Code to Zero (6 page)

Perched on top of the pointed nose of the
Redstone
rocket is what looks like a large birdhouse with a steeply pitched roof and a flagpole stuck through its center. This section, about 13 feet long, contains the second, third, and fourth stages of the missile—and the satellite itself.

Secret agents in America had never been as powerful as they were in January 1958.

The Director of the CIA, Allen Dulles, was the brother of John Foster Dulles, Eisenhower’s Secretary of State—so the Agency had a direct line into the administration. But that was only half the reason.

Under Dulles were four Deputy Directors, only one of whom was important—the Deputy Director for Plans. The Plans Directorate was also known as CS, for Clandestine Services, and this was the department that had carried out coups against left-leaning governments in Iran and Guatemala.

The Eisenhower White House had been amazed and delighted by how cheap and bloodless these coups were, especially by comparison with the cost of a real war such as that in Korea. Consequently, the guys in Plans enjoyed enormous prestige in government circles—though not among the American public, who had been told by their newspapers that both coups were the work of local anticommunist forces.

Within the Plans Directorate was Technical Services, the division that Anthony Carroll headed. He had been hired when the CIA was set up in 1947. He had always planned to work in Washington—his major at
Harvard had been government—and he had been a star of OSS in the war. Posted to Berlin in the fifties, he had organized the digging of a tunnel from the American sector to a telephone conduit in the Soviet zone and had tapped into KGB communications. The tunnel remained undiscovered for six months, during which the CIA amassed a mountain of priceless information. It had been the greatest intelligence coup of the Cold War, and Anthony’s reward had been the top job.

Technical Services was theoretically a training division. There was a big old farmhouse down in Virginia where recruits learned how to break into houses and plant concealed microphones, to use codes and invisible ink, to blackmail diplomats and browbeat informers. But “training” also served as an all-purpose cover for covert actions inside the U.S.A. The fact that the CIA was prohibited, by law, from operating within the United States was no more than a minor inconvenience. Just about anything Anthony wanted to do, from bugging the phones of union bosses to testing truth drugs on prison inmates, could be labelled a training exercise.

The surveillance of Luke was no exception.

Six experienced agents were gathered in Anthony’s office. It was a large, bare room with cheap wartime furniture: a small desk, a steel file cabinet, a trestle table, and a set of folding chairs. No doubt the new headquarters at Langley would be full of upholstered couches and mahogany paneling, but Anthony liked the Spartan look.

Pete Maxell passed around a mug shot of Luke and a typed description of his clothes while Anthony briefed the agents. “Our target today is a middle-ranking State Department employee with a high security clearance,” he said. “He’s having some kind of nervous breakdown. He flew in from Paris on Monday, spent Monday night in the Carlton Hotel, and went on a drinking binge on Tuesday. He stayed out all last night and went to a shelter for homeless people this morning. The security risk is obvious.”

One of the agents, “Red” Rifenberg, put up a hand. “Question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why don’t we just pull him in, ask him what the hell goes on?”

“We will, eventually.”

Anthony’s office door opened, and Carl Hobart came in. A plump, bald man with spectacles, he was head of Specialized Services, which included Records and Decrypting as well as Technical Services. In theory, he was Anthony’s immediate boss. Anthony groaned inwardly and prayed that Hobart would not interfere with what he was doing, today of all days.

Anthony continued with his briefing. “But before we tip our hand, we want to see what the subject does, where he goes—who he contacts, if anyone. A case like this, he may just be having trouble with his wife. But it could be that he’s giving information to the other side, either for ideological reasons or because they’re blackmailing him, and now the strain has gotten to be too much for him. If he’s involved in some kind of treason, we need all the information we can get
before
we pick him up.”

Hobart interrupted. “What’s this?”

Anthony turned to him slowly. “A little training exercise. We’re conducting surveillance on a suspect diplomat.”

“Give it to the FBI,” Hobart said abruptly.

Hobart had spent the war in Naval Intelligence. For him, espionage was a plain matter of finding out where the enemy was and what he was doing there. He disliked OSS veterans and their dirty tricks. The split went right down the middle of the Agency. The OSS men were buccaneers. They had learned their trade in wartime and had scant respect for budgets and protocol. The bureaucrats were infuriated by their nonchalance. And Anthony was the archetypal buccaneer: an arrogant daredevil who got away with murder because he was so good at it.

Anthony gave Hobart a cool look. “Why?”

“It’s the FBI’s job, not ours, to catch communist spies in America—as you know perfectly well.”

“We need to follow the thread to its source. A case like this can unlock a horde of information if we handle it right. But the Feds are only interested in getting publicity for putting Reds in the electric chair.”

“It’s the law!”

“But you and I know it’s horseshit.”

“Makes no difference.”

One thing shared by the rival groups within the CIA was a hatred of the FBI and its megalomaniac director, J. Edgar Hoover. So Anthony said, “Anyway, when was the last time the FBI gave us anything?”

“The last time was never,” Hobart said. “But I’ve got another assignment for you today.”

Anthony began to feel angry. Where did this asshole get off? It was not his job to hand out assignments. “What are you talking about?”

“The White House has called for a report on ways to deal with a rebel group in Cuba. There’s a top-level meeting later this morning. I need you and all your experienced people to brief me.”

“You’re asking me for a briefing on Fidel Castro?”

“Of course not. I know all about Castro. What I need from you are practical ideas for dealing with insurgency.”

Anthony despised this kind of mealy-mouthed talk. “Why don’t you say what you mean? You want to know how to take them out.”

“Maybe.”

Anthony laughed scornfully. “Well, what else would we do—start a Sunday school for them?”

“That’s for the White House to decide. Our job is to present options. You can give me some suggestions.”

Anthony maintained a show of indifference, but inside he was worried. He had no time for distractions today, and he needed all his best people to keep an eye on Luke. “I’ll see what I can do,” Anthony said, hoping Hobart might be satisfied with a vague assurance.

He was not. “My conference room, with all your most experienced agents, at ten o’clock—and no excuses.” He turned away.

Anthony made a decision. “No,” he said.

Hobart turned at the door. “This is not a suggestion,” he said. “Just be there.”

“Watch my lips,” said Anthony.

Reluctantly, Hobart stared at Anthony’s face.

Enunciating carefully, Anthony said, “Fuck off.”

One of the agents sniggered.

Hobart’s bald head reddened. “You’ll hear more about this,” he said. “A lot more.” He went out and slammed the door.

Everyone burst out laughing.

“Back to work,” Anthony said. “Simons and Betts are with the subject at this moment, but they’re due to be relieved in a few minutes. As soon as they call in, I want Red Rifenberg and Ackie Horwitz to take over the surveillance. We’ll run four shifts of six hours each, with a backup team always on call. That’s all for now.”

The agents trooped out, but Pete Maxell stayed back. He had shaved and put on his regular business suit with a narrow Madison Avenue tie. Now his bad teeth and the red birthmark on his cheek were more noticeable, like broken windows in a new house. He was shy and unsociable, perhaps because of his appearance, and he was devoted to his few friends. Now he looked concerned as he said to Anthony, “Aren’t you taking a risk with Hobart?”

“He’s an asshole.”

“He’s your boss.”

“I can’t let him close down an important surveillance operation.”

“But you lied to him. He could easily find out that Luke isn’t a diplomat from Paris.”

Anthony shrugged. “Then I’ll tell him another story.”

Pete looked doubtful, but he nodded assent and moved to the door.

Anthony said, “But you’re right. I’m sticking my neck all the way out. If something goes wrong, Hobart won’t miss a chance to chop my head off.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Then we’d better make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Pete went out. Anthony watched the phone, making himself calm and patient. Office politics infuriated him, but men such as Hobart were always around. After five minutes the phone rang and he picked it up. “Carroll here.”

“You’ve been upsetting Carl Hobart again.” It was the wheezy voice of a man who has been smoking and drinking enthusiastically for most of a lifetime.

“Good morning, George,” said Anthony. George Cooperman was Deputy Chief of Operations and a wartime comrade of Anthony’s. He was Hobart’s immediate superior. “Hobart should stay out of my way.”

“Get over here, you arrogant young prick,” George said amiably.

“Coming.” Anthony hung up. He opened his desk drawer and took out an envelope containing a thick sheaf of Xerox copies. Then he put on his topcoat and walked to Cooperman’s office, which was in P Building, next door.

Cooperman was a tall, gaunt man of fifty with a prematurely lined face. He had his feet on his desk. There was a giant coffee mug at his elbow and a cigarette in his mouth. He was reading the Moscow newspaper
Pravda:
he had majored in Russian literature at Princeton.

He threw down the paper. “Why can’t you be nice to that fat fuck?” he growled. He spoke without removing the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. “I know it’s hard, but you could do it for my sake.”

Anthony sat down. “It’s his own fault. He should have realized by now that I only insult him if he speaks to me first.”

“What’s your excuse this time?”

Anthony tossed the envelope onto the desk. Cooperman picked it up and looked at the Xerox copies. “Blueprints,” he said. “Of a rocket, I guess. So what?”

“They’re top secret. I took them from the surveillance subject. He’s a spy, George.”

“And you chose not to tell Hobart that.”

“I want to follow this guy around until he reveals his whole network—then use his operation for disinformation. Hobart would hand the case over to the FBI, who would pick the guy up and throw him in jail, and his network would fade to black.”

“Hell, you’re right about that. Still, I need you at this meeting. I’m chairing it. But you can let your team carry on the surveillance. If anything happens, they can get you out of the conference room.”

“Thanks, George.”

“And listen. This morning you fucked Hobart up the ass in front of a room full of agents, didn’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“Next time, try and do it gently, okay?” Cooperman picked up
Pravda
again. Anthony got up to leave, taking the blueprints. Cooperman said, “And make damn sure you run this surveillance right. If you screw up on top of insulting your boss, I may not be able to protect you.”

Anthony went out.

He did not return to his office right away. The row of condemned buildings that housed this part of the CIA filled a strip of land between Constitution Avenue and the Mall with the reflecting pool. The motor entrances were on the street side, but Anthony went out through a back gate into the park.

He strolled along the avenue of English elms, breathing the cold fresh air, soothed by the ancient trees and the still water. There had been some bad moments this morning, but he had held it together, with a different set of lies for each party in the game.

He came to the end of the avenue and stood at the halfway point between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. This is all your fault, he thought, addressing the two great presidents. You made men believe they could be free. I’m fighting for your ideals. I’m not even sure I believe in ideals anymore—but I guess I’m too ornery to quit. Did you guys feel that way?

The presidents did not answer, and after a while he returned to Q Building.

In his office he found Pete with the team that had been shadowing Luke: Simons, in a navy topcoat, and Betts, wearing a green raincoat. Also there was the team that should have relieved them, Rifenberg and Horwitz. “What the hell is this?” Anthony said with sudden fear. “Who’s with Luke?”

Simons was carrying a gray homburg hat, and it shook as his hand trembled. “Nobody,” he said.

“What happened?” Anthony roared. “What the fuck happened, you assholes?”