by Gil Hogg
After a minute or two, when a quiet as thick as the carpet had settled, Rachel Fernandez sailed in through a side door, without glancing at us until she had taken her seat in the high chair. She leaned forward, clasping her hands on the bench, and smiled patronisingly. She was a very long way away and above us.
“It’s all right, Gerry,” she said, I’m used to the British sense of humour. Welcome, Roger. We’re honoured to have such a distinguished operative join us. You’re going to be a valuable asset.”
Yarham got no more notice than if he was a stenographer. He was an appendage of mine. At the risk of contempt of court, I thanked Ms Fernandez. I noted without comment that I was only an ‘asset’.
“Roger, there are aspects of our work which were not shown in the film… It would be an ideal world if we could collect everything we needed to know about our enemies by pulling it out of the air. And as you now know, we can gather an immense harvest of intelligence merely by sitting quietly in front of a machine. But we can’t get everything we need that way. We have to resort to less aesthetically pleasing methods. In the interests of protecting our way of life we sometimes have to break other countries’ laws, and even our own. Yes, our own laws too, regrettably, but hopefully seldom. These events are minor infringements measured against the importance of the integrity the United States and its allies. It’s great and important work that we do, guarding our nation and its friends, and you have been chosen to play an important part. We rely on you!… Thank you.”
The director bowed her head for a second and then rose from her chair, looking to a distant point on the wall behind us. Clark jumped to his feet and stood like a soldier on parade, and I followed, with the tardy Yarham well behind. Ms Fernadez turned away, her face as smooth and set as a figure on a ceramic vase. She strode from the room, leaving only a faint whiff of perfume.
Clark stepped in front of me, a short man whose belly kept him at a respectful distance. He looked up into my face, searching. “Impressive, huh?”
“Exceptionally,” I said feelingly, taking care to avoid Yarham’s face.
9
In his office in Georgetown, Gerry Clark, Lieutenant-Colonel Gerald Clark, United States Army, head of C3, with uncanny timing, unfolded a proposal involving the less aesthetically pleasing methods of operation that Director Fernandez had referred to at our introductory meeting. Gently massaging his stomach, and looking upwards, he explained that I had been chosen to play a leading part in Operation Screwdriver, which was under way. The next phase was in Washington. Some phases would be outside the United States. I would learn about Screwdriver on a need-to-know basis, as it progressed. Yarham and I would be working with his man Kershaw, who would brief us.
“This is a very important assignment, Roger. In fact I can’t think of any operation more critical to the US nation than Screwdriver. And we’re using you, a British operative, when we might use a more seasoned agent, because I’m told you have the complete confidence of the powers that be,” Clark said, pointing the stubby forefingers of both hands at the ceiling and turning down the corners of his mouth.
Somehow an electric spark had come down from above – I assumed from Bolding and Reich and Amory – that Clark didn’t like or understand and I hoped it wouldn’t develop in his case, into what I called the Hornby Syndrome after my previous boss: grudging acceptance of a too-brilliant employee, and frustration at his progress. Clearly, Clark was uneasy, showing a lack of confidence in me, and hinting that he would not have appointed me. I promised modestly to do my best.
“Best isn’t good enough,” sneered Clark. “You have to succeed at any cost.”
“Tell me a little about the job,” I asked, realising it was something dirty and difficult.
“Harold will fill you in,” Clark said with a gleam that confirmed my thoughts… and, yes, fears.
Had I over-reached myself? Wouldn’t I be better at Goldman Sachs?
Later Harold Kershaw came up to the office I shared with Yarham to brief us. I say ‘office’ but it was rather a place to hang our raincoats and have a cup of coffee. As a consequence of the bugging we did our serious thinking out of doors. It was the first time that Harold had visited in our occupancy, and he looked around with feigned approval at the drapes and furniture, an outdoors man himself who despised comfort. He was empty-handed. His muscles bulged under his thin suit. I noticed his eyes were almost white, with a faint tint of blue, like a wolf, although a good deal smaller than a wolf’s. The thought of this animal reminded me of my sterling codename, Wolf. I was the wolf, not Kershaw! With a codename like that, one couldn’t help but take on some of the qualities of the beast.
Kershaw had broken teeth, a broken nose and a long, mean horsey face. His toughness gave off a certain unnerving attraction. He slouched down at our worktable which was paperless and shining, a barbarian in a lounge suit, and began without frills.
“Let me give you some of the detail. We’re going to do an entry on this building in DC…”
“Shit!” Yarham said.
“Scare you, buddy?”
“No, but it’s illegal, isn’t it?” Yarham said.
Kershaw bared his teeth in a semblance of a grin. “Depends. You wanna get counsel’s opinion?”
I kicked Yarham under the table. “No. Get on with it.”
“We have a contact who will facilitate entry.”
“You mean send us a written invitation?” Yarham said, his head with its long jaw tilted to one side.
“Yeah. As good as. Day after tomorrow I will be paying the contact off and getting precise entry info. Then we three will hit the building. Well, I will do the driving and getaway, and you two will do the entry. Inside, you will pick up papers relating to a secret operation, and hand them to me. Mission accomplished. Questions?”
“Whose building is it?” I asked.
Kershaw gave a dry cackle, and savoured the answer before he gave it. “Central Intelligence Agency.”
“We are going to rob the CIA?” I said, concealing the surprise I felt. I had expected to hear the name of a foreign power, which I suppose would have made the plan slightly more palatable.
“Storm Fort Langley?” Yarham added.
“Right, the CIA, wrong, Langley. Langley is in Virginia, you dope. The building we’ll hit is an outstation…”
“You mean the building I’ll hit with Yarham while you’re waiting outside?”
His mouth broke open like a bad plum. “Yeah,” he said with unashamed amusement at this distinction. “You’re the British action-man, aren’t you?”
I ignored the remark and stared back into the ruthless white eyes and the cracked face.
Kershaw went on, “It’s a luxury suite for the big brass in Pennsylvania Avenue, where they formulate plans and see people too shy or too busy to visit Langley.”
“Couldn’t we just write and ask for the file?” Yarham asked.
Kershaw gave Yarham an evil look.
“Are we at war with the CIA?” I asked.
“Yeah. Some of them plan secret operations for their own purposes that they don’t tell us about. They’ve got their own political agenda.”
“Can’t we be told what that is?”
“Not by me. As far as I’m concerned, you two guys are bagmen.”
With a hacking laugh, Kershaw got up, pushed his fists deep into his trouser pockets and shambled out of the room.
I took Yarham for one of our secure discussion walks in Wisconsin Avenue and raised the question whether I should speak to Professor Reich. I had doubts. I could raise them with Reich.
“You mean tell him that the burglary suggestion is getting out of hand? I wouldn’t, sir. You told me Clark indicated that somebody above him had wanted you in on Screwdriver. It was probably Reich himself.”
I could see this. “And after all, C3 does this kind of work overseas. But the National Security Agency raiding the CIA?”
“The CIA does what the President wants, and not everybody wants wha
t the President wants.”
“I suppose the CIA can get out of hand,” I said.
“Maybe we’re out of hand, sir. But it’s better than if we were asked to do the British Embassy,” Yarham said cheerfully.
The next day, Felicity Kershaw rang me and said that Harold had suffered a nasty accident. He’d fallen on the squash court that morning and broken his ankle. “He won’t be in to the office until the doctor tells him it’s all right to move around. The ankle is in plaster, and he’ll need crutches. But he wants to see you urgently. He says he can’t talk on the phone.”
Yarham drove me in one of the Agency’s cars out to Harold Kershaw’s home at Wakefield Park, Virginia. I didn’t quite know what to expect. I couldn’t place Kershaw in a domestic environment. His natural setting seemed to be a bar or a nightclub, or at least a city apartment. Instead, I found a rambling mock-Tudor mansion set in at least an acre of fantastical gardens, with ponds, fountains and fake statuary, from Snow White to the Venus de Milo. And inside the house, amongst the schlock furniture with which the home was crammed, every sign of warm family life. The Kershaws had a big if not cosy nest, children, ample money, and very little taste.
Felicity Kershaw showed me to Harold, who was reclining on a sofa in a solarium with a view of the gardens. She served drinks and was swiftly banished. At first I thought Kershaw was in pain, and then I concluded that he was lined with anxiety about the break-in.
“You’ll have to do the rendezvous with our contact, Roger,” he said in a friendly tone. “Otherwise the bag job will be fucked up for a week or more and we need the product urgently.”
“Sure. No problem. Tell me what you want me to do.” I thought getting a direct briefing from the contact was better than cryptic orders at second hand from Kershaw.
“First, tomorrow, at the office, you draw the money from Aretha. I’ll speak to her.”
Aretha was the woman who handled all matters financial in C3, from expense accounts to personal tax and pay.
“One hundred thousand bucks. It’s all requisitioned. You sign for it. I’ll speak to her. Take it to your office and split it. OK? Fifty thousand you stick in the drawer of your desk. The other fifty, you hand over at the RV, when the contact has briefed you to your satisfaction. How and where you get inside the building, where to go when you’re in. All the detail about security devices and patrols. All about the creeps that are still hanging out in their offices in the building. Make sure this guy tells you how you can navigate every inch of your way to get your hands on the product, and every inch of the way back. Wring him dry. That’s what he’s being paid for. To tell you how much dust there is on the window ledges. Savvy?”
“I’ll question him. Everything depends on it.”
“OK. Now, the contact is expecting fifty. He knows he has to give the utmost detail for the heist.”
“What do I do with the stuff in my desk?”
“Hang on to it until I get in to the office. Tell nobody. Savvy?”
This sounded interesting, but not relevant to today’s meeting.
Kershaw began to explain the details of the pay rendezvous. “The guy you will meet is an insider, very long service, senior, and he is the same guy who will let you into the building when we make the hit.”
“When I make the hit.”
“And tell you where to find the product. Simple. Hey? All you have to do is to grab the product, get outside and I will be waiting to chaffeur you to safety. I’ll be able to drive no problem by then. It’s my left ankle,” Kershaw said, pointing to the plaster cast on his leg.
“It can’t be as simple as it sounds,” I said to Yarham on the drive back to Georgetown.
“I daresay not, sir. Kershaw seems to have assigned the interesting part, inside the building, to us, and kept the dull part for himself. Very generous of him.”
“Interesting… but shitty,” I reflected.
This was apparently the world-shaking kind of operation for which I had been recruited and promoted rapidly, heartily endorsed by the egg-heads who ran the intelligence services. The fate of the Anglo-American world might be in issue, but it was burglary, no more and no less. Yarham must have been thinking along the same lines.
“Probably a dozen lags in Wandsworth prison who could do this better,” he said.
“What’s the worst scenario?” I asked. “It’s a CIA station, there’ll be armed security roaming the building and if they light up… ”
Yarham contemplated disaster with good cheer. “Two British Embassy officials, that’s what they’d probably call us, killed in a car accident. Something like that, I should say. They have a way of ignoring the bullet holes.”
That night, as instructed by Kershaw, I drove alone to a diner off the I 270 at Rockville at ten pm, carrying a small knapsack containing the money. I was wearing a red Dodgers baseball cap. The booths of the diner were dark and the place nearly empty. I wouldn’t offend anybody by keeping my hat on. Again, as instructed, I seated myself as far from the windows as possible, in the blue cloud around the fat fryer. Although I had eaten, not ordering wasn’t an option according to the waitress.
“We get a lotta bums in here, lookin’ for a place to zonk out,” she said.
I ordered a Bud and a hamburger without the fries, and idled with a copy of USA Today which a previous patron had abandoned on the table. In the international news there was comment about the July 11th bomb attacks in Mumbai when over two hundred people were killed, and a headline reporting that Scotland Yard had thwarted a major terrorist plot to destroy British and US commercial airliners crossing the Atlantic. I couldn’t help wondering whether what I was doing had some connection. I was right at the centre of Anglo-US intelligence and soon their plans, I thought, would have to be made clear to me. I was on a high about it.
At half past ten, when I was thinking the informer had let me down, a man of about fifty slid into the seat opposite. He had a thatch of silver hair crammed under a cap the same as mine. He looked as though he’d changed out of a city suit, into a sweater and slacks, designer gear. His throat was white. From behind thick horn-rimmed spectacles, he eyed me tensely. Then his eyes moved to the bag on the seat beside me. He began to rise, signalling that we should go. I dropped a twenty on the table and followed his ageing, out-of-shape figure. He walked with a limp. He looked like a well-paid, well-off civil servant, intelligent and perceptive. I had been expecting a security guard. What did he want the money for? A medical operation for his wife? A gambling debt? Maybe he just wanted more money the way we all do. I would never understand what had made him do this. Perhaps even some wacky idea about patriotism.
Outside, he led me behind the diner, on an ill-lit path toward the lavatories, moving into deep shadow under the trees.
“I’ve got to frisk you,” he said, apologetically.
He ran his hands over me, looking for a wire and a weapon. “You’ll have to show me inside the bag, too.”
I held it open. He flashed a pencil torch on the contents. I could make out his slight smile in anticipation of receiving the compact parcels of dollars, but he carried out the search awkwardly, almost embarrassed. He wasn’t an agent. He was a paper pusher. “I don’t need to count it,” he said, looking for reassurance from me, but I gave him none.
“OK. We talk here.” He moved deeper under the branches of the old tree. I could hardly see him. He had a quiet, cultured voice. “You’re going to pick up a Very Restricted Knowledge file, one of three hard-copy files that are regularly updated to contain the same material in each. There are no computer records on the project. The VRKs are either in personal custody, or in the security lockup, totally inaccessible. That’s the rule. You go in at 10.30 pm on the night at the Jermyn Place entrance, right? It will be open and clear of security. I will make sure the closed circuit television cameras are off for twenty minutes. You’ll be dressed in a dark suit, dark necktie, white shirt, black shoes. You have to look as though you belong. You’ll have this tag on your lapel.
Put any name on it. You need another? You’ll have an assistant?”
I pushed the cards he held out into my pocket.
“You go to Level 4, Room 4002 by the stairs on the left of the foyer. There is little security about at this hour. It’s their first break of the evening. If you meet a guard, you may have to bluff, but there’s a ninety-nine percent chance he’ll say ‘howdy,’ and go right on by. He will only know a few faces. Inside 4002 will be Gino Carmelli, deputy operations director on the project. He works every Thursday night until around eleven, eleven-thirty. This is absolutely regular. There will be some other workers in the building, not many, but nobody on his team. This is regular. The other workers will be in their rooms. They won’t be socialising in the corridors. Carmelli will have the VRK file on his desk. You have to take it, silence him…”
“Take it by force?”
“You seem surprised.”
“Not really,” I said, sounding as careless as I could. “I just want to be sure.”
“The only way. Take the file and get out. If you find his office door is locked when you arrive outside, use this.” He proffered a key. “It’s a caretaker’s key, like in a hotel. There are no locks on the office doors that won’t respond to this key.”
“Why would he lock himself in, inside your secure building?”
“I’m covering every eventuality,” the informer said flatly.
“Unless he’s doing something funny in there.”
“As I said, I’m covering everything.”
“How will I know the VRK file?”
“It’s marked. An orange cover, and it’s likely the only one Carmelli’s working on. When he goes home, he pushes the file into the late entry slot in the safe. You either take it from him while he’s in his room, or you don’t get it.”
“One thing I want,” I said. “Here’s a mobile phone number and a phone. Anything goes wrong on the night before we get there, call this number and leave a message, ‘Happy birthday’.
