At three-thirty his Czech contact came strolling down the stairs from an upper floor of the Gallery, carrying a visitor’s guide. He went traipsing along the corridor through the bookshop, where he studied the array of framed reproductions then bought four children’s coloring books. He strolled past the cafeteria, stared at the waterfall, then stepped onto the moving walkway to the new wing. Brewer waited by the waterfall as the Czech rode the walk to the end. There he turned right to the rest rooms.
Brewer walked back to another rest-room area by the bookshop and entered a phone booth with a sign that said OUT OF ORDER. He waited. A moment later the phone rang. Brewer lifted it off the hook.
“What can I do for you?” the Czech asked,
“What happened Tuesday night?” Brewer asked.
“Punches. My friend Alexandr just had a stomachful of this arrogant Russian bastard and put one right—what’s the expression?—right on the chops. Broke his nose. Really shut his mouth. All the Czechs there applauded. Then the stupid Russian bastard gets up, still mouthing out. And Alexandr landed another and broke some teeth. Finally he picked up this heavy metal lamp, and was going to break the bastard’s head open, when we stopped the fight. He might have killed that crazy Rooskie.”
“What’s the problem?” Brewer asked. “What’s going on?”
“They’re crazy. The Russians are crazy. They’re screaming at everyone. They’re using everyone. …They’re searching our wastebaskets. They’re accusing our intelligence people of holding back information. They’re calling us traitors. They’re looking for something, and they think we know about it, laughing behind their backs. Paranoid bastards.”
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know. They’re obsessed with getting more intelligence on American military stuff. They can’t get enough. I tell you, they’re looking frantically for something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“What are they looking for?” he asked again.
“I don’t know. Something. Star Wars stuff. They think the Americans have some Star Wars stuff. They want to steal it. Something called Cassandra. I tell you, Charlie, you people are as crazy as the Russians. Do you think they would let you come into their country and steal their technology? Go to Zeleenograd and see what they would do. They have a mine field around the entire city and the tightest security on earth. Try to steal a secret from them and you’ll get both legs blown off. And that’s what you should do to them. Shoot them. Cut them off at the knees. Everyone wonders why you let them get away with it. You let their airliners routinely fly over your military sites, but you see what happens when an airliner flies over one of theirs. They shoot it down. Like that Korean airliner. They not only shoot it down, but then in full view of the whole world they pin a medal on the jet fighter pilot who did the job. A medal for killing women and babies.”
Brewer waited patiently for the excited flow of words to stop. Then he said, “I need more information about what they’re looking for.”
“I can’t help much longer, Charlie,” the Czech said. “My tour of duty is up soon. I want to defect, but my wife won’t hear of it. She doesn’t want to be cut off from our families. The children’s grandparents would go crazy. So it’s back to a Russian police state again for us. So. Okay. I’ll see what I can find out.” Brewer put the phone on the hook thoughtfully. That was twice he had heard that word—Cassandra. He called Hesse. “What do you make of this fistfight in the Polish Embassy?” “The Czech got in some good shots. Broke the Russian’s nose and some of his teeth, and broke two bones in his own hand doing it. Tempers are hot. Things are getting out of control. So something’s up.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, Charlie,” Hesse said. “The Russians are driving everyone crazy. They’re looking for something.”
“Find out.”
“I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“Try Cassandra,” Brewer said.
Chapter 19
It was an old Victorian house, top heavy with extra bedrooms originally intended for children and servants. Wearily it stood watching the ceaseless traffic, not far from Heathrow Airport. All about it, the rooftops of London were covered with snow, and the streets were under several inches of frozen slush.
Over the door was a sign, badly weathered, that said:
Mehtma’s London House
Bed and Breakfast
Full Pension Available
Special Weekly Rates
Indian Cuisine a Specialty
The two of them stepped from the cab and looked at the building and at the sign. The stout one paid the driver then lugged his canvas bag up the steps and rang the bell.
The tall one, with his black overcoat slung over his shoulder and his black hat cocked on the back of his head, mounted slowly behind him, bearing his bag. Around his neck was draped his crimson scarf.
They would wait at Mehtma’s until they received a telegram.
Mehtma himself, thin as a thread, with a Buddha’s belly, stood in the doorway, chafing his hands against the cold. Air as warm as a hothouse and heavy with cooking odors flowed through the open door. Mehtma spoke to the stout one with a clipped, quick, Indian accent, nodding and beckoning and taking his bag. Then he looked up at the tall one, glanced at those staring eyes and the toothy grimace, and didn’t look again. He drew them both inside, leaned out through the doorway to glance furtively up and down the street, then shut the door.
Chapter 20
Brewer decided it was time to call Chernie in New York.
Another major snowstorm had hit the East Coast, and there were more than six inches down when he walked to the public pay phone on M Street in Georgetown. He pulled up the hood of his parka and turned his back to the blowing snow as he dialed. He rang Chernie’s number in Manhattan once, redialed, rang three times and hung up. Then he waited.
The snow had driven most traffic off the streets, and the few cars that were out went by at a crawl. From long habit, Brewer scanned the doorways and parked cars. The streets were empty.
Shortly later, Chernie called him from a phone booth over on East Forty-third, near the United Nations building.
“This is the shirtmaker,” Brewer said. “We have a new selection of shirting materials to show you.”
“When can I see them?”
“Any time, sir.”
“Today.”
Brewer hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “Today is fine.”
There was something urgent in Chernie’s voice. So Brewer tried to get a seat on the air shuttle to New York. But the shuttle flights were canceled because of the mounting snowstorm. Brewer hurried to Union Station to get a train.
The station was packed. Thwarted air travelers from the Dulles and the Baltimore-Washington International airports had hurried there. They were joined by rail passengers arriving from the south who were shuffling into the main waiting room, trying to make connections with other trains west or north. Lining the walls and reclining on benches were Washington’s street people, with their bags and rags, bedrolls and knapsacks, driven inside by the snow and the relentless wind.
The travelers stood spraddle-legged over their bags in the middle of the waiting room, studying the huge black train-schedule panel like bettors before a racetrack tote board calculating their odds. And the odds were against them—the long list of trains told the story: Late. Delayed departure. Canceled. The East Coast railway system had been snowed in. Brewer noted that trains to New York were hours behind schedule.
One woman said to another, “My husband’s called every hotel in Washington, trying to get a room. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She looked around. “My God. We can’t sleep here with these people.”
Brewer stood in the aisle all the way to New York.
It was nearly four when he got to Penn Station. After he called Chernie, he took the subway up to Forty-second and then the shuttle crosstown to Grand Central. He walked back to M
adison. From the rear door he entered the shirt shop, hung up his coat, walked through the stockroom to the front and nodded silently to the owner. He busied himself with trays of regimentals in the glass case.
The owner stood by the window, watching the crowds hasten by. “I never saw so much snow in a single winter in my whole life. And it’s not even January yet. You know what this has done to my business?”
Chernie arrived five minutes later in a rush, his eyes darting everywhere. His tie was crooked. The left lens of his eyeglasses had a large fingerprint on it. He carried a rolled magazine like a club. Almost breathless, he leaned on the counter and pointed down at a tray of ties.
“I was followed,” he said.
“Easy does it, Igor,” Brewer said. “You’ve been followed before.” Pulling out a tray of ties, Brewer glanced at the proprietor, who stood watching the street. “How are we doing, Artie?”
“Seems clear. No surveillance.”
Brewer looked back at Chernie. “How do you know you were followed?”
“I recognized him. But I think I lost him.”
Brewer picked up a tie and held it up to Chernie’s chest. “How’s your list coming?”
“Very slowly. I wish your people would accept some of the other things I offered them.”
“I keep bringing your proposals to the jolly green giants, Igor, but they say you aren’t offering much … not enough to justify a new life, a new business, and a new identity somewhere in the U.S.”
“They’re so hard to please.”
“No, that’s not it, Igor. By the time you get your hands on something important, they’ve already got it from another source. It’s just bad luck.”
“Well, what can I do? They’re on to me. I’m being followed everywhere. My mail was opened. I found a tap on my phone at home—”
“Calm down, Igor. This has all happened before. As long as you’re the Russian Secretary for Scientific Affairs at the U.N., your people are going to do routine checks on you.”
Chernie shook his head. “This is different. This is more relentless. They suspect something, I’m sure.” His eyes couldn’t rest. They darted around the room, seeing everything, noting nothing, just this side of panic.
“Charlie,” he said, “does anyone know about me besides you?”
“No. Some people know that I’m working with someone who wants to bring over a big score to set himself up. But they don’t know who.”
“I wonder if there’s a leak back to my people,” Chernie said. “Your entire intelligence system has been penetrated.”
Brewer said, “Your people don’t know anything. You are absolutely safe and clean. They won’t find anything, and then they’ll stop. Calm down.”
“Your system is full of leaks, Charlie. I keep telling you, and you don’t believe me. There are leaks at high places.”
Brewer watched Chernie and read the familiar signs. Fear. Drenched with it. Too long on the high wire. Loss of nerve.
The man took a breath. “I can’t stand it.”
“Yes, you can.” Brewer reached up, straightened Chernie’s tie and fixed his collar. “You can do anything.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Taking risks is your business. You thrive on it. I see the way your eyes dance when there’s danger. I’m a diplomat. I can’t handle this. I want to defect now. Take me in. Tell my wife to meet us somewhere, and take us both in.”
“Okay. I can get you sanctuary. But that’s all.” He watched the agony on the man’s face. “You know, Igor, you don’t have to go through with this.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie. I can’t back out now. Someone in your group could talk. Even years from now. If I went back to Russia, I would spend my life expecting that sudden tap on the shoulder. Do you know how much priming I had to do with my wife? The weeping at night … abandoning her family in Russia. You must not torture people like this.”
“This is a world I never made, Igor.”
Chernie put a clenched fist to his mouth. “Do you know what it’s like? Do you?”
“Yes. I know. I’ve been there. I walked the same path you’re walking many times. You just do it. And one day it’s finished.”
“I hope my new life in your country is worth this.”
“Why did you call me up here today?” Brewer asked. He held another tie up to Chernie’s chin.
“Anna is going to have a baby.”
Brewer made a sour face. “Your timing is great, Igor.”
“Well, we finally found a doctor here in New York who knows about such things. Turns out it was only a minor problem. And so she’s pregnant. But now she wants to go home to Russia.”
“How much time do you have, Igor?”
“A few months. I have to make a big score fast. Help me, Charlie.”
“Well, it just so happens that maybe I can.”
“What?” Chernie looked hopeful. “What is it you want?” “We’re interested in a guy … a Soviet spy. He’s a master smuggler and thief. We think he’s responsible for getting such things as the look-down/shoot-down radar system. He got all kinds of microchip capabilities into Russia—masks and VAXs and IBMs. He’s certainly working out of Directorate T.”
Igor shook his head and shrugged eloquently. “Ah! Director ate T? It might as well be a foreign country, Charlie. They live in their own private world, and no one else is admitted. I can’t get you anything on Directorate T.”
“This guy’s special,” Brewer said. “He’s their goal maker. We think he brought off that Vienna coup.”
“Oh, Vienna. Bloodied your nose, they did, Charlie. Pushed your face in the pie.” Chernie shook his head grimly. “Your people are fools to put up with that. A pox on both your houses.” The light showed the fingerprint on his left lens again. “What can you tell me about this goal maker?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Brewer said. “We don’t have anything on him. We just sense he’s there.”
Chernie braced both arms on the glass counter. “How can I—what—I mean give me something to go on.”
“I can’t. But I can tell you one thing. There’s very little chance my people will learn about this guy from another source. If you get his identity, it will be fresh news. And we’re ready to pay off big, Igor. Write your own ticket. There must be a lot of secret traffic in the coding room on this guy. Everybody must be clamoring to use him.”
“But you know that our intelligence officers do their own decoding. Alone. In the decoding room. No one else is allowed in there when one of them is decoding. And that includes other Directorate T people. You know this. I have told you. You must understand I have no way of getting into the decoding room.”
“Find a way,” Brewer watched him writhe.
“I can’t!” Chernie exclaimed.
“Igor, this is a very dangerous game for people like you. I can’t help you play it. If you can’t stand the tension, you shouldn’t mess with it. Understand?”
“I know. I know. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. But I want to start a new life.”
“Then do it. Go to the nearest U.S. office and ask for asylum.”
“Then what? Starve here? Oh no. I know what I need. I need a business, a guaranteed job of my own. I have to have that … especially with the baby.”
“Then you have to do what you have to do. Take a deep breath and go do it.”
The shop owner cleared his throat.
Brewer bent over the case. “How many?” he asked.
“One,” the owner said.
Brewer led Chernie by the elbow to another counter. He picked up a large swatch of blue broadcloth shirting and held it up to Chernie.
Chernie was panting, a man who had discovered there was a trapdoor under his feet.
“Don’t look at the windows,” Brewer said. He took a tape measure and measured Chernie’s neck.
“Would you believe,” Chernie asked, “I wanted to perfect the Ryad One computer? I wanted to take all the bugs out of it.”<
br />
“It’s not worth fixing,” Brewer said.
“Yes! Yes! I could do wonders for that Ryad. There are some good things in. We did not follow correct procedure in designing it.”
“Come on, Igor. The Ryad One is a damned bad, completely unreliable copy of the IBM 360. Russian scientists didn’t have the technology to make a decent copy of it. And the RYAD Two is an equally poor copy of the IBM 370.” He glanced at the owner. “Still there?”
“At the corner.”
“Russia is constantly playing catch-up,” Chernie said. He seemed to be talking to himself. Perspiration made his brow glisten. “Why reinvent what has already been invented? It’s more expedient to use what exists. You mark my words, Charlie. Someday the Russians are going to be important manufacturers of high-tech equipment.”
“Not this year, Igor.”
Chernie belonged in a coffeehouse down in the Village, with a beard and turtleneck sweater, playing chess and arguing about Russia with other emigrés. An ardent man, a passionate man, an excited man, a born intellectual.
Brewer put the tape around Chernie’s torso to measure his chest. “Keep your eyes away from the windows,” he said. Then he measured Chernie’s waist.
“You’ve lost weight, Igor,” he said.
“I feel as though you’re measuring me for my coffin.”
Later, on the way back to Penn Station, Brewer decided it was the red umbrella that had alerted him. Or maybe it was her face. He had seen her first when he’d arrived in New York.
Coming back up the stairs from the subway shuttle, he saw her again behind him. Instead of going into the station, he took the escalator to street level, walked out on Thirty-third Street and turned toward Eighth Avenue.
In the dark it was still snowing. The city was sheeted up and the streets were empty. A strong wind was creating drifts as quickly as the snowplows cleared the roadways. He struggled through the banked snow to cross Eighth Avenue and walked in half-filled tire tracks along the side of the post office. Ahead were the lights of the diner on the corner of Ninth Avenue. He paused several times to look back. She wasn’t following him.
Triple Trap Page 11
