The Dove Page 2

  "OK. Can you call and tell them I'm on my way? It shouldn't take more than 15 minutes."

  I reversed course and once outside set off around the corner to the Boissy d'Anglas that ran north-south along the side of the Embassy across the street from the ritzy Hotel de Crillon. A chef there long ago had invented eggs benedict. I could afford the eggs, but a single night's lodging there would consume a week's pay.

  One block north was the Faubourg Ste. Honoré, sort of the Rodeo Drive of Paris, and just a couple of more blocks north and west lay the Place des Saussaies. No. 2 was a curious, but perhaps logical location for an internal security service. During the German occupation of World War II, it had been the Paris headquarters of the Gestapo. The façade was composed of unappetizing, dirty, yellowing granite blocks. I felt a subliminal chill every time I entered the disreputable place with its long, dingy corridors and interior walls of cold, gray stone, and its ghosts.

  Chapter 2

  A Volunteer

  I found my usual DST interlocutor, Jacques Picard, waiting in the sparsely furnished stone chamber that served for liaison meetings. At the journeyman level, the French are not much for fancy surroundings, leaning more toward the utilitarian. The room contained a battered wooden desk and several straight-backed wooden chairs. A green bottle of lightly effervescent Badois water and a couple of glasses stood beside a telephone on the desk. Sly, hooded eyes in the Machiavellian countenance of French president François Mitterrand suspiciously observed us from a photo on the wall behind the desk.

  The election of a socialist to the French presidency five years earlier and his appointment of four communists to his cabinet had alarmed Washington, but at their first meeting Mitterrand had reassured President Ronald Reagan of his loyalty to the West. A study in perpetual contradiction, Mitterrand would, in fact, reveal himself to be a strong Atlanticist.

  Picard was in his early 40’s, medium height, and beginning to go a bit soft around the middle. His full head of thick, brown hair showed not a speck of gray. His green eyes radiated a lively curiosity and intelligence, shaded by Gallic caution. He came from a long line of clockmakers in the Seine-Maritime region of Haute-Normandie. That's probably why he was such a stickler for detail. His heritage also made him quite predictable.

  Picard rose from behind the desk when I entered and extended his hand. "Hello, Clint," he said.

  I gritted my teeth at the standing joke. People insisted that I resembled the actor Clint Eastwood, something I did not see, and the fact that my name was Harry evoked chortles from certain people.

  "C'mon, Jacques, please!"

  "Maybe you prefer "Dirty Harry?"

  The French, I observed for the thousandth time, had a perverse sense of humor. "Plain Harry will do just fine, thanks. Why am I here?"

  Picard turned serious and retreated back behind the desk. I took a seat in front. "We might need some help," said the Frenchman.

  This was rare. Usually it was the other way around. My interest was piqued. I raised my eyebrows and waited.

  Picard cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “First, please understand that we wouldn’t ask this of you if there were more time or another way.” Gallic pride served, he continued, "We have an interesting volunteer, something right up your alley. It’s a Russian case, of course.”

  That got my attention.

  "He’s KGB Line X.”

  "The volunteer is here in Paris?"

  "He was assigned to Paris in the 70's. Now he's in Moscow. It's hard for us to run operations there. We're a counter-intelligence service, and by law we can't operate outside of France." DST in French stood for Dirección de Surveillance du Territoire, the Directorate for Territorial Surveillance, basically with the same mission as the FBI.

  With a hint of regret in his voice, Picard continued, "We don't have a representative in Moscow."

  Of course, they didn't. I was beginning to sense the direction the conversation was heading.

  "It's a tough environment," I said carefully. "Our guys are covered by blanket surveillance 24/7. They can’t take a shit without the Russians counting how many squares of toilet paper they use.”

  Running an agent in Moscow without special training, considerable planning and back-up could prove disastrous to both agent and case officer, as we had discovered a few times in recent months.

  I realized that Picard was still talking.

  "About six months ago, he stuck a package in the hand of the wife of one of our trade representatives while she was shopping at G.U.M.,” the Frenchman continued, referring to the volunteer. “It was crowded. Scared the crap out of her, but she kept her wits and stuck it in her shopping bag, so she says. She only got a glimpse of the fellow’s back. When she got back to the Embassy she handed it over to her husband and swore she would never shop at G.U.M. again.”

  “God,” I said, “it's always G.U.M.?”

  “Apparently, everyone in Moscow eventually can be found there,” observed Picard dryly.

  The scenario was familiar, even common. Western diplomats in Communist countries were regularly accosted on the streets by people who wanted to hand them notes. Most of them were mentally unstable – the note writers, that is – usually paranoid schizophrenics. Some were provocations. But occasionally it was the real thing – a so-called “volunteer” with something important to offer. Vetting, achieving further contact and setting up communications was always tricky, because there was usually no good way to establish the volunteer’s bona fides without running a considerable risk. So there was a mating ritual to observe. The good ones knew enough to provide a verifiable taste of what they had to offer in the initial message, as well as a means of recontact, that as often as not proved to be unacceptable. If the volunteer were an intelligence professional, he would know the steps to the dance. I wondered if the DST knew the steps. Their job was internal security, not foreign intelligence.

  "And how did this package arrive in your hands?"

  The bottle of mineral water was cold, and I watched a drop of condensation begin to slide down its side, slowly at first but gathering speed as it neared the desktop. That's how long it took the Frenchman to answer.

  Picard almost blushed. "The trade representative is one of our 'honorable correspondents.'"

  An "honorable correspondent" was what the CIA might term a "co-optee," someone who voluntarily works with an intelligence service for purely patriotic or ideological reasons, usually an American, or in the DST's case, a French citizen. Such people are not trained intelligence officers. It just happens that their position might make them valuable in some way.

  "Shouldn't you just hand this over to the DGSE?"

  The DGSE was the French foreign intelligence outfit, but we mostly considered them to be assholes. They had not helped their reputation when in 1984 they scuttled a Greenpeace ship, "The Rainbow Warrior" in Auckland, New Zealand, where their two operatives had been promptly arrested. We also knew that the DGSE had no qualms about stealing American secrets. In fact, the French were probably the best practitioners of industrial espionage in the entire world.

  Picard gave me a blank stare that confirmed that we shared a common opinion of the DGSE. When he didn't speak, I asked, “So what’s in the note that makes you stand up and salute?”

  Picard smiled slyly in his best imitation of Mitterrand.

  “As I said, he claims to be Line 'X,' a Department 'T' officer.”

  "That's a dark area. We assume they're stealing high tech gear and Western weapons systems wherever they can find them.” I was tempted to add 'just like the DGSE,' but I didn't.

  “For one thing, he claims to know the identities of several KGB agents, including a penetration of Al Sakir, one of the damnedest weapons sales in history. It's ironic that they chose the Arabic word for dove for a weapons deal. What do you know about it, Harry?”

  There was no secret about the deal. It had been public for a couple of years. “You mean the Saudi deal with the Brits?”

 
“Yes, I’m talking about the Saudi deal with the Brits. It’s bad enough that they won the deal to sell weapons to the fucking Wahabis, but it's even worse if the Russians have it wired.”

  “Why don’t you just go straight to MI-6? It's their interests that are at stake, it seems to me.” I thought the answer would be that if the Brits were penetrated, going to them with the information could be a misstep.

  But there was another reason, a very French reason, of course.

  “The problem,” replied Picard “is that British Aerospace alone stands to make billions – that’s with a ‘B’ – of pounds. You Americans gave the deal a green light because it would be politically unwise for the U.S. to be selling weapons to Arabs these days, and Downing Street is turning cartwheels with joy. The entire British establishment is on board. It's the biggest boost to the British defense industry in decades, and they are particularly pleased because they snookered us out of the running.”

  My ears perked up at this. It was well-known that the Brits had somehow beaten the French to the punch with the Saudis, but no one knew exactly how they had pulled it off. "So, you believe that even if the Brits were warned they wouldn’t do anything that might risk the sale. But you would not mind risking the sale?”

  Picard gave me one of those resigned, European smiles, the kind assumed when speaking to naive Americans. "Since the end of World War I the Middle East has been our sphere of influence, and we managed to hold our own there against the Russians, a role the Americans fail to appreciate, as usual. We fully expect you to screw it up and then ask us to help put things right again.”

  Warming to his self-appointed role of enlightener of the ignorant, Picard continued, “Iran is the most dangerous regime on the face of the planet. They have oil wealth, and they are fanatics. We think the Russians and others might even be helping them develop nuclear weapons.”

  I settled back and crossed my legs to hear him out. This was getting interesting. French officials weren't normally so forthcoming with their American friends unless they wanted something. I wished I could light the Montecristo that still nestled in my pocket.

  The Frenchman forged ahead, “So, what do we have?” He ticked his points off on his fingers, "an ambitious Iran, and the Russians playing a dangerous losing game in Afghanistan. Thanks to the Americans’ childish antipathy towards France, they refuse always to listen to our advice. I predict there will be hell to pay in the not too distant future.”

  He looked me full in the face, “And now we come to the Saudis. Do you think they can fail to be concerned? Do you think they can sit idly by and watch the Shiite Persians grow in strength and influence while the Russians attack in Afghanistan? Iran is the center of terror, and no less so for the Saudis than for the Western Powers and the Israelis. Right now, they're fully engaged in the war with Iraq, but sooner or later, they'll get back to their main goal.

  “Hell, if I were a Saudi I’d be scared out of my thobe! Their economy is totally dependent on oil, and there are serious threats to the regime. What do they have by way of military hardware to counter a regional threat like Iran? I’ll tell you: an aging fleet of British and American fighters. What the Saudis need is superior strike aircraft, capable of penetrating Iranian defenses, armed with air-to-ground missiles and radar countermeasures. I could give you a list of equipment they require for air superiority.

  “The American Congress refused the President’s request for authorization to sell the Saudis 48 F-15E “Strike Eagle” dual role fighters.”

  The F-15E was capable of fighting its way to the target over long ranges, destroying enemy ground positions, and fighting its way back out – a perfect fit for Saudi needs, especially if accompanied by the awesome AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missiles. I knew that the President’s request had been refused by Congress, thanks in large part to the lobbying activities of the powerful America-Israel Public Affairs Committee, AIPAC. If it involves the Middle East, it always comes down to the Israelis and their allies where Washington is concerned.

  Picard continued. “So King Fahd was royally pissed off - pardon the pun. The damned Israelis could defy even the American President. So he was forced to look elsewhere. Despite existing defense contracts with the Brits, he was afraid they would follow the American example. So he turned to us. We, too, have a lot of defense agreements with the Saudis.

  “We wanted them to buy the Mirage or Serge Dassault’s Rafale fighter. Visits and demonstrations were arranged. The Royal Saudi Air Force established a special committee to handle the project. The committee was given the name Al Saif, the ‘tip of the sword,’ headed by an Air Force General who also happens to be the son of the Saudi Defense Minister. Negotiations were well underway, but then the Saudis tossed a monkey wrench into the works – they wanted to pay in oil. We didn’t like this. We know that Saudi finances are not what they used to be. Within a month, it all turned to merde. Our guys suddenly couldn't even get a meeting with the Saudi Defense Minister.

  “Out of the blue, while our guys were still dithering about the method of payment, King Fahd announced his decision to purchase British Tornado aircraft, and we were completely frozen out. Nobody knows what happened to change the King’s mind. We were screwed. The Brit deal is known as Al Sakir. It’s the biggest goddamned arms deal in history.

  “And that, Monsieur Harry, is where we stand today,” concluded Picard. “The fact that our source in Moscow claims a Russian spy in London is deeply involved in the planning for Al Sakir is very interesting to France. I’m sure you understand. There are literally billions of francs in play here.”

  I was pretty sure the French thought they had found a way to screw the Brits. The question was, what did they expect us to do?

  Picard was watching me closely. "We'd like the CIA to meet the volunteer in Moscow. We're offering you a joint operation in exchange for a little help."

  Actually, it sounded like they wanted a lot of help.

  Chapter 3

  The joys of April in Paris temporarily forgotten, I returned to the Embassy feeling if not like Gene Kelly dancing in the street, still pretty good about being an American in Paris. I didn't exactly skip along the sidewalk, but the spook juices always start flowing in a strong current when an extraordinary operational opportunity presents itself. But this was a tricky one because of the British angle. The Brits were America's closest allies while the French were generally considered somewhat unreliable, especially by people in Washington who knew nothing about them. Hell, the frogs had elected a Socialist president, hadn't they? If Picard's story were true and they could actually tap a source inside Directorate 'T,' in all likelihood there would be a strong temptation to double-cross the French and tell the Brits. I wouldn't like it as a personal point of honor, but that kind of decision was above my pay grade and thus not a burden on my conscience. Did I mention that cynicism is a required trait for an intelligence officer?

  Before I left, Picard had given me a file containing hard copies of some of the documents the volunteer had provided, clearly intended to serve as bait for us intel-hungry American spooks. There was a photo of the source's KGB i.d. card, as well. The documents were in English and contained technical specifications for what I took to be military equipment. What was worse, from the classification markings on them, the documents appeared to be American. According to the i.d. card, the volunteer's name was Barsikov and he held the rank of Lieutenant Colonel.

  The explanation of why the source had turned to the French rather than the Brits, or even better, us, was pretty clear. He had been assigned to Paris under cover of the Soviet Trade Mission a decade earlier. The guy was a Francophile. There's no accounting for taste. But there was probably something more, maybe something he hadn't told his French buddies about.

  Back in the Station spaces, I stopped by my office and instructed my secretary to run an immediate name trace on Barsikov before heading to the office of Chief of Station Terrence Stoddard, who looked up from the papers on his desk at the interruptio
n. "You look like a man on a mission," he said.

  Stoddard was several years older than me, and truth be told he was a sort of role model. He had sandy hair and an Errol Flynn moustache. At 57 he ran five miles every day which accounted for his trim figure. He'd graduated from Harvard in 1954 with a degree in French literature, and rumor had it that he preferred to read only in French. His brown tweed suit hung elegantly from his frame. He was a man who would look more in place in a private British men's' club or hosting a table at the Tour d'Argent than in the alleys where intelligence battles were fought.

  "We need to talk," I said. "Do you have a few minutes?"

  I looked at my watch. It was 4:30 PM, which meant it was still morning in Washington. I was certain we'd be writing a flash precedence cable this afternoon.

  Stoddard rose and gestured at the grouping of a leather sofa and matching chairs at the opposite end of the spacious, wood-paneled office. The room boasted a brick fireplace, a reminder of more genteel times. Stoddard took a chair, crossed his legs, and waited for me to speak.

  When I had finished, he sat back and steepled long fingers under his chin, his eyes focused in the distance as he digested the news.

  "We're running traces now," I told him. "I put immediate Eyes Only precedence on it, so we should have something by tomorrow morning, but you might want to send the full story right now via flash. It'll light a fire under Soviet/East European Division."

  "You're the Soviet expert, Harry. What are your preliminary thoughts?"

  Stoddard had spent most of his career cultivating Middle Eastern potentates and was one of those rare bosses who knew when to rely on his subordinates.

  I gathered my thoughts before speaking. "It's really too early to say. All volunteers are suspect, and the smart guys know this. The real deal will include probative information in the original approach, stuff that can be checked, and we don't know if Picard gave us the entire package. We've not vetted the info yet, but the French are no slouches. There are some American documents in the package he gave me, and if I don't miss my guess, they want to trade whatever the volunteer knows about penetrations of American programs for help getting the skinny on KGB involvement in Al Sakir."