CLOAK &CORKSCREW: 33) SHOUT & TWIST
My Saturday Evening Post: A Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
65.
At quarter past three in the morning, the French double-agent who had been Polonium’d at Charles de Gaulle Airport awakened in a cold sweat. Then he ran for the bathroom of his Baghdad hotel room and retched his guts into the toilet. Finally, when he could puke no more, the agent crawled back to his bed, believing he had suffered food poisoning from a late meal after checking into the Ishtar Hotel. Eventually, he lapsed back into sleep.
Back in Paris, Igor Batamirov was not faring much better, having awakened with stomach cramps so bad he could not move. His terrified wife called for an ambulance, and the Russian was raced to a hospital.
66.
CIA case officer Charles Mulberry was completely certain the end had come, summoned, as he was, to Washington, D.C. from Los Angeles, where he had spent several days sweeping all footprints left by Josh Penner—right down to the cell phone he had used for connection to the movie star, dropped unceremoniously into the ocean from the far end of Santa Monica Pier.
Now Mulberry counted his teeth for the 312th time since watching Penner forcibly removed from their plane in Boston, and prepared himself to meet his fate. Clearly, he needed a job with less anxiety, since it was angst that fueled obsessive-compulsive rituals.
No car and driver at Dulles this trip. But Mulberry’s orders were clear, even though it was ten o’clock at night: Go straight to headquarters. So he grabbed a taxi, got out at CIA’s security post, and trudged with his roll-on to the main building.
A secretary awaited him in the quiet lobby, wordlessly steering him to the Director’s private elevator. Mulberry could not repress the urge to count his teeth in her presence, so strong the compulsion, and tried to disguise it as fingernail biting.
The first face Mulberry saw after exiting the elevator on the seventh floor belonged to Sophie Gunderson. It’s a tribunal. No, a gauntlet. Everyone is going to get a whack at me. She nodded at him, smiling. And she’s enjoying it, too.
Tyler Dixon, chief of Foreign Research, stepped out from a conference room and beckoned Mulberry inside.
Sophie Gunderson followed him in, joining the Director of the National Clandestine Service, Chuck Livingston.
And a third man, whose presence disoriented Mulberry.
The third man stood and offered his right hand. “I’m Tom Richardson, nice to meet you.”
67.
Slumped over a table, head upon his arms, SVR operative Igor Kuntevich jolted from sleep as the door opened and Armand Chantelot strode in, accompanied by a new associate. He sat opposite the Russian, leaving his aide behind him standing. “Bon jour.”
Kunty grunted.
“We have made some traces, but our investigation continues.” Chantelot consulted a manila file that he placed before him on the table. “I thought I recognized you, but I could not be sure until I checked certain files. And now I am sure.” He passed a black and white photo across the table.
Fuzzy at first, Kunty’s eyes quickly focused upon the pic, and he tried to disguise the incredulity he felt seeing himself seated at a table with another man.”
“Geneva,” said Chantelot. “About two weeks ago. Do you recall?”
Kuntevich remained silent.
“This is an American,” Chantelot tapped the photo. “His name, Tom Richardson. But you already know that, don’t you?”
“Could be photo-shopped.” Kunty shrugged.
Chantelot threw up his arms and blew a raspberry. “But of course. Admit nothing, deny everything. I look forward to your counter-allegations.” He paused. “You may be aware we had an interest in Monsieur Richardson. And I’m certain you know why.”
Kuntevich shook his head numbly.
“We followed Monsieur Richardson to Geneva. We wanted to learn what he was really up to. After all, he seemed to be telling others—at least one publisher from Great Britain—that he knew a few things that, if true, would be of great interest to us. You follow me?”
Kuntevich remained silent.
“Does it stir any memory?”
Kuntevich tried to control his breathing, so as not to give away that he needed more oxygen to quash light-headedness.
“We continued to watch Monsieur Richard, after you departed. And do you know what we concluded?”
Kunty could not help but take a breath and slowly exhale.
“We concluded that Tom Richardson never stopped working for the CIA.”
Kuntevich’s eyes widened in alarm.
Chantelot nodded. “Monsieur Richardson had been trained to operate in the Republic of France. But he was never fired. He came to Paris to undertake a single assignment, and he pulled it off, precisely as planned. So tell me, Igor, since you seem to somehow fit into this: What exactly was Richardson’s mission?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Kunty, trying to compose himself.
“Do you know where Tom Richardson went after he left Zurich?”
Kuntevich stared straight at the Frenchman, refusing to acknowledge.
“I see.” Chantelle nodded. “Got what you wanted and ran.” Now he shook his head. “We are more, how you say, diligent. Richardson traveled for a few days, from place to place, country to country. And then he got on a plane. And guess where he flew to?
Kunty remained silent.
“Monsieur Richardson flew to Washington, D.C.”
Kuntevich could do nothing to prevent himself from turning to vomit on the floor. When his face reappeared, it was deathly pale.
Continued Chantelot, with some nonchalance. “We have some other interesting news this morning.” He removed another photo from this dossier. “Remember I showed you this?”
Kuntevich looked down at the photo of himself with Vladimir Batamirov.
“This man.” He tapped Batamirov. “He is dead.” Chantelot studied Kuntevich for a reaction.
The Russian gave none.
“It was very sudden.” Chantelot shrugged. “Odd, though. He was with you at this airport yesterday.”
Kuntevich flinched.
“We have cameras that show you both arrive together, and meet with a third person, whose face we have already matched. Is there any more you would care to tell us?”
Kuntevich shook his head. This was going from bad to worse in no time at all. “I would like to see a representative from my embassy.”
“I’m sorry to tell you that you do not have diplomatic immunity,” said Chantelot. “You are in my country illegally, on a false passport. And quite likely, on an espionage mission, which is also illegal.” Chantelot turned to his colleague, an inspector in the Prefecture of Police, and threw a backhand wave at Kuntevich. “Take him away.”
Kuntevich rose slowly.
The police inspector strode forward to escort Kunty out of the door, manned outside by four uniformed police officers.
“Wait!” called Chantelot, who thought he had discerned a brief expression of relief in the Russian’s face. “You must first empty your pockets.”
Knowing the jig was up, Kuntevich played the only card he could: He plucked from his pocket the Polonium pen. “If I click this open,” he growled, “We all die from radiation poisoning! I demand to be driven to my embassy!”
Chantelot regarded the Russian with a stony stare, and cooly sniffed, “So do it.” He waited a few beats. “No?” Chantelot nodded to a uniformed police officer, who tackled cowardly Kuntevich, then relieving him of the evidence that would seal his fate.