The Dove Page 5

  "No. Don't worry, and don't bother with such questions. We have as long as we need, and then it's over. You won't see me again."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't think I have much more time."

  "I thought you said we had all the time we need."

  "I mean me. I don't think that I personally have much time left."

  This could mean anything. "Are you ill? Tell me about it."

  He smiled wistfully, "I don't think I'm ill in any way you would understand. There's nothing to tell. That bag contains everything I could get my hands on. It took months, carrying documents out of Yasenevo every day and back the next. I cleaned out the important files. I think you will be especially interested in the Al Sakir information and the list of KGB assets in France. It provides an opportunity."

  "Why are you doing this?"

  He grimaced and indicated a bench alongside the graveled path. "Let's sit down for a while." He suddenly looked very tired, like a runner at the end of a long distance race.

  He said he was an engineer, a good one, and that he had landed in a dead-end job at Yasenevo. All he saw was corruption and nepotism all around him. All the good jobs, the overseas postings went to the sons and associates of the nomenklatura. There was no place for merit in the Soviet system.

  He leaned back on the bench and turned his face to the sun, his eyes closed, and expelled a long, ragged sigh. "I have nothing left to look forward to, and I wish for nothing more than to do as much damage as possible before the end."

  "Would you like to come to France? It might be possible to arrange it." Picard had instructed me to make this proposal although I saw no way they could accomplish an exfiltration. I was also authorized to offer money. But this guy was the epitome of Russian fatalism.

  He turned toward me with eyes that did not appear to see me. He was looking somewhere else, somewhere far away. "No. I don't want to leave Russia. This is my country, and I will stay here."

  I waited for him to say more, but he didn't. Finally, he stood and held out his hand. "Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would, but I'm grateful. You won't see me again."

  He was not interested in our plans for future contact, wouldn’t even listen to me. He had his own agenda.

  With that, he turned and strode away leaving me literally holding the bag.

  The bag Barsikov gave me contained what looked like more than 100 roles of undeveloped film. If the documents he had included in his initial package were anything to go by, I was carrying potentially the most important intelligence haul ever acquired in the Soviet Union. My earlier concerns shoved aside, I headed straight for the hotel and called Lucien Gagnon from my room.

  We had arranged that I would call him as soon as I returned to assure him all was well, i.e. that I was not hanging from my thumbs in the basement of Lubyanka. I'm damned if I know what they would have done had I not called.

  I'd been turning everything over in my mind all the way back to the hotel and made a decision that probably wouldn't please anyone, either at Langley or in Paris. I know it seemed reckless. There was a small chance it would turn out to be disastrous. But I had my reasons, and I thought they were good ones.

  I called Gagnon from my room. "I'm back in the hotel, Lucien, and I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed." This was our pre-arranged safety signal. I asked Gagnon to book a flight to Paris the following morning. The plan was for him to pick me up and drive to the Trade Mission if the meeting had been successful, but to get me out of Moscow immediately if Barsikov had not turned up at the rendezvous.

  I had my reasons for stiffing the French. The way Picard and his boss had handled things still pissed me off. But that wasn't the most important reason, although I'll admit that the thought of a little subterfuge of my own was quite appealing. There was a stronger reason, and I hoped Langley would agree with me.

  Judging from the documents the DST had shared with us, the Soviets had access to some pretty hairy American secrets. That was what Jerry Markham thought, and Jerry was a smart guy.

  We had agreed with the DST that I would hand over to Gagnon whatever booty came from Barsikov for transmission to Paris via diplomatic courier. It had occurred to me early on that I could well be handing over to the French, who were notoriously proficient at stealing industrial secrets, a treasure trove of American secrets the Russians had managed to steal. The French, being French, would not hesitate to exploit such a bonanza for their own froggish ends. They would in all likelihood then share everything, or almost everything, with us, but they would control the exchange.

  That did not sit well with me. After all, I was the one who had run all the risk. So why not hold onto the film and let Langley decide how to use it and what to share? After everything else, I figured there would be little risk getting the film back to Paris in the bottom of my carry-on bag. The diplomatic passport I carried should exempt me from baggage checks at the airport.

  So I sat packed my bag and sat on it in my room all night like a hen hatching eggs.

  I wondered if the French would declare me persona non grata. Kate and I would miss Paris.

  Chapter 9

  Langley

  Barton Graham was still staring at me mutely when I risked a sidewise glance in his direction. He might have been measuring me for a casket. I shrugged and finished my report, “He handed me the film cassettes in a bag and walked away into the sunset. Then I got out of Dodge, and here I am.”

  I'd returned to Washington after grabbing a quick change of clothes from home in Paris and stuffing the film into a diplomatic pouch. I'd spent about 24 hours either in the air or hanging around airports, and I was a little loopy. I should have stopped by the cafeteria for a cup of black coffee, but had made a bee line for Graham's office instead.

  Not the best condition to confront a Division Chief with a fait accompli. I had been a naughty boy.

  When I finished, Graham scowled at me for a few long, silent minutes before speaking. My return to Washington had been expected, of course, because Terry Stoddard and I had forewarned him.

  Picard had made increasingly insistent telephone calls to the Station for me meet the DST as soon as possible, but I had ducked back out of the country without responding.

  At last, Graham said. "So, all on your own, you decided to steal the French operation."

  Obviously, I had done exactly that, but he expected some sort of answer, so I replied, "It's not entirely a French operation, is it? But, yes, and that kept a whole bunch of sensitive intelligence on the United States out of French hands."

  "You do realize that the Vice President gave his word on this."

  "Once that film is developed and everyone here sees what's on it, there may be a change of opinion."

  "The French are very upset about this."

  "The French make a habit of being pissed off. It's a national pastime. I didn't see any sense in making them the beneficiaries of the KGB's hard work and letting them decide whether or not to share it. Now the decision is in our hands, and if the Vice President wants to hand it all to the French, he's free to do it. I doubt that he will, though."

  "This could spoil our liaison relationship with the French. They turned to us precisely because they knew the bulk of the KGB intel would most likely concern the United States. It's why we accepted their proposal."

  "That's true, Barton, but the DGSE has been stealing industrial secrets for decades, including American secrets. What kind of relationship is that?"

  "An old and very valuable one."

  My only hope was to stick to my guns, so I said, "There's another thing. When the DST briefed me it was very clear that besides uncovering moles in France, they had a real interest in what the Russian could tell them about the Al Sakir deal with the Brits. If there is relevant information on the film, it should go a long way toward softening them up."

  Graham was angry but holding it in, something for which I was grateful. His white hot rages were infamous for reducing people to tiny, bleeding pieces of meat.
There should have been a nurse on duty in the SE front office to take care of his victims.

  "Go away, Harry. I don't want to see you for a while, not until we've analyzed the film and decided what to do." He glared at me in a way that should have melted the lenses of his glasses.

  People in positions like Graham's do not like decisions taken out of their hands. They want to be in control, sometimes for good reasons, sometimes for bad ones. But Barton Graham was at heart an operations officer who could appreciate independent initiative – so long as the result was positive. I hoped that in the end, he would come down on my side. If not, I could be flipping burgers at MacDonalds in a few weeks.

  Chapter 10

  London

  Wafiq al Salah stared at his reflection in the mirror as he wiped the remainder of the shaving cream from his jaw with a soft, white hand towel. At 38, he was still boyishly handsome, though his face was marred by a flattened nose, a permanent souvenir from a terrible experience in his youth. He had never had his appearance cosmetically restored because the broken nose reminded him daily to avoid making foolish decisions.

  He splashed on some cologne and finished dressing. The meeting this morning was important and a fine bespoke suit had been laid out by the maid. Satisfied with the way he looked in the dressing room’s full length mirror, he descended the elegantly curved staircase to the foyer of his Knightsbridge house just south of Hyde Park. His wife, still in her dressing gown emerged from the morning room to look him over.

  “Darling, you look splendid,” she said. Becky Haversham al Salah was from a wealthy West Country family, and she dearly loved her dashing Arab husband. He was to her mind wise and mature beyond his age. Over the years he had become quite “westernized” in both manner and outlook and through dint of wise investments and knowing how to take advantage when opportunity knocked, Wafiq had amassed a huge fortune in an incredibly short amount of time.

  To people, especially women, who did not know him, he seemed deliciously dark and mysterious, always charming and sophisticated. He was well known as a philanthropist, a man who took an interest in current events, as well as a connoisseur of fine horseflesh. Although he owned residences in New York, Paris, Houston, Los Angeles, and Riyadh, London was his home base.

  “So,” he asked his wife, “do I pass inspection. Will they let me through the door at 10 Downing Street?”

  Among Wafiq’s many interests was politics, and he was a stalwart contributor to Tory Party causes. This guaranteed access to the halls of British power when he needed it. Over several years he had developed an especially cordial relationship with the current Prime Minister. She had summoned him to a meeting this morning.

  “Wafiq,” replied Becky, “Any woman would be pleased to see you grace her door, even the Prime Minister.”

  Becky was inordinately proud of him and appreciated his always considerate nature. She had given him two children, a girl and a boy, still in their pre-teens, and she knew he was content with her. Most importantly, he was a good man.

  Wafiq’s chauffeur opened the door of the Bentley when the Saudi descended the front steps to the courtyard, and after ensuring that his charge was comfortable in the rear seat with the morning papers, slid behind the wheel. The heavy car glided silently from the curved drive into the street.

  Fifteen minutes later the Bentley pulled to a stop at the large wrought iron gates that had been installed at the end of Downing Street following an IRA mortar attack on the Prime Minister’s residence a few years ago. The shells had missed the structure entirely and landed in a back yard, blowing out some windows. Wafiq was uncertain about exactly how wrought iron gates might impede a mortar attack.

  A security officer greeted him as he exited the Bentley and escorted him through the gates to the door in the middle of the famous black brick façade. Underneath the black paint the bricks were actually yellow. They were originally blackened by decades of exposure to the sooty London air, but when the façade was cleaned in the 1960’s the public could not acclimate to the yellow, and they were re-blackened with paint.

  Once they were through the door, the security officer led Wafiq to a comfortable, paneled sitting room hung with paintings depicting British politicians of the past and told him the Prime Minister would join him shortly.

  He rose from the love seat in front of the marble fireplace when the door opened a few moments later and the Prime Minister came into the room. Her red hair perfectly coiffed, as usual, and wearing a black skirt with a double breasted matching top, she held out both hands to Wafiq and allowed him to brush his cheek against hers. The habitual pearls were around her neck, and Wafiq noted that her ears were adorned with diamonds.

  The purpose of his visit was to resolve a particularly thorny matter involving financing for the Al Sakir arms sale – the Saudis were cash short and could not afford the large “good faith” payment required to seal the transaction. Once they had both sat down, Wafiq began, “I have heard from Riyadh, Prime Minister, and I fear the news I bring is not good.”

  “Oh dear,” she responded, “So they really can’t come up with the money?” He shook his head.

  She skewered him with a penetrating gaze and held his eyes. She was well aware of the fact that the Saudis were facing a serious liquidity crisis. “But Prince Sultan assured us that his Government would be able to make at least the initial payment in cash.”

  This was a highly complex situation. With oil prices down, the Saudis were in no position to pay for anything in cash, let alone a multi-billion dollar arms purchase. For this reason, the Brits had agreed to the barter arrangement while the French dithered. The Saudis would give Shell and British Petroleum 300,000 barrels per day as payment with the proceeds going to Her Majesty’s Government, but with oil prices down, even this would not cover the entire cost of the deal.

  “The whole damned thing could fall apart on this issue, Wafiq,” said the Prime Minister. Her voice acquired an edge.

  Wafiq did not believe she would allow the arms sale which would revive the sagging British defense industry to fall through. Even if desperate measures were required, she was never one to shrink from a challenge. Moreover, British Aerospace had started production of the Tornado aircraft months ago and already begun to train Saudi flight crews. Al Sakir was a government-to-government agreement, and it was HMG that was to pay BAE from the proceeds of the oil sales, but some up-front “good will” cash still was required. Now the Saudi’s had fallen short. Would she find a way out?

  “Wafiq,” she said, never dropping her steady gaze from his face, “you of all people are aware of the importance of this matter. I want you to transmit to Prince Sultan that I will order HMG to provide one and a half billion pounds in loan guarantees to save the deal.”

  The British Embassy in Riyadh, of course, would have informed her of the Saudi liquidity crisis. Wafiq assumed she had anticipated this problem and already made the arrangements, which would have meant overcoming fierce resistance from Treasury and Bank of England officials.

  He reminded himself never to underestimate this woman. He had not expected to leave this meeting with Al Sakir still intact.

  “Prime Minister, you know what a risk you are taking?”

  He was as anxious as anyone for the deal to go through because as its broker he would earn enormous commissions behind the scenes, commissions some might consider illegal but which were nonetheless the accepted way of doing business with Riyadh. Despite this, he still felt a duty to his friend, the Prime Minister, to urge some caution. He was, after all, a wealthy man already.

  “Of course I do,” she snapped back. It wasn’t something she would have preferred. “You know that your friends in Riyadh outright refused to borrow funds so they could pay the up-front money themselves. This is the only way we can keep the thing moving forward. Now your task is to see to it that the Saudis do their part. Among other things, I must insist that they raise the daily oil quota to 400,000 barrels. And they’d damn well better make certain
they deliver.” She paused for effect, and then looked hard into Wafiq’s eyes, “And not a word of this can leak. The consequences would be devastating for all concerned.”

  The Prime Minister, he knew, did not plan to disclose these controversial details to Parliament, just as she would not disclose the extraordinary accounting arrangements the deal required. She had classified this information as Official Secrets. She had also intervened with Government authorities to prevent the downgrading of Saudi Arabia’s credit rating. She was gambling over a billion pounds of HMG’s money that the Saudis would not default and back out of the deal at the last minute. She might wonder how much of the cash from the arms sales eventually would end up in private Saudi pockets. But this was an inevitability she had accepted from the start and in its own way it provided a strong incentive for the Saudis to go through with it all. Wafiq al Salah himself was likely eventually to realize a small fortune, but he was an ally and her direct private link to Prince Sultan, the Saudi Defense Minister. He was worth the price.

  Wafiq left Nr. 10 Downing Street feeling weighed down by this information. I’ve got to talk to Mohammed, he thought, and used the car phone to set up a meeting that same afternoon.

  Chapter 11

  Walking through the Plexiglas tubes that made the interior of Charles DeGaulle Terminal 3 feel like a huge, futuristic ant colony, I experienced a dread not entirely unlike my recent arrival at Sheremetyevo. A dark, lowering sky provided an appropriate welcome. The French might well be waiting to snatch me and send me to the Château d'If, like the Count of Montecristo.

  They wouldn't, but I was certain they'd like to.

  Fortunately, the only person waiting for me was Kate. And she was the person I most wanted to see. I leaned back in the passenger seat of our Saab and closed my eyes for the long, tedious drive into Paris.

  The United flight to Paris left Dulles in the afternoon and arrived in Paris around 7:00 AM, so I had grabbed a few hours' sleep on the way with the assistance of two double scotches. But I was knackered after spending a large portion of the preceding several days in the air. Gravity grabbed me like it does astronauts when they return from space and pressed me deeply into the seat. It was raining, and the sound of the water under the tires and splattering on the windshield would lull me to sleep if I didn't make an effort. The industrial landscape between Charles DeGaulle and the city wasn't much to look at anyway.