The Lure

23 Operation PM

The CIA Dining Room was elegant, the atmosphere restful. Even with a coating of snow, or maybe because of it, the view over the manicured grounds was lovely. But Melanie Moore dearly wished she was munching a bagel in the Food Court.

For one thing, there was her dining companion, the formidable John McLarty, Deputy Director for Operations. Not that McLarty was intimidating; in fact, he oozed friendliness. It was just that he was the Deputy Director for Operations, four grades above her, and all the smooth talk in the known universe couldn’t alter the fact.

And then there was the awkward fact of her outfit. A white sweater, short white skirt and sneakers was carrying the smart-casual-as-appropriate code rather too far and might give the unfortunate impression that she had been planning an early get-away to a game of squash, which in fact she had. Under cover of the table, Melanie pulled her skirt as far down as it would go over her thighs.

She was relieved to see that the DDO, immaculate in grey suit, white shirt and Toc-H tie, was apparently unaware of her ultracasual dress. He smiled and said, ‘I like the way you wrapped up the Olsen saga. You’re running a fine Analysis team.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ But that’s not what this is about.

A waitress, black as Melanie, approached with a smile and a pencil and pad. ‘Are you ready to order?’

‘Maybe in a minute,’ the DDO said without consulting his companion. The waitress disappeared, and McLarty opened up. ‘Something odd has turned up, Melanie.’

‘Sir?’

‘A communication from a guy called Sonny Karlsson landed on my desk an hour ago. You won’t know him, he’s based in London.’

‘He’s with the Company?’

‘Actually not. He’s a trade liaison officer or something like that in our Embassy. Anyway, Sonny has a regular Saturday golf session with a lady friend.’

‘In London?’

‘Someplace to the south, Virginia Waters. Only on this particular Wednesday…’

‘Last Wednesday?’

‘Last Wednesday, she phones him to cancel the session. She says she’s been invited to Chequers by Alan Edgeworth, no less. Seems it’s the British Prime Minister’s thing, asking a few people along for the weekend. Have you eaten here before? I can recommend the clam chowder.’

‘I usually just grab a bagel in the Food Court. What sort of people?’

‘It varies enormously.’ The DDO pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back trouser pocket. ‘The guest list for this Saturday…’

‘You mean tomorrow?’

‘Yes, tomorrow, was Malcolm Dundee the Sunday Times editor, some English comedian called Ken Dodd, Alice Grissom from the Mars Corporation, Jack Nicholson who happens to be passing through London and so on. A complete mix. Anyway, the Prime Minister cancels, just like that. The story is, he has a bad cold.’

‘So who’s this lady friend?’

McLarty glanced at his notes. ‘Susan Hope.’

‘The fashion designer?’

McLarty showed surprise. ‘Yes. You know her?’

‘Not personally. My daughter wears her labels.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘I do, sir. It’s a small world.’

McLarty looked for nuances, gave up. ‘Now at this point, Sonny shows the sort of initiative that makes me wonder if we shouldn’t be employing him. He gets curious about this sudden cold. Yesterday evening he decides to do a little off-road driving in the woods around a village called Dunsmore, which happens to be close to Chequers. Sure enough, there’s a ring of steel around the place indicating that the Prime Minister is in residence. Sonny waits. A car appears but he can’t make out the occupants in the dark. An hour or so later, Sonny sees an entourage take off from Chequers in the direction of RAF Northolt.’

‘An entourage?’

‘A PM-sized convoy. The presumption has to be that it contained the PM.’

‘And?’

McLarty gave a sort of a grin. ‘Why do you think I’m giving you this lunch, Melanie? The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom has disappeared. If that don’t ring an alarm bell I reckon you shouldn’t be working for this Agency. I want you to find out where Edgeworth has gone.’

‘I’ll try, sir.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t want this to interfere with your busy social calendar.’ McLarty smiled.

Melanie smiled back. Damn racist male chauvinist Prussian pig.

‘Balmoral.’

‘Huh?’ Melanie leaned over the sandy-haired man’s shoulder.

The sandy-haired man pointed to a small cluster of pixels on the screen. ‘Edgeworth has no scheduled trips abroad. Domestic flights from Northolt are usually to visit the Queen in Balmoral.’

‘Where did you get this? We don’t spy on Britain.’

‘As of this afternoon we do. This is a couple of hours old. We were lucky to get the cloud break.’

‘What is this? A castle?’

An older male voice came from the far corner of the underground room. ‘It’s the summer dacha of the British Royal Family, or at least one of them.’ There was the sound of pages turning, and then, ‘Forget Balmoral. The Royals don’t go near it in the winter, on account of it’s like something out of Dr Zhivago. In the Scottish Highlands you spend winter indoors with a roaring fire, drinking whisky until spring arrives.’

‘So who are these people?’ Melanie asked. Sandy had zoomed the picture up until the individual pixels were visible. He was focusing on a group of people, black against the snow. They seemed to be throwing snowballs.

‘Caretaker staff.’

‘How can you be sure?’

Sandy clicked the picture back to its original size. Balmoral Castle, enclosed on three sides by a broad river, was throwing long winter shadows. A cottage and some outbuildings were scattered around. A hill to the south was partly obscured by cloud. There were patches of flat ground in the left and right foreground, like areas for sports like golf or cricket. ‘No helicopters, no security worth a damn, no Prime Ministerial cars, and therefore no Prime Minister.’

Melanie nodded thoughtfully. ‘So where the hell did he go?’

For this one, Sullivan did his own typing. He did it at an efficient, two-fingered speed, in a windowless office whose walls, underneath the oak panelling and the portraits, were imbedded with wire mesh.

Credibility, the CIA Director increasingly realised as he tore up one draft after another, was going to be the issue. After half a dozen attempts, he resigned himself to the fact that, whatever the words, it was going to come out sounding corny: there was a big giggle factor and no way round it. He ended up with a bald statement of the facts and a short section devoted to the possible implications for the USA, putting emphasis on the overwhelming advantage of the new knowledge for the countries which held it. It was slim stuff, and it had an air of hand-waving, exactly the sort of padding which he discouraged in his subordinates’ analyses. He scanned in the telephone transcript from the Gorki-9 intercept; it made a fat appendix.

He sealed it, hand-wrote For the President’s Eyes Only, and telephoned the White House. He asked for a twenty-minute slot alone with the President, and a space was found for him at 11 p.m.

He left the HQ at seven. A Secret Service man drove him to his home on Wisconsin Avenue, where Sullivan’s little fat maid, following wifely instructions, served him boiled fish and boiled rice followed by a fresh fruit salad with fromage frais. All low cholesterol, low fat and virtuous; but just now and then, especially when he was under stress, he longed for a T-bone steak with deep-fried potatoes followed by a dumpling with double cream washed down with two or three beers.

This was one of those occasions.

At ten forty-five, his mind temporarily numbed with an evening of cable TV, he was collected, and ten minutes later he was dropped off at the West Wing security kiosk. A few minutes later he was at the door of the Oval Office, facing another Secret Service agent, this one with a crew cut and a clipboard. The man said, ‘Good evening, Mr Sullivan,’ and tapped on the Oval Office door.

A small, wiry man, with short steel-grey hair and a wrinkled skin, was sitting back in an easy chair, staring into flames. He wore an open-necked shirt, and a tie and jacket lay on the floor beside him. He waved Sullivan to the chair opposite the fireplace.

‘Good evening, Mr President.’ Sullivan took a deep breath. He leaned forward and passed over the sealed envelope containing his report. ‘I got this from McLarty a couple of hours ago. It came in with the Moscow pouch. My people tapped an early-hours’ call from a man called Velikhov, who’s a big name in Russian science.’

‘Never heard of him.’ The President rested the envelope on his lap. His dark eyes stayed on the CIA Director.

‘He’s not high-profile like Sakharov was. In fact, he’s more on the administrative side. But he does advise Ogorodnikov informally now and then on scientific matters. They’re near-neighbours in the Gorki-9 district of Moscow.’

‘The meat, Al?’

‘Okay. We’ve been doing routine telephone taps in the Gorki-9 district for some time. We can only cover a fraction of the calls and it’s nearly always low-grade stuff, wifely gossip and the like. But now and then it throws up nuggets.’

‘So you got a nugget?’

‘Mr President, we got a gold mine.’

The President leaned forward.

‘The call went to a guy called Shtyrkov. Director of a radiation lab, lots of medals for academic distinction et cetera. He’s respected.’ Sullivan took another deep breath.

‘Go on.’

‘Mr President, according to Shtyrkov they’ve detected a signal from an alien intelligence.’

Bull stared.

Sullivan, the die cast, went on: ‘It seems a huge flood of information came in with the signal. They’re trying to work out what it means. Inter alia, the signal includes information about the human genome.’

‘Our genetic make-up? How could aliens possibly know about something like that?’

Sullivan spread his hands wide. ‘I — they — have no idea.’ He pointed to the envelope in the President’s lap. ‘That’s a transcript of the conversation. It’s long, but you’ll see I’ve added a three-page précis at the beginning. Mr President, if this is for real…’

Bull was looking at the CIA Director as if the man had gone mad. ‘Is that it? A phone call between two guys purporting to be top Russian scientists?’ He drew back his lips and gave a short, incredulous laugh. ‘It’s obvious! They’ve figured you’re listening and they’re feeding you a load of bullshit.’

The dreaded giggle factor.

Sullivan shook his head emphatically. ‘The call was from Velikhov’s home address. Just to be double sure, I got my people to run a voiceprint on a snatch of the conversation. Not a significant part,’ Sullivan added as the President opened his mouth. ‘It matches old newsreel stuff we have on Velikhov. No question, the President of the Russian Academy of Sciences made that call. By inference, this Shtyrkov was the man he called.’

‘And the place?’

‘Some castle in Slovakia.’

‘Slovakia? What in hell’s name does a castle in Slovakia have to do with anything?’

‘That’s where we think the alien signal is being analysed. It’s all in the report, sir.’

‘We?’ Alarm crept into the President’s voice. ‘Who else knows about this?’

‘So far nobody. The Moscow intercept team, but they’re passing on stuff which, so far as they know, is a hoax. They only put it in the pouch because they thought it meant the Russians had discovered they were being bugged.’

‘I reckon they’ve got more sense than you. Why are you bothering me with this science-fiction stuff?’

‘Sir, I’ve been in the game for a very long time: false flag recruitment, mission impossibles, stuff that makes James Bond look like Goldilocks. This doesn’t have the right signature for a sting. For a start, it’s impossible to believe. Mr President, according to this Shtyrkov, the signal may also turn out to contain recipes for creating enzymes to alter genetic structure in fundamental ways. What this means I don’t know. Maybe it can be used to cure diseases, maybe to create a new kind of human.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Al.’ Bull’s tone was one of utter rejection.

‘Yes, sir, I know.’

Bull put his hand over his mouth and looked into the flames. ‘The world’s full of creeps who would love to see this nation humiliated.’

‘Yes, sir, some of them within our shores.’ Sullivan wondered what the old man was driving at.

‘East coast editors especially. Now say this thing turns out to be a giant sting, which I expect it is, and the media get hold of it.’

Sullivan saw the point. He said, ‘I see the point.’

‘Exactly. This Administration would be ridiculed to hell, become the laughing stock of the world. What credibility would we be left with, say we used CIA analysis to warn of an imminent threat?’

And what would happen to you come election time, next November? Sullivan thought.

‘You’re right, Mr President. But let’s say it’s for real, which I believe. Uncontrolled publicity could be equally bad. We could have public panic.’

President Bull narrowed his eyes contemplatively. ‘So. Either way you keep your mouth firmly shut. That includes talking to McLarty. Okay?’

‘Agreed, sir. It’s the only way to handle this.’

Bull flapped the envelope. ‘I’ll take it from here. And I’ll read this with interest.’

Sullivan took his cue and stood up. ‘Mr President, there’s something else.’

‘Hit me with it, Al.’

‘Even without useful information in the signal, the implications of an intelligence out there need a lot of very careful thought.’

The President nodded. ‘We’d be walking barefoot through broken glass.’

Fifty minutes after Sullivan took his leave, the President made one phone call.

The call was to a house in Fairfax County. It was a large two-storey dwelling with mock-colonial architecture, and it overlooked the Potomac River. The call was intended for Hazel Baxendale, the President’s Science Adviser. Her husband took it sleepily, sat bolt upright, and handed the cordless phone over to his wife, mouthing ‘The President!’ silently.

President Bull’s voice was edged with tiredness. ‘Hazey? I wakened you, I’m sorry.’

‘That’s okay, Mr President.’

‘I need you in the Situation Room in a couple of hours. Can you manage that?’

‘No problem, sir.’ Strange!

‘And then I’d like you to join me in Camp David tomorrow. Could use a little advice over the weekend. Unless you’re otherwise fixed up.’

Baxendale’s married daughter was due to arrive from Canada at Dulles, along with Husband Number Two and Alice, Hazel’s six-year-old granddaughter. She had looked forward to this weekend for weeks, talked about a couple of days in the Poconos, maybe riding or even taking a canoe trip. ‘No, Mr President, that will be fine.’

‘Share my helicopter, Hazel. Be on the lawn after my morning briefing.’

It was now well after midnight, and silence had long since descended on the normally busy corridors of the White House. The President wrote a brief note, which he folded and put in an envelope carrying the presidential seal. He wondered grimly how the recipient would react to it. Then he called for an aide and asked for hand delivery. In the corridor outside the office, the aide looked at the envelope. It was an unfamilar address somewhere in North Carolina, and it was about eight hours’ drive away.