The other documents were similar. It was eerie seeing the most sensitive information I’d received while chief of correspondents being replayed in stilted Soviet officialese. It all fitted perfectly. I was being framed, and it was being done with devastating thoroughness.
The file even contained a letter from a Moscow University student detained in a labor camp. It was addressed to his former professor, the dissident physicist Yuri Arlov, and warned him ‘not to say anything to Wellesley; he is the source.’
I looked at Ryder. ‘You know Wellesley’s dead, of course. He was killed in a car accident five months ago.’
‘Yes. But it probably wouldn’t have helped. He couldn’t prove you didn’t pass them the information back.’
‘Bob, I passed nothing.’ As I spoke, I realized how subdued my voice had become; the documents had shaken me badly and Ryder could see it.
‘Those are some of the documents that Wint showed to Rice-Williams; he told SIS he didn’t know who gave them to him. They haven’t been able to break him down. He said he’s been told to expect more.’
Ryder picked up the second folder. ‘This file will show you that opinions are divided on what to do about you.’
As I read the contents of the second folder, I felt my face flushing and my skin starting to crawl.
Ever since Wint had walked into Rice-Williams’ office, I had been under total surveillance—in London, Washington, and New York. There were accounts of my movements, my contacts and associates, the meetings I’d had and the restaurants I’d eaten in. It was a thick file and I started to get angry again when I saw that my phone calls had been tapped and some of them subjected to Voice Stress Analysis—which effectively gave me a lie detector test without connecting me to any machine, using simply tapes of my voice. As I turned to the section marked Evaluation Reports, Ryder interrupted. ‘You needn’t bother to plow through that,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you the highlights. U.S. Military Intelligence favored having you arrested in London and charged with passing information to the enemy. The Brits don’t want another mole scandal—but they don’t want another mole cover-up scandal either.’
‘And the CIA,’ I asked drily. ‘How do they feel?’
‘Divided also. A three-way split. One school says have you arrested and charged to put you out of action, another says leave you in place and let you hang yourself, and there’s a third—led by me—which happens to believe that you aren’t a Soviet agent.’
‘And what do you believe it’s all about?’ I asked, as calmly as I could manage.
‘Let me put the question back to you. If I handed you that file, plus everything I’ve told you—the defector information included—and I blanked out your name, what would you think of Mr. X?’
‘I’d be very suspicious of him indeed, though it’s mostly circumstantial.’
‘And if, for the sake of argument, you know the man is not the mole, what would you think of the file?’
‘Obviously I’d say that he—that I—was being set up, probably to take suspicion off the real mole.’
Ryder grinned. ‘Which happens to be what I believe—though it may end up costing me my job if we can’t prove it.’
‘The ‘we’ includes how many people?’ I said. ‘Do we have any allies?’
‘Would you believe Paul Sellinger?’
‘Now that really reassures me. With Paul as an ally, I’ll probably end up taking Rudolph Hess’s place in Spandau.’
Ryder shrugged. ‘Oh, he’d like to see you hung out to dry. But not for this. A mole preparing to leak Starburst secrets is something the Sellingers don’t need, believe me. When Wint started pushing the first version of the scandal, Sellinger thought he had you. He was all set to nail you to the mast. Then when Wint went to Rice-Williams with the mole story, the whole thing blew up in his face. The Sellingers have billions riding on Starburst—and maybe eventually the top office in the United States, if Robert’s political career takes off. There’s no way they want an intelligence scandal remotely connected with Starburst. It could scuttle the whole program. So far, Paul’s backing me all the way. He doesn’t really believe it’s you; he just wants the real mole found and quick. The reason Paul didn’t want you to come to Colorado was that you were more likely to get arrested here, on military property.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Believe it,’ Ryder said emphatically. ‘‘Military Intelligence is itching to get its claws on you. This is an ideal place; all kinds of special security regulations can be invoked. Paul helped me fight them off. That’s what the plane trip was about. The military wanted to pick you up as soon as you set foot on the base. Paul persuaded them to continue the investigation without actually arresting you. He arranged the grilling by Haxler and Inman. It was all on tape and VSA, of course. No definite conclusions, as usual. You didn’t cooperate.’
‘Bob, I just don’t believe Paul is on my side,’ I said. ‘And what about Robert?’
‘Robert’s not happy. He’s undecided about having you arrested. He wants it suppressed just as much as Paul does, but he thinks Paul’s way is going to get the Family too directly involved. He wants the military to handle it. That’s pretty typical of Robert.’
‘Bob, I’m hearing you,’ I said, ‘but I just don’t bloody well believe all this.’
‘It’s gone beyond the point where it matters what you believe. We have to get some proof of your innocence.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to retrace some of your steps,’ Ryder said.
‘What steps? What do you mean?’
‘I want you to go back and see your KGB contact.’
I looked hard at Ryder, looking for a smile—some sign that he was joking.
There was none and I said sharply, ‘I thought we’d agreed I had no KGB contact.’
‘No. I said I didn’t believe you were a Soviet agent. I didn’t say you hadn’t been in contact with them. You have been associating with someone we believe has very strong links to the KGB.’
‘Who, for God’s sake?’
Ryder opened the last folder and handed me a photograph. ‘You recognize the lady of the sleeping bag? Ms. Jennifer Ross, nicknamed by you Seagull?’
I stared incredulously at the pretty oval face and the broad, curving smile.
‘Tell me what you know about her. Just briefly, a couple of lines.’
‘Age about thirty-five,’ I said, shaken. ‘British. A painter. She specializes in nature drawings. Illustrates textbooks and catalogues. Flowers, birds. Had been married before I met her. Went to art school.’
‘Doesn’t sound very threatening,’ Ryder said. ‘So perhaps this photograph might surprise you. Wint showed it to Rice-Williams.’
It was Seagull again, but taken when she was about ten years younger. She was dressed in more formal clothing than the artist’s gear I was used to seeing her in and she was standing on the parapet of a castle-like building looking out over a city I didn’t immediately recognize.
‘The city’s Ankara,’ Ryder said. ‘The man is Colonel Igor Korapkin of the KGB. Odd sort of contact for a nature illustrator.’
Before I could say anything, Ryder handed me another photograph. Seagull again, this time with a woman about her own age.
‘That was taken in Stockholm,’ Ryder said, ‘and the woman with your beloved Seagull is Anna Kirov, the senior KGB station officer in Scandinavia. She’s a very mysterious lady, your Seagull. Her curriculum vitae, as they say, doesn’t quite add up. We’ve confirmed some details of her life—birthplace, early schooling, and so on, but there are problems. There’s no record of any marriage; and there’s something funny about her art school career. The dates don’t quite add up. It smells wrong.’
‘I can’t help you,’ I said. ‘I admit I know hardly anything about her. It was just a casual affair. You know how we met.’
‘Yes, but I want you to get to know a lot more about her. I want you to see her again.’
&nb
sp; ‘I’ve no idea where she is.’
‘She’s in the south of France, in St. Tropez. We traced her two days ago.’
‘Well, pick her up,’ I said.
‘We have nothing to hold her on.’ Ryder smiled drily. ‘We have a lot more on you. I want you to go and see her. Tell her about scandal… tell her what you like. Just get onside again and see where it leads.’
‘Bob, I can’t,’ I said. ‘I can’t just leave World News and chase off to France. I’m supposed to be in Brussels this week and Amsterdam. I’ve got a news agency to run. I’ll be missed.’
‘You’ll need Paul Sellinger’s help. He’s willing to give it. He’ll cover for you.’
‘No, Bob,’ I said. ‘Dammit, no. I will not be helped by that treacherous bastard.’
Ryder looked at me steadily and picked up the phone beside him on the small table.
‘There isn’t a choice, old buddy. I know how you feel about Paul, but I don’t think you’ll like the alternatives any better.’
Ryder spoke quickly into the phone and I realized he was sending for Sellinger. He gave me no chance to interrupt and I sensed suddenly that Ryder was more nervous than he was admitting. He didn’t feel in control of the situation, and it wasn’t reassuring.
Ryder put down the phone and smiled wryly. ‘Your ally is on the way. He’s been talking to the Military Intelligence people. They’re still not happy about turning you loose. I asked him to help cool them out.’
‘Bob, you’ve no right to ask Sellinger for favors on my behalf.’
‘John, there’s more at stake here than your pride—more than your career too. You’re so wrapped up in your feud with Paul, you don’t seem to realize that Starburst is a damned fine weapon system which this country—and NATO—can’t afford to lose. If there’s a mole we have to find out who the hell it is, and frankly if you have to eat humble pie with Paul Sellinger to help do that, then that’s your tough luck. Now do you get the picture?’
I knew Ryder was right; if anyone else but Sellinger had been involved, I’d have been grateful for the help. The files and the photographs had shaken me badly. It didn’t take much imagination to project myself forward into the dock of the High Court, but why, dammit, did I have to count on Paul?
Ryder did his best to stop me losing my temper. He offered me another cup of coffee and went through the routine with the ballpoint pen again, and I did manage to calm down—until Sellinger arrived. He walked in the door, and said to Ryder, without looking at me, ‘It’s okay, Bob, I’ve won him a week. We can go ahead.’
It was all there in one phrase. The condescension; his infuriating habit of pretending that he was the center of every situation; always the controller. He somehow managed to convey in a few words that he was in alliance with the CIA and the U.S. government and I had become his pawn. The hypocrisy, as always, was stunning. There was no suggestion that he needed to find the mole as much as I did. Well, I might need his cooperation, but I wasn’t taking that kind of shit.
‘Paul, cut the crap,’ I said. ‘You’d better start praying that I can find out who your blasted mole is before your entire family fortunes go down the tubes.’
Paul ignored me and continued talking to Ryder.
‘But seven days is tops,’ he said. ‘The Director of Military Intelligence won’t risk any more.’
Finally, with carefully judged timing, he turned to me.
‘John, you’re lucky to have good friends,’ he said. He paused just long enough for me to rise to the idea that he was including himself, then he added quickly, ‘Like Bob here. It’s a pity you don’t have as much luck with your womenfolk.’
Sellinger grinned at Ryder. ‘First he marries a beautiful woman he can’t satisfy, then he finds a consolation prize in a sleeping bag and it all goes sour on him.’
Ryder glanced down at my hand, which was clenching tightly. The taunt about not being able to satisfy Nancy was the oldest psychological wound in the world and the easiest to inflict. It wasn’t true, but you couldn’t fight back without making the most ridiculous and humiliating protestations of virility.
But Ryder interposed himself quickly—almost physically blocking me off from Sellinger.
‘Paul,’ he said sharply, ‘the feud between you and John is in abeyance. And that’s official. I’m running this until my director decides otherwise. Your only role is to help John get to France before anyone tips off the woman.’
‘It’s all in hand,’ Sellinger said airily. ‘John was due to fly to Brussels for a lunch meeting with the president of the EEC. I’ll go in his place.’
‘You damn well won’t,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not having you taking over the talks on the European expansion program.’
‘You’ve no choice, John. What do you want to do, just not turn up? We’ve spent six months getting him ready to support us in the European stock-exchange services deal.’
‘You mean, I have.’
‘It really doesn’t matter at this point,’ Ryder interrupted. ‘John, you have to go to St. Tropez.’
I knew there was no point in arguing.
‘I’ll need Cox,’ I said.
‘No,’ Sellinger said. ‘Better if you go alone.’
‘It may be better to go alone, but I’m still taking Cox,’ I said. I’d no intention of leaving myself isolated and more vulnerable than necessary, and Cox didn’t need to be in London or New York to stay in touch. ‘Bob, you can give him a security warning or whatever’s necessary.’
‘Yes. I’ll do that.’
Sellinger stood up. I could see he’d read my mood. There was no more mileage to be had from this line of taunting and he never wasted even a minute of his time.
‘Aren’t you going to wish me luck?’ I said sarcastically, as Sellinger turned to leave. ‘Don’t I carry the Family’s good wishes with me?’
‘Just worry about yourself,’ Paul said brusquely. ‘If you can find out from this woman what’s going on, you might just have a chance to survive. The Family will survive whatever happens; you can count on that.’
When he’d gone, Ryder said quietly, ‘Does this go on all the time?’
‘Twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
Ryder hesitated. ‘Before you go…’
‘What?’
‘There’s one thing I have to say. Before we leave the corral and this becomes official again.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Kidding aside, I know how rough the Sellingers can play. And because I know, I’ll level with you. Just watch your back, old buddy. Paul’s on your side because he has to be. But if the Sellingers ever decide the situation’s getting too messy, they won’t necessarily leave it to us to clean up.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘My mother used to say you should always send someone off on a journey with a word of reassurance.’
Ryder grinned and put on his mock Southern drawl.
‘Well, that’s right. So y’all just have yourself a wonderful trip to St. Tropez, y’hear?’
8
On the journey between Denver and Paris, I managed to master my panic. It didn’t hit immediately; the departure from Fort Benedict was too unreal for that. After the conversation with Ryder, I simply slipped away and, as far as World News was concerned, I vanished on a special negotiating assignment. There were several WN problems I wanted to deal with first, but Ryder wouldn’t allow it and his anxiety to have me leave quickly, before the trip could be queried, made me realize how shaky my position was.
I traveled alone and anonymously, via Chicago and Montreal, then, on the Air France flight to Paris, I almost lost my nerve. I was overtired and irritable and as I slept fretfully, the nightmares began to merge with black daydreams as I imagined how the situation could turn out. Once the panic started, I knew I had to let it run, so I lay back, sweatily gripping the armrests of the airline seat, letting my imagination devise scenarios of the worst that could possibly happen. I went all the way, through humiliation and
ridicule in the media to dismissal, arrest, and imprisonment. I scripted the total erasure of John Railton, personal and professional, and the eclipse of World News by having its head branded as a spy. And it didn’t just concern World News. After my disgrace, no international journalist would ever be quite free of the taint of spying—spies and foreign correspondents had always fished the same waters. Three times in my own career I’d been wrongly arrested by suspicious Third World governments that hadn’t recognized the line between the two. Now I was singlehandedly going to rub out the line.
After that, my imagination turned on my friends and colleagues and by the time I was halfway over the Atlantic they had all coalesced into a single gigantic conspiracy to frame me. Ryder had warned me in Colorado, ‘In a climate of suspicion, everyone is suspect,’ and as I sat, unshaven, scared, and stiff-eyed with exhaustion, I decided that he was right. How could I possibly trust anyone? There was simply no way of finding out in time which of my friends or professional colleagues might be doing this to me. I even began to suspect Cox. He had traveled separately and would be waiting for me in Nice, and I imagined him laughing at my naivete; briefing his principals, whoever they might be, about my movements, grinning as I stumbled deeper and deeper into the maze that was being constructed around me.
It was when I reached that point that I realized how paranoid I had become, and I knew the worst was over. I washed and shaved carefully, ate a sandwich and some nuts, drank a double Courvoisier, then slept soundly for the last two hours of the flight and by the time I reached Charles de Gaulle airport, I was back in control.
I struck lucky and got a first-class cancellation on an immediate connecting flight to Nice, without having to use WN influence, and when Cox met me at Nice, he said, ‘You’re looking very fit. Anyone would think you’d arrived for a few days of chasing sun babies.’
I grinned. ‘There’s no point in panicking. All we can do is to take this on one step at a time.’
But I could see Cox wasn’t relaxed and when I asked him what was the matter he said simply, ‘Brussels,’ and I knew from his tone that it was serious.
Shadowplay Page 7
