Brian Garfield - Checkpoint Charlie

Dennis made a drink and left me alone with it; he didn’t want Poltov to see his face. Poltov had been recruited by another Control and was run by a cutout, all standard procedure, and Poltov had no idea who his real boss was. It didn’t matter if he saw my face; I’d be out of the country soon anyway; but Dennis had to be protected — he was Embassy staff.

Poltov arrived at half past eleven. He was a neat small fellow with carefully combed grey hair and the conceited self-confidence of a Cockney pimp. He had something to do with computers — a fact that had made him a great prize to Dennis Sneden’s department because it gave Poltov access to every question, answer and program that went through the computer banks on the MIG-32 project.

He introduced himself and shook my hand; he seemed amused by my corpulence. He made himself a drink without asking. Cognac, I noticed — none of the domestic trash for him. He’d be much more comfortable in sharkskin than in the drab Moscow serge he wore; he had ambitions to be dapper. One day, with the money we were paying him, he’d find his way to Austria or Denmark and set himself up in luxury.

When he had tasted the cognac he smiled at me. He spoke a hard Kharkov Russian that I had a little trouble following. “May I ask who you are?”

“Call me Tovarich Ivanovitch if you like,” I said.

“Your accent is atrociously American.”

“I’m not much of a linguist. They gave me the eight-week course at the Army school in Monterrey. Sit down, Tovarich, and tell me what unusual things have happened to you in the past forty-eight hours.”

“Unusual? Yes — there’s been one thing.”

“What was it?”

“The summons to this meeting.” He smiled again, enjoying his little joke.

“Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No.”

“No break in routine? No phone calls from strangers? No odd encounters? No questions?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you had security briefing? Do you know how to disclose a tail?”

“Yes. I know it if I’m being watched. I’m often watched, it’s part of the job. They’re clumsy idiots, most of them. I was tailed Monday when I left the computer building. Three men, one car. They shadowed me to the GUM store and then to my flat. I went to bed and in the morning they were gone. It was a routine check on my movements — it happens once or twice a week to all of us. May I ask the reason for these questions?”

“What would you say if I told you that some of the information you’ve been selling us is false?”

“I would say you are misinformed.”

“Poltov, if they’ve doubled you and you’re feeding us false information for them, we’ll have you terminated with extreme prejudice. You know the term?”

“Yes. I understand you have the responsibility to do that. But only if I have betrayed you. And I haven’t.”

“You’re too calm about it to suit me,” I said. “What, no indignation at the unjust accusation?”

Poltov smiled gently. “We’re accustomed to such charges here. Indignation is not a useful response. I am well paid for what I sell to you. My Swiss account grows nicely. I’ve never sold you false information. If I ever do, I shall expect you to teminate me.”

Beneath the fatalistic surface his smile was really quite bright and ingenuous.

Dennis was cautious. “Why should you believe him?”

“Partly intuition — he’s a game player, he enjoys the danger, but he’s not devious enough to play both ends against the middle. If he were crossing us he’d be nervous about it.”

“I still don’t see how—”

I said, “If they saw the files they know he’s working for us. And if they know he’s working for us they can’t afford knowingly to let him go on releasing accurate data to us. The project’s too vital to their security. Either they’ll falsify the information he acquires, or they’ll force him to discontinue delivering it. Either way we’ll know it’s blown.”

He managed a sickly smile. “I hope it turns out he’s clean.”

“Because if he’s clean then your record’s clean?”

“Charlie, I’m only human.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The security lapse was there whether or not the Russians managed to take advantage of it.”

Brief anger flashed from him but then he slumped behind the desk. “I guess I knew that anyway. Listen — no hard feelings. I know you’ve been fair.” He flicked his windproof lighter open, ignited it and poked his cigarette into the flame.

That was when the phone buzzed. He picked it up, spoke and listened; I watched his face change in a violent exhalation of smoke. When he cradled it he looked angry, then crushed. “The bastards. Begorenko committed suicide this morning.”

“Begorenko?”

“One of our agents in the GRU. One of the names in the safe. Charlie, I think it must mean they got into the safe.”

It called for a council of war. Reinforcements were summoned from the Security Executive — young Leonard Ross flew in from Paris and then we were favored with the presence of Joe Cutter who arrived handsome and alert from Tokyo; finally on Saturday Myerson himself flew in over the Pole from Langley and we had a quorum. In the Embassy’s conference room the jammers were running and the blinds drawn.

First Sneden reported, bringing it up to date. “We lost another one last night. Rastovic jumped off the roof of a block of flats in Leningrad. Less than forty-eight hours after Begorenko’s death. Of course we don’t know if they killed themselves or if they were suicided by the Organs but means the same thing either way — we’re blown. Six operations, eleven operatives. Including the MIG-32 program.”

Ross: “Are we sure of that? It couldn’t be coincidence?”

Cutter: “Two dead out of eleven? Not a chance.”

Sneden: “I’m afraid Joe’s right. I feel miserable about this. It’s my fault — I was too lax in my guidelines for third-floor security. The safe should never have been unlocked.”

Cutter: “Why wasn’t it locked?”

Sneden: “Ease of access. We had five different Controls in and out of it all the time. Plus myself and occasionally the First Secretary. If we had to unlock the damn thing every time...”

Myerson: “All right, all right. Let’s hear from Mr. Dark.”

Me: “A couple of curious items. See what you make of them. Item one — evidence of arson. Traces of lighter fluid residue in the wastebasket where the fire started. Any comments?”

Cutter: “The fire had to be set by somebody inside. It was burning before the Russian firemen arrived. Elementary conclusion: a saboteur among us. Elementary question: to what purpose?”

Me: “Elementary answer: to cover something up and/or provide a distraction. Agreed?”

Myerson: “Go on, Charlie.”

“Me: Item two. As far as we know, the computer information coming through from agent Poltov is still clean. If not accurate it’s at least plausible to our scientists who’ve been analyzing it as it comes through. As of last night, when I had my third interview with Poltov, he claimed he’d been neither harassed nor approached.”

Ross: “How do we know he’s not lying about that? How do we know he hasn’t been doubled?”

Myerson: “Intuition, Charlie?”

Me: “No. Logic. If they knew he was feeding us they’d stop him or falsify the data. They’ve done neither. Therefore they don’t know he’s ours.”

Cutter: “Fascinating.”

Me: “I knew you’d be the first one to see the point, Joe. Your mind’s always six steps ahead of everybody else’s. Next to me you’re the best.”

Cutter: “I might put it the other way around, there, Charlie.”

Me: “You’d be wrong. Your talent’s equal to mine but I still have the edge in experience.”