by Gil Hogg
“Absolutely fascinating… I mean it beats having the Jaguar franchise for Oxford.”
“Dangerous?”
“Would Nick have answered that?”
Sally gave a little groan of desperation, and went back to her bed. I lay awake for a while, wondering if the powder in at least one of the phials was heroin, and if it was, how this fitted with Nick’s death.
Yarham had worked industriously on the C3 intranet, and the more complicated net that served the Special Collection Service at Crypto City and the NSA. The result was that our personal Other People’s Business facility was in comprehensive running order. I had access to staff, administrative and financial matters, personal diaries and emails, and a certain amount of encrypted material coded Umbra (high level signals intelligence), Gamma (espionage information), and Zarf (electronic intelligence from satellites). The VRK files were of course inaccessible hard copy.
Yarham and I had a session about his OPB discoveries once a week as we circled the library or promenaded down Wisconsin Avenue, and gained a useful if patchy picture of what C3 was doing. In particular, we were able to watch the impact on C3 of our successful raid on the CIA. In the understated communications between departments within C3 and the NSA, there was a nuance of shock. The terrorist threat to mainland USA was real more than imagined, and potentially dwarfed 9/11 in effect. I got a justifiably high official commendation from a number of officers (never directly communicated to me) and there was a certain triumphalism in Clark’s reports of a victory over an uncooperative rival agency. References in emails and memos to the next stage of Operation Screwdriver did not give even an oblique suggestion of what it might be.
“Roger, we’re having another little dinner at my apartment on Saturday night, and now that you’ve settled in and completed your first assignment, I’d like you to come along,” Gerry Clark said, beaming at me from the doorway of his office as he named the next day but one. “Short notice, I know.”
The confections of Carol Clark’s French cook were certainly to my taste, and the Mona Lisa smile I could anticipate receiving across the dinner table from Carol. But I wondered whether this was a more serious occasion. To test Gerry, I said, “I’d love to come but I’ve got a date at Ford’s Theatre.”
Gerry’s chubby affability faded. “I like to make business as pleasurable as possible, Roger.”
“Fine. No problem. I’ll be there.”
When Clark had gone, Yarham bunched up his fist with his middle finger sticking out and screwed the table. I nodded agreement. What could it be but the next stage of Screwdriver?
I had not seen Carol Clark for ten days, and on the day of Gerry’s invitation she appeared in the office doorway – she knew better than to call me on the agency’s phones or our mobiles. It was one of the privileges of being the boss’s woman that she could wander unchecked through the secure corridors, completely in breach of the security regulations. As soon as I saw her, I put my fingers to my lips and pointed to the light.
“Hullo, Carol,” I said formally. “I was just going to go out to the drug-store.”
“I’m on my way too,” she said, and we both left the building together. When we were strolling under the birch trees along the sidewalk, she added, “We haven’t seen each other lately, really since I finished at your apartment.”
Her tone was peevish. But the problem of bringing my dalliance with Carol to a mutually agreeable close occurred to me only remotely at this stage.
“I’ve been busy. You know, the job. And I’m committed to seeing Laurie when she’s in town.”
Carol sighed. “Oh, yes, Laurie. Roger, come to the dinner at five or five-thirty instead of seven pm. Gerry’s going to be out himself until seven pm. I know him. He’s like clockwork. He’s playing poker with his cronies after work. The kid’s are at my mother’s. The cook will be the only other person there.”
It was, for a few seconds, a groin-warming invitation, but quickly supplanted by caution. I was anxious about Carol’s ire if I rejected her. I therefore accepted her suggestion with pretended alacrity, intending to be late, and use the time to question her about the guest list.
I presented myself at the Clark residence a little after six pm bearing flowers and a bottle of good Californian cabernet sauvignon. Mme Ducane opened the door and I noticed her remarkable face and figure again. She had very thick black hair, nearly shoulder-length with a slight crimp. She was of medium height with a full figure and mustard-coloured skin, perhaps of Algerian origin. Her eyes were bronze and lustrous as they settled on me. She accepted the gifts graciously, and walked before me into the lounge. She was wearing a thin, tight, short black dress in the warm apartment. As I walked in her wake, I could smell a hot female smell that was not from a perfume bottle. She looked over her shoulder and said casually, “Madame is in the room at the end of the hall,” waving her arm gently toward the door. I hesitated at this casual gesture.
“Go on,” she smiled, her purple lips parting over a neat row of contrastingly white teeth.
As I walked hesitantly down the hall I tried to clear my mind from the tawny cook, to favour the pink and white Carol. At the open bedroom door I paused, seeing a bed, smooth and empty, with the top sheet drawn back neatly to admit a body – or bodies. Only one meaning could be attached to being received in the bedroom.
Carol jumped out from behind the door with a yell which startled me and wrapped her arms around me. She was wearing a satin gown, and I was enveloped by her superficial softness with a scented, gym-firmed muscularity beneath. After this clinch, Carol began to undress me methodically, slipping my jacket off, undoing my tie. I wriggled around, showing good humour, but slowing the process. She hadn’t yet spoken a word, unless her gasps counted.
“Now, wait a minute, Carol.”
She then beckoned me to the bed, as I reached, automatically, to close the open door on my embarrassment.
“Don’t shut the door, Roger, Marie might want to consult me about the table settings,” she sniggered.
“This is very… dangerous,” I protested, startled again by the implications.
Carol began wrestling me to the bed, her gown open, revealing those last few woman’s undergarments which are the salad garnish of love. The problem of being drawn deeper into an emotional mire, hers not mine, was on my mind, not to mention privacy, and the possible, indeed impending arrival of Marie, and by ill-chance, even Gerry.
“What do you think, Roger?”
I saw Carol’s attention was beyond me, and I turned to find Marie standing near the bed.
“Well, Monsieur?” Marie said, swaying her hips
I glanced uncertainly at Carol, and saw only amusement. I wasn’t sure what was being promised.
Marie began to undress quickly in front of us, revealing a body astonishingly in contrast to that of her mistress in its swarthy voluptuousness. I watched this spectacle while Carol clung to me. And when Marie had stepped out of her last garment, a thong, she gave a whoop like a cowboy at a rodeo, and threw herself on top of Carol and me, and we rolled on the bed in a tangle. I was beginning to give serious thought to removing myself from this tangle of limbs and breasts, when I heard a voice echo down the hall.
“Carol, honey!”
Gerry Clark’s tones were not particularly honeyed. He must have had a losing afternoon. He sounded scratchy.
“Goddam! Once in a thousand years, he’s early!” Carol whispered.
In one fluid movement, Marie was out of the bed. She swept the pile of her clothes on the carpet into a corner, and slid into a long silk wrap. She went out the door, closing it behind her, while Carol crept to the door and locked it. I could hear Marie addressing Gerry. What was she saying? Perhaps that she was going to have a shower before dinner, and that Madame was dressing. But that wouldn’t make any allowance for me!
I was gathering my scattered garments when Gerry came to the door and tried to open it. Carol grinned at me, kissed my cheek, and tried to undo my belt. She pointed
to the bed. I was now in a confused state of shock and excitement, and whether my judgment was right or not, felt that despite all this ecstatic promise, the assignation could not in any measure be consummated. I was limp.
Gerry returned to the door. “Why have you got the door locked?” he whined. “It’s my fucking bedroom too.”
“You don’t do all that much fucking in it,” Carol said, calmly.
Gerry’s image of her from outside the door was probably that she was sitting engrossed before the mirror of her dressing table, frowning while applying her eye shadow. “Yeah, well you can’t fuck an iceberg,” he said.
“I’m an iceberg? Really?” Carol tittered sarcastically, widening her eyes at me, and I caught the echo of years of stinging bedroom talk.
This two-way exchange had cooled Carol’s ardour. Her mind was clattering with domestic conflict. “Listen Gerry, be sensible for once. We’re having guests soon. I want to get dressed quietly without having Marie come in and ask me questions. I’ll be out in a moment.”
Carol managed this offhand response while her whole body was shuddering with anger and frustration. Gerry Clark gave an ill-tempered growl and moved away, and I finished putting on my clothes.
Carol’s whispered directions to me seemed complicated and risky – exit through the sliding doors of the bedroom to the patio, descend the fire escape, drop into a neighbour’s garden, mind the dog, go out of the neighbour’s gate into the road, take a walk, and return to the apartment in five or ten minutes.
In a sweat I forgot to ask what kind of dog it was, and stumbled out on to the patio to negotiate the obstacle course. It was my good fortune that this detour was without event. I walked up the road thinking I would prefer not to return, but duty had to be done. I was going to attend a business meeting. Then I remembered the flowers and wine which I had brought and handed to Marie who had probably put them down somewhere in full view. Had Gerry noticed them? I was agonised. If only I could have disappeared completely.
Gerry met me at the front door of his residence at a few minutes before seven pm. “Ah, Roger first to arrive,” Gerry said. “You look rather dishevelled. What’s the problem?”
“It’s a bit breezy out there,” I said, following Gerry into the lounge. I saw the flowers and wine had been placed on the sideboard. Carol had not yet appeared.
“Whose is this?” Gerry Clark asked, picking up the wine and looking at the vintage. The room was so meticulously neat and understated in ornamentation that the gift was quite noticeable and demanded attention.
Rarely at a loss for a word, I was now fumbling for an explanation, or weighing whether I should profess ignorance, when a calm voice behind me said, “Monsieur Conway left the gifts before he went for a walk.”
“Yes. Such a bracing evening. I was early, and I left the things with Marie.”
Marie looked quite dull-eyed and lumpy in her apron, as she removed the flowers and the wine, and Clark thanked me. I reflected for a second as a man, and possibly a future victim, on the almost impenetrable deceptions of cuckoldry.
The events of the evening had moved so swiftly, I had not had time to find out from Carol in advance who the guests would be. This dinner was work, and could hardly be other than Operation Screwdriver, so the guest list was significant. Gerry fixed me a martini which I toyed with until the second guest arrived: Professor Reich, who again seemed to reach into his memory to place me. Then, to my surprise, Rachel Fernandez, the head of SCS, appeared. She had no personal intimacy. She was as commanding close up as she was on her dais. There were two more places yet to be filled. I thought one of them might be Kershaw, but instead, the pair who arrived together were Bolding and Amory. Bolding, elegantly suited in a fawn woollen check, was withdrawn and smiled only as a politeness. Amory’s eyes sparkled when he saw me, and he rubbed his palm over my shoulder affectionately. Here, I concluded, were some of the top Disciples: Reich, Fernandez, Bolding and Amory. I placed Clark as no more than a trusted stooge.
Despite Marie’s tasteful efforts with the pate and orange duck, the dinner and the conversation were overshadowed by what was to come. Gerry was perhaps in awe of his guests, and Carol only made a faint attempt to play the hostess. She was very quiet, with a secretly enigmatic glance which she rested upon me occasionally. When the coffee and cognac were served, Carol left the table, asking to be excused in a way which suggested that she wouldn’t return. Marie departed, closing the double doors to the lounge with finality, and the remaining six diners were left in silence at the table.
It was Professor Reich who spoke first and without preamble. “The first task is to find the precise location of the missile site. It’s apparent from the CIA material that they don’t know.”
“GCHQ have no information on this, not one intercept,” Amory said. “What about the NSA?”
“Nothing,” Rachel Fernandez said. “It’s very unusual. The equipment has been assembled under a blanket of silence.”
“Aerial surveillance?” Bolding asked.
“Nothing,” Fernandez said.
Bolding said, “Understandable if you compare the events of 1962. That was a big government-to-government operation. A lot of the traffic was in clear by the Cubans, and the build-up of vessels heading for Cuba was obvious. The U2s were overflying and getting pictures. This operation, in contrast, is completely covert, a lot smaller and more deadly. There’s no need for perceptible shipping movements. All the on-site work can be performed underground. If you plan carefully, you don’t need a lot of signals. And the Cubans don’t appear to be politically involved, perhaps not even as willing hosts.”
“So we need humint,” Gerry said with a small grin.
“We do,” Reich said, stiffly. “Do MI6 have any agents in Cuba who could help?”
Bolding deferred to Amory. “None of our sources is really in a position in Havana where we can expect useful informa-tion.”
“Same with ours,” Rachel Fernandez said. “We need a new team, pronto.”
“That supports my point,” Bolding said. “If you remember, the 1962 crisis involved major construction work, engineering, telemetry, not to mention money and politics. Information from many government departments in Cuba and the Soviet Union seeped out at all levels. Now, not only is the present operation on a relatively small scale, but my assessment is that the Cuban government isn’t officially involved, and doesn’t know anything about it. Our agents in Cuba aren’t getting any information because there literally isn’t any.”
A pause, and their eyes swung toward me: Reich, Bolding and Fernandez, crystalline and abstract as though I was a specimen under x-ray, and Amory, warm and shimmering.
“This is where you come in, Roger,” Reich said.
13
This was my moment. I was the answer to the jihadists’ most damaging threat to the western world. I was like a modern Hannibal or Alexander. True, I had no vast army, but the effect of my mission couldn’t be measured in elephants or warriors. It wasn’t hard to see what the Disciples would want me to do.
“You want me to go to Cuba, locate and destroy the terrorists and their site?” I asked.
“Well not quite, but you’re our chosen man,” Amory said with a giggle.
“We want you to locate the site, period, Roger. Then report to us,” Reich said in his clipped way.
I was disappointed at this more limited role; from Hannibal to Good Soldier Schweik in moments. But I gestured sagely, and said, “I’m honoured to have the assignment. Could I ask some questions?”
Reich made a giveaway gesture with his hands. “Anything.”
“How long do we have before the missile site is ready?”
“We don’t know. Really no time at all. It could be months, but probably weeks.” Reich looked at the others for assent.
“Do I take any further action when I locate the site?”
“Other than to let us know the position, no,” Reich said.
“What will happen when we know the location
?”
Reich had assumed a sort of chairmanship. “Perhaps it’s not good for you to know too much… but the missiles will obviously have to be destroyed.”
“How?”
“I don’t think we can talk about that,” Reich said. “I appreciate your curiosity, but it’s not in your interests to know. If you fell into the hands of the terrorists… ”
“Trust us, Roger, to deal wisely and well with the intelligence you bring us,” Amory said pontifically.
“What will the CIA be doing that is likely to affect me?”
Reich smiled wryly. “Trying to find out the same information, I would guess. But we’ll be watching them, and we’ll let you know anything useful.”
“What will the CIA do if they find out the location?”
Bolding gave a groan. “Write a thesis about it, and then set up a committee to consider it, I should think. You don’t need to worry about that. We’ll watch them carefully and keep you informed.”
“It’s possible I could come into conflict with the CIA. After all, we’re both looking for the same thing.”
“Avoid them if possible, otherwise… treat them as you would any other unfriendly unit,” Fernandez said.
I looked around at a ring of waxen faces, and had no need to question what one does with an unfriendly unit.
“The security of both our nations is in issue, Roger,” Amory said.
“It’s no time for half measures,” Reich said. “Make sure nobody gets in your way.”
I came away from the dinner with instructions that I would leave for Cuba, with Yarham, as soon as our false identities and papers had been processed, but with the vacant feeling, which every operative presumably experiences, that he is a pawn in a game he cannot begin to understand.
It had been my intention to make an excuse and decline a ride in Amory’s cab, but now I decided that Amory was my one avenue of further information. I rode with him and Bolding, asking not to be dropped at my apartment, and saying I intended to walk back from the city for the exercise. Bolding alighted at the Marriott, and when we arrived at the Hilton I accepted Amory’s invitation to go up to his suite for a nightcap.
