Back Channel (11 page)

Gwynn’s smile was a cruel, thin-lipped line in the fleshy face. At least that was the only smile Harrington ever saw. He was said to have another. On the Georgetown cocktail-party circuit, Gwynn was received happily as a guest of considerable charm, even if none of his hosts knew precisely what his job entailed.

“Call the operation what you want, Dr. Harrington. I would like to know why exactly I shouldn’t terminate it immediately.”

Harrington composed herself. She had a tendency to temper, she knew, and although Gwynn was less powerful than he thought, it would not be wise to alienate him just now. He might be unpleasant, but he wasn’t wrong. She
had
gone behind his back, the Central Intelligence Agency
was
getting annoyed at her shenanigans, and continuing support for
SANTA GREEN
was
in jeopardy. So she skipped over the facts that she, not he, held the operational charter, and that the authority to end the mission did not actually rest in his hands.

“Alfred,” she said pleasantly—or as pleasantly as she could manage—“we still don’t know what’s in those crates. Another cargo ship arrived in Cuba yesterday. The morning intelligence report says that the dockworkers who unloaded the crates were being supervised by Soviet troops. Not just military advisers. Infantry, openly displaying weapons. Whatever is being offloaded, the Soviets are taking no chances.”

Gwynn sniffed. “Nobody believes there are missiles in those crates, Doctor. Nobody but you. The Reds aren’t that stupid.”

“They’re not stupid at all, Alfred. They’re frightened, and they’re most likely calculating that we won’t risk war over …” She saw his stony face and knew that she had made the case too many times, that persuasion was out of the question. “And, yes, you might be right. There’s nothing there; I’m wrong. But the White House is screaming at all the agencies to find out. That’s all I’m trying to do, Alfred. Help find out. I agree,
SANTA GREEN
is a shot in the dark. And, yes, I know, the Agency has any number of operations of its own in place. But the more feelers we put out, the sooner we’ll know whether the security of the nation is at risk. This isn’t about bureaucratic reward. This is about avoiding a war that could kill tens of millions of Americans.”

Gwynn frowned, and went on frowning. He drummed his stubby fingers on the blotter. Harrington had thrown in the line about bureaucratic reward because advancement was all that kept her superior in Washington. He dreamed of escaping from the intelligence thicket and rising to undersecretary, or, failing that, a prestigious ambassadorship. It had happened to others. By making clear that she had no interest in moving up the hierarchy, Harrington was reminding him of his own interest in exactly that.

He fluffed the flimsies back into their folder. “Cards on the table, then. I suppose we can keep
QKPARCHMENT
—excuse me,
SANTA GREEN
—alive a little longer. But I want all requests for additional resources to flow through proper channels. That means I sign off before anything crosses the river. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“And if you really expect the Agency to provide more bodies to keep your agent warm and comfortable, I strongly suggest that you dig up evidence to persuade them that the chances of success are significant. We need to know what’s in those crates, but we also need to balance the likelihood of attaining our goal against the cost of the resources involved. Remember, it’s the taxpayers whose money we’re spending. It’s not our own—it’s a public trust. We’re accountable,” he proclaimed proudly. “Cuba isn’t the only trouble spot we have to keep an eye on, you know. Now, I’ve learned through experience to pay attention to your hunches,” he lied, rushing past her objections to his
sophistry, “but the clowns across the river don’t necessarily share my respect for your acumen. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Oh, and, Dr. Harrington, one more thing.” The black eyes were hard and glittery. “If by chance some calamity does befall
GREENHILL
, she’s on her own. This is the wrong time for a diplomatic incident. We don’t trade for her, we don’t acknowledge her, we don’t do anything. Don’t give me that look. The orders come from the highest levels.”

“The highest levels? What does that mean, somebody you met at a party last night?”

The smile really was too self-satisfied. “It means the White House.”

Captain Viktor Vaganian was exhausted. His body had always adjusted poorly to changes in sleep patterns. But you were bound to upset your cycle when you shuttled from one side of the globe to the other. What his investigation had uncovered worried him enough that two days ago he had flown home to Moscow to consult with his superiors. They had given him fresh orders and sent him right back to Washington. The new orders broadened his authority at the embassy. But that wasn’t all.

So important had his investigation become to the success of Anadyr that he was now permitted, in his sole discretion, to use “direct action,” a euphemism for lethal force—usually the province of Department T of the First Chief Directorate. And Viktor had the assurances of the hierarchy that his diplomatic immunity would protect him from legal processes even if he happened to kill an American or two along the way.

The summons arrived on the day of the big game. When Agatha and Margo left their room to go down to breakfast, they turned left toward the stairs, because the elevator, which lay in the other direction, racketed and groaned as if in preparation for spectacular collapse. Their room was on the eighth floor, but when they climbed, Agatha never even seemed winded.

Bobby was on twelve.

They passed the floor concierge, a massive woman swathed in black crepe who usually dozed in alcoholic slumber, but on this occasion she roused herself and called after them, “Miss! Message! Miss!”

Agatha told Margo to stay where she was. She crossed the threadbare carpet to the desk, spoke a few words to the woman, and gave her a couple of coins. The concierge muttered her message, then returned to her somnolence. Back at Margo’s side, Agatha translated.

“Bobby would like you to come to his room,” she said.

“Now? He’s never up this early.”

“I guess he is today.”

“Can I get breakfast first?” She saw Agatha’s expression. “Oh. Right. Let’s go.”

The minder shook her head. “You know I can’t go with you, honey. He didn’t ask for me.” She leaned close, whispered: “I’m not part of the story. You are.”

And indeed, Margo knew nothing of the minder’s story. Not where she came from, why her colleagues were afraid of her, even whether “Agatha Milner” was her real name. They had traveled together for two days and roomed together for the past week, and Margo knew her no better than the day they met in Washington. But she admired Agatha’s calm in all situations, and the way Agatha never took no for an answer. She had begun to see in her minder someone to emulate.

“It’s a trick,” said Bobby. “They just want to take me away tonight.”

His room was one of the largest in the resort—he had changed twice—and three different chess positions were set up on the desk and two rickety tables, another on the floor. There were chess books everywhere, many not in English: he traveled with a valise-full, and bought more at every stop. He was striding in circles on the dingy carpet, dressed in white shirt and dark slacks and slippers, hands tousling his hair into an angry mess. He had received a message, it seemed: a piece of paper stuffed under his door yesterday, during his game. Bobby had glanced at it last night but only sent word this morning. Margo held the paper in her hand now: the name of a restaurant, today’s date, and the time: 2200.

“This must be the appointment for the interview,” said Margo, very conscious of the microphones. “It’s tonight at ten o’clock.”

“I
know
that. But I’m playing Botvinnik today. He’s the world champion. He’s pretty good, so it’ll take me a while to beat him. The game will be adjourned after five hours. That means we finish tomorrow morning. And
that
means I have to analyze the position tonight. That’s why they want me to go off to some restaurant for an interview. So I’ll do lousy analysis and mess up the endgame and lose. That’s what the Russians do, Margo. They cheat. They’ve been working against me for years.” All of this as he stomped around the room. He stopped at the grimy window, pointed. “See the water out there? Remember, when we checked in, how they had me on the other side, facing the tower? I was practically looking into somebody else’s room. That’s what they do. See, that way, they can look in my window and see what moves I’m studying. More Russian cheating. That’s why I made you change my room.”

“Yes, Bobby, but this is different—”

He had found the game he wanted and was moving the pieces, very fast. “If it’s so important, you go. You can tell me about it tomorrow.”

Agatha had a map. She marked the location of the restaurant, then had Margo write in her own hand the name, in English block capitals, painstakingly misspelled.

“Just in case,” said Agatha.

“In case what?”

The minder shrugged. They were standing in the surf once more, slacks rolled up to their knees. “The map is camouflage. If you have the map, if you’re constantly reading street signs, it’s evidence that you’re just a tourist.”

“Does anybody suspect I’m not?” asked Margo, suddenly chilly, and not because of the waves. “What if the whole thing is a trap?”

“The whole thing might well be a trap.”

“What am I supposed to do in that case?”

“That’s what Bobby is for. The Bulgarians wouldn’t dare arrest him. Their own chess fans would riot.” Agatha smiled. “Bobby is your protection, Margo.”

“I thought I was escorting him, not the other way around.”

“And I thought by now you understood. You’re the one who’s going to carry the message. You’re the one who matters. Bobby’s a lunatic. His only function in the entire operation is to be at your side so that nobody will touch you.”

Margo stared. “When were you planning to tell me this?”

The smile never wavered. “I just did.”

“Bobby is my protection. Not the other way around.”

“That’s right.”

“So—what do I do if he won’t go tonight?”

Agatha’s watchful brown eyes apologized. “You’re a woman,” she murmured, in eerie echo of Stilwell’s taunts back in Ithaca. “Persuade him.”

Margo had seen quite a bit of Varna. In the mornings, while Bobby slept in or studied his chess, she spent the hours wandering the town, especially the older parts, the churches and monasteries and even occasional castles that had survived war, pestilence, and socialism—to say nothing of ordinary plunder, for the stone for many of the buildings constructed in the past half-century came from demolishing walls and bridges and even palaces in disused corners of the city. She had seen Euxinograd Palace, with its magnificent gardens, and the dank caves in the hills above the city, where aging monks guarded manuscripts and relics said to unlock the secrets of the universe. She had tried to attend Sunday services at the Dormition of the Theotokos Cathedral but had been prevented by the usher for reasons he had not seen fit to put into English, so she contented herself instead with taking photographs of the golden domes with her Kodak Instamatic. Another time, she went to one of the city’s handful of private vineyards, where the proprietors were so delighted to see an American that they piled her with bottles to take home. Untouched, the bottles sat in the hotel room, although, on Agatha’s advice, she had doled out a couple to the staff.

Sometimes Agatha joined her on these little jaunts. Margo’s only other company was a young fellow in a red leather jacket, who materialized whenever she headed into town. He rode a motorcycle and managed constantly to stay on her tail. Even when she sauntered through an alley, he would show up at the other end. She was careful to keep looking at him; and never to try to escape him.

They will watch you night and day,
Harrington had warned.
That’s their beastly way, my dear. There’s no time to train you in techniques for losing surveillance, and even if we did, your newfound abilities would only make you stand out. This way, it isn’t personal. They think every Westerner is a spy, poor lambs. The more nervous you are around them, the more they’ll be sure you’re the rare one who isn’t.

The Bulgarians were fascinated by her blackness, particularly once they learned that she was not African—she was of the branch enslaved rather than colonized by the capitalists. People came up to her in the street to ask innocently aggressive questions about America: What was it like to live in a country ruled by the Central Intelligence Agency? Was it true that millionaires could have their servants flogged, or
were they simply thrown in prison these days? Once a prosperous-looking family commanded her disdainfully to pose with them for a photograph, snapped by a stylish woman holding a Kodak camera that looked suspiciously like the one stolen from her hotel room the day before. But when she tried to inquire, the family’s English, theretofore quite serviceable, deserted them.

Still, Margo loved the city. She adored the architecture and the art. The people were friendly despite the weight of history, for this was a land whose polyglot culture stood as testimony to its frequent occupation over the past thousand years by larger powers. And there was something else. During World War II, Bulgaria, under Tsar Boris III, had been one of the Axis powers. Following the Nazi lead, the country had enacted severe restrictions on its Jewish population, limiting everything from property rights to education to permissible names. But, unlike other Axis countries, Bulgaria had refused Nazi demands to send its Jews to the camps. Forty-eight thousand Jews lived in Bulgaria when the war began; nearly all of them survived the Holocaust.

The Bulgarians at their best were a brave and charitable people; Margo would be counting on those qualities tonight.