Deep Lie (27 page)

After passing through a heavily guarded main gate.

Appicella was surprised by the appearance of the place—it seemed so Western—and he was further surprised and intrigued by three large satellite dish antennas situated on the roof of the low building into which he was being escorted by an extremely comely young woman. He passed through an open work area where other, equally comely young women were working on the terminals he had installed for Firsov in Moscow, then through a reception area and into a handsome office. Firsov came from around a desk with his hand extended.

Em ilio How are you? So very good to see you.”

“Roy!” Appicella returned the greeting with equal enthusiasm.

“Come and sit down, I have a lot to tell you,” Firsov said. He mixed them both a drink, then joined Appicella on the sofa.

“First of all, I am known here not as Roy, but Viktor. Viktor Majorov. I won’t bore you with the rca187 sons, but I would be grateful if you could make the adjustment.”

“Of course, Viktor,” Appicella replied.

“After all, if Lenin and Stalin could change their names, why not you?”

Majorov laughed heartily.

“Well, now, let me tell you why I needed you so badly at this time.”

“Please do. My fees being what they are. I certainly don’t want to delay getting down to business.”

“Look over there.” Majorov said. pointing across the room to a conference table.

Appicella looked. The Russian had not been kidding when he had called. He had got hold of an IBM PC AT computer.

“Well, good for you, Viktor,” he said.

“Those things are in short supply; there probably aren’t more than half a dozen of them in Europe, outside the IBM organization.”

“You said on the phone you had worked with one before,” Majorov said, a little worriedly, Appicella thought.

“Of course.” he smiled.

“I have one of the half-dozen in Europe; I’ve been doing some development work on it.”

“What do you think of it?” Majorov asked.

“It’s quite a nice machine—512k of memory in the basic machine, expandable up to two megabytes; a 1.2 megabyte floppy disk drive, and a twenty megabyte hard disk. I’ve put together a board that will make it support twelve terminals, instead of the standard three.”

“That is exactly what I want,” Majorov said. excitedly.

” I want to switch from the CPM-based equipment you put together for us last year to this system, and I want to transfer all the files we have accumulated. Can you do that?”

“Well, I can get the equipment up and running and expanded with what I have brought with me. Are all the files you want to transfer written with the WordStar word processing program?”

“Yes.”

“Good. then using them after they are transferred should not be a problem.”

“How long will it take?”

“A few days. if I don’t run into hardware problems.

I’ve brought the board with me, but there is still work to be done on it. I assume you have a copy of the operating system and the manuals.”

“Yes. Can we use our existing terminals with the AT?”

“Yes, no problem. Where will I work?”

Majorov led him through a door to an adjoining conference room.

“How’s this?”

“It will be fine. I will need a drawing board and a lighted magnifying glass, in addition to my own toolbox.

Please have the AT moved in here, and you will either have to have the terminals moved in here, or, if you want your girls to go on using them as long as possible, I’ll have to run some cabling to the existing central processing unit.”

“We’ll run the cabling then,” Majorov said.

“The girls are quite busy at the moment. Speaking of girls, I assumed you’d like some company this evening.”

“Indeed, yes.” Appicella smiled.

“Tell me, is that little blonde still with you, what was her name, Trina?”

Majorov frowned.

“Yes, but I’m afraid she’s not very well at the moment. What about the girl who brought you in, the tall redhead?”

“She’s lovely. She’ll do very nicely.”

“Let’s get you quartered then, and I’ll give you a little tour on the way.”

Appicella followed Majorov from the building, and they got into an electric golf cart.

“This place is a sports center, a training facility for various athletes,” Majorov said, steering the cart down the hill.

“There are whatever athletic facilities you might like to use. but as I remember, you prefer indoor sports.”

“You are right, my friend,” Appicella replied.

“Down there is a small beach, next to the marina, if you’d like a swim. The Baltic is quite pleasant this time of year.” Majorov pointed to a gate across the way, where a guard stood watch.

“I’m afraid I must ask you not to wander in that direction. That’s off limits, and the guards are nervous.”

“Whatever you say. The beach does sound appealing, though.”

Majorov steered the cart up a paved path, and they came to a small, detached house set in some trees.

“This is one of our guest cottages; I think you will find it comfortable.”

He produced a piece of paper.

“There are restaurants on the grounds,” he said.

“This is a little map and a list of the facilities. We’re quite isolated here, so there’s no point in looking for entertainment outside the main gates. Anyway, the guards have instructions to allow no one to leave without a pass. It would be simpler if you stayed on the grounds.” He led the way into a comfortably furnished sitting room, then showed Appicella a small kitchen and bar and a bedroom with a large bed.

Appicella could hear some sort of motor running.

“What’s that noise?” he asked.

“Ah,” Majorov smiled, “that’s coming from the bathroom.

Your bags are already here. I’ll have your equipment cases put in your workroom. I’m afraid I can’t dine with you tonight, but you’ll be in good company. In fact, we may see very little of each other while you’re here. I’m very busy at the moment.”

“That is all right, Viktor, I understand.”

“Tell Olga if you need anything. She’ll let me know.”

“Olga?”

“She’s the noise in the bathroom,” Majorov laughed.

“Have a pleasant evening. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He let himself out of the cottage.

Appicella walked into the bedroom and toward the bathroom door, and the noise grew louder. He opened the door and peeked inside. The redhead was sitting in a large Jacuzzi bath, smiling at him.

“Hello, Olga,” Appicella said, working on his buttons. RULE arrived at her desk just before two, to find a memo waiting, asking her to be in the director’s conference room at two o’clock for a meeting of office heads. She arrived breathlessly on the executive floor just in time to turn everyone’s head and interrupt the director as he was about to begin. They were all gathered around the long table, the director standing at the end. At his right hand sat Simon Rule; at his left, Alan Nixon.

The director had been a big-time tax lawyer in Washington before his former client, the President, had appointed him Director of Central Intelligence. His previous experience in intelligence work had been when he had parachuted into occupied France on a mission for Wild Bill Donovan’s Office of Strategic Services, the World War U predecessor to the CIA, and he had never let anybody forget it.

“Now that we’re all here,” he said pointedly, looking at Rule, “I want to have a little chat with you all. As you know, I’m testifying before the Senate Intelligence Committee tomorrow on the subject of our request for funds to expand our technology. As you also know. Senator Carr. the chairman of the committee has something of a little crusade on these days about our use of technology, as opposed to HUMINT. The senator is a bit of a romantic, I believe, and he thinks we should be devoting more of our resources to cranking out James Bonds and less to the high

1Q1 tech stuff and disinformation operations that have proved so productive since I became Director of Central Intelligence.

He claims that you people, the best intelligence analysts in the world, can’t analyze unless you hear from some super sleuth out there on his belly in the grass. Well, I think that’s a lot of horse shit, and I intend to tell him so tomorrow.

“Now, I also intend to tell him that my analysts are behind me on this, and that’s why I’ve called you here today. I do not want to pick the Washington Post the day after tomorrow and read that so-called informed sources are saying that there’s dissent on this in the directorate of Intelligence. In short, I don’t want any leaks to the press on this.

I…”

The director paused. Harmon Pool, the head of the Central American Office, was on his feet. Rule knew him well enough to know he was angry.

“Mr. Director,” Pool said, in a low, even voice, “forgive me for interrupting, but can you cite a single instance of a leak from the Directorate of Intelligence, ever?” He remained standing.

Harmon Pool was retiring soon, and he apparently was in no mood to take any crap from a political appointee.

The director looked flustered.

“Now, uh.. he leaned toward Alan Nixon, who said something without moving his lips, “Pool, yes. I know how loyal you people are, and I certainly didn’t mean to imply that security was lax in the

DI.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pool said, and sat down.

“What I mean is, I want unanimity on this issue, and I just want to say to you people that if there are any complaints about my position on this, I want to hear them now.” He looked defiantly around the table.

“Anybody?”

The group exchanged glances or looked away from him, but nobody said anything. Rule knew of at least two other office heads who had been complaining about a shortage of HUMINT coming in, but nobody had been prepared for this sort of bullying from the director.

“Come on, let’s hear it,” the director said, sensing victory in their silence, “can anybody cite so much as a single instance of a critical absence of HUMINT on a tech-based report?” He looked slowly around the table, his jaw set.

“Good,” he said.

“I expect that…” He stopped, his eyes narrowing.

“Ms. Rule?”

Rule was surprised to find herself on her feet, but now that she was, she had no intention of stopping.

“Yes, sir, I think I can do that; in fact I can cite two instances in less than thirty days. In the first, a sat shot came through showing what I think might be a new Soviet SPETSNAZ training base on the coast of Latvia, disguised as a sports facility. There are indications that it might also be a submarine base, and although I have requested HUM1NT from ops, we apparently have no one on the ground, not a cleaning lady, not a garbage collector, who can confirm or dispute it.” The director was glaring at her, his eyes slits, his nostrils flared.

“In the second instance,” she went on, being careful to keep her tone informative and civil, sat shots have confirmed the existence of at least two wing-in-ground-effect aircraft which are operational, although we didn’t believe such a plane was feasible. That work must have been going on for years, and our technical facilities didn’t detect it until the aircraft were flying, and we don’t really know whether the Soviets have two or two hundred of them.” She sat down.

The director continued to stare at her. Simon was staring at her, too. Alan Nixon had taken off his glasses and was rubbing the bridge of his nose, his eyes tightly shut.

“That’s all,” the director said, suddenly, then he turned on his heel and left the room.

A moment passed before anyone realized they had been dismissed. Finally, people began silently filing out. Rule got out of her chair and started for the door.

“Katharine,” Simon’s voice said from behind her.

She turned.

“Stay a moment, please.”

She sat down again. Simon and Alan Nixon remained seated at the opposite end of the table. Simon turned to Nixon.

“Alan, I don’t want to trespass on your directorate, but I wonder if I might have a moment alone with Katharine.”

“Of course, Simon,” Nixon said. He left the room.

Simon stared silently at her for a moment. He was aging well, she thought. The yellow hair was streaked with gray, now, and his neck bulged around his button-down collar a bit, but he remained a handsome, even distinguished-looking man.

“How’s Peter?” she asked into the silence.

“He’s very well, thank you. He and Missy have become quite good friends.” He was silent for another moment.

“Katharine, I think you should resign from the agency.”

His voice was flat and without expression, which made it seem menacing.

She was shocked.

“You have no right to say that to me,” she was finally able to say.

“I’m speaking professionally, not personally,” he said.

“I don’t believe you are suited for this work.”