‘The Eastern Establishment, the Council on Foreign Relations, the Trilateral Commission, the Royal Institute of International Affairs, the Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies, the Atlantic Institute—they’re different, but they’re all the same. They’re the institutions at the core of the global conspiracy to control the world’s wealth—it’s happening right under the noses of the American people. If you really are Russians, it’s happening right under your noses too. Western Goals is an antenna organization set up to be an early warning network, the intelligence arm of the John Birch Society.’
‘Ah, yes, the John Birch Society. That would be the cabal of fascists of which you are the current president. Did Reinhard Gehlen help you and du Berrier in this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about him,’ said Ozerov. ‘Tell me about Gehlen.’
‘Reinhard ran Hitler’s espionage rings in Eastern Europe.’
‘And?’
‘The CIA recruited him after World War Two. He set up and ran the BND.’ McDonald’s lips barely moved.
‘Speak up,’ said Ozerov, slapping the prisoner’s face.
The congressman’s voice rose briefly. ‘He ran the West German intelligence ring that’s still running circles around your client, Stasi.’ McDonald slumped back into an exhausted torpor and whispered, ‘But you know all this.’
‘Do not concern yourself with what we may or may not know.’
‘My cousin George Patton and Reinhard became friends. There was a mutual respect.’
‘Gehlen was a Nazi.’
‘He was doing a job for his country.’
‘Tell me about your cousin, Patton. There was a rumor that Patton wanted to attack Marshal Zhukov’s divisions with the US Third Army, supplemented with several divisions of re-armed Waffen-SS. Is that true?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I was ten when the general was killed in the car accident.’ His voice trailed off.
‘And?’
‘And I never asked Reinhard.’
‘Why not?’
‘He wouldn’t have answered the question.’
Ozerov grunted. ‘After he retired, Gehlen, along with a number of his spies, came to work for your Western Goals.’
McDonald hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Looking for telltale signs of your New World Order?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, where have you placed these early-warning assets?’
McDonald looked about the room languidly, as if searching in slow motion for a means of escape. There was none.
‘Lawrence, Lawrence,’ Ozerov prompted, ‘you must tell me. There is no holding back. You know and I know that you will talk sooner or later. It would be better for you if it were sooner. Would you care to go back to your cell now?’
McDonald licked his lips, perspiration instantly blooming across his forehead.
‘The US embassies in West Germany, Great Britain, France and Italy,’ he said, his chin quivering, his mind recoiling from the thought of the four walls of his cell and the constant music. ‘There are some others in the diplomatic corps in Washington.’
‘Your State Department?’
McDonald nodded.
‘You will speak your answers aloud for the tape recorder.’
‘Yes, the US State Department.’
Ozerov got up from his chair and walked around the cell, signaling a change of pace.
‘We have been informed that your staff refer to your office as “Hewak East”,’ he said, prompted by his notes. ‘What is Hewak?’
‘The House Un-American Activities Committee.’
‘Ah, HUAC—your country’s communist witch-hunt of the fifties. What has that to do with your office?’
‘If you know the answer, why ask?’
‘I want it stated. Do not attempt further evasion.’
‘Supposedly I have the HUAC files. But I don’t.’
‘If you did have these files, you would know of many high-placed Soviet sympathizers throughout your society.’
‘But, as I said, I don’t have them.’
‘I warned you about evasion, Lawrence.’
Ozerov stood and walked to the door. He opened it and the two boulder-shouldered thugs who had brought McDonald from his cell to the interrogation room rolled in. McDonald tried to climb away from them, back into the very brickwork behind him. Tears streamed from his eyes as they darted from thug to thug.
‘Yes, yes, okay,’ he said. ‘I had the files. I . . .’
Ozerov nodded at the men and they turned and lumbered back out the door. Korolenko was impressed. His comrade had an impeccable sense of timing.
Ozerov picked up a notebook and pencil from the desk in front of the stenographer and handed it to McDonald. ‘I want names,’ he said.
‘Names?’
‘Of your agents; of every man and every woman you know who was acquainted with Gehlen; of every communist sympathizer on your list. I want to know who and I want to know where.’
McDonald hesitated.
‘Then I want to hear about your experiences on the House Armed Services Committee—the weapons, the budgets, the plans.’
Congressman McDonald groaned and rolled his head.
‘And the sooner you have told me everything I want to know, the sooner I will let you sleep for a week.’
September 16, 1983
NSA HQ, Fort Meade, Maryland. Garret had spent most of the night sitting up with Richard Burt and the team, going through press reports on the KAL 007 downing, and reviewing the many communiqués still being drafted and sent by embassies around the world to each other. More than two weeks after the downing, the US version of events was partially unraveling and several key aspects of the official line had had to be revised as more information came to light. The US State Department had eventually come around to admitting that the Russian interceptor had, in fact, fired warning cannon shots at the 747 prior to launching its missiles, though Burt himself had muddied those waters by suggesting that perhaps the Russian interceptor had fired them at KAL 007. More information had also surfaced about the involvement of the RC-135, though its actual role had been confused by a vast weight of conflicting information. There was also a growing chorus among journalists and pedants curious to know how it was possible for a modern civilian airliner to fly so far off track, unless the deviation was intentional. The undercurrent here, of course, was that it had been a CIA spy flight gone wrong, just as the Russians had said all along. Burt and his team had worked hard to imply that the individuals taking this line were merely spreading Russian communist propaganda and disinformation. And several journalists had had to be ‘stomped on’, as Burt had called it.
Fortunately, the overwhelming weight of opinion, both domestically and internationally, was still firmly in the United States administration’s corner. And the opinion was that the Soviets had wantonly, brazenly and callously shot down a civilian airliner full of innocent people for the insignificant crime of accidentally flying a couple of hundred miles off course. The rest was just detail.
Case closed.
The debate had now moved on to the attempts made by South Korea and the relatives of 007’s passengers to sue the Soviet Union for damages. The other question was how, exactly, the world should punish the Soviet Union for its antisocial behavior.
Garrett, making his way to the analysts section, nodding a good morning to a friendly face here and there, allowed himself a smile as he thought about this. The punishment would probably come down to a few banned Aeroflot flights and a little less Russian vodka sold by retailers. As for the grieving relatives hoping to fight it out with the USSR in the courts, it looked likely that they’d get nothing.
Case closed.
He noted the Washington Post on his desk as he placed his briefcase beside the filing cabinet and hung his coat on the back of his chair. KAL 007 was off the front page and the civil war in Lebanon was back on it. He found what he was looking for on page three. The headline read ‘House Passes Defens
e Bill’. He scanned the article quickly. The $187.5 billion defense bill asked for by Ronald Reagan had been passed 266 to 152. Garret nodded as he read. The budget session in the House had followed a session the previous day where a resolution condemning the Soviet Union’s actions over KAL 007 had been passed 416 to 0. The timing was perfect. Everyone was keyed up to send the Reds a message. The budget was a five percent increase on last year’s defense funding, which had itself been a record expenditure. It was a great day for the free world. The President was going to get his MX missiles, money for the deployment of the Pershing II missiles throughout Europe, funding for the production of Bigeye binary nerve gas, the redesigned B-1 bomber, and financial assistance for various anti-communist forces such as the Contras in Nicaragua. With the mood in the House being what it was, no doubt the administration’s options in El Salvador would also be freed up, and the President would get his wish to deploy troops to Lebanon for a further eighteen months.
Garret folded the paper. Case closed.
There was a soft tap on his partition.
‘Special delivery,’ said a female voice.
Garret recognized the voice. It belonged to one of the Middle East analysts by the name of Mary Peugeot. He looked up. Mary had nice legs, and today her skirt was above the knee. In her outstretched arms was a large box wrapped in gold paper with a gold ribbon around it.
‘I was asked to pass this on to you,’ she said. ‘And it came with its own very good-looking secret service agent.’
Garret stared at the parcel, perhaps an instant too long.
‘Mind if I put it down somewhere? It’s heavy.’
‘Yeah, sorry, Mary.’
Garret jumped up, took the parcel from her. She was right about it being heavy. There wasn’t a lot of room in his cubicle, so he placed it on his chair.
‘So, who’s the admirer?’ she asked.
‘Damned if I know,’ he replied.
‘Are you going to open it or just look at it?’
Settling the point before Garret could answer, she passed him a pair of scissors.
He checked for a note.
‘There isn’t one,’ said Mary. ‘I looked.’
He cut the ribbon and peeled off the paper, exposing a plain brown box beneath. Opening the box revealed a dozen bottles of champagne. He took one out.
‘Vintage Krug. Wow, that stuff’s worth a mint,’ said Mary.
A pale blue envelope had been wedged between a couple of bottles. Garret picked it out, opened the flap and removed the card. At the bottom was the familiar seal of the President of the United States of America. He read the card.
Dear Roy,
There have been times in our nation’s history when fate has chosen a special citizen with unique insight. This is one such time and, according to my advisors, you are that citizen. A grateful nation thanks you. And, from one patriot to another, I personally thank you for all your hard work.
Ronald Reagan
The note was ambiguous. Garret wondered how much the President had been brought into the loop. More than likely, to protect him from possible fallout, he hadn’t been.
‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who’s it from?’ asked Mary.
‘Sorry, that’s classified,’ Garret said, folding the note and slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket over the back of his chair.
‘Then what about sharing a bottle or two?’
‘That I can do.’
‘Shall I stop by your place after work?’
‘Sure. You know where I live?’
Mary slid her thumb and forefinger down Garret’s tie, well inside his personal space.
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
October 10, 1983
The Old Executive Building, Washington DC. ‘Oh, Roy, you’re early,’ croaked Deirdre, the eternal cigarette burning between thin fingers stained the color of old rust. Her hair was a different shade of red than the last time he’d been in Clark’s office, darker, a crimson color matched by her shade of lipstick.
‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’ she rasped.
‘No. What news?’ Garret asked.
Her tone, the angle of her head and shape of her eyes said it wasn’t good news. What had happened?
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you already knew. Hank will fill you in. He’s in there.’ She pointed at the door with one of her yellow-orange fingers.
Garret opened the door to the National Security Advisor’s office.
‘You think that’s a good idea, sitting there like that?’ he asked.
Hank was leaning way back in the Judge’s chair, his feet on the Judge’s table, tossing balls of paper into the Judge’s waste bin under the window. A collection of paper balls were scattered around the base of the bin. Hank took his feet off the desk.
‘He’s not coming back,’ he said.
‘Who’s not coming back? Des?’
‘Oh yeah, Des. Well, he’s definitely not coming back. He died two days ago on that hill in Vermont.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not who I meant. It’s the Judge. The President has asked him to consider the position of secretary of the interior.’
‘What?’ Garret was stunned. ‘What happened?’
‘I really don’t know. The Judge has his enemies. Plenty of people in the administration resent his close friendship with Ronny. Maybe Shultz or Weinberger put two and two together on this KAL thing. A word or two in the right ear and suddenly the Judge becomes a serious liability.’
‘You think people outside our circle know what happened?’ asked Garret, a bottomless hole opening up in the pit of his stomach.
‘We’re not the only people who can open doors and pull strings around here. Blowing the whistle on 007? The messenger would get shot along with the administration and the President. Quite a few bureaucrats wouldn’t fare so well, either. I assume you haven’t heard anything?’
‘No. I came over here to inform the Judge that the peace movement in Europe seems to have disintegrated. Our missiles are going to go in unopposed. They’ll be in their deployment areas by Christmas. His strategy worked.’
‘Your strategy, Roy.’
Garret didn’t feel like patting himself on the back. ‘What do you think is going to happen with Clark?’
‘He won’t accept the position, of course. He’ll politely decline the President’s offer, as he’s supposed to, and cut himself adrift from Washington.’
‘The second most powerful guy in town?’
‘That’s the point. He ain’t no more.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘You’re being moved to a more hands-on role,’ said Hank. ‘Up and out.’
‘Where to?’
‘Langley—the CIA. Bill Casey wants you. Look in the mirror and introduce yourself to the new assistant director.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘And the icing on the cake—I’m your new personal aide.’
October 11, 1983
Galati, Romania. They came for Nicolae Balcescu at 3 a.m., just as he rolled out of bed and put on his slippers, sleepily pondering how to make cakes sweet when there wasn’t any sugar to put in them. The bakery was downstairs, its oven calling him. Four men did the job, two of them rushing through his bedroom door. The first man in pressed the black snout of a Tokarev hard against his forehead, while the second secured Balcescu’s wife’s cooperation and silence with a threat to pistol-whip her. Afina whimpered and meekly allowed the men to handcuff her, tape her mouth and blindfold her. The other two men took care of the girls. Nicolae knew they would be frightened, but there was nothing he could do or say that would change their abductors’ minds.
The vehicle the secret police—the Securitate—put them in was a large delivery van for the state-owned department store; one of Nicolae’s customers, as it happened. Perhaps the van had been chosen for specifically this reason. No one would think its presence in the street suspicious; not that anyone would dare to
bring this to the authorities’ attention if they were suspicious. Two of the men climbed with them into the back of the van and covered them with their weapons. He had seen one of the other men starting up his Dacia. Presumably, the remaining man would be driving the van. The fact that they were bringing his car along was troubling in a way Balcescu couldn’t put his finger on.
His heart broke at the sight of his wife and two young daughters, their hands bound behind them, their eyes and mouths covered. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, the men hadn’t blindfolded him, though they’d secured his mouth shut with tape.
As the van got under way, Balcescu spent some time pondering what had managed to convince him that this day would never happen. Now, faced with the reality of their situation, this moment seemed perfectly inevitable. He had risked the lives of innocent people—people he loved more than anything on this earth—and he had lost.
Originally from Munich, and trained by Reinhard Gehlen, the master, Balcescu had arrived quietly in this Romanian city of Galati eighteen years ago. He had been secreted into its fabric by remnants of Gehlen’s Iron Guard, the local fascist organization rampant until the end of World War Two, which held an abiding hatred for the communists. For all those eighteen years, he had heard nothing, seen nothing, and reported nothing. The inaction had made him complacent. He’d married, baked bread, produced two beautiful girls, become a sleeper tucked deep within the folds of Ceausescu’s mad Romania.
He sat in the back of the vehicle looking at his family as it sped along. The blast from a nearby barge horn told him they were close to the river. What had happened? Someone had talked. So what would happen now? Obviously, he told himself, his captors would want other names, and would secure his cooperation by threatening his family. Torture would be involved.
The van slowed, came to a brief halt, turned hard to the right and rumbled over some bumps. It then came to a stop, the loud ratchet of the handbrake informing him that this was the end of the line for the moment. The back of the van opened. A hundred meters behind was another car, its lights off but its motor running, clouds of smoke rolling out of its exhaust pipe. Nicolae recognized it as his Dacia.
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