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  Protection of sources and methods. This is a phrase familiar even to the public, but they probably think it's just a cop-out or an evasion to conceal evil deeds. In reality it embodies a cardinal rule for the human intelligence operator – the life of the agent is sacred. Field officers have a very personal obligation to their agents. I was glad to see that Langley intended to protect Barsikov, even though we were not running him actively.

  "That makes sense," I said.

  "Good. One of your tasks now is to convince the French that it's a good idea. Do you think they'll agree?"

  "We can count on their discretion. But they do have this axe to grind with the Brits."

  Graham moved some lettuce around with his fork. "We can't ignore our obligations to our most important ally."

  "I know. But we could cave to Picard on the Al Sakir thing; let him have his fun while we figure out how to handle all the rest. It would buy us time."

  We paused while the waiter cleared the table and brought coffee and dessert, in this case bread pudding à la mode.

  "It will be your job to convince the French that we're right."

  "I'll do my best to make them think it was their idea to begin with."

  Graham actually smiled.

  "There is more," he said.

  I was all ears.

  "The White House isn't content with defensive measures only. The President is determined to see the Soviet Union on the ground with his foot on Gorbachev's neck. The Barsikov dossier may be the best weapon in our arsenal because it demonstrates the true weaknesses of the USSR. We have their shopping list, and that means we should be able to take advantage of it."

  I was beginning to get the drift. "The active measures you mentioned before."

  Graham nodded and shoved his dessert to the side. The ice cream had melted while we talked. "We take advantage of the VPK's own program and toss some sand into their gears that will slow them down and cost them dearly."

  I liked the sound of that.

  "These operations, of course, will be tightly held. There will be only one field operative involved. Langley will prepare the material, and you'll be working with the liaison services and private companies selected for these operations."

  Chapter 19

  Geneva, Switzerland

  James Abbot peered through the wooden double doors into the dining room that had been set up for the conference. He spotted the representatives from Vickers Shipbuilding Systems, GEC, and Westland, the company selling Blackhawk helicopters. Off in a corner stood Mohammed Attar, his elfin figure nearly concealed behind a potted plant, discrete as always, observing the crowd.

  In fact, they were in the Prince's lavish Geneva villa on the shore of Lac Genève. There was no one in sight who was not an active participant in the bribes required to keep Al Sakir on track, over a dozen executives, in all. Most of them were quite enthusiastic about it all. They stood in small groups, shooting nervous glances over one another's shoulders. The absence of alcohol undoubtedly added to their unease.

  To throw the press off the track the Prime Minister had decreed that no one of ministerial rank should attend, and the British side was led by Lord Crowley, head of the Defense Export Services Organization, the DESO, and his deputy. British Aerospace, of course was there in the person of the head of the Tornado Division. Well over a dozen people were in attendance at the conclave, the purpose of which was to conclude the Al Sakir negotiations and determine the form for all the related “side deals.” Abbott was confident that the details of the negotiations would never see the light of day.

  Everyone was waiting for the arrival of Prince himself. The purpose of the meeting was to nail down the final details of exactly who would pay how much to whom and how they would conceal the transactions. Abbot's old friend, Mohammed Attar, was key to all this. He controlled the Swiss bank account into which the bribe money was to be deposited. The rate allegedly was to be three to ten percent of the value of the contracts. With Mohammed serving as Saudi bag man and Abbot working on the British side to ensure that the deal went through, they and the Prince stood to make a great deal of money.

  Standing discretely in the corners of the room and in the hallway outside, were anonymous security men from MI-6. There were easily visible bulges under their coats.

  A full hour after the Prince had promised to arrive, a procession of large, black automobiles pulled up to the entrance. There was a stretch limousine, with Mercedes sedans in front and behind. Large, dark men in business suits with snub barreled machine pistols suspended from straps over their shoulders poured out of the sedans and looked suspiciously in all directions before one of them opened the door of the limo for the Prince to step out.

  The Prince was a confident man. He and Mohammed Attar alone would represent the Saudi side, that is, the main bribe recipients' side. Abbot was there in his capacity as the Prime Minister's personal representative. The whole scene reminded him of a feudal lord receiving tribute from his vassals. Abbot liked being on the side of the feudal lord, albeit secretly.

  The Prince swept into the room in full Saudi regalia. His floor-length thobe was snow white, as was the ghutra affixed to his head by a black iqal. His beard was dyed jet black. He had a thick neck and double chin, and the flowing thobe could not conceal the corpulent figure of the dark complexioned Saudi prince. His girth was in the XXXL range.

  The Prince's guards glared at the MI-6 security detail, and the MI-6 guys glared right back.

  Abbot wondered what went through the minds of the security men as they observed negotiations that would enrich the men at the table beyond the wildest dreams of civil servants. Then again, it had been the Prime Minister herself who had insisted on their presence. They would be her eyes and ears. He must play his role well as HRH's representative.

  James Abbott returned from Switzerland a jubilant man, fully confirmed in the expectation that he would soon come into a large fortune. That fortune would be in the form of illicit funds derived from so-called “commissions” on the biggest arms deal in history – Al Sakir. The deal was officially valued at over 20 billion pounds sterling. A large portion of that sum would be in the form of “prince’s oil” that the British government would sell to pay the vendors. And much of the money that would be forthcoming from the Saudis to the British Defense industry would find its way right back into the pockets of the Prince and other influential royals who had involved themselves in the matter, as well as those lucky enough – like James Abbott – to belong to the exclusive “club” of Al Sakir insiders.

  The extent of the corruption surprised even Abbott, permeating as it did every aspect of the deal, condoned by the Prime Minister herself, who would stop at nothing to secure the future health of the British arms industry. Abbott was unworried by the possibility that his own part in the scheme of kickbacks and outright bribes would be discovered. There were too many high ranking people involved, from the Prime Minister on down, for anyone in power to risk a hint of scandal.

  Unbeknownst to him, however, events were conspiring on the other side of the world that would have a devastating impact on his sense of invulnerability.

  Chapter 20

  Moscow

  Stepan Timofeyevich Barsikov parked his aging Lada in a space near his apartment building on Ulitsa 1812, named for the battle immortalized by Tchaikovsky. Only a few hundred meters away was the Battle of Borodino Museum with its circular panorama.

  The apartment was on the fifth floor and was relatively upscale. The family had been rewarded with the apartment following Stepan's successful tour in Paris, when he was still on the way up the KGB ladder. It now served as a bitter reminder that his ascent had been stalled mid-way and would never resume.

  Natasha was not at home when he arrived. It was late, after 7:00 PM, but his wife's absence did not surprise him. She had progressively spent less and less time at home over the past several months, and Barskikov was perfectly aware that she preferred the company of her current lover to his. Vodka an
d the occasional bottle of brandy now comforted his evenings.

  They had enjoyed a close and loving relationship until the forced return from Canada and Barsikov's professional disgrace had transformed him from an outgoing, jovial man to the introverted and depressed person he had become. Natasha was an attractive blonde. She was a former Olympic gymnast and retained the looks and winsome body of her youth. She had always been attractive to men.

  Stepan's own infatuation with Elena Trofimovna had coincided with the beginning of Natasha's infidelity, and he could not be certain which came first. It really made little difference to him. Fate had turned against him and fell upon him in waves of depression of ever increasing strength as he lost control of his life. Thank God, he thought, they had no children.

  Stepan's life now centered on only one thing – his desire to do as much damage as possible to the organization that had betrayed him. Natasha's betrayal was dwarfed by the KGB'S perfidy. They had effectively stolen his future.

  They had thrown him on the scrap heap with the other rejects of the service while the sons of the Nomenklatura who had no qualifications other than their names were given plum assignments abroad. The system was rotten to the core.

  Ironically, his relegation to Department 'K's' analysis unit placed at his disposal its most important and closely held information.

  He had been tossed aside by the KGB, his wife, and now Elena. Betrayal begets betrayal. By passing to the French every scrap of information to which he had access, he would have his revenge.

  Chapter 21

  Warsaw, 1974

  As day two of their interrogation ground slowly to an end, the two young men once again faced Kowałczyk across the desk.

  The Captain said, “I've had enough of your stalling and lies. Either sign your confessions immediately, or you will both be sent to prison to await trial. Your trial could well be delayed for many months. There is no hope for you.”

  He pointed to two typed documents that lay on the desk in front the prisoners. They were neatly typed in Polish, and neither Wafiq nor Mohammed had the slightest idea what they said.

  Wafiq’s once handsome face was covered with small cuts and crusted blood, there was blotchy bruising around both eyes, and his nose had swollen to twice its normal size. They both now wore loose fitting prison uniforms, beige with horizontal black stripes. Mohammed had not received as much physical punishment, but psychologically he was a wreck. He could not help thinking about how the trip to Warsaw had been his idea. Wafiq had come along only to please his friend and have a little innocent fun. Mohammed blamed himself for their predicament. He had never been particularly brave, but now he came to a decision.

  Mohammed broke the silence, his voice barely a whisper, “Captain, sir, I will sign your confession, but my friend is completely innocent. He did nothing. He was nowhere near the girl when she went through the window. All of this is my fault. I will sign, but you must let my friend go.”

  Wafiq’s head snapped around toward Mohammed. “My brother, you cannot do this. Someone must know where we are. They will not abandon us.”

  Mohammed shook his head sadly. “No one will ever find us in this hell hole,” he said. “It's better that one of us gets out to carry the news to our families. It is only right that you go, Wafiq. This was my fault.”

  His powerful political and family connections would make it a problem for Kowałczyk to hold the Saudi much longer; the Lebanese was another matter. It already had been decided that the Saudi would be set free and deported, but Kowałczyk had skillfully used him as leverage against his companion. He wanted a signed confession, and now he would get one.

  Pretending he was pondering a difficult decision, Kowałczyk instructed the guard to uncuff Mohammed’s hands.

  “If you sign the confession now, right at this moment,” he said, “I give you my word that your friend will be expelled from Poland immediately.”

  He slid the single-spaced document, typewritten in Polish, towards the skinny Lebanese who was clearly frightened out of his mind.

  Wafiq said quickly in Arabic, “Mohammed, it’s a trick. Everything they say here is a lie. Don’t sign it!”

  But Mohammed had made up his mind, “You will go free now, my brother and friend. If I must die a martyr at the hands of these infidels, I would rather that you live to tell the story.”

  With that he grabbed the pen and slashed his signature across the bottom of the document. He slumped back into the chair and sobbed. His life, he knew, was over.

  Chapter 22

  Wafiq’s clothing and other belongings were returned to him and he was allowed to wash and dress. Mohammed had been led immediately out of the interrogation room after signing the confession, and Wafiq had not seen him since. The young Saudi, his face now heavily bandaged, was hustled to Okęcia International Airport where his documents were returned and he was placed on an Air France non-stop flight to Paris.

  Two days later, Poland’s Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs, Władislav Pozoga, was surprised by the unexpected arrival at his office of the “senior partner” representative. The “senior partner” was the KGB, and its liaison mission in Poland was headed by grizzled veteran General Vitaliy Grigorievich Pavlov. He had been appointed to the post by Yuriy Andropov in 1973, and he had had his hands full ever since. Relations between the Polish SB and the KGB were not all sweetness and light.

  Pavlov kept himself very well informed of Polish intrigues and political intentions, especially a burgeoning unofficial opposition movement. He had a network of reliable informants salted throughout the Polish Government, especially the intelligence services, that provided him information out of purely ideological motives, and he had the unconditional trust of his boss, Andropov.

  Pozoga supervised the activities of the Polish Intelligence Services, some of which were very gingerly directed against the Soviets. An unannounced visit from the old wolf Pavlov, therefore, did not please Pozoga. Conversations with the Russians were seldom cordial. And so it was with some trepidation that Pozoga stubbed out the odiferous cigarette he had been smoking and walked around his desk to greet the visitor. He noted with interest that the General was accompanied by his senior Aide, Lt. Colonel Yuriy Ivanovich Morozov, a hirsute bear of a man and another veteran of the KGB’s Foreign Intelligence First Chief Directorate.

  They formally shook hands all around, and Pozoga indicated they should take seats at the conference table along one side of his office. Thin morning light filtered through the milked window glass highlighting the blue wisps of tobacco smoke that hung layered in the air. Pozoga called his secretary and instructed her to bring them coffee.

  “What can I do for you today, Comrade General?” asked Pozoga as the three took seats around the table. He spoke in Russian, a language he felt lacked sophistication and subtlety in comparison with his native Polish.

  Pavlov came right to the point. “It’s about the Saudis your people have in custody in connection with a death at the Forum Hotel,” he said.

  Pozoga was familiar with the matter. They had kept it out of the papers, but the rumor mill in Warsaw was full of lurid, mostly inaccurate accounts of what had happened. The most popular rumor was that a gang of drunken Arabs had purposely tossed a prostitute out of a fourteenth story window to her death. For this reason, the Deputy Minister had kept better track of progress than would normally be the case for common criminal activities.

  “Only one of the men arrested was Saudi,” he said carefully. “The other is Lebanese. This is a common criminal matter, Comrade. What is your interest?”

  Pavlov regarded the Pole, a hint of distaste shading his face, pulling down the corners of his wide mouth. “Is it possible that you have failed to see the opportunity this situation offers?”

  Pozoga had no idea what the Russian was talking about, but he was instantly on alert. “Opportunity? What are you talking about?”

  Pavlov sighed heavily and turned to Morozov. “Yuriy Grigor’ich, will you please explain to
the Deputy Minister?”

  Morozov intoned, “Saudi Arabia is a very difficult target to penetrate, Comrade Deputy Minister. The fact that you hold these men in custody charged with a capital crime is a stroke of luck. With such leverage, we should be able to recruit them. We need assets inside ‘The Kingdom,’ and this is a unique opportunity.”

  Pozoga sat in silence for a few beats, considering how he would break the news to the Russians. Damn them. This is none of their affair. At the same time, he realized that this was an idea that his own intelligence people should already have been working on.

  “This is a matter for our justice system, Comrades," he said carefully. "A young woman, a mere girl, was brutally murdered.” Pozoga knew he was holding a weak hand, and this argument was as insubstantial as a tissue for the Russians.

  Pavlov was not to be put off. “The security of the State must at times supersede ‘justice,’” he said. “To put it bluntly, we want you to hand these two over to us.”

  “That is not possible, Comrade General” said Pozoga. Jesus, I hate these arrogant bastards, he thought. How can I stave off the embarrassment? He needed another cigarette badly.

  Morozov leaned menacingly across the table, the Russian bear stretching his clawed paw across the Polish plain, “Come, come, comrade,” he emphasized the word, “Surely we can work something out … amicably.”

  Pozoga didn’t like the implication. “There is something else, comrade General,” he said, addressing his words to Pavlov. “Only one of the two arrestees remains in custody. The Saudi national was deported two days ago.” He could not help adding, “Your sources are apparently not so well informed.”