Complex One was the code for the beginning of the three-stage process that could lead to nuclear confrontation. Complex One had been called only once in the past eight years.
“I don’t think so,” the president said. “And I don’t think the French are convinced. They have their own intelligence, and they haven’t had a whiff of any sort of ‘conspiracy’ such as we describe. They didn’t believe us when R Section came up with that Tinkertoy information about troop movements on the Polish border leading up to an invasion last spring.”
“You can cry wolf only so often,” the adviser said. “Tinkertoy was wrong, or at least R Section was wrong. Now maybe the CIA is wrong as well. Maybe everything we’ve been getting is wrong. We’re beginning to look like a bunch of fools.”
“Staying on alert is a reasonable precaution until this matter gets cleared up, one way or another,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. He was a large man with a large man’s gestures. His uniform was the only piece of color in the room.
“I agree,” said Admiral Galloway. The director of R Section, by tradition, sat across the table from the director of Central Intelligence. They were old adversaries, but in this, Galloway had said nothing. Tinkertoy had been fouled, in Galloway’s eloquent nautical phrase. The discovery of saboteurs working inside computer analysis at the Section had cast R Section into an uncomfortable role.
“The trouble began with R Section,” the CIA director said pointedly. “We kept getting these false starts from them and we kept passing them on, just like a bunch of fools. We put NATO on alert twice in the spring and nothing happened, and now we’re passing along this stuff about Mitterand getting hit and they don’t believe us. In fact, I wonder what we should believe about any of this information.”
“It’s your information,” the adviser said with sarcasm.
“Yes, sir. And normally we would take the time to do evaluation and analysis. But this is an urgent matter. Something is going on in Moscow. There are factions at war there, and I think they’re both trying to give us signals.”
“Should I call the first secretary?” the president asked.
“What’s the point of it? Maybe both sides are right, maybe they’re both working the same side of the street. If there isn’t going to be an invasion, then we just call down the alert. Why do they think we would be boxed in by them?”
“Maybe they don’t,” the adviser said. “Maybe they think we’ll be too smart for them and do nothing. If only we could get a third leg on this, if we could only get some sense of perspective.”
For a moment, they all sat in silence, staring with four A.M. eyes at each other, sick of the words and sick of the endless circle of the problem. Nothing could be resolved and yet they had to resolve the matter in a couple of hours. It was already June 6; at any moment they might hear of invasion or assassination and it would be resolved by other events.
The door at the far end of the windowless underground room opened and a Marine guard appeared, rifle in hand.
“Gentlemen,” the Marine said, as though announcing a guest at a party. “I have received from post three an urgent request by the assistant director for operations of Section R to be admitted.”
Galloway turned in his chair and stared at the Marine. The others looked at Galloway.
“Who’s that?” the president said.
“Hanley. One of my…assistants. I don’t know what—”
“Send him down,” the president said.
The Marine closed the door.
“What the hell does he want?” Galloway said aloud, and realized it was not the appropriate question for the direction of the Section to ask.
“You’re in charge, Galloway,” the adviser said. “What operation have you got relating to this?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing. We’re just trying to clean up Tinkertoy, get back in business, I—”
The door opened, and Hanley walked into the large room and stared at the powers assembled at the long table. For a moment, he looked around, from face to face, and then they realized he was looking for a place to stand.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs shoved his chair closer to the director of Central Intelligence and a place was made at the table. Hanley stepped to the table and stared at Galloway for a moment and then looked at the president.
“We received information twenty minutes ago,” Hanley began. “From one of our agents. He was operating in Paris.”
“Quizon,” Galloway blurted, though it was a breach of security.
“No. I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” Hanley began slowly. “You see, it was all related finally to what was wrong with Tinkertoy, how the bad information got into the computer, who fed it, and what the source was. It was largely coming through Quizon, that was our station man in Paris and—”
“What the hell are you talking about, Hanley? We’re not interested in Tinkertoy right now,” Galloway snarled.
Hanley blinked at him and began again in his mild voice. “Sir. The plot against President Mitterand is confirmed. Most of the elements of what the CIA has gathered have been confirmed—”
“Not by that goddamn computer,” Galloway said loudly.
“Be quiet, Admiral,” the national security adviser said softly. “Tell us what you have, Mr. Hanley.”
“Sir, it started with one of our agents, called November—”
“I fired his ass six months ago, I got rid of him,” Galloway said loudly.
“Admiral,” the adviser said.
“One of our men was killed in Paris a month ago. He had been investigating the information that was causing us trouble in Tinkertoy. I didn’t trust the computer; something was rotten in the Section. So I got someone from the outside. I called in November.”
“You did what? You did what?” Galloway’s face went a deep shade of red.
“Admiral!” The adviser turned sharply to the old man. “Will you kindly shut up!”
Even the president glared at the director of R Section.
“November has put it together. At this moment, through a…liaison…he has contacted the French government directly. The plot to kill Mitterand was scheduled for three forty-five this afternoon, Paris time, that would be in…yes…about four and a half hours from now.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because he penetrated the terrorists. La Compagnie Rouge it’s called. That means Red Company in French,” Hanley said with typical pedantry. “We were aware of the existence of a terror group in that country, but we never pinned down much information about them. Now I can understand why.”
“What is confirmed?” the president said.
“This terror group was working under the direction of a man named Simeon, though we don’t have exact proof of that yet. He was code-named ‘Three’ and none of the terrorists knew his identity, but November is convinced that he is this Simeon. And that Simeon killed our agent at Paris and turned our permanent station man there. And everything that November gives us from his end about the misinformation fed to Tinkertoy is generally confirmed by our woman in charge of computer analysis.”
“The one who was kidnapped,” the security adviser said.
“Yes,” Hanley said, staring at the mild man with the large cigar. “We were set up, and so was the CIA.”
The director of Central Intelligence began to protest, but the security adviser held up his hand. “How, Mr. Hanley?”
“Tinkertoy was programmed to make us disbelieve it, to send out false trails and clues, to use bad information to confuse the Allies. The same thing was supposed to be done with British Intelligence, sir, but a human factor intervened. One of the British agents decided to go freelance with the disinformation he had stolen from a Russian plant—”