Checkpoint Charlie

He a

I took out one of the summary sheets. “We’ll concentrate on this one. It’s our best shot. The MIG-32 designs.”

“Why?”

“If they’ve learned about the leak they’ll plug it — start feeding us phony information.” I tapped the document and it made the flimsy flashpaper rattle. “You’ve got two people inside the MIG-32 program feeding us data on aircraft development and weapons systems. If the KGB got a copy of this file from our safe they’ll put surveillance on these two agents.”

“Maybe not. They may try to fool us by leaving the two alone.”

“Any of the other capers, yes. But this one’s too sensitive. They can’t afford not to plug a leak in the MIG-32 program. It’s the most advanced fighter-bomber design in the world. If they get it into production within the next few years they’ll be a dozen years ahead of us — unless we can build countermeasures around our stolen copies of their designs. With that much at stake they can’t play cute games with our intelligence people. If they know these two guys are working for us they’ll either double them or transfer them to a less sensitive sector to get them away from access to top secret data.”

“Well, if the two guys get transferred we’ll know about it.”

“Yeah.”

He said, “But how will we know if they’re doubled?”

“Why, we’ll ask one of them, De

*   *   *

I GAVE it two days because I wanted to be sure the KGB had time to make their move if they were going to make one. Thursday after dark Sneden and I left the Embassy in an official limousine and led the Russian shadow-cars around the city a while. Then near the old Ekaterinburg Station we pulled around a corner far enough ahead to be out of their sight just long enough for the two of us to get out of the car and hide in the shadows while our driver went on toward the British Embassy, where by prearrangement he would enter the underground garage, wait three hours, then return along the same route to pick us up.

Free of the tail we walked four blocks along poorly lit streets to an unexceptional third-story flat that belonged to a French journalist who was away covering a trade fair in Riga. We’d had the flat swept for bugs that afternoon and in any case I carred a jammer in my briefcase. I don’t have any fondness for those gimcracks but sometimes there’s no choice.

De

Poltov arrived at half past eleven. He was a neat small fellow with carefully combed grey hair and the conceited self-confidence of a Cockney pimp. He had something to do with computers — a fact that had made him a great prize to De

He introduced himself and shook my hand; he seemed amused by my corpulence. He made himself a drink without asking. Cognac, I noticed — none of the domestic trash for him. He’d be much more comfortable in sharkskin than in the drab Moscow serge he wore; he had ambitions to be dapper. One day, with the money we were paying him, he’d find his way to Austria or Denmark and set himself up in luxury.

When he had tasted the cognac he smiled at me. He spoke a hard Kharkov Russian that I had a little trouble following. “May I ask who you are?”

“Call me Tovarich Ivanovitch if you like,” I said.

“Your accent is atrociously American.”

“I’m not much of a linguist. They gave me the eight-week course at the Army school in Monterrey. Sit down, Tovarich, and tell me what unusual things have happened to you in the past forty-eight hours.”

“Unusual? Yes — there’s been one thing.”

“What was it?”

“The summons to this meeting.” He smiled again, enjoying his little joke.

“Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No.”

“No break in routine? No phone calls from strangers? No odd encounters? No questions?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you had security briefing? Do you know how to disclose a tail?”

“Yes. I know it if I’m being watched. I’m often watched, it’s part of the job. They’re clumsy idiots, most of them. I was tailed Monday when I left the computer building. Three men, one car. They shadowed me to the GUM store and then to my flat. I went to bed and in the morning they were gone. It was a routine check on my movements — it happens once or twice a week to all of us. May I ask the reason for these questions?”

“What would you say if I told you that some of the information you’ve been selling us is false?”

“I would say you are misinformed.”

“Poltov, if they’ve doubled you and you’re feeding us false information for them, we’ll have you terminated with extreme prejudice. You know the term?”

“Yes. I understand you have the responsibility to do that. But only if I have betrayed you. And I haven’t.”

“You’re too calm about it to suit me,” I said. “What, no indignation at the unjust accusation?”

Poltov smiled gently. “We’re accustomed to such charges here. Indignation is not a useful response. I am well paid for what I sell to you. My Swiss account grows nicely. I’ve never sold you false information. If I ever do, I shall expect you to teminate me.”

Beneath the fatalistic surface his smile was really quite bright and ingenuous.

*   *   *

DENNIS WAS cautious. “Why should you believe him?”

“Partly intuition — he’s a game player, he enjoys the danger, but he’s not devious enough to play both ends against the middle. If he were crossing us he’d be nervous about it.”

“I still don’t see how —”

I said, “If they saw the files they know he’s working for us. And if they know he’s working for us they can’t afford knowingly to let him go on releasing accurate data to us. The project’s too vital to their security. Either they’ll falsify the information he acquires, or they’ll force him to discontinue delivering it. Either way we’ll know it’s blown.”

He managed a sickly smile. “I hope it turns out he’s clean.”

“Because if he’s clean then your record’s clean?”

“Charlie, I’m only human.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The security lapse was there whether or not the Russians managed to take advantage of it.”

Brief anger flashed from him but then he slumped behind the desk. “I guess I knew that anyway. Listen — no hard feelings. I know you’ve been fair.” He flicked his windproof lighter open, ignited it and poked his cigarette into the flame.

That was when the phone buzzed. He picked it up, spoke and listened; I watched his face change in a violent exhalation of smoke. When he cradled it he looked angry, then crushed. “The bastards. Begorenko committed suicide this morning.”

“Begorenko?”

“One of our agents in the GRU. One of the names in the safe. Charlie, I think it must mean they got into the safe.”

*   *   *

IT CALLED for a council of war. Reinforcements were summoned from the Security Executive — young Leonard Ross flew in from Paris and then we were favored with the presence of Joe Cutter who arrived handsome and alert from Tokyo; finally on Saturday Myerson himself flew in over the Pole from Langley and we had a quorum. In the Embassy’s conference room the jammers were ru