MOST PEOPLE ARE UNAWARE that the CIA is not the United States’ largest intelligence agency. That title belongs to the National Security Agency.
The NSA is the biggest and most efficient intelligence system the Americans have yet devised. It was founded in 1952, and employs approximately 25,000 people and operates over 200 intelligence posts throughout the world. Despite its size, few people have ever heard of it. Its existence was virtually unknown outside the US until 1960, when two of its employees, Bernon Mitchell and William Martin, defected to the USSR.
The NSA avoids publicity by acting solely as an eavesdropping facility. It employs few “secret agents”, and engages in no paramilitary activity, but its headquarters at Fort Gordon G. Meade, Maryland, house the most sophisticated eavesdropping equipment ever created. It can listen automatically to one million simultaneous telephone calls, and it can overhear and record telecommunications virtually anywhere in the world. As well as intercepting messages, it runs a team of highly skilled cryptologists. It was the home of one of these cryptologists that Rawls visited on the evening of May 25.
Harvey Everett James was a friendly little US major in his mid-thirties. He was married to a fragrant, thirteen-stone woman called Edna, who stood a full seven inches taller than he. This improbable union resulted in six noisy children, and their home life was a model of suburban bliss.
When Rawls arrived at the house, he was shown in by Edna and escorted to the lounge. He found James surrounded by four children. They were studying a toy racing car.
“The motor’s broken, Sammy. It’s got nothing to do with the battery.”
“It’s the battery, Dad. The same thing happened last week, and—”
“It’s not the same thing. Something’s broken in there, you can hear it rattling around. Hi, Ed.”
“Hello, Harvey,” Rawls said.
“You any good with toy cars?” James asked hopefully.
“Sorry,” Rawls said, eyeing the children with distaste. “It’s a long time since I used one.”
“I’m afraid it’s broken, kids. I’ll try and fix it later.”
“It’s the battery, Dad. Why don’t you put a new one in?”
“Believe me, it’s broken. A new battery won’t do any good.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“I know a broken motor when I see one, Darren, that’s why. Anyway, I’ve got to talk to Mr Rawls now.”
“I bet it’s the battery.”
James took Rawls to another room.
“Kids are wonderful things,” he sighed. “Some of the time.”
“Maybe,” Rawls said. “How did it go?”
“Okay,” James said. He passed a small file of documents over to Rawls. “It’s all written down, but I’ll tell you anyway.”
“Great,” Rawls said.
“First, the notepaper. We had some trouble with that, because Wyman has lousy handwriting, and his pen didn’t make much of an impression on the paper below. The only thing we could make sense of was a code: G2H-17-493. I’ll explain that in a minute.
“Next, the typewriter ribbon. That was no problem: we got a nice print-out from it. This guy Wyman writes his memos out on it, and we’ve pieced together some of those. As you’ll see, there’s a lot of talk about someone code-named Plato. It seems that Plato’s got a special Swiss bank account. That gave us the clue to the first code.
“The memos also say that Wyman was in Switzerland recently, so I took a long shot and guessed that G2H-17-493 was the bank account number. I was right.”
“That’s good guessing,” Rawls said.
“Not really. I’ve dealt with Swiss banks before. The number had a familiar sort of look, so I ran it through the computer and it tied in with the Banque Internationale Descartes in Geneva. The code breaks down like this: G2H is the bank’s own identifying code. The 17 is the number of the manager in charge of this account: that’s a Monsieur Emile Barthes. The 493 tells you that this is the 493rd file under Monsieur Barthes’ control.”
“I’m impressed,” Rawls said. “I know it’s an asshole question, but how come you guys know all about Swiss banks?”
“We know about a lot of things,” James grinned. “You’d be surprised.”
“I guess I would. Okay, so whose is the 493rd file?”
“Ah, there I can’t help you. That’s what Swiss banks are all about, Ed. All I know is that G2H-17-493 belongs to someone called Plato.”
“Okay, so tell me all about Plato.”
“The memos aren’t too explicit about this, but I would guess that he’s an East German working for the Brits. They use Greek philosophers’ names for all the really juicy contacts they pick up in the SED. We know about a Zeno, an Aristotle and an Epicurus, but we’ve never heard of Plato. I guess he’s new.”
“Who are these guys?”
“They’re big, but they’re tricky. Usually they’re members of the Party Central Committee or something like that, and they’re often paying their way towards an easy defection. The problem is that they want to stay independent, and sometimes they get funny ideas about who’s boss. They’re expensive and they’ve got to be handled carefully. The Brits usually give them enough rope to hang themselves, and then blackmail them into doing what they want. It doesn’t always work, and Plato sounds like an expensive guy.”
“How much?”
“One of the memos says two million sterling. That’s a lot of cash, especially for the Brits. My guess is he’s got something very important to sell.”
“I know he has,” Rawls said. “What this amounts to is that the only people who know Plato’s identity are Wyman and the manager of the bank.”
“You’ve got it,” James said.
“Wyman won’t talk,” Rawls said. “So how do I get the bank manager to sing?”
James grinned impishly.
“I thought you’d want to know that, so I got something ready for you in the file.”
“What’s it say?”
“There’s a 1974 treaty between us and the Swiss that allows us to get a look at accounts of US felons if they can only be arrested on a tax rap.”
“Like Al Capone?”
“Right. It’s all in the file: if you can make out that you’re from the Internal Revenue Service and claim that this account holds illegally obtained US dollars, they’ve got to let you take a look at it.”
“But the account doesn’t contain US dollars. Plato’s getting paid in sterling, so it’s none of our business.”
“No problem,” James said. “Claim that the money was laundered in France—the file explains how it’s done. Also, I think there’s a way of getting the bank to let you see the account without having to take it to the Swiss Bankers’ Federation. Take a look at the file and see what you think.”
“You bet I will,” Rawls said. “You’ve done a great job, Harvey. Thanks.”
“Pleasure,” James said.
A toy car whirred into the room, hotly pursued by James’s children.
“See, Dad?” they bawled triumphantly. “It was the battery.”