The Company: A Novel of the CIA (79 page)

The first batch of cables all looked as if they could wait until people showed up for work the following morning. There was a report from Cairo Station about a shake-up in the Muhabarat, the Egyptian intelligence service, with President Anwar el-Sadat bringing in people known for their personal loyalty to him. Beirut Station had weighed in with still another warning that Lebanon was moving toward the brink of civil war between Islamic fundamentalists and Christian Arabs; Yasir Arafat's Palestine Liberation Organization, firmly implanted in the country's sprawling Palestinian refugee camps, was stockpiling arms and boasting of turning northern Lebanon into a launching pad for raids into Israel. Saigon Station was ringing the gong (as Company argot had it): the situation in Vietnam was unraveling faster than anyone had expected; CIA was working with the Navy to develop plans to evacuate 1,500 American civilians by helicopter if regular Army units from the North broke through South Vietnamese lines and made a dash for the Capitol. Paris Station was predicting that the Gaullist Valery Giscard D'Estaing would defeat the Socialist Francois Mitterand in the run-off round of the election in a week's time. Lisbon Station was concerned that Communists in the leftist military junta that seized power in a coup d'etat the previous month might leak NATO secrets to Moscow.

At ten P.M. the green light over the door to the Operations Center flickered. The armed guard on duty looked through the one-way window, then called out, "Coffee's on." The dozen duty officers and secretaries, delighted to be diverted for even a few minutes, filed through the partly open door to the corridor and returned carrying doughnuts and cups of steaming coffee. Manny slipped into his shoes and lined up behind the cart. He drew a mugful of coffee and helped himself to a jelly doughnut, then made his way back to the pit. Across the room the young woman at the telephone switchboard pulled off her earphones and announced, "Mr. Ebbitt, sir, I have a call on an open line from a lady asking to speak to the person in charge. She says it's a matter of life or death."

"Put it through on my outside line," Manny said. He picked up the green phone. "Yes?"

The caller's edgy voice came through the earpiece. "There has to be someone in charge at night. I need to talk to him, and fast."

"Could you kindly state your name and your business—" Manny began but the woman cut him off. "For crying out loud, don't pussyfoot around with me. A man's life is hanging on this call. We don't have much time—he has to be back at his embassy by eleven. Pass me over to someone who can make things happen."

Manny sat up in his chair and hit the "record" button on the tape recorder plugged into the phone. "You're speaking to the night duty officer, ma'am."

On the other end of the line the woman took a deep breath. "Okay, here's the deal. My name's Agatha Ept. That's E-P-T, as in inept but without the in. I work for the government Patent Office. A week ago Friday I met this Russian diplomat at a reception at the Smithsonian—they were giving a sneak preview of a show honoring a hundred years of American inventions. The Russian said he was a political attache. He obviously knew a lot about inventions and we got to talking. He asked me if we could meet again and I thought, where's the harm? So we met for lunch last Sunday at one of the restaurants in the Kennedy Center." The woman covered the mouthpiece with her hand and spoke to someone in the room. Manny heard her say, "I'm coming to that part." She came back on the line. "Where was I?

Manny liked the sound of her voice—she was in some sort of bind but she was cool enough. He even caught a hint of humor in her tone, almost as if she were enjoying the situation; enjoying the adventure of phoning up the CIA. "You were having lunch in the Kennedy Center," he said.

"Right. So my Russian acquaintance— "You want to give me his name?"

"Do you want to?"

"He specifically asked me not to do that over the phone. So we talked about this and that and then we each went our merry ways. Then tonight, out of the blue, it was around eight-thirty, I got a buzz on the intercom. Lo and behold, there he was! He'd found my address, you see, though I don't really know how since my phone is unlisted. He was in the lobby downstairs. He begged me to let him come up. He said it was a matter of life or death which, given his situation, I suppose isn't an exaggeration. I let him in and up he came. Well, the long and the short of it is he wants political asylum. He said Russians didn't get to meet many Americans. He said I was the only person he could turn to. He asked me to get in touch with the CIA on his behalf—he wants to stay in America, in return for which he's ready to give information."

"What sort of information?"

Ept could be heard repeating the question to the Russian. "He wants to know what sort of information you can give him."

Manny could hear a man with a thick accent whispering urgently behind her. The woman said, "He says he has a lot of secrets to offer. Okay, what do I do now?"

Manny said, "What you do now is you give me your phone number and your address. Then you sit tight. You brew up a pot of coffee, you make small talk until I get there. Okay?"

"It has to be okay. I mean, it's not as if I have a wide range of options to choose from, is it?"

Manny scratched her name and address on a pad, then read it back to her to confirm them. Agatha wanted to know his name. He told her she could call him Manny. She laughed and said she would have preferred his real name but would settle for Manny. She asked him what his birth sign was and when he told her he was a Capricorn, she breathed an audible sigh of relief. The Russian in her apartment was a Virgo, she said. She herself was a Taurus with Capricorn rising, which meant the three of them were earth signs and would get along real fine. Manny was in luck, she added: Jupiter just happened to be in Taurus and was about to form a sextile with Venus in Virgo, which meant that any project they undertook together in the next ten days was bound to work out. Manny told her, "I like your style, Agatha. Hang in there."

He cut the connection and bellowed out, "Marv, I want two cars and six men from the Office of Security, armed and wearing civilian clothes, waiting in the garage in ten minutes. Waldo, get me a read-out on a female American name of Ept, I'm spelling that E-P-T, first name, Agatha, she works for the US Patent Office." He reached for the red phone and the clipboard filled with unlisted numbers that even the phone company couldn't locate and dialed one of them. After four rings, the DD/O's Chief of Operations, Jack McAuliffe, came on the line. "Mr. McAuliffe, this is Manny Ebbitt, the night duty officer in the Operations Center—"

"What's with the Mr. McAuliffe, Manny?"

"I'm calling on official business, Jack, so I thought—"

"You thought wrong. What's up?"

"Looks as if we've got a walk-in." He explained about the call from the American woman who said she worked for the patent office; about the Russian attache asking for political asylum in exchange for unspecified information. Waldo came across the room on the run and shoved a paper under Manny's eyes. "I'm getting a confirmation on the American woman, Jack. Ept, Agatha, forty-two, divorced, an associate researcher at the US Patent Office for the past nine years. Normally I'd check with my division chief but Leo's on a plane heading for Europe. You probably know that. So I decided to check in with you."

Jack, who had seen his first defector in a Berlin safe house over a movie theater a lifetime ago and had personally handled half a dozen since, was all business. "All right. I'll authorize you to talk to the Russian. Make sure he's not some journalist playing footsie with the Company. If he's really Russian, if he's really a diplomat, if he really has access to secrets, string him along. See if you can get an idea of what he has to offer. See what he wants in return. Don't commit yourself. Don't commit the Company. Bear in mind that if he is the genuine article, the optimum solution, from our point of view, is to talk him into remaining as an agent in place inside the Soviet embassy, at least until his tour of duty expires. Bear in mind, too, that even if he looks like the genuine article he could still be a dispatched agent sent to feed us malarkey. If you're satisfied, instruct him to phone the Ept woman at midweek. Since all Russian diplomats work for the KGB, directly or indirectly, he could claim he's having an affair with this woman from the patent office, or trying to, in order to get hold of American patents. We could eventually supply him with some. The Russians who look over everyone's shoulder at the embassy ought to swallow that."

Marv came back into the Operations Center and gestured with two fingers to indicate that the cars were waiting in the basement. "Okay. I'm on my way," Manny said.

"You're taking security with you?"

"Two cars. Six people."

"Spread them around to make sure you're not walking into a nest of vipers. Take one man inside with you just in case. Tape the conversation with the Russian if he lets you. Call me as soon as you come out. I'll alert your father and counterintelligence. Angleton will want to be brought in on this. We'll meet in the DD/O's office first thing tomorrow to see if we want to pursue the matter."

Manny waved for Waldo to take over the catbird seat, grabbed his sports jacket off the back of a chair and a small battery-powered tape recorder from a shelf and headed for the door.

For once, the long night watch had turned out to be more intriguing than one of those Cold War spy novels.

Agatha Ept lived in a no-frills six-story apartment house constructed, according to the date over the door, in 1946, a time when returning GIs were flooding into the Washington area after the war. Located in the heart of a lower-middle-class neighborhood outside the Beltway a stone's throw from Rockville, with ugly fire escapes clinging like limpets to its brick sides, the building was saved from falling into the category of a flophouse by a conspicuous neatness. There were trimmed hedges on either side of a heavy glass outer door leading to a straightforward well-lit vestibule, leading to a heavy glass inner door that could only be opened if you had a key or someone in the building buzzed you through. Five of Manny's shadows from the Office of Security, checking with each other on small walkie-talkies, had quietly spread out around the building, covering the front and back entrances, the underground garage and the poorly lit bushy areas under the two fire escapes. The sixth shadow hovered behind Manny as he pushed the chrome button next to the name "Ept, A."

Almost instantly a woman's voice burst over the intercom. "Who's there?" she demanded.

"It's the person you spoke to earlier this evening," Manny replied.

"Marty?"

Manny realized he was dealing with a smart cookie. "Not Marty. Manny."

'What's your birth sign, Manny?"

The shadow from Security tapped a forefinger against his forehead to suggest that the woman was off her rocker. Manny said, "I'm a nonpracticing Capricorn."

"You don't know what you're missing out on. I'm on the fifth floor, second door to your right when you get off the elevator."

The lock in the glass door buzzed. Manny and his shadow pushed through into the building. Agatha, standing at the door of her apartment when they emerged from the elevator, turned out to be a tall, reedy woman with bright eyes and delicate features. When she flashed a nervous smile she looked as if she had more than her share of teeth. "Which one of you is the nonpracticing Capricorn? And who the hell is the one who isn't?" she wanted to know.

"I'm Manny, he's my security blanket," Manny explained. "He can't come in," Agatha declared categorically. "My Russian said he'll talk to you and no one else."

"Let me take a quick look around," the security man said. "If everything looks kosher I'll wait out here."

"Do I have a choice?" Agatha asked Manny. He screwed up his face. "All right. Just a quick look."

Agatha let the two men in and locked the door behind them with the safety chain. The security man ignored the Russian, who was watching from the kitchenette, and proceeded to throw open doors and run his hand under the tops of tables and along the arms of chairs. He disappeared into the bedroom, then came out and nodded at Manny. "I'll be in the hallway if you need me," he said.

Manny walked over to the political attache and offered his hand. "My name is—" he started to say in Russian.

The Russian gripped it firmly and answered in Russian. "It's you, the Manny from the telephone conversation. I am Sergei Semyonovich Kukushkin."

Manny set the portable recorder down on a coffee table and started to open the leather flap. "What are you doing with the machine?" the Russian demanded.

"I'd like to record the conversation."

The Russian shook his head emphatically; his long, vaguely blond hair. already disheveled, flew off in all directions. "Nyet, nyet. If you please, I am not wanting that."

Manny looked at Agatha. "Would you mind?" he asked, nodding toward the bedroom door.

"I'd mind if I thought someone would notice." She smiled encouragingly at the Russian and disappeared into the bedroom.

Kukushkin snatched a glass filled with an orange liquid from the kitchenette counter. "Juice of carrot," he said, holding it up. "You want some?"

Manny shook his head. "I was hoping it might be whiskey."

The Russian said unhappily, "The lady is vegetarian."

Manny motioned him toward a couch and settled into a chair facing him. He decided to see how well Kukushkin spoke English. "Where do the KGB watchdogs at the Soviet embassy think you are right now?"

Kukushkin looked confused. "What means watchdog."

"Your security people? Your SK?"

"Ahhh. Watchdogs. I sign out going to movie theater."

"What film are you supposed to be seeing?"

" Young Frankenstein."

"What time does it finish?"

"Ten-forty. Bus takes me back to embassy by eleven, eleven-fifteen."

Manny looked at his wristwatch. "That gives us forty minutes if we drop you at a bus stop near the theater. Do you know the plot of Young Frankenstein?"

"I know enough—I read criticism of film in newspaper."