Christ-if he's afraid to ring the bell, then I've really got him by the balls.
Peter did ring finally, and Lake waited a full minute before he opened up. He just stood there, ten feet away, face to face with Z, feeling powerful because he was invisible, carefully inspecting the Russian's face. Z was stubborn, all right, crafty, but he looked vulnerable outside his shop. Lake enjoyed the idea of watching coolly from the lobby while the Russian perspired in the sun.
"Peter." He opened the door. Z edged his way inside. "No one here," said Lake, "just the two of us. Come in-I'll show you around."
He led Z through the building, down corridors, into offices, even into the garage. Finally he brought him upstairs to the Consul General's suite, then seated himself behind his desk, before his ensign and the American flag.
"You're the first Russian to get the grand tour, Peter. VIP treatment-nothing less."
"Thanks, Dan." Peter peered around. "You Americans know how to live."
"Yes," said Lake. "No little grubby cubbyholes for us. And the whole building's regularly debugged. We don't want anyone listening in, you know, listening in to all our secrets from some back room behind some shop."
He grinned. Zvegintzov tightened up.
"Come on, Peter. I'm only kidding around. Let's face it, it's terrific the two of us are friends. Here we are, citizens of opposing powers, yet we really like each other, so to hell with the struggle out there." He motioned with his arm toward the Straits of Gibraltar, indicating Europe and the world beyond. He was pleased by this extravagance of gesture, and the perplexed expression on Peter's face.
"There is something between us, isn't there, Peter?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "This little wedge of suspicion, this little game we've been playing since we've met."
Z smiled weakly, then he shrugged. Lake sat up straight. Suddenly he slapped the desk.
"Oh, hell, Peter-drop your guard for once. Let's forget all this cat-and-mouse stuff. Christ-don't you see? We're buddies now. We're pals."
Z nodded cautiously and stared down at the rug.
Work the old seesaw. Keep him on edge, Lake thought. Change the mood. Don't let him settle down.
"You know, Peter," he said, trying to work some sympathy into his voice, "when you think about it there's a limit to the things a man can be expected to endure. There's only so long a man can go on living with deceit. Know what I mean? Ever think of crossing over? What a terrific feeling that would be?"
Peter stared at him quizzically. Lake toughened up his eyes.
"Defection, Peter. That's what I'm talking about. Defection. Giving yourself a second chance."
Z was staring very curiously now. Lake congratulated himself-he had the Russian hooked.
"Of course, the question in such a case would be-well, there'd be many questions in a man's mind. Such as how he'd be received by the other side, and how well he'd be protected from the people he'd worked for before. How much would he be expected to betray? How many of the old beans would he be expected to spill? And then there'd be the question of confidence, the person he'd defect to, the guy into whose hands he'd, quite literally, be placing his life."
He looked at Z again, highly attentive now. Is there a Russian agent anywhere, he wondered, whose mouth isn't full of rotten teeth?
"And motivations! Let's not forget about them! A man who'd defect-he'd have to have a motive for doing that. It might be a matter of high moral principle. Maybe it would have to do with his political beliefs. Or it could just be that he wanted to change the nature of his life. An escape maybe from something in the past. A complicated personal situation, say, involving his wife, or someone else. Comfort. Money. Change. It could be a combination of any of these things. Or all of them. Or even something else. You see, Peter, the possibilities are infinite, but the end is pretty much the same. I wonder how many men wouldn't jump at a chance to start everything over, with a clean slate, without the stigma of a past-"
He felt himself becoming increasingly excited, more and more manic as he talked on. He was pleased by his eloquence and stunned by his daring. His voice, he noted, was steady as a rock. For a moment it occurred to him to pause, give Peter a chance to reply. But having achieved a certain momentum he had no choice, he felt, but to gush on.
"Now speaking theoretically, Peter-and, of course, theoretical is what this conversation is-let's assume for a moment that there were two men who were quite good friends, and let's assume further, simply for the sake of this discussion, that one of these men wanted to defect to the other's side. Now the first one, the spy, say, the guy who wanted to make the change, he'd have certain apprehensions, as we can both well imagine, about the credibility of any offer from his friend. I mean-that would be perfectly natural. Spies are human beings, after all. He'd have made his decision, you see, completely on his own, but still, being human, he'd be stupid not to have some doubts. The change would be voluntary, a product of his will. But he'd have to be certain he could really trust the other guy. He'd have to have great confidence and not think he was being used. Confidence. Mutual confidence. That's basic to what I'm trying to convey."
He sat back then and smiled. "You understand me, don't you? Yes-I think you do."
"Well," said Peter after a while, "I think I understand you. More or less."
"Good. Good. That's very important. It's vitally important that we understand each other today. Frankly, I wasn't sure we'd reach an understanding so very fast. Sometimes I've felt, well, there's been this-a certain strain."
Zvegintzov cleared his throat. "You haven't always been so candid with me."
"But you find me candid today?"
"Oh, yes. Today I do."
"And?"
"Well-"
"Yes?"
Zvegintzov shrugged. "Let's just say-I think I understand."
"Good!" Lake jumped to his feet. He had Peter now, balls to the wall, but still there was something missing, a commitment, an act of faith. Confidence-that was it. If he wanted Z to have confidence, he would have to show that he had confidence in him.
A sign. He needed a sign. Something that would cinch it, sew the defection up. Suffused by a sense of well-being, convinced that success was within his grasp, he began to search for a solution, while his heart beat thunderously inside his chest.
Of course! He had it now.
"Come, Peter," he commanded softly, startled by the brilliance of his idea. "Come. I want to show you something. A special section of the Consulate. A section no foreigner's ever seen."
He moved decisively toward the rear door of his suite, into the secure area, the little corridor through which only he and Foster were allowed to pass. He paused at the vault, knelt to turn the knobs. When finally he heard the click, he stood up, motioned Peter back, then swung open the steel door.
He was breaking security, he knew, breaking every rule in the book. But if his plan worked, none of that would matter. It was impossible to live without taking risks.
"Look, Peter. Look!" The two of them peered inside. Lake gestured toward the bank of green steel filing cabinets that lined the inner wall. "Our files, all our secrets, everything we've done in Tangier since 1935. It's all here-even our extensive dossier on you. See that computer thing over there? That's the gadget we use to crack messages and put them into code."
They stared, both of them, at the gleaming cryptographic device.
"What do you think? Come on, Peter! Tell me what you feel?"
"I–I'm flabbergasted," Peter said.
"Of course. Of course you are! A man like you, a man with a well-trained eye. Just to have a look at a machine like that-Christ! Your people would give a fortune to be here now. You can't put a price on a moment like this, but here I am showing it to you. I trust you, Peter-I want you to understand. Now I ask you to put your trust in me."