by John Meaney
"Saudi intelligence."
Unlike me, Zeev was a Middle East expert. It was why he'd been my handler in Iraq, when I first met Fern.
"You know about Pinchas's family?" he added. "They died on Saudi soil. Their people feel a sense of obligation towards him."
I knew there'd been something in Pinchas's past.
"Ba'athists?"
"Planted a bomb in his hotel room, only he went down to the lobby just before it went off, leaving his wife and son upstairs. There was nothing left of them."
"Poor bastard."
"Yes. And since you obviously recognize the name," said Zeev, "what do you know of Bazargan?"
Shit.
I exhaled, controlling tension.
"I met him in Paris."
"Exactly when?" Shadows deepened, inside in Zeev's gaze. "Recently?"
So I told him about the party in Fern and Jean-Paul's apartment last winter, and how there'd been no discussion of intelligence matters with Bazargan, as we talked about the Atomium in Brussels and other trivia.
"I explained why an atom," I added, "is nothing like a mini solar system."
"Uh-huh." Zeev looked down, mulling something over. Then: "Ouroborus be damned, I take everything back. What Pinchas told me when he briefed me? He was totally correct."
This wasn't a briefing I'd attended.
"What did he say?"
"That David Wolf is a total bloody Philistine, but his brain is the size of a planet."
"Oh."
A wall-calendar hung in the briefing room. On it, the square representing today was delineated with a thick black border. By the Hebrew reckoning, this was the 27th of Nisan.
Pinchas was already sitting. Zeev sat down opposite.
"There's no room inside the sculpture for a bomb, apparently. False alarm. And did you know Wolf met Bazargan in Paris last year?"
"Really? I don't recall that."
"I didn't mention it in debrief." I moved a chair so I could face both Zeev and Pinchas, then sat. "It was social, and I didn't know he was covert liaison."
"Fair enough. Last December?"
"That's right."
What was important about the date? Then I realized: Jean-Paul hadn't reported Bazargan's presence at the party, either. Presumably he was supposed to.
"Any Head of Station," I said, "is pretty much autonomous."
"I'm not accusing anyone."
But Pinchas was remembering something, perhaps the Hamburg docks, and the fact that Moshe's travel had been via Paris, so Jean-Paul would have known the arrangements.
As would Fern.
Fern...
There was a limit. I would not discuss her childhood in Lithuania. And if she'd fed Moshe's travel details to an enemy, it would have been to Moscow, not Black Path.
No. She's not a traitor.
"I'm going to break a rule." Pinchas took off his glasses. "Zeev, it's about an asset you didn't know we have. A colonel in the KGB, based in Moscow."
"Oy vay."
"Exactly what I thought," I said. "When I went to meet the guy."
"You recruited him?"
"No," said Pinchas. "That was me, three years ago. Let me tell you how it went."
At the US Embassy in Paris, the Segals attended a business affair: Jean-Paul as a local importer of electronics, Fern as his bored, flirtatious wife. The CIA station chief knew Jean-Paul's true role, but believed Fern to be a civilian. Among the other attendees were representatives from the Eastern Bloc, trusted men with KGB minders.
Pinchas was there incidentally, having passed on Gulf-related intelligence to the CIA while it was still relevant, instead of waiting until his return to Berlin. He spotted a pale, consumptive-looking man with slightly bulbous eyes, who managed to cut Fern out of the crowd. The pale man led Fern behind a pillar.
Pinchas moved into position to observe. The pale man seemed to have business more than flirting on his mind. Knowing Fern's inexperience, Pinchas made his move. If a Soviet official was thinking of coming across to the West, then it was standard protocol that the most senior officer present should take over.
"Ah," the man had said. "You have a colleague with you."
Fern had covered her surprise.
"I know the lady's husband," Pinchas had told him.
"My name is Colonel Ignatieff, but you" – with a courtly bow towards Fern – "may call me Arkady."
That had been the beginning of the most subtle and dangerous form of seduction: the transfer of a man's loyalties from one camp to the opposition. It had taken time, with increasing levels of trust on both sides, until they reached their current working relationship.
After Pinchas had finished, Zeev and I looked at each other. Then Zeev's expression shifted, and after a second, I caught up. Pinchas had told us the story for a reason.
Ignatieff might not have been coming across to the West.
Perhaps he'd cut Fern out of the crowd because she was already his agent and he needed to talk to her. To someone who was already a traitor to her people.
"Not Fern," I said.
Zeev's eyes widened. Shit. Perhaps he'd come to a different conclusion: that Ignatieff was trying to recruit Jean-Paul via his wife, not Fern herself.
In Moscow, Ignatieff had compared the boulevards to those of Paris. Testing my reaction?
"Look at the time," said Pinchas.
"What?" Zeev turned his wrist over. "Two minutes. Shall we go outside?"
"I think we should."
We used one of the buttonless lifts, went through the armoured inner doors and crossed the foyer, nodding to the guards. We exited through the main doorway. There were seven others standing on the broad top step, staring down at the traffic in the street, or up at the sky. Waiting.
Cars and vans were already slowing.
"One minute," someone said.
Soon every vehicle had stopped. A cream-coloured bus stood nearby, and every passenger was silent. A foreign couple in a hire car looked confused, but pulled over like everybody else.
A siren howled.
Then a series of metallic wails resonated across the sky, as roof-mounted sirens around the city joined in the mournful chorus, the cry of remembrance, of the reason we call this day Yom HaShoah.
Whether you pray or simply remember, it was a time to reflect on a million and half dead children, and the four and a half million adults who accompanied them to the execution trenches, to the shower chambers where only Zyklon B came hissing from the nozzles.
As the sirens' sound died off, a soft spring rain began to fall; but for a time nobody moved.
When we returned to the briefing-room, a courier was waiting for Pinchas, envelope in hand, the Category Beth security stamp visible. After the courier had left, Pinchas broke the seals, and read the single sheet.
"The CIA have come up with the goods."
"What goods?"
"Crossman and Appleton have applied for visas to the States. It's starting to happen."
"Thank God for that."
TWENTY-NINE:
WASHINGTON, D.C., May 1963
My plane was a B.O.A.C. flight, a BAC long-hauler. The clouds shone below, hiding the Atlantic waves.
I'm going to see Fern.
But that was incidental to the mission, because Blackstone had not just reported back to his CIA bosses: he'd got them on full alert. The result was that we knew Appleton and Crossman were scheduled to fly to the US within days.
I was going to get there first.
"Blackstone appreciates the possibility of violence on home ground," Schröder had said before I left. "His father was based in Pearl Harbor."
We still didn't know the Black Path plans in details, but at least we now had the names of two of their people, and their travel plans. My mental image of Black Path was a wriggling, amorphous dark cloud with tentacles, while we were tiny spiders scuttling around the edges, trying to find a way in.
Albrecht Reinhard had disappeared into that darkness. We'd had a watch team o
n him, but a class misdirection exercise in Munich's U-bahn system had left our people following half a dozen decoys, all dressed in clothes identical to Reinhard's, while he had gone to ground. And it wasn't just our enemies going missing: there'd been no news of Clive Rogers. I wouldn't be travelling under my own name until we found him.
We were obtaining the CIA's help through Blackstone. I was also to meet up with our highest-ranking local asset, a case officer working in the Atomic Energy Commission, cover name Helen Stanfield.
Fern.
We wanted to trail Crossman and Appleton if possible, so they led us to the bomb. Given that they would want to protect New York's citizenry, the CIA would work with us – unless we told them about the threat to Kennedy's life, specifically from Crossman. If they learned that, they might take the risk of snatching Crossman for interrogation, putting everyone else at risk. So we were taking a different risk, keeping Crossman's intentions secret, hoping we could close down their op while Kennedy still lived.
The plane landed at 4 p.m., and two hours later I checked in to an nondescript hotel called the Watergate. There was a phone in the room, and Fern was right here in this city.
I went to bed.
In the morning, I jogged the length of the Mall: nothing to do with shopping, but a miles-long grassy strip that starts at the Capitol. The park is spacious, and there are no skyscrapers to either side. Federal law forbids any structure rising higher than the seat of government: Freudian insecurity manifested in architectural regulations.
Returning to the Watergate lobby, breathing heavily and coated with sweat, I checked at the desk for messages.
"There's a telegram, sir. Here you are."
"Thanks."
In my room, I opened the envelope. The telegram read: THIRD AND FOURTEENTH. Some people worry about the pyramids and eyes on dollar bills, seeing conspiracy. Perhaps American streets are numbered rather than named so that it's easier to encrypt rendezvous locations. Or perhaps they add up to the number of the beast in code.
In the shower, I cranked the numbers 3 and 14 in my head, working out the actual rendezvous.
Half an hour later, I entered the red-upholstered diner where Blackstone was sitting. Before him was a half-demolished plate of eggs.
"I'll have exactly that," I told the waitress, pointing at Blackstone's plate. "Plus orange juice and lots of coffee, please."
"You got it."
When she was gone, I said: "You've got Immigration notified, is that right?"
"Right. No surveillance teams to follow either man. We leave that to you."
The waitress returned, put down juice and a jug of iced water, then made a quick journey to fetch coffee.
"Thank you."
"Welcome."
When she'd gone, I said: "If they made any phone calls on arrival at the airport, whichever one they land at, it would be nice to know what they said."
"If only that were possible."
"I guess Federal regulations prohibit long-term wiretaps on airport pay phones."
"Sure," said Blackstone. "Just think of the resources it would take."
"Yeah. In New Jerusalem, we'd never be able to manage it."
Blackstone smiled.
"Of course, we're not actually in New Jerusalem."
"And I'm not suggesting your agency would circumvent the law."
"Then we understand each other, Mr Wolf."
I took a cab, telling the driver only the street and building number. But when he pulled up, he noticed the brass sign reading Atomic Energy Commission.
"Freakin' Commies," he said. "Buildin' Sputniks and them ICBMs. Hope youse guys're doin' sumpin' about that."
"I'm just an accountant."
I handed over the fare, and climbed out.
"Freakin' accountants—" floated back as he drove off.
I'm going to see Fern.
Just minutes away.
My God. Fern.
She came out of the building as I reached the bottom step. Paralysis held me in place, stopping my breath.
"Helen," I called out finally. "Is that you?"
"Alan? Of course it is."
We met halfway up the steps and shook hands. She was wearing white cotton summer gloves, very stylish, but the electricity still leaped through.
Men in suits moved past us.
"Fancy lunch?" I said. "I think I have time."
"Let me choose the place."
We walked until a cab rolled past, and Fern stuck out her hand. We climbed in, and Fern gave the driver a Georgetown address. We drove through the city.
As we travelled, Fern filled my awareness. The rustle of her stockings when she crossed her legs. The elegant scent of her perfume. The bodily warmth of her.
The driver pulled up before a neat, white apartment block.
"That's the one," said Fern.
While I paid, a doorman – a short black man wearing a burgundy uniform – came forward from the building. He opened the taxi door for Fern.
"Hi, Harold. Isn't it a nice evening?"
"It certainly is, ma'am."
We walked together into the foyer. I had an impression of a polished white floor, an orange star-design in the centre. But Fern was everything. Then we were inside an elevator, Fern had pressed the button marked 4, and the doors were sliding shut.
It was unbearable.
"David..."
We pulled each other close, frantically hard, my hand inside her smooth blouse, kissing, her tongue so sweet, her lower belly pressed against me. There was a rocking motion and a ding! The door opened, revealing a plush landing.
"This way." She grabbed my hand. "Hurry."
Her hand shook, but she worked the key in the lock. Then we were inside her apartment's hallway, and I kicked the door shut. My hands curved round her beautiful buttocks as we kissed deeply, deeper than seemed possible.
Soon, I was pulling apart her blouse, cupping her breasts, freeing them from the ivory bra. Her raspberry nipples rounded, and I took one in my mouth.
"David. Oh, hurry now. Now."
And I was inside her, pushing into velvet wonder, her back pressed against the wall. It was amazing as we yelled out together while the world exploded into white. It was miraculous.
"Oh, my God." I slid my hands along her perfect skin, beneath her clothes. "My perfect Fern."
"You're perfect yourself."
That generated a twinge of memory from somewhere. The instant passed.
She led me into her bedroom, where she pulled down the sheets as I slid the blouse from her shoulders. I undid her skirt and slid it down to the floor. Smiling, she removed my shirt. Naked together, we slid into the bed and pulled the sheets up, and clasped each other. Fern slid a hand downwards.
"I sense a stirring of interest again, David. So soon?"
"Because you are incredible."
Slipping inside her intimate grip once more, I slowly, slowly rode with her towards the stars. We were staring into each other's eyes, even as we blasted into climax once again.
Afterwards, we lay still, holding each other, not wanting to speak.
Fern. Oh, Fern.
This was insane. My life was insane.
I wish I didn't have to ask.
Eventually, I took in a breath, then said: "Tell me about Ignatieff. Does the name mean anything to you?"
We were as close as two human beings can get. When her lovely muscles tensed, I felt it.
"Is that who you went to see in the East?" She meant, after seeing her in Paris, the last time we'd met.
"After Poland, yes. I continued on to Moscow."
"So." Fern slipped from the bed, and walked in splendid nakedness to the door. She took a lavender robe from the hook, and pulled it around her. "How is the old Muscovite bastard?"
"He sends his love."
"The hell he does."
She walked out of the room.
Damn, damn, damn it.
There was no sign of her returning. I rolled out of bed, retr
ieved my shorts from the floor.
This was about to go badly.
I leaned against the kitchen counter in my skivvies while Fern made coffee. Her lavender robe was tightly fastened. As she moved, I subtly altered my body language. She recognized the pattern and broke it, destroying rapport.
"You thought I'd deny knowing Ignatieff, David?"
"Hardly. I'm curious about him, and Bazargan."
"What's Bazargan got to do with anything? The Saudi professor, right?"
Fern handed me a mug, not looking at my eyes.
Since when did we become opponents?
Inside me, post-coital ease was merging with a sense of fatalistic acceptance. This was awful. Our relationship might fall apart with a single word.
"Are you a witchfinder these days, David? Is that it?"
They'd questioned Moshe, the witchfinders. Poor bastard.
"You know that last October, in Hamburg, a Black Path team tried to take me and Pinchas down? It was Moshe who should have been there."
She adjusted the robe, though it was already pulled tight.
"I didn't know."
Didn't know who she was setting up for death?
Fern. My God.
I had to rescue this, right now.
"Tell me you're loyal," I said. "Mostly loyal. Tell me that much."
Her gaze drifted to the bedroom door, then angled down.
"Jean-Paul's coming here in a few weeks. I suppose I am... sort of. Loyal."
"I didn't mean..."
Shit.
How badly could this conversation go?
"I owe my life to Jean-Paul, too. You know that. But you can't love two people at the same time."
"Can't I?"
"Is he an asset in your life, Fern? Are you managing your relationship with him because as Head of Paris Station he has access to what you need?"
Fern's posture hardened. She was very still.
I've gone too far.
Then she shook her head, and that was it.
"David."
"I know."
I left the apartment building on foot, shaking my head when the doorman, Harold, offered to ring for a taxi. His brown eyes grew sad. Perhaps he'd seen too much of people's lives, people who failed to recognize his insight. If his skin had been a different shade, what job might he be doing now? With intuition like that, he'd make one hell of a therapist.
