Sleeper Spy (37 page)

“This is your archfriend.”

Irving recognized the voice of Walter Clauson of the CIA; a split second later, he caught the allusion to the arches of McDonald’s, impenetrably innocent scene of their last rendezvous.

“The bagels are better in Memphis,” the reporter replied.

“My God, that sounds like a recognition code in the Mossad.”

“My agent says that’s my problem,” Irving confessed. “Nobody can understand what I write. You got something for me?”

“I just thought you might enjoy a day’s fishing.”

The only fishing Irving had done was as a kid over the fence at Riverside Park, and the gang had made a big deal out of fishing condoms out of the polluted waters of the Hudson River. But Clauson was his best source at the Agency, and the reporter told his caller he was ready to fish, metaphorically and otherwise.

“Friends’ Creek is the best place this time of year,” Clauson noted. “Up in the Catoctins, not all that far from Camp David. Ever been there? Beautiful country.”

“Isn’t this the hunting season? Guys in red hats going after Bambi?”

“On the chilly side for fishing,” Clauson admitted, “but it is a more contemplative activity. Your current endeavor has become like an albatross around my neck, and I want to regale you as if you were a wedding guest.”

That was probably some arcane literary allusion outside Irving’s ken. “You’re slipping into your Angleton mode, Clauson. Talk plain English. I’m bothering somebody?”

“More than you know. You and your companions have made me a sadder and a wiser man.”

“That’s my job, right? If I’m the guest, where’s the wedding?”

“We will meet at the Mountaingate Family Inn in Thurmont, Maryland. Take the Beltway to 270 North, past Frederick to Route 15. Sixty miles from D.C., hardly more than an hour’s drive. My cabin in Harbaugh Valley, near the best fishing creek, is fifteen minutes from there.”

“Wait, I’m writing it down.” Irving hated these long schleps for stories, but sources had to be indulged. He went into his looking-for-paper, fumbling-for-a-pencil routine, stalling for time to frame the right question. “Which one of my queries touched a nerve?”

“Sure wasn’t red mercury.”

“Get off my back. That bank in the Antilles, wasn’t it? Stepped on the Agency’s toes there, hunh?”

“Wear boots, and a slicker in case it rains. I once caught some marvelous trout in a light snow.”

“Lookit, if I’m risking pneumonia, I deserve a hint. Gimme one so I can do some homework.”

“Already have.” Clauson set the date and hour and hung up. Irving made careful notes of the cryptic conversation; within a couple of minutes of hearing something, he could set it down verbatim. If he delayed writing it down a couple of hours, he had to fake it.

He sat wriggling for two hours at the Mountaingate, in his heavy boots and old clothes, waiting for Clauson. Every fifteen minutes, Irving would go back to the buffet table, heap on a mountaineer breakfast, come back and eat it, look at his watch, and wonder if he got the day wrong. He tried his answering machine: Ace wanted him, and Mike Shu had a question, and the lawyer for his ex-wife was dunning him again, and a journalism student wanted a statement from him about the ethics of investigative reporting. He punched star-D for delete and obliterated the last two.

Where was his source? He couldn’t call Clauson’s office. He tried the spook’s home number; no luck; he did not leave a message on the machine.

Irving had eaten too much and felt sick, but all-you-can-eat buffets were a challenge. He was going up again for more sausages when the troopers came in.

Four of them, burly as usual, two carloads’ worth, piled into the booth behind him.

“Couldn’t be an ordinary government employee, like his ID said,” one of them said. “Two minutes after I reported it, the FBI was on the phone, and then CIA security.”

“Lieutenant said there’s somebody coming from Annapolis,” another voice said. “Gotta be a big shot.”

“How come no reporters, then? Been ten-twelve hours since the drowning, four since we got called, nearly three since we told the feds.”

“Maybe we ought to tip the
Frederick News-Post.
”

“No foul play. They only like foul play. Accidents are no big deal.”

The chubby waitress poured their coffee and recommended the strawberry shortcake. The troopers got up as one and made for the dessert buffet. Irving followed as far as the breakfast spread and got two sausages and another waffle, listening.

White male, sixty-two, found facedown in Friends’ Creek, drowned at about 10:00
P.M
. No fishing tackle nearby. Bottle of gin on bank. Apparently staggered out for a walk behind his cabin, fell in the creek, and drowned. No marks of blows or strangulation. Wallet in back pocket containing U.S. government identification as Walter Clauson, credit cards, and $80. Unlikely a homicide; robbery was no motive. Lights left on in cabin, large black Newfoundland dog barking awakened neighbor in cabin four hundred feet away, who found body at first light and called police. No suspicious circumstances, but feds probably would do blood test, maybe autopsy.

Irving Fein paid his bill, noting he had not eaten so much for so little in a long time. He went outside to the gas station and asked the attendant for directions to Friends’ Creek. The name, he was told, had to do with Quakers who settled the area. He drove his rented utility vehicle to Sabillasville, observed the signs for Fort Ritchie, where the President and everybody who counted would go to run the country from underground in case of a nuclear attack, and then followed the Sunshine Trail to the scene.

The body had already been put in a bag, he was told by one of the three troopers on the porch of Clauson’s cabin, and had been taken to
the Frederick morgue. The troopers were awaiting a visit from “other authorities,” presumably from Washington, before leaving the cabin.

Irving identified himself as a neighbor and on a quick inspiration offered to take care of the dog. The troopers waiting on the porch saw that as a blessing and let him into the house. The reporter befriended the large animal, who seemed appropriately lost with the body of his master gone. Irving got him some Milk-Bones, the biggest they made, from the kitchen cabinet. Then he looked around the house, touching nothing.

Clauson’s portable computer, connected to the wall and taking an unnecessary charge, was on a rustic desk. Heavy laptop, maybe five years old. Irving presumed the government worked on WordPerfect, which he knew, and turned it on. Talking nonsense to the dog, whom he called Blackie for the benefit of the troopers lounging on the porch, Irving looked through the dead man’s directories. He word-searched using “sleeper” and “Berensky” and “Feliks” and came up with nothing. He looked at the root directory to find out if any files were encrypted; no luck, none were. The batch files yielded nothing unusual. He called up the modem menu and saw a dozen frequently called numbers. He copied those down and with his handkerchief wiped his fingerprints from the keys.

On the arm of Clauson’s easy chair, under a reading lamp, a book was open. The reporter picked it up. It was
The Classic Hundred: All-Time Favorite Poems
, and the binding was cracked where the book was open, at a long poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He looked for underlining or any notes anywhere in the book; nothing. He wiped again and put the book back on the arm, open as he had found it. Another book was on the seat of the chair, titled
FDR’s Moneybags
. He thumbed the tattered volume quickly, noted it was about economic policy in the Roosevelt administration, shook it for a note, came up with nothing, and chucked it back in the seat. The dog whimpered, a small white sound from a big black animal; the reporter talked reassuringly to it and dangled his hand in a nonthreatening manner to be licked. The dog didn’t lick but sniffed and at least shut up.

Irving looked back at the computer, nagged by the thought that he had missed some message on it from the dead man. A chair on the porch creaked as a trooper came out of it; no time.

The masterless dog followed him to the car. Irving looked at him;
the troopers expected him to do something about the dog, which had been his excuse for poking around. He went back into the house, gave the massive animal a couple more Milk-Bones, and set out a bowl of water on the porch. To the sound of heavy lapping, Irving put on his best rustic demeanor. “I heard down in Thurmont ol’ Walt was drinkin’.”

“Looks like it.” A trooper indicated a gin bottle with a label attached, presumably for their report. “Was he a gin drinker?”

“I dunno,” Irving replied. “Actually, he wasn’t much of a drinker at all. Guess maybe you should give him a blood test, if that’s what you do.”

“Been twelve hours; hard to tell now.”

The dog followed him out to the car again. One of the troopers called, “Give him a good home, mister,” and Irving called back, “I think I’ll have to take him to the shelter in Thurmont.” The cops seemed disappointed. The dog climbed into the front seat next to the driver, as he must have done with Clauson, and waited for his ride, panting out the window. Irving started the vehicle and made the rounds of three neighbors’ cabins, asking if anybody wanted Clauson’s dog. Two of the kids warmly greeted him by name, Spook—Clauson had given an appropriate name to a spy’s pet—but no adult would take on the expense of a dog that looked to weigh about 130 pounds.

No time to look up the Humane Society. With the panting animal as company, the reporter drove south to Virginia. He was unfamiliar with dogs, had never owned one; often they growled at him, even dogs friendly to most other people, presumably because he was tense and moved in lurches. Dogs liked calm people, which Irving Fein was not. This one did not seem to treat him with distrust, though. Then it clicked; Spook was accustomed to a stress-ridden master pretending to be calm.

“You think Clauson got drunk and fell on his face in the water, Spook?” The animal, trained by a master skilled at resisting interrogation and fooling a polygraph, maintained a discreet silence. “Of course not. Nothing happens by accident in this dodge. So what I am going to do now is to go see his boss, who is an old buddy of mine, and tell her not to jump to easy conclusions the way state troopers do. You’re going to have to wait in the car until I can take you to the pound. You helped me out, but you’re not my goddam responsibility.”

He consulted a road map that told him he was near Fort Ritchie; good place to be near if you’re an intelligence analyst calculating the likelihood of war. Irving made a mental note to remember how to get back here in case of nuclear attack, which nobody worried about anymore. He found his way back down to Frederick, continued down I-270, and turned off at the sign that said
CIA
on the George Washington Parkway. He drove up to the fence at the complex and said to a guard at the gate, “I don’t have an appointment but I need to see the Director.” Before the guard could press the I’ve-got-a-nut-at-the-gate button, he said, “Ring the secretary to Dorothy Barclay and say Irving Fein is here and wants to see her. You’ll see, they know me.”

The guard made the call, was surprised at the quick okay, but said, “You can’t bring a dog in here. Nobody can, not even if you work here.”

“Not even a seeing-eye dog?”

“How can you be blind and drive?”

“I’ll lock him in the car in the visitors’ parking. It’ll be okay, I’ll get a pass from the Director, we’re very close.” He sped ahead before the guard could make a decision or a call.

“One of your boys was knocked off in a very skillful way.”

“Walter Clauson had a drinking problem,” Dorothy Barclay said, tapping the dossier on her desk. “He was a respected analyst, with the Agency for over thirty years, and so we made allowances. But he was going to be retired, or else riffed, this year. And his history of alcohol abuse was not inconsistent with the accident the Maryland authorities say took place at his cabin.”

“I’m telling you it was no accident.”

“Were you there, Irving? The troopers on the scene filed a preliminary report, I have the fax here—”