The Second Saladin

gets you another directory. Same thing again. You’ve got codes inside of codes, combinations. It’s the biggest combination safe in the universe. First” — he looked around desperately — “first you’ve got to have access to a terminal in the pit. I mean, physically you have to get into the goddamned building, past all the checkpoints, ride the elevator down, and get a terminal, and the terminals are always busy, every morning, every night, every afternoon, every second of the day.”

He took a deep breath and saw that he was not impressing them.

“Then,” he went on, “then you’ve got to have the right code, or code sequence. I mean there’s no dial-information to help you. You’ve got to know it, know it cold. And it can be anything — the different directorates have their different styles. It can be letters; it can be numbers; it can be a sequence of both, a combination; it can be—” He paused again. Damn them, when would they be impressed?

“The whole thing is built so that only a guy who knows exactly where he’s going has a chance. It’s built to keep people from stumbling into things. You have to know. You’ve got to go from directory to directory, from slug to slug. It’s not the sort of system you can browse through. It’s a labyrinth. Paul, forget it. I worked in that room for two years. I was a champion down there. It can’t be done. We used to try and figure out just as a joke how you could crack the system, but it can’t be done. Paul, I know. That was my war. I never lost.”

He looked beseechingly over at the expert.

“Tell him,” Miles said.

“We need that information,” was all the man said.

A moment of silence came to the room. Somebody snorted; somebody coughed. Miles had a feeling of loss, of hopelessness. He was so alone. He felt like a martyr, trussed for a chestful of pagan arrows.

He now saw what they expected.

“Forget it,” he said. “Paul, just get it out of your head. Do you think I’m crazy?”

He stopped, breathing hard.

But Chardy was just looking calmly at him.

“It’s academic, Paul. Even if I got in, even if I got ’em to plug in the right disc, even if I got a terminal — even if I got all that, I still wouldn’t have a thing without that code. You can’t even—”

“Miles—”

“You can’t even begin to think about it without that code. It would be like walking into the biggest library in the world and randomly pulling volumes off the miles of shelves—”

“Miles—”

“—in search of an index card somebody once taped to a page. It’s—”

He ran out of words.

“Miles,” said Chardy, “we’ve got the code.”

Lanahan was suddenly cold. He shivered. When had he gotten so cold? He rubbed his dry lips. How could all this be happening so fast? Father, help me. Father, tell me what to do. Father —

“Give me a break,” said Miles.

“I can’t give you a break, Miles. You’re our break.”

Miles said nothing.

“The thing we’re looking for was put in place by a guy named Frenchy Short, an old Special Operations Division cowboy who spent six months in Computer Services, right when Harris got the contract and the new system was installed. Frenchy left me a message right before he went off on a solo job to Vienna, where he got killed in a bad, bad way. It’s the sort of thing an old agent would do, and Frenchy at one time was one of the best. Frenchy left me a message with his wife; she was supposed to tell me if he got killed. But things happened, and I didn’t get to see her for six years. Finally, a month or two ago, I got that message. Fetch the shoe that fits, Frenchy told Marion to tell me, Miles. Fetch, these FBI geniuses say, is the key. It’s a computer command; it’s how you order the computer to bring something up out of its guts so you can look at it. The code is the shoe that fits, Miles. It’s H-S-U. That’s pronounced shoe in Chinese. So it’s H-S-U or S-H-U or something like that. A smart operator, they say, with just that much, could probably dig it out.”

Miles looked at him. He was so damned cold.

“What’s down there? What are you fishing for? What’s the shoe that fits?”

“The reason why poor Frenchy sold me — sold Saladin Two, sold the Kurds — to the Russians. To a KGB officer named Speshnev. The reason why he blew us. And the man for whom he did it.”

“Paul, I—”

“Miles, haven’t you caught on yet? To what this is all about? You’re a smart guy. I’m surprised you’re so slow.”

“Paul—”

“Shhh, Miles. Let old Paul tell you why. Miles, the Russians are going to a great deal of trouble to eliminate Joe Danzig, because when he gets to a certain section of his second volume of memoirs he’ll be the first man in history to look carefully at the operation we called Saladin Two, the operation in which we channeled arms and ammo to Kurdish insurgents in northern Iraq from nineteen seventy-three to nineteen seventy-five. You see, somebody in the Agency, one of Danzig’s fans, has slipped him, among a lot of other stuff, the operation files. And when he looks at it carefully, analytically, as he’s sure to, because a lot of his reputation depends on how he justifies it, he’ll see that according to our own files, the Soviet helicopter ambush was sprung in the middle of the afternoon of the sixth day after I’d been captured. But the Russians didn’t crack me until the evening of the sixth day.”

“They had it set up,” said Miles.

“That’s right. They had it beat from the start. They knew it all — the codes, the frequencies, everything. They got it from Frenchy Short, in Vienna. But what they needed to hide the fact they’d gotten it from Frenchy was somebody to take the blame. That’s why it was so important to Speshnev to crack me open. He already had the script. He had a voice expert do me reading the phony stuff to Ulu Beg — that’s how well set up it was. Then that night, I read the same words into a dead mike.”

“Paul—” Miles wanted to stop the terrible onrush of information.

But Chardy wouldn’t let him off: “Frenchy sold us out on orders, Miles. Somebody didn’t like the way it was going in Kurdistan, and what it would do for the careers of the people involved, especially Bill Speight’s. So he sent Frenchy to blow the operation and clear out fast. But Speshnev was too smart; he caught Frenchy and took him into a cellar and broke him down with the torch. And he found out who’d sent him, and why. And then he owned that man, Miles. He owned him.”

“Paul—”

“Miles, don’t you see it? Don’t you see what this is all about?”

“Yes, I do,” said Miles. “The Russians have a man inside.”

51

Ulu Beg sat by the pond watching the swans. They were curious creatures, elegant, savage, evidently brainless. He watched the necks, so sleek and graceful, and the quick thrust of the head, a snapping, biting strike, when a bigger one would drive a smaller one squawking from his mate.

There was an old Kurdish proverb: The male is born for slaughter. Its grimness seemed confirmed in the ugly drama on the placid pool.

He lay back, depressed. Beyond the marsh he could see a boat on the bay; behind him was the great house. And he knew that nearby, like discreet shadows, the two security men sat. Their patience, their willingness to endure excessive idleness, seemed to him a particularly Russian trait. Russians could watch ice melt, flowers grow, clouds pass.

But he did not really care about Russians. Dreamless days evolved into dreamless nights to become dreamless days again. The weather held fair; the bay, the blue of the sky, the dun of the marsh, the birds — these were the constants of his life now. He had not thought of Chardy, of any of it, for a week now, ten days. A gull fluted in the air, spiraling down, then lunging up. The sky against which it performed had epic space to it, vast and