This was by no means the first, or even the tenth, time that he'd met Murov at Morton's. He knew what was going to happen: There would be some very good whisky at the bar, and then, when they had moved to a table, some really first-class wine, and one of Morton's nearly legendary steaks.
People often quoted Whelan's evaluation of Morton's Steakhouse: "The food is so good in Morton's that it's almost worth about half what they charge for it."
And afterward, Murov would not only insist on paying the check, in cash, but also would leave the actual bill lying on the table, from where he knew Harry would discreetly-and thinking Murov didn't notice-slip it in his pocket.
Murov had diplomatic privilege, which would allow him to turn the bill over to the IRS for a refund of the tax. He had decided, the first time he'd seen Whelan grab the bill, that the Russian Federation could easily afford forfeiting the returned taxes if that meant a very important-and thus potentially very useful-journalist would come to the conclusion that he was putting something over not only on the IRS but also on the rezident of the Russian embassy. It is always better if one's adversary thinks he is far more clever than oneself. "How are you, Sergei?" Whelan greeted Murov.
"What a pleasant surprise!" Murov said. "Have you time for a drink, Harry?"
"I could be talked into that, I think," Whelan said, and slipped onto a bar stool.
He ordered a Famous Grouse twelve-year-old malt Scotch whisky with two ice cubes and half as much water as whisky.
As the bartender was making the drink, Murov said, "I saw you on Wolf News, Harry. 'Straight Scoop something'?"
"You and four million other people," Whelan said somewhat smugly.
"I thought your 'arf-arf' business was hilarious, but I wondered what it did to your relationship with President Clendennen."
"It went from just-about-as-bad-as-it-can-get to worse."
"What was that all about, anyway, at Fort Detrick?"
"I don't know, Sergei. I think you know what really goes on out there."
"I haven't a clue."
"The hell you don't. Okay, they have a biological weapons laboratory out there. That's probably classified Top Secret, but it's really about as much of a secret as McClarren's wig."
"Really? That red hair isn't his?"
"That's why they always shoot him up," Whelan said, demonstrating with his hands a low camera angle pointing upward. "If they shoot him down, or even straight on, you can see the cheesecloth or whatever it is under the hair."
"You really are a fountain of information, Harry," Murov said.
Whelan thought: Actually, of disinformation.
As far as I know, all that red hair comes out of Ol' Andy's scalp.
But the bartender heard what I just said, and before the night is over, it will be all over Morton's.
And before the week is out, Jay Leno will have made a joke about Old Baldy and His Red Rug.
Whelan said, "So, what happened at Fort Detrick was that they had an accident. Somebody dropped a bottle or somebody forgot to close a door. They're prepared for something like that. The emergency procedures were put into play. Since the world didn't come to an end, we know that the emergency procedures worked. But in the meantime, Homeland Security, the Defense Department, every other agency determined to prove it's on the job protecting the people, rushed up there, and the Wolf News photographers in the helicopter got those marvelous shots of everybody getting in everybody's way. Chasing their tails. Arf-arf. " Twenty minutes and two drinks later, Murov called for the bartender, told him he was ready for his table, and asked for the bill. When it was presented, Murov laid three twenty-dollar bills on the bar, and told the bartender to keep the change. The headwaiter appeared, bearing menus and trailed by the sommelier bearing the wine list.
C. Harry Whelan, Jr., slipped the bar bill into his pocket and followed everybody to a table set against a wall behind a folding screen. Ten minutes after that, a waiter had delivered a dozen oysters on the half-shell and the sommelier had opened and poured from a bottle of Egri Bikaver, which Murov told Whelan he had learned to appreciate as a young officer stationed in Budapest.
"'Bull's blood,' they call it," Murov said. "The Hungarians have been making wine for a thousand years."
"What were you doing in Budapest?" Whelan asked. "As a young officer?"
"I was in tanks," Murov said.
Bullshit. You were in the KGB, or the OGPU, or whatever they called the Soviet secret intelligence service in those days.
You are a charming sonofabitch, Sergei, but you didn't get to be the Washington rezident because you're a nice guy.
You're dangerous.
What the hell do you want from me?
They tapped the rims of their glasses together.
"I'm going to tell you a story, Harry," Murov said, "one that would go over very well if you went on The Straight Scoop tonight with it-"
Well, here it comes!
Whelan interrupted: "Sergei, my experience has been that if someone tries to feed you a story…"
Murov went on: "-but I think when you hear the whole story, you will decide to wait a little before coming out with it." Murov paused, then added: "And if you decide to break the story immediately, I will of course deny it. And since it touches on the incredible, I really think people would believe my denial."
"Why are you being so good to me, Sergei?"
"Because it is in my interests to do so. And because, frankly, you are the most important journalist to whom I have access."
Whelan thought: That makes sense.
Murov reached for, and then placed on the table, a very elegant dark red leather attache case. When Whelan saw it, he thought of the wine-bull's blood.
Murov took two sheets of paper from the attache case, laid them on the table, closed the attache case, returned it to the floor, and then handed Whelan the two sheets of paper.
"What am I looking at? It's in Russian."
"Underneath is the translation. What you're looking at is a letter from Colonel Vladlen Solomatin."
Whelan read the translation, and then looked at Murov, his eyebrows raised in question.
"When you have your own translation of the Russian made, Harry," Murov said, "I think you'll find that one's quite accurate. I know that because I did it myself."
"I confess I don't understand what this is all about," Whelan said.
"Those warmongers who scurrilously accuse me of being a member of the SVR rather than the innocent diplomat that I am would also allege that my superior in the SVR is Vladlen Solomatin. The second directorate of the SVR is in charge of SVR agents around the world, exercising that authority through the senior SVR officer in each country, commonly called the rezident. Are you hearing all this for the first time, Harry?"
"Absolutely. This is all news to me."
"I'm not surprised. Anyway, so I'm told, most of these rezidents know each other. We… excuse me… they went to school together, served together, et cetera. You understand?"
"Sort of an old boy's club, right?"
"Precisely," Murov said. "Not very often, but once in a great while, people who are not in the SVR form close friendships with people who are. In our embassies-as, I am sure, in yours-cultural attaches know who the rezident/ CIA station chief is even if that is supposed to be a secret. Am I right?"
"Probably. Are you going to tell me who the SVR rezident in your embassy here is, Sergei?"
"No. But I know who he is, even though I am not supposed to."
"And I'm sure that secret is safe with you," Whelan said as he reached for the bottle of Egri Bikaver. "Vladimir Putin may sleep soundly tonight."
Whelan saw in Murov's eyes something that told him Murov did not like the sarcasm or-maybe particularly-the reference to Putin.