The Lucy Ghosts

'Even they won't be knocking off our own people.'

'Oh yeah. They're as dangerous as the Russians. They play their own weird games. Yeah, and, just think how easy it would be for them to get access to the computer.'

There was a silence round the room. At last the DDA spoke.

'We keep this thing in-house. Carter, you just keep digging as instructed. The DDI and me, we'll follow up on the Russians through our contacts. While that's going on we need to protect Trimmler. Just in case he is a target. As well as chasing this computer thing, I want you to look after that, Tucker.'

'I've never been in the field, sir.'

'Just do as we tell you,' countered the DDI. 'I'll bring some of my people across. All you have to do is…'

'No,' interrupted the DDA. 'Your people are out.'

'Who says?'

'The Exec Director.'

'We were going to keep this in-house.'

'Except for this.'

'Why? What's wrong with my people?'

'All their records are in the computer. Put them in the field and whoever's set this up will know we're protecting Trimmler. We want to use Trimmler as bait. We've already got a tap on his phone. If they're after him, let them think they've got a free run.'

'So who do we use?'

'Someone outside the intelligence community.'

'Cops? You gotta be joking. They've got the biggest mouths in town. They're not used to working alone. We need someone who is.'

'We appreciate that. And it's not the police.'

'Who then?'

'Two people. A professional field man and a partner who's used to sifting information, looking for something that everyone else's missed.'

'And they're in place?' The DDI's question was harsh, he knew he had been outmanoeuvred in front of the Executive Director by his counterpart. He cursed silently and regretted not moving with his own plan earlier.

'Not yet. I'd like to clear it with you first.' He lied smoothly to the DDI.

'So who's being brought in?'

'Both these people are outside the mainstream of intelligence. They're definitely out of the computer. The first is our woman in San Diego. You already know about her. Recruited by the Agency in the early seventies, when we had regional centres. But things changed, we closed down the centres and most of the staff came to Washington. But because of the nature of the Californian campuses, because of the drugs and protest movement, we kept a small unit going in San Diego.'

'She's a desk jockey.'

'Collection and Dissemination. She's been doing that ever since.'

'What's her cover?'

'She's an IT operative in Mayfair Cab and Taxi. Her office is on the second floor of the cab company.'

‘What grade is she?'

'Clerical.' The DDA didn't add that her section was to be closed down in the near future. 'She's experienced in the operation of computers and she's been looking at our problem with Tucker.'

'Who else?'

‘Someone used to working alone and looking after himself. A soldier.'

'Special Forces?' The DDI referred to members of the armed forces who were trained for covert and dangerous missions.

'We wanted someone who no-one could identify. We decided to go outside our normal sphere of operation. We decided…' the DDA knew his colleague was about to explode. Now was as good a time as ever. '…on someone who would be classed as a mercenary. A British soldier. A member of their S.A.S.'

'You're fucking joking?'

'One of their best. Used to working underground and part of their intelligence arm. Just finished a tour of duty in Northern Ireland.'

'You're not fucking joking.'

'The Exec Director's already spoken to London. They're playing ball. He speaks German. Served some time out there. Could help with Trimmler.'

'I should've been brought in on this earlier.'

'Well, that's how it is.' The DDA turned to Phil Tucker. 'He'll be over in the next few days. Adam Nicholson. That's his name. I suggest he flies straight to San Diego. You'll need to be there to brief him. And the girl.'

'This computer's going to need a lot of my time.'

'Delegate someone. Everyone knows there's a virus. Put pressure on but I don’t want anyone opening a drawer and working out how serious this problem is.'

'I need to know my responsibilities. And how to progress the situation.' Tucker thought of Jean and the pressure he would be under at home. She had been married to an army officer before they met and hated the life, the constant separation. After nine years of marriage, he still hadn't spent a night away from home. He suddenly dreaded going home, remembered the foul mood she had been in when he left to come to this meeting. To return and tell her he was going to San Diego and God knows where else for an undetermined period would cause havoc in the household. At least they had tomorrow, he would take them all out for the day.

'We'll meet in the morning and work out the logistics on this thing. Eight a.m. My office.' The DDA's words were like a death sentence and Tucker groaned silently.

'How much information do we give this guy?' demanded the DDI, now aware that he had lost control of the situation. It wasn't his baby any longer. 'Fuck Administration!' he thought.

'As little as we can get away with. Leave it till tomorrow.' The DDA slid his chair back and stood up. 'I suggest you all get back and enjoy what's left of Christmas. See you in the morning.'

Two minutes later they were out on the street, standing below the period lamp stand that splayed its yellow light down onto the snow covered sidewalk.

'Wanna lift?' the DDI asked Carter, signalling across to the chauffeur driven government car that was parked across the road.

'Thank you, sir. I'd appreciate that,' answered Carter keeping his eyes away from Tucker.

'Good. See you tomorrow, Tucker. Sorry I can't give you a lift but we're going the other way.'

'No sweat. See you tomorrow.' Tucker stood back as the car pulled up at the kerb. Carter opened the door for the DDI, and after he had climbed in, followed him and shut the door.

Tucker watched the car drive off towards Massachusetts Avenue. The more he knew Carter, the more he disliked him. He was probably selling his soul to the DDI right now, in the back of the Company car. He would always go to the highest bidder. Another fucking pension-sucking whore.

He started to walk towards the main street, wished he had brought the car. Jean had kept the station wagon in case she took the kids out. He sure as hell wasn't going to find a cab easily at this time of night on Christmas Day. He couldn't even ring Jean, she'd have the kids in bed by now.

'Christ, I'm a fucking communications executive, not a fucking secret agent,' he shouted to the cold night.

Nobody heard. Nobody cared.

Ch. 16

Moscow.

'Thank you, Dimitri Dimitrovitch. This has put a new slant on the situation. You must keep alert and concentrate your efforts on this matter. If there is any change, contact me immediately.'

Rostov put down the phone and looked out of the window. The snow was thick outside, the street blocked off with the latest heavy fall. The late afternoon sun shone brightly as he looked up, the glare from the window reflection making him squint. He tried to remember a document he had seen, a glimmer of everyday information that hadn't seemed important at the time but could tie in with what Dimitri Sorge had told him on the phone.

He heard one of the children, probably his youngest daughter, laugh from the living room. Then came the stronger tones of his wife admonishing her. Someone was being naughty. It warmed him, he loved the family, loved the days away from the office. He looked down at the phone. Not true, he was always at the office.