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  The first stop after Graham was the Reports section where I found the Division's Chief reports officer, Jerry Markham, waiting. He was drinking a cup of coffee when I entered and pointed in the direction of a coffee maker on the credenza behind his desk. There were several heavy, Navy style mugs alongside it. I poured myself a cup which I hoped would keep me alert. We sat at a small table with the door closed.

  The angular, white haired Markham was an old Soviet hand. All Soviet and East European reporting passed through his hands before the analysts ever saw it. Everything the Agency knew about the USSR was in his head. To my surprise, he started with Al Sakir. I had no choice but to play along.

  “We've pulled together every piece of information available on the arms deal. Much of the press reporting is repetitive, but the British left wing newspapers and anti-war wingnuts, especially The Guardian, have done a good job digging up dirt. With a Tory at No. 10 Downing Street they’re doing their best to cause the Government trouble. That aside, it’s been difficult for our military attachés to dig out much insider information, although there are a couple of interesting leads to follow.

  “What is clear from the press is that everyone suspects there is a massive amount of corruption associated with the deal. We’re talking hundreds of millions of dollars here. The Saudi Government, if you can call it that, allegedly insists on paying using a barter arrangement with so-called "Princes' oil" rather than cash, something at which the French balked. But the Brits are keeping a tight lid on the actual modalities. Barter arrangements leave a lot of room for finagling around the edges. Someone in London obviously saw an opportunity when the French hesitated and took advantage of it. The primary suspect is a wealthy Saudi who has resided in the UK for many years and is married to a Brit. His name is Wafiq al Salah. He owns several expensive homes including a large house in central London. He’s very well-known and very well liked because of his charitable activities. He’s also donated large amounts to the Tory Party. The Guardian has him pegged as the primary go-between for the Brits with the Saudis. He apparently is very close to his cousin, the Saudi Defense Minister.”

  I asked, “Who are the players on the British side?” It was among the Brits that a Russian agent was most likely to be found, given past history.

  “The Prime Minister, of course, is a strong supporter, and there are few who can stand up to her. Regardless of personalities, this arms sale represents a gargantuan boost to the British defense industry, especially British Aerospace. It’s hard to see how anyone on their side of the Channel would be against it, except for the peacenik lefties, of course.” Markham smiled thinly. "And Washington is a strong supporter, too. We would be making the sale ourselves if we could.”

  Of course, we would. How the hell had Congress resisted the blandishments of the arms industry's 'K' Street lobbyists, the front men for the Military-Industrial complex? AIPAC carried surprising clout; also, I suspected influence over a hefty number of campaign contributors. “OK. It’s to be expected that the British Government would work hard to make the deal happen. British Aerospace is the crown jewel of their defense industry. Who else is involved besides the PM?”

  “At the working level there are two: the head of the Tornado sales program at British Aerospace, Jeffrey Spade, and the Minister of State for Defense Procurement, James Abbott. Abbott has been in and out of trouble for years, even accused of violating the Official Secrets Act a few years ago, but he always manages to come out smelling like a rose. According to the Embassy, he’s well plugged-in to some high level Middle Eastern types in the UK, too.”

  This guy sounded like a prime candidate to be a Soviet mole.

  “Does Abbot have a relationship with Al Salah?”

  “No. That would not have escaped public attention. It’s someone else, but someone who works hard to stay off the radar.”

  “According to the French, Barsikov provided the identities of several KGB sources in his initial package, as well as information that should lead to the identification of others. There is no doubting the counterintelligence value." He took a sip of coffee before continuing. "Did Barton tell you about the Moscow Station problems?"

  "Yes."

  He shook his head and turned gloomy. "The volunteer promised to dig into Al Sakir, obviously to get the French interested. He's clever and is probably somewhat of a Francophile. But I'm sure you understand why we are interested, too. Regardless of the reason the French approached us, I believe the vast majority of the documents this source could provide concern the security of the United States. We are the 'main enemy,' after all. For once, the French are acting like good allies. Second, they have a dogged interest in Al Sakir. There may be a price we'll have to pay in that regard for the information, and that's why I'm telling you about it. But all we can do now is wait and see what comes of your meeting."

  He paused for a moment as though he were chewing over a decision. "Barton is quite worried. We have some pretty big national equities at stake here, too."

  "I know. Barton told me."

  "There was another document in the package, a British document. It contained the schematics for a look down/shoot down radar we had sold to the Brits."

  Well, here was another reason Washington was sending me to Moscow. Interesting, if the Brits were including American origin systems in the Al Sakir deal, at least some US contractors had their finger in the pie despite Congressional disapproval.

  Chapter 7

  Moscow

  Landing at Sheremetyevo Airport was an almost surrealistic experience. When the plane finally taxied to a stop on the tarmac a squad of uniformed guards with AK-47's trotted out to surround it. They didn't look friendly. For an instant I wondered if this was a welcoming committee just for me but just as quickly discarded the notion. This was, after all, the heart of the Evil Empire, and armed guards should be no surprise.

  The passengers deplaned down some spindly flight stairs that had been wheeled up to the hatch accompanied by more armed guards. The smell of jet fuel from the tarmac was overpowered as soon as we entered the terminal by an atmosphere charged with antiseptic cleaning fluid mixed generously with body odor. I headed for the line waiting at the diplomatic passport control, but it looked just as long and glum as the one for regular travelers.

  I had expected to fly to Moscow directly from Washington, but yet again I found myself the victim of a tightly held deal between the White House and Langley on one side and the DST on the other. I'd returned to Paris where Picard helpfully supplied an alias French diplomatic passport. Ironically, the name they gave me was "Pierre DuPont." Kate got a perverse kick out of that. The alias was the French equivalent of "John Smith." Langley had fitted me with a light disguise that consisted of a brush cut, black, horn rimmed glasses, and snap on false teeth that combined to give me the appearance of a near-sighted horse. The clothes I wore were a size too large to disguise my build. I was feeling more and more like Langley's redheaded stepchild. With a French identity there was no way Langley could intervene if things went wrong.

  An hour and a half later I was still in the same line wishing I'd taken advantage of the rest room facilities on the plane before landing. The good news was that there were only two people left in line ahead of me.

  When my turn finally came I was confronted by a hostile young man in a rumpled, brown uniform with shoulder boards I couldn't identify. I guess the only thing more tedious that waiting in line was a job that consisted of delaying the progress of the line as long as possible. He held out his hand for documents without even looking at me, studied the passport with all the disdain of an exterminator looking at a dead rat, and then looked up at me, back down at the passport, then again up at me. Then he picked up a phone that might have had a supporting role in a Hollywood movie of the 1930's, turned away and engaged in a hushed conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line. He might have been talking to his wife about the groceries he was to pick up on the way home for all I knew. On the other hand, he might
have been telling his superiors that he had a guy with a lousy disguise at his counter and needed permission to shoot him. He finally replaced the handset and glared at me before grabbing a rubber stamp with which he struck an empty page of the passport with enough force to knock out Muhammed Ali. There might be a special training course for this skill. Welcome to the USSR.

  Finally through passport control, I found my contact waiting in the main hall. This was Lucien Gagnon, the French trade representative whose wife had received the package from the volunteer. He was obviously glad to see me and led the way to a Peugeot sedan with a Russian driver just outside the terminal.

  "Long flight, huh," said Gagnon. "First time in Moscow?" We spoke in French, of course.

  "Yep." I wasn't in a conversational mood.

  "Sit back and take in the view," said Gagnon, it's long way into town."

  Fortunately, he was not the talkative type. This was probably due to the Russian driver.

  Sheremetyevo is located outside the Moscow Ring Road, and we passed old wooden huts, known in Russian as isbushki, along the way. Many sported colorful wooden shutters, and some of the huts were slightly tilted, as though the foundation had settled on one side. There were weeds everywhere. Apparently the concept of the manicured lawn had found no place in dialectic materialism. Either that or the Russians were a bunch of drunken, lazy bastards. Maybe it all went together.

  By the time we reached the Ring Road and penetrated the outskirts of Moscow proper we passed one gray, multi-story apartment building after another marching down both sides of the street. I concluded that the USSR might have been designed by the Salvation Army. The apartment buildings demonstrated an astounding lack of originality in the Soviet school of architecture. Chunks of masonry had fallen off many of the buildings, and laundry was hung out on the balconies.

  It was gray, grim, and bleak. The gray was occasionally brightened up by the presence of large, red banners extolling the virtues of Communism. Obviously, it was imperative to remind the inmates of their good fortune.

  The whole damned place would look better under about three feet of snow. That was the romantic view promoted by the commissars, happy commies freezing their asses off in teetering wooden huts with colorful shutters.

  Seemed about right.

  My ruminations about the future of Communism were interrupted by Gagnon. "We'll drop you off at your hotel. We got you a room at the Metropol. It's not far from Red Square, so you can take in the sights."

  "The sights are pretty depressing."

  "Oh, the Kremlin at night is impressive. When there's snow, it's like a fairy tale."

  "Maybe a Grimm fairy tale." Disneyland it most definitely was not. My thoughts strayed back to lunch with Kozlov only a few days ago. Was it Kozlov's dream to turn Paris into another Moscow? How the hell could a rational human being fail to note the contrast?

  There wasn't a lot of traffic, even after entering the city proper. Foreign made vehicles were few and far between. It was all all Zhigulis, Volgas, Pobedas, and the occasional Zaporozhets. Every once in a while a Chayka or Zil limousine would zoom down the middle of the street with a police escort.

  "Four legs good; two legs bad." The famous slogan from Orwell's "Animal Farm" kept circling in my head.

  Chapter 8

  Kolomenskiy Park

  I didn't want to think too much about whether the French impersonation was intended to protect Langley or to protect me. Barton Graham felt he could not trust Moscow Station, and that had all sorts of nasty implications. Had the KGB somehow penetrated the Station? Could there be a mole at Headquarters? Some important Moscow operations had been compromised. Everybody was worried. What worried me was that I could not count on Agency back-up. In fact, I wasn't sure I could trust Barton Graham. I didn't really trust the French, and I sure as hell didn't trust the Russians.

  Back at Langley the existence of the operation was closely held. Maybe only four or five people knew the details, including the DCI. Of course, there was also the White House to consider, and the White House was not the greatest bastion of secrets, unless it was to conceal presidential skullduggery.

  Gagnon treated me to dinner that evening in the restaurant in my hotel. He had earlier suggested that I come to his apartment for a proper meal, but I thought staying off the streets for the time being was a good idea. He shrugged and reluctantly agreed. We sat at our table for a good half-hour before a less than interested waiter wearing a greasy black jacket and less than snow-white shirt shuffled up to take our order.

  Gagnon said such a delay was normal in Moscow. He advised me to ignore the menu and asked the waiter what was available. The surly waiter looked as though he couldn't care less and unenthusiastically recommended kuropatka. Partridge sounded OK to me, but Gagnon only smiled ruefully and asked for a plate of pickled herring and bread. He also ordered bottled water and vodka. It was the first time I had shared a table with a Frenchman who did not order wine.

  The seemingly interminable wait between placing our order and the arrival of the food via the same dour-faced waiter provided ample time to talk.

  Gagnon was quite nonchalant and cheerful. Easy for him. He repeated what Picard had told me in Paris. There was no tension between the Soviets and the French. The French had long ago ceased trying to run intelligence operations in Moscow, a fact of which the Russians were aware. As a consequence, he breezily assured me, no one at the French Embassy or Trade Mission was ever subjected to surveillance. I received this with a grain of salt large enough to choke a frog, and there were several frogs I could envision choking.

  When the food finally arrived, I was presented with a plate containing a few boiled potatoes, a messy green sludge that might at one time have been canned asparagus, and the kuropatka. The piece de resistance was a tiny shriveled bird with decorative white paper booties on its feet. There was no discernable meat on the mummified carcass.

  I pushed the plate aside, and Gagnon, with an 'I told you so' smirk, suggested we share the pickled herring and black bread. It went well with the vodka, which was good.

  Contact was to take place the next day, and I hoped to get an early start. But there was a grim looking middle-aged woman at a desk in the corridor outside my room whose job it was to note the movements of guests and probably give a signal when it was all clear for a KGB team to search a room. It would be suspicious to try to sneak out before dawn. There was no sneaking Russia. That left me with precious little time to determine whether I was being watched.

  Then again, why would the KGB watch me when all they had to do was lay in wait at the rendezvous site? "The French are not surveilled in Moscow" became my mantra.

  The volunteer’s original note instructed to await contact at precisely 10:30 AM on a Saturday, just outside the entrance to the ancient Church of the Holy Ascension in Kolomenskiy Park, a short distance southeast of Moscow center and still within the city limits. The green expanse of the park stretched down to the banks of the Moscow River. Spring was slower in coming to Moscow, and it was chilly. The trees were just beginning to revive. It was a popular tourist area, dominated by the graceful white church, built in 1532. Such an open area made counter surveillance particularly difficult, but there was no alternative, and besides, French citizens were "never surveilled."

  Of course not.

  Barton Graham, a former Moscow Chief of Station, had briefed me on modes of transportation so I knew how to get to the rendezvous. I had heard a lot about the splendors of the Moscow subway. But what I experienced was a herd of irritated Muscovites jostling one another as they packed onto the train. I wondered if the Kremlin had considered weaponizing body odor.

  Regardless of the time I spent "dry-cleaning" myself before arriving at the park, if this were a provocation it wouldn't make any difference anyway. They would be waiting for me here in a traditional KGB ambush. A bunch of heavyset guys would leap out of the bushes and wrestle me to the ground while another ground away with a video camera. I would be indelicately
searched and tossed into the back of a van for the ride to Lubyanka.

  The arrangements put the volunteer in the driver’s seat, and I felt like a sitting duck.

  As instructed I carried a G.U.M. shopping bag thoughtfully provided by Gagnon and wore a blue jacket as recognition signals.

  Barsikov showed up right on time. He was easy to spot while he was still at some distance because he was making a bee-line directly toward me almost at a trot. He was tall and good-looking with a full head of jet black hair and droopy, arctic blue eyes that were fixed on me. He showed no signs of fear. Whether that was good or bad, I would soon find out.

  The Russian halted and looked me up and down. "Est que vous êtes un amide Lucien?" he asked.

  "Oui." If he preferred French, I was his guy.

  He stared at me for a few beats more, then shrugged and said, "Let's go for a walk," before setting off in the direction of a wooded section of the park.

  I didn't move, but instead asked to see his identification. "You are a good officer," he said with an appreciative smile, and produced his KGB identification card, the same one in the photo in his original package.

  I looked around as we walked. There were a lot of people, mostly families taking advantage of the good weather for a week-end outing. No one seemed particularly interested in us.

  Barsikov clutched a G.U.M. shopping bag in one hand which he thrust in my direction. "This is for you."

  The bag was bulky but not heavy. Now that I had it in my hands was the time for the KGB to swoop in for the kill. I involuntarily tensed up in anticipation of some big, burly guys in trenchcoats grabbing me.

  But no one did. The French are not surveilled in Moscow.

  "How much time do you have?" I asked the standard case officer question.

  Barsikov was completely relaxed. "As much as we need."

  "No one knows you are here?" By this I mean did anyone else know what he was up to.