little Tina, a bright-eyed cutie with ringlets shooting off in all directions. I could act as an intermediary with Wisner I suppose. Butâ¦
âWe still use the barter system over her, Nikolai. You give me something of value, I give you something back.â
âI will give you a complete lisstt of Soviet agents operating in USA,â said Nikolai, leaning in, spraying saliva.
âLegals?â I said. âOr illegals?â
The CIA knew who the legal Soviet agents were. Anyone who worked for the Soviet Embassy. Illegal agents posing as everyday citizens did the real damage â the clerk in the State Department mail room, the typist in the DoD secretarial pool, the lab tech at Los Alamos National Laboratory.
âThe illegals,â said Nikolai, just like that.
Good God, the motherload! We studied the mirror behind the bar. No one was paying us the least attention.
I gave Winston the nod. He stepped forward to take Nikolaiâs order. Shot of Smirnoff. And again.
The preferredmethod of exfiltration of foreign assets was submarine. Not possible in the northern Baltic this time of year. Nikolaiâs wife and daughter couldnât escape overland through a thousand miles of Soviet checkpoints and we wouldnât violate Soviet airspace to snatch them. There was a slim chance Wisner could engineer a swap, but first things first.
âWe need to get you out of here, Nikolai. Too public. Letâs go up to my room andâ¦â
He shook his head. âI need first to speak to your Mr. Vizner.â
âFine. Weâll go up to my room and call him.â
But Nikolai was eyeing the mirror again. I followed his look. A familiar face, wearing a rumpled suit, straggled up to the other end of the bar as if climbing a steep hill. Damned if it wasnât Guy Burgess.
Nikolai turned his face away. He had recognized Kim Philbyâs friend.
I caught Winstonâs eye and inclined my head.
A good bartender is a rare and glorious thing. Winston quick stepped down the bar and greeted the disheveled Brit like a long lost friend, giving me a moment to issue instructions.
âTomorrow, Lincoln Memorial, nine a.m.â
Nikolai Savayenko squeezed my hand before he turned and hurried off, the brim of his floppy black hat pulled low.
Chapter Twelve
AbeLincoln drew the short straw in the monument derby if you ask me. The Washington Monument soars high above the D.C. skyline. A bronze Jefferson towers above the visitors to his memorial dome. Only the rawboned rail-splitter sits on his marble keester, deep in shadow.
I gaped up at him. He looked depressed.
Honest Abe had drawn a fair crowd of visitors for a Tuesday morning in October, mostly school kids on a bus tour. I looked around for Nikolai.
Ah, there he was, his back to me, about ten yards away. There was no mistaking that dumb floppy hat.
Only he had shrunk a few inches. And dropped fifty pounds.
I felt a clutch of dread in my gut as I approached the hat wearer. He was a boy about fourteen. His teacher reached him before I did.
âDonald, what in the world?â
âIt was just sittinâ there, Miss Hazelton, on the bench!â
âWell you put it back where you found it.â
Young Donald galumphed over to the marble bench by the front entrance and threw down the hat.
He neednât have bothered. By my reckoning Nikolai Savayenko wouldnât need it anytime soon. The message from the NKVD was clear. The greatest potential catch in the history of American intelligence was now deceased.
I felt cold eyes watching as I ankled out the entryway. A thick line of trees bordered the reflecting pool straight ahead, convenient cover for watchers.
I didnât give the Blue Caps the satisfaction they sought, didnât run down the steps in a panic. I took my time, then turned at the bottom of the stairway to stare up at the pillarededifice in which the proudest son of the heartland sat parked on his duff.
As a fellow
âWe still use the barter system over her, Nikolai. You give me something of value, I give you something back.â
âI will give you a complete lisstt of Soviet agents operating in USA,â said Nikolai, leaning in, spraying saliva.
âLegals?â I said. âOr illegals?â
The CIA knew who the legal Soviet agents were. Anyone who worked for the Soviet Embassy. Illegal agents posing as everyday citizens did the real damage â the clerk in the State Department mail room, the typist in the DoD secretarial pool, the lab tech at Los Alamos National Laboratory.
âThe illegals,â said Nikolai, just like that.
Good God, the motherload! We studied the mirror behind the bar. No one was paying us the least attention.
I gave Winston the nod. He stepped forward to take Nikolaiâs order. Shot of Smirnoff. And again.
The preferredmethod of exfiltration of foreign assets was submarine. Not possible in the northern Baltic this time of year. Nikolaiâs wife and daughter couldnât escape overland through a thousand miles of Soviet checkpoints and we wouldnât violate Soviet airspace to snatch them. There was a slim chance Wisner could engineer a swap, but first things first.
âWe need to get you out of here, Nikolai. Too public. Letâs go up to my room andâ¦â
He shook his head. âI need first to speak to your Mr. Vizner.â
âFine. Weâll go up to my room and call him.â
But Nikolai was eyeing the mirror again. I followed his look. A familiar face, wearing a rumpled suit, straggled up to the other end of the bar as if climbing a steep hill. Damned if it wasnât Guy Burgess.
Nikolai turned his face away. He had recognized Kim Philbyâs friend.
I caught Winstonâs eye and inclined my head.
A good bartender is a rare and glorious thing. Winston quick stepped down the bar and greeted the disheveled Brit like a long lost friend, giving me a moment to issue instructions.
âTomorrow, Lincoln Memorial, nine a.m.â
Nikolai Savayenko squeezed my hand before he turned and hurried off, the brim of his floppy black hat pulled low.
Chapter Twelve
AbeLincoln drew the short straw in the monument derby if you ask me. The Washington Monument soars high above the D.C. skyline. A bronze Jefferson towers above the visitors to his memorial dome. Only the rawboned rail-splitter sits on his marble keester, deep in shadow.
I gaped up at him. He looked depressed.
Honest Abe had drawn a fair crowd of visitors for a Tuesday morning in October, mostly school kids on a bus tour. I looked around for Nikolai.
Ah, there he was, his back to me, about ten yards away. There was no mistaking that dumb floppy hat.
Only he had shrunk a few inches. And dropped fifty pounds.
I felt a clutch of dread in my gut as I approached the hat wearer. He was a boy about fourteen. His teacher reached him before I did.
âDonald, what in the world?â
âIt was just sittinâ there, Miss Hazelton, on the bench!â
âWell you put it back where you found it.â
Young Donald galumphed over to the marble bench by the front entrance and threw down the hat.
He neednât have bothered. By my reckoning Nikolai Savayenko wouldnât need it anytime soon. The message from the NKVD was clear. The greatest potential catch in the history of American intelligence was now deceased.
I felt cold eyes watching as I ankled out the entryway. A thick line of trees bordered the reflecting pool straight ahead, convenient cover for watchers.
I didnât give the Blue Caps the satisfaction they sought, didnât run down the steps in a panic. I took my time, then turned at the bottom of the stairway to stare up at the pillarededifice in which the proudest son of the heartland sat parked on his duff.
As a fellow
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