And accelerated their decision to tell him that they had affiliations to U.S. political entities, knew that he was an Israeli intelligence officer, and wanted him to pass them Israeli secrets.
He’d pretended to be shocked and confused. He told them that what they were asking of him would make him a traitor, but that he’d become reliant on their money. They gave him assurances that no one would ever know about his secret work for them and that they would pay him double. He agreed. They had him hook, line, and sinker.
Or rather, he had them hook, line, and sinker.
They could barely contain their excitement when he started feeding them the names of Israeli agents operating in the West. But he did it slowly on the pretext that he had to discreetly get the information from Mossad files, whereas the truth was that Mr. Schreiber had told him to get all the information before he resigned.
He knew that the CIA officers were telling him the truth when they said that he’d become the Agency’s top Israeli agent. And he was sure that his work for the officers had done wonders for their careers. It came as no surprise to them when he said that Mossad was likely to post him back to Israel unless he could convince his masters that he’d recruited a U.S. spy. They said they’d play the role of that spy and would give him U.S. secrets that should placate his employer. Everything they gave him was low-level crap that Mossad already knew. He played along with that for a while but one day said that he needed much more or Mossad was going to order him to find a better spy. He told them that he needed the identity of a Russian SVR officer who was on the Agency’s books. This clearly unsettled them, but a day later they met and supplied him with the name of Lenka Yevtushenko. They said they’d set up an introduction to the Russian and that in return he’d better give them a whole lot more names and details of Israeli operations on American soil.
He was sure that the four CIA officers had given him the name of the SVR officer without authorization to do so.
He gave Yevtushenko’s details to Mr. Schreiber, who approached the Russian and said that he had to steal the code or else Mr. Schreiber would tell the SVR that he was a CIA spy. Yevtushenko was petrified and said that his ability to travel was tightly restricted but that he would do the theft if Mr. Schreiber could help him get out of Russia. Mr. Schreiber agreed and told him that he was to use a highly effective Polish exfiltration route, but under no circumstances was he to go anywhere near the Polish embassy in Moscow as it would be under surveillance. He gave him precise instructions. Yevtushenko walked into the small Polish consulate in Saint Petersburg, said that he needed to speak in strict confidence to someone in the consulate who was familiar with intelligence matters, and was told that there was no one like that there but that he should liaise with their embassy in Moscow where there were professionals who could help him. He said he had to escape to Poland with a secret, that he couldn’t go anywhere near the Moscow embassy, that time was running out. Some urgent calls were made to the embassy; everything was arranged for him. That afternoon, he stole half of the military grid reference from the SVR vaults and used the Polish exfiltration route to enter Gdansk.
At the same time, Simon and his family flew to Europe, having no further use for the CIA.
Mr. Schreiber had anticipated the possibility that Yevtushenko would be pursued by the SVR and had asked Simon to arrange for a deniable team of private contractors to confront not only the Polish ABW and AW officers who’d be waiting for the SVR defector in Gdansk, but also any Russians. Mr. Schreiber also put in place a team of his own men to take possession of Yevtushenko and the code.
Simon lifted the dead-letter box out of the soil, held it in front of him, smiled, and muttered, “All that effort to find you.”
He opened the box, placed a folded piece of paper inside it, sealed the container, and returned it to the hole. After covering it with soil, he stood and looked at the Black Forest’s magnificent vista. Tomorrow, Kronos would be standing on this spot.
Later that day, Kronos would meet Mr. Schreiber, who would give him the instruction to kill the treacherous bastard who was due to testify under oath in two weeks’ time.
Men had ordered Mr. Schreiber to stop that from happening.
Because nobody could ever learn the secret behind Slingshot.
Twenty-Six
Betty Mayne sat at the kitchen table, watching Sarah attempt to peel and slice two cloves of garlic. It had taken Alfie two days to succeed in getting Sarah to accompany him to the nearest town to buy groceries. Today she’d reluctantly agreed, largely because her husband James had jokingly told her that if she didn’t go he could finally tell all their friends that he’d become the dominant partner in their relationship. It was now evening, the blue sky darkening into dusk, and Alfie was making his usual rounds of the hunting lodge’s grounds, setting his traps, watching and listening, having a smoke in the icy, fresh Highlands air, checking for anything that looked unusual, always keeping one hand close to his pistol.
Betty was wearing a thick tweed jacket, skirt, and hiking boots-clothes she’d worn to take James on a hike around the mountainous estate earlier in the day. James had cursed and wheezed and grumbled for most of the walk, but as they’d strolled alongside the loch toward the lodge one hour ago he told Betty that he’d had the best day he could remember, had decided that London life was no longer for him, recited the fauna and flora they’d seen on their route, and said that he was very worried about his wife.
He was now preparing a fire, and probably pouring himself a slug of single malt.
“Would you like me to help you, my dear?” Betty watched Sarah reach for shallots.
“You could get me a glass of wine.” Sarah’s hand shook as she held the knife. “Join me in one?”
“Not when I’m working.” Betty stood, poured a glass of Shiraz, and handed Sarah the glass. “What are you cooking?”
“I don’t know. . yet.”
“Keep it simple.”
“Simple isn’t good enough. I’m being judged by the men.”
“Actually, you’re being judged by me. The men will eat anything. They just want to see you moving.”
Sarah held the knife still. “I know.”
“What else do you know?”
“More than you!”
“I’m sure you do, my dear.” Betty moved alongside her. “Maybe just put the chicken on top of what you’ve already chopped. Onions, garlic, celery, herbs. Bit of wine. Keep it simple. Blimey, Alfie will think he’s in heaven.”
“You’re patronizing me.”
“I’m talking to you.” Betty put her hand on top of Sarah’s knife-holding hand. “Shall we slice some potatoes, saute them first, then add them to the mix?”
Sarah said between gritted teeth, “I don’t normally play the domestic housewife.”
Betty patted her hand. “Then what do you do?”
“I arbitrate corporate litigation. You wouldn’t understand.”
Betty nodded. “I wouldn’t.”
“Playing dumb?” Sarah grabbed the chicken and put it on top of the vegetables.
“Just being myself, my dear.” Betty looked at Sarah, saw that her ordinarily beautiful face was greasy and swollen, full of anxiety, tortured. She picked up Sarah’s glass of wine, took a sip, smiled, and placed the glass next to Sarah’s fingers. “Rules are much more fun when they’re broken.”
“You’re not breaking any rules. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Perhaps, but you wouldn’t understand that, my dear.”
“I. .”
“I, what?”
Sarah said nothing.
Betty grabbed six potatoes, took the knife from Sarah, and sliced the potatoes into quarters. “When he came back from the Legion, he would barely speak at first. Four of us looked after him, the same four who helped you leave your home. We washed his clothes, ironed them, fed him, and made him attend the lectures for his degree at Cambridge. It was hard. He’d become someone he didn’t like.”