running joke between us. Isn’t it, Kastner?”
“It reminds us who we’re not.”
Martin turned to Stella. “Meeting your father explains a lot.”
“Such as?” she demanded.
“It explains how you played along so quickly when I phoned this morning; you understood that I thought the phone might be tapped. You are your father’s daughter.”
“She was raised to be discreet when it comes to telephones,” Kastner agreed with evident pride. “She knows enough tradecraft to pay attention to people who are window shopping for objects they do not seem likely to buy. Women and fishing rods, for example. Or men and ladies undergarments.”
“You really didn’t need to go around the block twice,” Stella told Martin. “I promise you I wasn’t followed when I came to see you. I wasn’t followed on the way home either.”
“That being the case, how come the folks I used to work for are trying to discourage me from getting involved with missing husbands?”
Kastner manipulated the joystick; the wheelchair jerked toward Martin. “How do you know they know?” he asked quietly.
“A woman named Fred Astaire whispered in my ear.”
Kastner said, “I can see from the look in your eyes that you do not consider this Fred Astaire person to be a friend.”
“It takes a lot of energy to dislike someone. Occasionally I make the effort.”
Stella was following her own thoughts. “Maybe your pool parlor was bugged,” she suggested. “Maybe they hid a microphone in that Civil War rifle of yours.”
Martin shook his head. “If they had bugged my loft, they would have heard me refuse to take the case and not gone out of their way to lean on me.”
Tilting his large head, Kastner thought out loud: “The tip could have come from the FBI someone there might have routinely informed my CIA conducting officer if it looked as if you might become involved with me. But you probably figured that out already.”
Martin was mightily relieved to hear him reach this conclusion. It underscored his credibility.
Kastner stared at Martin, his jaw screwed up. “Stella told me you refused to take the case. Why did you modify your mind?”
Stella kept her eyes on Martin as she spoke to her father. “He didn’t modify his mind, Kastner. He modified his heart.”
“Respond to the question, if you please,” Kastner instructed his visitor.
“Let’s chalk it up to an unhealthy curiosity I’d like to know why the CIA doesn’t want this particular missing husband found. That and the fact that I don’t appreciate having an unpleasant woman who munches ice cubes tell me what I can or cannot do.”
“I like you,” Kastner burst out, his face breaking into a lopsided smile. “I like him,” he informed his daughter. “But he would not have gone very far in our Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti. He is too much of a loner. We did not trust the loners. We only recruited people who were comfortable serving as cogs in the machine.”
“Which Directorate?” Martin asked.
The bluntness of Martin’s question made Stella wince; in her experience, people talking about intelligence matters usually beat around the bush. “In the USA, Kastner,” she told her father, who was visibly flustered, “they call this talking turkey.”
Kastner cleared his throat. “The Sixth Chief Directorate,” he said, adapting to the situation. “I was the second deputy to the man who ran the Directorate.”
“Uh-huh.”
The Russian looked at his daughter. “What does it mean, uh-huh?”
“It means he is familiar with the Sixth Chief Directorate, Kastner.”
In fact, Martin had more than a passing acquaintance with this particular Directorate. At one point in the late eighties, Lincoln Dittmann had recruited a KGB officer in Istanbul. Lincoln had made his pitch when he heard on the grapevine that the officers younger brother had been arrested for being out of step during a military drill; the instructor had acused him of sabotaging the
“It reminds us who we’re not.”
Martin turned to Stella. “Meeting your father explains a lot.”
“Such as?” she demanded.
“It explains how you played along so quickly when I phoned this morning; you understood that I thought the phone might be tapped. You are your father’s daughter.”
“She was raised to be discreet when it comes to telephones,” Kastner agreed with evident pride. “She knows enough tradecraft to pay attention to people who are window shopping for objects they do not seem likely to buy. Women and fishing rods, for example. Or men and ladies undergarments.”
“You really didn’t need to go around the block twice,” Stella told Martin. “I promise you I wasn’t followed when I came to see you. I wasn’t followed on the way home either.”
“That being the case, how come the folks I used to work for are trying to discourage me from getting involved with missing husbands?”
Kastner manipulated the joystick; the wheelchair jerked toward Martin. “How do you know they know?” he asked quietly.
“A woman named Fred Astaire whispered in my ear.”
Kastner said, “I can see from the look in your eyes that you do not consider this Fred Astaire person to be a friend.”
“It takes a lot of energy to dislike someone. Occasionally I make the effort.”
Stella was following her own thoughts. “Maybe your pool parlor was bugged,” she suggested. “Maybe they hid a microphone in that Civil War rifle of yours.”
Martin shook his head. “If they had bugged my loft, they would have heard me refuse to take the case and not gone out of their way to lean on me.”
Tilting his large head, Kastner thought out loud: “The tip could have come from the FBI someone there might have routinely informed my CIA conducting officer if it looked as if you might become involved with me. But you probably figured that out already.”
Martin was mightily relieved to hear him reach this conclusion. It underscored his credibility.
Kastner stared at Martin, his jaw screwed up. “Stella told me you refused to take the case. Why did you modify your mind?”
Stella kept her eyes on Martin as she spoke to her father. “He didn’t modify his mind, Kastner. He modified his heart.”
“Respond to the question, if you please,” Kastner instructed his visitor.
“Let’s chalk it up to an unhealthy curiosity I’d like to know why the CIA doesn’t want this particular missing husband found. That and the fact that I don’t appreciate having an unpleasant woman who munches ice cubes tell me what I can or cannot do.”
“I like you,” Kastner burst out, his face breaking into a lopsided smile. “I like him,” he informed his daughter. “But he would not have gone very far in our Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti. He is too much of a loner. We did not trust the loners. We only recruited people who were comfortable serving as cogs in the machine.”
“Which Directorate?” Martin asked.
The bluntness of Martin’s question made Stella wince; in her experience, people talking about intelligence matters usually beat around the bush. “In the USA, Kastner,” she told her father, who was visibly flustered, “they call this talking turkey.”
Kastner cleared his throat. “The Sixth Chief Directorate,” he said, adapting to the situation. “I was the second deputy to the man who ran the Directorate.”
“Uh-huh.”
The Russian looked at his daughter. “What does it mean, uh-huh?”
“It means he is familiar with the Sixth Chief Directorate, Kastner.”
In fact, Martin had more than a passing acquaintance with this particular Directorate. At one point in the late eighties, Lincoln Dittmann had recruited a KGB officer in Istanbul. Lincoln had made his pitch when he heard on the grapevine that the officers younger brother had been arrested for being out of step during a military drill; the instructor had acused him of sabotaging the
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