Deep Lie

by Stuart Woods

MY DEAR,

  I AM HERE ON THE SHORES OF THE BALTIC, IN A MOST LUXURIOUS FACILITY, SURROUNDED BY A GREAT MANY HANDSOME, ATHLETIC, YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN. I KEEP SAYING I HAVE TO GET BACK TO ROME, BUT MY HOST KEEPS INSISTING I STAY, AND I AM UNABLE TO RESIST HIS INVITATION. THERE IS SAILING HERE, AND SWIMMING, AND GOOD SUNSHINE, AND MY HOST IS HIS USUAL, HOSPITABLE SELF, THOUGH HE IS VERY BUSY INDEED THESE DAYS. I DO SO WISH YOU COULD MEET HIM AND SEE THIS WONDERFUL PLACE! THERE IS SO MUCH MORE I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU, BUT THAT WILL HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL WE CAN SEE EACH OTHER AGAIN. I WISH I KNEW WHEN THAT WILL BE. FORGIVE THE BREVITY OF THIS NOTE, BUT IT IS THE BEST I CAN DO AT THE MOMENT.

  EMILIO

  Appicella closed the file, and invoked the transmission program again. “Okay,” he called out to the girl through the open door, “give me the line.”

  “You’ve got it,” she called back, then left her switchboard to come and stand in the doorway. “What is it you are testing?”

  “Just the modem transmission capabilities of the new computer.” He typed, RUN SOURCE. “Listen,” he said to the girl, “you can hear it testing itself.” From a speaker inside the computer, there was, first, a dial tone, then the sound of a number being dialed, then a tone, then silence. This meant the computer had reached the Source and was now giving the host computer an account number and password. On the screen before him appeared the words:

  WELCOME TO THE SOURCE.

  Appicella quickly held down his control key and typed P. A system prompt appeared. He typed:

  NEW FILE

  NAME OF NEW FILE? The computer asked.

  KATE

  The screen went blank. He hit the escape key on the computer, then typed:

  SEND KATE

  There was a brief clicking noise from the disk drive as the file was transmitted, via an American communications satellite, from the computer at Malibu to the computer in Maryland, then Appicella typed control P again, and was returned to the system prompt. He typed:

  OFF

  SIGNING OFF, the host computer sent back, TIME CONNECTED, :25 SECONDS, then the screen went blank again. Into his own computer, Appicella typed:

  ERASE KATE

  FILE ERASED, the computer replied.

  It was done, and there was no trace of it. He would have liked to transmit the summary of the invasion plan in the files, but he had no way of knowing what sorts of electronic intercepts the Soviet had. If they were any good at all, they already knew that an overseas phone call had been placed from Malibu, but that probably happened all the time. If they were really good, they would be able to decipher the message. He hoped it would seem innocuous enough not to excite interest.

  “That’s it,” he said to the girl. “Everything is in perfect order.”

  “Good,” the girl replied. “Oh, and Mr. Appicella, if you should tire of Olga’s company, please let me know, will you?”

  “My dear, what a pleasant thought,” he said. “You may count on it.” He got up from his chair and tidied up the work area. The sun was now streaming through the windows. “Well, it looks as though the weather is improving. I think I will go for a swim. Join me?”

  “How I wish I could,” the girl replied, pouting.

  “Another day, then.” He started from the room, then stopped. “Tell me, lovely, what is the number of the incoming computer line here, including the country code? Majorov asked me to test the modem transmission from the other end, as well.”

  She looked up the number, wrote it on a pad, and gave it to him.

  He kissed her hand, exciting the appropriate response, then left the building. The sun was out at odd moments, now, and the sky was rapidly clearing. He could see Majorov’s golf cart still at the marina entrance. He went back to the cottage, changed into a swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and walked down to the beach. There were half a dozen of Malibu’s young men there, lying in the sun or launching dinghies. He spread his towel a few yards away from the group and sat down.

  “What’s going on out there?” he called to one of them, pointing to the strange yacht.

  “Some yacht got dismasted and blew in here. One of the fellows who towed him in says he’s an Englishman or an American.”

  “Imagine that!” Appicella laughed. “How many aboard?”

  “He’s singlehanded, I think. He must be crazy.” Appicella leaned back on his elbows and gazed out to sea, occasionally glancing at the yacht. An armed soldier appeared and stood guard at the marina entrance. Eventually, Majorov and the man called Jones left the boat and drove back up the hill in the golf cart. Appicella got up and walked back to the cottage. He could still see the marina from there. He settled down on the terrace with a cup of coffee.

  38

  HELDER arrived at Majorov’s office in response to a summons. He didn’t know what the meeting was to be about, but he was not anxious to see Majorov. It would be the first time they had met since they had both returned from Moscow, and Helder was still filled with what was now a cold anger over what the man had inflicted upon Trina Ragulin. As Helder presented himself outside Majorov’s office, Majorov and Jones also arrived.

  “Ah, Helder,” Majorov said, “come in, come in.” He seemed preoccupied. He led the way into his office. “Sit down, and excuse me for a moment; we have a little situation to resolve.” He turned to Jones. “Now, Mr. Mintz, what do you think?”

  “I think we should send him to Moscow immediately for a thorough interrogation at Central. It is surely too great a coincidence for an American to turn up at our gates at this particular moment, is it not?”

  Majorov picked up a small card from some papers he had thrown on his desk. “Perhaps you are right. Still …” He glanced at his wristwatch, seemed to do some mental calculation, then picked up the telephone. “Give me an outside line.” Glancing at the card, he dialed a series of digits, then switched on a speakerphone.

  Helder could hear some static, then a number ringing; then a woman’s voice answered.

  “Good morning, Lee and Lee.”

  “Good morning,” Majorov said, and his accent became even more British. “May I speak with Mr. Lee?”

  “Which Mr. Lee would you like? Billy or Will?”

  Majorov shot a glance at Jones. “Mr. Will Lee, please.”

  “I’m sorry, but Will is out of the country. His father is in; could he help you?”

  “No, it’s a personal call. I’m an old friend, calling from London. Can you tell me where I might reach Will abroad?”

  “Oh, just a minute, let me get his itinerary.” There was a pause and a shuffling of papers. “Here it is. Well, if he’s on schedule, he should be sailing a boat right now, but he’s due in Copenhagen in three days. I have the number of the hotel there.”

  Majorov took down the number. “Thanks, I’ll try him there. Goodbye.” He broke the connection and stared at the card, looking thoughtful.

  Helder was stunned at the the name of Will Lee, too stunned to speak.

  “That’s no confirmation,” Jones said. “It’s the simplest sort of cover, if he’s an agent. No doubt, the hotel in Copenhagen will have a prepaid reservation in his name.”

  “No doubt,” said Majorov, “but there’s something else. When I was in First Directorate, we routinely kept files on American politicians, especially those who might be presidential material. There was a governor of Georgia in the sixties who was frequently mentioned as a replacement for Vice-President Lyndon Johnson on the 1964 Democratic ticket with John Kennedy. His name was William Henry Lee, known as Billy. This man in the yacht appears to be his son.”

  “It’s all cover, I tell you,” Jones said, vehemently. “They’ve covered him with a real person, that’s all. It’s exactly like our cover for Helder, here, on his mission.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Helder said, “but I think I know this man, Will Lee.”

  “What?” asked Majorov, nonplussed.

  “It was when I was in Stockholm. Quite by accident, we shared a table in a restaurant.”

  Majorov dema
nded a full account of the meeting, and he and Jones listened raptly. When Helder had finished, Jones spoke first.

  “This is too great a coincidence to be real,” he said. “We cannot possibly allow this man to leave Malibu, except to go to Moscow.”

  “No,” Majorov said. “This is too great a coincidence not to be real, don’t you see? In order for this meeting to have been staged, someone would have had to know in advance of Helder’s presence in Stockholm. Not even we knew Helder would be in Stockholm. Not even he knew he would be there. It was unpredictable. And even if it had been predictable, even if the meeting were not a coincidence, they would never have allowed him to leave. He would have been arrested on the spot.”

  Jones seemed to have no answer to that. “Perhaps you are right. But we still cannot allow him to leave. We are too close to moving.”

  “Perhaps we are too close to moving not to let him leave,” Majorov said. “He has seen nothing here; he has not left his yacht. The submarine pens are invisible from the entrance to the lagoon and from the marina. He may have seen one or two people in uniform, but that’s all. And the very fact that we are willing to allow him to leave makes us seem all the more innocent. It would be a needless complication to hold prisoner the son of an American politician.” Majorov slapped his palm onto his desk. “No, we’ll get him out of here today. I’ll take care of it myself, but first, I have to speak to Helder. Please excuse us, Jones.”

  Jones got up and left, shaking his head.

  Majorov turned to Helder. “Jan, we go tomorrow.”

  Helder blinked. “Tomorrow? On such short notice?”

  Majorov smiled. “No, the notice is not short at all. For weeks, we have been moving troops and supplies into the Baltic region, on the pretext of regularly scheduled maneuvers. Our intelligence tells us that the Western services are not alarmed at these movements, that no unusual precautions have been taken in Sweden or anywhere else. Conditions are ideal for our operation, and you, my boy, are to have the single most important assignment in the whole plan.”

  “Sir?” Helder had forgotten about Trina Ragulin. He was too caught up in the drama of this moment.

  Majorov walked to the maps behind his desk and flipped a switch that illuminated them. He pointed to the map at the approaches to Stockholm. “Here. You will follow the identical route that you took on your earlier mission, on the heels of the Helsinki—Stockholm ferry. Except this time, you will command a Whiskey-class sub, and you will follow the ferry for a few kilometers further, to a point, here.” He paused for effect. “And here you will run the sub aground.”

  The effect was fully received. “Aground, sir? Deliberately?” There was no faster way for a submarine commander to end up in a penalty battalion, Helder thought. Then he remembered his classmate, Gushin, who had done just that, and whom he had seen in the submarine pens at Malibu, fat and happy.

  “And then,” said Majorov, “this is what you will do.”

  Lee was awakened by a sharp rap on the yacht’s deck. He jumped up from the settee and climbed into the cockpit. The KGB man, Majorov, was standing on the dock.

  “Come with me,” Majorov said.

  Lee followed him down the dock, worried, and then he noticed that the soldier with the machinegun was gone. He followed Majorov off the dock and into a long shed adjacent. A yacht of some size was chocked up in the shed, having her bottom painted with antifouling by four men. Next to the yacht lay a mast.

  “I reckon this to be a couple of feet shorter than your mast,” Majorov said, “but I see no reason why, with new rigging, it couldn’t be made to fit your boat, do you?”

  “No, Mr. Kramer, I don’t,” Lee replied. “Of course, I’ve lost my boom and sails, as well.”

  “We will lend you this yacht’s boom and sails, which are cut to this rig, anyway,” Majorov replied. He began barking orders in Russian, and the men painting the yacht’s bottom dropped their tools and began scurrying about. “This fellow here understands a little English,” Majorov said, pointing to one of the men. “We’ll get your boat brought alongside the shed and use our crane to step the mast. They can cut the rigging to the required length, and with a few adjustments to your deck layout, you’ll be in business.”

  “You are very kind to be so helpful, Mr. Kramer,’ Lee said earnestly. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your assistance in getting me out of here. I would like to reimburse you for the equipment.”

  Majorov smiled. “Just put it down to east-west detente,” he said. “But you must go as quickly as possible.” He looked at his watch. “I think we can have you on your way by midnight.”

  “That’s fine with me. I’ll get right to work.”

  Majorov shook Lee’s hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Lee. We will not be seeing each other again.”

  That was fine with Lee, too.

  39

  RULE waited until just before leaving for work before trying The Source again. She had had the telephone call from Appicella’s secretary, which puzzled her. The woman had said he couldn’t keep their date, that he had been delayed. She took that as a hint that he wasn’t doing well or needed more time. Perhaps, she thought, he had had second thoughts about his “mission,” once he was on the scene and in what must be the pretty daunting presence of Majorov. Still, she had checked Appicella’s files in The Source twice a day. Nothing.

  Now, she sat down in her study at her little Apple computer and got connected with The Source, using Appicella’s account number and password.

  WELCOME TO THE SOURCE, it said.

  She got to a systems prompt and typed FILES.

  The list scrolled up the screen, the same list she had seen for days, then it stopped. At the bottom of the list was KATE. He’d done it! Quickly, she read the file. Clearly, he was afraid of its being intercepted; it read like a postcard. Still, it was obvious he was with Majorov, and something was up in the Baltic. It was also obvious that he wasn’t being allowed to leave. She printed a hard copy of the message and signed off The Source.

  All the way to Langley, she watched the rearview mirror, but she saw nothing of her tail. She had spotted him once or twice the past few days, but at odd hours. She was sure she was being only sporadically followed. It was raining, so she parked in the underground parking lot at the Agency; she switched off the engine, but before she could leave the car, the passenger door opened and Ed Rawls got in.

  “Hi, kid,” he said. “I was on my way in and saw you. How’s it going?”

  “It’s frustrating, Ed. Pieces keep falling into place, but I still don’t have enough to force anybody to make a move.” She told him about Majorov’s appointment to commander of SPETSNAZ forces and about the concentration of troops gathering in the Baltic.

  “You’re right,” he said. “That’s not enough to move anybody.” Tell me, just what sort of action do you want?”

  “Well, before, I wanted ops to get its people on the ground to look for corroborating evidence. I thought maybe some light shined on what the Soviets seem to be doing might put a stop to it. Now, I think it’s too late for that. I think they’re going to make a move soon. I think the best thing now would be to take it to the president and ask him to direct the State Department to warn the Swedes. Either that, or get him to call the Swedish prime minister personally and let him know what we think’s going on.”

  “What you think’s going on, you mean.”

  “Well thanks, Ed, a cold shower was just what I needed.”

  “Why do you think the Soviets are about to make a move? You got something new?”

  She nodded. “I’ve got a man in Majorov’s camp.”

  Rawls’s eyebrows went up all the way. “You’ve what?”

  She dug Appicella’s message from her brief case, told him about the Italian’s visit to Majorov, and explained how the message had come.

  Rawls laughed. “Boy, would Simon be pissed off to know that you’ve put an agent into the USSR!” He read the message, and she explained how it had come. “Pr
etty swift, this guy. He’s got balls, I’ll give him that. Still, this reads like a letter home from camp, and you’ve got no way of proving how it came to you. Anybody with the right password could have stuck this message into the computer, and for all you know, he could have sent it from the beach at Portofino.”

  She nodded. “I know. I believe it, though. I don’t think the man is jerking me around. Listen, Ed, I’ve been thinking about going to the Post or the Times, or maybe both with this.” She waited for him to yell at her, but he didn’t.

  “Listen, Katie,” he said. “Maybe that’s the right thing to do, I don’t know, but you’ve got to think ahead a bit, you know. If you’re thinking about becoming the Deep Throat of the eighties, you should realize that you’d have to live with it for the rest of your life. It will be impossible to stay anonymous, because the Agency will know immediately who you are, and it’ll leak. If you’re right about what’s going on, then you’ll be the heroine for a while, but what kind of a life would it be? You’d be right, but nobody you know would ever speak to you again. They’ll maintain that you should have been able to do it through channels. You’ll spend the rest of your life turning down invitations to speak to left-wing student groups on abuses in the CIA.” He took a deep breath.

  “On the other hand, if you’re wrong—and you have to face the fact that no matter how good this looks, you may be wrong—then the sky is going to fall. The Agency and the administration will crucify you, you’ll look like a fool to the world, and you might very well end up in Leavenworth. You’ve already left the country without prior authorization, and that’s a very big no-no. If you had to, could you prove that you weren’t sending information to Majorov using the Italian as a conduit? If you go public, you’ll have to, believe me. The Agency is going to set you up as a Soviet mole, and it won’t be all that tough to make plausible. Even if they couldn’t get a conviction, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to prove you aren’t a Communist spy.”

  There was a big knot in Rule’s stomach. “I can’t argue with any of that, Ed.”