shouldn’t have worried. The day before the trip I was hunched over my bicycle, fighting the Kryptonite lock, when a familiar voice behind me said, “So you’re going to Paris, Nikola?”
I hadn’t seen Lubinov in almost two years, and I greeted him with honest warmth. We walked and traded politenesses for a minute while my brain ground through the various possibilities, and finally I decided there was only one safe course.
“Vladimir, there’s a real problem. I may…no longer be useful.” He just looked at me, expressionless. “I’ve been approached by the CIA. They know I have KGB contacts and want me to be a double agent. They’ve threatened me with deportation.”
He squeezed my shoulder and actually smiled. “I’m glad you told me this. Cooperate with them, at least for the time being. Try to gain their confidence.”
“You knew?”
He shrugged. “Let me not say. What hotel are you occupying in Paris?” I told him. “Good. We may have people there who want to be, would want,
will
want to talk to you. My English,” he said, smiling.
“Much improved,” I said. Actually, it seemed about the same as ever, which was odd. He’d been in the country longer than I.
“Yes, of course. And your French? If our representatives must use it?”
“My French is good. I could probably struggle along in Russian if I had to.”
“I should not think,” he said, and stopped. “Well. I will see you next time.” We said good-bye, and he walked briskly down Main Street.
I crossed over to Legal Seafood and sat in the noisy bar nursing an expensive beer, trying to reason thingsout Did the KGB have a contact in Jacob’s group? I would have to act as if it were so. Should I take the playing-both-ends-against-the-middle game one step further and tell Jacob? No. Not yet—
And whose side am I on? Besides my own, and Valerie’s?
Could Jacob himself be the double agent? The note on my door didn’t say Paris, but Vladimir knew. Because Jacob knew?
Too paranoiac. Vladimir could have called MIT; the departmental secretary knows where I’m going and would have no reason not to tell anybody who asked.
Still, “tightrope” is more than a metaphor for this situation. I must proceed with extreme care.
I turned on the watch as we approached the security stop on the way to our flight. I took the lead-lined bag out of my carry-on luggage and handed it to the attendant. “Just a camera and film,” I said.
She looked in the bag at the camera and film and nine-millimeter automatic. She nodded and handed it back. I kept the watch generator running as we walked to the International Departures Waiting Lounge. Hot and stuffy; smell of European cigarettes.
We found two isolated seats together. Ninety minutes, plenty of time. When Jacob sat down, I handed him a notebook. “Read this,” I said.
On the first page of the notebook I’d printed:
1. SAY, “THIS IS INTERESTING.”
2. WRITE DOWN EVERYTHING THE CIA KNOWS OR SUSPECTS ABOUT ME.
3. WHEN YOU ARE DONE WRITING, HAND ME THE NOTEBOOK AND FORGET EVERYTHING ABOUT IT. YOU WILL RE MEMBER HAVING NAPPED FOR THE PAST HOUR.
“This is interesting,” he said. Then he turned the page and started writing. I had to hope we weren’t being watched, a reasonable risk for the return. I did assume that the conversation was going on tape, but hoped that silence wouldn’t be too suspicious. While he was writing, I started the horror novel that Valerie said would keep my mind off the flight. It was so absorbing that I jumped when, an hour later, Jacob touched me with the edge of the notebook.
I took it, and he rubbed his eyes. “Must have dropped off.”
“It’s awfully warm. Up late last night?”
“Oh yeah. Last-minute details.”
I turned on the watch again. “You’ll want to sleep on the plane, then.” He nodded. We talked amiably until our flight was called, then we filed into the 747, and in the process of buckling up he began to snore.
He had written four
I hadn’t seen Lubinov in almost two years, and I greeted him with honest warmth. We walked and traded politenesses for a minute while my brain ground through the various possibilities, and finally I decided there was only one safe course.
“Vladimir, there’s a real problem. I may…no longer be useful.” He just looked at me, expressionless. “I’ve been approached by the CIA. They know I have KGB contacts and want me to be a double agent. They’ve threatened me with deportation.”
He squeezed my shoulder and actually smiled. “I’m glad you told me this. Cooperate with them, at least for the time being. Try to gain their confidence.”
“You knew?”
He shrugged. “Let me not say. What hotel are you occupying in Paris?” I told him. “Good. We may have people there who want to be, would want,
will
want to talk to you. My English,” he said, smiling.
“Much improved,” I said. Actually, it seemed about the same as ever, which was odd. He’d been in the country longer than I.
“Yes, of course. And your French? If our representatives must use it?”
“My French is good. I could probably struggle along in Russian if I had to.”
“I should not think,” he said, and stopped. “Well. I will see you next time.” We said good-bye, and he walked briskly down Main Street.
I crossed over to Legal Seafood and sat in the noisy bar nursing an expensive beer, trying to reason thingsout Did the KGB have a contact in Jacob’s group? I would have to act as if it were so. Should I take the playing-both-ends-against-the-middle game one step further and tell Jacob? No. Not yet—
And whose side am I on? Besides my own, and Valerie’s?
Could Jacob himself be the double agent? The note on my door didn’t say Paris, but Vladimir knew. Because Jacob knew?
Too paranoiac. Vladimir could have called MIT; the departmental secretary knows where I’m going and would have no reason not to tell anybody who asked.
Still, “tightrope” is more than a metaphor for this situation. I must proceed with extreme care.
I turned on the watch as we approached the security stop on the way to our flight. I took the lead-lined bag out of my carry-on luggage and handed it to the attendant. “Just a camera and film,” I said.
She looked in the bag at the camera and film and nine-millimeter automatic. She nodded and handed it back. I kept the watch generator running as we walked to the International Departures Waiting Lounge. Hot and stuffy; smell of European cigarettes.
We found two isolated seats together. Ninety minutes, plenty of time. When Jacob sat down, I handed him a notebook. “Read this,” I said.
On the first page of the notebook I’d printed:
1. SAY, “THIS IS INTERESTING.”
2. WRITE DOWN EVERYTHING THE CIA KNOWS OR SUSPECTS ABOUT ME.
3. WHEN YOU ARE DONE WRITING, HAND ME THE NOTEBOOK AND FORGET EVERYTHING ABOUT IT. YOU WILL RE MEMBER HAVING NAPPED FOR THE PAST HOUR.
“This is interesting,” he said. Then he turned the page and started writing. I had to hope we weren’t being watched, a reasonable risk for the return. I did assume that the conversation was going on tape, but hoped that silence wouldn’t be too suspicious. While he was writing, I started the horror novel that Valerie said would keep my mind off the flight. It was so absorbing that I jumped when, an hour later, Jacob touched me with the edge of the notebook.
I took it, and he rubbed his eyes. “Must have dropped off.”
“It’s awfully warm. Up late last night?”
“Oh yeah. Last-minute details.”
I turned on the watch again. “You’ll want to sleep on the plane, then.” He nodded. We talked amiably until our flight was called, then we filed into the 747, and in the process of buckling up he began to snore.
He had written four
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