Shift: A Novel

Washington, DC

November 19, 1963

In the house on Newport Place, Song and Ivelitsch sat in her office, their conversation punctuated by an occasional whip crack from the second floor, where Chul-moo was helping one of the girls with a prominent lobbyist for the tobacco industry. The lobbyist had just seen a draft of the Surgeon General’s impending report on smoking and health and felt he needed to atone for the sins of his profession.

“The idea of the sleeper took hold in American intelligence right after Stalin detonated his first bomb,” Song told Ivelitsch. “Suddenly it was undeniably clear that the Soviets were way ahead in the spy game. The Americans lacked experience. What they did have was dollars, and a willingness to try just about anything. Joe Scheider, who was then little more than a hyper-patriotic postdoctoral student with degrees in psychiatry and chemistry, floated the idea of trolling orphanages in search of bright kids who could essentially be raised by the Company as intelligence agents, placed in situ as children, and activated when and if they were needed. There were any number of problems with this plan, but chief among them was the fact that Caspar, Scheider’s star recruit, turned out not to be an orphan. His mother left him at the orphanage Monday through Friday, but took him home weekends. Most weekends anyway. Scheider refused to give up, however. He directed Frank Wisdom to act as a paternal surrogate—Caspar’s own father had died before he was born—and, although Caspar was raised by his mother and a couple of stepfathers, the Wiz and other Company men had frequent contact with him through various extracurricular activities. They helped him develop a dual identity. Publicly he was an outspoken socialist, carting around copies of The Communist Manifesto and Das Kapital, but privately he was training to become a double agent inside the KGB, joining the Civil Air Patrol in his early teens, then dropping out of high school to enlist in the Marines when he turned seventeen. But, as you saw in Russia, juggling both identities proved too much for him. Caspar wasn’t sure if he hated America or loved it, if he was working for the triumph of the proletariat or trying to expose the duplicities of the Communist paradise. The only thing that never wavered was his loyalty. Not to the Company or the Wiz or Scheider. To Melchior. I can’t believe he’d ever shoot him.”

Pavel Semyonovitch Ivelitsch listened to Song’s lecture respectfully, smiling when the tobacco lobbyist moaned particularly loudly. He didn’t understand masochism. The world was full of people trying to lord it over you—why pay someone to add to that? He’d much rather be the one holding the whip. Now he looked at Song pointedly.

“Would it be such a bad thing if he did?”

Song’s eyes narrowed. “You think we can go it alone?”

“I think Melchior’s ambivalence could be our undoing. His loyalty to the Company is essentially mercenary, but his loyalty to the Wiz is, like Caspar’s loyalty to him, personal, and considerable.”

“But with the Wiz gone, Melchior knows there’s no place left for him in the Company. They already sent Rip Robertson to kill him, and now they’re trying to get Caspar to do it. He’s got no one else to turn to except us.”

“For our sake, I hope you’re right.”

“Maybe you don’t understand what just happened on the phone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dallas? Jack Ruby? The Carousel Club? Melchior could’ve sent us a coded telegram, but he mentioned those names out loud. On purpose. He’s trying to find out if anyone in the Company besides Everton is spying on him.”

“Because?”

“Don’t play dumb, Pavel. He’s not just going rogue. He’s going away. He’s going to kill everyone who can identify him. When this is over, only you and I will know that he ever existed, let alone that he still does.”

A smile flickered over Ivelitsch’s mouth. “I’m almost impressed. But can he pull it off?”

“You mean logistically? Or temperamentally? Logistically I think it’s doable. For twenty years he’s been in the field. He’s virtually unknown by Company brass, let alone other agents. Everton’s the only person in Langley besides the Wiz who’s seen his face in the past decade.”

“What about the other Wiz Kids?”

Song shrugged. “As near as I can tell, that’s a story Melchior made up himself.”

“And Caspar? Can he kill him?”

“I don’t know. Something’s changed in him since he came back from Cuba, and it’s not just getting hold of this bomb, or even Orpheus. He’s become more calculating. Maybe he’s just realized that with the Wiz out of the picture, he has to plan a different future for himself, but he’s a much more ruthless man than the one I met a decade ago.”

Ivelitsch shook his head. “I meant, will Caspar try to kill Melchior?”

Song looked at Ivelitsch sharply. “You know why Caspar was sent to Russia, don’t you?”

“Presumably to infiltrate—”

“Caspar couldn’t have infiltrated his mother’s house. He carries a sign over his head that says ‘SPY’ in neon letters.”

“Then why send him to the Soviet Union?”

“Because even if he was a spy, he was still a self-proclaimed defector. A former Marine. A man who could confirm the existence of the U2 program, which evidence could have been used to execute Francis Gary Powers had the Politburo chosen to go down that route. He could have been sent on a whistle-stop tour of the hinterlands to lecture on the evils of capitalism while simultaneously keeping him away from state secrets. TASS and Pravda could have had a field day with him. All he needed was a single photo op with Premier Khrushchev.”

“To—kill him?” Ivelitsch’s eyebrows went up, though it was impossible to tell if he was amazed or merely amused. “This sounds more like Mother than the Wiz. It also sounds like a suicide mission.”

“Be that as it may, it didn’t work. And now Caspar’s back in the States, still looking for a leader to kill.”

Ivelitsch shook his head. “What a curious profession we have. So. I take it this is your way of saying Caspar will do it.”

“I think he’ll try. Whether he’ll pull it off is another thing. Among other things, he’s not a particularly good shot.”

“And if he misses? Melchior will kill him?”

“Like I said, something’s happened to alienate him from the Company. I don’t know what he’s capable of now.”

“You think he wants revenge?”

“It’s more than that. He wants to prove them wrong. He has to make himself believe that he’s not just the Wiz’s pickaninny after all.”

“I don’t like it. An intelligence agent’s actions should be convoluted, but his motivations should always be crystal clear and simple. Zeal or greed I understand, even glory, but this is oedipal—messy—and it has a damn good chance of blowing up in our faces.”

“Well, for now we have to trust him. He’s brilliant in the field, and every king needs a general.” She looked at Ivelitsch pointedly. “I can manage him.”

“Every king needs a queen as well,” Ivelitsch said, giving Song a tight-lipped smile. “Just make sure you’re not trying to manage all of us.”

Suddenly there was a crash in the hallway, and Ivelitsch jerked upright.

“What the hell—”

Song felt a familiar dull thud in her head. Immediately she understood.

“Orpheus!”

Ivelitsch looked at her sharply. “How do you know?”

“No time to explain. We have to get out of here.”

“Nix that,” Ivelitsch said, pulling his gun from his jacket. “I’m going to take care of this Orpheus problem once and for all.”

“Pavel, no—”

But it was too late. Ivelitsch pulled open the door and strode into the hall.