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  "Yes, and for good reason. This should be a terrific operation. But one of the things the volunteer told us without being too specific was that he was aware of KGB spies in France, as well as the UK. It was not the best idea to turn all of that film over to you before we knew who the spies were. It could even have been Gagnon."

  His annoyance was replaced by indignation, but it got his attention. "Are you saying there is a Russian mole in the DST? Do you think I'm a mole?"

  "It wouldn't make any sense if you were the mole. We don't have the list yet. They're still working on the film at Langley."

  "So, it was on the grounds of baseless speculation that you took our intelligence?"

  "Jacques, you know that the only reason the CIA became involved at all was the strong likelihood that the bulk of information coming from Directorate 'T' would concern the theft of American technology. That was your hook. You set it deep, and it worked. I think we both should look at this as a successful operation. Your interests are high on Langley's priority list. We've already begun processing the information, and there is a hell of a lot of it. Anything that concerns France will be passed to you immediately. It should keep you quite busy."

  It would take months to process and analyze all of the Barsikov documents. Even more difficult would be deciding how to use the information. Obviously, compromised weapons systems would have to be scrapped or modified. The lists of VPK requirements included with the documents might well tell us everything we needed to know about Soviet technological shortcomings.

  Picard still looked pretty cranky. Thibault was staying out of it.

  Langley had authorized Terry and me to offer something that might smooth the DST's ruffled feathers.

  "We still consider this a joint operation," I began in my best earnest voice. "We intend to work it together with you as equals. From the documents we've seen so far it's pretty clear that we have information concerning several other allied countries. We thought it would be a good idea if such information were to be disseminated by France. We're not interested in taking any of the credit, and we'll be busy patching up the holes we find in our own back fence."

  Picard perked up a little. His chances of being awarded the Legión d'Honneur may have brightened.

  "You're saying that ALL information disseminated to allies will be handled by us?"

  "Well … When the time is right, so long as we can protect the source."

  "Including the Brits?"

  This was ticklish. The Brits are our closest allies, one of "The Five Eyes" alliance: the US, the UK, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. There isn't much that isn't shared aside from purely operational details.

  Picard wasn't backing down. "Specifically Al Sakir? It will be our decision?"

  We'd figured this was coming.

  "On one condition - the KGB operation must be compromised."

  Chapter 14

  London

  Becky heard the crunch of gravel in the circular front drive as she descended the main staircase still fastening her earrings. Through a window she saw Mohammed Attar’s familiar old Mercedes pulling to a stop under the front portico. When will he ever trade that old wreck in on a new car? He can certainly afford it.

  She wasn’t especially fond of Mohammed. She found him stand-offish and not a little disapproving in his manner. She chalked this up to Arab cultural attitudes toward women in general, attitudes her husband had managed to overcome and eschew, thank God. Regardless, the mysterious little man was her husband’s friend of many years. There was a deep bond between these men, and Becky was a wise enough woman to know it would be a mistake to get between them.

  She opened the door and stepped outside to greet him as the diminutive Lebanese mounted the steps, “Mohammed! So good to see you again. Please, come in.” He wore gray slacks, a blue blazer, and a silk crew neck sweater.

  Attar paused for a moment on the threshold, for the hundredth time appraising the petite, doll-like blonde Englishwoman who had somehow captivated his friend. He involuntarily recalled his initial disappointment when he had learned of Wafiq's marriage to an infidel. It had been difficult to control his resentment of her. Wafiq had become entirely too westernized, but Mohammed could never overcome his affection for his best friend.

  Becky took his arm, and he suppressed a slight shudder at the familiarity of the touch.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Becky,” he said in the polite voice he reserved for these occasions. Becky was sufficiently familiar with him by now to know better than to attempt a peck on the cheek.

  She led him to the sitting room where the maid had earlier set out a tray with an assortment of fruit juices and invited Mohammed to sit.

  “Wafiq will be down in a moment,” she said. “He had a busy day today. I gather the meeting with the Prime Minister went well.”

  “We’ll see,” said Mohammed. He definitely did not believe in discussing business with women. He wondered how Wafiq put up with it.

  Becky turned with a grateful look at the sound of her husband hurrying down the stairs. He had changed to informal dress – dark green corduroys and a white cotton pull-over.

  The two men greeted one another with an embrace and a kiss on each cheek.

  “Salaam Aleikhem,” the traditional greeting and reverse response.

  “Sit down, Mohammed, sit down,” invited Wafiq. What can I fix you to drink?”

  “Orange juice will be fine,” said Mohammed.

  Becky was already missing the evening cocktail she and her husband normally imbibed. Unlike Wafiq, Mohammed strictly avoided alcohol. So, tonight, once again, Wafiq would play the pious Muslim for his friend’s sake. Becky planned to mix herself a gin and tonic as soon as she was inevitably dismissed by the men. She would be glad to leave them to their business.

  Later, as the maid was clearing the remains of dinner from the table, Wafiq gave her a look that meant it’s time for the men to talk.

  “Well,” she said, rising to excuse herself, “I can see that you men have important matters to discuss that would bore me to death. Would you excuse me, Mohammed? I think I’ll go upstairs and read.”

  Mohammed rose and bowed slightly, “Of course, Becky. Thank you for a very fine meal. Your hospitality is perfect, as usual.”

  After she had disappeared upstairs, Wafiq led Mohammed to the study. The room was self-consciously English with its rich wood paneling, brass lamps, and leather wing chairs. It could have been a room at one of the private clubs on Pall Mall. It smelled of leather, books, and tobacco. The fully stocked bar was concealed in a bookcase.

  Wafiq offered his friend a cigarette from a multicolored enameled box. Mohammed accepted. Wafiq had them custom made by Dunhill using a particular mixture of tobaccos he had chosen.

  Wafiq took a silver lighter from a side table and handed it to his friend. Mohammed appreciated its heft. He lit up and passed it back. Wafiq selected a short, thick cigar from a walnut humidor.

  The two sat facing one another in the high backed chairs in front of the fireplace.

  “How did it go with the Prime Minister today?” asked Mohammed.

  As usual when the two were alone they switched to Arabic.

  Wafiq frowned slightly at the memory of the conversation. “She’s taking some big risks and keeping the details to herself,” he finally said. “Our friends in Riyadh are a bit skittish. The price of oil is squeezing them these days."

  Mohammed nodded. “James Abbott is certainly worried, but that’s not a bad thing. It keeps him on his toes dancing to our tune.”

  Wafiq’s lips curled slightly at the mention of the distasteful Abbott – just another cog in a wheel that required a lot of grease. “The Prime Minister will keep things on track on the British side, but can we count on the Prince to maintain forward momentum in Riyadh?”

  “The Prince will do whatever I tell him. He has too much riding on this horse to let it fail. I think we will have to set up a meeting of principals to seal the matter. It will take a coupl
e of weeks, but we can use the Prince’s villa in Geneva. Can you line up the Brits?”

  "The British need this deal badly, very badly, and the Prime Minister is willing to go to almost any length to preserve it, even to the point of risking her position."

  Mohammed took a pull from his cigarette and nodded somberly.

  Wafiq was not for the first time struck by the transformation of Mohammed from the naïve, carefree youngster he had befriended so many years ago to the serious player in international intrigue that sat before him now.

  Chapter 15

  Warsaw, Poland - 1974

  Seated together in the Air France first class cabin, the two young men scanned the city tilting under the wingtip of the plane as it circled for a landing at Warsaw’s Okięcia International Airport.

  While Wafiq was tall and handsome, with olive skin and thick black curls, Mohammed was slight. His skin was pale, and his eyes were quite round and large, lending him a look of perpetual surprise.

  The two had booked a luxury suite at the new Forum Hotel in the city center, and they alighted from the airport cab like princes of the world, tossing dollars right and left to a delighted hotel staff that treasured hard currency like prospectors panning for gold nuggets. They knew a rich stream when they saw one. The hotel, a western style glass tower, had been constructed by a Swedish firm for Orbis, the Polish state tourist organization, and was one of the few skyscrapers in all of post-war Poland, apart from the Stalinesque Palace of Culture just a few blocks away.

  Warsaw in 1974 was a drab Eastern European capital tinted in tones of gray and dirty yellow. All the bright color had been sucked out by war and a ruthless Communist regime. Polish winters were cold and nasty, and the fallen snow was covered overnight with a layer of black grime from the Silesian coal that heated the city and ran its factories. But Warsaw did hold a certain distinction, a sort of salacious infamy among its sister Soviet Bloc capitals. The Poles were a cosmopolitan race and their ancient capital was well-known for a lifestyle looser than that normally found in the totalitarian Eastern Bloc. There were even strippers who entertained the commissars in the basement nightclub of the venerable Hotel Europejski on Krakowskie Przedmieście, a broad thoroughfare that ran from the city center up to the Old Town Square.

  Occasionally the city attracted exotic guests curious to see what life was like in a Communist state and well aware that the hard currency they brought with them was highly sought after in the workers’ paradise. Fleshly pleasures were easily accessible for foreigners with the right kind of money.

  In 1974 Mohammed Attar was 25 years old and foolish, as young men everywhere tend to be. His father was Lebanese, but his mother was from a well-connected Saudi family distantly related to the Saudi royals. From an early age his mother had seen to it that he spent a great deal of time in The Kingdom as Lebanon became increasingly dangerous. His mother also had ensured that he was accepted by Saudis his own age from much wealthier families, and he came to appreciate the privileges wealth can bestow. His young Saudi friends were faultlessly generous.

  Of his many Saudi friends, the closest to Mohammed was Wafiq al Salah, two years older than Mohammed, and a cousin of King Fahd. In the winter of 1974 while on holiday in Europe the two decided on a whim to visit Warsaw. Their enthusiasm for the trip was infused with fantasies they concocted about the lusty blond girls they would find there and what they would do with them.

  They had seen enough of the world to know that once away from the restrictions of Riyadh they were free to discard religious inhibitions and indulge in every “infidel” vice they could imagine, so long as their money held out – and there was no possibility that Wafiq al Salah would ever run out of money.

  The two spent their first day exploring the city and returned to the hotel quite disappointed with the poor quality of the goods they had seen in the shops and the scarcity of restaurants. They were appalled by the Poles’ national affinity for pork products and considered themselves fortunate to have found a small restaurant in the Stare Miasto, Old Town area that specialized in roast duck.

  In their suite on the 14th floor, Wafiq flopped heavily onto the sofa. “This place is a hole! Let’s get out of here as soon as we can.”

  “I agree,” said Mohammed. “This whole trip was a big mistake. Whose idea was it to leave Paris for a week-end and come here anyway? Pretty stupid.”

  Wafiq’s eyes crinkled with his easy smile, his perfect white teeth broadly on display. “You idiot,” he said fondly, “You know whose idea it was – yours!”

  “I know, I know,” laughed the young Lebanese. “But do you know what? We can't leave this place until we’ve bagged a couple of blondes. What do you say?”

  “What do you think I say? And you know what? We don’t have to look very far. I was talking to the bartender downstairs earlier today. There are girls, professional girls, available right here in the hotel. I think we should go downstairs, have the bartender hook us up, treat the girls to a great dinner and bring them back up here. We have a night of fun and get the hell out on the first flight back to Paris.”

  “That is an excellent plan, my brother,” said Mohammed, his eyes shining. Wafiq was a good man, a good friend, and was always kind to the diminutive Mohammed. Mohammed truly loved him as a brother.

  Wafiq’s plan was put to the test, and the two young men soon found themselves enjoying a meal in the Forum’s ostentatious main restaurant with two ladies who said their names were Wanda and Danuta. Mohammed was slightly disappointed that Danuta, his girl, was a brunette, but she was petite and very well shaped. Handsome Wafiq, of course, ended up with the buxom blonde, Wanda.

  They finished the meal, an enthusiastically served but disappointingly bland affair, with a chilled bottle of Russian shampanskoye that Wafiq found pleasantly sweet. Silence descended over the table as the inexperienced young men suddenly discovered that they didn’t know quite what to say next.

  Wanda solved the problem for them. She wasn't about to let these rich boys get away. “Why don’t you order more shampanskoye up to your room, and we can all go up and have a party?”

  Mohammed and Wafiq thought this was a great idea. They pushed back from the table and the girls clung tightly to them, smiling like a couple of kids on Christmas morning. Danuta coyly suggested that they make a stop at the dollar store in the hotel’s main lobby. “They have French bras and panties this week. Do you think we would look good in such things? We could give you a fashion show.”

  The boys didn’t hesitate for a second. Wafiq caught Mohammed’s eyes and said in Arabic, “Didn’t I tell you this was a great idea?”

  They loaded the delighted prostitutes down with French lingerie, French perfume, and new handbags, and the jolly crew headed for the elevators closely followed by a uniformed bellhop pushing a serving cart laden with pastries, two iced bottles of shampanskoye, and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.

  The girls oohed and ahhed at the sight of the luxurious 14th floor suite. When they saw the spacious bathroom with oversized tub, they insisted on a bath and began stripping off their clothes as Wafiq and Mohammed stood at the bathroom door with stupid grins creasing their faces.

  There was a lot of splashing and giggling, and the boys were nearly rapturous at the sight of Danuta and Wanda both in the large tub, their bodies covered with suds. Apparently hot water in abundance was something of a luxury in Poland.

  Wanda, the blond, was statuesque, and when she stood in the tub it was clear that she was a natural blond. Wafiq was mesmerized and swayed for a moment as though he might faint.

  Danuta was petite where Wanda was generously proportioned, but regarding her as she stood dripping on the bathroom floor, Mohammed suddenly decided he didn’t care anymore that she wasn’t a blonde.

  An hour later, the boys’ jack-o' lantern grins now transformed to satisfied smiles, the four regrouped in the main room of the suite and started on the first bottle of shampanskoye, most of the ice in the buckets having by now melte
d. The girls decided to put on their new lingerie and try out the perfume from the dollar shop. Wafiq found what passed for a rock station on the radio, and the Russian bubbly soon disappeared.

  This was definitely the best ‘party’ Wanda and Danuta had ever had. By two in the morning, the scotch had all but disappeared and all of them were finding it hard to stand without a bit of weaving. The music was still playing, and Danuta turned up the volume insisting she wanted to dance.

  She stood in front of Mohammed and swayed her body seductively as she reached behind her back and unhooked her new bra. She let it fall to the floor and bent down to him, rubbing her breasts against his face. “Yes”, thought Mohammed, his eyes closed with pleasure, “this is what it’s all about! I could die happy right now.”

  He rose to take Danuta in his arms and they began whirling to the music, the alcohol in their systems making them giddy.

  Afterwards, Mohammed could not recall precisely how it happened, but Danuta suddenly spun out of his grasp. One moment she was there, and the next she was gone.

  Seriously tipsy and off balance, she teetered over and smashed full force into the window. Had the hotel been built strictly to Western standards, she would have bounced back into the room onto the floor, still drunk, but only dazed. Unfortunately, the Swedish contractors had cut some corners by bribing the Polish officials in charge of building inspection. The below-standard glass window shattered under the impact of the girl’s body, and she hurtled, screaming, out into the cold Warsaw night, plunging 14 stories to a messy death below on the sidewalk beside Ulica Marszalkowska, one of the city’s main drags.

  Mohammed, Wafiq, and Wanda gaped in stunned disbelief. For a second no one spoke, and then Wanda screamed. Her face contorted with loathing and fear, she was looking right at Mohammed, “What happened? What did you do?!!!”

  Horrified, Mohammed turned toward them, his arms spread helplessly as the cold, polluted air of Warsaw’s winter filled the room through the shattered window. “I don’t know what happened! I don’t know!”