“So he’s still actively investigating?”
“He gave every impression of doing so. Kept pressing about what our announcement was going to be. Are you going to tell Dmitri Borisovich?”
Natalia turned back into the room. “That’s why I asked to see you. Dmitri Borisovich intends to issue the press release today. Wants to know about Belous.”
“He’s still in custody.”
“Have you told him what will happen to him if he says anything about his mother being NKVD?”
Lestov nodded. “And he believes me.”
“Keep him in custody for the next few days, just the same.”
“Are you going to tell Dmitri Borisovich about America?” pressed Lestov. He was where he was now-liked being where he was now-because of some earlier internal intrigue he still didn’t properly understand. As the bearer of the message, he didn’t himself want to become a victim by its not being passed on to everyone who should know. Searching for the persuasion, he said, “It might affect his making the release.”
“I know,” said Natalia, coming back to her desk to pick up the telephone.
Openly boasting to colleagues in the embassy of deceiving his own department, thought Gerald Williams, triumphantly. Colleagues who could be called as witnesses, if an internal tribunal could be convened. There’d be no way Rupert Dean or Jeremy Simpson could go on protecting their precious pet monkey once that was brought out. It all came very nicely on the back of Muffin’s appearance before them earlier in the week. Even Dean and the legal adviser had been hard-pressed to support the man then and the deputy director-generalhad certainly been receptive to the suggestion afterward that the investigation was going to fizzle out inconclusively, exposing the department to criticism if not open ridicule.
In fact,
34
Kenton Peters’s weekend house was original old colonial, white, columned and with an encircling veranda overlooking the immediate, oak-treed grounds and the paddocks and stables beyond, where the Arabians were bred. There was a stallion and three mares in the nearest one. Peters and Boyce sat savoring the tranquillity and privilege in shared contentment and in matching, high-backed wicker chairs that crackled slightly when they moved, their highballs on the separating table between them. It was their second. They were still dressed for golf, which had ended an hour earlier. Boyce had intentionally taken five on a par four on the back nine, to let Peters win their $25 wager. Boyce knew the American would have done the same for him, if they’d been in England. Everything in their ordered lives had understood rules.
Peters said, “Had some trouble with the damned woman in Moscow, towards the end. Impudent. Had her fired.”
Boyce said, “Really! I had the impression from some of the message traffic I’ve seen that she was still on station.”
“She hadn’t better be,” said the American, indignantly. He made a mental note to check.
“Was there any resentment, from the Bureau or the CIA or your military people?”
“I simply told the Agency and the military to keep out of it. The military are getting their Arlington glory with the president, so they’re happy. Bureau director was a bit stiff at first. But he’s a political appointee and they do as they’re told in the end, particularly if they get to like the job, which most of them do. As I said when all this began, it was your difficulty I sympathized with.”
“Used the principle of divide and rule,” reminded Boyce, toying idly with the tee he found in his pocket. “Knew all the archives were clean, so I just told each of them a little about the need to avoid difficulties if they had any skeletons in their department cupboards and left them to stumble around and get in each other’s way to cause as much confusion as possible with Dean’s people, whom I had the Intelligence Committee supposedly give the full investigation. It was all a bit of a farce, really. None of them knew they were performing in one, of course.”
The butler came inquiringly on to the veranda and Peters nodded to more drinks. To Boyce he said, “Eight suit you for dinner?”
“Perfect,” accepted the Englishman.
Peters said, “I’ve officially told the Bureau the investigation is over.”
“Was it wise, to do so officially?” queried Boyce. “Being professionally curious is the job of most of these people.”
Peters coaxed a slim but long cheroot into life, expelling a perfect smoke ring toward the distant horses. “I told the director it was national security, that most convenient of panaceas, and for everyone below it was on a need-to-know basis and they had no need to know.”
“The number of people that I had to deal with has given me a problem there,” admitted Boyce. “I’m just going to let them thrash around until they themselves have to admit defeat. Might be necessary to initiate an internal inquiry, to apportion responsibility for failure. It’s the sort of thing that would be expected.”
They stopped talking while the drinks were served.
As the butler left, Peters said, “That mean you’re not entirely sure your archives
Boyce smiled. “It means I don’t like losing control. And that everything is going to appear to have been done properly and fully.”
Now the American laughed. “Losing control is a sin we neither of us will ever be accused of.” He sipped the new drink and said, “You spoken to your man?”
“Day before I flew here.”
“And?”
“He’s fine. Quite remarkable, for his age.”
“No risk of his giving way?”
“Why should he? That’s the last thing he’d allow.”
“Of course,” accepted the American. “Media have been more of a nuisance than I expected. Still are, in fact. You thought what to do about that?”
“Not really,” conceded the other man. “Future role of Dean’s department is a bit uncertain, so they’re convenient if public scapegoats are necessary. Muffin’s the obvious choice. He was on television from Yakutsk, remember: he’s identifible. Useful, really, that we didn’t go ahead with the other idea.”
“Always good to get the maximum benefit,” agreed the American.
“When’s your Arlington ceremony?”
“Next Friday. It’ll stoke the media pressure, I guess, but it can’t be helped.”
“You won’t be there, of course?”
“Of course not!” said Peters, actually surprised at being asked if he’d ever appear at any public, media- recorded event.
“You know,” said Boyce. “While all this has been going on, I’ve thought several times how much I’d like to have met Clarence Mitchell, the man who set the whole thing up on our side.”
“Peabody did it from here,” supplied Peters. “Samuel H. Peabody. Hell of a brain, both of them, for devising it.”
“And keeping it going for so long,” said Boyce. “That was the true brilliance.”
“Genius,” agreed Peters.
“And it can’t be said we’ve failed them,” said Boyce, self-congratulatory. “It could have gone very badly wrong if we hadn’t acted as quickly and so effectively as we did.”
“True,” agreed Peters. “Very true indeed. I wouldn’t want it any other way, but sometimes I wish people knew what we did to keep them safe in their beds.”
Boyce gestured expansively, encompassing the house and grounds. “It has its rewards.”
“My own money, not a penny from the taxpayer,” reminded Peters. “We’re eating pheasant tonight. Shot them myself. Been hanging just long enough.”
