Deep Lie (33 page)

“What you think’s going on, you mean.”

“Well thanks, Ed, a cold shower was just what I needed.”

“Why do you think the Soviets are about to make a move? You got something new?”

She nodded.

“I’ve got a man in Majorov’s camp.”

Rawls’s eyebrows went up all the way.

“You’ve what?”

She dug Appicella’s message from her brief case, told him about the Italian’s visit to Majorov, and explained how the message had come.

Rawls laughed.

“Boy, would Simon be pissed off to know that you’ve put an agent into the USSR!” He read the message, and she explained how it had come.

“Pretty swift, this guy. He’s got balls, I’ll give him that. Still, this reads like a letter home from camp, and you’ve got no way of proving how it came to you. Anybody with the right password could have stuck this message into the computer, and for all you know, he could have sent it from the beach at Portofino.”

She nodded.

“I know. I believe it, though. I don’t think the man is jerking me around. Listen, Ed, I’ve been thinking about going to the Post or the Times, or maybe both with this.” She waited for him to yell at her, but he didn’t.

“Listen, Katie,” he said.

“Maybe that’s the right thing to do, I don’t know, but you’ve got to think ahead a bit, you know. If you’re thinking about becoming the Deep Throat of the eighties, you should realize that you’d have to live with it for the rest of your life. It will be impossible to stay anonymous, because the Agency will know immediately who you are, and it’ll leak. If you’re right about what’s going on, then you’ll be the heroine for a while, but what kind of a life would it be? You’d be right, but nobody you know would ever speak to you again. They’ll maintain that you should have been able to do it through channels. You’ll spend the rest of your life turning down invitations to speak to left-wing student groups on abuses in the C1A.” He took a deep breath.

“On the other hand, if you’re wrong—and you have to face the fact that no matter how good this looks, you may be wrong—then the sky is going to fall. The Agency and the administration will crucify you, you’ll look like a fool to the world, and you might very well end up in Leavenworth. You’ve already left the country without prior authorization, and that’s a very big no-no. If you had to, could you prove that you weren’t sending information to Majorov using the Italian as a conduit? If you go public, you’ll have to, believe me. The Agency is going to set you up as a Soviet mole, and it won’t be all that tough to make plausible.

Even if they couldn’t get a conviction, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to prove you aren’t a Communist spy.”

There was a big knot in Rule’s stomach.

“I can’t argue with any of that, Ed.”

“But either way, right or wrong, your whole life is going to change forever. Nothing is ever going to be the same again. You might give some thought, also, to what it’s going to do to your friend over at the Senate Intelligence Committee.”

“He doesn’t know about this… well, not much, anyway.”

She shook her head.

“Jesus, I’m supposed to meet him in Copenhagen the day after tomorrow. I did get authorization for that trip.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“I need a suggestion, Ed.”

“Meet the guy. Have a fine old time in Copenhagen.

Come back refreshed. In spite of what you may think you’ve deduced. I doubt if anything is about to blow. Even if the Soviets are cooking up what you think they are. there’ll be time to anticipate it.” He put a hand on her shoulder.

“Look, I’ve started the new job. I’m in a position to keep an ear to the ground for you. I’ll have access to stuff that you won’t. I’m also in a position to do something if anything breaks. Leave it with me and go off to Copenhagen with a happy heart. Give me your itinerary. and I’ll call you if anything startling happens. We’ll set up a scrambled line to the embassy there, if necessary.”

She thought about that for a moment, then shrugged.

“Maybe you’re right, Ed. God knows I could use a few days off, and the way Nixon and Simon have got me boxed, I’m probably not going to get anything new, any way.” She scribbled on a pad.

“Here’s the name of our Hotel. I’ll leave word there if we move.”

“Great. I’m glad you’re doing this.”

She smiled.

“I feel better already, knowing you’re backing me up on this.” She wasn’t sure why he was; a week ago, he’d been keeping her at arm’s length. Still, she was grateful for the only help that had been offered her.

“Now listen.” he said, holding up a finger, “I’m not convinced myself, and I’m sure as hell not about to urge the director to go to the president. But if something else comes in that supports your theory, you have my promise that I’ll pursue it to the hilt. That’s all the backing up I can give you.”

“That’s all I need, Ed.” They got out of the car, hugged briefly, then made separate entrances into the building She spent the rest of the day trying to concentrate on routine work. OSKAR OSKARSSON squinted into the late afternoon sunlight and spoke to his dead grandson.

“There, Ebbe!” he said, pointing, then shook his head.

“No, no, it is only a stick, not a periscope.” The big twin outboards on his son’s modern, eight-meter motor cruiser thrummed along at half-throttle, easily propelling the boat at twenty-five knots. Oskarsson knew the boat would do forty at full throttle; he had tried it.

“Everyone looks, Ebbe,” the old man said.

“But we will find it. It is there, and you and I will find it.”

The waters near his son’s home in the Stockholm Archipelago had been busy these last couple of weeks, first with the Royal Navy’s patrol boats, searching for the mini sub then, after they had given up, with pleasure boats.

A rash of periscope spotting broke out after every sighting of a sub, and especially after this most recent sighting, when the navy had been so sure they had the sub bottled up. But as before, nothing had come of it. Somehow, the Russians had managed to elude them again. Since the “Whiskey-on-the-rocks” incident of 1981, none of the submarines had been captured, killed, or even photographed, but everyone knew they were Russian.

There was no keener periscope spotter among the pleasure boats—nor even in the Royal Navy—than Oskarsson.

No man was better motivated. The Russians had taken everything he loved, and he meant to have his revenge. It was good, being out on a boat with Ebbe again. His son didn’t mind the fuel bills he was running up; he even encouraged the old man’s sub hunting. Oskarsson had heard them talking in the kitchen one night, when they thought he was asleep.

“I don’t care how much it costs,” his son had said to his wife.

“It’s the only thing that’s got him out of that chair in his room since Ebbe’s death, it’s the only thing he cares about, and if I can give it to him, I will.”

Oskarsson had smiled to himself and slept better that night. Then, the next time he had taken the boat out—and he was taking it out every day the weather was decent-Ebbe had been with him, and he had been happy. Or, at least, he would be happy when they finally found a sub, as he knew they would.

Oskarsson spun the wheel without throttling back and reveled in the boat’s performance as it tracked through the turn. He had never owned a boat like this, a boat this fast.

He liked it. He would find a sub in this boat, he and Ebbe. and when he did… well, he was not quite sure, but his son’s double-barreled shotgun rested on the seat beside him. In the end, he would do something.

He pointed the boat back up the channel. He would be home. soon. He thought of his son’s house that way, now.

There would be hot chocolate and brandy, and tomorrow-tomorrow he and Ebbe would hunt subs again. WILL LEE watched from the yacht’s deck as the replacement mast was swung toward his boat by the crane. He and Yuri, who was the English speaker among the crew of workers, caught the end and guided it into the opening in the yacht’s deck, then Lee went below and guided it into the mast step over the keel. Everything was a reasonable fit, although the slightly smaller replacement mast left a gap around it at deck level, which would have to be chocked there and at the mast step, then sealed to keep water out.

The new wire rope, which had been attached at the top of the mast, now had to be cut to the proper length and swaged to the deck fittings of the yacht, then tightened.

When it was all done, it was nearly midnight, and Yuri helped Lee bend on the sails. There were only two, a mainsail and a working jib, but with some adjustments to the sheet leads, they were a good enough fit. The boat was sail able again. The propeller had been freed by a diver, too, and the boat was ready. They moved her back to her original berth at the end of the pier, and Yuri and his crew topped up the fuel and water tanks.

“How far to Copenhagen?” Yuri asked. He looked as if he wished he could come along.

“If I don’t stop, I guess about two and a half days’ sail, with a decent wind.”

Yuri looked carefully about him.

“Uh, Will… you have magazines?”

“Sure, Yuri. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” A brief search produced a New Yorker and a Time.

Yuri looked disappointed.

“Ah, Will… you have maybe Playboy’l” Will thought maybe he had. A search of the berth of his former crew, the Finn, Lars, produced a worn Playboy, an even more worn Swedish girlie magazine, and, what caused even more excitement, a British car magazine.

“Thank you very much. Will, is good,” Yuri said, stuffing the magazines into his coveralls.

Will searched the boat for anything else he might give the crew and found some chewing gum, some ballpoint pens, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. AH were received with gratitude.

“Would you and the fellows like some coffee. Yuri?” Lee asked. “No, please. You must go. I have orders you must go on the time the boat ready. But first, you must write for mast.”

“Write?”

Yuri made a scribbling motion. He wanted Lee to sign for the equipment he was taking.

“Sure. Yuri, where do I write?”

“At bureau.”

Lee and the four men left the boat and walked back to the boat shed to a small office at one end. There, Yuri made a neat list, in Russian, of all the gear he was taking.

Lee signed the document, then gave Yuri his business card.

“Tell your boss, send me a bill here. okay?” Yuri smiled broadly, revealing a row of gold teeth.

“Okay,” he said.

“Now, I take little boat. you follow me.” He strode off down the dock. Lee walked back to the boat, started the engine, and the others cast off his lines. As Lee left the dock, he saw Majorov drive up in his golf cart and stop, watching him. He waved and shouted his thanks; Majorov waved back. Lee felt lucky to be leaving at all. With Yuri leading the way, the yacht made its way to the entrance of the bay, then, with a wave, Yuri turned back.

Will set a course of due west, so as to cross the boundary into Swedish waters as soon as possible. From there, he would set a new course, southwest toward Denmark.

He steered the boat until he was well clear of the land.

When the lights of Liepaja had faded behind him in the half light of the northern night, he set the autopilot and went below to make coffee. He had had little sleep during the past twenty-four hours, and he was going to need coffee. The wave of relief he felt at being out of Latvia was soporific, and he struggled to stay awake while the kettle came to a boil. When it had, he stepped into the hatch for a quick look around the horizon, then made a cup of coffee and sat down at the chart table.

He finished the coffee, then, in spite of himself, dozed for a while, sitting up at the chart table. There was a small, unaccustomed noise from forward which caused him to open his eyes for a moment. He closed them again, thought, then looked across the cabin, wide-eyed. A man he had never seen before stood at the other end of the saloon.

Neither man spoke for a moment, one shocked, the other uncertain.

“Good evening,” the strange man said, in accented English, “I am Emilio Appieella.”

Lee was still too stunned to speak.

“You are English?” the man asked.

“American,” Lee was finally able to say.

“Good, very good,” the man replied.

“I am Italian. I am a spy of your country.”

“You are wW?”

“I am a spy of the American Central Intelligence Agency,” the man said, as if he had been asked about his work at a dinner party.

“I must go to an American embassy, the closest one, please.”

“Hang on a minute,” Lee said, recovering, “how did you get on this boat?”

“I have been waiting all day for an opportunity,” Appieella said.

“I thought perhaps the Russians would not leave it unguarded, but finally, when you went to the boat building together, I managed to get aboard.” He motioned toward the forepeak.

“I hid under the sail bags there.”

“Well, look, I can’t take you out of this country, I… what was that you said about the CIA?”