retired but they listen to him. They’re cooperating now and that’s the important thing, isn�
�t it?”
“There are other considerations, Mr. Abbott,” protested Stevens.
“They’re on different levels, Elliot. We working stiffs aren’t on them; we don’t have to spend time over diplomatic posturing. I’ll grant you those postures are necessary, but they don’t concern us.”
“They do concern the president, sir. They’re part of his every working-stiff day. And that’s why I have to go back with a very clear picture.” Stevens paused, turning to Webb. “Now, please, let me have it again. Exactly what did you do and why? What part did we play regarding this Canadian woman?”
“Initially not a goddamn thing, that was Carlos’ move. Someone very high up in the Zurich police is on Carlos’ payroll. It was the Zurich police who mocked up the so-called evidence linking her to the three killings. And it’s ludicrous; she’s no killer.”
“All right, all right,” said the aide. “That was Carlos. Why did he do it?”
“To flush out Bourne. The St. Jacques woman and Bourne are together.”
“Bourne being this assassin who calls himself Cain, correct?”
“Yes,” said Webb. “Carlos has sworn to kill him. Cain’s moved in on Carlos all over Europe and the Middle East, but there’s no photograph of Cain, no one really knows what he looks like. So by circulating a picture of the woman—and let me tell you, it’s in every damn newspaper over there—someone may spot her. If she’s found, the chances are that Cain—Bourne—will be found too. Carlos will kill them both.”
“All right. Again, that’s Carlos. Now what did you do?”
“Just what I said. Reached the Gemeinschaft and convinced the bank into confirming the fact that the woman might—just might—be tied with a massive theft. It wasn’t easy, but it was their man Koenig who’d been bribed, not one of our people. That’s an internal matter; they wanted a lid on it.
Then I called the papers and referred them to Walther Apfel. Mysterious woman, murder, millions stolen; the editors leaped at it.”
“For Christ’s sake, why?” shouted Stevens. “You used a citizen of another country for a U. S. intelligence strategy! A staff employee of a closely allied government. Are you out of your minds? You only exacerbated the situation, you sacrificed her!”
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