Sleeper Spy

by William Safire

  NEW YORK

  Ace McFarland’s slim cellular phone was in his jacket breast pocket. A wire ran to small receivers over his ears and a tiny microphone held in place in front of his mouth. He knew the setup made him look like an extraterrestrial being, but it granted him total mobility. He liked to pace as he worked his instrument of deal-making, and his call from his television news star client had him walking and talking across his office, down the hallway, across to the executive john, back to his office.

  “Viveca, I’m chagrined at his exhibition of boorishness.” He let her go on reciting the details of her tempestuous encounter with Irving Fein, clucking and groaning at the proper intervals. “You are right, there is simply no excuse for that. I feel awful that I was the one responsible for subjecting you to that. No, no, I should have known the chemistry would never take. My fault, entirely. How could Irving have been so—so unprofessional? As of this moment, he’s not my client anymore. Which means he may never get another book published as long as he lives.”

  “Well, wait a minute, I’m not out to ruin the guy.” The agent’s escalation of her sounding-off caused the newswoman to back away a bit, as he had hoped it would. “I just won’t work with him, ever, under any circumstances. But if it got out that it was my fault you dropped him as a client, all his friends—who think he’s such a hotshot reporter—they’d come at me. They’re a mafia.”

  “You’re absolutely right, of course, Viveca. I’ll find some other collaborator for him on this story, which will not be difficult at all, because it’s developing into something bigger than I thought. You just forget the whole project. Forgive me for inflicting such an experience on you. He may well be the greatest reporter in the world, as his peers seem to think, but he’s a lout. Totally insensitive.” She broke in with an “And that’s not all,” but he kept overriding her complaints with his fervent agreement. “Yes, yes, insulting—no, I don’t want to hear it. Sexual favors? You? Last straw.”

  He let her build toward a second peak of indignation, held her there a few moments, then let her taper off.

  After she wound down, there was a pause, and she said: “What did you mean when you said it was developing into something bigger than you thought? You thought his story was pretty big last week.”

  “Oh, Irving said he hit pay dirt with a source in Washington this morning, but he tends to exaggerate.” He had not yet returned the call from the reporter, whose book would be a difficult sell, but that was because he wanted to get a report from Viveca first. “I’ll team him up with someone in your industry who’s insensitive to the point of being numb, and they’ll win all kinds of awards, and more power to them. Not for you. You need someone who can show some decent respect for your talent and your proven record of success. I’ll find him, or her, you’ll see. May take a little time, but—”

  “You spoke to him? Did he tell you about our awful meeting in Pound Ridge?”

  Ace paused for effect. “He said something about having acted like a jerk, and seemed a little sheepish about it. But he didn’t give me any of the details as you just did. I’ll bet he was plenty ashamed of himself, as he certainly should be. Nerve of the guy, and then to mislead me into thinking he just made a few minor faux pas. If I had known the truth when I talked to him, I would have told him to take his world beat, and all the professional acclaim that goes with it, and stick it in his ear. Viveca, you’ll have to believe me, I’ve been in this business forty-five years and this has never happened to me before.”

  “He said he acted like a jerk? Those were the words he used?”

  “Something like that. I’m not like you newspeople, I don’t make notes, all I make is superagent history. Viveca!” Clients, he’d learned long ago, liked to hear agents shout out their names. “He’s a proud man, and let’s face it, he’s insecure in a lot of ways, but I could tell he knew he overstepped in trying to browbeat you.”

  “He felt bad about it?”

  “He’ll feel a lot worse when I tell him I have to find someone else to make his ‘global exclusive,’ as he calls it, salable.” He pushed a button on his desk that made a loud buzz. “Viveca, that’s an overseas call I placed before, and it’s hell getting through to Beijing—can I call you right back? Again, I’m terribly sorry, but the hell with him, we’ll find someone that’s right for you to work with. Be right back to you.”

  He took off his earphones, went to the door, and told his secretary to return the call Irving Fein had placed from a phone booth in Washington.

  “Irving, sorry I’ve been unreachable all week, it’s my lumbago. How did your rendezvous go on the famous park bench?”

  “I didn’t take him to the bench—he thinks they have long-range unidirectional mikes aimed at him. We had breakfast at a fast-food joint, the most secure location in the world.”

  “Progress?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. But Ace—I, uh, wanted you to know your celebrity newsgal and I didn’t hit it off so well the other day.”

  “So I heard. She mentioned that she came on a little strong and you weren’t having any of that.”

  “That’s a fair way of putting it. She called you?”

  “I called her because a couple of publishers heard I was handling her next book. The fact of my representation gave her a little extra prestige, so they expressed an interest.” It was important that clients know of his direct contribution to the value of their work. “I think I can get a little auction going in hardback, maybe lock the paperback in, which should wake ’em up at the book clubs. I’ll hold back electronic rights, of course—they may be an annuity for your grandchildren.” He went on into the arcana of agenting, knowing Irving found this of little interest; as with most impecunious authors, to Irving the advance was all. But an analysis of the minutiae was both an opportunity to demonstrate the value of sophisticated representation and a device to give the reporter time to mull over what he might be missing without his famous collaborator.

  “And she admitted our first session wasn’t the greatest because she came on strong?” Ace could hear Irving working up a head of steam. “Did she also tell you she said I was a has-been who needed her glamour to get a decent advance?”

  “No, of course not. She seemed a little apologetic, but—she said that to you?”

  “Did she tell you she called me a prick?”

  Though that was hardly cause for any reporter to take offense, Ace let himself gasp into the tiny transmitter. “She certainly said nothing of the kind. I had no idea, Irving, first that she would use language like that—she always seemed like such a lady—and second that she would show such disrespect for the greatest reporter in the world today.”

  “Don’t butter me up, Ace.”

  “As a matter of fact, Irving, those were not my words. Viveca used that very phrase when she called to share her worry with me about your reaction. Said something to the effect that all the other journalists who thought you were, quote, the greatest reporter of all time, unquote, might hold it against her if you were to take umbrage at her attitude. She’s well aware of your power among your peers.”

  “Still, I dunno if it’ll work.”

  “You know what? I made a mistake,” the agent confessed. “And I’m the first to admit it. If she insulted you that way at the start—even though she later felt remorse about it, even a twinge of fear—that does not augur well for working closely under stress on a major book and television series. Fortunately, nothing’s been signed. Let’s break it off now, today.”

  “She really commands a big advance?”

  “I know this sounds odd coming from me, Irving, but money is not everything. If you feel the personal chemistry is wrong, I can find someone else, perhaps a younger man in television, someone who could also help you with a lot of the legwork.” He paused, as if thinking it over. “We’d have to settle for a lot less up front, but if the story makes world headlines, we can do well in the long run. I’m not getting any younger, but I can wait for the main
commission income.”

  “Maybe you can, but I can’t. Look, Ace—if whatshername is willing to shape up and go to work and not act like a snotnose star, I might be willing to go ahead with her.”

  “Think about it some more. Call me back in ten minutes.”

  The matchmaker signaled to his secretary to get his other client back.

  “Viveca, I let him have it. I know you told me not to, but I just could not abide being the one who brought you together with someone who caused you such pain. So I told him off, and then some.”

  “Wish you hadn’t, Matt. How did the pompous son of a bitch react?”

  “He was penitent, of course. And the prospect of losing half of a huge advance, and having to find a less experienced television newswoman to be a partner, has him deeply troubled. But he deserved it. Now let’s be constructive. Before I put out my feelers in the industry, tell me: can you think of someone—young, ambitious, good-looking, willing to put up with an iconoclast in pursuit of a global exclusive—someone I can recommend at your network?”

  “Nobody,” she said instantly. Ace suspected she knew of a few news presenters breathing down her neck who would leap at the chance. “And don’t peddle the idea around yet. If he’s genuinely sorry, and willing to act like a grown-up, we may be able to salvage it.”

  “You’re sure? What if he backslides, under some tension? He may be driven by his own insecurity to assert some macho dominance. Will you be able to handle a somewhat volatile character?”

  “If it means a lot to my image and my career, I can handle anybody.”

  The agent nodded gravely, made a date for the three of them in his office, and slapped his chest to hang up.

  When Irving called again, the agent said, “You won. She says she’ll behave herself. But Viveca is a nervous wreck, everybody knows that. The stress of climbing up the greasy pole of television politics to talk to thirty million people is unbelievable. Frankly, my friend, I’m worried. What if, down the line, she gets scared and starts acting like a star to cover up her vulnerability? I’ve done some more checking around, and her reputation is as you suggested, what we used to call high-strung.”

  “Borderline psychotic is what they call it now.”

  “That’s unkind and inaccurate, and you know it. But will you be able to handle the creative tension between you?”

  “For a whopping advance, I can handle anything. This story needs a big investment.”

  Ace told him the time and place of their meeting, with not a word to be mentioned of her apology or regret. He took the earphones and microphone off his head, wrapped them in a tidy package with the cellular unit, took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and lay down on the couch for his restorative preluncheon nap. If the world of books collapsed and there were no more role for literary agents, he could always become an arranger of high-finance hostile mergers, or a UN mediator, or a marriage counselor.

  NEW YORK

  Irving arrived at Ace’s office, with its depressing black mirrors, determined to give the knockout television announcer a second chance.

  He reminded himself not to call Viveca “kid.” That was what he called everybody, whatever their age, but some people took it to be a put-down, and the reporter, though content to be known as an iconoclast, did not want to insult anybody inadvertently. As Ace had explained, Viveca Farr had lived a tough life, was under debilitating strain, and had to be gentled along. She had expressed her apology to Ace for mouthing off like a goddam star—which she was not, having only the trappings of incipient stardom—and Irving was not about to be a sore winner. He resolved to keep in mind his primary interest in her was to get the big book advance, enabling him to travel and hire Mike Shu’s accounting help. Any other reporting service she could perform in advancing the story would be gravy.

  He would also, if she showed a hint of the proper respect, teach her a thing or two about the news business. She had spunk, Fein conceded, but it was of the lashing-out variety, sometimes useful—he used it himself on occasion—but only when intentional. He suspected her spunkiness to be brittle, not running to intellectual honesty or anywhere near moral courage. The trick, as he worked it out in his head walking down the hallway, looking in doorways, browsily snooping, was to consider her not so much a colleague but a necessary source of sustenance. And he was always prepared to do nip-ups, changing mood and approach, turning alternately sweet and sour, confiding and confidential, to milk a source. Sources deserved protection so as to earn the respect that comes from reliability.

  In the doorway ahead, he could see her seated in a side chair, legs crossed, high-heeled blue shoes and a matching suit, real blond hair without one strand loose, not a long drink of water but a nice gulp. He was obliged to protect his source of funds. He hoped Ace would ignore the previous meeting and plunge directly into the business at hand: preparing enough of an outline to attract a substantial offer.

  “Irving! Viveca here was telling me of your mutual interest in fine wines. I never knew you were a oenologist. To celebrate on pub date, I shall send you a case of my favorite, a Château Cheval Blanc.”

  Irving forced a smile at her, and she blazed a much better one back. Viveca’s smile was some power smile, but warm and authoritative. Crisp. Everything about her was crisp: her demeanor, her direct gaze, the alert way she carried her head, the sound of her voice. Even her physical fragility had an element of toughness; if he were a peanut brittle sponsor, he’d snap up her show.

  “I got some traction out of F Street,” he told them, plunking himself down on the couch.

  “What is the significance of F Street?” asked Ace.

  “And what put you in traction?” she said.

  Patience, he told himself; don’t be a wise-ass and blow the deal. “One of the intelligence types,” he explained, “who works out of the CIA house on F Street down the block from the Old EOB, gave me a few more leads to go on. My dunno sheet is longer than ever, but that’s a good sign.”

  “Your what shit?” Ace looked offended at the language in front of a lady.

  “My dunno sheet. When I’m at the beginning of a story, like everybody else, I draw up a list of what I know. Then I crack my head over it and draw up a sheet with all I do not know. That second list, the dunno sheet, is the hard part, but it’s what gets you going. You have to keep adding to it, but there comes a moment in digging out a story when it begins to get shorter.”

  “Start with what you know,” said Ace. “Like—who are the Feliks people you had me ask that attractive Russian, Davidov, about?”

  “The Feliks people are the Outs of the KGB, plus a network, fairly large, of former communist big shots. Tough bunch who dream of the mean old days. They have ties to the Russian mafiya—a network of fastbuck operators and Lepke-type gangstercrats who give capitalism a bad name.”

  Viveca put in a question. “Who’s the boss of all bosses?”

  At least she didn’t try to put it in Italian. “Dunno. Good question, though—I’ll add it to my list. Anyway, this association of no-goodniks, the Feliks people, squirreled away a bunch of money just before the Soviet Union went under. The guy who handled the squirreling-away was a sleeper.”

  “A sleeper,” said Viveca. Not with a rising inflection, to ask a question, but as a kind of statement, as if she knew what the hell he was talking about, which Irving was sure she did not. She didn’t know what a Lepke type was, either—he remembered Louis “Lepke” Buchalter as an extortionist labor racketeer in the thirties—but at least she ran up a quick flag on this one.

  “A sleeper agent,” he said, spelling it out without patronization, “is a spy who was planted here a generation back. His assignment was to burrow into the American woodwork and make a respectable life for himself. He never did any spying, never took any chances, but just got himself into position for a big job when the time came.”

  “How do you know it’s a man?” Viveca asked.

  That caused him to look at her blankly. His original tipster
had said “he”; Clauson had referred to the sleeper as “he,” and suggested a man to handle the impersonation; Irving had just assumed it was a he. Could the sleeper be a woman? No; he left a pregnant wife behind in a marriage that had to be annulled. “It’s a man, and I’ll explain why later, but that was a good question. Assume nothing.” Then she did something else Irving liked: she pulled a notebook out of her purse and began to take notes.

  “In the early summer of 1968,” Irving continued, “a very bright kid of eighteen—trained in their American Village, where they feed you apple pie and coffee and tell you Joe DiMaggio’s brothers were named Vince and Dom—was selected to be planted here. The choice of the kid came right from the top of the KGB, so there may be a connection there. I’m told he left a pregnant young wife behind.”

  “One of those.”

  Irving could not envision Viveca Farr identifying with a jilted bride. “Either he was forced into marriage because he knocked her up and left because he wasn’t a family man, or—more likely, given the assignment—this was a very dedicated young commie. Okay, a generation passes. Gorbachev comes on, the Soviet economy goes in the tank, the Baltics start to pull out. Just before the shit hits the fan, the KGB sends the sleeper’s handler to Barbados—that’s in the Caribbean somewhere—to unload all the Party holdings onto this guy. He’s now an international banker here in the U.S. and knows what to do to bury big assets, or even to make a buck or two investing them.”

  “The Odessa File,” Ace interrupted, for Viveca’s benefit. “Frederick Forsyth. The Nazis hid the German gold after the war hoping to bring back Hitler. Helluva novel, big paperback—”

  “Ace, you’re starting up again,” Irving warned. “This is not a novel.”