Authors: David Stone

The Venetian Judgment (11 page)

BOOK: The Venetian Judgment

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Next came Aldrich Ames, Harold Nicholson, and of course all the famous, feckless, interagency cluster fucks that paved the way for September 11, the gross miscalculations about Iraqi WMDs . . . Taken all together, these events constituted a series of almost mortal blows to the Agency’s professional credibility and to American Humint and Sigint operations worldwide.

Dalton, who saw the Agency clearly and understood it as well as any man alive, knew that this record appeared to be far more terrible than it actually was, since most of the Agency’s successes—and there were literally thousands of them—never reached the public’s eye in the first place. But these internal convulsions had almost wrecked the CIA, and now the whole self-defeating process seemed to be starting up all over again.

Not to mention the additional risk of getting involved in a mole hunt with a head-office carnivore like Mariah Vale at the other end. Attempting to conduct a parallel inquiry into the Glass Cutter case without her knowledge would be like trying to pluck a kitten out of a wood chipper.

On the other hand, what were his options?

Sooner or later, if his pattern held, two bottles of Bollinger and the Ruger for a chaser? Naumann was right: if he didn’t have work, his wheels started to come off. And, in the end, there was also that pesky concept called “duty, honor, country.” He’d sworn an oath with those words in it at one point, hadn’t he? They rang a bell, anyway.

“Okay, what the hell, I’m in.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You won’t regret it.”

“Ha! Do you really believe that?”

She reached out, patted his cheek, the one without the bullet scar.

“Goodness no, dear boy, not a word of it.”

NEW YORK STATE

GARRISON, THE HUDSON RIVER VALLEY

Briony Keating, in the living room, holding the fur wrap over her breasts and belly, leaving the rest of her to shimmer in the warming light of the fire, picked up the phone and said the name that this caller needed to hear. His name was Hank Brocius, the AD of RA for the NSA and at one time, a long time ago, her lover for one brief summer in Rockport. Brocius made the correct reply, and gave her his report.

“Full name: Duhamel, Jules Thierry Dassault. Brown eyes, black hair going slightly gray, about five-eleven, runs one seventy-five. Born in Chantilly des Bains, France, November twenty-three, 1973, to Lucien and Celeste Duhamel. Catholics, duly registered him in the baptismal record two days later, although the originals—take note—were destroyed in a fire in ’seventy-nine, so this comes from the National Records instead. No siblings. No birth issues. Always been healthy, other than some childhood problems with asthma. Parents, both deceased—looks like a car crash in Bilbao when he was ten. He was okay but got some burns on his back, which were repaired by cosmetic surgery when he was sixteen. Can’t see his back from the shots you sent, so be sure to check, will you? By the way, as Fernando Lamas used to say, ‘You look mahvelous, dahling.’ I know, I know, I’ll delete them. Or post ’em on Facebook. Anyway, the father owned a big chain of photo shops called Kiosks Lumières in Paris and Cannes, and the boy inherited a lot of money. He was sent by an uncle to live with relatives in Montenegro—he’s some sort of minor Montenegrin royalty, is the word—I guess this is where he got the accent you were asking about. Educated in Paris, majored in visual arts and art history, spent time at the Sorbonne but did not graduate. Established a gallery in, get this, Saint Petersburg—I mean, the one in Russia—called Atelier Dassault.Very successful, according to the tax returns he files. Runs it under a numbered corporate shelter based in the Canaries. They sell to all the major houses. Concentrates on fine-art photography, and is well thought of as a shooter himself—had shows in Vienna, Prague, Paris—but is not well known in the U.S. other than that thing in Savannah. Nothing against him in any database. No known bad habits. Credit’s fine, liquidity excellent. Healthy, no STDs—guy in Russia described him as ‘serially monogamous.’ Keeps in shape, obviously, from the shots you sent along. The DNA came back with all the right numbers for his nationality. I called a lot of people in Montenegro, other locations where he does business. Spoke to the girl who runs the gallery in Saint Pete. She said he was gone for the holidays—wouldn’t say where—but he would likely call in soon. So, it all checked out—”

“And you think . . . what?”

“I think . . . I think he probably is what he says he is. Although I don’t like the church-records fire, or the fact that his parents are dead. Also no siblings, no wife—not even engaged. And there are some shots of him—the Paris Station sent me his visa photo, for example—where he looks, I don’t know, wrong. But who looks good in those shots? If you actually look like your passport shot, you’re too sick to travel, right? I really worked that stuff, and there was nothing all that hinky, just the usual chaotic mess of a normal life. Point is, what do
you
think? I mean, he’s right there in the house, isn’t he? That’s not like you, taking a risk, right? You want, we could flake him somehow, take him in on some phony visa gig, questions about his declaration. He’s a foreign national—he’s
French,
for chrissakes—we can heat him up, see if he shows any cracks? No muscle, no bruising, just a few hours of hard-ass interrogation by some steroidal federal thugs. I got just the guys. More I think about it, more I like the idea. If he comes through clean, we can set it up that you used your pull with ICE to get him sprung. Then it’s all polka dots and moonbeams for you and the little frog prince, right?”

Briony stared at the fire for a while.

“I think you’ve done very well.”

The man’s voice was heavy with disappointment.

“So, no flaking a beef? You sure? Come on, just a
teensy
one?”

“No, I think I’m . . . satisfied . . . with the results. Very relieved.”

“Too bad. Would have been fun. Do I send you the hard copy?”

“Yes. Send it to my office at Pershing Hall.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Not now. Will you be accessible?”

“I’m off the grid for a while . . . that thing in London?”

“Yes. Terrible. I knew her. We all did.”

“Well, the spanner’s hit the spinners. Agency’s trying to muscle in, but I’m not going to let them near this. Pack of seditious old kiddy diddlers slipping state secrets to the
Times
.”

“Yes, I have heard your views. Have they decided anything?”

“Looks like a simple home invasion that went postal. I have follow-up people inbound right now. First Response said there was no sign that it had anything to do with her profession, no incursion attempts on the grid, no attempts to hack in anywhere so far. She had a lockboxful of jewels, gold, bearer bonds, and they got the numbers to open it, which supports the torture-for-robbery idea. Still, you sure you don’t want some of our security crew up there with you?”

“No. I was rather worried about this one issue, which now seems to have been resolved, but other than that I’m fine.”

“Yeah, well, I hope so. This guy checks out, I guess, but I don’t like the idea of you making a brand-new friend at the same time that we lose Millie Durant. I don’t like . . . coincidences.”

“Neither do I. That’s why I had you check it out. And you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll stand down. By the way, you hear from Morgan lately?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Last I heard, he was at NAS Souda. How long since you had a call?”

Briony tried to keep her fear out of her voice. Her son, Morgan Keating, was a twenty-six-year-old U.S. Navy medic. He had been sent out to the Naval Air Station at Souda Bay on the island of Crete a year ago. The base was isolated on the northwestern end of the island, so isolated that service there was pay-rated the same as duty at sea. Morgan had managed to get quarters off the base, which he shared with a couple of E4s. According to his last e-mail, thirty days ago, he was even dating a local girl. Briony didn’t like to hover, so she hadn’t been pushy about e-mail replies. But thirty-plus days was not at all like him. She had told herself—often—that there was a war on and that his silence could have any number of legitimate explanations.

“Oh, it’s been a while now.”

“Yeah? That’s not like Morgan. That young man loves his mother. Want me to look into it? I got a guy with the Sixth Fleet. If he’s on a medical deployment anywhere in the Med, I could probably find out.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“You’re being pretty oblique. The little frog prince around?”

“Possibly.”

“Look, I’m gonna find out where your kid is, okay? There aren’t that many places they can hide a Navy corpsman. I’ll call back when I know something. You still got that little Sig P-230 around?”

“Yes, I keep it close.”

“Good. Keep it
real
close. Nothing settles a lover’s quarrel faster than a coupla Black Talons in the chitlins. You take care, you hear me?”

“I will. Thanks again.”

When she set the phone down, Duhamel was standing in the open doorway, naked, with the last of the winter light a corona around him. Although he looked splendid, his face was in darkness, and there were only two small yellow sparks of firelight reflected in his deep-brown eyes. For a moment, she felt a shimmer of unease ripple through her.

“I’m sorry,” he said from the shadows, his baritone purr carrying a note of concern, “but I could not help but overhearing something about
results
? That you are
relieved
? I do not mean to pry, but are you not well, Briony?”

She heard the note of genuine concern in his voice, and it warmed her. She was too old to fall in love, but you’re never too old to be loved.

“No, nothing, just the usual woman stuff. Came back negative.”

“Good,” he said, relief flooding his voice, his posture changing. “I am not ready to lose . . . to lose your company. You are . . . important . . . to me.”

Lovely words. She’d heard them before and believed them. Could she believe them now? All men were gifted liars in the early days. Getting laid seemed to inspire them. She was about to say something droll and cool when he stepped into the fire glow and she saw him in that golden light. She let the blanket fall and for a while stopped thinking about anything at all.

LONDON

THE STAG AT BAY, SHOREDITCH

“So . . . let’s review,” said Mandy, relaxing into the booth now that she had made her kill. “It all starts with the Glass Cutters, doesn’t it?”

“Looks like it,” said Dalton, reaching for his cigarettes, realizing as he did so that England, like all the nanny nations of the West, had banned smoking in public bars. Feeling a tad aggrieved, he called for a Guinness.

“What are they doing right now?”

“They’re still working on all the Venona subsets,” said Mandy. “All the intercepted cables from the Cold War and later. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“I know what the Glass Cutters do, more or less. Decryption’s not my thing. I suck at math and I hate crosswords. But I thought they wrapped up the Venona project in the eighties. Moynihan had all the Venona decrypts made public in ’ninety-five. Nobody even noticed, although the cables confirmed that Joe McCarthy was dead right about Alger Hiss and his Harvard—”

Mandy rolled her eyes, reached over, and patted his hand.

“What
ever
. Let it go, Micah. Ancient history. You’re in danger of turning into this saggy old sorehead, pounding the long bar at the Hicksville VFW until your false teeth pop out: ‘Lissen up, sonny. Joe McCarthy was a gol-dern hero, I tell ’ee, ba tunderin’ Jaysus!”

“He
was
a hero, a Marine combat vet, and I am
not
a saggy old—”

“Perhaps not yet, Micah, but you’re well on your way. Can we get back to
my
subject, please? The Glass Cutters picked up where Venona left off, and now they’re working their way through all the intercepted cables that Venona couldn’t crack, as well as new stuff from the seventies and eighties. They’re triangulating the cipher codes by using archival communiqués from places the Russians pulled out of when the Evil Empire collapsed. The Ukraine, Georgia, Latvia, Estonia, what used to be East Germany.”

“What’s this ‘Venona 95 Unidentified Cover Designation 19’ thing?”

“Yes. I saw that reference, and I admit I have no idea. From the context, I’d guess that Stalin had a source close to Roosevelt who was never exposed. They only know him as ‘Unidentified Cover 19.’ People who looked into it a few years back figured this 19 guy could have been Harry Hopkins, but he died of cancer in ’forty-six, so there wasn’t a lot of attention paid. Other people said he was Eduard Beneš, and others were dead certain he was Owen Lattimore, or that it was code for Alger Hiss, although he worked for the GRU, not the KGB, and his code name was ‘Ales.’ So, it’s still up for grabs. Find out who he was and then maybe you open up the box a bit—”

“You can bet they’re trying,” said Dalton.

Mandy nodded.

BOOK: The Venetian Judgment

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