“Has he really.” Shamron slipped the cigarette between his lips and ignited it with the Zippo. “You know, Gabriel, there’s only one thing worse than having a spy in your intelligence service.”
“What’s that?”
“Catching her.” Shamron closed the Zippo with a snap. “But that’s the easy part. All you have to do is seize control of her method of communication with Moscow Center and induce her into action. Your friend Sergei Morosov has told you everything you need to know. I’d be happy to show you the relevant portion of the interrogation.”
“I was listening at the time.”
“You’ll have to think of something to tell the Americans,” Shamron continued. “Something to explain the presence of your personnel. A meeting at the station should suffice. They won’t believe a word of it, of course, which means you’ll have to watch your step.”
“I intend to.”
“Where will you run the operation?”
“Chesapeake Street.”
“A national embarrassment.”
“But perfect for my needs.”
“I wish I could be there,” said Shamron wistfully, “but I’d only be underfoot. These days, that’s all I am, an object around which people cautiously step, usually with their eyes averted.”
“That makes two of us.”
A companionable silence settled between them. Gabriel drank his wine while Shamron mechanically smoked his cigarette down to a stub, as though he feared Gabriel would not grant him permission to have another.
“I had occasion to travel to Beirut with some regularity in the early sixties,” he said at last. “There was a little bar around the corner from the old British Embassy. Jack’s or Joe’s, I can’t remember the name of it. MI6 treated it like a club. I used to pop in there to have a listen to what they were up to. And who did I see one afternoon drinking himself into a stupor?”
“Did you speak to him?”
“I was tempted,” said Shamron, “but I just sat at a table nearby and tried not to stare.”
“And what were you thinking?”
“As someone who loved his country and his people, I couldn’t possibly understand why he did what he did. But as a professional, I admired him greatly.” Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette. “Did you ever read his book? The one he wrote in Moscow after he defected?”
“Why bother? There isn’t an honest word in it.”
“But some of it is fascinating. Did you know, for example, that he buried his Soviet camera and film somewhere in Maryland after learning that Burgess and Maclean had defected? It’s never been found. Apparently, he never told anyone where he hid it.”
“Actually,” said Gabriel, “he told two people.”
“Did he really? Who?”
Gabriel smiled and poured himself another glass of wine.
“I thought you said one drink.”
“I did. But what’s the rush?”
Shamron’s lighter flared. “So where is it?”
“What?”
“The camera and the film?”
Gabriel smiled. “Why don’t you ask your mole?”
54
