Ever since Saturday evening and the discovery that the Vienna cassettes had been stolen, Menlo had been a driven man. It was now Sunday afternoon, and he had many of the pieces of the puzzle fitted together. Not all. Just enough to give him an understanding of what had happened and how. But not even the fact that some important leads had been discovered could sweeten the taste of defeat. He had taken full precautions. He had been outwitted. He had failed.
Deeply depressed, he faced his desk, pulled the notes he had made in front of him, picked up a pencil. At hand were the recorders to play back the tapes he had made of today’s interviews. He could recall much of them without benefit of machine—his anger had sharpened his memory—but a total review of events was needed, item by item, and in sequence. His notes required editing, must be ready for typing into a report which he’d deliver by Wednesday. He’d get them into good order, add some flesh to their bare bones, make the story as complete as possible. And it was quite a story, he thought grimly as he began reading.
It had begun late Friday evening, just after Bristow left for Rome. Menlo called Doyle of Security, reached him at his home, requested an early meeting—most urgent—for next morning.
On Saturday, at seven A.M., Doyle met with Menlo. The two Vienna cassettes were marked, treated for electronic response, placed beside the Farrago file in its locked cabinet, on which a notice was posted: OUT OF COMMISSION. Round-the-clock guards were arranged.
At ten o’clock, the first man on duty was installed outside the entrance to the file room. A small table and chair, a detection machine for any electronic signals, a telephone—and the guard, with notebook and pen and a thermos of coffee, was all set for his eight-hour shift. Adequate precautions, Menlo judged. No cassette could be carried past the detector without the alarm sounding. But it was with some misgivings that he had used the original tapes instead of substitutions. If he were dealing with the Prague cassettes, he wouldn’t even have considered the idea of using them as bait—they were Top Security. The Vienna tapes contained useful information, but of a lower grade. If stolen, they might put a young woman at risk but they wouldn’t endanger the United States. The clinching argument in Menlo’s mind was of less importance except to himself—a vision of a thief being caught with only worthless cassettes in his pocket. The man would maintain he had taken nothing of value, and claim that blank tapes amounted to blatant entrapment. We’ll give him something to steal, Menlo decided grimly, and he will be stopped dead in his tracks. The Vienna cassettes won’t fall into enemy hands. No thief can pass the guard’s table undetected.
Ten fifteen. Menlo asked everyone in the European unit in his Section of Counterdisinformation to step into his office. Susan Attley, Denis Shaw, Manuel Domingus, Jan van Trompf arrived. Robert Reid did not work on Saturdays. Wallace Fairbairn was due—so Denis Shaw reported—at noon. Menlo reassured them that they had no cause for alarm. Some precautions were being taken, a nuisance but necessary. What were they working on?
Each gave a brief answer. Except Shaw, who could never be brief, in either his questions or his explanations. He and Fairbairn were having difficulties in tracing the route of a lie, first published in India, then broadcast from Iran, next appearing in Lebanon, and making its European entry in Athens. From Athens it must have travelled through Central Europe—newspapers there yet to be identified—and arrived via Paris in London. (From the initial “It is reported,” it had graduated into “It now has been confirmed.”) It was the mid-European newspapers that Shaw and Fairbairn were busy trying to track down. “A long job,” Shaw predicted.
Menlo had let him run on, even if the rest of the group were clearly bored. (Anything that Shaw or Fairbairn said was worth noting.) Then he cut short any more explanation from Shaw by saying that—judging from their stated projects today—they would not be inconvenienced by the precautions taken. None of them needed to use the fifth cabinet in the file room, which had been posted Out of Commission.
“That’s one of the Eastern European cabinets,” Shaw said. He looked astonished. The others were curious, too.
“Before Bristow left, some highly sensitive material was placed in that cabinet. Two cassettes, actually. I am making sure they will still be there when he returns. The precautions are an insurance against any unauthorised entry. So is the guard on duty.”
“But none of us—” Attley began, highly indignant.
“None of you,” Menlo agreed. “But there may be others who seek entry to the file room. So wear your identifications. That is all. I hope I have explained the situation and calmed any fears.”
“There has already been some talk about the guard,” Attley said. “Everyone’s a bit upset.”
“There was, is, and always will be talk. Speculation is part of your job. But keep it focused on your work. And”—he looked pointedly at the clock—“it is time to get back to it.” As they trooped out, Menlo said, “Susan, will you tell Bob Reid about our security arrangements on Monday? And Shaw—you’ll see Fairbairn. When?”
“At noon. We’re lunching together, and then we’ll—”
“Good. You inform him, will you?” And I bet you will—in full detail, thought Menlo as the door closed.
It was now ten forty-five. Menlo began reading, for the third time, the dossiers on Shaw and Fairbairn. Nothing there that was derogatory. Perhaps he was following the wrong trail. Both men had good records. Well-adjusted, no family problems, no indications of financial troubles, no drugs, no public drunkenness, no exceptional sex patterns. Work was good. Just two normal citizens devoting their careers to public service and getting more criticism than thanks for it, too. Which made Menlo’s task all the more distasteful.
Hard to believe that either of them was the mole that Vasek had mentioned. Yet, there had been someone who had dug into the Farrago file and sent information to the KGB. Someone who had known Bristow was responsible for that file. How else could Farrago, a colonel in the KGB, have learned of Bristow’s interest or been so certain that Bristow would recognise his name and value? An inside job obviously, someone working in Bristow’s unit: the others in the section did not know about his interest in Farrago. If Fairbairn and Shaw had come under suspicion, it was for two valid reasons: they were the only ones in the European unit who knew that an envelope, with a Czech’s censor’s seal, had been delivered by Bristow; they were the only ones who had seen Bristow when he was with Karen Cornell.
One of them could be the mole and the other innocent. A dupe. Who was directing the mole, controlling him? That was another question. First things first: the mole was the objective at present. Damned if I’ll let one hide in my section, thought Menlo as he rose stiffly and paced around his room to get the circulation flowing. He could use his good standing here to make valuable contacts in other departments. I’ll be twice damned if I let him tunnel his way into dangerously sensitive areas with my people as his cover.
The back pain had eased—either his walk around the room or three minutes of solid cussing had relieved the strain—and he could sit down in time for his prearranged call from Bristow, who had arrived in Italy. Bristow’s news was definitely unexpected. Josef Vasek was in Rome, had contacted Karen Cornell. Vasek’s estimate of safe arrival in the United States was two weeks. Two weeks for a mole to continue uncaught? That justified all Menlo’s precautions. Relieved, he went to lunch.
And met Shaw leaving the cafeteria.
“No Fairbairn?” Menlo asked.
“He’s here. Arrived at noon. Had some ’phone calls to make. We’ll be nosing the grindstone for the rest of the day. Probably into the night.”
“It’s a hard life,” Menlo said and watched Shaw hurry off. Some ’phone calls? To whom?
At two o’clock, Menlo checked with the guard on duty at the file room. His notes logged several visitors. Shaw had visited the room. But no Fairbairn.
Menlo wondered about that. Fairbairn had been here since noon. Wasn’t he curious about the setup at the file room door? “Is this complete?” Menlo asked as he returned the guard’s logbook.
“Mr. Fairbairn did stop by, but he wasn’t in the room. Just exchanged a word or two. Didn’t think I needed to mark it down.”
“Note every visit to your post. A full record is what we need. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.” But Menlo could almost hear the man thinking he was dealing with another mucking fusspot.
Four o’clock and all was well. More names were listed on the guard’s record. Shaw had signed out the Greek files. No appearance by Fairbairn.
Saturday’s second shift began at six P.M. Menlo checked at seven. The new man on duty, O’Donnell by name, was carefully noting all activity. Susan Attley, van Trompf, and Domingus had each returned the files they had been using; all of them had left. Only Fairbairn and Shaw still worked on.
At nine o’clock, Fairbairn used the file room but took out no folders; a lengthy visit of twenty minutes. Menlo learned of this when he made another check with O’Donnell at nine thirty. Quickly, Menlo entered the room and opened the cabinet containing the Farrago file. Nothing missing. And how could it be missing? The detector on O’Donnell’s desk would have given warning if the specially treated cassettes had been carried in anyone’s pocket. Annoyed with his overreaction, he returned to the corridor. Its traffic had ended; most people had gone home. Lights burned brightly, but silence enfolded the walls. Menlo decided to stretch out on the emergency cot in his office—forty minutes for a catnap before he made another check. (He was more tired than he had been willing to admit. Age, he thought angrily: even five years ago he could have gone without sleep for three nights in a row.) He took two more aspirin for the pain in his back.
Ten o’clock, and O’Donnell noted that Fairbairn and Shaw went into the file room to replace some folders. A friend from another department was with them but waited in the corridor. That was all O’Donnell had been able to write down. The rest of his report was made on Sunday morning when he had recovered enough to be able to answer Menlo’s questions in his hospital room.
If O’Donnell’s body was still weak, his mind was clear and his memory good. Menlo’s probe was deep and exact. Between them, the events of Saturday night became alive.
At ten o’clock, with Fairbairn and Shaw in the file room, their friend waited for them about twelve feet away from O’Donnell’s desk. He wore a label on his lapel, but that was unreadable from O’Donnell’s chair. He didn’t speak, seemed to be having a bad time with a summer cold; sneezed and blew his nose; didn’t even look at O’Donnell, who was pouring his first cup of coffee. Just then, a call came from the file room (Shaw’s voice), and Fairbairn was at its door to ask for O’Donnell’s help. A cabinet had jammed. O’Donnell hadn’t been more than a minute or two away from his post. He verified the lock on the Greek cabinet would not open. So he gave up, followed Shaw out of the room. Shaw had the files, placed them on his table. O’Donnell assured Fairbairn he’d call Maintenance and have the lock fixed. There had been no electronic warning signal as Shaw and Fairbairn were checked out. None. The three men walked smartly along the corridor; Shaw began to hurry ahead. He entered the elevator. The other two stopped half-way, decided to use the washroom.
O’Donnell began drinking his coffee before it cooled off completely. After that, he’d call Maintenance and start bringing his notes up to the minute. It was now seven minutes past ten. He was also intending to ’phone Menlo’s office once the lock was repaired so that the files could be safely placed in their cabinet. He did none of those things except drink that cup of coffee.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, a team of cleaners arrived and saw O’Donnell slumped over his table at the far end of the corridor. One joked about it, but another thought it strange. He walked down the corridor, shook the guard. No response. Dead? The cleaner shouted the alarm.
Menlo had wakened at the shout. He reached O’Donnell, stayed with the man—and heard the cleaner’s story—until Security arrived to take charge. Then he could enter the file room, cursing himself for having fallen asleep. He should never have dropped onto his cot, never taken those damned aspirin, never let his eyes close.
The cabinet was locked. He opened it and his heart missed a beat. The Vienna cassettes were gone.
Sunday morning’s hospital visit ended with a few clarifications about the previous evening. They were taped, of course, like O’Donnell’s previous statements. He had no objections to being recorded. “Some additional questions,” Menlo explained. And they were vital. “Do you always have coffee at ten o’clock?”
“Yes, it’s midway through the shift. Coffee keeps me awake.”
“You were drinking it when the three men arrived?”
“No, just poured the first cup.”
“Had anyone remarked on that thermos? Earlier?”
“Miss Attley made a joke, asked if I could spare a cup—she said it as she left. Mr. Fairbairn also joked. Said a coffee break was the right idea, thought he’d join me. I told him he’d have to wait until ten. He said he’d be having his own coffee break by that time.”
“When was this?”
“Nine twenty. At the end of his visit to the file room.”
A twenty-minute visit. Twenty minutes to make sure the lock would jam later? Excessive, though. A few minutes was all it needed. “No complaint from Mr. Fairbairn about the lock on the Greek cabinet?”
“Not until they called on me to help.”
“Did your coffee have any strange taste?”
“Needed more sugar. I thought the cafeteria had forgotten to add enough. The thermos comes all ready.”
Needed more sugar... “Bitter?” We’ll have to check on the cafeteria handler who filled that thermos, Menlo thought, but the man who had only twelve feet to cross, four strides would do it, and add knockout drops to a cup of coffee—that’s the guy who really needs checking.
“Bitter?” O’Donnell was uncertain. “I thought it only wanted some sweetening. Could have been something I ate—I had my supper just before I came on duty. The nurses say it might have been food poisoning.”
A reassuring euphemism for knockout drops, strong enough to have killed anyone with a weaker heart than O’Donnell’s. But he preferred the idea of food poisoning: it seemed less his fault than letting his coffee cup be doctored. But it had to be the coffee. That lethal dose, if administered in O’Donnell’s supper, would have felled him long before he reached his post. The cup was no help at all: rinsed and carted off by one of the cleaners. “What was the man like—the one who waited in the corridor? I know you couldn’t see his face much. He was too busy sneezing and blowing his nose, you said. What about height, weight, hair?”
“Five feet nine or ten. A hundred and seventy pounds, I’d say. Hair was straight, brown—like Mr. Shaw’s, but thinner. Needed a cut.” O’Donnell was beginning to worry again. “Sorry, sir. I should have asked his name.”
“Not necessary. Your description is enough.” Menlo switched off the tape recorder. “What happened was no fault of yours. Get well. See you back on duty.” Menlo left O’Donnell then. He looked relieved but was still a ghastly colour. Who wouldn’t be, after stomach pumping and injections and blood tests and analyses and X-rays and all the other miracles of modern medicine?
* * *
By nine o’clock on Sunday, Menlo had returned from the hospital and was eating a doughnut in his office with his breakfast coffee as he requested the State Department to locate Mr. Frederick Coulton and have him visit Menlo as soon as possible. Yes, he had to repeat, Frederick Coulton. Attached to Public Affairs. No, not regular Foreign Service: attached. Simpler by far, he thought, if two of Doyle’s agents could have brought Coulton here. No go, however. A matter of protocol.
He corralled Shaw, however, pulled him out of bed to be at Langley by ten o’clock. Urgent business, was all Menlo said over the ’phone.
He had less luck with Fairbairn. His wife answered, seemed vague and harried. Wallace had left early to go sailing with some friends. She had no idea when he would return, but it would be late, very late—he always was when he spent a day on Chesapeake Bay. She was just about to drive the children to visit their grandparents—would Mr. Menlo excuse her? “Tell him I’d like to see him tomorrow at nine o’clock,” Menlo said and had to be content with that.
He contacted Doyle once more. A quiet search should be made of Fairbairn’s house when Mrs. Fairbairn and the children had left. An equally quiet search of Shaw’s apartment was needed at ten o’clock. Also, ’phone taps should be installed and surveillance on both places around the clock. Doyle knew what to look for. Not that Menlo had much hope that the cassettes would be discovered in either place. They had been passed to Coulton, most probably, before he left the building last night. Yet everything had to be checked and checked and checked.
Or am I jumping the gun? Menlo wondered. He began playing over his recorded talk with O’Donnell once more. Then, just before ten, he had a surprise interruption. Fairbairn called; his sailing date had been cancelled, he had ’phoned his wife and got Menlo’s message. “Something urgent?” he asked.
“Yes. When can you reach here?”
There was silence.
Consulting with someone? “Fairbairn—where are you? At home?”
“No. At the marina. I’ll try for noon, if Sunday traffic allows.”
“See you then.” Menlo’s voice was definite.
At ten o’clock, Shaw arrived. At ten past twelve, Fairbairn. And Menlo learned that one of them was an expert liar.
One thirty, and Menlo was still in his office, brooding over a sandwich and lukewarm coffee, while he jotted down estimations of this morning’s interviews. First, of course, he had given Shaw and Fairbairn the reason why he had called them so early: the guard’s seizure; concern over a possible security lapse; a report that he must make on the events of last evening. It would be easier for him, he had said casually, if the conversations were taped—just in case his notes were vague on some small point.
Suspicion, Menlo had told Bristow last Friday, was an ugly business. How ugly, he was now finding out on a bright and peaceful Sunday. He sighed, switched on his two recorders, played their tapes, changing from one to the other as he compared Shaw’s answers with Fairbairn’s.
Why had Coulton been here last night?
Both men gave similar explanations. Coulton had been visiting Langley to consult one of its forgery specialists. Nothing unusual about that: Coulton had visited here before. He had dropped in to see them on his way home and needed a lift—his Mercedes was garaged until a spare part arrived.
Whom did Coulton ask for a lift?
Shaw: Coulton had asked him. After all, Coulton was one of his friends. (Shaw was proud of that, definitely honoured.) As to how and when they had met—Fairbairn had introduced them at a Georgetown cocktail party several weeks ago. Yes, he found Coulton interesting and informative.
Fairbairn: Coulton didn’t ask, just said he would be grateful for a lift. Shaw had offered. It was only natural he should. They had been seeing a lot of each other recently, both interested in those fake Hitler diaries. How had they first met? Fairbairn had no idea. To Fairbairn, Coulton was only an acquaintance and a bit of a bore like his subject. Shop talk was not exactly Fairbairn’s notion of conversation.
Did they leave the corridor together?
Shaw: No. Coulton said he’d use the washroom, so why didn’t Shaw find his car in its parking space and drive around to the front entrance? Coulton would meet him there. Made sense—time saved for everyone. So Shaw left at once. He had looked back along the corridor as he entered the elevator. Coulton and Fairbairn were already in the washroom, and the guard was drinking his coffee. Shaw checked out at the front door at ten twelve, took about six or seven minutes to reach his car, found its door ajar and its interior lights on, so that the battery seemed weakened and gave him some trouble in starting the engine. He arrived at the front door to find Coulton waiting. Fairbairn had already left for home.
Fairbairn: They didn’t leave together. Shaw suggested he would pick up his car and save time, meet them at the entrance. When Coulton and Fairbairn arrived there (after Coulton had surrendered his identification and they had been checked out), they could see no sign of Shaw. So Fairbairn left. It was almost ten thirty when he reached his car. What about the guard upstairs? He looked pretty fit to Fairbairn. He had put down his cup, was reaching for the ’phone—no doubt to call Maintenance—as Coulton and Fairbairn entered the elevator at the other end of the corridor. “Too bad about the guard,” Fairbairn added. “What caused that attack? Food poisoning? That’s the rumour downstairs. True?”
Menlo made a decision. “False. Someone tampered with his coffee. Could have killed him. Then we wouldn’t have only an investigation into a breach of security. We’d have the FBI dealing with a case of murder.”
Fairbairn stared at Menlo. “But how—” He paused, frowning. “How long before the guard was found?”
“More than an hour.”
“Plenty of time for anyone to enter the file room.”
“Plenty.” But it needed only a few minutes for someone who knew our system of locking to open the Farrago cabinet.
“You know who it is?” Fairbairn asked. And as Menlo said nothing, “Sorry. Not my business. But this is a bad show. Can’t help feeling concerned.”
“We are all concerned. Thanks for coming in, Fairbairn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Fairbairn nodded, rose to leave, said slowly, “If it’s one of us—then what?”
“I’d say he would have four choices. Either get out of the country and end his life bumming around South America or the Far East. Or head for Moscow and permanent exile. Or brazen it out, play innocent, until it’s too late for anything except prison. Of course, if his usefulness is over to the comrades and he’s a danger to those who are conspiring with him—well, his future will be decided for him. It will be terminated. There will be no choice for him.”
“Not a bright prospect any way you look at it.”
“He could make it brighter if he set the record straight. That’s his fourth choice.”
“A turncoat? Not much future in that, either.”
“His family might not agree with you. They’ve a stake in his choice, too.”
Fairbairn shook his head. “You amaze me, Menlo. You’ve really thought it all through. What choice would you make?”
“Whatever I chose, I hope I’d feel some remorse. But I suppose an enemy agent never would. You remember where Dante placed traitors in his Inferno? In the lowest depths—the ninth circle of hell. Encased them in ice.”
Fairbairn’s astonishment grew.
“Symbolic. As deep frozen as their hearts when alive.”
“You really do amaze me,” Fairbairn said slowly. Menlo and Dante—what next? He smiled. “There could be a fifth choice. Suicide.”
“For an agent who has been trapped, that’s a matter of sheer necessity, a spur-of-the-moment reaction. No choice.”
“I guess so.” Fairbairn was no longer smiling. “Those who think long about suicide rarely commit it. Do they?” He nodded, opened the door, slowly closed it.
* * *
Menlo’s notes were completed as far as Sunday had brought them. Tomorrow, Monday, he’d probably have additions to make before he typed them on Tuesday. By Wednesday, as arranged with the Director, his report would be ready. He slipped the four closely written sheets into a heavy envelope, sealed it, and locked it into his safe along with the tapes of three interviews.
There was still some business to settle before he left for home: arrange for Justice to secure a search warrant for a complete sweep of Fairbairn’s house; of Shaw’s apartment, too. (Doyle’s men in their quick search had found no Vienna cassettes in either place, but there had been a lot of electronic equipment. Shaw’s had been considerable; an unmarried man could perhaps afford expensive hobbies.) Then there would have to be some diplomatic prodding of Coulton’s bosses. Today, no one at the Bureau of Public Affairs seemed to be available, Coulton included. But suddenly, Menlo felt his fatigue mounting. He would deal with these problems later.
He set out on the long walk to his car. Whatever I’ve accomplished this Sunday, he was thinking, I’ve brought the simmering pot to a bubbling boil. But better concentrate on a long hot tub, a change of clothes, a real dinner, my own bed, and time to think things through.