Matarese circle, p.3
Matarese Circle, page 3
She turned to the second page and addressed the Premier, her eyes avoiding the diplomat. “As you know, there were two assassins, presumably both male.
One had to be a marksman of extreme skill and coordination, the other someone who undoubtedly possessed the same qualifications, but who was also an expert in electronic surveillance. There was evidence in the stables-bracket scrapings, suction imprints, footprints indicating unobstructed vantage points-that lead us to believe all conversations in the dacha were intercepted.” “You describe CIA expertise, comrade,” interrupted the Premier.
“Or Consular Operations, sir,” replied the woman. “It’s important to bear that in mind.” “Oh, yes,” agreed the Premier. “The State Departmenfs small band of ‘negotiators.’ ” “Why not the Chinese Tao-pans?” offered the diplomat earnestly. “They’re among the most effective killers on earth. The Chinese had more to fear from Yurievich than anyone else.” “Physiognomy rules them out,” countered the man from VKR. “If one was caught, even after cyanide, Peking knows it would be destroyed.” “Get back to this pattern you’ve found,” interrupted the Premier.
The woman continued. “We fed everything through KGB computers, concentrating on American intelligence personnel we know have penetrated Russia, who speak the language fluently, and are known killers. We have arrived at four names. Here they are, Mr. Premier. Three from the Central Intelligence Agency, one from the Department of State’s Consular Operations.” She handed the page to the VKR man, who in turn rose and gave it to the Premier.
He looked at the names.
Scofield, Brandon Alan. State Department, Consular Operations. Known to have been responsible for assassinations in Prague, Athens, Paris, Munich.
Suspected of having operated in Moscow itself. Involved in over twenty defections.
Randolph, David. Central Intelligence Agency. Cover is Import Traffic Manager, Dynamax Corporation, West Berlin Branch. All phases of sabotage.
Known to have been instrumental in hydroelectrical explosions in Kazan and Tagil.
Saltzman, George Robert. Central Intelligence Agency. Operated as pouch courier and assassin in Vientiane under AID cover for six years. Oriental expert. Currently-as of five weeks ago—in the Tashkent sectors. Cover: Australian inunigrant, sales manager: Perth Radar Corporation.
Bergstrom, Edward. Central Intelligence Agency- “Mr. Premier,” interrupted the man from VKR. “My associate meant to explain that the names are in order of priority. In our opinion, the entrapment and execution of Dimitri Yurievich bears all the earmarks of the first man on that list.” “This Scofield?” “Yes, Mr. Premier. He disappeared a month ago in Marseilles. He’s done more damage, compromised more operations, than any agent the United States has fielded since the war.” “Really?” “Yes, sir.” The VKR man paused, then spoke hesitantly,
as if he did not want to go on, but knew he must. “His wife was killed ten years ago. In East Berlin. He’s been a maniac ever since.” “East Berlin?” “It was a trap. KGB.” The telephone rang on the Premiees desk; be crossed rapidly and picked it up.
It was the President of the United States. The interpreters were on the line; they went to work.
“We grieve the death-the terrible murder-of a very great scientist, Mr.
Premier. As well as the horror that befell his friends.” “Your words are appreciated, Mr. President, but as you know, those deaths and that horror were premeditated. I’m grateful for your sympathies, but I can’t help but wonder if perhaps you are not somewhat relieved that the Soviet Union has lost its foremost nuclear physicist.” “I am not, sir. His brilliance transcended our borders and differences.
He was a man for all peoples.” “Yet he chose to be a part of one people, did be not? I tell you frankly, my concerns do not transcend our differences. Rather, they force me to look to my flanks.” “Then, if you’ll forgive me, Mr. Premier, you’re looking for phantoms.” “Perhaps we’ve found them, Mr. President. We have evidence that is extremely disturbing to me. So much so that I have—’ “Forgive me once again,” interrupted the President of the United States.
“Your evidence has prompted my calling you, in spite of my natural reluctance to do so. The KGB has made a great error. Four errors, to be precise.” “Four?” “Yes, Mr. Premier. Specifically the names Scofield, Randolph, Saltzman and Bergstrom. None was involved, Mr. Premier.” “You astonish me, Mr. President.” “No more than you astonished me the other week. There are fewer secrets these days, remember?” “Words are inexpensive; the evidence is strong.” “Then it’s been so calculated. Let me clarify. Two of the three men from Central Intelligence are no longer in sanction. Randolph and Bergstrom are currently at their desks in Washington. Mr. Saltzman was hospitalized in Tashkent; the diagnosis is cancer.” The President paused.
“That leaves one name, doesn’t it?” said the Premier. “Your man from the infamous Consular Operations. So bland in diplomatic circles, but infamous to us.” “This is the most painful aspect of my clarification. Ifs inconceivable that Mr. Scofield could have been involved. “ere was less chance of his involvement than any of the others, frankly. I tell you this because it no longer matters.” “Words cost little – ‘ “I must be explicit. For the past several years a covert, in-depth dossier has been maintained on Dr. Yurievich, information added almost daily, certainly every month. In certain judgments, it was time to reach Dimitri Yurievich with viable options.” “What?” “Yes, Mr. Premier. Defection. The two men who traveled to the dacha to make contact with Dr. Yurievich did so in our interests. Their source-control was Scofield. It was his operation.” The Premier of Soviet Russia stared across the room at the pile of photographs on the table. He spoke softly. “Thank you for your frankness.” “Look to other flanks.” “I shall.” “We both must.”
The late afternoon sun was a fireball, its rays bouncing off the waters of the canal in blinding oscillation. The crowds walking west on Amsterdam’s Kalverstraat squinted as they hurried along the pavement, grateful for the February sun and gusts of wind that came off the myriad waterways that stemmed from the Amstel River. Too often February brought the mists and rain, dampness everywhere; it was not the case today and the citizens of the North Sea’s most vital port city seemed exhilarated by the clear, biting air warmed from above.
One man, however, was not exhilarated. Neither was he a citizen nor on the streets. His name was Brandon Alan Scofield, attach6-at-large, Consular Operations, United States Department of State. He stood at a window four stories above the canal and the Kalverstraat, peering through binoculars down at the crowds, specifically at the area of the pavement where a glass telephone booth reflected the harsh flashes of sunlight. The light made him squint, but there was no energy evident on Scofield’s pallid face, a face whose sharp features were drawn and taut beneath a vaguely combed cover of light-brown hair, fringed at the edge with strands of gray.
He kept refocusing the binoculars, cursing the light and the swift movements below. His eyes were tired, the bollows beneath dark and stretched, the results of too little sleep for too many reasons Scofield did not care to think about. There was a job to do and he was a professional; his concentration could not waver.
There were two other men in the room. A balding technician sat at a table with a dismantled telephone, wires connecting it to a tape machine, the receiver off the hook. Somewhere under the streets in a telephone complex, arrangements had been made; they were the only cooperation that would be given by the Amsterdam police, a debt called in by the attach6-at-large from the American State Department. The third person in the room was younger than the other two, in his early thirties and with no lack of energy on his face, no exhaustion in his eyes. If his features were taut, it was the tautness of enthrallment; he was a young man eager for the kill.
His weapon was a fast-film motion picture camera mounted on a tripod, a telescopic lens attached. He would have preferred a different weapon.
Down in the street, a figure appeared in the tinted circles of Scofield’s binoculars. The figure hesitated by the telephone booth and in that brief moment was jostled by the crowds off to the side of the pavement, in front of the flashing glass, blocking the glare with his body, a target surrounded by a halo of sunlight. It would be more comfortable for everyone concerned if the target could be zeroed where he was standing now. A highpowered rifle calibrated for seventy yards could do it; the man in the window could squeeze the trigger. He had done so
often before. But comfort was not the issue. A lesson had to be taught, another lesson learned, and such instruction depended on the confluence of vital factors. Those teaching and those being taught had to understand their respective roles. Otherwise an execution was meaningless.
The figure below was an elderly man, in his middle to late sixties. He was dressed in rumpled clothing, a thick overcoat pulled up around his neck to ward off the chill, a battered hat pulled down over his forehead. There was a stubble of a beard on his frightened face; he was a man on the run and for the American watching him through the binoculars, there was nothing so terrible, or haunting, as an old man on the run. Except, perhaps, an old woman. He had seen both. Far more often than he cared to think about.
Scofield glanced at his watch. “Go ahead,” he said to the technician at the table. Then he turned to the younger man who stood beside him. “You ready?” “Yes,” was the curt reply. “I’ve got the son of a bitch centered.
Washington was right; you proved it.” “I’m not sure what I’ve proved yet. I wish I was. When he’s in the booth, get his lips.” “Right.” The technician dialed the prearranged numbers and punched the buttons of the tape machine. He rose quickly from his chair and handed Scofield a semicircular headset with a mouthpiece and single earphone. “It’s ringing,” he said.
“I know. He’s staring through the glass. He’s not sure he wants to hear it.
That bothers me.” “Move, you son of a bitch!” said the young man with the camera.
“‘He will,” said Scofield, the binoculars and headset held firmly in his hands. “He’s frightened. Each half-second is a long time for him and I don’t know why…. There be goes; he’s opening the door. Everybody quiet.” Scofield continued to stare through the binoculars, listened, and then spoke quietly into the mouthpiece. “Dobri dyen, priyatyel….” The conversation, spoken entirely in Russian, lasted for eighteen seconds.
“Dosvidaniya,” said Scofield, adding, “zavtra nochyn.
Na moMe.” He continued to hold the headset to his ear and watched the frightened man below. The target disappeared into the crowds; the camera’s motor stopped, and the attach6-at-large put down the binoculars, handing the headset to the technician. “Were you able to get it all?” he asked.
“Clear enough for a voice print,” said the balding operator, checking his dials.
“You?” Scofield turned to the young man by the camera.
“If I understood the language better, even I could read his lips.” “Good. Others will; they’ll understand it very well.” Scofield reached into his pocket, took out a small leather.notebook, and began writing.
“I want you to take the tape and the film to the embassy. Get the film developed right away and have duplicates made of both. I want miniatures; here are the specifications.” “Sorry, Bray,” said the technician, glancing at Scofield as he wound a coil of telephone wire. “I’m not allowed within five blocks of the territory; you know that.” “I’m talking to Harry,” replied Scofield, angling his bead toward the younger man. He tore out the page from his notebook. “When the reductions are made, have them inserted in a single watertight flatcase. I want it coated, good enough for a week in the water.” “Bray,” said the young man, taking the page of paper. “I picked up about every third word you said on the phone.” “You’re improving,” interrupted Scofield, walking back to the window and the binoculars. “When you get to every other one, we’ll recommend an upgrade.” “That man wanted to meet tonight,” continued Harry. “You turned him down.” “That’s right,” said Scofield, raising the binoculars to his eyes, focusing out the window.
“Our instructions were to take him as soon as we could. The cipher plaintext was clear about that. No time lost.” “Time’s relative, isn’t it? When that old man heard the telephone ring, every second was an agonizing minute for him. For us, an hour can be a day. In Washington, for Christ’s sake, a day is normally measured by a calendar year.” “That’s no answer,” pressed Harry, looking at the note. “We can get this stuff reduced and packed in forty-five minutes, We could make the contact tonight. Why don’t we?” “The weather’s rotten,” said Scofield, the binoculars at his eyes.
“The weather’s perfect. Not a cloud in the sky.” “That’s what I mean. It’s rotten. A clear night means a lot of people strolling around the canals; in bad weather, they don’t. Tomorrow’s forecast is for rain.” “That doesn’t make sense. In ten seconds we block a bridge, he’s over the side and dead in the water.” “Tell that clown to shut up, Brayl” shouted the technician at the table.
“You heard the man,” said Scofield, focusing on the spires of the buildings outside. “You just lost the upgrade. Your outrageous statement that we intend to commit bodily harm tarnishes our friends in the Company.” The younger man grimaced. The rebuke was deserved. “Sorry. It still doesn’t make sense. That cipher was a priority alert; we should take him tonight.” Scofield lowered the binoculars and looked at Harry. “I’ll tell you what does make sense,” he said. “Somewhat more than those silly godamned phrases someone found on the back of a cereal box. That man down there was terrified. He hasn’t slept in days. lie’s strung out to the breaking point, and I want to know why.” “There could be a dozen reasons,” countered the younger man. “He’s old.
Inexperienced. Maybe he thinks we’re on to him, that he’s about to be caught. What difference does it make?” “A man’s life, that’s all.” “Come on, Bray, not from you. He’s Soviet poison; a double-agent.” “I want to be sure.” “And I want to get out of here,” broke in the technician, handing Scofield a reel of tape and picking up his machine. “Tell the clown we never met.” “Thanks, Mr. No-name. I owe you.” The CIA man left, nodding at Bray, avoiding any contact with his associate.
“There was no one here but us chickens, Harry,” said Scofield after the door was shut. “You do understand that.”
“He’s a nasty bastard–-” “Who could tap the White House toilets, if he hasn’t already,” said Bray, tossing the reel of tape to Harry. “Get our unsolicited indictments over to the embassy. Take out the film and leave the camera here.” Harry would not be put off; he caught the reel of tape, but made no move toward the camera. “I’m in this, too. That cipher applied to me as well as you. I want to have answers in case I’m asked questions; in case something happens between tonight and tomorrow.” “If Washington’s right, nothing will happen. I told you. I want to be sure.” “What more do you need? The target thinks he just made contact with KGB-Amsterdaml You engineered it. You proved it!” Scofield studied his associate for a moment, then turned away and walked back to the window. “You know something, Harry? All the training you get, all, the words you hear, all the experiences you go through, never take the place of the first rule.” Bray picked up the binoculars, and focused on a faraway point above the skyline. “Feach yourself to think like the enemy thinks. Not how you’d like him to think, but how he really thinks. It’s not easy; you can kid yourself because that is easy.” Exasperated, the younger man spoke angrily. “For God’s sake, what’s that got to do with anything? We’ve got our proof I” “Do we? As you say, our defector’s made contact with his own. He’s a pigeon who’s found his own particular route to Mother Russia. He’s safe: he’s out of the cold.” “That’s what he thinks, yes!” “Then why isn’t he a happy man?” asked Bray Scofield, angling the binoculars down at the canal.
The mist and the rain fulfilled Amsterdam’s promise of winter. The night sky was an impenetrable blanket, the edges mottled by the shimmering lights of the city. There were no strollers on the bridge, no boats on the canal below; pockets of fog swirled overhead—evidence that the North Sea winds traveled south unencumbered. It was three o’clock in the morning.
Scofield leaned against the iron railing at the west entrance of the ancient stone bridge. In his left hand was a small transistorized radio-not for verbal communication, only for receiving signals. His right band was in his raincoat pocket, his extended fingers touching the barrel of a. caliber automatic, not much larger than a starter’s pistol, with a report nowhere near as loud. At close range it was a very feasible weapon. It fired rapidly, with an accuracy sufficient for a distance measured in inches, and could barely be heard above the noises of the night.
Two hundred yards away, Bray’s young associate was concealed in a doorway on the Sarphatistraat. The target would pass him on the way to the bridge; there was no other route. When the old Russian did so, Harry would press a button on his transmitter: the signal. The execution was in progress; the victim was walking his last hundred yards-to the midpoint of the bridge, where his own personal hangman would greet him, insert a watertight packet in the victim’s overcoat, and carry out the appointed task.
In a day or so that packet would find its way to KGR Amsterdam. A tape would be listened to, a film observed closely. And another lesson would be taught.
And, naturally, go unheeded, as all lessons went unheeded-as they always went unheeded. Therein lay the futility, thought Scofield. The never-ending futility that numbed the senses with each repetition.
