Jack in the Box

by John Weisman

  She’d joined CIA in 1951 as a secretary, three years after Carl was recruited by the fledgling Central Intelligence Agency as one of its first case officers. It had been Allen Dulles who’d initially assigned her to work for James Jesus Angleton’s counterintelligence operation. That was in the late 1950s, six months or so after she lost Carl at the age of forty-seven to a heart attack. Alone and childless, Charlotte threw herself into the work with white-hot intensity. In less than nine months she’d become Angleton’s most trusted subordinate.

  In later years, she and her colleagues, all of them women of a certain age, background, and eccentricity, became known as the CIA’s Oracles. The Oracles wore tennis shoes in the office. They dressed … bizarrely. Some—Charlotte was one—read and spoke Russian. The Oracles didn’t trust computers. Instead, they kept their records on file cards jammed into shoe boxes, which were secured in a series of huge, double-locked, fireproof safes, in the fireproof-safe room on the third floor of Langley where they spent their days. The place came to be known as Delphi—and many was the case officer who made a pilgrimage to Delphi to check out a developmental, query about a possible double, or ask an opinion about a recruitment gone bad. Even in a day of PowerPoint presentations, intuitive rational databases, and sophisticated analysis software, Oracles still hand-lettered their association and activities matrices, and used rulers, compasses, and colored pencils to draw link diagrams and time-event charts.

  Oracles were old school, and therefore protected by Brahmins, so the Romanoffs had to hate them and their quirks from afar. But immediately after the Romanoffs elbowed their way to power in the months after Bill Casey died, they began the purge. The counterintelligence files were too important, they said, to be left to a bunch of little old ladies wearing tennis shoes. Within two years, Delphi was razed and turned into a computer center. The Oracles were disbanded—reassigned as secretaries or filing clerks.

  Most of the women chose to retire. But some, including Charlotte, did not. When the general counsel’s office informed Czar Nicholas he couldn’t fire the refusenik Oracles, he banished them from Langley, revoking their building passes and scattering them across Northern Virginia by assigning them to anonymous CIA satellite offices in Herndon, Reston, Chantilly, and Tyson’s.

  Charlotte was sent to Purgatory. The last five years of her half-century-plus career were spent in Rosslyn, answering phones and making coffee while Untouchables like Sam Waterman created retirement legends for NOCs.

  The day he’d arrived in Purgatory she’d stared and stared at Sam. When he’d asked why, she told him he reminded her of her Carl. He did some quiet checking and came away impressed. For the next ninety days, they spent much of their free time in conversation. It wasn’t just that she had a prodigious memory for facts, figures, names, and events. It was the pure intellectual passion she radiated when she spoke about the subject. To Charlotte Wells, counterintelligence had be come an obsession; one that had endured longer than any other. It enveloped her like an intense perfume.

  Sam was miserable the day she walked out of Purgatory for good. She’d listened to his stories about disposables, doubles, and Pavel Baranov. And she’d agreed with his assessment. Like Sam, Charlotte Wells was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that at least one high-level Russian mole still worked at Langley. That belief, she whispered more than once, was the real reason they’d both been sent to Purgatory.

  And then after three months she was gone, leaving Sam miserable and alone in Purgatory. She moved to the West Coast of Florida. “God’s waiting room” was how she’d described it to him in a handwritten note six months ago. If anyone could make sense of this Edward Lee Howard conundrum it would be Charlotte.

  SAM GLANCED at Semonov, who was obviously enjoying himself. The wine had made the Russian voluble and garrulous. It was often like that with agents. Some drank to make themselves feel better about themselves. Others—Semonov was one of them—drank to loosen their own reticent tongues. And others drank simply because they liked to drink, and a meeting with a case officer gave them the opportunity to do it when someone else was picking up the tab.

  Sam was perplexed. Ed Howard had flagged Semonov. Put up a flare right in Rand Arthur’s library. And yet, Semonov had done more to confuse the situation than unravel it.

  It was all absolutely crazy. He focused on the oblivious Russian. The son of a bitch has managed to throw a wrench into the machinery and he doesn’t even know it. Or does he? What the hell is he doing?

  And then Sam realized what Semonov was up to. Now that he thought about it, he realized Alexei hadn’t asked him a single question about what he was doing in Paris. Except for perfunctory remarks about Sam’s being retired, he hadn’t inquired about what Sam was doing at all. Not a word. No, “How are you keeping busy? What are you doing making personal inquiries to former agents?” None of that.

  The reason Semonov hadn’t asked was because he already knew what Sam was doing. Probably knew he’d arrived from Moscow. Probably knew Sam was nosing around about Edward Lee Howard. Maybe even knew he was working for Rand Arthur and SSCI.

  Alexei had no doubt called his control officer the minute he’d hung up on Sam, and DST had run a check for him. Sam’s name and transit status to and from Moscow were on his French visa application. La Piscine—and therefore DST—had to know. Or maybe Semonov had called one of his old KGB pals. There were dozens of them in Paris these days. Either way, it meant that Sam was currently being fed—both literally, and figuratively. The question was, fed what?

  THEY ATE SADDLE of rabbit perfumed with fresh sage, served with turnips and Italian broad beans. The Graves was finished before they were halfway through the entrée, and Semonov signaled for more.

  When they’d polished that off—accompanied by a small selection of farmhouse cheeses—and cleansed their palates with grapefruit sorbet, Semonov whispered to the maître d', who produced a bottle of twenty-five-year old cognac, two generous snifters, and a heavy, rectangular ashtray. The Russian pulled a slim, brown crocodile cigar case from the inside breast pocket of his suit coat and uncapped it, revealing two gold-banded Romeo and Julieta Churchills.

  He offered one to Sam, who took it, then used the Russian’s gold cigar cutter to guillotine the cap.

  Sam struck a wood match, waited for the sulfur to burn off, then lit the cigar. “Thanks, Alexei.” He looked past the Russian. The Chinese woman had vanished. Her table had been reset.

  Semonov held his Churchill over the ashtray, cut the tip, lit up, and puffed contentedly. “Ahh.” He sucked on the big cigar, exhaled, set it down on the ashtray, swirled the cognac, in its snifter, then put his nose into the narrow rim of the glass, inhaled, then sipped. “What a combination, eh?” he said, slipping back into French. “The day after God created great cognac He realized He’d done only half the job and so He created great cigars. Then, He knew it was better than good.” Semonov laughed. “And it was the evening and the morning of the eighth day.”

  IT WAS PAST TWO when Semonov called for the bill. Sam snatched it from the waiter’s hands before the Russian could react. “It’s mine,” he said. “My pleasure, Alexei Alexandrovich.”

  “If you insist, Richard.” The Russian pouted. “But this was to have been my treat.”

  “Next time,” Sam said. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Oh?” The Russian’s eyebrows went up. “When, Richard?”

  “Soon,” Sam said. “There’s unfinished business here.”

  Semonov looked at him quizzically. Then the expression faded. The Russian watched as Sam dropped a pile of euro notes into the folder. “You’re being very generous.”

  “It was a very good meal.”

  “Agreed.” Semonov pushed the table away so the two of them could stand up. “The French really know how to live,” he said. “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No siestas. They could learn from the Spanish or the Portuguese.”

  “Guess what, Alexei:
the European Union has asked the Spanish and the Portuguese to drop the siesta so they stay in sync with the rest of the Europeans.”

  The Russian’s eyes went wide as saucers. “The fools,” he said. “Richard, this European Union stupidity will be the death of us all. It is socialism pure and simple. And I, for one, have had enough socialism to last me a lifetime.”

  Sam followed the Russian toward the doorway, watching as Semonov reached into his pocket and slipped a folded euro note into the maître d’s palm as he shook the man’s hand. It was as smooth a brush pass as Sam had ever seen. Obviously, Alexei hadn’t lost his tradecraft.

  Sam held the door and they walked out into bright sunlight and traffic noise. Across the quai, a bookseller in a waxed cotton coat was displaying a matted, antique map. The client was the same woman Sam had seen in the café earlier. The Vuitton shopping bag was slung over a shoulder. In her left hand she clutched the newspaper she’d been reading. She had, Sam noticed, uncomfortably high stiletto heels on her over-the-calf boots. Her ankles were probably killing her. Well, too bad. That was DST’s problem, not his.

  From far across the Seine, Sam heard the hee-haw of a police vehicle moving east. He turned to face the Russian. “So, Alexei, where are you off to?”

  Now another hee-haw rose above the cacophony of traffic. The Russian shrugged almost apologetically. “I have a three-fifteen at the Foreign Ministry.”

  “Friends from La Piscine?”

  “Please.” Semonov placed an index finger in front of his lips. “The walls have ears.” Then he dipped his head and threw both his hands up in the classic Gallic expression of frustration. “What am I supposed to do, Richard? I live here.”

  “It’s no skin off my nose, Alexei. I’m retired.” Sam swiveled, catching a glimpse of the shadow across the quai. She’d turned and was watching them, the newspaper tucked under her arm. The lyrics for “You’ll Never Walk Alone” came into Sam’s head, and it made him happy to know that, given his route, her damn ankles were going to swell like melons before the day was over.

  He turned, facing west, and gestured for Semonov to start moving. “I’ll take you as far as the Solférino footbridge. No need for the two of us to make an appearance on camera.” The Foreign Ministry backed up to the French National Assembly, and the entire two-square block area was surrounded by barricades and saturated with surveillance devices—a recent development in homage to al-Qa’ida.

  Sam glanced back across the quai. He’d lost sight of his high-fashion tail. Maybe her feet hurt so much she’d handed him to another watcher. It didn’t matter. He’d walk back to the Cercle, stopping on the way at Caves Auge, a formidable wine store on Haussmann, to buy a bottle of the fifty-year-old Bas-Armagnac they kept in stock—a belated birthday present to himself. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d get to share it with Ginny.

  They were coming to the rue du Bac. Sam checked the cross traffic to his left. The street was clear. They were halfway across when something made Sam stop dead in his tracks and turn around. Behind them by just over half a block, he saw the redheaded woman, Vuitton bag over her shoulder. She was still on the opposite side of the quai, standing on tiptoe and using her newspaper to hail a cab—waving the damn thing so frantically she looked as if she was trying to burst-transmit in semaphore. She’d just missed one, too—it was careening down the quai, the driver hunched behind the wheel, oblivious to her entreaties.

  Too bad, lady. Sam shook his head and turned back to follow Semonov, who’d ambled another three yards across the wide street.

  He hadn’t gone six paces when he heard the squeal of rubber on pavement. He whirled around and saw the taxi driver’s face behind the windshield as he steered dead on toward them. “Alexei—watch out!” Sam shoved the Russian hard—toward the opposite curb.

  Semonov stumbled, then regained his footing and headed toward safety.

  The cab bore down on Sam. He feinted right. The cab changed direction but didn’t slow. He feinted left, then right again. The cab jerked, missed him by a hairbreadth, then swung wide, smacking Sam with the rear quarter panel and flinging him like rag doll into the air.

  Everything went into slo-mo. The pace picked up again when he smacked down hard onto the hood of a parked Citroën in painful real time.

  Sam rolled off the hood and landed with a thump on his hands and knees. Then time stood still again. Sam watched, as distant as if he were looking at a movie, as the driver reversed, the taxi’s tires smoking as he floored the accelerator. Sam smelled burned rubber and rolled out of the way just in time to escape being run over.

  He crawled onto the sidewalk behind a parked car—a big BMW. The taxi tried to crush him using the BMW but the Beemer was too heavy.

  The taxi shot forward. Sam pulled himself up. He looked in horror across the BMW’s trunk. Semonov had stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the street, a deer caught in headlights. He was looking back toward Sam. “Alexei, Alexei—move!”

  The taxi shot thirty yards across the pavement. That was when Sam realized through his pain that the goddamned vehicle didn’t have any license plate.

  The driver hit the brakes, sending the vehicle into a four-wheel drift. The cab caught Semonov broadside and flyswatted the Russian into a parked car. There was a sickening crunch of metal and a single, horrifying scream.

  Sam lost his balance and collapsed. Semonov disappeared from view. Sam struggled like a turtle on its back, finally flopped over, and, using the BMW for support, pulled himself onto his feet. He tried to move toward the Russian.

  But his knee was gone and no sooner had he let go of the car than he crumpled onto the pavement in agony. He watched as the taxi slalomed into the fast-moving traffic stream and disappeared down the quai. To his right, cars screeched to a stop. People were coming to his aid—and Semonov’s. He heard the approaching hee-haw of sirens, shrugged off two men who wanted to help him stand up, and pulled himself across the pavement to where Semonov lay crumpled against the rear wheel of a smashed Citroën.

  Someone was already trying to help. Sam elbowed his way through the growing crowd of onlookers. The Russian’s head lolled back, eyes open, a narrow streak of blood washing down his upper lip. Sam reached for Semonov’s neck and felt for a pulse.

  There was none. He rolled onto his back, covered his eyes with his hands, and lay on the pavement, dry-heaving as the sirens hee-hawed closer and closer.

  PART V

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  CHAPTER 23

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 2002

  SAM SENSED he might be in trouble after he called the SSCI offices Thursday morning to give Ginny Vacario a heads up and didn’t hear back. Semonov’s death made the papers, of course, CIA SPYMASTER WORKING FOR U.S. CONGRESS INVOLVED IN MURDER OF EX-KGB OFFICIAL was how France Soir headlined the story. Not to be outdone, the Russians leaked the story of O’Neill’s detention to AFP’s37 Moscow correspondent. Unnamed U.S. embassy officials in Moscow linked Sam to that incident as well, suggesting he might have precipitated it.

  Sam spent thirty-six hours holed up at the Cercle National popping aspirin and being interviewed by successive teams of gendarmes and DST investigators. He gave the same answers to each. He had no idea why he and Semonov had been targeted. Or by whom. And he didn’t. But obviously, it had something to do with Ed Howard. There are no coincidences.

  On Saturday the French gave him permission to leave. A police Citroën drove him through the rain to de Gaulle. There, he was met by an armed DST agent in a shiny brown suit and a short black raincoat who escorted him through a maze of corridors to the departure lounge, took him through security, walked him past the duty-free, and held his elbow as he hobbled down the gangway to the Air France flight to Washington.

  Michael O’Neill was waiting for him in the Dulles customs area, a plastic visitor’s ID clipped to the lapel of his overcoat. Standing at his shoulder was a statuesque customs special agent in blue fatigues cinched by a cumbersome pistol belt. O’Neill took Sam’s hands
in his. “Gawd almighty, Cyrus, you look terrible.”

  “Nice to see you, too, SAMGRASS.”

  O’Neill watched as Sam pulled himself out of the wheelchair and tipped the baggage handler who’d been pushing. “You sure you want to do that?”

  “The chair wasn’t my idea.” Sam nudged the luggage cart. “But you could wheel this.”

  “Done and done.” O’Neill turned to face the customs agent. “Sam, please meet Special Agent Montgomery, U.S. Customs.”

  Sam nodded. “Good to meet you, Special Agent.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Waterman.”

  O’Neill pointed toward the exit. “Lead on, Special Agent Montgomery. Escort us through the Bat Cave.”

  Sam cocked his head in O’Neill’s direction. “What’s up?”

  O’Neill hooked his thumb toward the automatic doors that led to the international arrivals area. “You’re a celebrity, Cyrus. There are camera crews out there. And reporters. They’d like to spend a little time with you discussing your most intimate secrets—as well as your professional relationship with a certain senator.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  O’Neill put both hands on Sam’s luggage cart and wheeled it away from the exit, toward a door that said OFFICIAL USE ONLY. “Y’know,” he said, turning back to watch Sam hobble in his wake, “if I were you I’d get a better picture to hand out.”

  “Picture?” Sam didn’t have any photographs of himself, except for the ones on his driver’s license, passport, and Senate ID.

  “From the Agency. The day you were awarded the Career Intelligence Medal. Somebody gave it to the AP.”