The Dove Read online

  Kate, of course, wanted to talk.

  "So tell me all about it." After a couple of weeks my recently brush-cut hair was growing out in messy, uncontrollable points, and she gave it a riffle with her free hand. "This isn't your new look, is it? I don't like it."

  "You prefer running your fingers through my long, luxuriant tresses, do you? Does it turn you on?"

  She smacked me up the side of the head.

  "Ouch."

  "No. We'll have to wait a month or so until it grows out for you to turn me on."

  I assumed she was kidding. I hoped she was kidding.

  "Terry called early this morning. He said he wants you in the office as soon as possible this morning."

  "I'm not going straight to the office. We're going home where you can give me a proper welcome, and I'm going to take a shower and get some fresh duds. It feels like I've been wearing the same clothes for too long."

  She flashed a wicked smile. "'A proper welcome,' huh. I suggest the shower come first."

  And so it was, with a second shower a dieux as a bonus. I didn't make it to the Embassy until early afternoon.

  Eileen gave me a frosty smile when I entered the front office suite. "We've been waiting for you."

  "Domestic responsibilities come first, Eileen."

  "Domestic responsibilities?"

  I gave her my best leer. "That's right. And I always live up to my responsibilities."

  "That's not exactly what I've been hearing," She smirked and waved toward Terry Stoddard's office door. "Go on in. But wipe the silly grin off your face."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Terry greeted me with a weary smile. "I was afraid you might not show up, at all. You've been making up a lot of your own rules lately."

  "All for the good of the home team," I said.

  He stood and walked around his desk. "Have a seat," he said, heading for the leather sofa by the fireplace and waved a hand for me to follow.

  Eileen came in carrying two steaming cups of coffee on a tray that she sat on the low table in front of the sofa. "I thought you might need some energy." She gave me a saucy glance over her shoulder on the way out of the office.

  "I'm glad you survived the trip back to Headquarters," said Terry as he took a tentative sip of the hot coffee. "That was the kind of thing that can get a guy banished forever." He looked tired.

  A week had passed since I'd skipped out on the DST.

  "After they got a peek at what was on the film, Barton and Jerry Markham smoothed things over with the White House with some heavy lifting from the DCI himself."

  Apparently the Barsikov files terrified everybody in Washington who saw them. Jerry Markham and the DCI personally briefed the President and Vice President, including my dalliance with independent thought. Happily for me, a jovial President told the DCI that he should give me a medal. Barton Graham decided that allowing me to keep my skin intact was reward enough. That was OK by me. I would have been a lousy short-order cook.

  "It's not been a picnic here in Paris," said Terry. "The DST threatened to go to the Elysee and ask Mitterand to kick us all out. They were in high dudgeon when they figured out that you had skipped town with the goods."

  "How did they find out?"

  "It didn't take them long after you didn't show up to brief them on Moscow. It was my unhappy duty to confirm their suspicions under Headquarters instructions. I would have preferred to say nothing, but the order came from the Seventh Floor."

  "Shit. Sorry about that, Terry. I guess being COS isn't always fun."

  "Don't worry about it. Hell, I agreed with your plan. We did it together." Terry had agreed with my logic and authorized me to take the film directly to Langley. I would never have gone against Terry. He could have ordered me to turn the films over to the French. But he didn't. It meant putting his neck on the chopping block along with mine, and I appreciated it.

  "We did the right thing, Terry."

  He nodded. "I hope so. Fortunately for us both, oil has been poured over the waters. The President called Mitterand, and they reached an understanding."

  "I'll bet they did."

  "The DST had no choice but to accept the situation, but the agreement comes with a price."

  "Let me guess. Al Sakir."

  The DST was a counter-intelligence outfit that did not possess the analytical capabilities of the CIA, and Terry Stoddard somehow convinced them it was a good idea for us to have the first look. Actually, it was. We promised to share with them things like the identities of KGB agents and undercover officers in France. This was the kind of stuff that counter-intelligence services live for. But what served to ease tensions the most was what Barsikov revealed about Al Sakir. Nothing warms the French soul more than a chance to poke a sharp dagger through British ribs.

  Chapter 12

  London

  If anyplace in London can be called "posh," the Ritz Hotel heads the list. It was and still is the place to be seen. "Tea at the Ritz" has been a high privilege since the hotel opened in 1906.

  While Wafiq al Salah was meeting with the Prime Minister, his old friend Mohammed Attar was meeting with another Brit, an easily corruptible one, over breakfast at the venerable hotel in Piccadilly at a discreet corner table in the ostentatiously decorated Palm Court room.

  The mirrored walls, the fountain with is frolicking gilded statues, all brought to Mohammed's mind the image of a French whorehouse. How appropriate that he should be breakfasting there with a British whore.

  James Abbott was the British Minister of State for Defense Procurement and, as such, was smack in the middle of Al Sakir. Born into the family of a Conservative Member of Parliament, in his time he had been a Tory backbencher himself. Despite a tincture of scandal that had blotted his political career at times, the roughly handsome, upper crust Abbott somehow retained the trust of his Tory government colleagues who had astonishingly appointed him Minister of State for Defense Procurement. This position put him in charge of negotiating foreign arms sales for HMG. When Al Sakir came along, Abbott was quick to recognize a once in a lifetime opportunity for self-enrichment and became one of the strongest proponents of the sale.

  Abbott first met Attar at one of Prince's elaborate parties. The Brit was well aware of Attar’s role as the Prince’s principal assistant. He was also aware of the Prince’s cupidity and at once concluded that there could be a meeting of the minds. There was no reason, he had boldly suggested to Attar, that the two could not work together for mutual profit. Attar readily agreed, and a crafty partnership was born. Both were determined to keep the mammoth arms deal on track no matter the costs.

  Abbott provided the details and descriptions of the proposed weapons systems, and Attar, acting as the Prince’s representative, explained to British weapons manufacturers that nothing is done with Saudi Arabia unless vendors are willing to pay “commissions.” Over the months since the deal had been crafted various British companies had agreed to pay Attar “commissions” ranging from three to fifteen percent of the sales price. Attar, in turn, assured them that the Prince would guarantee that the prices they quoted would be accepted.

  Besides aircraft and peripherals, they reached agreements on submarine sales, heavy self-propelled howitzers, and dozens of other weapons systems, among them some of Britain’s most advanced. Attar and Abbott estimated that upwards of two hundred million dollars in kickbacks would flow into the Prince’s coffers, with a sizeable chunk of that being diverted to their own pockets. Attar arranged several secret meetings for Abbott with Saudi arms experts. These meetings usually took place at the prestigious Ritz Hotel in Paris far away from London’s prying eyes.

  Now at the Palm Court Abbott was enthusiastically tucking into a full English breakfast while Mohammed picked disinterestedly at some melon slices. The British Minister, wearing a broadly pinstriped English suit and club tie, his boyish shock of brown hair falling across his forehead, was attentive to Mohammed’s words.

  “Unless HMG somehow comes through wit
h loan guarantees, the deal is in danger of falling apart. The Prince is very upset, but even he can’t control oil prices.”

  Mohammed Attar had come a long way from the insecurities of his youth. In fact, he had changed in ways even his best friends would never have suspected. People would now describe him as “austere” and “self-controlled,” or “inscrutable.” Despite his diminutive stature, he made his presence felt. He had adopted elegant, if conservative Western dress, perhaps more Continental in taste than British, and was always well turned out. His full head of black hair showed no sign of gray, and his short, expertly trimmed beard lent maturity and gravity to his face. His manner was self-assured. His Eddie Cantor eyes were now opaque rather than pleading. He had never married, a fact that his friend, Wafiq al Salah, mourned because he thought Mohammed was missing one of the greatest joys in life. He couldn’t know that Mohammed had another sort of mistress.

  Abbott abruptly put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with a crisp, white napkin, a shocked expression on his face. He blurted, “My God, surely something can be done. Don’t tell me The Kingdom is actually out of money!”

  He was genuinely alarmed. The bribe money would not begin flowing in earnest until all the financing was in place.

  “No liquid funds to spare at this time,” said Mohammed. “My friend is meeting with the PM this morning, and I’ll have a better idea of what’s going on later today.”

  Wafiq kept Mohammed well informed of government-to-government progress on the deal. The two were working in tandem – Wafiq handled the higher-ups and Mohammed took care of the nitty-gritty details.

  “But we’ve come so far,” said Abbott, a whine creeping into his voice.

  “Don’t worry,” soothed Mohammed, “all the players are already too deeply into the deal for it to fail. No one wants this to happen or needs it more than you Brits.”

  “I know, but I’ve taken some awful risks here. I deserve to be rewarded, and you know it. No matter what happens now.”

  Abbott could be a petulant child at times.

  “James, my friend,” said Mohammed quietly as he gripped Abbott’s elbow. “You needn’t worry so much. Besides, you know that when you leave Government, I will arrange a very well-paying job for you running one of the Prince’s enterprises, regardless what might happen with Al Sakir. You are a friend.”

  In fact, it repelled Mohammed even to touch this disgusting slug.

  Only slightly mollified, Abbott found he had lost his appetite and pushed his half-empty plate away. Reaching under the table for his briefcase, he said, “I have some new documents for you to show the Prince.”

  He extracted a large envelope with the HMG seal in the corner. “These are from Westland - specifications for a new model of the Blackhawk helicopter the Saudi's want.”

  Mohammed quickly scanned the room. No one was looking in their direction. The Brits are great ones for minding their own business, he thought. He took the envelope and placed it underneath his raincoat on the chair next to his.

  “Thank you, James. These will be very helpful.”

  In fact, just as all the other weapons specifications Abbott had passed to him over the past several months, these would eventually find their way to more interested hands. The Prince didn’t care a fig about such documents and had never seen a single one. Mohammed would, of course, pass them to the Russians, but not before making copies for a Saudi eye surgeon who lived in north London and communicated regularly with the Sheik.

  Chapter 13

  Rule No. 1

  No. 2 Place des Saussaies had not changed since my last visit. The steady drumbeat of the rain on my umbrella punctuated my mood. It had been falling steadily since my arrival that morning.

  I walked from the Embassy anyway. It was a way of delaying the inevitable confrontation with my old friend, Jacques Picard. The rain infused the air with its fresh scent and cleansed the streets, but it would not wash away my sins.

  After a twenty-minute very damp trudge I halted on the wet cobblestones in front of the entrance. It consisted of double doors of heavy wood, for some reason painted sky blue. There was an ancient looking brass handle in the middle of the right door that looked more like a ring pull. According to a plaque beside the door, the composer Francois Poulenc had been born there in 1839. I was sure he never could have imagined the uses to which his birthplace would be put.

  Terry Stoddard and I had concluded our tete-à-tete at around two o'clock. We decided it would be best if I faced the music alone. It wasn't that Terry was a coward. He was the Chief of Station, Paris, a rather exalted position, and I insisted it would not be right for him to endure any French opprobrium, if that's what the frogs had in mind.

  Terry didn't protest too much.

  The rain intensified, splashing over my shoes, and I twisted the brass handle and shoved it open.

  I'd been debating how to approach the meeting with Picard. A cynical and unapologetic approach was tempting and mirrored the way a French official would have handled it. They can be nervelessly disdainful when they choose. (Qu'est que vous pensez? C'est un rien.) But I discarded mimicry in favor of a shamelessly honest approach. I thought it might confuse the French.

  My formerly benign opinion of Lafayette's people had changed, if only temporarily. But if I wanted to be completely honest, they had a right to be upset, and to tell the truth I almost felt guilty.

  Almost.

  The guard waved me through to the same stone walled room as last time.

  Picard wasn't there. Instead, his assistant, Dominique Thibault was behind the desk smoking a Gauloise Blonde. François Mitterrand's eyes followed my movements from the photo on the wall. He looked hostile today.

  Thibault was somewhere in his mid-30's, a tall, handsome dishwater blond with a trim figure that he carried with a languorous nonchalance that would have looked good on a fashion show runway. He stood when I entered and gave me a crooked smile and hung my dripping coat and umbrella on a coat rack that stood beside the door.

  "Jacques will be along shortly," he said. "Have a seat." He waved languidly in the direction of a chair.

  Picard had decided to make me wait, a small penance.

  "You've been travelling a lot of late," observed Thibault.

  I ignored the observation. I wasn't about to be interrogated by one of Picard's subordinates.

  I asked, "How long will he be?"

  He shrugged. "I'm not sure. He's in a meeting."

  "He has a meeting with me."

  "Well, he's been trying to see you for several days now, hasn't he? But he had to wait."

  Jeez, they weren't even being subtle.

  "All the more reason for him to want to see me now."

  Thibault smiled. "He knows you're here. I'm sure he'll be along shortly. He's with the Director. Would you like some coffee?"

  A gesture of hospitality or a hint that I would have to wait a good while before Picard joined us?

  "Sure, why not?"

  Thibault made a short phone call, and a few minutes later a young woman came in bearing a small tray with two white cups of espresso nestling on saucers and a bowl of sugar cubes.

  I sniffed the coffee carefully, testing for arsenic. I downed it in a single gulp. I really like French coffee.

  Thibault replaced his cup in its saucer and lit another Gauloise. "You look tired, Harry."

  I was tired despite the coffee with Terry and the cup I'd just swallowed. I didn't feel like making small talk with Thibault. The wooden chair was damned uncomfortable.

  At that moment, the door in the wall behind me, the door that communicated with the interior of DST Headquarters, opened.

  Jacques Picard strode into the room. I stood and extended my hand, which he regarded for a beat before taking. I couldn't read the expression on his face. Nobody was smiling.

  Thibault surrendered his seat behind the desk to his superior and took a chair beside me.

  Picard clasped his hands together on the desktop. "W
elcome back to Paris, Harry. We thought we might have lost you."

  I wasn't sure how to respond. "I've been busy," I said.

  "You certainly have. Lucien Gagnon told us the meeting in Moscow had not been a success. You can imagine our surprise when your Chief of Station informed us otherwise."

  "Lucien Gagnon, nice guy that he is, is a trade representative. He doesn't need to know anything more than he already does."

  "That's really something for us to decide," said a still unsmiling Picard. "He is our confidential informant, and he had a role to play in the Moscow affair."

  "And he played his part perfectly. There was no need for further involvement."

  Picard cocked his head to one side and made that sound of disappointment and disgust so popular with the French. "Pah." It's not a loud sound, but rather a soft explosion of breath from the front of the mouth through slightly parted lips. They usually accompany it with a shake of the head and half-closed eyes; as though they had decided there was no hope for you.

  They weren't going to let the thing pass without expressing their annoyance. Maybe it was because I was exhausted that I said, "Look, Jacques, you know as well as anyone that there are only two rules in espionage: Rule No. 1 – There are friendly countries, but there are no friendly intelligence services; Rule No. 2 – There are no other rules."

  Harsh, but true. Maybe there is more cynicism than trust in intelligence work, after all.

  "We were, we are, very disappointed, Harry." There was annoyance in his eyes now. "After all, we did share our operation with you." He emphasized the word "our."

  I decided to try using logic. The French are very fond of Descartes and logic.