Muldoon and nodded. The men got up and entered the inner office.
‘Walter,’ Muldoon began, as he approached the man at the desk, ‘we have a problem, and it’s something you need to know about.’
Walter Hicks, Director of Operations (Clandestine Services) of the Central Intelligence Agency, gazed across his desk at the delegation in front of him. He was a big and bulky man, pushing six feet three, and broad across the shoulders. His craggy face, under a thatch of thinning fair hair, carried a tan all year round, due to his passion for sailing, and most weekends he spent at least one day on his forty-five-foot catamaran, occasionally inviting colleagues to join him. It was, he claimed, one of the few places outside the Langley classified briefing rooms where he could say what he wanted.
‘I have a feeling,’ he said, after a few moments, ‘that I’m not going to like this. The CIS went ballistic with signal traffic yesterday. Some major shit’s been hitting the fan over there, and the NSA is kinda hoping we can help find out what it is. So I need whatever problem you’ve got like Custer needed more Indians.’
The office was large and airy, with a conference table positioned in front of the triple-glazed, bullet-proof picture window. Hicks pressed a button on his intercom, asked Jayne to order coffee for four, then walked over to the table and eased his body into the chair at its head, motioning the others to join him. ‘OK, Richard,’ he said, ‘let’s hear it.’
Muldoon sat down, glanced over the papers he had taken from his briefcase, and started talking. ‘This involves all of us,’ he said, gesturing at his companions, ‘but it’s probably quicker if I act as spokesman. Ronald and John will no doubt correct me if I stray.’ Muldoon took a deep breath and began. ‘About five months ago the Moscow Station Chief advised Langley that he had developed a high-level source in Moscow.’
‘He did what?’ Hicks demanded, his brow darkening. ‘Nobody told me.’
Muldoon shook his head. ‘Nobody told me either. The Station Chief – John Rigby – was adamant that knowledge of the source should be as limited as possible. Apart from him, and until two weeks ago, the only officers who knew about it were the head and deputy head of the Intelligence Division and John here from Espionage. Even the DCI was told only that a new high-level source had been developed, but nothing more.’
‘Why?’ Hicks asked flatly, reaching for a pack of cigars. ‘Bearing in mind,’ he added, ‘that John is my direct subordinate. How come he knew and I didn’t?’
‘It was a value judgement,’ Muldoon replied. ‘Rigby was convinced that the source was very highly placed in the GRU or the SVR. The quality of the data he received was superb, and could only have come from the top, or very near it. Cliff Masters personally approved the list of officers who were to be told about the source. John needed to know because his duties required it.’ Muldoon offered a faint smile. ‘If you’ve a beef with that, Walter, you’d better take it up with Cliff, not John.’
‘Who’s the source?’ Hicks grunted.
‘We don’t know. At least, we don’t know exactly who he is, but we know he has to be one of a very small number of SVR or GRU officers.’
‘Why?’ Hicks asked again. He cut the end off a cigar and dropped it in the ashtray at the end of the long table. ‘And how was contact established? Through a cutout?’
‘No. He was a walk-in. Rigby was passed an undeveloped film from a miniature camera while he was browsing round in GUM – that’s the State department store in—’
‘I think we all know what GUM is, Richard,’ Hicks interrupted. He inspected the cut end of the cigar and then stuck it in his mouth. He patted his pockets, then stood up, walked over to his desk and picked up a Zippo lighter. He sat down again, thumbed the lighter and blew a large cloud of blue smoke down the table.
‘Go on,’ he instructed.
Muldoon flapped ineffectively at the smoke. He was a reformed smoker, and found the smell of tobacco smoke – particularly from cigars – very offensive. He coughed and continued. ‘Rigby was off-duty and never even saw the person who gave the film to him. He found it in his jacket pocket when he was leaving the store – it had to have been passed by a brush contact. The point is, the source not only knew who Rigby was, which immediately eliminated most low-level SVR or GRU operatives, but he was able to pass the film completely undetected, which means he’s a professional, an agent with field experience.’
Hicks considered this for a few moments. ‘And when the film was developed?’
‘Christmas,’ Muldoon smiled. ‘Twenty-four frames, needle-sharp pictures. Twenty-two were of highly classified documents, fourteen originating in the Kremlin itself, two from the GRU and the rest from the SVR. The intelligence we gained has been disseminated within the Agency, but heavily sanitized and on a very restricted distribution list. None has been released outside the Agency except with the Director’s personal approval.’
Hicks held up a finger. ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘This is source AE/RAVEN, right?’
‘Right,’ Muldoon replied. All CIA agents and operations are identified by a two-letter prefix indicating the country involved – AE for Russia, DI for Czechoslovakia and so on – followed by a randomly generated code- name.
‘And the other two pictures on the film?’ Hicks asked. ‘What did they show?’
‘Mainly that our source had a sense of humour, and that he is very near the top. He took one picture of the Meeting Room in the Kremlin, and one of the Walnut Room – that’s the room that adjoins it. The documents were impressive enough, but those pictures had Rigby dancing in the street.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hicks, ‘I can see why. There are what, a dozen or so SVR and GRU officers who have access to those two rooms, and they’re all right at the top of the tree. OK, all I hear so far is good news. What’s the catch?’
‘Perhaps I’d better first—’ Muldoon broke off as a rap sounded on the door. It opened and Jayne ushered in a middle-aged woman carrying a tray of coffee. Nobody spoke until the two women had gone and the door closed. When everyone had poured their coffee, Muldoon continued. ‘Let me first outline the way the relationship developed. Rigby has never seen the contact, and has never made any obvious effort to do so, for fear of alarming him. What he did was to continue visiting shops, cafes and restaurants and generally making himself visible. He would routinely leave his coat or jacket on his chair, or hanging on a hook while he went to the john or to make a phone call or whatever. And, about once a month, an undeveloped film would appear in one of his pockets—’
‘Did he attempt to establish any kind of dialogue?’ Hicks interrupted.
‘Yes. He began putting messages into his pockets, concealed in suitable containers, of course, but the source has never taken one, so it’s been a pure one-way traffic flow so far. This continued until about three weeks ago. Then Rigby found another film canister in a pocket – but this time it was the glove pocket of his car. Rigby thought he had left the vehicle locked while he did some shopping, but he can’t be sure. Whatever, when he returned to it the driver’s door was unlocked, which was why he checked the car.’
Hicks tapped ash from the end of his cigar into the ashtray. ‘Why the change in his routine, I wonder?’ he murmured. ‘OK, what was on that film?’
‘Nothing,’ Muldoon replied. ‘It wasn’t a film. When the embassy technician opened the film canister, it contained a small piece of paper bearing a short message.’
‘And?’
‘You’d better read it,’ Muldoon said. ‘Ron?’
Ronald Hughes opened the folder in front of him, selected two sheets of paper and passed them over to Hicks. ‘That’s a photostat of the original, Director,’ Hughes said, ‘enlarged by a factor of four, and the second sheet is a typed translation of the Russian.’
Hicks took the first sheet of paper and glanced at it, then read the translation of the message. When he’d finished he looked up at Muldoon. Then he read the translation again. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
Chapter Six
Friday
Richter walked into his office on the second floor and pushed the door shut behind him. The room was, like Richter, compact and slightly scruffy. It was small, measuring about twelve feet by ten with an off-white ceiling and a light green emulsion on the walls; the colour was described by Simpson as ‘vulture-vomit green’, and
