The Director

35

Cyril Hoffman had never found a truly “neutral” meeting place during the Cold War, for all that people talked about Vienna or Istanbul or Berlin or Hong Kong. Those were simply divided cities that straddled the fault line. The closest he had come to a free zone during his decades as an intelligence officer was France. It was the French need to conceal secrets that made the country a discreet rendezvous point. Their business elite was interwoven with a kind of corruption that people expected in Lebanon, perhaps, but not at the center of Europe. To enter this forbidden France, it was necessary to have a French host who was part of the “réseaux,” the networks of power and corruption. And Hoffman had discovered this space early in his career.

Hoffman required a meeting place because he needed to do a deal: He had concluded that he had no choice but to seek a devil’s bargain with the Russian intelligence officers who had attached themselves to James Morris. He had pulled more information from Admiral Schumer at NSA and his counterpart at the FBI, and it was evident what the Russians were doing with Morris: They were riding the new ideological wave of anti-secrecy. It was absurd, given that Russia was a police state internally, but no more so than the Russian ability to raise the idealistic banner of global anti-capitalism in the 1930s. The Chinese might have a hand in Morris’s machinations, but they were irrelevant to Hoffman, except for their future propaganda value. No, it was the Russian card that Hoffman needed to play, in a safe location.

Hoffman contacted his friend Camille de Monceau, who had for many years run a covert-action wing of the French DGSE from its tidy, modern headquarters on the Boulevard Mortier in the northeast of Paris. He did so indirectly, using as an intermediary a French journalist they both had known for many years. A sanitized telephone contact was quickly arranged, and Hoffman made his request. He told the French officer that he needed his help in organizing an urgent meeting, in France, with Mikhail Serdukov, the deputy director of the Russian external intelligence service, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, known simply as the SVR.

“He will ask what it concerns, cher ami,” said de Monceau.

“Tell him it’s about James Morris, and that it will be mutually beneficial. That should be enough. I would like to meet him in twenty-four hours, at a safe house in Brittany. If he agrees, we can meet in Paris and I’ll take him there.”

“Who runs the safe house?” asked the Frenchman.

“I do, personally. It doesn’t belong to any service, just to ton oncle, Cyril. You’ll never find it, so don’t try.”

Word came back immediately from Moscow that the Russian, who in addition to his other jobs ran counterintelligence against the West, would be pleased to meet his old friend Mr. Hoffman.

That left Hoffman very little time to prepare, and one essential task. He had his secretary call Dr. Ariel Weiss at her office at the Information Operations Center. It was a blind call, at Hoffman’s request, from a nongovernment number.

“This is your mentor and protector,” said Hoffman. “I said I might need to ask for your assistance. Well, now I do.”

It took Weiss a moment to realize who was calling. When she understood it was Hoffman, she wanted to hang up, but knew that would be unwise.

“What do you need, Mr. H? As you know, I only respond to authorized requests.”

There was a wisp of a smile behind her voice. She sensed that Hoffman was now the one in need.

“This request is authorized by me, damn it. I need whatever dossier you have gathered on Morris’s overseas activities: names of his operatives, dates of payments, operational plans; whatever you’ve got.”

“Why can’t you get it yourself? That stuff all ends up in your shop.”

“Because I can’t. I am not doing what I’m doing, if you follow me. I am trying to straighten this business out, in a way that will not advertise itself. It would be very much in your interest to help me. And obviously, the corollary is true: It would be very damaging to refuse.”

“Got it. But I have a request of my own. You have to tell me what you’re using the information for. Otherwise, it violates normal tasking orders. I’m not allowed to give it to you.”

Her tone was proper, but sly, too. She was using the community’s own rules and procedures against its nominal boss.

“I’ll think about it. Meet me at the Lebanese Taverna in Tysons Galleria in an hour, with whatever information you’ve assembled. I have a plane to catch.”

“Meet my request or no material,” insisted Weiss.

“Don’t press your luck. Just be there in an hour.”

Weiss collected the material about James Morris that she had gathered on her hunting expedition, including the final cache of materials she had obtained by stealth from Hoffman’s own agency. She included the additional, corroborating material that the London station had pulled together about Morris’s associates. She packaged it all together in the proper, security-coded folders, marked it for dissemination to the director of National Intelligence, and headed downstairs to the security officer. She showed him the classified materials and the routing order, as she was required to do, and then walked to the parking lot and her BMW convertible.

The drive to Tysons took less than five minutes. She parked near Macy’s, a hundred yards from the restaurant entrance, and sat in the car until ten minutes before the appointed hour.

Weiss was waiting at a table upstairs when Hoffman arrived, his tie askew, his Phi Beta Kappa key dangling awkwardly on its chain. He had the not-quite-shipshape look that sailors refer to as “flying pennants.”

“I know. I’m a mess. Don’t tell me,” said Hoffman, usually so fastidious. “Too much to do. Too little time. Did you bring what I asked?”

Weiss pointed to the bag near her on the banquette of the booth.

“Of course. But I need to know what you’re going to do with it. Otherwise, as I told you on the phone, I don’t have authority to give it to you.”

She smiled primly. Hoffman rolled his eyes.

“I am going to use it to help young Mr. Morris blow himself up. I told you that before.”

“But who’s helping you? You said you’re going on a trip. Who will you see?”

Hoffman shook his head.

“I can’t tell you that.”

She looked at the old man’s eyes, which were worn with the stress of the last few days. She was not a bluffer, usually, but in this case she thought it was a reasonable bet.

“Obviously it’s the Russians,” she said. “They’re the only ones who can stop these people. They could have stopped Snowden, but they didn’t. Now you want them to help you detonate Morris.”

Hoffman looked at her. His face was impassive. He began to hum, an atonal passage from Nixon in China by John Adams.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Weiss, smiling. “You’re meeting unofficially with the Russians.”

Hoffman took the bag and lifted it over the table. It was demeaning to have to ask for things. He didn’t like it. He cleared his throat.

“I need you to do something else, please, Dr. Weiss. While I applaud your enthusiasm for wheedling information out of people, you seem to have forgotten that in this matter I have the leverage. You are a midlevel manager who has committed a firing offense, while I am director of a large government agency.”

“So?”

“So I am going to require that you do something in a week or so, to bring this matter to a close. It may be distasteful to you, but it will allow you to keep your job. Nay, to advance further up the ladder.”

“What is it?”

Hoffman smiled, feeling he had momentarily regained a little of his dignity by making another, unspecified threat.

“We’ll save the details for later. It’s just something that has to be done, that’s all.”

Hoffman stood, holding the bag that contained the modest trove of information that Weiss had brought for him.

“Sorry to be impolite. Not like me, really. But I am due at Landmark Aviation at Dulles.” He looked at his watch. “Indeed, I am late.”

Hoffman bustled off. It was too early to drink, but Weiss ordered a beer, just so she could sit and think a few moments by herself before going back to work.

Hoffman flew through the night in a Gulfstream jet, unmarked except for its tail number. He landed at Le Bourget, the airport nearest the center of Paris used by corporate aviation. Camille de Monceau, his friend from the DGSE, met him at the plane. With him was a man in a fedora hat and sunglasses, who embraced Hoffman and gave him a kiss on each cheek. The two clambered aboard, while Hoffman’s plane refueled after the transatlantic voyage. When the petrol hoses were pulled away, the Gulfstream took off for the short flight west to St. Malo — Dinard, which was the closest usable field to Hoffman’s destination.

It wasn’t until they were in the air that de Monceau’s guest, Mikhail Serdukov, removed his hat. He was a restrained, well-groomed Russian man, not at all in the old image of the KGB. He was well toned from the gym, dressed in a good Italian suit. He and Hoffman talked only occasionally, remembering meals in Helsinki and Beirut and Islamabad. Their French host gossiped about people they knew in common in the global intelligence fraternity: this Jordanian intelligence chief who had been blackmailed by his mistress; that Georgian who had been caught abusing prisoners and forced into early retirement.

When they landed, a deep blue French Citroën limousine took Hoffman and Serdukov the rest of the way to Saint-Brieuc. They left de Monceau behind, to watch the plane, as it were. Two well-armed Ravens from the Air Force’s global security staff were there, as well, to protect Hoffman’s communications gear.

The Citroën deposited Hoffman and his Russian friend at a beach house above the rocky coast at Saint-Brieuc. The November air was chilly, but a low sun was bright in the sky. Hoffman carried a briefcase. He led the Russian into the house. It appeared, from the outside, to be a derelict seaside cottage, built perhaps in the 1930s and then left as a relic of that time, shingles worn and paint peeling. But the door was open, and inside the place was warm and well lit.

Hoffman offered the Russian a seat in one of two big wicker chairs that were placed by the window and looked out over the sea. The windows had been cleaned, too, and there was a perfect view of the waves battering the rugged cliffs of the Brittany coast.

“Let me tell you a little story before we get down to business,” said Hoffman. “Would you mind that? It might put us at ease.”

“I always like your stories, Cyril. They make me forget what I am doing.”

“Not in this case, my dear Mikhail. Not at all. I want to sharpen your appreciation.”

“It is normal, then,” said Serdukov. That was every Russian’s favorite word, “normal,” probably because they had experienced so little of it in their lives.

“I want to tell you how I came to acquire this house,” said Hoffman. “That’s a secret all itself, isn’t it? And it will help you to understand what I am going to propose to you in a few moments. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Of course, Cyril. A lifetime tells me that you are reasonable.”

There was a bottle of whiskey on the windowsill. Hoffman poured a glass for himself and a glass for his Russian guest.

“Well, then, here it is: I acquired this house from a Frenchwoman who, I dare say, was one of the great spies of World War II. Had it not been for her, it is possible that neither of our governments would exist; indeed, the entirety of our world would be different. For you see, my French friend, I will call her ‘Juliette,’ stole one of the greatest secrets of the war — the fact that the Nazis had nearly perfected their V-1 and V-2 rocket bombs. God knows how, but she managed to coax it out of some German officers, who must not have wanted Hitler to win the war.

“That is what our forebears did, yours and mine: They stole the secrets that won the war.”

“Very interesting, of course, Cyril. But you are not a history professor, not me, either. And you are not in the beachfront real estate business, I don’t think. So really, I do not understand.”

“You are so impatient. That is not Russian of you. You must let the story unfold. But I will continue: The reason my friend Juliette sold me this house was that it was of great sentimental value to her, but it was also unbearable for her to look at. And the reason is that it was from this very spot that she was supposed to be rescued by the British and brought to London to be debriefed in more detail about the rocket bombs. There was a rubber boat that was supposed to pick her up, just out there.”

Hoffman pointed through the window to a place just past the surf, in the lee of a rocky cove.

“Can you see it? Well, the British boat was there, all right, and Juliette was ready to scramble aboard to safety. But someone had ratted her out to the Germans. Betrayed her! Sold her for nothing, this courageous woman. And she was arrested here, right here, in this town, by the Gestapo.”

“Remarkable woman. We had many like her, in Stalingrad and Saint Petersburg. We try to remember them, but it is hard now. The country they died for, the Soviet Union, does not exist. You took it from us. That makes me sad, I am sorry. What became of your friend Juliette?”

“Well, you see, Mikhail, that’s why I wanted to tell you the story! She was taken by the Nazis into Germany. She spent a year in concentration camps. Ravensbrück. Törgau. Königsberg. The worst. She was starved, beaten, tortured. I needn’t tell you the details. But you see, here is the miraculous fact: Through all that year of nightmare and death, she never told the Germans the secret that she had betrayed to the British. Not a word. She was silent. They didn’t realize she had shopped their most advanced technology and allowed the British to combat the weapon that could have altered the outcome of the war.”

Hoffman sat back in his chair. He drank from his whiskey. He pointed out to the spot in the cove and said again, “Right there.”

“Why do you tell me this story, Cyril? If this is the prelude, what is the music?”

Hoffman handed Mikhail Serdukov the briefcase he had brought along. Inside were redacted versions of the documents that Ariel Weiss had given him, which he had prepared on the flight over.

“We have a problem,” said Hoffman, “you and me and all the people who are heirs to the world that my friend Juliette created for us. The problem is that people from a younger generation, who do not understand what spying and sacrifice are all about, are trying to tear our world apart. They think that because technology connects everyone now, the world is open and there are no secrets. You and I know better than that. We know that without secrets, we will lose the very things we are trying to protect.”

“This is about James Morris,” said Serdukov.

“Indeed it is. I know that you are a professional, Mikhail, so I will not insist on a tedious rendition of the evidence that your people have been in contact with Morris, or that they have helped him leak classified information. Or indeed, if I am not mistaken, that your service killed a young man in Hamburg who had learned of Morris’s penetration of the agency and was trying to alert us.”

Serdukov put his hands up in protest, but Hoffman waved him off.

“Please, Mikhail. I made no allegations. And may I remind you: Qui s’excuse, s’accuse. No, the point I want to make is this: We have an interest in making Mr. James Morris and his little network of do-gooders disappear. I think you know where he is planning to strike. Well, so do I. NSA picked it up yesterday. He is planning to attack that atavistic symbol of global finance, the Bank for International Settlements.”

Serdukov shrugged.

“What of it?” he said.

“My sentiments, exactly. I can even see some benefit for our respective governments. But the point is, Morris’s other mischief must stop. I can find a way to blame his BIS stunt on others. But not if your colleagues continue to behave irresponsibly.”

“What ‘others’ were you thinking of?” asked Serdukov.

“The Chinese. They are convenient for both of us. You will see, if you go through the documentation I’ve brought along, that young Morris has been rather promiscuous in his foreign contacts. Not the sort of thing a reliable agent would do.”

Serdukov smiled, despite himself.

“Not at all,” said the Russian. “An unreliable man, from what you say.”

“Quite so. I knew that you were a man of reason. Always did, from the first time we met, what, twenty years ago.”

“Thirty,” said Serdukov. “How do you want to do this… business?”

“Ah, my dear fellow, leave that to Cyril. I just wanted to make sure that we were partners in this matter. And that it would stay buried within the ocean of oceans.”

Serdukov looked at the coast, assaulted by waves, rocks becoming sand.

“Yes,” said the Russian. “I think that is possible.”

Hoffman shook his hand and poured him another drink. They took a little walk along the coast to stretch their legs, but they didn’t tarry. They had done their business and it was time for them both to get home. Serdukov entered the blue Citroën, carrying the briefcase that Hoffman had given him, and headed back to Paris by car.

Hoffman waved goodbye, standing by the limousine window as if he were bidding farewell to a family member after an afternoon at their seaside compound. Another car arrived soon for Hoffman and returned him to the small, windswept airport at St. Malo — Dinard, where the engines of his Gulfstream were already whining.

The French host, Camille de Monceau, bade Hoffman farewell on the tarmac. The American, cleared by a special permission from the French air-traffic authority, flew directly back to Washington, arcing out across the English Channel and the Irish Sea. De Monceau returned by helicopter to Paris, where he was back at his desk before dusk.