Russian Embassy-but you had to be circumspect in MacIver’s line of work. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be in a position to exercise any influence over there; I still had no idea to which desk he was assigned at the Agency in Langley. All I really knew about his position was what little he had told me a year ago.
He said, “Where is it you’re trying to get to? Moscow?”
“Moscow and Sebastopol.”
“You figure to hunt for the Czar’s gold over there?”
He said it with a smile but he was waiting for an answer and I gave him a truthful one: I was doing a historical research, not chasing wild gilded geese.
“Well sure, Harry, but the way I’ve heard you talk about that gold, you seemed pretty excited about it.”
“It’s an interesting yarn. But that’s all it seems to be-a yarn.”
“What makes you so sure of that? The gold was real enough.”
“Yes …”
“And it’s never turned up, has it?”
“It has, though. The Germans found it during the war.”
“I thought you were telling Huddleston they found it and then lost it again.”
“It’s all speculation,” I said. “I’m getting pretty tired of that gold. It’s threatening to become a tail wagging the dog. This job’s hard enough without distractions.”
“Come off it, Harry. A good strong dose of gold bullion’s just what you need to beef up the book’s appeal. Otherwise who’s going to buy a thousand-page history of the siege of Sebastopol? Who the hell cares about
There was truth in what he said. The story of the gold was dramatic and it was completely new; no other historian had come across it at all.
He scowled at me. “You won’t sell eight copies of a book on Sebastopol unless you’ve got a hell of a hook on it. Why kid yourself? I was listening to you at Huddleston’s-you weren’t talking about sieges and politics and Panzer battles, you were talking about
He stubbed out his cigarette and beamed at me in triumph. “You know what I think, Harry? I think you get your nocturnal emissions from dreaming you’ll find that gold of Admiral Kolchak’s.”
“You’re pushing it pretty hard, aren’t you?”
“Am I? Why should I?”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“Tell me something first. Would you think of asking me that question if you didn’t know who my employer was?”
I saw his point.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Look, I just think you’re in danger of taking yourself too seriously. You could end up on the wrong track. I think I’ve read every one of your books-I read the first one or two because it was a cheap thrill to say I knew the author, but after that I got to be a fan of yours. I still am. I also think I’m kind of a friend of yours and I hate to see you talk yourself into a mistake.”
One of the crosses a writer must bear is well-meaning advice from people who know utterly nothing about the craft. But MacIver was leading up to something in his transparently devious way and I let him set his own pace.
“That lost treasure-that’s the dog, Harry, it’s not just the tail.”
He blew smoke at his chest. “End of kindly advice. Okay? Still friends?”
I didn’t think that was the end of it at all. I said, “You said you wanted to talk business.”
He toyed with the burning cigarette. “I’m sorry, I kind of did this wrong. I can be a bull in a china shop. You’re not in much of a mood to listen.”
“As long as it’s not another piece of literary criticism.”
“Why don’t we have a drink?”
“You talk like a man with bad news.” My mind leaped to his earlier remarks about my visa.
“Not bad news. A little off-the-record information and some advice, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“You want a drink? I’m going to have one.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
MacIver summoned a waiter who took some time reaching us; he didn’t say anything until after he’d ordered another bourbon. Then he plucked the cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, found it was empty, crushed it in his fist and excused himself to hunt for the cigarette vending machine. I saw him intercept a waiter who gave him directions.
He returned simultaneously with his drink order; he asked the waiter for the luncheon check and sat down stripping the cellophane from the cigarette pack. I said, “I gather your department doesn’t have close rapport with the Surgeon General.”
“I try to quit now and then. Every time I do, we get some kind of crisis. I figure if I keep smoking maybe it’ll deter the start of World War Three. It’s a small enough price to pay. That girl Nikki, she smokes, doesn’t she?”
I was taken aback. “Now and then.”
“You keep in touch with her, don’t you?”
“Why?”
“How deep and heavy did it get between you two? I’ve got a reason for asking. Somebody told me she was pretty deep in your guts, but that was a while ago.”
I was knotting up slowly, inside. “Evan, if you’ve got a point to make …”
“How much do you know about her, Harry? What she does for a living, I mean.”
I stared at him. “That’s a cheap shot.”
“I’m not trying to pry, Harry. I promise you I already know a lot more about it than you do. I’m not pumping you for private information, I only want to know how much she told you.”
“I don’t see where it’s any of your business.”
“Well it’s exactly my business, but you’re right-you don’t have to answer the question. Suppose I give you some information, instead. This is off the record-I want that understood. We’re not supposed to go around giving out information to people who aren’t in the Firm. But you look like you’re on the way to Russia on this book of yours, and I’d better set you straight. This wasn’t the Agency’s idea, my boss doesn’t know anything about it. I’m talking to you on my own. That’s why it’s off the record. You understand?”
“I don’t understand at all. You haven’t said anything yet.”
“Well I assume at least you know she works for the Israeli government. Specifically, she works for an agency that gets Jews out of Russia.”
“I know all that.”
“Uh-huh, it wasn’t likely you didn’t, but when people are working her side of the street you never know how much they’re willing to spill to their lovers. For all I knew she told you she was a fund-raiser.”
“She does that sometimes.”
“It’s only a cover, Harry. On the surface it’s a legitimate agency-they do raise funds, they agitate for publicity and demonstrations wherever they think they can arouse public opinion against Soviet policy. That’s on the surface. They also grease the wheels inside Russia-they get out pamphlets that tell Russian Jews how to get through all the red tape they have to go through to get an exit visa.”
“You haven’t shocked me yet,” I said. “I don’t see what you’re leading up to.”
“It’s an underground railroad. They work with Jews who can’t get official permission to leave the country. They print up false documentation and they falsify records in some of the local OVIR offices. They’ve got a fair-sized fifth-column staff inside the Soviet Union. It’s very Jewish and very efficient-an organized operation. It’s an agency of the Mossad, out of Tel Aviv.”
I had half guessed that much months before. I still wasn’t stirred much by his revelations; only by his intense
