Malcolm flipped on the tape recorder when Ivar got into the car. Ivar sat there listening, dumbfounded at the implications.
"Imagine! One of the two is a robot," Malcolm said after the tape had played out. "I wonder which one it is, the redhead or the brunette. Did you get close enough to see?"
Ivar shook his head, "Not really."
"What was the dark haired one doing all that time?"
The thought of saying anything was distasteful. Ivar made up a story about following Eve during a shopping spree to cover the time he had spent with her. He hoped his lies would be believed, and there weren't agents also spying on him. His job inspired paranoia.
"I called Whitcomb," Malcolm said. "Played the tape for him. I guess we'll pick up the women pretty soon. Maybe they're both computers. They look so real, don't you think?"
"Yes. Very real." Ivar was thinking that the Americans now had more information than the Russians. It was up to him to fill in his operative. Then there would be a race for Russia to get the women, or the android, or whatever, first. They would be drugged and interrogated, not tortured. But there would be experiments, possible surgery to make sure that one of the women was, in fact, a computer. They would probably be spirited out of the country to do this. Some kind of mind altering job would be done on the one who was not a computer, so that she could go back and resume her life without a memory of what had transpired.
"Mark Ponti called the dark haired one Sabrina, so I think the computer is the redhead," Malcolm said.
Ivar could feel his stomach spasm. He had eaten too much food tonight. He didn't think the Americans would do anything without further proof. He would have to do some damn fast investigating.
"Old Hood Eyes wants this, now." Malcolm waved the small tape recorder. He started the car and they worked their way east to the freeway.
The clouds and fog were rolling in. The city in the distance appeared like a fairy land of lights enshrouded in mist, unlike the skyline normally encased in a brown smoggy haze.
Ivar wished he could destroy the tape machine that encased the damning conversation. A automobile accident that would smash it to smithereens. He was beginning to question his own motives. He had known for a long time that he felt no loyalty to the to the KGB, or to Russia, for that matter. He was grateful that he could be here, living in freedom, but he didn't feel particular loyalty to this country either. It was a wonderful country, but he thought that its government might be as corrupt as his own. He did not want to think of what would happen if either regime got hold of the two women.
In the past, Ivar had contemplated defecting to the United States. He could become a triple agent, working for the United States, leaking disinformation back to his superiors in Russia. He would be highly prized, but regarded with suspicion and used accordingly, never totally accepted in his loyalty. Of course, they would be right.
Ivar liked to think of himself as peace loving, even though he had had lethal training for what was quaintly called 'wet work' by both the KGB and the CIA. He did not want to be working for either government. He did not wish to defect. Neither did he want to return to Russia. Maybe he could disappear and go live in Canada. The notion was rather simplistic, but he had gathered information about how to obtain false identification papers. Ivar kept that knowledge in a part of his brain that searched for comfort.
Ivar felt he had nothing at all, having been placed to observe the workings of the CIA for Russian Intelligence. He'd had years of hiding his heritage and his native language. A pantomime of living.
The mist enshrouded fantasy was becoming a reality as the freeway took Ivar and Malcolm past buildings looming out of the fog, which were now walls on either side of the car; walls of dirty gray or beige, defiled with graffiti. There were wino's on the streets, which were garish with neon signs for liquor stores and pawn shops, grocery stores and ugly department stores with numerous filthy parking lots. The only fantasy left was in the rainbow halos around the street lights in the lowering night fog.
Los Angeles, the City of the Angels; known for Hollywood films, gang wars, decadent living, illegal aliens, the L.A. Lakers, and earthquakes; the city which worshiped designer clothes, film stars, youth, and people wealthy enough to live in Beverly Hills. Swindlers fed off the tired and lonely adolescents who flocked here with wild dreams of becoming film stars, and who would inevitably end up on the streets, addicted to drugs.
Ivar wondered if he was clinically depressed or if he just wanted out as they parked near the light grey, federal building's facade, slightly cracked from the last earthquake. They hurried up the stone steps and showed their badges to the night security guard.
Burgess Whitcomb, Old Hood Eyes, was on the telephone in his inner office when they arrived. His exhausted assistant, Willard Modert, bade them wait.
When they finally were ushered in, Burgess let the silence grow and looked at them without moving, from behind his oddly hooded eyes. His loud, "Well?" cut the silence.
Ivar, double agent, and as such, consummate actor, almost flinched. He began a monotone recital of the day's activities, repeating the lies he had told Malcolm, covering the time he had spent with Eve.
Burgess Whitcomb had the disturbing ability of maintaining a totally neutral expression. He sat impassively through his agent's monologue and the presentation of the audio tape recording. He let the silence run.
Finally, Burgess said, "Your backup agents didn't intercept or even find the Miller women. Or Mark Ponti. Right now their whereabouts is unknown. You should have followed and kept radio contact. Right now, we're combing the Fairfax district."
Ivar was thinking, Christ, We are in deep shit.
Malcolm, a very facile talker, quickly surprised Ivar by taking the blame. Knowing his own car had been identified, he had made the decision not to follow Sabrina and Mark.
Burgess finally said he thought he had made it very clear that they were to break cover. He wondered aloud why Ivar had not been able to do this with Sabrina Miller after following her all evening in public places. Ivar knew he had taken the bait from the remark Mark had made and believed that Sabrina was Eve. He didn't know if it mattered or not.