“We think Nethercutt had a stash as well, and that after he died his old rival Cabot came over from next door and found it. That’s probably what set off this whole thing.”
It made sense. It also explained some of the contacts and documents Cabot had come up with. New information would have made him feel empowered enough to reopen his old investigation.
“So it stands to reason,” West said, “that Cabot must also have a stash. He’s probably had one all along, but now it will have Nethercutt’s stuff, too, plus whatever you’ve sent him.”
“How am I supposed to find it?”
“Bait,” Harrison said. “One last item that you’ll send his way, juicy enough that he’ll want to put it away immediately for safekeeping.”
“Which is another reason you wanted Lothar’s book.”
“We’ll come up with something else. Any ideas?”
I shook my head.
“How were you communicating?” Harrison asked.
“It was pretty much a one-way street. He’d send messages, and I’d do as he asked. Litzi was reporting my movements for a while, but after that I have no idea how he was keeping tabs. The only other channel from my end was a dead drop, next to the Franz Josef statue in the Burggarten.”
Harrison shot a questioning glance at West.
“Worth a try,” West said. “He’s probably still got somebody checking it. Whatever we come up with, you can put it there the day you fly back. On your way to the airport, even. By the time it’s delivered you’ll be in place.”
“On Block Island?”
“I never said that. Never even mentioned it.”
“So where’s this bait, then?”
“We’ll come up with something. Then we’ll shoot it over to your father’s place before you leave. In the meantime, book a flight to Boston and a rental car. If you have any trouble getting a spot on the ferry, let us know and we’ll see to the arrangements.”
“You’re trusting me to handle the tradecraft once I’m there?”
“Once you’re on U.S. soil, we’re not trusting you to do anything. I hope that’s understood.”
“Perfectly.”
“But you’ve read all the books. Obviously you have some idea of how these things work. If he was expecting you, that would be one thing. But he won’t be.”
“What do I do with this stuff if I find it?”
West handed me a slip of paper.
“Here’s an address. By certified mail, if you please.”
It was a post office box in Herndon, Virginia, in care of someone named Elliott Wallace. Fake name, no doubt. An all-purpose conduit for all sorts of Agency detritus.
“You’re trusting this to the U.S. Postal Service?” I asked. “Whatever happened to dead drops?”
Harrison took over.
“This is an address that automatically receives special handling. Besides, setting up a dead drop in certain locales would imply operational activity.”
“So this is to keep the lawyers happy.”
“It’s for your own protection.”
“Maybe I should just destroy the material.”
“It’s U.S. government property. Anything that needs to be destroyed, we’ll manage.”
“With Breece Preston’s approval?”
Harrison looked over at West, who cleared his throat.
“Just use the address, Mr. Cage.”
“One final piece of business,” Harrison said. He handed me a pen and an official-looking sheet of paper. “Date and signature at the bottom, with your full name printed underneath.”
It was a document the Agency called a nondisclosure agreement. I’d seen Marty Ealing persuade people to sign them on behalf of some of our shadier clients. Basically it was a pledge not to disseminate or publish any information I obtained as a result of any employment for the Central Intelligence Agency.
“I thought I wasn’t working for you?”
“Not in any official capacity, no.”
“Then I’m not really employed, so this doesn’t apply to me.”
West looked uncomfortable. Harrison attempted to head me off at the pass.
“We’ve made these things stick before on far more tenuous associations. But if you don’t wish to sign it, fine. We’ll cease all association with you here and now, including any sort of security guarantees for your remaining time in Vienna.”
Nice people, aren’t they?
“What about on Block Island? Who guarantees my security there?”
Harrison sighed, exasperated. I refused to pick up the pen.
“How ’bout if we go off the record a minute, Bill?” It was West, easing into the role of good cop.
“I thought we already were.”
“Well, yes. But I mean way off the record.”
“Okay.”
“Ron Curtin is in custody. He was sitting in the back of that Russian van.”
“So they were working together, him and the Hammerhead.”
“Yes. After competing for a while they eventually joined forces. Let’s just say they both stood to be embarrassed by dredging up too much of the past. Frankly, they’re probably just as happy to let us take custody. That way they don’t have to fight over it now. Anybody but Giles Cabot or Vanity Fair, as far as they’re concerned. But if it makes you feel better, we’ll gladly make sure that both Curtin and the Russian remain in custody until you’re done. Deal?”
“What about afterward?”
“Then they’ll be worried about us. You’ll be off the hook.”
So I signed it. And in doing so presumably signed away any hopes for publishing a story. Just as well, perhaps, especially if a magazine piece would have meant exposing my father’s involvement, or Litzi’s. After all their painstaking effort to maintain their privacy, why blow their cover in an act of journalistic vanity, even if it meant I still had to work for Marty Ealing. Maybe I’d grown up. Just because the CIA’s motto said that the truth would set you free didn’t mean everyone had to know it.
“Tell me,” I asked, “was any of this meeting taped or recorded?”
“Do you seriously think we’d want this conversation appearing in any kind of official record?” Harrison said.
“Then why be so careful every time I mention what I might be doing on-”
“No need to say it.”
“See what I mean?”
He shrugged. “We’re careful because, well, you just never know, do you?”
“That would make a nice Agency motto if you ever get tired of the old one.”
Harrison opened the door. “I’m told that your father has been contacted and is waiting downstairs. We’ll maintain a security presence on your behalf for as long as you remain in Vienna, right up until the time you board a plane back to the States. Go anywhere else and you’re on your own.”
I then asked the question that had already started to nag at me.
“What will you do with this information? Use it, destroy it, or just bury it?”
He smiled.
“Good luck, Mr. Cage.”
38
