The Sleeping Spy

by Clifford Irving

  . . . consideration should be given to the postponement of exercises until the completion of Operation Homefire because of the potential propaganda value of the latter. The Elders predict a far more favorable political climate following its completion and so suggest that. . .

  Emerson frowned. The Elders was only a catch phrase used by the East European agencies when referring to the big brothers in Moscow. What bothered him was the ambiguity of the reference. It was no different from any of the others he had seen. Homefire was a name, a rumor, and nothing more. For the past three weeks that name had appeared on the intercepts of communications between various East European agencies and missions: the Czechs to the Poles, the Hungarians to the Bulgarians, the Bulgarians to the Czechs. In all cases Operation Homefire was referred to by name, and little else. It was almost as if the satellite nations had been promised a triumph by Moscow but had not been told what the prize would be. His own Military Intelligence had been able to adduce only that a major Soviet propaganda operation was in the making, a nonmilitary, noneconomic ploy soon to be mounted against the West. More than that they could not say, and so the guessing game continued.

  He put aside the Homefire file and went on paging through the flimsies. Fifteen minutes saw him at the bottom of the pile with nothing left in the case but a plain sealed envelope with his name written on the front. He tore the envelope open and began to read, scanning the handwritten lines quickly.

  . . . including this in the pouch because you said vou were in a hurry for it, but I'd just as soon you shredded it after reading, so I'm writing it by hand with no copies. I have the feeling that some Senate committee of the future might not cotton to the idea of Military Intelligence running a review on vour prospective son-in-law, not that I see anv harm in it, being always willing to help out a buddy. Well, pal, here it is, and I don't think vou're going to like it. I sure as hell wouldn't if it were my daughter who was involved.

  Your question to me was: what does this guy Eddie Angelotti do for a living? The answer: nothing at all. Let's hit the basics first. As you know, he and Ginger are living together in a studio apartment at 203 East Eleventh Street in New York . . . not the greatest of neighborhoods, but not the worst, either. You know what he looks like, and he seems to be in good shape for a little fellow in his late thirties. Jogs every morning, plays pick-up basketball at the Y, and spends a lot of time working on his Overlander camper. That, apparently, is all he does, except keep house with vour daughter.

  He has a Social Security card.

  He has a New York State driver's license.

  He has New York plates on the Overlander.

  He banks at Citibank, savings and checking; combined current balance is about twelve grand.

  And that, old buddy, is it. Nothing more. That's the bag.

  You've been around long enough to grasp what I mean. It isn't enough. It isn't half enough. It isn't a tenth enough. Nobody in this day and age gets to be thirty-eight years old without putting his hoofmark on something more than a Social Security card and a couple of Motor Vehicle forms.

  A little less than a year ago Mr. Edward Angelotti appears out of nowhere, rents an apartment, buys an expensive camper, and takes out a New York State driver's license. Before that, nada. Before that, Mr. Edward Angelotti never paid a gas or electric bill, never had a telephone, never registered with any governmental agency including Selective Service, never was a member of the armed forces, and never paid a penny's worth of income tax. Impossible? No - a fact. And just to make it a touch more complicated, let's get back to his bank account. Where does the money come from? Monthly deposits from a blind account in the Bahamas. The Swiss Bank in Nassau. Double protection. Neat.

  So there it is. You didn't ask me to draw any conclusions, but one thing is clear. Edward Angelotti isn't the type that you want playing footsie with your daughter. I know, she's a big girl now. They're all big boys and girls now, but thev're our own, and all we've got.

  Let's have lunch soon. I'm sure you'll understand if I don't sign this.

  Emerson read the last few lines of the note over again, nodding in silent agreement. He was not very surprised by what he had just read, since it only confirmed what he and Rusty had already concluded. When your loving and well- loved daughter moves to New York City to study design at the age of twenty-two, you hold your breath and wait for the casualty reports to come in, hoping that reality won't be half as bad as what your imagination conjures up in the middle of the night. Reality, unfortunately, has an imagination of its own.

  The trouble is, I like Eddie, he thought. By every standard that I have I should despise him, but I don't. Either he's a lazy bastard who refused to work for a living, or he's some kind of a con man with enough money stashed away to live for a while. He's taken my only daughter in what we used to call Unholy Wedlock, a girl brought up with every advantage, and has her living in a cheap flat on the Lower East Side. He reads Playboy for intellectual stimulation, relaxes to the music of Mantovani, and his palate aspires to nothing more sublime than a good linguine with clam sauce. He is, in short, everything I'm not, and whatever happened to the idea that girls look for men who resemble their fathers? Not this time, that's for sure.

  But for all of that, I like Eddie. He's aloof, evasive, sometimes downright surly, and half the time I have the feeling that he's laughing at me; but he's sharp and witty, and he has a kind of strength that I can't put my finger on. It's buried in the man, but not too far from the surface, and that must be what Ginger sees.

  He sighed as he slipped the handwritten pages into his pocket. The sigh was louder than he had intended, for Michael shifted on the front seat and their eyes met in the rear-vision mirror.

  "Something wrong?" the driver asked.

  "Nothing I can do anything about. How are your children these days?"

  "All of them fine, thank you, and the grandchildren, too. Is that what the sighing was all about? The daughter in New York?"

  "I don't understand her, Michael. I don't understand any of them."

  A knowing nod came from the driver. "Well, you're not the first man to say those words, and you won't be the last. Will she be coming down tomorrow for your birthday?"

  "Oh, sure, she wouldn't miss that."

  "That's OK, then. So long as the family sticks together, that's the important thing."

  Emerson nodded in doubtful agreement, wondering exactly how much of Mr. Eddie Angelotti he wanted adhering to his family. He pushed aside the dispatch case and glanced out the window. Even at this early hour traffic was heavy on the Shirley Memorial Highway coming into Washington, not bumper-to-bumper yet. but a steady flow that would reach a peak shortly. Following his unchanging morning routine, he opened the New York Times, turned to the business section, and quickly searched out four stocks that he was backing with a hard-nosed optimism. He groaned. Who didn't, these days? After that he read the front page, the sports section, the lead editorial, and the bridge column, and then, with a tiny silver pencil, he rapidly filled in the crossword puzzle.

  A glance out the window told him that they were still ten minutes away from the office. He reached for the copy of the Washington Post and turned to the lost-and-found section in the back of the paper. This, too, was a part of his never- changing routine. All of his adult life, without exception, he had read the lost-and-found column of the local paper wherever he lived. In New York it had been the Times. Now, in Washington, it was the column in the Post that he read dutifully every morning. Drawing easily on his cigar, he folded the paper over and ran his eyes down the listings.

  .... FOUND, silver bracelet in the lounge of........

  .... LOST, lady's handbag, Sheraton Hotel on......

  .... LOST, gold cufflink with initials EMB..........

  .... LOST, black male corgi, answers to King......

  .... FOUND, miniature poodle, no collar.............

  He stopped. He shifted his eyes up one space. He read again.

  .... LOST, black male c
orgi, answers to King. Vicinity of Senate Office Building. Prompt and ample reward. Call 676-1848. all hours.

  His eyes bulged out, his face turned pale, and he started to double over as if hit by a strong right hand to the stomach. Still staring at the paper, he felt the welling up of nausea within him and tasted bile in the back of his throat. He dropped the paper and clenched his teeth. He closed his eyes a moment, fighting for control over the spasms. The control would not come. He rapped wildly on the back of the front seat. Michael, working his way through the heavy traffic, spared him a quick glance.

  "Pull over," Emerson managed to say, even with his teeth clamped tight.

  "What? What?"

  "Pull over, damn it."

  Michael took another quick look at his passenger's face and twisted the wheel sharply, cutting across two lanes of traffic with a screech of tires that drew a response of protesting horns and shouted curses. The Lincoln bumped over the low curbing, scraping metal on stone, rolled up onto the verge, and came to a stop. Michael twisted around in his seat.

  "Better do it outside, sir."

  It all came up, the bread, the ham, the juice, the coffee, and everything else as he knelt on the grass, retching horribly, tears streaming from his eyes. A solicitous Michael stood over him, as much to shield his embarrassment from the passing cars as to offer any aid. When it was all over he rocked back on his heels, breathing deeply, then struggled to his feet, a hand on Michael's arm. He breathed deeply once more, caught the full force of the highway's collection of noxious fumes, and thought that he would be sick again. But there was nothing left to lose. After a moment he found a handkerchief, wiped his lips, then his entire face, and clambered back into the car.

  "Will we be going on?" asked Michael. "Or should I take you home?"

  "No, go on," he said in a weary voice. "It's nothing. I'm all right now."

  "It didn't look like nothing to me."

  "Really, I'm all right. Just a sudden spasm."

  "Something you ate, then?"

  "Probably. Yes, probably something I ate."

  He closed his eyes, sat back in the seat, and tried to breathe evenly as Michael worked the car off the verge and into traffic again. He tried to clear his mind of panic, but he could not. The words from the paper repeated themselves in a silent scream, over and over: Black male corgi, answers to King, black male, Senate Office, prompt reward, call 676-1848 all hours.

  It can't be, he thought. Not after all these years. It can't be.

  But it was. He opened his eyes again and stared at the lost-and-found section. He was still staring at the paper when the Lincoln pulled into Pentagon Parking Lot D and eased into his reserved space.

  His stomach was calmer now, but his brain still churned the words over and over, black male corgi, black male, as he entered the building, crossed the rotunda, and rode up to the third floor. Once in his office, it took him no more than half an hour to clear his calendar, deputize for all his appointments, and advise his principal aides that he was going home with an upset stomach. Half an hour later he had crossed the Potomac and made his way to a public telephone booth on C Street. His face was covered with a film of perspiration, and his fingers shook as he fumbled in his pocket for coins. He breathed deeply several times, then dropped the money in the slot and dialed the number listed in the newspaper. Someone answered on the third ring.

  "House of Joy, good morning." It was a woman's voice, light but businesslike.

  "Good morning. I'm calling about the ad in the paper, the one about the dog."

  "I see." He sensed a change of tone in the voice. "Would you say that again, please?"

  His stomach went into spasm, and he thought: Oh my God, I screwed it up. What do they expect after thirty-five years? He ran over the phrasing in his mind and tried it again. "Good morning. I'm calling about the ad in today's paper, the one about the lost dog."

  "Very good." The voice returned to normal. "Have you found my dog?"

  "No, but I think I know where it is."

  "How wonderful. Will you help me to find it?"

  "I'll be glad to. I'm a dog lover myself."

  With the last of the barely remembered recognition phrases complete, he slumped back in the booth. There was something disturbingly familiar about the voice. He knew that he was perspiring heavily, and he reached for a handkerchief to dab at his face. As he mopped his cheeks he heard the voice give him an address on Thirtieth Street near the Whitehurst Freeway.

  "Can you be here in thirty minutes?" she asked.

  "Yes." Again, there was an eerie sense of familiarity.

  "Good. Please ask for me personally. Joy Mackenzie."

  "Joy Mackenzie," he repeated. "The House of Joy."

  "That's right." This time there was a hint of laughter in the voice that rang a faraway bell. "You won't have any trouble finding it. It's a sex shop."

  He hung up and sat without moving. He went over the conversation in his mind, searching for a connection. There was none. He went over it again, this time laboriously translating the phrases into Russian. He nodded. Looking down at his right hand, he saw that his fingers were shaking. His left hand was no better. He made a conscious effort, but he could not stop the shaking. He knew now, without a doubt, that the voice on the phone had been that of Anya Ignatiev.

  "I tell you frankly, I don't think that I could do it," said Andrei Petrovich. "All those years?"

  "You make too much of it," said Radichek. "With all respect, to be a sleeper is a job just like any other job in this delightful profession of ours. Nothingmore, nothing less."

  "Ya ni saglasyen svami." Petrovich slapped the desk with the palm of his hand for emphasis. "I could not agree with you less. Being a sleeper is the most difficult assignment there is in what you choose to call our delightful profession. It's the loneliest job in the world. Don't you agree, Pavel?"

  Kolodny shrugged. He sat slouched in a wicker chair, his shining boots perched on top of a small wooden table. "Some people can do it, others can't. Volanov was a natural; he was born for the job."

  Time had not treated the three KGB officers equally well. Andrei Petrovich, now just over sixty and a full colonel, still was tall and burly with fists like hams and a heavy air of authority. Promotion had come less rapidly to Radichek; he was still a major, but his slim, oval face was unlined, and at times his eyes danced with the cynical amusement of his younger days. Kolodny, however, had changed radically. Once highstrung and wiry, he had grown into a corpulent balloon with tiny eyes set deep in folds of flesh, sausagelike fingers, and layers of fat that quivered whenever he moved.

  "No one is born to do such a job," insisted Petrovich. "That kind of life is contrary to all of man's natural instincts."

  He moved away from his desk to stand in front of the window. From there he could see across the stretch of meadows, now thick with grass, that sloped down to the town Zhukovka. Tiny wildflowers dotted the lea, and above the village the clouds were dainty puffballs on parade. The sight, as always, was as refreshing to him as a glass of cold kvass on this hot July afternoon. Only twenty-five miles southwest of Moscow, the village was perched high on a bluff overlooking the gently flowing Moskva River. He turned back to look at his two old comrades. Since that night on the Elbe River years before, they had managed to keep in touch with each other, and with Anya Ignatiev. This had not always been easy. They had served at different times in different units, and on different projects, and their careers had proceeded unevenly. Now, for the first time in years, they were gathered together to witness the culmination of the project they had begun so long ago: the activation of the sleeping spy, Yuri Volanov.

  In the parlance of their trade, a sleeper was an agent who had been introduced into a target territory for an unspecified purpose in the future. A sleeper was a gamble, a wild card to be played when and if an opportunity presented itself; and, as the name implied, a sleeper was expected to remain in place for long periods of time - half a lifetime if necessary - before becoming o
perational. During that sleeping period the agent was forbidden to engage in intelligence or espionage activities of any kind. He was forbidden to associate with the political left or do anything else that might lead to a questioning of his loyalties. As a sleeper his only instructions were to become a thriving part of the target society, to achieve a position of eminence in a chosen field, and at all times to hold himself ready for the trigger message that would make him operational. For ten, twenty, thirty years or more it was his duty to live out his pretense severed from the sights and sounds of the motherland. Most of what made a man's lot in life bearable was denied to him: the comforting murmur of the language of his youth, the familiar foods of home, the rough and the smooth of his native climate, and the companionship of comrades. Only the most dedicated and ideologically sound agents could be used for such an assignment, for, as Petrovich knew, every sleeper lived only for the day when he could come home again.

  "What a life," he said, looking out the window once more. Never was the feeling of rodina, of the motherland, so strong within him as when he looked out over the fields and forests of Zhukovka. "Imagine living out a lifetime without all of this. Without sniffing a Russian flower, or breathing Russian air, or feeling the earth of Mother Russia crumble beneath your fingers. Just imagine it."

  "I can imagine it very easily," said Kolodny, who was a Ukranian. He wheezed heavily at his own humor. "I imagine it every time I go home to Odessa."

  Petrovich frowned, then shook his head in mock despair. Within the group he made some allowances for the familiarity of old comrades. "Then try to imagine a life without shashliki or bitochki. A life without sturgeon, or halvah, or any of the other delicacies that you stuff yourself with. Like that jellied fish that they make where you come from."