Deep Lie

by Stuart Woods

  Nixon said nothing. She stopped at the door. “By the way, Alan, when was it exactly that the Snowflower operation ran? I forget.”

  “May or June of ‘eighty-three, I think.”

  She nodded. “Right. I couldn’t remember the dates.” She left before it might occur to him that she wasn’t supposed to know about Snowflower.

  Back in her office, she switched on the computer and went to the word processing mode. She typed a memo to Alan Nixon, Deputy Director for Intelligence, outlining what she had just told him, referring to their earlier conversations on the subject, and recommending further investigation by operations. She gave the memo a file number, then printed out a hard copy and saved the file for central records. She dropped the hard copy into an interoffice envelope, wrote Nixon’s name on it, and put it in her out box.

  Now she was on the record. This thing was going to blow, she knew it, and it was time to start covering her ass.

  36

  WILL LEE looked around him and saw nothing. The short, Baltic night had long ago given way to morning, but with it had come fog. The wind had dropped to a light breeze, but there was still a leftover sea running, making life aboard the yacht uncomfortable, with relentless and unpredictable rolling. He had fired another flare at midnight, in the hope of being seen by some western craft before drifting into Soviet waters, but no one had come to his aid. He was saving the last flare in case everything got even worse. The Decca navigator was still working, placing him close to the Latvian shore, and his depth sounder readings had steadily decreased to what was now only twenty meters. He had an anchor and warp on deck, but there was no point in using it, yet. It would keep him off a rocky lee shore, though, if that was what the yacht drifted onto.

  A noise came to him across the water from the east, a low rumble, like the engine of a fishing boat. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, they’ll be Swedish fishermen, who might tow him back to their own waters. The noise grew louder, and Lee looked out to see an odd, white line on the water a few hundred yards away. Fishermen’s nets? A detergent streak? He glanced at the depth sounder: eight meters, suddenly. He looked back at the white streak. It was surf. It was time for the last flare.

  He fired it and watched it arch into the sky, not high enough to disappear into the fog. He had had more visibility than he realized. He was drifting inexorably closer to the line of surf, and now he could see the land behind it, low, gray, and rocky. He watched it come closer for a few minutes, glancing every few moments at the depth sounder. It was down to six meters, now, about twenty feet, and the yacht drew seven. He stepped out of the cockpit, walked forward on the deck, and started to unlash the anchor. He wasn’t sure what sort of bottom was under him, but he guessed rock, and he hoped the anchor would hold. He had chosen the old-fashioned fisherman’s anchor, which was better in rock than either of his other two, even if there were no guarantees. He stood next to the anchor, sorting out the nylon warp attached to it and watching the line of surf. Now was as good a time as any, he thought. He picked up the anchor.

  Then, to his surprise, a bright yellow runabout with a big outboard motor suddenly appeared between the yacht and the surf. There were four young men dressed in foul weather gear aboard, and they turned as they spotted the yacht, two of them pointing and shouting to the driver. The motorboat raced toward the yacht, leaping across the still considerable waves. He hoped the driver knew what he was doing. It slowed as it approached, and swung around in his lee about ten yards off. One of the men shouted something in what, to his surprise, sounded like Swedish. Lee shook his head.

  “I don’t understand!” he shouted back. “Do you speak English? French?”

  “Yes, I speak English,” the young man called out. “I see you are in difficulties. We will tow you to the dockside. Do you have a line?”

  “Yes,” Lee called back. “One moment.” He went forward, unshackled the anchor, and tossed the warp to one of the men, who cleated it at the motorboat’s stern and gave him a thumbsup sign. The line came taut, and Lee returned to the cockpit to steer the yacht in the runabout’s wake. He was fortunate to have run up on someone who spoke English and, apparently, not military or police. He doubted the authorities hereabouts ran around in yellow pleasure boats. Maybe he could talk his way out of this, yet. If he could get the line untangled from the prop, he could motor back into Swedish waters, maybe to Gotland, before his fuel ran out.

  The boat towed the yacht south, parallel to the shore for half an hour or so, then began a turn into what looked like the narrow entrance to a large bay. Once inside, they turned north and kept to the middle of the bay. The fog was lifting, now, and Lee could see that the body of water was much narrower than it was long. A couple of miles up the bay, a small forest of masts appeared, and he could see that they were headed for what appeared to be a marina. He dug mooring warps and fenders out of his stern lockers and made them up at the stern and bow. As they approached the nearest pontoon, he saw a couple of dozen small yachts moored, and two other young men stood, waiting to take his lines. The motorboat slowed, and Lee steered the boat alongside and tossed his lines to the waiting men.

  The man who had called to him from the motorboat jumped onto the pontoon and ran over. “Please stay aboard your boat. I must speak to my … boss to receive his instructions.

  “Right,” Lee called back. “I’ll just make myself some coffee.”

  He looked at the two men who had taken his lines. “Would you like some coffee?” They looked interested in him and his boat, but they said nothing. Probably didn’t speak English, he thought.

  Lee went below and put the kettle on. While he waited for it to boil, he looked out the galley port, which was of a blue-tinted plexiglass. He could see out, but the men couldn’t see in. What he could see didn’t seem to be much. There was a small beach to the right of the marina, and there were a number of people there launching dinghies. The land rose behind the docks, and he could see a cluster of modern-looking buildings around a large, sloping, grassy area. It looked like the campus of a small college. The young men had looked a bit too old for students, but who knew? He hoped they weren’t calling the cops, or worse, the KGB. He knew that the KGB was responsible for internal security in the Soviet Union, guarding the borders. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he knew a great deal more than that about the KGB, and about the Central Intelligence Agency, as well. He had better start thinking about what he was going to tell the “boss” when he showed up.

  The truth, he decided immediately. Well, most of it, anyway. If he were going to talk his way out of here, there had better be no mention of Washington or his work for Senator Carr on the Senate Intelligence Committee. That could only lead to a call to some higher authority, and he had no wish to talk with any higher authority, especially not the KGB. Those people would be all too interested in what he knew. He knew, for instance, a great deal about the budget and operations of the Central Intelligence Agency; he knew the names and titles of a number of its key personnel; he knew the head of the Soviet Office of the Directorate for Intelligence very well indeed; he had an appointment with her in Copenhagen in three days’ time. The kettle began to whistle.

  He made himself some instant coffee, but suddenly it seemed too hot to drink. He was already sweating. He shucked off his foulweather jacket and mopped his brow, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He thought about dosing the coffee with brandy, but decided against it. He might be too talkative with a drink inside him. He had to keep his head and just be who he was, with only a few omissions—the innocent yachtsman, not well enough prepared to keep from losing his mast, too stupid to check for lines overboard before starting his engine. He chuckled ruefully to himself. Playing that role should be easy enough.

  He glanced back at the campus beyond the marina and saw a white golf cart carrying two men making its way down the hill toward the docks. It stopped at the marina entrance, and the two men came walking toward the yacht, followed by the young man in foul weather gear who had gone to
fetch his boss. Lee took his coffee cup and climbed into the cockpit. The two men stopped on the dock and looked carefully over the boat. One was slender, in his fifties, glasses, sandy hair going gray; the other was in his late forties, taller, with thick, dark hair now half-gray, and rather handsome. Lee thought he looked oddly familiar but dismissed the thought. Whom would he know in Latvia?

  The taller man finished his look at the boat, then turned and spoke to Lee in what sounded like Russian. Lee looked blankly back at him. The man tried again, this time in Swedish, Lee thought.

  Lee spread his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My only languages are English and French.”

  “Which is your native language?” the man asked.

  “English. I’m American.”

  “Very well, we’ll speak English,” the man said. “May we come aboard?”

  “Yes, please do. May I offer you a cup of coffee below?”

  “Thank you, yes,” the man said.

  Lee followed them below.

  “My name is Will Lee,” he said. They were standing in the space between the galley and the chart table, looking carefully around the yacht.

  “My name is Kramer,” the tall man said. “This is Mr. Mintz.”

  “The kettle is already hot; this will just take a moment. Please sit down.”

  The two men made themselves comfortable at the saloon table, still thoroughly examining the interior of the boat. “This is a very handsome yacht, Mr. Lee,” Kramer said.

  Lee thought Kramer sounded very British. “Thank you, I wish it were mine.”

  “You are not the owner then?” asked Mintz, speaking for the first time.

  “No, I’m delivering it for the owner, a friend of mine from London, from where it was built in Finland to Copenhagen. My friend will pick it up there and sail it to England.”

  “I see,” Kramer said. “And how did you come to be our guest?”

  Lee gave them their coffee, got the chart and showed them how he had first gone off course, and then been dismasted, drifting down onto their coast. “I’m very grateful for the assistance of your people this morning. I might have ended up on the beach.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Kramer said, looking intently at the chart, making some measurements with his fingers and comparing them to the distance scale on the margin.

  “Look, Mr. Kramer,” Lee said, “I’m very much aware than I’m an uninvited visitor to your country, and I’m very sorry about that. It’s my hope that I can be allowed to get my boat going and leave as soon as possible. If I can borrow a diver’s mask, I can get the line freed from the propellor, and I have enough fuel to motor to Sweden. I hope it won’t be necessary to involve a lot of officialdom in this. I’m aware that the boat could be confiscated, and I would have a very difficult time explaining that to the owner. I suspect that my insurance coverage lapsed as soon as I entered your waters, and it is a very expensive boat.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Kramer said. “Well, I will do what I can to help you, Mr. Lee, but you must understand, the question of your leaving may not be entirely up to me. I must ask you some questions, and it is most important that you give me entirely truthful answers.”

  “Of course,” Will replied earnestly. “I’ll be happy to tell you anything I can.”

  “First of all, may I see your passport and any other identification you may have, and your ship’s papers?”

  Lee got his passport and wallet from the chart table and handed them over. Mintz produced a notebook and began jotting down details.

  “I see you are a southerner,” Kramer said, looking at the passport. “I am familiar with Georgia, from maps, but where is Delano?”

  “About eighty miles south of Atlanta, in the west central part of the state, in Meriwether County.”

  “And how does a person from a small town in the American South come to have a friend in London?”

  “My mother is Irish, and since I was a child I’ve traveled often to England. My friend is the son of a friend of my father.”

  “What are the names of both these people?” Mintz asked.

  “My friend’s name is Spencer Wilks; he is a barrister in London. His father’s name is Sir Martin Wilks; he is a member of Parliament, the Labor Party. My father flew bombers out of Britain during World War II. Their friendship dates from that time.” In answer to Mintz’s request, Lee gave him the addresses of both men.

  “What is your work, Mr. Lee?” Kramer asked.

  “I’m a lawyer; I’m in partnership with my father in Delano. The firm is called Lee and Lee.” He produced a business card from the wallet.

  “What sort of law do you practice?” Kramer asked.

  “A bit of everything. It’s like that in small towns. Wills, divorces, business law, the odd criminal case.” Lee could not shake the feeling that Kramer was familiar, and his English accent seemed to make him even more so.

  Kramer continued to question him, and Mintz continued to make notes. In the hour that followed, Lee gave him what amounted to his life story. Then, as they talked, Lee suddenly though he knew where he had seen the man, but he dismissed the idea as preposterous. But as the session wore on, he changed his mind. Kate had shown him a photograph of this man. This was Majorov. The man was KGB. Lee was grateful for the chance to recite facts; it kept him from being nervous.

  “Well, Mr. Lee,” Majorov said, standing. “I think that is all we need to know for the moment. I will take your passport and other identification with me and make a couple of phone calls to my superiors. In the meantime, I will have a diver clear your propeller. If you have told me the truth, I think we may be able to help you further. Is there anything you would like to add to what you have said?”

  “No,” Lee said, “but I will be happy to answer any other questions you may think of. I can only assure you that I am who I say I am, and not some sort of spy. I know there is a lot of distrust between our countries, but I have told you the truth. I only want to be on my way.”

  “We’ll see,” Majorov said, climbing into the cockpit and stepping back onto the dock. “I must ask you to remain aboard your boat. Will you be comfortable here? Do you need anything?”

  “I will be perfectly comfortable, thank you. I’ve been up for a long time, and I could use some sleep.”

  Majorov nodded, then walked away down the dock. It was then that Lee saw two things that made him uneasy. At the head of the dock stood a soldier armed with some sort of machine gun. This was no college campus. The other sight that caught his eye was of a man on the beach beside the marina stepping out of a dinghy. Lee went below, got his binoculars, and trained them through the galley port onto the figure of the man. He was all too familiar.

  Lee put the binoculars back into their box and sat down heavily at the chart table. It had been worrying when he had recognized Majorov from the photograph Kate had shown him. But he was absolutely baffled to see the American he had met in Stockholm, Carl Swenson of New York, sailing a dinghy in this place. If Majorov was KGB, Swenson had to be a spy. Just what sort of place had he fetched up in? He glanced at the drawing of the Royal Palace in Stockholm, which he had tacked up over the chart table. Now, though he had seen it constantly, he noticed something new about it. He took it down and stuck it among the charts in the chart table. Then he stretched out on the saloon settee and tucked a pillow under his head. In the short time he had been in this place, he had seen far too much. He didn’t want to see any more.

  37

  APPICELLA had seen from his window Majorov driving toward the marina in his golf cart. This might be his moment, he thought. He left the guest cottage and walked quickly up the hill toward headquarters. He was a familiar sight around Malibu by now, and no one questioned his movements as long as he stayed away from prohibited areas. In the headquarters building, he walked past the switchboard operator who sat in the reception room onto which opened both Majorov’s office and the conference room Appicella had been using.

  “Good morning, my dear
,” he smiled at the switchboard operator, Is Majorov in?”

  “Not at the moment, Mr. Appicella,” the girl said, returning his smile. “He’s down at the Marina.”

  “Yes? He’s going for a sail on a day like to day? Not very inviting, is it?”

  “No, apparently a foreign yacht has turned up here, and he’s gone to speak with the captain. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

  “No matter,” Appicella replied. “I have some testing to do on modem operation. Will you please connect the conference room extension to an outside line?”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Appicella,” the girl said, “but I must have express instructions from Majorov before connecting any outside calls.”

  “Of course,” he said, his pulse hammering. “I don’t want to make any calls, I just want to test modem transmission. You can listen in on the line, if you like.” He gave her his most dazzling smile. “Not a word will be spoken, I promise.”

  “Oh, all right,” she replied, “if I can listen in.”

  Appicella went into the conference room, leaving the door open, so as not to look suspicious. From his briefcase, he took the diskette containing his file transmission program and loaded it into the computer. He picked up the desk-type telephone next to him, disconnected the instrument, and with a coupling device, connected it directly to the computer. Then he brought up a menu for the file transmission program and typed in 0101, for overseas dialing to America, 212 for New York, and the local number for the New York area access line to The Source, a computer time-sharing information utility, located in Silver Spring, Maryland.

  He left the file transmission program and opened a new file on the same diskette. When he had a prompt, he typed,