“Tell me.”
“Two months ago I had to raid an apartment here. Denounced as a CIA postbox. I managed to make one call; the man had time to run. But how did they know? Has someone been taken—talked?”
“Possibly. Why do you think so?”
“There’s more, and worse. Two weeks ago, just before my postcard, an officer came through from Moscow. I know he works in Analysis. His wife is East German, they were visiting. There was a party, he got drunk. He boasted there had been arrests in Moscow. Someone in the Defense Ministry, someone in Foreign Affairs.”
To Monk the news was like a kick in the face from the brogues to which he was applying a final shine.
“Someone at the table said something like: ‘You must have a good source in the enemy camp.’ The man tapped the side of his nose and winked.”
“You must come out, Kolya. Now, this night. Come across.”
“I can’t leave Ludmilla and Yuri. They are in Moscow.”
“Get them back here, my friend. Any excuse in the world. This is Soviet territory for ten more days. Then it becomes West German. They will not be able to travel here after that.”
“You are right. Within ten days, we come across, as a family. You will take care of us?”
“I’ll handle it personally. Don’t delay.”
He handed the bootblack a fistful of East Marks, which could be stored for ten days, then exchanged for valuable deutsche marks. The cleaner rose, nodded his thanks, collected his gear, and shuffled away.
The two watchers across the square heard a voice in their ears.
“We are complete. Arrest is on. Go, go, go.”
The two gray Czech Tatras came around the corner into Opera Square and raced to the curb beside the café. From the first car three men burst onto the sidewalk, shouldered two pedestrians out of their way, and grabbed one of the café customers in the front row. The second car ejected two more men, who held the rear door open and stood guard.
There were varied cries of alarm from the customers as the customer was picked up bodily and hurled into the rear of the second car. The door slammed and it roared away on screeching tires. The snatch squad threw themselves back into the first car and followed. The whole operation lasted seven seconds.
At the end of the block Jason Monk, a hundred yards from the assault, watched helplessly.
¯
“WHAT happened after Berlin?” asked Sir Nigel Irvine.
Some of the diners were picking up their credit cards and leaving to return to work or pleasure. The Englishman lifted the bottle of Beychevelle, noted there was nothing in it, and gestured to the waiter for a replacement.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Nigel?” asked Jordan with a wry smile.
“Tut-tut. I’m afraid we’re both old enough and ugly enough to take our wine like gentlemen.”
“Guess so. Anyway, I’m not often offered Château Beychevelle these days.”
The waiter offered the new bottle, got a nod from Sir Nigel, uncorked, and decanted.
“So, what shall we drink to?” asked Jordan. “The Great Game? Or maybe the Great Foul-Up,” he added bitterly.
“No, to the old days. And to the clarity. I think that’s what I miss most, what the youngsters don’t have. The absolute moral clarity.”
“I’ll drink to that. So, Berlin. Well, Monk came back madder than a mountain lion with his ass on fire. I wasn’t there, of course, but I was still talking with guys like Milt Bearden. I mean, we went back a long way. So I got the picture.
“Monk was going around the building telling anyone who would listen that the Soviet Division had a high-placed mole right inside it. Naturally, it wasn’t what they wanted to hear. Write it down, they said. So he did. It was a pretty hair-raising document. It accused just about everyone of blithering incompetence.
“Milt Bearden had finally managed to squeeze Ames out of his Soviet Division. But the guy was like a leech. In the interim the director had formed a new Counter-intelligence Center. Inside it was the Analysis Group and within that the USSR Branch. The branch needed a former Directorate of Operations case officer; Mulgrew proposed Ames, and by God he got it. You can guess whom Monk had to address himself to with his complaint. Aldrich Ames himself.”
“That must have been a bit of a shock to the system,” murmured Irvine.