When Ryder was satisfied that everything was in position, we made a move that I hadn’t expected: we switched from the small, anonymous dark-blue Alfa Romeo into a large, cumbersome black Cadillac with smoked windows.
When I commented that it was a very conspicuous vehicle, Ryder said, ‘Not particularly. Don’t forget, this is still film star and rock-group country. But there are other reasons.’
In the final deployment, Truscott and a second driver stayed in the Alfa and I went with Ryder and five other agents in the Cadillac. I was told to sit in the back and I was surprised to find that all the rear seats had special safety harnesses, cross-webbed and padded. Ryder, who was in the front passenger seat, turned and leaned over the heavy leather partition. ‘John, when we go into action,’ he said, ‘I want you to keep your body relaxed and fold your arms across your face, to give yourself maximum protection. You’re going to get a bit of a jolt back there, but the padding on the rig will take care of most of it.’
We moved out onto the hilltop with the Alfa about thirty yards ahead. I noticed with a touch of wry amusement that we were following what Ray Swallow used to call the blue line. On the maps provided by real estate agents in Parioli, the bus routes to the American and English schools were marked in red and blue respectively, and it was well-known that apartment rents were forty percent higher within a block of either line. In the distance, I could hear the faint crackle of gunfire from the fashionable Parioli sporting club; there, wealthy Italians practiced for their annual massacre of everything that flew, ran, or crawled through the countryside. There were very few pedestrians in the street, and despite the warm evening sun, hardly anyone was sitting on the balconies and terraces of the secluded apartment buildings. Parioli had always been a secretive area; among the film families and the diplomats was a good sprinkling of Middle Eastern exiles and high-class mistresses, and with the constant risk of Red Brigades kidnapping, the life-style of the hilltop had become almost completely introverted.
We cruised once around, then the car intercom crackled. The driver of the Alfa was signaling that Truscott had spotted what was probably Ackerman’s car and was moving in for a closer look.
Ryder turned around. ‘Harness okay?’
I checked the straps and nodded.
‘Okay. Hold on to your hat.’
We followed the Alfa along the crest of the hill, past the convent school and the little park where, in pre-Red Brigade times, nannies used to take their children to watch the sunset. Then the Alfa driver relayed a message from Truscott that it was Ackerman’s car and our driver gently put his foot down. At the top of the road leading down to the ID headquarters, the Alfa turned off into a side street, leaving us to pull into position behind Ackerman. He was driving a metallic-gray Fiat with Rome plates and he appeared to be alone. The Texan brought the Cadillac to within about thirty yards, then slowed so that the Fiat appeared to be pulling away.
‘What do you think, Jake?’ Ryder said.
‘If he doesn’t spot us, I think we’ve got him,’ the driver said. ‘And even if he spots us now, I think we’ve still got him, because he’ll probably make a run for the garage.’
Ackerman’s Fiat continued on down the hill steadily and he gave no sign of any special interest in the Cadillac. When he drew close to the ID building, he indicated a left turn and slowed to swing into the ramp leading down to the garage. The five men in the team adjusted their harnesses and from beneath their seats brought out short-muzzled Uzi machine guns.
‘Here we go,’ the Texan said. ‘Fourteen seconds to impact.’ As soon as the Fiat was on the ramp and partially obscured by the wall dividing it from the street, the Texan began to count: ‘One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand…’ Immediately I guessed what ‘going in on Ackerman’s coattails’ meant. Each thousand was one second, marked off against the time it took for the Fiat to complete the security procedure that would open the garage door. I could see the Texan’s foot poised on the large rectangular accelerator of the Cadillac. Then, at the count of ‘nine thousand,’ he put it-down hard.
The thick padding of the seat seemed to scoop me up like a gloved hand and propel me against the harness. I sucked in my breath and, ignoring Ryder’s warning to cover my face, stared fascinated through the windshield as we swung first left, then right to make the swaying S turn into the ramp.
The Fiat was already at the bottom and the security gate was open. The Texan slammed his foot straight to the floor; the Cadillac screeched down the ramp and smashed into the back of the Fiat. For a second I closed my eyes, fearing flying glass. There was a body-jarring thud and when I opened them again, we were inside the garage, locked hard onto the crumpled tail of the Fiat.
The Texan’s timing had been impeccable: we had shoved the Fiat right through into the garage and followed it, without even grazing the electronically operated gate which had closed smoothly behind us. Ryder’s squad had released their harnesses and were out of the Cadillac while I was still fumbling. They ignored the Fiat and ran toward the small staircase which led up into the apartment building.
Ryder himself ran toward the Fiat, where Ackerman was slouched against the wheel. He ran swiftly but with the curious lopsided gait dictated by his limp and flung open the door on the driver’s side. He pushed a pistol to Ackerman’s head, jamming it hard up against his ear, and with his other hand, he reached in and switched off the ignition. In almost the same movement, he started to drag Ackerman out of the car. Ackerman was a heavy, shambling man and he was still stunned from the crash. I moved forward to help, but Ryder waved me back. The Texan didn’t move either; as soon as I was out of the Cadillac, he did a swift three-point turn and parked sideways, blocking the entrance, parallel to the garage door.
By hammering the gun barrel against the side of Ackerman’s face, Ryder forced him into semi-consciousness and half-dragged, half-manhandled him out of the Fiat and up the narrow staircase. From above, I heard a muffled shot, then a second. After that there was silence, except for the sound of scuffling feet. Ryder seemed to have memorized the layout of the building exactly, as we found the office without Ackerman making any guiding gestures. The door to the office was open. Ryder pushed Ackerman through and one of the squad came running along the corridor to report that everyone was under control upstairs.
Ryder almost threw Ackerman into the big leather chair behind the cluttered desk and told me to lock the door behind us. The room was small and dark and showed the same signs of schizophrenia as Truscott had; on the walls were various Marxist and anti-American posters, yet if you had taken them away and tidied up a bit, the office would almost have fitted into an American Embassy. Ackerman sprawled dazed in his chair; his forehead was badly cut and there was blood streaking down his nose and onto his chin.
He was in his mid-thirties, with a chubby, innocent-looking face and receding curly hair, and he seemed to have put on weight since the photographs I had seen of him were taken. Ryder stood beside him, a few feet away with the pistol centered in the middle of his chest. Ryder’s eyes showed no emotion at all; he seemed to be completely absorbed in perfecting his aim. Slowly he moved the pistol downward, passing over Ackerman’s stomach. Ackerman flinched and trembled as Ryder paused with it aimed directly into the groin. The pistol continued its downward track until it was aimed at Ackerman’s thigh. Ackerman stared at Ryder with pleading eyes, as though appealing to some unwritten code that you couldn’t injure someone who was already hurt. Unemotionally Ryder pulled the trigger. I flinched as the shot tore into Ackerman’s leg, sending him back a foot in the chair. Ackerman screamed and put his hands over the wound, then looked up at Ryder in fear and disbelief.
‘That was a present,’ Ryder said coldly. ‘A present from Sol Weizman. When they took him down to the security headquarters in Kampala after you published his name, the Ugandans broke seventeen bones and damaged five vital organs. I have other messages, from other old colleagues of yours. Whether I deliver them depends on you.’
‘What do you want?’ Ackerman was almost sobbing. He rocked forward as he tried to staunch the blood welling from the wound in his thigh.
‘I’ll tell you first how this operation is going down,’ Ryder said, in a voice like a whip crack. ‘It’s briefing time. Now you listen good. In the back of that Cadillac you so clumsily ran into is an oxyacetylene cylinder. It’s already been unloaded and put on your garage workbench. Five minutes from now, there’s going to be a workshop accident and the cylinder is going to blow, causing a lot of noise and a lot of damage. The noise will cover the plastic charge that’s going to be put on that wall safe. Out in the street up there, the Rome Emergency Services Department is going to thoughtfully cordon off the street for us, so we can leave with the contents of the safe. Now you’ll be praying that it all goes off quickly because if I have to do the operation that way, I’m going to put a slug deep into your groin first—with the compliments of Al Menady of our El Salvador office—to keep you occupied while we work.
‘The alternative is for you to open the safe.’
Ryder lowered his pistol a few inches.
‘I’m not going to bother counting. One decision. Yes or no?’
Ackerman just managed to drag himself to his feet. Ryder didn’t move as he stumbled over to the wall safe. He kept the pistol trained on Ackerman’s back, unwavering in a two-handed military grip. It was chilling to see all the Doc Holliday jokes turned into reality. This was a Ryder I’d never seen: a machine for killing and winning, a man a lifetime away from the young zealous patriot I’d known when he first joined the Company.
When Ackerman reached the safe, Ryder made a clicking sound with his teeth. It was enough to make Ackerman’s fingers fly to the dial. The safe door swung open and Ryder said, ‘You know what I want.’
Ackerman rifled through some papers and pulled out a yellow manila envelope-folder tied around with blue tape. Ryder took it, opened it quickly, then put the papers back.
‘That’s fine. Now you have a job to do.’
‘What?’ Ackerman said hoarsely. ‘For Christ’s sake, I think I’m going to pass out.’
‘No problem,’ Ryder said calmly. ‘You can start when you come around. Close down ID. Disband it. Your lease has been terminated. Open season has been declared. If you don’t disband, either I or someone else will be back. There’ll be nowhere to hide. You’ll never take another safe step. Close it down. That’s final.’
Ryder didn’t wait for an answer. He signaled me to open the door. One of the squad men was outside with a machine gun at the ready. Ryder pushed me ahead of him down the stairs to the garage and into the car. The Texan was standing near the garage door, beside an electronic control box positioned on the wall. The box was open, and the Texan had rigged it with wires across two of the terminals. When Ryder signaled, the Texan triggered the mechanism and, as the door started to rise, he leapt into the Cadillac, reversed and turned, then roared up the ramp.
Once we were back on the hilltop, I wanted to reach over and grab the file that was resting on Ryder’s knee, but Ryder was going through a checklist of moves to round off the operation and I couldn’t interrupt. The members of the raiding team were making a big point of acting cool. You could feel their exultation at having pulled it off, but it was strictly an undercurrent; on the surface, they were reviewing the operation while the Texan made radio checks with the other vehicles.
When there was a pause, I asked Ryder what he thought Ackerman would do.
‘He’s no hero,’ Ryder said quietly. ‘He’ll do as he’s told and wind the organization up. He knows he’s been lucky. A cut forehead and a flesh wound in the thigh are a small price for what he’s done.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, now his operator’s license has been sort of canceled by Langley, there’s no guarantee he won’t run into problems down a dark alley one night anyway. The people he named have a lot of friends. But that’s his problem. We have other things to worry about.’
Ryder kept up the same stone-faced calm until we were back in the safe house, then, after a final debriefing session, he took me into a dark, sparsely furnished lounge and finally allowed himself a little grin of satisfaction.
‘Well. Did you enjoy the ringside seat?’
I was going to say something about preferring the young, naive Ryder of long ago but I decided it wasn’t the moment.
‘It was fine,’ I said, glancing at the file, ‘but now I think I’d like to just curl up and have a good read.’
Ryder tossed the file on the table.
‘I should really read it first, you know.’
I grinned. ‘You try and I’ll break your goddam arm.’
‘Okay, we’ll do it together. You’d better get started. I’ll go and see if Cox is back.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘I asked him to call London, to check the situation in World News. See what Paul Sellinger’s up to. He said he could do it without anyone knowing where he was.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s right.’ I tapped the dossier. ‘But with a bit of luck, we won’t have to worry about Paul Sellinger for too much longer.’
I waited until Ryder had gone before opening the file. I wanted to be alone to savor the moment when I first read Paul Sellinger’s name. I didn’t know what form the document would take: whether it would constitute proof, or whether there would have to be a long investigation. But it didn’t matter. I just wanted to see Paul Sellinger’s name, to be certain that, finally, the right enemy had come into focus.
I opened the file and found about twenty pages, typed neatly, but on an old manual typewriter with uneven keys. There were no title and no headings and I couldn’t immediately gather what the document was. I found myself skipping down the first page looking for Sellinger’s name, but instead I found a name that made me catch my breath, because it was so unexpected. It was in the first paragraph: Claire Dahran, a wealthy Lebanese exile whose family had been in England since the war. She’d been a friend of Nancy’s since before we were married and when I saw the name, I could picture her sitting by the fireplace at the dinner parties we used to give at Samman’s, chatting about Middle Eastern cooking, which seemed to be her only passion. Her English had never been good and I realized immediately that the document had been written by her. The flowery, overdramatic style, full of grammatical mistakes and odd turns of phrase, was unmistakable. Reading it was just like hearing her speak.
The first page was a letter, but there was no heading to indicate to whom it was addressed. It wasn’t easy to follow, but I gathered that Claire had been forced to leave England for some reason. She didn’t want to go, she said, but she had no choice. She had been ‘betrayed by the cowardice of others’ and ‘blamed for their weaknesses.’ As far as I could grasp from the rambling, bitter wording, she was determined not to take the blame for whatever was causing her to leave and the rest of the document was, as she put it, ‘proof that I am being unjustly persecuted.’
Then I turned the page and the first paragraph gave the explanation: Claire Dahran had been a Soviet agent since 1954. Now she was being recalled to Moscow in disgrace, and she had fled ‘elsewhere,’ apparently to avoid punishment by the KGB for failing in her mission. ‘I have been destroyed by the vacillation and dereliction of another,’ she wrote, ‘and I have prepared this file so that she will not go unpunished.’
As I turned to the third page, my hand was already trembling, knowing the name I was going to read, and it was there right at the top in a bold underlined heading:
File of State Security Agent B584R: Nancy Westlake; by marriage Nancy Railton; later Nancy Sellinger.
The file said that Claire Dahran had recruited Nancy in 1959 when they both had been studying at the University of Aix-en-Provence. The first page described in great detail the circumstances of the meeting. It said that Nancy had returned from a long holiday in Morocco in a state of shock. She had fallen in love there with a young left-wing student who had been arrested for subversive activities
and had died under torture. She blamed the CIA for the arrest, claiming the student’s political party had been disbanded because of a joint anti-Communist investigation done by American and French security. The details of the Moroccan’s death were meticulously recorded and there were notes on Nancy for a seven-month period as Claire satisfied herself that Nancy’s hatred of the United States was strong enough to justify risking an approach on behalf of the KGB.
When we were first married, Nancy had told me about an unhappy love affair during her year in Morocco. She had never gone into detail, but she’d talked about ‘getting into a bad scene because of some Frenchmen,’ and I knew that her dislike of France stemmed from that period.
The file showed that Nancy had hated Aix-en-Provence and because she was determined to leave, Claire had followed her and finally risked an approach—apparently with success.
Then my name was mentioned for the first time. For ten or eleven pages the file went on to summarize Nancy’s activities as an agent, and it was like seeing our life together through a vicious distorting mirror.
The details were chilling. The file showed that Nancy had been systematically passing on to Claire the insider’s version of every sensitive story I had ever covered. It was full of names and contacts, sources I had talked to; my dealings with the British and American embassies in the posts I’d held for WN; assessments from the Western side of numerous wars and revolutions—all material that would have been invaluable to Soviet intelligence in the Third World.
It scared me all the more because it wasn’t like the file on Seagull. It was too personal, too real. Nancy seemed to come to life in the pages and as the events were set out year by year, I could picture her vividly in the different countries where I’d been assigned. But the later pages were worse. During my period as chief of correspondents, there was material prepared from dozens of debriefings I’d done with returning correspondents. Reading it, I felt tired and sick. If it was true, then my life was a disaster. I had been a pawn; I might as well have been an agent myself.
Shadowplay Page 18
