The Company: A Novel of the CIA (23 page)

"My head is spinning, Harv. If what you say is true—"

Torriti finished the sentence for his British pal. "—the Russians have a mole inside the British intelligence establishment. I need your help, Elihu."

"I don't see what exactly—"

"Does the name Walter Krivitsky ring a gong?"

Elihu's brow crinkled up. "Ah, it does indeed. Krivitsky was the Red Army bloke who ran Soviet military intelligence in Western Europe during the thirties out of the Holland rezidentum. Defected in '36, or was it '37? Wound up killing himself in the States a few years later, though the Yanks did give us a crack at him before they lured him across the Atlantic with their fast cars and their fast ladies and their fast food. All happened before my time, of course, but I read the minutes. Krivitsky gave us a titillating serial about a young English journalist code-named PARSIFAL. The Englishman had been recruited somewhere down the line by his then wife, who was a rabid Red, and then packed off to Spain during the Spanish dustup by his Soviet handler, a legendary case officer known only by the nickname Starik."

"Were you able to run down the serial?"

"'Fraid the answer to that is negative. There were three or four dozen dozen young Englishmen from Fleet Street who covered the Spanish War at one time or another."

"Did your predecessors share the Krivitsky serial with the Americans?"

"Certainly not. There was talk of having another go at Krivitsky but that was when he bought it—a bullet in the head, if memory serves me—in a Washington hotel room in 1941. His serial died with him. How could anyone be sure Krivitsky wasn't inventing serials that would inflate his importance in our eyes? Why give our American cousins grounds to mistrust us? That was the party line at the time."

The Sorcerer scraped some wax out of an ear with a fingernail and examined it, hoping to find a clue to why good PX whiskey all of a sudden tasted tasteless. "Krivitsky wasn't inventing serials, Elihu. I worked with Jim Angleton in Italy after the war," he reminded him. "We rubbed each other the wrong way but that's another story. In those days we had an understanding with the Jews from Palestine—they were desperately trying to run guns and ammunition and people through the British blockade. We didn't get in their way, in return for which they let us debrief the Jewish refugees escaping from East Europe. One of the Jews from Palestine was a Viennese joker named Kollek. Teddy Kollek. Turned out he'd been in Vienna in the early thirties. I remember Kollek describing a wedding—it stuck in my head because the bridegroom had been Angleton's MI6 guru at Ryder Street during the war; he'd taught him chapter and verse about counterintelligence."

Elihu tossed his head back and bleated like a goat. "Kim Philby! Oh, dear, I can feel my pension slipping through my fingers already."

"Happen to know him personally, Elihu?"

"Good lord, yes. We've been trading serials on the Bolsheviks for eons, much the way children trade rugby cards. I talk with Kim two, three times a week on the phone—I've more or less become the go-between between him and my chief, Roger Hollis."

"The marriage Kollek described took place in Vienna in 1934. Philby, then a young Cambridge grad who'd come to Austria to help the socialists riot against the government, apparently got himself hitched to a Communist broad name of Litzi Friedman. Kollek had a nodding acquaintance with both the bride and the groom, which is how he knew about the wedding. Marriage didn't last long and people never attached much importance to it. Philby was only twenty-two at the time and everyone assumed he'd married the first girl who gave him a blow job. He eventually returned to England and talked himself into an assignment covering Franco s side of the war for The Times of London."

Elihu set the balls of the fingers of his right hand on his left wrist to monitor his racing pulse. "God, Harv, do you at all grasp what you're suggesting—that the head of our Section IX, the chap who until quite recently ran our counterintelligence ops against the Russians, is actually a Soviet mole!" Elihu's eyelids sagged and he seemed to go into mourning. "You simply cannot be serious."

"I've never been seriouser."

"I will need time to digest all this. Say twenty-nine months."

"Time is what's running out on us, Elihu. The Barbarians are at the gate just as surely as they were when they crossed the frozen Rhine and clobbered what passed for civilized Europe."

"That happened before my time, too," Elihu muttered.

"The Iron Curtain is our Rhine, Elihu."

"So people say. So people say."

Elihu leaned back and closed his eyes and turned his face into the sun. "'Move him into the sun—Gently, its touch awoke him once,"' he murmured. "I am a great admirer of the late Wilfred Owen," he explained. Then he fell silent, neither speaking nor moving. A couple of men Torriti tagged as homosexuals ambled up the walkway to the crest of the hill and down the other side, whispering fiercely in the way people did when they argued in public. Elihu's eyes finally came open; he had come to a decision. "I could be keel-hauled for telling you what I'm going to tell you. As they say, in for a penny, in for a pound. Years before Kim Philby became involved in Soviet-targeted counterintelligence ops he was an underling in Section V, which was tracking German ops on his old London Times stamping ground, the Iberian peninsular. MI6 had and has a very secret Central Registry with source books containing the records of British agents world-wide. The source books are organized geographically. On a great number of occasions Philby signed out the Iberian book, which was consistent with his area of expertise. One day not long ago I went down to Central Registry to take a look at the source book on the Soviet Union, which was consistent with my area of expertise. While the clerk went off to fetch it I leafed through the logbook—I was curious to see who had been exploring that sinkhole before me. I was quite startled to discover that Philby had signed out the source book on the Soviet Union long before he became chief of our Soviet Division. He was supposed to be chivvying Germans in Tipsin, not reading up on British agents in Russia."

"Who beside me knows about your source book saga, Elihu?"

'I've actually only told it to one other living soul," Elihu replied.

"Let me climb out on a limb—Ezra Ben Ezra, better known as the Rabbi."

Elihu was genuinely surprised. "How'd you guess?"

"The Rabbi once told me there was an international Jewish conspiracy and I believed him." Torriti shook with quiet laughter. "Now I understand why Ben Ezra sent me to see you. Tell me something—why didn't you take your suspicions to Roger Hollis?"

The suggestion appalled Elihu. "Because I am not yet stark raving, that's why. And what does it all add up to, Harv? A KGB defector who tries to whip up some excitement by claiming he can finger a Soviet mole in MI6, a marriage in Austria, a Russian General who dropped dark hints about a British journalist in Spain, some easily explainable Central Registry logs—Philby could have been gearing up for the Cold War before anyone else felt the temperature drop. Hardly enough evidence to accuse MI6's next ataman of being a Soviet spy! Dear me, I hate to think what would happen to the poor prole who dropped that spanner into the works. Forget about being put out to pasture, he'd be disemboweled, Harv. Oh, dear me, his entrails would be ground up and fed to the hogs, his carcass would be left to rot in some muddy ha-ha."

"Pure and simple truth carries weight, Elihu."

Elihu retrieved his bowler from the bench and fitted it squarely onto his nearly hairless head. "Oscar Wilde said that truth is rarely pure and never simple and I am inclined to take his point." He gazed toward London in the hazy distance. "I was born and raised in Hampshire, in a village called Palestine—had the damnedest time convincing the mandarins not to post me to the Middle East because they assumed I had an affinity for the miserable place." Elihu pursed his lips and shook his head. "Yes. Well. What you could do is feed out a series of barium meals. We did it once or twice during the war."

"Barium meals! That's something I haven't thought of."

"Yes, indeed. Tricky business. Can't feed out junk, mind you—the Russian mole will recognize it as junk and won't be bothered to pass it on. Got to be top-grade stuff. Takes a bit of nerve, it does, giving away secrets in order to learn a secret." Climbing to his feet, Elihu removed a slip of paper from his fob pocket and handed it to the Sorcerer. "I take supper weekdays at the Lion and Last in Kentish Town. Here's the phone number. Be a good fellow, don't call me at the office again. Ah, yes, and if anybody should inquire, this meeting never took place. Do I have that right, Harv?"

Torriti, lost in the myriad tangle of barium meals, nodded absently. "Nobody's going to hear any different from me, Elihu."

"Ta-ta."

"Ta-ta to you."

6

WASHINGTON, DC, FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 1951

FIFTEEN EARNEST YOUNG SECTION HEADS HAD SQUEEZED INTO BILL Colby's office for the semi-weekly coffee-and-doughnut klatsch on the stay-behind networks being set up across Scandinavia. "The infrastructure in Norway is ninety per cent in place," reported a young woman with bleached blonde hair and painted fingernails. "Within the next several weeks we expect to cache radio equipment in a dozen pre-selected locations, which will give the leaders of our clandestine cells the capability of communicating with NATO and their governments-in-exile when the Russians overrun the country."

Colby corrected her with a soft chuckle. "If the Russians overrun the country, Margaret. If." He turned to the others, who were sprawled on radiators and green four-drawer government-issue filing cabinets or, like Leo Kritzky, leaning against one of the pitted partitions that separated Colby's office from the warren of cubbyholes around it. "Let me break in here to underscore two critical points," Colby said. "First, even where the local government is cooperating in setting up stay-behind cells, which is the case in most Scandinavian countries, we want to create our own independent assets. The reason for this is simple: No one can be sure that some governments won't accept Soviet occupation under pressure; no one can be sure that elements in those governments won't collaborate with that occupation and betray the stay-behind network. Secondly, I can't stress too much the matter of security. If word of the stay-behind networks leaks, the Russians could wipe out the cells if they overrun the country. Perhaps even more important, the public gets wind of the existence of a stay-behind network, it would undermine morale, inasmuch as it would indicate that the CIA doesn't have "much faith in NATO's chances of stopping a full-fledged Soviet invasion."

"But we don't have much faith," Margaret quipped.

"Agreed," Colby said. "But we don't have to advertise the fact." Colby in shirtsleeves and suspenders, swiveled his wooden chair toward Kritzky. "How are you doing with your choke points, Leo?"

Leo's particular assignment when he turned up for duty in Colby's shop on the Reflecting Pool had been to identify vulnerable geographic choke points—key bridges, rail lines, locomotive repair facilities, canal locks, hub terminals—across Scandinavia, assign them to individual stay-behind cells and then squirrel away enough explosives in each area so the cells could destroy the choke points in the event of war. "If the balloon goes up," Leo was saying, "my team reckons that with what we already have on the ground, we could bring half the rail and river traffic in Scandinavia to a dead stop."

"Half is ten percent better than I expected and half as good as we need to be," Colby commented from behind his desk. "Keep at it, Leo." He addressed everyone in the room. "It's not an easy matter to prepare for war during what appears to be peacetime. There is a general tendency to feel you have all the time in the world. We don't. General MacArthur is privately trying to convince the Joint Chiefs to let him bomb targets in China. The final decision, of course, will be Truman's. But it doesn't take much imagination to see the Korean War escalating into World War III if we send our planes north of the Yalu and bomb China. We're on track with our stay-behind nets but don't ease up. Okay, gentlemen and ladies, that's it for today."

"Want to put some salve on the whip marks on your back, Leo?" his "cellmate" inquired when Leo returned to his corner cubbyhole. Maud was a heavyset, middle-aged woman who chain-smoked small Schimelpenick cigars. Four large filing cabinets and the drawers of her desk were overflowing with documents "liberated" from the Abwehr in 1945. New piles were brought in almost daily. Maud, a historian by training who had served as an OSS researcher during the war, pored over the documents looking for the telltale traces of Soviet intelligence operations in the areas that had been occupied by German troops. She was hoping to discover if any of the famous Soviet spy rings had had agents in England or France during the war— agents who might still be loyal to the Kremlin and spying for Russia.

Leo settled down behind his second hand wooden desk and stared for a long moment at the ceiling, which was streaked with stains from the rain and snow that had seeped through the roof. "No matter how much we give Colby, he wants more," he griped.

"Which is why he is the leader and you are a follower," Maud observed dryly.

"Which is why," Leo agreed.

"Courier service left this for you," Maud said. She tossed a sealed letter into his desk and, lighting a fresh Schimelpenick, went back to her Abwehr documents.

Leo ripped open the envelope and extracted a tissue-thin letter, which turned out to be from Jack.

"Leo, you old fart,"

it began.

"Thanks for the note, which arrived in yesterday's overnight pouch. I'm rushing to get this into tonight's overnight so excuse the penmanship or lack of same. Your work in Washington sounds tedious but important. Regarding Colby, the word in Germany is that he's headed for big things, so hang on to his coattails, old buddy. There's not much I can tell about Berlin Base because (as we say in the trade) you don't need to know. Things are pretty feverish here. You see a lot of people running around like chickens without heads. Remember the OSS lawyer-type we met at the Cloud Club—'Ebby' Ebbitt? He got the old heave-ho for saying out loud what a lot of people (though not me) were thinking, which is that the honcho of Berlin Base drinks too much. Ebby was palmed off on Frankfurt Station and I haven't heard hide nor hair since. The Sorcerer, meanwhile, is going up the wall over a defection that turned sour—he is sure the opposition was tipped off. Question is: by whom? As for yours truly, I've been given my first agent to run. Luck of the draw, she's what you'd call a raving beauty. Enormous sad eyes and long legs that simply don't end. My honcho wants me to seduce her so he can tune in on the pillow talk. I am more than willing to make this sacrifice for my country but I can't seem to get to first base with her. Which is a new experience for me. Win some, lose some. Keep in touch. Hopefully our paths will cross when I get home leave."