“There’s some kind of jurisdictional fight going on,” said the American. “Both State and the CIA want to run the operation.”
The Russian frowned. The two men were sitting in a car outside a small restaurant in Warrenton, Virginia, an hour or so from Washington. “I have never understood the chaotic nature of your bureaucracy. Surely there exist clear rules to determine the matter.”
“Rules are made to be broken, Viktor.”
“So your people are always saying. I find it a miracle that your country has survived this long.”
“Me, too.” The American laughed, but only for a second. “The point is, they’re going to put in an agent. It doesn’t matter whether Langley or Foggy Bottom winds up with the charter. Either way, we’ll be doing your work for you. You want to know who Smyslov was working for. They’ll find out, and I’ll let you know.”
The man called Viktor was uneasy. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. He didn’t much care for this rich country and its soft, pampered people. Certainly he didn’t like the man seated beside him. But the struggle to protect the Motherland often required compromise. Even Comrade Stalin had made temporary strategic alliances, first with the German fascists, then with the American capitalists.
“What do you know about the operation?” Viktor asked.
“Not much. Not yet. I understand that Langley is calling it QKPARCHMENT.”
“That’s the digraph for Bulgaria. I’m sure you know this stuff by heart. If it’s AE, it’s against the Soviets. You. If it’s JM, it’s Cuba.”
Viktor did indeed know the Agency’s digraphs by heart. Most Soviet intelligence officers did. Viktor had not been aware that the Americans officially conceded this. But, then, the man with whom he was negotiating was anything but official. His name, if anything at all, was Ziegler, and he represented that uniquely American species, the consultant, a man with connections everywhere and responsibilities nowhere.
“You do understand,” the Russian said, “that we will do all that we can to stop this operation.”
Ziegler’s laugh was humorless. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
A strange man, Viktor reflected. Betraying his country with such enthusiasm, when the only reward would be an intensification of the crisis. Presumably he had his reasons for cooperation, just as Viktor did.
“Tell me about the agent,” he said.
“I don’t have his identity yet, but I’m working on it.”
“And once the agent is identified?”
Again that strangely cruel laugh. “Bulgaria is on your side of the Curtain, Viktor. Your territory, your rules.”
The American left the meeting ground first. This was in accordance with their practice. Viktor returned to his borrowed vehicle and headed back toward the city, relying on his pickets to ensure that he was not being followed. He assumed that Ziegler had his own methods of detecting and avoiding surveillance, and he had no interest in them. They shared a temporary goal, to be sure, but they were enemies.
Viktor did not know precisely how contact had been established between his people in Moscow and the faction represented by the strange American. There were moments when he suspected that the approach must be a provocation, intended to create a diplomatic incident. But his superiors had ruled the task worth the risk. If matters went according to plan, the Motherland would enjoy a great success, and the cause of worldwide socialism would be immeasurably advanced. A defeat would mean a catastrophe—not only for the Motherland but for Viktor personally, and perhaps for his family as well. He understood full well how his employers dealt with failure.
His full name was Viktor Borisovich Vaganian, and he was a captain in the counterintelligence unit of the First Chief Directorate of the Committee for State Security, commonly known in the West as the KGB. The Americans had a poor understanding of the workings of the Soviet intelligence service. The formal rank of captain meant nothing, reflecting only years of service. What mattered was the particular appointment one held in the hierarchy. Thus it was not unusual, for example, to be part of an operation in which a junior case officer who was a full colonel would take orders from a senior case officer who was a major. Vitkor was still a captain because he had been with the KGB only three years. But in those years he had developed both a particular specialty and a particular reputation. And as a member of Counterintelligence, he could, in the proper circumstances, give orders even to a general.
This authority mattered just now, and explained his presence in Washington. The Motherland was in the midst of the most important intelligence operation it had undertaken since the end of the Great Patriotic War, an operation that, if successful, would end once and for all the American strategic superiority—and there was a leak.
More than a leak.
Someone on the Soviet side intended to tell the Americans what the Soviets were doing in Cuba, and, presumably, to help them stop it. This was intolerable, and had to be prevented. Viktor and his team had been sent to Washington to trace the source, because efforts to find out the answer in Moscow were being frustrated. Whoever was betraying the country had powerful friends.
But their influence would not extend past Soviet borders. In America, Viktor could take whatever measures he deemed necessary to discover the source.
As for the agent heading to Bulgaria, well, that problem was for Viktor’s colleagues to deal with. It was just as Ziegler had said: Our territory, our rules.