Q. He made pro-Russian comments?
KM. I suppose you could put it that way.
Q. Did he ever talk to you about his family?
KM. No.
Q. Did you know he had a brother in Soviet Armenia?
KM. No.
Q. Did he, at any time, ask you to post documents or letters?
KM. No.
Q. [Agent Miller] You're lying, lady.
KM. Maybe a postcard or something.
Q. [Agent Miller] Maybe a big fat envelope now and then?
KM. I don't want to answer any more questions.
Q. How long did this passing of documents go on?
[Silence]
Q. Let me put it like this, Mrs Morgenstern. Is Mister Morgenstern aware that you and Petrosian are having an affair?
KM. That's outrageous. We are not.
Q. [Agent Miller] You want to hear a nice juicy tape?
KM. You bastards.
Q. How many letters did you post, Mrs Morgenstern?
KM. I have nothing more to say to you people.
Q. On 21 June last, did you drive to Niagara Falls with Lev Petrosian and another man?
KM. I told you, I've nothing more to say.
Q. What was the other man's name?
[Silence]
Q. [Agent Miller] Here's an even better (expletive) way to put it. Espionage could get you thirty years, maybe even the chair.
KM. I want to speak to my lawyer.
Q. Mrs Morgenstern, we can all save ourselves a lot of trouble here if you will just answer the question.
Q. His name was Railton or something. I'd never met him before.
Q. Is this the man? [Subject shown photographs of Jurgen Rosenblum.]
KM. Yes that's Railton.
Q. What did you talk about?
KM. Just anything. The things people talk about on a pleasant afternoon's drive.
Q. [Agent Miller] We got some pleasant pillow talk Mister Morgenstern might like to hear.
KM. Would you do a thing like that?
Q. We're not concerned with your private life, ma'am. Just so long as we know what was said on that drive.
'Now hold on. There's something peculiar here.'
'What do you mean?' Romella asked.
'Rosenblum was a Soviet spy, right?'
She flicked through some pages. 'Yes, one of a string of couriers used by the Soviets in the fifties. Fuchs used to pass on secret papers to a guy called Tommy Gold in the forties, but by this time Gold was doing thirty years.'
'So if Petrosian was handing over secret papers, why was he giving them to Kitty? Why not Gold in the forties and then Rosenblum in the fifties?'
'Maybe she was a courier too.'
'So why didn't the FBI charge her?'
Romella raised her hands expressively.
KM. It was just a drive into the Santa Fe hills. We talked about nothing in particular.
Q. [Agent Miller] And where was Mister Morgenstern at this time?
KM. Chicago. On business, or so he said.
Q. The documents you passed on: where did they go?
KM. It was always the same. Some address in Turkey.
Q. Can you be more specific?
KM. I paid no attention. A place called Igloo or Iguana or something. I can't say any more.
Q. Who was it addressed to?
KM. It was a shop. Some unpronounceable name. He said his sister worked there.
Q. There is no record that Petrosian has a sister. Does that surprise you?
KM. I told you, he never talked about his family.
Q. On that drive on 21 June, were Rosenblum and Petrosian ever out of hearing?
KM. Just once, when I had to attend a call of nature.
Q. Was there discussion of Petrosian's work at Los Alamos?
KM. No. There was one thing.
Q. Yes.
KM. Will you give me that tape? [pause] On the way back from my call of nature, there was some sort of altercation. Railton was sort of animated, and Lev was shaking his head and I'm sure he said, 'No, I won't do it,' something like that. They shut up when I got near.
Q. Can you think of anything else they said?
KM. No.
Q. Anything at all, then or later? Please take your time.
KM. It was all just day-in-the-country talk after that.
Q. Is there anything else you would like to tell us?
KM. No. There is nothing else.
Q. Thank you for your co-operation, Mrs Morgenstern. Have a good day.
KM. About that tape.
Q. What tape is that, Mrs Morgenstern?
Romella looked up from the transcript. 'He was sending messages through Kitty.' Their eyes locked. 'I wonder what sort of messages he was sending, Fred.'
Findhorn said, 'Whatever, they were going to a place in Turkey called Igloo.'
'Or Iguana.'
'So half a century ago he maybe sent something to some unknown address in some unknown town, and it's never been heard of since.'
Romella said, 'I'll bet Kitty Cronin knew all along where it went. And she may still be alive.'
Findhorn looked at Romella incredulously. 'Are you serious? That has to be the coldest trail on the planet.'
'Do you have a better idea?' Romella asked, seething.
'I'm going to try and work out what Petrosian discovered myself.'
Romella laughed and spluttered, clattering her coffee cup on the table. The desk clerk looked up sharply.
'Okay, Mizz Grigoryan, but we're living in desperate times.'
She patted her bruised lip dry with a paper napkin. 'I suppose two magnificent idiots are better than one. Talking about time…'
Findhorn stood up. 'Yes. We must be almost out of it. The other side have more expertise and more money. And they have another advantage over us: they know what they're after.'
'I fear we're beginning to lose it.' She tapped the papers on the table into a neat pile. 'Where will we meet up, Fred?'
'Somewhere on the planet.'
Romella nodded thoughtfully. 'Agreed. Somewhere on the planet.'
21
Revelation Island
Findhorn, in a strange city, was nervous of wandering Washington's streets after dark; but neither did a late night stay in Dallas airport terminal promise an evening of fun and sparkle. With about eight hours before the Athens flight, he booked into the Hilton on the grounds that if he was going to go bust he might as well do it in style. In a hotel room the likes of which he had seen only in movies, he plugged in his laptop. There was a lot of junk mail, and a message from Romella.
Fred — Something has turned up. Cancel your Greek trip and meet me tomorrow. I'll be in the Holiday Inn in San Diego. Confirm receipt of this message immediately. Romella.
He frowned, ran a Jacuzzi for two, undressed, re-read the message and then slipped into the churning water. He wondered why she wasn't staying with her parents in La Jolla, which was practically a suburb of Dan Diego. After half an hour of troubled thought and underwater pummelling, he walked dripping to the telephone and called the Holiday Inn, San Diego. A room had been reserved for a Ms Grigoryan, for the following evening. He replugged his computer, carried it to the tub and balanced it precariously on the edge, and typed: