Read Online The Company: A Novel of the CIA by Robert Littell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Littell
Tags: United States, Fiction, Literary, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, International Relations, spy stories
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head to Foggy Bottom for an important four o'clock meeting.
They were sampling a Calvados that the sommelier had laid in especially for Angleton. After a moment Mother excused himself and darted from the restaurant to call his secretary from the tailor's shop next door; he didn't want to risk talking on one of the restaurant's phones for fear it might have been tapped by the Russians. On his way back to the table he was waylaid by Monsieur Andrieux, the Washington station chief for the French SDECE, who sprang to his feet and pumped Mother's hand as he funneled secrets into his ear. It was several minutes before Angleton could pry his fingers free and make his way to table 41. Sliding onto the chair, holding up the Calvados glass for a refill, he murmured to Adrian, "French've been treating me like a big wheel ever since they pinned a Legion d'Honneur on my chest."
"Frogs are a race apart," Adrian crabbed as he jammed the back of his hand against his mouth to stifle a belch. "Heard one of their senior spooks vet an op we were proposing to run against the French Communists—he allowed as how it would probably work in practice but he doubted it would work in theory. Sorry about my junior minister, Jimbo. They say he's very good at what he does. Not sure what he does, actually. Someone had to give him grub. Now that he's gone we can talk shop. Any news from Berlin?"
Mother studied his friend across the table. "You're not going to like it."
"Try me."
"Amicitia nostra dissoluta est. 'Our friendship is dissolved.' I am on to you and your KGB friends!"
The Brit, who knew a joke when he heard one, chortled with pleasure as he identified the quotation. "Nero's telegram to Seneca when he decided time had come for his tutor to commit hari-kari. Christ, Jimbo, only surprised I was able to p-p-pull the wool over your eyes this long. Seriously, what happened to your Russian coming across in Berlin?"
"The Sorcerer woke me up late last night with a cable marked Flash— been going back and forth with him since. Vishnevsky never showed up. The KGB did. Things turned nasty. Torriti hung around longer than he should have—had to shoot one of the Germans and hit a Russian over the head to get himself out of a tight corner. Vishnevsky and his wife, drugged probably, were hauled back to Moscow to face the music. Kid, too."
"Christ, what went wrong?"
"You tell me."
"What about Vishnevskys serial's? What about the mole in MI6?"
For answer, one of Mother's nicotine-stained fingers went round and round the rim of the snifter until a melancholy moan emerged from the glass.
After a moment Adrian said thoughtfully, "Hard cheese, this. I'd better p-p-pass Vishnevsky's serials on to C—there's not enough to dine out on but he can work up an appetite. Do I have it right, Jimbo? The Russian chaps debriefed someone from MI6 in Stockholm last summer, in Zurich the winter before. There were two blown operations that could finger him—one involved an agent, the other a microphone in The Hague—"
"I haven't unsealed your lips," Angleton reminded his friend.
"He'll take my guts for garters if he gets wind I knew and didn't tell him."
"He won't hear it from me."
"What's to be gained waiting?"
"If Vishnevsky wasn't feeding us drivel, if there is a mole in MI6, it could be anybody, up to and including C himself."
"I would have thought C was above and beyond." The Brit shrugged. "I hope to Christ you know what you're doing."
A waiter brought over a silver salver with their bill folded on it. Adrian reached for the check but Angleton was quicker. "Queen got the last one," he said. "Let me get this."
Angleton's luncheon partner, Harold Adrian Russell Philby—Kim to his colleagues in MI6, Adrian to a handful of old Ryder Street pals like Angleton—managed a faint smiled. "First Malta. Now lunch. Seems as if we're fated to live off Yankee largess."
Jack McAuliffe had taken Ebby slumming to a posh cabaret called Die Pfeffermühie—The
They were sampling a Calvados that the sommelier had laid in especially for Angleton. After a moment Mother excused himself and darted from the restaurant to call his secretary from the tailor's shop next door; he didn't want to risk talking on one of the restaurant's phones for fear it might have been tapped by the Russians. On his way back to the table he was waylaid by Monsieur Andrieux, the Washington station chief for the French SDECE, who sprang to his feet and pumped Mother's hand as he funneled secrets into his ear. It was several minutes before Angleton could pry his fingers free and make his way to table 41. Sliding onto the chair, holding up the Calvados glass for a refill, he murmured to Adrian, "French've been treating me like a big wheel ever since they pinned a Legion d'Honneur on my chest."
"Frogs are a race apart," Adrian crabbed as he jammed the back of his hand against his mouth to stifle a belch. "Heard one of their senior spooks vet an op we were proposing to run against the French Communists—he allowed as how it would probably work in practice but he doubted it would work in theory. Sorry about my junior minister, Jimbo. They say he's very good at what he does. Not sure what he does, actually. Someone had to give him grub. Now that he's gone we can talk shop. Any news from Berlin?"
Mother studied his friend across the table. "You're not going to like it."
"Try me."
"Amicitia nostra dissoluta est. 'Our friendship is dissolved.' I am on to you and your KGB friends!"
The Brit, who knew a joke when he heard one, chortled with pleasure as he identified the quotation. "Nero's telegram to Seneca when he decided time had come for his tutor to commit hari-kari. Christ, Jimbo, only surprised I was able to p-p-pull the wool over your eyes this long. Seriously, what happened to your Russian coming across in Berlin?"
"The Sorcerer woke me up late last night with a cable marked Flash— been going back and forth with him since. Vishnevsky never showed up. The KGB did. Things turned nasty. Torriti hung around longer than he should have—had to shoot one of the Germans and hit a Russian over the head to get himself out of a tight corner. Vishnevsky and his wife, drugged probably, were hauled back to Moscow to face the music. Kid, too."
"Christ, what went wrong?"
"You tell me."
"What about Vishnevskys serial's? What about the mole in MI6?"
For answer, one of Mother's nicotine-stained fingers went round and round the rim of the snifter until a melancholy moan emerged from the glass.
After a moment Adrian said thoughtfully, "Hard cheese, this. I'd better p-p-pass Vishnevsky's serials on to C—there's not enough to dine out on but he can work up an appetite. Do I have it right, Jimbo? The Russian chaps debriefed someone from MI6 in Stockholm last summer, in Zurich the winter before. There were two blown operations that could finger him—one involved an agent, the other a microphone in The Hague—"
"I haven't unsealed your lips," Angleton reminded his friend.
"He'll take my guts for garters if he gets wind I knew and didn't tell him."
"He won't hear it from me."
"What's to be gained waiting?"
"If Vishnevsky wasn't feeding us drivel, if there is a mole in MI6, it could be anybody, up to and including C himself."
"I would have thought C was above and beyond." The Brit shrugged. "I hope to Christ you know what you're doing."
A waiter brought over a silver salver with their bill folded on it. Adrian reached for the check but Angleton was quicker. "Queen got the last one," he said. "Let me get this."
Angleton's luncheon partner, Harold Adrian Russell Philby—Kim to his colleagues in MI6, Adrian to a handful of old Ryder Street pals like Angleton—managed a faint smiled. "First Malta. Now lunch. Seems as if we're fated to live off Yankee largess."
Jack McAuliffe had taken Ebby slumming to a posh cabaret called Die Pfeffermühie—The
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