Black Gambit Page 8

  Within seconds the machine began printing its reply. Denton held the top straight so they could read it as it came out. The whole message ran to about fifty lines, full of abbreviations. Denton explained them: on the input QH meant it was an inquiry for a man’s criminal history; a row of letters beginning DCH was the computer’s acknowledgement.

  ‘All we’ve asked for is a summary,’ he said. ‘If we want the full record we’ll ask again.’

  Cory followed the sheet down as Denton translated. The reply began with the detail that the subject was ‘multiple state’: he had committed crimes in more than one state. It gave his FBI file number, date of birth, name, height, colour of eyes, hair. Denton was tracing the lines with his finger. It stopped at ‘SMT’ — ‘That means scars, marks, tattoos,’ he said. The reply went on to give aliases, arrests, convictions and all identifying marks and characteristics.

  ‘Here.’ Denton tore off the strip. ‘Keep it as a souvenir.’

  He checked his watch again. ‘Let’s try some lunch,’ he said.

  It was just 12.30. Another tour was over, on schedule.

  *

  Denton had booked a table at Hammel’s, a favourite spot for the Justice Department.

  The room was noisy and crowded enough for them both to feel anonymous. Denton seemed different away from his office.

  ‘Do you miss it, Jim?’ he asked.

  ‘The job?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Both men stared down at the table, remembering.

  They first met in the war; friendship had been forged in strength in the late fifties when both had been operating in London. Denton was at one of the FBI’s overseas ‘liaison bureaux’, set up by J. Edgar Hoover ostensibly to allow continuous contact with foreign police forces for the exchange of information. In reality, their work went into the world of espionage.

  In London, Denton found no problem getting full co-operation from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, nor from MI5.

  It was different, though, when it came to the British Secret Service; that organization preferred to deal only with officers of its direct counterpart, the CIA. That meant Cory. He, in turn, needed Denton’s contacts. The two men rapidly developed an excellent working relationship that blossomed into friendship.

  Cory was the first to raise his eyes. His voice was full of meaning. ‘I keep my hand in.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  Halfway though the meal Denton asked the question he had been keeping back ever since Cory phoned him that morning.

  ‘Are you back with it, Jim? Is that what this is all about?’

  ‘May I ask you one question? About that computer of yours?’

  ‘Sure. As long as you don’t think you’re getting out of answering mine.’

  Cory knew the answer, but wanted it confirmed. He also wanted Denton’s reaction. ‘That last summary record you got from the computer, you got it in response to feeding in an army number.’

  Denton nodded agreement.

  ‘And you could have got it from feeding in a full name?’ Cory continued. ‘Or an FBI file number? Or a prison number? Or a social security number?’

  Denton kept nodding.

  ‘What if you’d done it all backwards — fed in details like height and age and all that? Would it have worked?’

  Denton did not have to think. ‘Officially, no. That’s the kind of thing that scares people, the Big Brother bit I was talking about. But between us, yes. You wouldn’t get just one guy, of course — you’d get everybody who fitted those details you fed in.’

  There was a long pause while plates were cleared, dessert and coffee ordered, and while Denton fought with his vow not to smoke before 6 p.m. and lost. ‘Now my question,’ he said at last.

  ‘Let me answer it with a question.’

  ‘Another?’

  They were both enjoying it. This was the way it used to be.

  ‘Can you work the computer?’

  Denton nodded. ‘Sure, there’s no more to it than working a typewriter once you know the call symbols.’

  ‘Suppose,’ Cory said, ‘that I came to you with the kind of details I’ve mentioned and asked you to feed them in and see what names came out. What would you say?’

  ‘You’re looking for someone?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you don’t know his name or anything, but suspect he’s got a record. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Denton took a packet of Sweet ’N Low from the bowl, tore the end and poured half carefully into his coffee. ‘Who would it be for?’

  ‘Our side. But it has to be unofficial. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘You can’t make a straight request?’

  ‘My people are trying to avoid it.’

  The answer came surprisingly quickly. Denton downed his coffee in a gulp, signalled for more, and said briskly, ‘Okay, why not? You give me the detail, I’ll do it one evening when there’s only one operative on. I’ll tell him I’ll sit watch an hour so why doesn’t he go and get a drink …’

  He felt Cory’s eyes questioning him. His voice became slower, his tone more explanatory. ‘Jim,’ he began hesitantly, ‘I know what you and lots of others must think about this damn job I’ve got now.’ He raised his hand to forestall any denial. ‘Okay, it’s comfortable, but it’s a shit-eating job. That’s why all the bright spiel.’ He paused and Cory waited, not wanting to interrupt. ‘Christ, Jim, what I’m saying is that it’s so damn boring. I’d do almost anything just to get my heart pounding again the way it used to. Even digging out files after everyone’s gone home …’

  The coffee came and he poured in the rest of the sweetener. ‘I’ve got fifteen more months and then I retire. To do what? Let’s just say you want it and that’s good enough for me.’

  Fifteen minutes later they said goodbye. Cory slipped him the note listing the details; Denton promised to try to use the computer within the next two days.

  Denton suddenly seemed to remember all he had to do. He checked his watch, became brisk, said how good it had been and that he would call, and then turned away. Cory called after him.

  ‘One thing, just a small one. I forgot to ask.’

  ‘Yes?’ Denton was making no secret of the fact that he was late.

  Cory suddenly thought better of it. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll ask you when we talk.’

  He was glad he had stopped himself. It was good that Denton was willing to co-operate this far. He would ask him later how easy it was to destroy a man’s record on the files so that to all intents and purposes the man had never existed.

  Chapter Six

  THERE WERE TWENTY-NINE sheets of paper from Denton, all six inches wide, eighteen inches long, and all printed in capital letters. After the first half dozen Cory found himself reading the computer’s abbreviations without effort: blu he knew was blue, bron was brown, UR was upper right arm, DLU meant the date the file was last updated.

  After several careful readings, Cory discounted eight for varying reasons. One man had a pronounced facial scar, another had a finger missing, three had histories of narcotics use …

  Cory divided the twenty-one files remaining into three piles: the possibles, the interesting, and the very interesting. One of the files in the interesting list was only placed there after much thought: the man seemed perfect except for one disturbing fact.

  Seated in his study, much of the table now cleared by the expedient of moving some piles of books on to the floor, Cory juggled the file in his mind. He was uncertain whether to discard it altogether or place it in the very interesting stack. Finally he compromised; he would decide later.

  The next stage worried him. He now needed to examine the men’s full records, including psychiatric reports. This full detail, he knew, was not on computer. He needed more co-operation from Denton.

  Denton accepted the request as a pure logistics problem. The files, he thought, should be removed from the building a few at a time. The chance of anyone wanting to s
ee them while they were missing was several million to one, but Cory rented a hotel room nearby so that the files could be delivered, read, and returned within two hours.

  The first batch consisted of five files. Cory found that reading and making notes took him longer than he had anticipated. The following morning he bought a small copier machine and moved it to his room in a suitcase. From then on it was easier. He would skim a page and if it looked interesting copy it. After four days he checked out, paying in cash.

  The next time that he sorted his files there were eleven in the discard pile, leaving only ten. Cory decided five of these were possibles, three were interesting, and one was very interesting. That left one over — the one that had worried him from the start. This man seemed to be ideal; he even had Russian. But the one problem fact remained …

  Using two fingers, he typed up basic details on all ten and attachéd the sheets to the original FBI computer tear-offs. The rest of the papers he placed in his safe. He would have been happier destroying them, but he needed to keep them until a decision was made. He did, however, remove the electric typewriter ribbon and put it on one side to be burned.

  Only then did he call Sunnenden and suggest a meeting. It was a brief one, even though Sunnenden had been pressing him for information for days. Sunnenden read the files, nodded a few times, but asked no questions. Finally he asked whether he could keep the papers for a day.

  They were sitting in Sunnenden’s car. Cory had been invited home for drinks. They had pulled off the road for Sunnenden to examine the papers.

  Cory had been expecting the question, ‘I think it would be unwise,’ he said. ‘If we do go ahead, whether with one of these people or someone else, then I suggest we have one rule: no paper if we can help it, and if we can’t, the minimum, kept in the hands of one person. Me.’

  At last Sunnenden spoke. ‘I’ll need to think, but I guess I can remember all I need to know. You’re right about keeping the paper down.’

  He reached forward to switch on the ignition, changed his mind and settled back, still holding the sheets in his left hand.

  Sunnenden stared straight ahead, thinking about his position, about the Secretary’s fast-approaching visit to Moscow.

  He had not been invited along, even although Soviet affairs were his subject, and then there was Scott’s fixation about this Zorin business …

  He turned his eyes back to the papers. He scanned one page of cory’s notes and absorbed a succession of facts: Russian speaking, physically okay for impersonating Zorin, a loner …

  Attached to it was the man’s FBI tear sheet. Sunnenden held it out so that Cory could see what he was reading.

  On the FBI sheet there was a line of request abbreviations, followed by five lines of the computer’s acknowledgement. And then the detail: ‘NCIC SUMMARY. MULTIPLE STATE FBI IT/23122X. (Date inquiry 11/25/75). EH. PARKER, JOHN C. MW …’

  It was the file over which Cory had worried so much.

  Sunnenden stabbed it with his finger. ‘This looks like the man.’

  Cory pointed to the bottom of the sheet. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But there’s one small problem’

  The line he indicated was headed ‘Custody status.’

  It read: ‘CA0699451D STATE PENITENTIARY FOLSOM CA 062068 RECEIVED.’

  ‘As you see,’ said Cory in his gentlest voice, ‘he is still in prison.’

  Chapter Seven

  ZORIN AVERTED HIS EYES as he left the courtyard, but even so he was conscious of one man leaving the car to follow him.

  It had ceased to bother him. He was filled with a weariness; he felt burned out. But even so he tried to pull himself tall, to walk with a purposeful stride, for his shadow’s benefit.

  He was on his way to the bath house — one of the few habits he had continued to pursue after his release. Not to go would be too final a snub to old friends who gathered there and whom he now saw less and less.

  The first week after his release had been surprisingly easy to endure despite his aching for Tanya. There had been a constant flow of solicitous friends, many lobbying and sending letters and telegrams, and there had been his own reaction: a mixture of numbness, of not quite accepting what had happened, coupled with anger and a desire to hit back.

  After that it had grown bad. The friends still came, but a despair began to replace the numbness and anger. The attacks in the journals and the newspapers, the letters (orchestrated) praising the leadership for acting as they had over Tanya, and the way his neighbours turned their heads when he passed began to wear upon him as no previous harassment had.

  The telephone became an instrument of torture. Local calls got through. International ones, whether from Tanya or friends in the West he did not know, were allowed through for just the brief second to let him know there was a call — and then cut off. At other times the telephone would ring and when he answered there was nothing but heavy breathing.

  After his first flush of wanting to act, friends had persuaded him to keep quiet for a while, to lie low. There is nothing you can achieve at the moment,’ they said. ‘Keep quiet. Keep calm. Do not let them provoke you. What good will you be in Siberia?’

  Soon there was no need for anyone to persuade him to do little. A helplessness took over. All he wanted to do was move through life without feeling. Nothingness by day, sleep by night, became his ideals, even if he did not achieve them. Small tasks became major efforts. He ate when he felt he had to, went out only when it was necessary. Friends who feared he might take his life checked drawers for tablets when he was not looking.

  Suicide, though, was one possibility Zorin did not consider. His problem in fact was that there seemed no possibilities. There was a past but no future or rather a future he could not bear to contemplate. Inside he wanted to cry, to burst. Outside there was just a burnt-out face and a forced smile.

  What had the KGB man said? ‘You intellectuals love to suffer.’ Perhaps it was true. Perhaps they had a capacity for it.

  His friends saw his desperation for Tanya and sympathised and comforted as best they could, but their visits decreased as Zorin’s mood became less and less sociable. What they could not sense was his fear. That again was a middle-of-the-night thing. The nightmares would come: of death creeping over him and he unable to move, or being buried alive and unable to speak to tell the gravediggers not to throw on the earth … There were nightmares within nightmares. Was it really a dream? Was it happening again? He struggled to burst out through the layers of sleep away from the horrors, only to lie sweating and panting and wondering for many seconds whether he was really at home or in some ward.

  It took him a half hour to reach the bath house. His KGB shadow followed him through the entrance door, but not further inside into the changing rooms. Zorin knew he would remain there — KGB men had an understandable reluctance to undress and be parted from their clothes and documents in a bath house where dissidents were known to gather.

  There were only two other men in the steam room. Zorin nodded to them, but did not speak, even though he knew them both. Although he wanted to spend this token time with other dissidents he did not want to be drawn into discussions that might lead to him being asked to re-involve himself in their activities.

  He settled on a slat in the least hot part of the room to acclimatize himself, closed his eyes, and wished the heat could ease his mind as well as his muscles.

  The door opened and a newcomer entered. Zorin noted that the two men already there ceased talking. Moments later they left. Whatever they had been discussing they obviously did not want the newcomer, the poet Kukhlov, to hear. Zorin moved to a hotter part of the room, making way for Kukhlov. Although he still did not speak, he gave the poet a warm smile.

  He knew why the other two had been suspicious: Kukhlov wrote the kind of poetry that the State liked. He came to the bath house because other poets gathered there, but no one discussed secrets in front of him. He just might be an informer.

  Zorin, though, knew otherwise.
He had read some of the poems Kukhlov had published abroad under another name, unknown to any but a close few. Zorin knew because the two men had sometimes secretly worked together.

  ‘I’ve been here each day looking for you,’ Kukhlov said, moving closer. ‘You must listen. There is a lot to say and someone may come in.’

  Zorin instinctively looked towards the door.

  ‘Tanya,’ he said. ‘You have news?’

  ‘She is pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant?’ Zorin’s voice held disbelief. They wanted children, had tried often, but had become reconciled to childlessness even though, physically, they knew there was nothing wrong. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘I am told there is no doubt.’

  Zorin began to remember Tanya’s feelings of being slightly unwell just before they were arrested. He began to grin inanely, suddenly filled with a surge of joy.

  Then he remembered. A child he would never see?

  Kukhlov kept darting nervous glances towards the door.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I know how you must feel. But I must say the rest.’

  ‘The rest? She’s all right?’

  ‘Yes, perfect. And the best attention. No, it is a question for you from friends in the West. They want to know if you would leave if the chance came. Leave without permission, without papers. Just leave secretly.’

  Zorin made to speak.

  ‘No. Think. Be sure. Take time.’

  This time the grin was wider. It became a laugh. A child!

  ‘Time to think?’ he said. ‘You must be mad, my friend.’

  Chapter Eight

  PARKER WOKE and without looking at his watch knew it was 5.30. Prison is a place of rigid and unchanging timetables. To those unchanging and rigid timetables enforced by Folsom prison, Parker had added his own. Now, like the 5.30 awakening, they had become a part of him, a kind of glue that helped him hold together.

  He closed his eyes against the 25-watt bulb that burned above; if he had been allowed one wish in prison it would not have been for women or drink but for darkness when he wanted it. The only escape was to pull the blankets over your head — but if you fell asleep like that, you were liable to be wakened by a guard ripping off the covers to make sure it really was you and not a dummy.