The Company’s headquarters consists of five blocks, one in the center and one at each corner of the center block, like a rough St. Andrews cross. The Igloo is stuck onto the corner block nearest the main gate. Passing the recessed center block, Sir Nigel noticed the imposing main doorway and the great seal of the United States paved in terrazzo into the ground in front of it. But he knew this front entrance was for congressmen, senators, and other undesirables. The car swept on, past the complex, then pulled to the right and drove around to the back.
Here there is a short ramp, protected by a steel portcullis, running down one floor to the first basement level. At the bottom is a select garage for no more than ten cars. The black sedan came to a halt, and the man called Lance handed Sir Nigel over to his superior, Cubarles (“Chip”) Allen, the Deputy Director for Operations. They, too, knew each other well.
Set in the back wall of the garage is a small elevator, guarded by steel doors and two armed men. Chip Allen identified his guest, signed for him, and used a plastic card to open the elevator doors. The elevator hummed its way quietly seven floors up to the Director’s suite. Another magnetized plastic card got them both out of the elevator, into a lobby faced by three doors. Chip Allen knocked on the center one, and it was Bob Benson himself who, alerted from below, welcomed the British visitor into his suite.
Benson led him past the big desk to the lounge area in front of the beige marble fireplace. In winter Benson liked a crackling log fire to burn here, but Washington in August is no place for fires and the air conditioning was working overtime. Benson pulled the rice-paper screen across the room to separate the lounge from the office and sat back opposite his guest. Coffee was ordered, and when they were alone, Benson finally asked, “What brings you to Langley, Nigel?”
Sir Nigel sipped and sat back.
“We have,” he said undramatically, “obtained the services of a new asset.”
He spoke for almost ten minutes before the Director of Central Intelligence interrupted him.
“Inside the Politburo?” he queried. “You mean, ri
ght inside?”
“Let us just say, with access to Politburo meeting transcripts,” said Sir Nigel.
“Would you mind if I called Chip Allen and Ben Kahn in on this?”
“Not at all, Bob. They’ll have to know within an hour or so, anyway. Prevents repetition.”
Bob Benson rose, crossed to a telephone on a coffee table, and made a call to his private secretary. When he had finished he stared out of the picture window at the great green forest. “Jesus H. Christ,” he breathed.
Sir Nigel Irvine was not displeased that his two old contacts in the CIA should be in on the ground floor of his briefing. All pure intelligence agencies—as opposed to intelligence-secret police forces like the KGB—have two main arms. One is Operations, covering the business of actually obtaining information; the other is Intelligence, covering the business of collating, cross-referencing, interpreting, and analyzing the great mass of raw, unprocessed information that is gathered in.
Both have to be good. If the information is faulty, the best analysis in the world will only come up with nonsense; if the analysis is inept, all the efforts of the information gatherers are wasted. Statesmen need to know what other nations, friends or potential foes, are doing and, if possible, what they intend to do. What they are doing is nowadays often observable; what they intend to do is not. Which is why all the space cameras in the world will never supplant a brilliant analyst working with material from inside another’s secret councils.
In the CIA the two men who hold sway under the Director of Central Intelligence, who may be a political appointee, are the Deputy Director (Operations), or DDO, and the Deputy Director (Intelligence), or DDI. It is Operations that inspires the thriller writers; Intelligence is back-room work, tedious, slow, methodical, and, paradoxically, often most valuable when most boring.
Like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, the DDO and the DDI have to work hand in hand and they have to trust each other. Benson, as a political appointee, was lucky. His DDO was Chip Allen, WASP and former football player; his DDI was Ben Kahn, Jewish chess master; they fitted together like a pair of gloves. In five minutes both were sitting with Benson and Irvine in the lounge area. Coffee was forgotten.
The British spymaster talked for almost an hour. He was uninterrupted. Then the three Americans read the Nightingale transcript and watched the tape recording in its polyethylene bag with something like hunger. When Irvine had finished, there was a short silence. Chip Allen broke it.
“Roll over, Penkovsky,” he said.
“You’ll want to check it all,” said Sir Nigel evenly. No one dissented. Friends are friends, but ... “It took us ten days, but we can’t fault it. The voiceprints check out, every one. We’ve already exchanged cables about the bustup in the Soviet Agriculture Ministry. And of course you have your Condor photographs. Oh, one last thing ...”
From his bag he produced a small polyethylene sack with a sprig of young wheat inside it.
“One of our chaps swiped this from a field outside Leningrad.”
“I’ll have our Agriculture Department check it out as well,” said Benson. “Anything else, Nigel?”
“Oh, not really,” said Sir Nigel. “Well, perhaps a couple of small points ...”
“Spit it out.”
Sir Nigel drew a breath.
“The Russian buildup in Afghanistan. We think they may be mounting a move toward Pakistan and India through the passes. That we regard as our patch. Now, if you could ask Condor to have a look ...”
“You’ve got it,” said Benson without hesitation.
“And then,” resumed Sir Nigel, “that Soviet defector you brought out of Geneva two weeks ago. He seems to know quite a bit about Soviet assets in our trade-union movement.”
“We sent you transcripts of that,” said Allen hastily.