The Falstaff Enigma (11 page)

“I don’t know. It’s a possibility but the reason why is beyond me.” Clements was being very honest. He feared for his life.

"Speculate."

"I don't know.
I guess he could have died of some natural cause and the Kremlin has some reason to keep it secret for a while. Or maybe he was killed by rivals in some type of power struggle. There are many scenarios that could explain this. I just don't have enough information even to say one is more probable than the others."

"Tell me what happened on the first with Robert Austin." Robert Austin watched every movement on Clements' face,
looking for a twitch, a series of blinks, a quiver of his lips, a relaxation of his jaw, anything that said that Don Clements held a clue to Austin's dilemma. But the deepening lines on Clements' face and the drooping sack of flesh that comprised the rapidly aging man's second chin were still. Instead, his eyes held only surprise at this new turn in the questioning.

"Austin?
Nothing happened with Austin. He just called me to ask about Vazhnevsky."

"And?"

"And I told him that I couldn't talk about it."

Clements shrugged his shoulders, a signal that he found this line of questioning to be a waste of time.
For Kemp, however, this was precisely the purpose of the visit.

Kemp pursued the topic.
"Did you say to Austin, 'You would be the one to notice'?"

Clements was clearl
y grasping for a reason behind these questions. "Don't tell me Robert Austin is a spy."

"I'm not telli
ng you anything, Mr. Clements." Neither Kemp nor Austin could be sure of the truth behind Don Clements. Was he genuinely ignorant of Austin's situation, or was he simply exercising superior acting skills? Austin was slowly coming to the conclusion that the tracker of Soviet personnel knew nothing of value.

"Answer my question," Kemp
continued.

"I honestly have no idea.
If I did say that, which is possible, it was only an acknowledgment of his reputation. In other words, from what I've heard and know of Austin, I guess I wasn't surprised that he was, to my knowledge at least, the first person outside my unit to notice the general was missing. So if I did say that, it was completely innocent." Clements slumped against the chair back and let his shoulders droop. The pressure of this encounter was having a clear physical effect on him.

"As simple as that?"
Kemp was trying to catch Clements with his defenses down.

"Yes."
The single syllable response came flatly with no emotion. It was obvious to Robert Austin that Don Clements was telling the truth. His one solid lead to understanding the events of the past few weeks was no lead at all; it was a darkened dead end.

John Kemp di
d not share Austin's pessimism. He knew that Clements held facts which offered the next step on their path toward understanding. "Tell me about your session with the committee."

Clements sat up in his seat.
"It was the same as this. They wanted to know about Vazhnevsky, and all I could tell them was what I told you. The only difference is that they wanted everything itemized and timed to the minute."

Then Don Clements' eyes opened a little wider than they had bee
n for the past several moments. Both Austin and Kemp noticed it. It was what Austin had been waiting to see and what he had given up hope on. Don Clements spoke under his breath. "Austin is a spy."

"What?" asked Kemp.

"Nothing. This whole thing is about Austin, isn't it?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because one of the men on the Review Committee asked me if anyone outside my section knew about Vazhnevsky. I told him that I got a call from an analyst who was just wondering where Vazhnevsky was. I didn't mention Austin's name and I certainly didn't expect him to pursue it, but he did. He openly demanded to know who called me. Of course I told him, but he didn't stop. He wanted to know exactly how the conversation progressed, so I told him and he was satisfied."

"
Who was he?"

"Didn't he send you?" asked Clements with genuine surprise in his voice.

"Who was he?"

"I don't know.
If you've ever been through Review then you know that no names are given, and I knew only one face out of the six: Colonel Irwin Stein.”

"How do you know Stein?"

"He's the commander of Alpha Lima, the building I work in."

"Describe the man who asked about Austin."

Clements glanced up at the ceiling and took in a deep breath. "Well, he was white, middle aged and Waspy looking. In fact, he had that distinguished Germanic look, like the stereotypical Norman Rockwell, pipe-smoking, bespectacled businessman. That's right, he wore glasses." Clements was slowly bringing back near-forgotten memories. "They were tortoise shell rimmed and a little oversized. The type of glasses you expect to see on a newly-minted MBA on Wall Street."

"Eyes?"

"I'm not sure. Probably blue or green, but not brown. "Going back to his age, I would say forty, but a fit, distinguished forty. He looked as if he kept in shape, maybe playing tennis or racquetball, or whatever, on a regular basis. On the other hand, all I could see of his body behind the dais was his chest and shoulders but, once again, I'd say that he is physically fit. That's about it."

"What
about his hair and complexion? Was he gray or tanned?"

"Oh yes.
His hair was mainly dark, predominantly black, but I remember streaks of gray, kind of a salt and pepper effect. Not pronounced, though, instead rather soft. It was a standard length and cut, parted on the side and brushed back.

"His complexion was normal.
He looked like somebody who lives up north in May. He had a little sun-induced color but nothing like a Florida beach dweller. His skin appeared normal, not too smooth or too leathery. His face looked good. He looked as though he had enjoyed a happy life with not too much strain. And he was, of course, clean-shaven.” Clements paused to reflect. “That's it, really."

"What was he wearing?"

The DIA employee thought for a moment. "A blue pinstripe with a red tie is what I recall. It was definitely an expensive cut."

"One last area.
What was his voice like?"

"This one's easy. It was neutral and strong. By that I mean that he had no discernable accent and the range of his voice was standard."

"The range?"

"The pitch. It wasn't high or low; it was in the middle. But the voice had
strength behind it. Authority. It was the voice of a confident man. He sounded like a newscaster." Don Clements pursed his lips and glanced at Robert Austin. He had told all he knew.

"Was there any
one else interested in Austin?"

"No, not that I can remember."

"What do you know about Ankara?"

Clements immediately lost his puzzled look.
This was a topic that was expected. "From what I can piece together the papers are right, with one exception. It seems that it was the Armenians who did it, but I believe they weren't alone. I think the KGB aided the Armenians."

"Why do you think that?"

"Someone from the Company spotted a KGB officer in Ankara shortly before the attack. This guy was a specialist at heading up such operations. There's no way that it was just coincidence."

Kemp feigned surprise, even though he was the man from the Company who reported the sighting of the KGB officer.
"Why do you think the Soviets would do that?"

“Obviously
they needed to kill General Poltovsky. But for what reason I simply can’t say. Nobody seems to have any idea, and in fact the whole idea of the Soviets being behind this is being hushed up on all sides. It is a theory non grata. I can understand that.”

"Where was Robert Austin during the attack?"
Kemp asked the open-ended question purely to examine Clements' facial response.

A look of half surprise and half shock came over Clements
. "How would I know? I track Russians, not DIA analysts. I guess he was in his office. Where else would he be?"

"Where is he now?"

"Same answer, but I don't know where his office is, if that's what you're driving at. We use code names for the location of other offices and we never know addresses. But I guess you know that."

John Kemp stood up abruptly.
Clements had told the truth as he understood it and there was nothing further to learn from him. "Have a good night, Mr. Clements," said Kemp as he turned for the door. "Don't discuss this evening with anyone." Kemp stopped and faced Clements. He raised his right arm, pointed his index finger at Clements' head and moved his thumb downward to rest on the fleshy part of the top of his hand. "Understood?"

"Sure.
Come visit me in the office some time," Clements said sarcastically. The removal of the threat of violence left him immediately emboldened.

Robert Austin
smiled and walked out the door. Kemp was following him. “You guys are assholes,” Clements said defiantly, certain that the threat to his life was over.

Kemp paused. “Yes, Mr. Clements, deadly assholes.” He passed through the
door and out of Clements’ life.

"He was telling the truth," Austin said. His eyes darted to the profile of a pretty blonde who was passing in the left lane.

“Yes, I know.
” Kemp held his tie in his hand. He had been counting the rosette patterns. He had really been trying to put pieces of the puzzle together. Logical conclusions. Prong A fits into groove B.
Where is piece C?

Kemp continued, "Now we have to find this mysterious man on the Review Committee.
It won't be easy, but obviously he has more than a passing interest in you."

"Do you think he's the mole?"

"It's possible. Tell me about the committee."

"They have sweeping power within the DIA to question anyone about any situation.
It’s one of those things set up in the Watergate aftermath to keep everything in line. The official name, I think, is the Internal Affairs Oversight and Review Committee. It reports directly to the Director."

"Who's on the committee?"

“I don’t know. It’s kept a secret. The longest anyone is supposed to be on it at one stretch is six months. Each month they replace one member. The person who is replaced is supposed to wait a year before going back on.”

"Were you ever on it?"

"No. Only the top career administrators or senior military officers are eligible. There are probably no more than forty men who can be on it."

"We are just going to have to work on this."

Austin waved his right arm. "No, I think this guy is only secondary. We should concentrate on what's happening inside Russia. That's where the answers lie."

"What makes you say that
?"

"I think Vazhnev
sky was killed, and we know Poltovsky was killed, and for some reason I'm in the middle of this. That reason is in Russia, not here."

"I
agree with you about Vazhnevsky, but I think we should get the answers to be found in our own back yard first. Let's see what I can find on Borskov and Govenin before we decide our next move. Okay?"

"Fair enough."

John Kemp hung up the public phone and ran back to the waiting car through the sudden spring shower. "He's got the information. We are going to meet him tomorrow morning at Arlington."

The next morning, a
CIA computer programmer stepped out of a taxi cab at 8:55 a.m. He was in his late twenties and wore an ill-fitting polyester suit. He preferred to work in jeans and a T-shirt, but that was not allowed in the Company dress code. He was tall, about six feet, and exceedingly skinny. His features were still boyish; five o'clock shadow was not one of his big worries.

He walked nervously
through Arlington Memorial Gate, carrying no briefcase. The information he would impart was stored only in his gray matter. He stopped and searched for the Tomb of the Unknowns. It was there that he would meet the man who got him off a legitimate drunken driving charge two years earlier. As part of his job, John Kemp had coerced the police officer into claiming his breath analyzer machine had been faulty. He was just helping to keep his own house in order. The programmer always viewed it as a personal favor, a sense of debt that Kemp did not discourage.

The programmer had been standing in front of the Tomb for only a few minutes when he heard a voice behind him.
"Good morning, Steve."

Steve Palucci turned to see a hand extended.
The programmer reciprocated. "How are you, John? It's been over a year since I last saw you."

"So it has.
You look good. Let's take a walk so you can fill me in on what you have learned." The two men began walking through the sea of crosses before them. Austin paralleled them at a distance of a hundred yards.

"I'll start with the easier name.
Govenin. Full name: Alexandr Govenin. He was a prominent Soviet physicist and also a prominent Jewish dissident. Due to the latter, he had been ostracized from any real research for many years. The Russians let him emigrate to Israel April twentieth but without his family. He made some deal with the Mossad in return for his family. The Mossad accepted it, which means that he was offering something good. He was killed by a hit team while on the way into Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv. It is widely held that it was a KGB team, but there is no verification and no known motive. The official story was that he was the victim of a PLO attack. Mossad control officer was David Margolis. Govenin was killed May fourteenth."

"Borskov?"

“Two possibilities. Vlademir Borskov was a career diplomat whose last assignment was a five year stint as Ambassador to England. He retired over a year ago and now lives with his wife in Savastopol. As far as we know he is completely inactive in political affairs.”

"Unlikely.
Who else?"

"Anatoly Borskov, a KGB officer stationed in Moscow.
He's high up; in charge of coordinating intelligence in Eastern Europe. He's a veteran of both field operations and internal affairs. He could easily rise higher within the KGB.

"He's been married over twenty years but no children.
His wife in infertile, which is just as well because she has many affairs. He will be fifty in two months. He lives in a nice apartment in Moscow."

"Any recent activity?"

"No, which is a curious fact. Until six months ago he took regular trips to Eastern Europe to visit operatives, but since then he has gone only once that we know about. No reason given. Otherwise, he keeps a very low profile."

"Wel
l, you came through for me and I thank you." John Kemp allowed himself a smile.

Robert Austin stopped and knelt in front of a gleaming white cross.
He was not interested in the name in front of his eyes. He looked to the side, fifty yards off. The man in his vision wore a navy blue camel hair overcoat. He was searching among the markers, but it was too random. Austin recognized it instantly because he had been doing the same thing for the past fifteen minutes. Austin could see the man's head bob upward to glance at Kemp and Palucci in a slow rhythm. Was he with the Company or the KGB? Austin would find out.

Kemp shook Steve
Palucci's hand as the programmer stepped into a taxi. The CIA agent then walked down the sidewalk heading for Austin. Austin immediately began a brisk pace in the direction of the field agent but not toward him. He was on a course that would pass by Kemp but not intercept him. He was sure Kemp would understand. Kemp did; he did not stop in front of Austin or even look at him. As Austin passed he said, "Take a cab, I'll follow." Neither man broke stride. The field agent headed for the nearest available taxi and got in.

It took only a few seconds for events to take shape as Austin expected.
The man in the camel hair overcoat stepped out from behind a crowd and headed for the same taxi stand. Austin followed him by twenty paces. A taxi pulled up. The man grabbed the rear door handle and opened.

"Stop and put your hands on the roof or I'll kill you."
The man complied. Austin was only two feet behind him. "Don't look back." Austin delayed long enough to ensure that Kemp's taxi was well out of following range. "Now get into your taxi and go home. Your face is known and you are useless to your country." The man stepped into the taxi as Austin turned his back and walked off. The taxi sped off to the Soviet Embassy.

Austin had been speaking in Russian.

"How the hell did the KGB pick up on him?" John Kemp asked. He had told Austin the meaning of the two names and Austin had told Kemp why he stayed at Arlington and what he found. Austin was now convinced that a trip to the Soviet Union was the logical next step. Kemp continued to resist that move. "There are many explanations for the KGB's presence, and unfortunately one of them is the possibility of a mole inside the Company,” Kemp continued, his mind speculating. “Of course, we could have been tracked but I've been careful and I'd say no. If we were, then the guy would have known you and avoided the situation you put him in. So we'll assume our programmer was followed.

"We need someone to be our eyes and ears inside the
Company," continued Kemp. "I think we should bring the inspector general in on this."

Austin did not have to think hard about the
suggestion. It was a good idea. “How do we get in touch with him?”

"There’s a way. I should be able to set up a meeting with him.”

The Smithsonian Institute was acceptable to both men. The inspector general was a suspicious man by nature. His very job was to suspect everything and so when he received a call from a field agent asking for a private meeting he became especially cautious, even if the agent had used the proper code words. John Kemp was suspicious too. He was sure that the IG would come with at least one back-up on foot and probably more on the street. Kemp trusted the IG, but the protection men could be loyal to anyone. Both men were comfortable in this most public of public buildings.

Kemp stood on the second floor balcony overlooking the
"Spirit of St. Louis." An overweight, white-haired man approached and leaned against the rail a few feet from Kemp. The man was declining physically. Kemp could hear his breathing, which had accelerated from the strain of walking up the stairs to the second floor. The fat on his face made him ugly, but his eyes still held the power of his position. The two men did not know each other by sight.

The fat man spoke first.
"Do you think she could fly now?"

"W
ith a lot of work, maybe," Kemp replied. The code words had been exchanged successfully.

Kemp continued, "My name is John Kemp and I'm the station operative in Ankara, Turkey.
I have a story to tell you, but first you must please tell me if our conversation is going beyond us, because if it is then this conversation will certainly cost you your life."

"Is that a threat?"

"Not from me. It is a statement of fact that you will understand soon enough."

"All right, this conversation is strictly between us, but if you're wasting my time then your career could be over.
My name is Carson, Wallace Carson.” Carson shook Kemp's hand.

"It won't be a waste, I guarantee that."
The two men began walking through the many exhibits. Austin browsed by the front door. A CIA agent waited in a car on the street.

John Kemp told t
he inspector general everything. The embassy, the apartment, Don Clements, Arlington, Robert Austin. He relayed his theories about who was behind these events. When he had told the whole story he said, "Of course, I expect you to verify all of this. Please do it very discreetly or I may lose you from the start. I will call you tomorrow at noon on the same number I used today. If you want another meeting then give a place and a time that's two hours past when you really want to meet or else just say 'no thanks' and hang up."

"I will speak to you at noon then."

That night the two men moved to a new motel. Kemp was determined to leave no trail behind them. They spent the evening hours discussing all they had learned. John Kemp insisted on discovering the mole within US intelligence. Austin felt that the answers were to be found inside the Soviet Union. But Austin backed down, and they decided to find the mole first.

"I am interested.
We meet today at four at the Museum of Natural History, main lobby."

"See you then."
Kemp hung up the phone and returned to the restaurant where he and Austin were eating lunch. He sat down. "We're on. Today at two at the Museum of Natural History.”