Big Numbers (23 page)

“Tell him, John,” McKinley said.

Trask stared for a moment at Abrams. Time to drop the bomb and send this whiz kid back to State with his tail between his legs.

“Moscow wants a trade,” he said evenly. “Owens for Zakharov.” He threw his cigarette into the fire and listened to the silence. Charles, he noted, was smiling.

Abrams began to stuff papers into his briefcase. “Oh really, I mean how can we even discuss this. A defector, a traitor for a top Soviet caught in the act. I’ve no doubt the Russians would like Zakharov back. Of course they want a trade.” Abrams ignored the admiral, but looked imploringly from McKinley to Trask to Charles.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be worked out, Richard, and we’ll expect full cooperation from State on this. Thank you for your part. We’ll take it from here,” McKinley said, clearly dismissing Abrams.

Abrams nodded and was joined by the admiral as McKinley accompanied them out. Trask and Charles were left alone.

“Well, John, you’ve managed to pull out another surprise,” Charles said.

“I don’t know what I’ve pulled out, Charles. I’m only a messenger on this one. But anyway, you’re ahead of me on surprises. Are you back in the fold or is this a special guest appearance?” Neither man would mention Prague.

Charles shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. They keep threatening to retire me and I keep resisting. I do some consulting now and then for the Eastern desk. Still, perhaps this means something substantial is in the works.”

Trask nodded. “I guess it will be a routine exchange, but we’ll have to see what Eugene says.”

“Yes, I’m inclined to agree, but it does seem a bit strange, Zakharov’s arrest, I mean. Still, as you say…” Charles seemed preoccupied, drifting off before Trask could pursue him. McKinley returned and broke out a bottle of brandy.

“Now then,” he said, sitting down and filling three glasses. “Let’s get down to business. I’m afraid our young man from State is a bit miffed. The Zakharov case was his baby and he’s been liaison with the FBI. I couldn’t resist letting you break the news, John. The president has already been advised, of course, so I think Abrams can stand a little feather ruffling.”

“So,” Charles began, “I can understand Moscow wanting Zakharov back, but why are we so keen to welcome Owens home?”

“Owens could be invaluable,” Trask answered. “Technology is the Soviets highest priority these days, and according to our sources, Owens has been at Zelenograd all this time. Someone who’s been on the inside, even a defector, will have a wealth of information. Then, there’s also the possibility Owens was recruited much earlier, maybe while he was in the army, for example. A kind of reverse sleeper. Don’t forget, we’re well ahead of the Soviets in development. Owens could confirm that.”

“Yes,” McKinley said, “or refute it. If only we could stop the insane student exchange program. We send our students to Moscow University to study Russian fairy tales and they send us older graduate students to study physics and laser development.” McKinley sighed. “The main thing is to ensure Owens’ attitude is going to be cooperative.”

“And,” Charles said, “that he is indeed Robert Owens. Which makes it difficult for us if I’m correct in assuming that, with the exception of this fellow Mason, nobody’s seen Owens for what, five years?”

“Exactly,” McKinley said. “I believe John has the only viable plan if we’re to go ahead with this. To positively confirm Owens, we’ve got to come up with someone from his past—college roommate, co-worker, army buddy—someone who could ask questions only the real Owens could answer. Even with intensive background briefings, there are certain details of a man’s life that can’t be anticipated, especially if you go back far enough.” McKinley paused a moment. “I don’t like to think about it, but there’s certainly a consideration Owens could be a ringer. Find someone who looks enough like him, plastic surgery, well you both know how it works.”

Charles nodded and then said. “What about this fellow Mason he contacted in Moscow? If Mason worked with Owens, surely he could make a positive identification.”

“No, Charles. It was seven years ago, and besides, he didn’t know Owens very well. In any case, I don’t think he’d be a willing candidate.”

“Well, suppose we find such a person. What then?” Charles asked. “Even assuming Moscow will agree, won’t it mean sending an inexperienced man into a potentially dangerous situation?”

“How do you mean?” Trask asked.

“Moscow will certainly stipulate any such confirmation be made on their home ground won’t they? They’re certainly not going to let Owens just walk away while we still have Zakharov.”

McKinley allowed himself a smile. “As usual, Charles, you’re absolutely correct. We want you to find this man for us and convince him a trip to Europe would be a grand experience. With the help of our computer records of course. We’ll iron out the details after we see what we have to choose from. I can think of no one more qualified, right, John?”

Trask nodded. It was true of course. Charles Fox had recruited and run agents all over Eastern Europe under the worst conditions. His natural, persuasive charm would be perfect. People talked to Charles. Trask had seen it time after time.

“Well, it’s settled then,” McKinley said. “John will go back to Moscow and work out things there. Charles, I’ll authorize all the computer time you need starting tomorrow, but we have to work fast. We’ve pulled Owens’ file already, there isn’t much to go on, I’m afraid.” McKinley drained his glass. “In fact, what I’ve seen makes me wonder if Robert Calvin Owens even existed.”

Charles caught McKinley and Trask exchange an almost imperceptible glance.

A shared secret? I wonder, he thought.

Two

Speeding along an endless, two-lane asphalt strip towards Cable Falls, Montana, Charles Fox smiled, remembering a sports commentator’s description of a boxing champion on the eve of his retirement. An aging pro in the twilight of a fading career, the sportscaster had said.

An aging pro perhaps, but his career, if somewhat dimmed, had not faded completely. Not yet. At fifty-seven, Charles Fox had been an American citizen for more than twenty-five years. But the traces of his native English accent, the Etonian mannerisms could be called upon and unleashed in full if the situation required it.

The hair was silver and thinning, complimented by a narrow white mustache. The compact body, except for a few extra pounds, was the same as when he’d roamed the back streets and alleys of Eastern Europe.

First with the OSS and later with the CIA, he eventually ran a network of operatives which had become as legendary as Fox himself. The Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 had changed all that, though he rarely allowed himself to think about it anymore.

In recent years with his wife dead and a daughter in college, Fox had been a consultant for Eastern European operations, lecturing, teaching, drawing on his knowledge of the area. Since Prague field work had become a thing of the past.

It was rumored there was a woman somewhere although no one thought to ask. Fox was often seen in the more fashionable restaurants around Georgetown. Always impeccably dressed, usually in the company of an old friend or former colleague, Fox was seemingly content to enjoy the delights of good food and wine.

But beneath the veneer of complacency, he harbored a longing for a return to action. The blue eyes still sparkled and the mind was as wily and cunning as ever. Charles Fox was glad to be back in the fold, even temporarily. Even in Montana.

The snow, so he had been told by the Hertz clerk in Billings, had stopped several days ago. The road was clear and the hard packed snow gleamed like polished stone in the bright sunlight. Frozen lakes and streams flew by in a blue blur, and despite the heavy sheepskin jacket, the car heater was going full blast. Montana was cold and lonely. He hadn’t seen another car for nearly an hour.

He flipped around the radio dial but continued to find only weather and farm news, laced with the heavy staple of country and western music. Grimacing, he gave up finally, snapped off the radio
longing for a Beethoven Quartet. He let his mind focus on why he was in Montana.

After further meetings with Eugene McKinley and John Trask, the list of possible candidates for Owens’s confirmation had been shortened to five. It had been agreed to concentrate on the period which encompassed Owens’ stay at college, military service and finally, the point of his defection. But even with the aid of the Langley computers, Owens’ life was virtually a blank slate. Preliminary inquiries had confirmed the initial impression that Owens was indeed a loner. With the exception of his mother—and she had refused point blank to discuss her son’s defection to the Soviet Union—Owens had no other family. Anyone who did remember him could make only vague references. In the end, they were left with Owens’ army service and his employment at Triton Industries.

It now fell to Charles Fox to narrow down this short list to one. Final approval of the project was dependent upon finding a suitable, reliable man to verify Owens as genuine. One man. To go where? Western Europe? Hungary? Czechoslovakia? Russia? It still wasn’t agreed where the meeting would take place. Trask had returned to Moscow to make those arrangements and once there, this man, singled out purely by chance, would be called upon to erase any doubts about Robert Owens identity. At least that was the idea.

Charles warmed to the task before him, flushed with anticipation at the thought of playing an active role again. Choosing the right man would be important and Charles was convinced the answer would be among the survivors of Owens’ unit in Vietnam. Two of the five candidates had already been eliminated. One had been killed in a car crash three years ago. The second, a bleeding mind that had never recovered from the horrors of Vietnam, was institutionalized in a Veteran’s hospital in California. For the remaining three, Charles was left with a high school teacher in Las Vegas, the security chief of Triton Industries, and if the file could be believed, a Montana farmer with long hair, an even longer record of drug arrests and decidedly leftist politics. To Charles, none were promising.

Nearing Cable Falls, Charles braked, skirted a slow-moving tractor and watched the sun, now an orange disk, sink into a sea of snow. He drove slowly past the city limits sign toward a cluster of wood frame buildings. The town looked nearly deserted as he reached the end of the main street and pulled up in front of what appeared to be the town’s only motel.

Charles gazed through the windshield at its run down look, guessed he would find lumpy beds and moaning water pipes. Sighing, he parked and got out of the car, feeling the chilled air on his ears. His feet crunched over the hard-packed snow as he tramped up the steps to the entrance. A hand-written placard in the window read: Vacancy. “I should think so,” he muttered to himself as he surveyed the empty parking lot.

A tiny bell jangled as he opened the door. Behind a scarred desk, a rail-thin man lounged sullenly, head bobbing to the blaring radio, moaning a mournful song of a trucker’s lost love. Charles shuddered inwardly and walked up to the desk.

The clerk regarded Charles curiously, shifted a toothpick to one corner of his mouth and grunted. “Hep ya?” A gnarled hand clawed at the radio and turned it down slightly.

“Possibly,” Charles said. “I’m looking for the Savage farm.”

“That so,” the clerk replied. “You a friend of Mike’s then are ya?” His voice was almost a whine and thick with contempt. His already narrowed eyes grew more suspicious.

“Not exactly. This is kind of an official visit.” Charles produced a wallet crammed with credit cards and casually let the clerk take in the government identification. “No problem however. Mr. Savage might even thank you for pointing me in the right direction.”

“Mr. Savage, eh?” The clerk snorted at the address and spat out the toothpick. He paused for a moment in indecision. “Well, I reckon you’d find him anyway. Usually down at Maggie’s Bar come supper time. Drives a pickup. Anybody down there can tell you how to git to his place,” the clerk added, making it obvious it wasn’t going to be him.

“Fine,” Charles said, deciding the clerk wasn’t going to volunteer any more information even if he pressed him. “In the meantime, have you got a room? I’d like to clean up a bit.”

“Spoze so.” The clerk dragged a dusty ledger off a shelf and opened it to a page of indecipherable scrawls to which Charles added his own. The clerk glanced at the name and handed him a key attached to a wooden block. “Ah, we pay in advance here—cash,” he drawled as Charles turned to go.

“Of course,” Charles said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. He laid two twenty-dollar bills down. “Will this be sufficient?”

“Yeah, I reckon so. Have to git your change to you later.”

Charles nodded and left the clerk to gnaw another toothpick as the radio resumed full volume. He took his bag out of the trunk, found room five—only a slight improvement over the office—and dropped on the bed. The drive had been tiring, but he was surprised to find he’d slept for nearly an hour when the knock came at the door. It was the clerk with his change.

“Don’t see Mike’s truck at the bar,” the clerk said, peering over Charles shoulder into the room. “Course on the other hand, he might have gone up to the mountains.” The hint of a smile crossed his face.