It appeared he was all over the map; we kept finding his trail twelve or twenty-four hours too late.
During that week Pete Morgan found the rot had spread to four more agents. He had no choice but to spread the dictum throughout his network that all agents in the system were under suspicion and surveillance until further notice.
Whether the threat succeeded was not immediately clear but defections appeared to be on the decrease: either the agents were impressed or Karl was laying off, or perhaps his job was concluded. I suspected the latter because none of Pete’s agents came forward after the middle of that week to report attempts to bribe them.
By then we had lost seventeen agents — about twenty percent of the station’s complement — and this made the issue so grave that Myerson personally flew out to Guam to light a fire under me.
I gave him a cool welcome. Myerson has no head for tactics. He was not going to be any material help and I didn’t want him underfoot.
He favored me with his most menacing smile. “I’m not interested in your preferences, Charlie. I want this thing wrapped and I intend to sit on you until you wrap it. I’m getting flak from stations as far away as Beirut and Marseilles and even Mexico City — a flood of trouble coming in from the Far East without any prior warning from China Station. We’ve got to get this network back in operation before the trouble spreads all the way into Langley.”
I gave him a cold eye. “If you can do a better job than I’m doing then I’ll stand aside but otherwise don’t call me -I’ll call you.”
* * *
A STRINGER in Djakarta had his eyes open and spotted Karl Jurgens from the photo he’d memorized. The stringer phoned in from the airport and I was on the runway at Singapore with an armed crew when Karl’s plane landed. We took him into custody and bundled him aboard a cabin cruiser. Out at sea I conducted the interrogation personally. No witnesses; but I had a tape deck rolling.
Karl was urbane and stoic. He managed a bleak smile. “I thought you must have retired years ago — you’re even older than I am. If I’d known they would pit you against me I think I might have refused the job. I never was quite a match for you, Charlie. How did you tumble to me?”
“Legwork.” I wasn’t about to tell him how he’d revealed himself through his attachment to paradise. In a poker game you don’t tell another player that he wiggles his ears when he’s bluffing.
I said, “Who’s footing the bill?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Don’t force me to make tedious threats, Karl.”
“The offer was made by telephone, just as my offers have gone to your agents by phone. I was given a list of names of agents to be subverted.”
“And the visas, passports and millions of dollars?”
“The visas and passports were sent to me at a general delivery post office box in Djakarta. They came in a plain carton. If it matters it was postmarked Hong Kong. As for the millions of dollars in bribe money, it was mostly fictitious. The numbered Swiss accounts exist but they contain only a few hundred francs each.”
“Then you intended to double-cross all these people who thought you were making them rich.”
“I intended nothing, Charlie. I was paid in cash, through the mails, and I’ve done the job I was paid to do. I didn’t ask my employer his intentions. If I had, do you suppose he’d have told me? It was only on my own initiative and from my own curiosity that I inquired into those Swiss accounts. After all, he had to give me the account numbers so that I could pass them on to the defectors.”
“The Mandarin Chinese who made the phone calls for you?”
“An unemployed Formosan actor of no account. I paid him to make the calls. He read from prepared scripts. He knows nothing more than that. Forget him.”
“You’re telling me it’s a dead end?”
He spread his hands and smiled faintly. “You have me in custody. That should solve your problem for the moment.”
“Hardly. Why’d you do it?”
“Money. What else? It’s hardly been stimulating to my ingenuity.”
“Why did they choose you?”
“I suppose I’d let the word go out that I was available for free-lance work. And I flatter myself I still have a reputation for efficiency and secrecy. I cover my tracks fairly well — I doubt any man but you could have tumbled me. In any case I swear to you I have no knowledge of the identity of my employers.”
“You weren’t curious?”
“I was, but I curbed it. Does the postman care who the postmaster is? My job was simply to deliver mail and messages. Menial — beneath me, really, but the money was attractive.” His smile dwindled and departed. “I’m an old man, Charlie. I take what I can get.”
“Describe the voice on the phone.”
“Disguised. Muffled with a handkerchief and artificial falsetto. High pitched, nasal. A man, not a woman.”
“Language?”
“German. Not a native German accent. Possibly English, American, Australian, Canadian, South African — English-speaking at any rate, but the falsetto confused things. I couldn’t be specific.”
“All right. What was the operation designed to cover?”
“I’ve no earthly idea. That’s the truth. I wasn’t told and I didn’t ask.”
“You’ve certainly come down in the world.”
“I’m an old beggar,” he agreed. “You know, oddly enough, I don’t think I’ve broken any laws. Isn’t that curious? At least not to the extent that it could be proved in a court against me. What do you intend doing about me? Is Miles Kendig still in charge of your Security Executive?”
“No. Kendig’s gone. Myerson runs the office.”
Karl made a face. “Him. The ultimate Philistine bureaucrat. Well — what will you do with me?”
“Nothing. Go back to Tahiti and lie on the beach. You’re too old.”
“You’re unkind but truthful.”
“How much were you paid?”
“One hundred thousand marks. About forty thousand dollars. Plus expenses — I spent those. Air fares, so forth.”
“Send an international money order for forty thousand dollars to the UNESCO children’s fund. When you get the receipt send it to me in Langley. If I don’t get it I’ll come to Tahiti after you.”
“What am I to live on?”
“Sorrow,” I told him. “We’ll send you a Care package now and then.”
“You probably ought to kill me.”
“I know,” I said, “but I don’t kill people. I never have and never will. It’s one of the silly crosses I bear. Auf wiedersehn, Karl.”
* * *
I MET Myerson in Pete Morgan’s office in Hong Kong. The rains were intense. The narrow passages of Kowloon ran with rancid floods. I scraped my wet shoes on Pete’s carpet and tossed my voluminous dripping raincoat on a chair and sank into the couch. “Have them send me up three or four roast beef sandwiches.”
Myerson had commandeered the desk. He lit a Havana. “Do you ever stop eating?”
“It takes a lot of food to sustain all this. You wouldn’t want me to faint from hunger.”
“It might be good for a laugh.” He squinted at Pete. “Any more defections since last week?”
“No, thank God. Things are easing back to normal. We’ve done some recruiting. It looks as if they — whoever they are — decided to abandon the attack rather than find a replacement for Jurgens.”
Myerson growled, “I don’t like leaving a file wide open. I want this one closed.” He glared at me.
Pete said, “How can we close it? We haven’t got any leads.”
I said, “That’s a matter of knowing where to look.”
Myerson blew smoke at me and waited.
Pete flushed. “Look, this whole mess was my responsibility. I can’t solve it but at least I can tender my resignation. It’s the only thing I can do in good conscience.” He dipped an envelope from his inside pocket and tossed it on the desk. “There’s the resignation. Maybe
I’ll join old Jurgens in retirement on Tahiti.”
His voice sounded bitter. He got up and went slowly toward the door — too slowly: he was waiting for Myerson to tear up the letter of resignation. It was a bluff, meant to appear as a conscience-salve.
Myerson opened his mouth to stop him but I got in first. “If we refuse to accept that resignation, Pete, what will you do?”
He stopped and favored me with a sour smile. Then he shook his head. “Keep on going out the door, I guess. You’ve got to accept it. I blew this job. Everybody on the station knows it. Everybody in Langley will know it soon enough. How can I go on working in the Agency when everybody has good reason to ridicule me?”
“Would you accept a transfer?”
“I guess not. To tell you the truth I’m sick of the whole back-alley trade. I imagine I’ve been looking for an excuse to quit for a long time.”
“Not to mention the wherewithal,” I remarked.
“What?”
I said, “I’ll accept the idea that you’re sick and tired of the job. I’ll accept the idea that you’ve wanted to get out for quite a while. But you haven’t got enough time in, Pete. You’re ten years too young for a retirement pension. What do you intend to use for money?”
“I’ll get a job.” He mustered a smile. “You can live cheap in Papeete, I hear. Maybe I’ll become a beachcomber.”
Myerson stubbed his cigar out. The room reeked of its noxious fumes.
I said, “Pete, sit down.”
He didn’t move; he only shifted his feet and his bewildered gaze — it fled toward Myerson, who said to me, “What’s on your mind, Charlie?”
I said, “Not long ago we lost our station chief in Moscow, remember? We caught him selling secrets to the Comrades. The turnover in section chiefs is always pretty high, especially in the thankless unglamorous stations like this one. Gruelling work load, indifferent pay, not much patriotism left to bolster a man after the Bay of Pigs and all the assassination attempts and Vietnam and Watergate. It’s turned into a me-first world, hasn’t it. People see cynicism and corruption and greed all around them — they decide it just doesn’t matter any more, there aren’t any good sides or bad sides, the only thing to do is make sure you get your own piece of the action. We’ve seen it right here on this case with poor old Karl Jurgens. Twenty years ago it never would have entered his mind to betray his friends. But times have changed. Nothing’s sacred any more. You agree, Pete?”
Pete exhaled a gust of air. “Yeah, Charlie, I guess I do.”
I said to Myerson, “One of the chief functions of this station is to keep tabs on shipments of opium coming out of China and the Indochinese Montagnard country. Since we shut down the Saigon station that’s been one of the main preoccupations of Pete’s section.”
Myerson said drily, “Is this supposed to come as news to me?”
“It might have rung a bell with you — it did with me — when you mentioned you’d been getting complaints about the lack of East Asian forewarnings in Beirut and Marseilles and Mexico City. That’s one of the principal routes for the heroin traffic into the States.”
Myerson sat up.
I said, “Suddenly a senseless caper knocks off agents on this station — which just happens to have the effect of drying up drug-shipment information all along the route to America, thereby opening up that route to God knows how much heroin traffic — maybe enough to stockpile the dealer honchos with enough drugs to last a year on the street. Is that a coincidence, Pete?”
Pete had nothing to say.
I went back to Myerson. “I don’t know how much the opium people paid him to sabotage his own station. It must have been a hell of a lot of money — enough to finance his early retirement in style. In any case he was able to pay Jurgens out of it, forty thousand dollars, and set up several Swiss accounts, one of which probably is his own and contains the bulk of the money. Maybe he got half a million, maybe as much as a million. They can afford it. The heroin people deal in eight-figure sums.”
Myerson said, “Let me get this straight, Charlie. Are you accusing Pete of blowing his own network?”
“With regret, yes.”
Pete said, “I deny that.”
“Naturally,” I said. “The voice that hired Jurgens over the phone spoke German with an English-speaker’s accent. Jurgens said it could have been an American.”
“Proving nothing,” Pete said.
“I agree. But neither does it rule you out.”
“So?”
I said, “Jurgens was given a list of names of agents to be taken out. Those were the agents whose areas included the routes of the major drug shipments — Hong Kong, Taipei, Djakarta, Singapore and on toward the Middle East and France and Mexico. As chief of station you were the only executive with that information at your fingertips — the names and covers of all those agents. It couldn’t have been anybody else, Pete. You doubled your own agents.”
I turned to Myerson. “He wanted out. Maybe he can’t be blamed for that. But he had to get rich first.”
Pete said, “I deny it. It’s ridiculous.”
Myerson lit another Havana. “In that case you may as well go, Pete. I expect we’re finished with you for the moment.” He picked up Pete’s letter of resignation and put it into his pocket. “Now that we know what to look for we’ll be able to put men on it. I wouldn’t try to withdraw any money from Switzerland if I were you. Sooner or later we’ll find evidence against you and then we’ll come after you.”
“Even if you have to manufacture fake evidence.”
Myerson snarled. “What do you think this is? A game of croquet? You’re all finished, Pete — accept it.”
After Pete left the office I ate my sandwiches. Myerson glowered through his cigar smoke at the dreary rain outside the windows. “He won’t do anything dramatic, will he?”
“No,” I said. “Pete’s a survivor. He’ll keep running as long as he can.”
“Do you want to chase him?”
“Give that job to somebody else. I want to get out where the air’s cleaner.”
“All right.” Myerson certainly is mellowing. “I’ve got a job for you in Kenya…”
* * *
Charlie’s
Last Caper
MYERSON LIVED — if that is the word for his peculiar existence — in an ugly house hidden away in a green part of Virginia that might have been a posh suburb were it not for the railroad embankment below the back of the property. Myerson didn’t seem to mind the noise of the trains — or if he did he probably consoled himself with the knowledge that the clattering freights had made it possible for him to buy the land for a song.
When I arrived in the rent-a-car he met me in the driveway. He looked grumpy and unstrung — I couldn’t remember seeing him so nerved up.
“Did you check out a pistol?”
It was a revolver, not a pistol, but Myerson was indifferent to such distinctions and I didn’t say anything; I answered him with a dry look. He’d asked me to requisition the thing and he ought to have known better than to ask me if I’d obeyed — it was another index of how rattled he was.
I squeezed out from under the steering wheel — it has been decades since Detroit last designed a car commodious enough for a man of my bulk — and showed him the weapon. He gave it a cross glance as if suddenly he couldn’t recall why he’d asked my to bring it.
I said, “I’ll use it for a paperweight if you like.”
He clenched his jaw. I said, “I’ll even let you borrow it to shoot rats in your woodpile but that’s as far as I go. As you know, I don’t shoot people. Any fool can shoot people. I’m far too old to start being a fool.”
“You’re far too old and far too fat to be much use to anybody for anything else.”
“I didn’t hasten out here to let you sharpen your tongue on me, either.”
“All right, Charlie. All right.”
“What’s the flap? Why here and not in the office?”
“Th
ey’ve got Internal Security people crawling all over the office.” But he said it as if his heart weren’t in it.
“I. S.? What for?”
“Who knows.” He seemed bitter — more weary that I’d ever seen him. “Let me have that thing.” He held out his hand.
When I hesitated his eyes burned briefly with the familiar arrogance of command. A few things ran through my mind but finally I let him take it.
“Wait in the car.” He turned away.
“As a host,” I told him, “you’re a prince.”
“It’s a flimsy house, Charlie. I don’t think the floors could take your weight.” He trudged away.
The reason he hadn’t invited me inside was that his wife Marge detested me. Myerson at one time had taken evident pleasure in explaining to me how loathesome and repulsive she found me. “You nauseate the poor woman, Charlie. You remind her of cancer cells.”
That “poor woman” was a supercilious rail-thin dried-up clubwoman who played incessant golf, drank martinis from noon on, and wore hats with peonies on them. At least I assumed they were hats because she wore them on her head. Under the circumstances I didn’t mind not being invited inside but I was curious to know what he wanted the revolver for. I wouldn’t have put it past him to use it to murder his wife — it had my fingerprints on it, after all, and it was checked out in my name — but even for Myerson, I thought, that would have been a bit raw.
He hadn’t gone into the house. He’d walked away from me around the corner of the screen porch and disappeared into the trees back toward the railroad embankment. A fly inside the porch was banging against the screen trying to get out. I couldn’t begin to fathom what Myerson was up to but I supposed it was possible he’d arranged a meeting back there in the woods with someone — one of ours or one of theirs. More likely one of theirs, I thought; that would explain his desire for a defense weapon.
But I resented his summoning me all the way from Langley just to deliver the revolver. I was the section’s premier field man — not Myerson’s bloody errand boy.
Checkpoint Charlie Page 17
