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  "I have a problem, Harry."

  No kidding. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

  "It's my wife."

  "Your wife?" I was taken totally off guard.

  "I think she's being unfaithful to me."

  Now, this was not what I was expecting. I thought he was glum about the mass expulsion of Russian spies. I knew his wife only slightly. But if there's anything that can take your mind off problems at work, it's an unfaithful wife.

  There was occasionally some fooling around within the Russian colony, so this was not particularly earthshattering news. But it was a very personal subject that a Russian was unlikely to discuss with an American.

  "I'm sorry to hear that, Nikolay. Are you sure?"

  By now we were each on our third shot of vodka.

  "No, but she's acting strange."

  "Whom do you suspect? Is it one of the guys who were sent home?"

  He tossed back another shot of vodka and reached for the bottle. "I think it's a Frenchman."

  "How is that even possible?"

  "We're not all locked up in cells after dark, you know. We do get out now and then."

  "OK."

  "In Moscow we had a nice apartment, thanks to Svetlana's father. We had a two room place of our own on Kutuzovskiy Prospekt. Svetlana was accustomed to high standards at home. Where do you think we live here in Paris, in the greatest city in the world? We arrived full of excitement and expectation."

  I knew that most of the Soviets assigned to Paris lived in a building not far from the embassy compound on Boulevard Suchet. I let him talk.

  "Our building is in the 16th Arrondisement, the richest area of Paris. But we live in a communal apartment with three other families! We even have to share the kitchen and the toilets. In other words, we live worse in Paris than we did in Moscow. Svetlana is very unhappy. She told me last night that she wished we had been declared persona non grata along with the rest of them."

  "So she wants to return to Moscow?" This was inconsistent with an affair with a Frenchman.

  "She wishes we'd never left. And last night she said she might have another way out and threatened to leave me."

  On top of being left out of the herd of spooks sent packing, if his wife ran away with a Frenchman, poor Nikolay would be in really big trouble.

  "When it's appropriate, Svetlana and I attend receptions and dinners together – the happy Soviet couple."

  He downed another shot. The bottle of Stoli was almost half-empty by now, and my eyes were beginning to cross. If this progressed through a second bottle I would have to pour myself into a taxi and go straight home where Kate would have to lay me out on the bed.

  "There is a Frenchman who says he works in the foreign ministry press office. We met him at a small dinner party about six months ago, and he offered to help me with some useful contacts. We've met several times since then, and he always insisted I bring Svetlana along. He showed us a lot of kindnesses, paying for everything, inviting us to nice restaurants."

  "Do you think he's French intel?"

  His head jerked up. "The French don't run intelligence operations against us."

  If Barsikov had talked under interrogation, the Soviets should know already that he was working for the French. And even if he hadn't, the DST was broadcasting it among the European services. The press would run with it soon.

  "What makes you think they're having an affair?"

  "Svetlana has gone out alone several times over the past month. She's only supposed to go out with the other women, but she ignores the rule. When I ask, she gives a vague excuse."

  "That's doesn't sound good, but are you sure it's this French guy and not one of your Russian comrades?"

  "I would know if it was a Russian. No secrets are safe when you live in a communal apartment."

  I could see his point. More importantly, his options were limited and unpleasant. His people would wonder why he was not on the expulsion list, and suspicion always wins out where Russians are concerned. If his wife ran away with a foreigner, it would be at the very least the end of his career. If he asked to be sent home, people would wonder why. His goose was already in the oven crisping to a golden brown.

  "What can I do, Nikolay?"

  "Can you check out this Frenchman?"

  The poor sap harbored the forlorn hope that he could emerge without too deep a scratch, but I would play along.

  "Sure. What's his name?"

  "He says his name is Remy Blanchard."

  "What happens if I check him out? What good would it do you?"

  "At least I would know what I'm dealing with."

  He suspected his wife had fallen into a honey trap.

  After my recent collaboration with the French against the Russians, I was now being asked for help by a KGBnik. I was fast becoming a charity for needy espionage organizations.

  "Can you let me have a picture of your wife?"

  "Why?"

  "It might come in handy." I'd met his wife once or twice, but I needed the photo.

  He pulled out his wallet and extracted a snapshot of an attractive blond woman. "Take it."

  "I think I should go now." I wanted to get out of there before he asked for a second bottle of vodka. "Can you make it to our usual lunch next week?"

  "OK."

  I left him there in the bar. I don't know if he ordered a second bottle.

  Chapter 35

  Success in espionage, as in many other undertakings, more often than not is determined by one's ability to take advantage of opportunities that are impossible to predict. Kozlov's predicament was one of these occasions.

  Damn, but I loved this job.

  Kozlov was probably correct in assuming that he was dealing with a honey trap. The question was who set the trap. Given the nationality of "Blanchard," the most likely candidate was the DGSE, followed by the DST.

  I wondered if either of the French services was aware of my longstanding acquaintanceship with Kozlov. The DST was a highly capable internal security service. As with any such service, they controlled their turf and could mount sophisticated surveillance operations. The safest conclusion was that they knew I'd been meeting Kozlov for the past year.

  Terry Stoddard and I discussed possibilities for the rest of the afternoon. I managed this despite the combined effects of Montrachet and Vodka, which is not a combination I recommend.

  Stoddard said, "We could sit back and watch the soap opera play out to the end and maybe try to snatch Kozlov on the rebound."

  This would be a passive/aggressive approach.

  "We could mount our own surveillance operation against Svetlana Kozlov to find out what's really going on."

  Stoddard was listing the possibilities so we could knock down the least advisable ones, so I said, "Surveilling someone we think is targeted by the French risks running into their surveillance teams, and we'd end up butting heads and getting embarrassed."

  He nodded, "Or we could come clean to the French that we know what they're up to and want to be cut in on their operation."

  I said, "The best course would be to go to the French, specifically Picard and the DST." Stoddard was a very smart guy, and I trusted his judgment.

  Insofar as we could trust a French service, we tended to trust the DST over the DGSE.

  I got back to the apartment around six P.M. Despite the dinner Kate had prepared, my stomach rebelled at being asked to digest anything on top of the wine and vodka. Kate was displeased, so I told her about Kozlov and his wife.

  "The poor woman," she said. "Your buddy, Kozlov, must be a real louse."

  "I don't know. He seems like a nice enough guy to me."

  She maneuvered her features into that expression women have when they come upon yet another confirmation that they are superior to men. "I'll bet he works all the time, comes home tired, and sometimes disappears for days at a time but can't tell her where he's going. She's left all alone to worry and fret until he gets back from whatever spook mission he's been gi
ven."

  It took a few seconds, but even my addled brain picked up on this. "But I do exactly the same thing."

  "Yes, you do, but you're not a louse. See the difference?"

  I grabbed her and gave her a big kiss on the lips. "Can you please put me to bed now?"

  "OK, but I'm going to eat the dinner I spent an hour preparing and have some nice wine, too. So don't expect me to jump in there with you."

  "I have nothing more in mind than sleeping it off, so you're safe."

  There was a mischievous glint in her eyes. "So, alcohol makes me less desirable? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?"

  I couldn't win. "Kate," I said, "you are highly desirable at all times, but right now, I'm totally useless.

  Chapter 36

  The next morning the distinctive aroma of a Gauloise in the corridor at the Place des Saussaies forewarned me that Thibault was waiting with Picard. You could smoke in the finest restaurants in Paris in the eighties, although you risked really pissing off people who'd paid a couple of hundred dollars for a small plate of exquisitely prepared food and another bundle for a bottle of wine. Fortunately, the precincts of the DST offered no such luxuries, and I lit a short Montecristo No. 5 in self-defense.

  "It's my turn to ask for some help." Given the way I'd "helped" the DST, I was opening with a weak hand hoping to draw into a straight.

  Picard and Thibault raised their eyebrows in identical expressions of polite Gallic curiosity.

  "What can we do for you, Harry?" asked Picard.

  "I want to talk about Nikolay Kozlov, the Novosti correspondent."

  Their expressions transitioned from curiosity to carefully controlled neutrality before Picard said, "What about him?"

  "To start, you know he's a KGB thug, but he wasn't expelled with the rest of them."

  Picard mustered up a tone of mild annoyance. "You're here to complain that he wasn't expelled?"

  "Not at all. As a matter of fact, I'm glad he's still here. I've been developing him for nearly a year."

  Thibault's mouth twitched upward at the corners, but he quickly resumed his bland expression, deferring to his boss to speak. But that little twitch said a lot.

  Picard pursed his lips the way the French do when they want you to know they are thinking. He said, "Yes, we know."

  "Were you watching him or me?"

  "That's immaterial. We know."

  Picard could be such a smug shit.

  "What do you know about his wife?"

  "His wife? Why do you ask?"

  He sounded more worried than curious. Maybe that last card would yield a straight, after all.

  "Someone, probably you guys, has set a honey trap for her."'

  Thibault actually blushed. Well, well, well.

  Picard's voice was neutral. "How do you know this?"

  Not "what makes you think this," but "how do you know this."

  "Kozlov told me all about it yesterday. Who is Remy Blanchard?"

  Thibault was pink from neck to brow by now, and I made a leap of faith. "Dom, you son of a gun, you've been romancing a Russian, haven't you."

  Thibault opened his mouth, but Picard cut him off. "Why are you so interested, Harry. Were you about to pitch Kozlov?"

  My cigar had gone out, and I took a moment to re-light it while I thought about how to proceed.

  "I don't think he's ready. Recruiting Soviets is a lot like coaxing a timid animal out of the woods. You have to lay a trail of bait until he's eating out of your hand. Russians are not a trusting sort."

  Picard pursed his lips again. "What do you know about his wife?"

  "She's attractive and unhappy. Kozlov probably hasn't paid enough attention to her, and that makes her easy prey."

  "Would you excuse us for a moment?"

  They stepped out of the room and closed the door.

  Had the Barsikov operation convinced them they could poach on DGSE territory with utter disregard? They weren't equipped and did not have the skill to handle a defector, and the wife of a Russian, even the wife of a Russian spook, was not a particularly valuable asset. Maybe they were after Kozlov himself.

  After a quarter of an hour they returned.

  Picard said, "As you apparently have surmised, we have been working on Svetlana Kozlov. What you do not know is that she is a code clerk for the KGB rezidentura."

  This was news to me.

  "Are you sure?" I had to ask.

  Thibault finally spoke. "That's what she says."

  "I don't see how it's possible that she's able to get out on her own."

  "It's her father," said Thibault. "He's real nomenklatura, and she can flaunt the rules."

  "If that's true, she would be a major catch. What are the chances she'll defect?"

  "We're working on it," said Picard. "There is still some distance to go. Her motivations are personal rather than ideological."

  "Kozlov told me she was a spoiled nomenklatura brat who resented how they're forced to live here. She thinks she deserves better in a town like Paris. Even a privileged life in Moscow can't compete with what she sees all around her here. So what will you do with her if she comes over?"

  "Exploit the information, of course."

  "A code clerk would have unique access, but she can only carry so much information in her head. You'll want her to bring out crypto materials and files, if she can."

  "Of course."

  Crypto materials are pure gold. The Soviets would change their codes if they were compromised, but even the old materials would permit decryption of past intercepted traffic. I figured if the French were telling me this much, they wanted something.

  "What do you want from us?" I asked.

  Picard had the decency to be slightly embarrassed. "Maybe you could help with resettlement?"

  Aha. Resettlement is an expensive process that eats up time as well as money. It's like adopting an ill-mannered child for which you will be eternally responsible.

  The DST wanted the goodies, but hoped we would pay the bill.

  "In exchange you would share any crypto she manages to get out?"

  "Of course."

  I told them I would think about it and headed back to the embassy.

  I was certain of only one thing: it was highly unlikely that Svetlana Kozlova was a Soviet code clerk.

  Chapter 37

  In the first place, it was barely conceivable that a Russian code clerk could ever escape onto the streets unaccompanied. The rule with the Soviets was that code clerks were never permitted to venture away from official quarters alone. The risk was too great. So it required a real stretch of imagination to believe that one might actually be sleeping with a French counter-intel guy.

  The first major Soviet defector after World War II was Igor Guzenko, a code clerk who defected from the Soviet Embassy in Ottawa in 1947. His revelations of pervasive Soviet intelligence operations in North America helped spark the Cold War.

  "Maybe the Soviets are setting up the DST," I said to Terry Stoddard.

  He groaned. "But I don't see the benefit to them. Temporary embarrassment of the DST seems hardly worth the effort. Are you certain she's not a code clerk?"

  "It's not very likely. Svetlana is just out of the Embassy too much. There's also the fact that she and Nikolay live in a building separate from the Embassy. Code clerks usually live in the chancery. I just don't see the pampered daughter of a nomenklatura bigwig spending her days breaking out code. And I've never heard of a female KGB code clerk."

  "Mmm. Why don't the French see this, I wonder."

  "Maybe it's wishful thinking. They're still on a high after Barsikov."

  "Should we share our suspicions with them?"

  "It depends. If his wife actually defects Kozlov is a dead duck. He thinks she's falling into a trap, but he's told no one but yours truly. That tells me he's angling for something besides confirmation that Svetlana is two-timing him with an enemy agent. He might be looking for a way out if the shit hits the fan."

&
nbsp; "OK." Stoddard had reached a decision. "As good allies, we'll share our doubts about Svetlana with Picard and decline direct participation. They may decide to continue despite their limited means for resettlement. If they haven't already done so, they may turn to the DGSE for help."

  The French had their own signals intelligence capabilities, housed with the DGSE, and they had been stealing secrets out of the air, including a lot of American secrets since 1946. In fact, they were probably stealing U.S. industrial and technological secrets faster than the KGB.

  "And what do we do in that case?"

  Stoddard smiled. "We sit back and watch while you maintain contact with Kozlov."

  "And we pick him up on the rebound and leave the French to look after a useless defector."

  "That's the idea."

  Chapter 38

  "I'm sorry to hear that." Jacques Picard was genuinely regretful when he heard our suspicions regarding Svetlana Kozlova. But this soon turned to suspicion.

  I knew this because his next words were, "You're not trying to screw us, are you?"

  "Of course not, Jacques. I'm just giving you our take on Svetlana. We have no indications she's a code clerk, and a lot of indications she's not. We have no interest in her."

  "I think you're trying to screw us."

  Frogs will be frogs. If they're not screwing you, they're certain you're screwing them. They may not be able to figure exactly how it's being done. They probably develop psychosomatic pains in the ass.

  "I don't see how you can say that, Jacques. We're sharing our doubts so you can save a lot of time, trouble, and money. Besides, I don't think we're clever enough to mess around with you on your own turf."

  "It would not be wise to try."

  That didn't sound promising because I actually was planning to screw them. Better stated, I was planning to let them screw themselves.

  "So they're unhappy with us?" asked Terry Stoddard.

  It was nearing noon by the time I returned to the office, so we'd nipped over the Île de la Cité in the COS's chauffeured BMW for an Alsatian lunch at a favorite spot.