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  I thought I was right about this, but the situation was complicated. "Any ops act in Moscow carries tremendous risk and usually requires weeks, maybe months of planning and site casing. Our officers there are under almost round the clock surveillance. In Moscow you're playing on the enemy's turf, and they control it completely. In other words, the potential gain of an action has to be measured against the risk. According Picard, they don't have an officer in Moscow, and they don't want to hand this over to the DGSE. That's why they need us – to do the dirty work."

  Stoddard nodded. "And the political equities?"

  "This is the first time the French have asked us to work a source with them, and being French they can't resist chunking a stone at the Brits, hence the emphasis on the Al Sakir thing."

  "French noses were put out of joint when they lost Al Sakir to the UK. It was unexpected, and they lost billions of dollars."

  "They must realize that sooner or later, the Brits will have to be told."

  "Perhaps, but there may well be American equities at risk that will make it all worthwhile, even if the French want to exact a price."

  "They're not going to retrieve Al Sakir for themselves."

  "They know that, but they have something in mind, even if it's only to embarrass perfide Albion."

  "I'll start writing up the meeting for Langley."

  "Of course. Photocopy the documents and we'll get a courier off tonight, as well."

  Yeah, this was a big deal, a really big deal.

  Chapter 4

  My wife, Kate, and I had been assigned a roomy mansard apartment on the Rue Godot de Mauroy behind the Place de la Madeleine. The square was dominated by the Church of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine, said to have been dedicated to the glory of Napoleon's army. It looked more like a Roman temple to pagan gods than a Catholic church.

  The apartment was ancient and drafty, but it featured carved wood wainscoting, multiple working fireplaces with marble mantels, creaking plank floors in a herringbone pattern, and floor to ceiling windows that opened over the rooftops of Paris. Drafty it may have been, but Kate loved it, and we had decided we would save no money during this tour in favor of spending it all on antiques, food, and exploring. Kate rationalized this decision with the idea that some people spend their entire lives without even seeing Paris, or they visit for only a short time, while she and I had at least three years to luxuriate in the frothy richness of it all. We needed to make some memories, Kate said. I, of course, agreed. I always agreed with her.

  Kate had been with me through some tough assignments before Terrence Stoddard had chosen me for this plum posting. She deserved some fun. I could understand not wanting to waste it. I also liked the fact that I could walk to work amid some of the world's most impressive architecture.

  After drafting and redrafting a cable report on the meeting with Picard and making sure a courier was headed to the airport with a diplomatic pouch containing Barsikov's original documents, I sauntered along Rue de Rivoli feeling pretty good about my day and glad that the big decision about running a risky op in Moscow had been laid at Langley's feet. I'd been part of such decisions in the past and each had been a balancing act trading off risk against potential gain. It was not at all the "game" some liked to call it. It was dead serious business with emphasis on the "dead."

  In fifteen minutes I was home riding the tiny gilded cage that served as a lift up to the apartment. I would, of course, tell Kate everything. We were a team like most Agency couples.

  Before I could open the apartment door, fearsome barking erupted behind it, and when I opened it, a black Scots Terrier danced in circles around my feet.

  "Angus is ready for his walk." Kate's voice rang out from the kitchen.

  "Angus can wait a few minutes. Don't I get to see you first?"

  "You're early. C'mon in here and see what I got us from Fauchon's this afternoon. Oh, and I visited that wonderful fromagerie that just opened on the other side of the square. You just gotta go there with me next time. You're not gonna believe it. Imagine hundreds of cheeses. Oooh, the aromas!"

  I followed her voice into the kitchen and grabbed my blond wife from behind and buried my face in the hair at the nape of her neck inhaling her scent. There was a pile of wrapped delicacies on the kitchen table that my practiced eye valued at several hundred francs.

  "I found a really good Pont l'Eveque, your favorite." She wriggled from my grasp and handed me a knife directing my gaze to the small square wooden box containing the soft, pungent cheese. Grab a cracker and try it."

  "I had a really big lunch today, hon. You're not planning to eat all of this stuff tonight, are you?"

  "No. This is for a picnic this week-end. I thought we'd go to Compiègne Saturday and spend the night at that little auberge with the one-star restaurant. We can sign the register as "Monsieur et Madame DuPont” and pretend we're having an illicit affair. You can call me Fifi."

  "And you can call me Gaston. I like the sound of that. The food's good there, too." We had become complete devotees of Le Guide Michelin.

  "So, what do we do tonight? You're not hungry?"

  "It's nice outside. It's April in Paris. Let's take Angus and go share a plateau de fruits de mer at that place near the opera. You can fill up, and I can just pick."

  "A delightful idea, Monsieur DuPont." She started shoving her purchases into the fridge. "So, how did your day go?"

  I couldn't wait to tell her.

  I still hadn't lit the Montecristo.

  I arrived at the office early next morning, grabbed a café au lait and a fat, buttery croissant in the basement cafeteria, and headed straight for the comm shack to get the front office morning traffic. The cables were stacked in order of precedence, and on top was an immediate cable response from Langley to my report on Barsikov. Kind of Headquarters to send it via immediate precedence rather than flash which would have awakened me in the middle of the night.

  No one else was in so I lit my morning cigar and sat at my desk to read Langley's response.

  I read it three times, then leaned back in the chair as far away from the document as I could get, as though it emitted an offensive odor. My cigar lay forgotten and dead in an ashtray. Had anyone been there to read my expression, they would have described it as gobsmacked.

  Through the door, I heard someone enter the office suite and hoped it was Terrence Stoddard. We had a lot to talk about.

  Chapter 5

  I handed the cable to Stoddard and plopped heavily onto the leather sofa.

  Reading my expression, Stoddard said, "It's a little early in the morning to be so pissed off, Harry. You usually don't reach this point until sometime after noon."

  "I can't wait to see your reaction to this." I thrust the HQS cable in his direction. "And to think I had begun to like the French."

  Stoddard assumed a bland expression and took a seat beside me before plucking his reading glasses from his pocket and turning his attention to the three-page cable. About half-way through the first page, his eyebrows began to travel up his forehead. When he finished reading he puffed out his cheeks and blew air through his lips.

  He looked at me over the tops of his half-moon reading glasses. "The French like to hedge their bets," he said, "and politics is a game they like to play. I guess we shouldn't be surprised."

  "Well," I snorted, "I'm sure as hell surprised, not to mention pissed off. They went right around us. According to that cable, Picard's boss, the Director of the DST, travelled to Washington, without telling us as protocol demands, and met with the Vice President of the United States. This happened two days ago, and no one at Headquarters thought to let us know."

  "They know one another from the time the VP was the DCI," said Stoddard, referring the DST chief and the Vice President. "There's a personal relationship there, and to the French that's always the preferred route because it means leverage."

  "And he tells the Vice President the same thing Picard told me about the volunteer. Why did Picard even take th
e time?"

  "It's probably their idea of professional courtesy."

  I thought the Chief of Station might be kidding.

  I snorted again. In direct contrast to the way I was feeling the day before, I had now revised my opinion of the French downward. "It's more like a professional joke, and I'm the butt of it."

  "You have every right to be angry, but it's out of our hands now. Washington made the decision for us."

  "You mean the White House put pressure on Langley, and Langley caved."

  "We work for the White House. And maybe the French argument was convincing."

  "So now we have politicians making intelligence decisions?"

  "Thus has it ever been, and you should know it. Politics usually trumps everything else." He was right. When all was said and done, the people who really ran Washington inhabited 'K' Street, not the White House or Capitol.

  "And it's my ass on the line."

  "You can always refuse. I'll back you if that's what you decide."

  The look on Stoddard's face told me he meant it despite the precarious political position in which it would place him. "You know I can't do that and remain with the Agency. I don't think even you could win an argument with the White House."

  Stoddard leaned toward me, elbows on the desk. "I don't like it any more than you."

  "I know. But if I make it out of this alive, I'm going to kick Picard's hairy frog ass." I probably wouldn't, but it made me feel better to say it.

  It was the third page of the HQS cable that bothered me most. Langley had decided that Moscow Station should not be involved on the grounds that personnel were few and the operations they were currently running were too important for them to risk one of their case officers, at least that's what the cable said. That argument had resonated at Langley. Even a White House order had to be balanced against the integrity of the most important operations the Agency was running anywhere. But a White House order was a White House order. So a compromise was proposed. Sending me to Moscow to make the meeting was the compromise. Although I had never been to Moscow, a previous successful tour in Eastern Europe meant that I had the requisite denied area experience. I suppose I should have been flattered that Langley wanted to put my ass on the line.

  Stoddard was thinking along the same lines. "You have the necessary training and experience. That's something."

  "Damn it," I said, "There are guys at Headquarters who have served in Moscow and know the turf. I don't know the turf, and that means I'll have a snowball's chance in hell of spotting surveillance."

  "Maybe. But anyone who has served there previously would be known to the Seventh Directorate," said Stoddard, referring to KGB surveillance in Moscow. "The risk would be even higher. And for the time being Langley and the French want to keep this on a need to know basis for obvious reasons."

  He continued, "And there's something else, Harry. Reading between the lines, I don't think Langley is telling us everything. It takes something pretty big to tempt them into something as risky as this. You'd better go home and get packed for a flight to Washington. We'll reserve a seat for you on this afternoon's United flight to Dulles. I'll have Eileen make the reservations."

  "Thanks. I hope they have an adequate supply of scotch on board." The week-end plans with Kate disappeared like a popped soap bubble.

  Chapter 6

  Langley

  Kate was disappointed about cancelling plans for Compiègne but more worried about the job ahead. I explained everything to her, of course, and if anything she was angrier than I. There was just time to throw a couple of changes of clothing into a carry-on bag and get to Charles DeGaulle Airport. Eileen had arranged for me to receive VIP treatment and a Business Class seat, and I was whisked through security and boarded with time to spare.

  There was lots of time on the long flight to think. This was obviously a big deal. But it could just as easily be a provocation. Why was Washington so hot to trot?

  The plane touched down at Dulles in mid-afternoon, right on time. I rented a car and took the Dulles Access Road to the beltway and turned south toward the American Legion Bridge, finally taking the exit to the George Washington Parkway and the Headquarters entrance a few miles further.

  Spring was treating the Metro area well, and the dogwood trees on the Langley campus were in white and pink bloom. The gate guard had been advised of my arrival, and handed me a pass to park in the VIP lot at the front of the building. The courtesy did not cheer me in the least.

  Alongside the main entrance, the larger than life statue of Nathan Hale bravely awaiting the gallows with his hands tied behind his back did not cheer me either. Sure, he was a hero, but he'd been caught by the British with a secret message hidden in his shoe. He needed more training.

  I wondered what the basement of Lubyanka was like.

  I headed straight for the front office of the Soviet/East European Division, said hello to Sadie Cochran, the Division Chief's perennial secretary, as I strode past her into Barton Graham's office. Graham, the division Chief, had returned from a stint as Chief of Station, Moscow only two years earlier. He was tall and thin with dark hair receding across a prominent brow. Graham was renowned for his sharp intelligence and acerbic tongue. He looked more like a college professor than a spook, and he didn't suffer fools lightly.

  Graham looked up from a stack of cables over the tops of a pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses. "Harry, you don't look happy."

  "Fact is, Barton, I just got off of a nine hour flight going in the wrong direction and I'm pissed off at Headquarters. And by 'Headquarters,' I mean you."

  I sat without waiting for an invitation facing Graham's large wooden, Government Issue desk and glared at the Division Chief.

  "You can thank your French friends, not Headquarters." His voice was neutral and unconcerned. If he was concerned about my opinion, he didn't show it.

  "What the fuck do we have a Moscow Station for if they can't be tasked with an op on their own turf?" Nothing like getting straight to the point. "Don't tell me that wasn't a Headquarters decision, your decision."

  "You're right. The decision was made, and you'll just have to live with it." Graham was not a man to mince words.

  "Can you share the rationale?"

  Graham hesitated a few beats and scowled. "All I can tell you is that the Station has some problems we're struggling to understand. We've lost some assets there recently."

  "So does that mean you don't trust anyone in the Station, that you suspect poor tradecraft is at fault, or something worse? I hope you have a good reason for dropping me into that soup. "

  I received a stare from Graham that said I was stupid and unworthy to be a CIA officer and that he always had a good reason for what he did. Its effect was to make the object of his disdain feel guilty for venturing an opinion. "Neither the quality of the decision to send you nor the reason is for you to judge. The decision was made by people with considerably more knowledge than you. It was not taken lightly. What we expect of you is to do the job you're given. No one thinks it will be easy."

  He closed his eyes for a moment, as though to shut the odious vision of me out of his sight.

  But as it turned out, he was making a decision to take me at least a little further into his confidence.

  "I will tell you two things that should settle the matter once and for all. That classified American document the volunteer provided contained the specifications for the territorial defense radar system that protects the United States, the Defense Early Warning system, or DEW line. Apparently, the KGB knows everything there is to know about it. We don't think the KGB would give up that sort of information, so it's a strong substantiation of the volunteer's bona fides. Secondly, the volunteer appears to be an intelligence officer and claims to know the identities of KGB agents and sources."

  The second point was important because written large in the Graham canon was the conviction that that the Russians would never, ever dangle an intelligence officer to be recruited by us. I didn'
t necessarily agree, but no one was going to resurrect the Nosenko case to rebut the Division Chief.

  Graham continued, "Given what has been happening with Moscow Station, we are anxious to see what he has. Now stop being appalled by Headquarters decisions and get to work. Sadie has the details for you."

  So they hoped the volunteer would shed some light on the problems of Moscow Station. That was more than enough to encourage Graham to toss me to a pack of hungry Russian wolves.

  He bent back to his cables and waved me, now open mouthed in amazement, out of the office. As I stepped through the door still shaking my head, the Division Chief called out, "Good luck, Harry. I know you'll get the job done. And, by the way, you are to have no contact with Moscow Station."

  That was Barton Graham - slap you around, call you an idiot, rub your face in the dirt, then pat you on the back and give you more bad news. I suspected the man was a sadist. But deep down, I admired him as a professional's professional whose confidence and trust I valued. Did that make me a masochist? Of course not.

  Well, maybe. I did work for the CIA.

  I'd learned two important facts and drawn a clear inference from the conversation. First, Langley had serious doubts about the security of Moscow Station. Second, Barsikov was the source of a document that scared the striped pants off of Washington. And the inference was that the wily frogs were using the value of the intel to force Langley to take the risk of running an unorthodox and dangerous operation in the heart of the Evil Empire. And then there was Picard's emphasis on Al Sakir. I had a feeling I hadn't heard the last of the arms deal, but as far as Washington was concerned this was small potatoes compared to what we might gain. I couldn't argue that point.