Disorderly Elements (14 page)

The NSA is the biggest and most efficient intelligence system the Americans have yet devised. It was founded in 1952, and employs approximately 25,000 people and operates over 200 intelligence posts throughout the world. Despite its size, few people have ever heard of it. Its existence was virtually unknown outside the US until 1960, when two of its employees, Bernon Mitchell and William Martin, defected to the USSR.

The NSA avoids publicity by acting solely as an eavesdropping facility. It employs few “secret agents”, and engages in no paramilitary activity, but its headquarters at Fort Gordon G. Meade, Maryland, house the most sophisticated eavesdropping equipment ever created. It can listen automatically to one million simultaneous telephone calls, and it can overhear and record telecommunications virtually anywhere in the world. As well as intercepting messages, it runs a team of highly skilled cryptologists. It was the home of one of these cryptologists that Rawls visited on the evening of May 25.

Harvey Everett James was a friendly little US major in his mid-thirties. He was married to a fragrant, thirteen-stone woman called Edna, who stood a full seven inches taller than he. This improbable union resulted in six noisy children, and their home life was a model of suburban bliss.

When Rawls arrived at the house, he was shown in by Edna and escorted to the lounge. He found James surrounded by four children. They were studying a toy racing car.

“The motor's broken, Sammy. It's got nothing to do with the battery.”

“It's the battery, Dad. The same thing happened last week, and—”

“It's not the same thing. Something's broken in there, you can hear it rattling around. Hi, Ed.”

“Hello, Harvey,” Rawls said.

“You any good with toy cars?” James asked hopefully.

“Sorry,” Rawls said, eyeing the children with distaste. “It's a long time since I used one.”

“I'm afraid it's broken, kids. I'll try and fix it later.”

“It's the battery, Dad. Why don't you put a new one in?”

“Believe me, it's broken. A new battery won't do any good.”

“Why don't you try?”

“I know a broken motor when I see one, Darren, that's why. Anyway, I've got to talk to Mr Rawls now.”

“I bet it's the battery.”

James took Rawls to another room.

“Kids are wonderful things,” he sighed. “Some of the time.”

“Maybe,” Rawls said. “How did it go?”

“Okay,” James said. He passed a small file of documents over to Rawls. “It's all written down, but I'll tell you anyway.”

“Great,” Rawls said.

“First, the notepaper. We had some trouble with that, because Wyman has lousy handwriting, and his pen didn't make much of an impression on the paper below. The only thing we could make sense of was a code: G2H-17-493. I'll explain that in a minute.

“Next, the typewriter ribbon. That was no problem: we got a nice print-out from it. This guy Wyman writes his memos out on it, and we've pieced together some of those. As you'll see, there's a lot of talk about someone code-named Plato. It seems that Plato's got a special Swiss bank account. That gave us the clue to the first code.

“The memos also say that Wyman was in Switzerland recently, so I took a long shot and guessed that G2H-17-493 was the bank account number. I was right.”

“That's good guessing,” Rawls said.

“Not really. I've dealt with Swiss banks before. The number had a familiar sort of look, so I ran it through the computer and it tied in with the Banque Internationale Descartes in Geneva. The code breaks down like this: G2H is the bank's own identifying code. The 17 is the number of the manager in charge of this account: that's a Monsieur Emile Barthes. The 493 tells you that this is the 493rd file under Monsieur Barthes' control.”

“I'm impressed,” Rawls said. “I know it's an asshole question, but how come you guys know all about Swiss banks?”

“We know about a lot of things,” James grinned. “You'd be surprised.”

“I guess I would. Okay, so whose is the 493rd file?”

“Ah, there I can't help you. That's what Swiss banks are all about, Ed. All I know is that G2H-17-493 belongs to someone called Plato.”

“Okay, so tell me all about Plato.”

“The memos aren't too explicit about this, but I would guess that he's an East German working for the Brits. They use Greek philosophers' names for all the really juicy contacts they pick up in the SED. We know about a Zeno, an Aristotle and an Epicurus, but we've never heard of Plato. I guess he's new.”

“Who are these guys?”

“They're big, but they're tricky. Usually they're members of the Party Central Committee or something like that, and they're often paying their way towards an easy defection. The problem is that they want to stay independent, and sometimes they get funny ideas about who's boss. They're expensive and they've got to be handled carefully. The Brits usually give them enough rope to hang themselves, and then blackmail them into doing what they want. It doesn't always work, and Plato sounds like an expensive guy.”

“How much?”

“One of the memos says two million sterling. That's a lot of cash, especially for the Brits. My guess is he's got something very important to sell.”

“I know he has,” Rawls said. “What this amounts to is that the only people who know Plato's identity are Wyman and the manager of the bank.”

“You've got it,” James said.

“Wyman won't talk,” Rawls said. “So how do I get the bank manager to sing?”

James grinned impishly.

“I thought you'd want to know that, so I got something ready for you in the file.”

“What's it say?”

“There's a 1974 treaty between us and the Swiss that allows us to get a look at accounts of US felons if they can only be arrested on a tax rap.”

“Like Al Capone?”

“Right. It's all in the file: if you can make out that you're from the Internal Revenue Service and claim that this account holds illegally obtained US dollars, they've got to let you take a look at it.”

“But the account doesn't contain US dollars. Plato's getting paid in sterling, so it's none of our business.”

“No problem,” James said. “Claim that the money was laundered in France—the file explains how it's done. Also, I think there's a way of getting the bank to let you see the account without having to take it to the Swiss Bankers' Federation. Take a look at the file and see what you think.”

“You bet I will,” Rawls said. “You've done a great job, Harvey. Thanks.”

“Pleasure,” James said.

A toy car whirred into the room, hotly pursued by James's children.

“See, Dad?” they bawled triumphantly. “It was the battery.”

N
AGEL HAD A RARE TALENT. He could produce more crumbs from one small sandwich than anyone else at Langley. The crumbs ran down Nagel's tie, tumbled onto his desk and scattered across the carpet like a small hailstorm. Rawls watched him in disgust.

“Okay,” Nagel said through a mouthful of salami, “how was your trip?”

“A lot happened,” Rawls said. “I think we've bought into something much bigger than we originally guessed.”

“Oh yeah?” Nagel sounded unimpressed.

“Yeah. I think there's a ferret in the Firm.”

Nagel nodded, frowned and stared disbelievingly at Rawls. “Shee-yit!” he exclaimed. He pushed a button on his inter com. “Miss Langer? Who got these fucking sandwiches?”

“I got them, sir,” said a nasal female voice.

“You know I take mustard in my salami sandwiches, Miss Langer, don't you?”

There was a pause.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Well,” Nagel growled, “why isn't there any fucking mustard in my fucking sandwich? How do you account for this?”

“I'm sorry, Mr Nagel. I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Nagel howled. “Forgot? Meat without mustard is naked, Miss Langer. Naked.”

“Yes, Mr Nagel.”

“Do you ever ‘forget' to dress yourself in the morning?”

“No, Mr Nagel.”

“There are laws against indecent exposure, Miss Langer.”

“Yes, Mr Nagel.”

Remember that.”

“Yes, Mr Nagel.”

He switched off.

“Where were we? Oh yeah. So you think there's a ferret in MI6. Well, start at the beginning.”

Nagel slurped a large mouthful of coffee and emitted a deep, satisfied belch.

“I saw Wyman at his department,” Rawls said. “He's a prick. Absent-minded, disorganized, messy, you name it. Anyway, I gave him a load of horseshit about needing to know about troop movements in the DDR. He believed all that, and while he was upstairs getting the info, I switched his typewriter ribbon, got a copy off his notepad and looked inside his filing cabinet.

“Grünbaum ran an F-network in Erfurt. The file gave the other members of the network, and I checked those out at home. Three of them got busted before Grünbaum did, and of course that just doesn't happen with F-networks.

“After I left Wyman's place I sent the notes and the typewriter ribbon back here using the diplomatic bag. I know a guy at the NSA who's into decoding typewriter printouts and all that kind of crap, and he did a nice job for me. But I didn't have to wait for that to find out what was happening. A KGB man called Bulgakov paid me a visit in London.”

“That's cute,” Nagel observed. “How does he figure in this?”

“I knew him in Chile. He's a smart cookie, but he ballsed-up this time. You see, he heard about my visit to Wyman, and he thought I knew the whole story. I didn't, of course, but I managed to string him along until he told me everything I needed to know.”

“Which was…?”

“When London found out what had happened to Grünbaum's network, the warning lights started flashing. Wyman was Grünbaum's case officer, and it's his job to find out how the network got burned. But with an F-network there's only one explanation.”

“A ferret? Right. That explains why Wyman was making all those unofficial inquiries in Europe.”

“Exactly. Now, Bulgakov wants us to think that this is all baloney. He says he knows we suspect there's a ferret in the Firm, and he says we've got it all wrong. According to Bulgakov, all the arrests in East Germany were for genuine criminal offences. Can you believe that? I'm supposed to accept that several people in Germany are busted as genuine criminals, and it's just coincidence that they're all in the same spy network.”

“Why did Bulgakov tell you all this?” Nagel asked.

“He says he wants to avoid trouble. He thinks we're going to send someone into Germany, and that'll cause a scandal, screwing up the arms talks.”

Nagel nodded.

“It's possible,” he said. “Stranger things have been known.”

“Do you think he's kosher?” Nagel asked.

“I don't think he is,” Rawls said. “After all, he's not really asking us to do him a favour, and he certainly isn't offering us anything. Anyway, the Brits are convinced there's a ferret in MI6, and they're the guys who usually get complacent about these things.”

“What did the typewriter ribbon say?”

“It confirms and elaborates upon what Bulgakov told me. Apparently, the Brits have got their own ferret high up in the SED somewhere. He's some kind of mercenary, and they've code-named him Plato. Whoever he is, he's big. They've given him a bank account in Geneva, and the word is that he'll pick up two million sterling if he finds out how Grünbaum's people got blown.”

“Two million?” Nagel said. “I'm impressed.”

“So was I. Anyway, that's pretty well all I know. Where do I go from here?”

Nagel leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette and paused for thought.

“The trouble with the Brits is that all their dirt becomes public,” he mused. “Every time they find a ferret, the Press gets hold of the story, questions get asked in the House of Commons, all shit breaks loose. They just don't know how to deal with the sons of bitches.”

“And how do you deal with them?”

“You burn 'em, boy. Burn 'em.”

“And that isn't public?”

“Not if you do it the right way. No need to blow their balls off, if you see what I mean. There are other ways.”

“So I hear,” Rawls said drily.

Nagel grinned.

“You can do better than that,” he said.

“Do I have any choice?”

“No. We've got to find the London ferret and deal with him before the Brits get there first.”

“We?”

“Okay. You.”

“Thought so.”

“Now don't get coy with me, boy. You know what's required. Do you think Wyman stands any chance of getting him first?”

“No,” Rawls said. “Wyman is a jerk. He's out of date.”

“Don't underestimate Wyman. Some of these Brits are smart operators.”

“Not Wyman,” Rawls said emphatically. “The only reason I got all this information is because Wyman's security is so lousy. He's a prick, and I'm not the only one who says that, I checked up on Wyman: his people are firing him fairly soon. You don't fire good operators.”

“I guess not,” Nagel said. “But what about this mystery man Plato? What if he gives Wyman the word?”

“That's the real problem,” Rawls agreed. “We need to keep an eye on that Swiss bank account. If anything goes in, then we'll be sure that Plato's onto something.”

Once more, Nagel paused for thought.

“Can we be sure that it'll definitely be Wyman who pays the two million into the account?”

“Pretty certain,” Rawls said. “It's big business, opening up one of those accounts. If Plato's stuck in East Germany, someone must be acting as his agent. That must be Wyman, because we know that Wyman's already had dealings with the bank. Given that, and the fact that Wyman wants the whole thing kept as quiet as possible, we can assume that he'll be paying in the two million.”