Levy pulled the file towards him, flicking through the photographs and the accompanying analysis which the Americans had provided, gazing down at the pictures for a long time and finally settling back into his chair, staring blankly through the window to the olive grove beyond.

  The dossier had every indication of being complete; Peterson had even supplied details of the deaths of his own deep penetration agents. But there should have been more — much more. He smiled, remembering the American assurance of full liaison. He had not believed it, from the moment the undertaking had begun.

  He thrust aside the American file, turning to his own reports. The information was very weak; by themselves each account amounted to little more than a rumor. But assessed as a whole it became clearer, America would certainly think so. The source for the Damascus account would be Palestinian. Probably the same from Benghazi; Libya was as much a sanctuary for the guerillas now as Syria. Iraq was more likely to be a government leak.

  Levy arranged the fact sheets before him, as if he were physically attempting to make a pattern. Would Peterson’s assessment be the same as his? It would be impossible to guess with absolute accuracy, until the next personal contact between them. Asked to bet, Levy would have offered odds of sixty to one.

  He assembled the agents’ intelligence in the order in which it had come into the Mossad and then spent more than an hour creating a covering message. It occupied less than half a folio, but Levy scrapped several attempts, determined to get the text exactly how he wanted it.

  “I invite your own independent assessment,” he wrote in the concluding paragraph to Peterson. “But from the information available, I would certainly connect this as yet undefined Middle East activity with what is taking place in Africa. I draw your particular attention to the coincidence in phrasing between what came from Baghdad and from Damascus. In each case, the threat is of “spectacular demonstration.” What else can this mean, measured against the atrocities to which we have been subjected in the past?”

  Satisfied at last, he summoned a secretary with instructions that it should be ciphered and then transmitted to the Washington embassy, for transmission to Langley.

  It was almost completely dark by the time he went back to the window; it was impossible to see the trees above Yad Vashem. Monuments to tragedy, he thought again. Of one thing David Levy was quite determined. There were not going to be any more — not while he was in a position to prevent them.

  The Vienna residency had been Richard Brownlow’s first foreign posting. He had been attached to the American embassy for six months, had seriously misinterpreted the purpose of some government changes in neighboring Czechoslovakia within the first weeks, and was frighteningly aware that this inexplicable approach from the Soviet Union could ruin his career if he made the slightest mistake. Jones’ response to his report — to bring him home on the first available aircraft and then ferry him by helicopter directly to Langley — had increased his nervousness, and he entered the Director’s office damp with perspiration. It was the first time he had been in the Director’s presence; Peterson was a much smaller man than he had expected. He appeared out of proportion for the desk and high-backed chair in which he sat.

  Jones had ordered Brownlow’s recall from Vienna within an hour of receiving the man’s report, long before setting out to locate the Director in Washington. There had still been a four-hour wait for the aircraft to arrive from Europe, and they had occupied their time studying a complete profile of the KGB chief and considering Brown-low’s assessment in view of his record. Peterson had hoped that Lucille would accept his apology during the first telephone call. When he had called a second time, after an hour, she had been drunk.

  “Sorry to drag you back so hurriedly,” greeted Peterson.

  “I understand,” said Brownlow, hand hovering near his mouth. The man bit his nails, Peterson noticed.

  “Tell me again about the approach,” instructed the Director.

  “There was a reception last night, at the Austrian Foreign Ministry,” said Brownlow. “Usual sort of thing.…”

  “You’d formally accepted an invitation?” interrupted Peterson.

  “Yes.”

  “So the Russians could have checked you were going?”

  “I suppose so,” agreed the younger man. He felt uncomfortable from the perspiration and realized that he’d lost five hours flying back across the Atlantic — in Vienna, it would be four in the morning. He felt exhausted.

  “Did it appear to be a planned approach?” asked Jones.

  “Not at first. Milhailov wasn’t wearing his uniform and I didn’t immediately recognize him as the military attaché.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Milhailov is a ski-buff. We started out talking about the snow this year. It wasn’t until later that I became aware he’d led me away from where anyone could overhear the conversation. As soon as he achieved that, he mentioned Petrov.”

  “How?” demanded Peterson. “What were the exact words?”

  “That he had been instructed to get an approach through to you, suggesting a meeting.”

  “He stipulated a meeting?” pressed Jones.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?” said Peterson.

  “That was for you to suggest.”

  “He mentioned me by name?”

  “Throughout the conversation.”

  “So you’re not interpreting innuendo?” pressed Peterson, remembering the Prague mistake. “It was spelled out?”

  “Absolutely,” said Brownlow, miserably aware of the reason for the question. “He mentioned Petrov and you by name and talked of a meeting.”

  “It was definitely Milhailov?” asked Jones, suddenly.

  “I checked the photographs,” assured Brownlow. “Even obtained one taken by the official photographer at the reception that night. I’ve brought them with me, for comparison. But it’s Milhailov. I’m sure of it.”

  “How am I to respond?” asked Peterson.

  “That wasn’t discussed,” said Brownlow. “Through Milhailov, I presumed.”

  “Was any mention at all made about Africa?” he asked.

  “Nothing. A matter of extreme concern affecting you both was what he said.”

  “They could be screwed up just as badly as we are,” suggested Jones.

  “Liaison isn’t unknown,” said Peterson, distantly. “There was contact during the Bay of Pigs towards the end. And when the U-2 went down.”

  “You’re surely not thinking of responding!” said the deputy, incredulous.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a trap, that’s why not. It’s got to be.”

  “But I thought of it first,” reminded Peterson.

  “It would be too dangerous,” said Jones, adamandy.

  “Not if we started out with that expectation in mind. And did it better.”

  “I thought Africa was the problem.”

  “It is. A very big problem. That’s why insurance wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” insisted Jones. “It introduces a complication we don’t need.”

  “Or maybe a way out that we do need,” said Peterson. He went back to Brownlow. “What did you tell Milhailov?”

  “Nothing positive,” said the man. “He asked if I’d make a report and I said I would.”

  “Shouldn’t it be a presidential decision?” pressed Jones, concerned about the way the Director’s thoughts were moving.

  “He wouldn’t agree, not after this morning’s discussion with Moore and Flood.”

  “Surely, after this morning’s discussion, it should be the last thing to consider. The risk would be appalling.”

  “What response has there been, from any station anywhere, to the message we sent out this afternoon?” demanded Peterson.

  “Nothing,” admitted Jones.

  “Not even Bonn?”

  “No.”

  “What about the Israelis?”

  “Nothing,” said Jones again, uncomfortable with the argument.

  “And we’ve lost Williams?” persisted Peterson.

  “There’s no body. But I’m sure he’s dead,” agreed the deputy.

  “So we’re screwed,” judged Peterson. “We need an out and Petrov might provide it. Properly planned, it would only take a couple of days.”

  Perhaps as long as it would have taken him to go to Arizona to get Beth back. Paul had been right; it would be far too risky for anyone other than himself to go there.

  “You wouldn’t expect Petrov to come here?” said Jones.

  “Of course not.”

  “So you’d go to Europe!”

  Peterson smiled at his deputy’s continued amazement. “It would be seen as a concession … create a false sense of security. And you’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “A ballet dancer named Irena Sinyavsky.”

  “There was never any proof,” insisted Jones. “She never mentioned him — not once.”

  “But there are three pictures of them, together at various Bolshoi functions, before she ran.”

  “Receptions,” qualified Jones. “With dozens of people.”

  “By itself, not enough,” conceded Peterson. “Combined with other things, it might fit perfectly.”

  “Where would you meet him?”

  Peterson returned to Brownlow. “What’s wrong with Austria?” he said. “That’s neutral enough.”

  “Would you want me along?” asked Jones.

  Peterson shook his head. “You’d be needed here. We’ve got to guard our backs.”

  “What about the President?”

  “Not yet,” said Peterson. He’d set it up first, so that it was foolproof. The President had been quick enough to arrange his own let-out. Now, Peterson decided, it was his turn. He became aware of the fatigue pressing down upon Brownlow.

  “I’ll get a military aircraft to take you back from Andrews first thing in the morning,” he said. “Tell Milhailov I accept. Say Vienna would be acceptable to me, but that I must know more about the problem he believes to be our mutual concern.…”

  The younger man tried to straighten in the chair.

  “You’ll need a squad with you,” continued Peterson. “Photographic, electronic surveillance … everything necessary for an entrapment. I want it all in place when I arrive.”

  They didn’t consider he’d made a mistake, Brownlow realized, and was relieved.

  Peterson leaned across to the man, to emphasize what he was saying. “I want Vienna sewn up tighter than a drum. I want to know the moment Petrov arrives, what he does, who he does it with.… I want to learn more about him than he knows about himself. You got that?”

  “Yes,” said Brownlow, nervously.

  “Now go and get some rest,” ordered Peterson. “You’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do.”

  Jones waited until the man had left the room and then turned back to the Director.

  “You leaving it to him?” he said.

  “Of course not,” said Peterson, surprised at the question. “I want another group sent in, tonight. They’re to know of Brownlow’s instructions so they don’t get in the way, but they’re to work entirely independently.”

  “I still don’t think you should do it.”

  “If I think it’s getting too dangerous, I can always abort it,” said Peterson, confidently.

  “Providing you realize where the danger is,” said Jones, guardedly.

  It was almost two A.M. before Peterson finally got back to Georgetown. Lights were on throughout the house and none of the curtains was drawn. Peterson went slowly in, going from room to room in search of Lucille and carefully closing doors and extinguishing the lamps behind him. He found her in her own bedroom, apparently peacefully asleep. He smiled down at her, relieved. It was not until he got close that he saw she had vomited onto the pillow and then rolled into it sometime during the night. He got a flannel and towels from the bathroom and gently sponged her clean. He pulled away the stained pillows and replaced them with more from the linen closet. She half wakened, when he had practically finished, and smiled crookedly up at him. Her throat moved when she tried to speak, but nothing came. Finally she gave up and was asleep again very quickly. He kissed her softly, and went through into his own room, aware for the first time of his tiredness.

  He was convinced that the practical advantages of meeting Petrov far outweighed the dangers, grave though they were. No matter how evasively or reluctantly the Russian behaved, Peterson was sure he could gauge the degree of the Soviet knowledge of the events in Africa. He would still keep it from the President — for the time being at least — until he had compromised Petrov. Then it could be presented as a coup. And then Fowler would approve of it.

  Tired though he was, Peterson still found sleep difficult. Had Paul’s assessment about Beth been right? It would be wonderful to have her back in Washington, where he could care for her — properly this time, giving her the attention she had wanted, the need for which he had failed to appreciate. It might be possible to get to Arizona in two or three weeks, he thought. Then again, it might not.

  6

  Peterson, who ate from a diet sheet which did not allow any calories at the beginning of the day, drank several cups of breakfast coffee, and then, with nothing to do until his wife arose, wandered into the study he never used. Once he had meant to read all the books, he remembered, running his hands along the orderly arrangement of titles and authors. Just as he had meant to do so many things. Once. There was a display table behind the proper desk, with the Yale pennants and the sporting photographs and even a signed picture of the Korean war aircrew. He picked it up, gazing down at the innocent, unformed faces, surprised at the difficulty he had recalling men he’d regarded as the sort of friends for whom he would have given his life. He’d been very young then; he hadn’t learned how to be properly afraid, or ever believed that any harm, real, painful, damaging harm, could come to him. It had seem like some game that he’d always been convinced he would win. It would have been different, he supposed, if he had been a soldier. On the ground he would have come close to death, seen the gaping wounds and the torn limbs and the lifeless bodies. Even then, he didn’t think he would have conceived any danger to himself. Too young, he thought again.

  He concentrated on the picture, trying to remember the day when it had been taken and the occasion on which they’d all signed it. It wouldn’t come, any of it. Only Hibbert had tried to keep in touch, sending Christmas cards with pictures of his wife and kids and invitations to Seattle, and for a time he had maintained the contact, even promising the visit that had never materialized.

  Apart from Walter Jones, he didn’t have any friends now. He had thought of Lucille as his friend, at the beginning of their marriage. But it had been an impression that faded. Some men made their sons into friends — but not Peterson, even when he’d done the things that fathers were supposed to do, like going on weekend hunting trips or to football matches. And now the boy called him a bastard and meant it. He sighed, replacing the wartime photograph. How strange it was that people regarded him as successful.

  He had taken the ritual conversation with the maid beyond its usual exchange, knowing that Lucille would need to be warned of his presence in the house. She entered the study freshly made up, her hair carefully in place. Only the tinted spectacles gave a clue to how she was feeling; perhaps she wore them to conceal the redness of her eyes, rather than to prevent any discomfort the light might cause.

  “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

  “I wanted to talk to you. I’m sorry about last night.” Once, he thought, they’d kissed each other in the mornings.

  “You stayed here, to tell me that?”

  “No. Something else.”

  “Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.

  “I’ve had some. You go ahead.”

  “I don’t,” she reminded him. “Just juice.”

  “I’d forgotten. I’ll come to the kitchen with you.” It was a forced politeness; why were they so nervous of each other?

  She regimented a selection of vitamin pills alongside the orange juice glass.

  “You should eat something,” he said.

  “Later.”

  She began taking the pills, choosing them as if the order in which she swallowed them mattered. She was very careful about picking them up, so that he wouldn’t see any shake in her hand.

  “It must be important.”

  “What?” he said.

  “Whatever it is you want to say. I can’t remember the last time you stayed away from the office, on a working day.”

  She was still beautiful, he thought. Not pretty, as she had been when they first married or even as she had been in the photograph she had tried to place on the bedside table. More mature now, but still very attractive. Perhaps there was some pinching around the eyes, hidden behind the elaborate frames of her spectacles, but there was no thickening of her figure despite the increasing neglect. Would she stop drinking if some physical signs began to show? She had always been a vain woman, he thought, without malice.

  “I might have to go away.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not for very long. A few days, perhaps.”

  She was regarding him intently, expecting more.

  “I’m worried about you, Lucille.”

  “Worried?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  He bent his head away from her stare; it would be pointless to argue. As pointless as it had been with their son.

  “I saw Paul yesterday.”

  “I know.”

  He looked up. “How?”

  “He called.”

  “What about?” asked Peterson, anxiously.

  “Just to talk.”

  “He asked me how you were,” said Peterson.

  She waited for him to continue.

  “I told him not very well,” he said.

  “Why did you tell him that?”

  “Because I don’t think you are well.”

  She finished the final vitamin pill, like a child apportioning the favorite sweet until last. “I feel fine,” she said.