The Matarese Circle (10 page)

“Then may I suggest something?”

“Please do.”

“Send him as far away as you can. Someplace where he’ll find a peaceful oblivion. Suggest it yourself; he’ll understand.”

“He will?”

“Yes. Bray doesn’t fool himself, at least he never did. It was one of his finer gifts. He’ll understand because I think
I
do. I think you’ve described a dying man.”

“There’s no medical evidence to support that.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Robert Winthrop.

Scofield turned off the television set. He had not seen an American news broadcast in several years—since he was last brought back for an interoperations briefing—and he was not sure he wanted to see one again for the next several years. It wasn’t that he thought all news should be delivered in the ponderous tones of a funeral, but the giggles and leers that accompanied descriptions of fire and rape struck him as intolerable.

He looked at his watch; it was twenty past seven. He knew it because his watch read twenty past midnight; he was still on Amsterdam time. His appointment at the State Department was for eight o’clock.

P.
M
. That was standard for specialists of his rank, but what was not standard was the State Department location itself. Attachés-at-large for Consular Operations invariably held strategy conferences in safe-houses, usually in the Maryland countryside, or perhaps in hotel suites in downtown Washington.

Never at the State Department. Not for specialists expected to return to the field. But then Bray knew he was not scheduled to return to the field. He had been brought back for only one purpose. Termination.

Twenty-two years and he was out. An infinitesimal speck of time into which was compressed everything he knew—everything learned, absorbed and taught. He kept waiting for his own reaction, but there was none. It was as
though he were a spectator, watching the images of someone else on a white wall, the inevitable conclusion drawing near, but not drawing him into the events as they took place. He was only mildly curious. How would it be done?

The walls of Undersecretary of State Daniel Congdon’s office were white. There was a certain comfort in that, thought Scofield, as he half-listened to Congdon’s droning narrative. He could see the images. Face after face, dozens of them, coming into focus and fading rapidly. Faces of people remembered and unremembered, staring, thinking, weeping, laughing, dying … death.

His wife. Five o’clock in the afternoon. Unter den Linden.

Men and women running, stopping. In sunlight, in shadows.

But where was he? He was not there.

He was a spectator.

Then suddenly he wasn’t. He could not be sure he heard the words correctly. What had this coldly efficient undersecretary said?
Bern, Switzerland?

“I beg your pardon?”

“The funds will be deposited in your name, proportionate allocations made annually.”

“In addition to whatever pension I’m entitled to?”

“Yes, Mr. Scofield. And regarding that, your service record’s been predated. You’ll get the maximum.”

“That’s very generous.” It
was.
Calculating rapidly, Bray estimated that his income would be over $50,000 a year.

“Merely practical. These funds are to take the place of any profits you might realize from the sale of books or articles based on your activities in Consular Operations.”

“I see,” said Bray slowly. “There’s been a lot of that recently, hasn’t there? Marchetti, Agee, Snepp.”

“Exactly.”

Scofield could not help himself; the bastards
never
learned. “Are you saying that if you’d banked funds for them they wouldn’t have written what they did?”

“Motives vary, but we don’t rule out the possibility.”

“Rule it out,” said Bray curtly. “I know two of those men.”

“Are you rejecting the money?”

“Hell, no. I’ll take it. When I decide to write a book, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I wouldn’t advise it, Mr. Scofield. Such breaches of security are prohibited. You’d be prosecuted, years in prison inevitable.”

“And if you lost in the courts, there just
might
follow certain extralegal penalties. A shot in the head while driving in traffic, for example.”

“The laws are clear,” said the undersecretary. “I can’t imagine that.”

“I can. Look in my Four-Zero file. I trained with a man in Honduras. I killed him in Madrid. He was from Indianapolis and his name was—”

“I’m
not interested
in past activities,” interrupted Congdon harshly. “I just want us to understand each other.”

“We do. You can relax, I’m not … breaching any security. I haven’t the stomach for it. Also, I’m not that brave.”

“Look, Scofield,” said the undersecretary, leaning back in his chair, his expression pleasant. “I know it sounds trite, but there comes a time for all of us to leave the more active areas of our work. I want to be honest with you.”

Bray smiled, a touch grimly. “I’m always nervous when someone says that.”

“What?”

“That he wants to be honest with you. As if honesty was the last thing you should expect.”

“I
am
being honest.”

“So am I. If you’re looking for an argument, you won’t get it from me. I’ll quietly fade away.”

“But we don’t want you to do that,” said Congdon, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk.

“Oh?”

“Of course not. A man with your background is extraordinarily valuable to us. Crises will continue to arise; we’d like to be able to call upon your expertise.”

Scofield studied the man. “But not in-territory.” A statement. “Not in-strategy.”

“No. Not officially. Naturally, we’ll want to know where you’re living, what trips you make.”

“I’ll bet you will,” said Bray softly. “But for the record, I’m terminated.”

“Yes. However, we’d like it kept out of the record. A Four-Zero entry.”

Scofield did not move. He had the feeling that he was in the field, arranging a very sensitive exchange. “Wait a minute, let me understand you. You want me officially terminated, but no one’s supposed to know it. And although I’m officially finished, you want to maintain contact on a permanent basis.”

“Your knowledge is invaluable to us, you know that. And I think we’re paying for it.”

“Why the Four-Zero then?”

“I’d have thought you’d appreciate it. Without official responsibilities you retain a certain status. You’re still part of us.”

“I’d like to know why this way.”

“I’ll be.…” Congdon stopped, a slightly embarrassed smile on his face. “We really
don’t
want to lose you.”

“Then why terminate me?”

The smile left the undersecretary’s face. “I’ll call it as I see it. You can confirm it with an old friend of yours if you like. Robert Winthrop. I told him the same thing.”

“Winthrop? What did you tell him?”

“That I don’t want you around here. And I’m willing to pay out of budget and predate records to get you out. I listened to your words; you were taped by Charles Englehart in Amsterdam.”

Bray whistled softly. “Old Crimson Charlie. I should have known it.”

“I thought you did. I thought you were sending us a personal message. Nevertheless, we got it. We have a lot to do here and your kind of obstinacy, your cynicism, isn’t needed.”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

“But everything else is true. We
do
need your expertise. We have to be able to reach you anytime. You have to be able to reach
us.
”

Bray nodded. “And the Four-Zero means that my separation is top secret. The field doesn’t know I’m terminated.”

“Precisely.”

“All right,” said Scofield, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. “I think you’re going to a lot of unnecessary trouble to keep a string on me, but, as you said, you’re paying
for it. A simple field directive could accomplish the same thing: issue clearance until rescinded. Special category.”

“Too many questions would be asked. It’s easier this way.”

“Really?” Bray lit the cigarette, his eyes amused. “All right.”

“Good.” Congdon shifted his weight in the chair. “I’m glad we understand each other. You’ve earned everything we’ve given you and I’m sure you’ll continue to earn it.… I was looking at your file this morning; you enjoy the water. God knows your record’s filled with hundreds of contacts made in boats at night. Why not try it in the daylight? You’ve got the money. Why not go to someplace like the Caribbean and enjoy your life? I envy you.”

Bray got up from his chair; the meeting was over. “Thanks. I may do that. I like warm climates.” He extended his hand; Congdon rose and took it. While they shook hands, Scofield continued. “You know that Four-Zero business would make me nervous if you hadn’t called me in here.”

“What do you mean?” Their hands were clasped, but the movement stopped.

“Well, our own field personnel won’t know I’m terminated, but the Soviets will. They won’t bother me now. When someone like me is taken out-of-strategy, everything changes. Contacts, codes, ciphers, sterile locations; nothing remains the same. They know the rules; they’ll leave me alone. Thanks very much.”

“I’m not sure I understand you,” said the undersecretary.

“Oh, come on, I said I’m grateful. We both know that the KGB operations in Washington keep their cameras trained on this place twenty-four hours a day. No specialist who’s to remain in sanction is
ever
brought here. As of an hour ago they know I’m out. Thanks again, Mr. Congdon. It was considerate of you.”

The Undersecretary of State, Consular Operations, watched as Scofield walked across the office and let himself out the door.

It was over. Everything. He would never have to hurry back to an antiseptic hotel room to see what covert message had arrived. No longer would it be necessary to arrange
for three changes of vehicle to get from point
A
to point
B.
The lie to Congdon notwithstanding, the Soviets probably did know by now he had been terminated. If they didn’t, they would soon. After a few months of inactivity, the KGB would accept the fact that he was no longer of value. That rule was constant; tactics and codes
were
altered. The Soviets would leave him alone; they would not kill him.

But the lie to Congdon had been necessary, if only to see the expression on his face.
We’d like it kept out of the record. Four-Zero entry.
The man was so transparent! He really believed he had created the climate for the execution of his own man, a man he considered dangerous. That a supposedly active agent would be killed by the Soviets for the sake of a kill. Then—pointing to official separation—the Department of State would disclaim any responsibility, no doubt insisting that the dead man refused safeguards.

The bastards
never
changed, but they knew so little. An execution for its own sake was pointless, the fallout often too hazardous. One killed for a purpose; to learn something by removing a vital link in a chain, or to stop something from happening. Or to teach a specific lesson. But always for a reason.

Except in instances like Prague, and even that could be considered a lesson.
A brother for a wife.

But it was over. There were no strategies to create, no decisions to make that resulted in a defection or a turnback, of someone living or not living. It was
over.

Perhaps now even the hotel rooms would come to an end. And the stinking beds in rundown rooming houses in the worst sections of a hundred cities. He was so sick of them; he despised them all. With the exception of a single brief period—too brief, too
terribly
brief—he had not lived in a place he could call his own for twenty-two years.

But that pitifully brief period, twenty-seven months in a lifetime, was enough to see him through the agonies of a thousand nightmares. The memories never left him; they would sustain him until the day he died.

It had been only a small flat in West Berlin, but it was the home of dreams and love and laughter he had never thought he’d be capable of knowing. His beautiful Karine, his adorable Karine. She of the wide, curious eyes and the laughter that came from deep inside her, and moments of
quiet when she touched him. He was hers and she was his and.…

Death in the Unter den Linden.

Oh,
God!
A telephone call and a password. Her husband needed her.
Desperately.
See a guard, cross the checkpoint.
Hurry!

And a KGB pig had no doubt laughed. Until Prague. There was no laughter in that man after Prague.

Scofield could feel the sting in his eyes. The few sudden tears had made contact with the night wind. He brushed them aside with his glove and crossed the street.

On the other side was the lighted front of a travel agency, the posters in the window displaying idealized, unreal bodies soaking up the sun. The Washington amateur, Congdon. had a point; the Caribbean was a good idea. No self-respecting intelligence service sent agents to the islands in the Caribbean—for fear of winning. Down in the islands, the Soviets would
know
he was out-of-strategy. He had wanted to spend some time in the Grenadines; why not now? In the morning he would.…

The figure was reflected in the glass—tiny, obscure, in the background across the wide avenue, barely noticeable. In fact Bray would
not
have noticed had the man not walked around the spill of a streetlamp. Whoever it was wanted the protection of the shadows in the street; whoever it was was following him. And he was good. There were no abrupt movements, no sudden jumping away from the light. The walk was casual, unobtrusive. He wondered if it was anyone he had trained.

Scofield appreciated professionalism; he would commend the man and wish him a lesser subject for surveillance next time. The State Department was not wasting a moment. Congdon wanted the reports to begin at once. Bray smiled: he would give the undersecretary his initial report. Not the one he wanted, but one he should have.

The amusement began, a short-lived pavane between professionals. Scofield walked away from the storefront window, gathering speed until he reached the corner, where the circles of light from the four opposing street-lamps overlapped each other. He turned abruptly left, as if to head back to the other side of the street, then halfway through the intersection stopped. He paused in the middle of the traffic lane and looked up at the street sign—a man
confused, not sure of where he was. Then he turned and walked rapidly back to the corner, his pace quickening until he was practically running when he reached the curb. He continued down the pavement to the first unlighted storefront, then he spun into the darkness of the doorway and waited.