Point of Contact Read online

  “Paul and I were together in Sofia, Bulgaria, back in the eighties. We both worked for the Company.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  “I was on the fast track—born and bred for it, right? Well, I was posted in Berlin until I got busted out of that assignment and demoted to Sofia—”

  “Busted for what?”

  “The ambassador’s wife.” Rhodes couldn’t suppress a smile. “At his home. In flagrante delicto.”

  Asshole, Jack thought. “You need to finish this.”

  “So instead of getting fired outright, I was posted to Sofia—a nod to my father, who was still a man of some influence back then. I was warned that it was my one and only chance to redeem myself—a way to work my way back up from the minor leagues. Truth was, I was never really that good at field craft—especially at recruiting local talent—and I was under a lot of pressure to succeed. The one Bulgarian source I managed to develop was a man in the CSS—”

  “Who?”

  Rhodes read Jack’s face again. A lie now was a risk, but burning Zvezdev would be even riskier. “Doesn’t matter. Probably not his real name, anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. So I worked out an arrangement with this contact. He was desperate for computer chips, which I provided, and I was desperate for intel, especially on KGB activities in the region, which he fed me at regular intervals. The only problem was that the intel was weak, and not very interesting to Langley. My COS put a lot of pressure on me to up the ante or kiss my career good-bye.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “My official cover at the embassy was the U.S. and Foreign Commercial Service. I had access to department money, and I knew someone in Silicon Valley who supplied them to me through a shell company.”

  “And your COS approved of this?”

  “He had no idea about it.”

  “Then you were breaking the law.”

  “Sure, but I didn’t care. I was desperate.”

  “You were selling high tech to our enemies.”

  “Trading, not selling. And not all that high tech—CPUs for personal computers, mostly. It was a calculated risk. My Bulgarian contact couldn’t get enough of them. Of course, it was actually the East Germans that wanted them, and the bastard I was giving them to was actually selling them to the Germans. Making a killing doing it, too. I didn’t care. I just needed the intel he was giving me, and when my chief threatened to ship me back to the States and kill my career, I confronted my contact. Told him I knew he was selling those chips to Berlin for a profit, and that he’d be shot by his KGB handlers if they knew what he was up to. I told him if he didn’t help me to pull off a really big score, I’d not only cut off his chip supply, I’d turn him in to Moscow.”

  “Where did Paul come into all of this?”

  “About a week after I confronted my contact, I received a very late call. My Bulgarian friend was on the other end, very excited and scared at the same time. He promised me the biggest intelligence coup of my career—maybe anybody’s. He said he had a high-level defector who wanted to come over. The only problem, it had to be done within the next two hours. And to come alone.”

  Jack frowned. “Sounds like a setup. Why did you believe him?”

  “Because he was all about the shekels. He said it would cost me twenty thousand dollars. He knew I couldn’t raise that amount of cash on such short notice, but we’d done business together, and he told me he trusted me to get it to him within the week. It sounded legit, so we set a place and time for the meet.”

  Jack checked his watch. “You’ve got about a minute, at most.”

  “For what?”

  A look fell over Jack’s face. It chilled Rhodes to the bone.

  “So, where was I? Oh, yes. Paul. Truth is, I hardly knew him. I think we met once or twice at some interminable staff meeting. We were both with the Company, but he was just an accountant working in a shabby little office in the basement. Well, when I got the call that set the meet, I scrambled downstairs to the basement to grab keys for an old Lada we used for undercover work. The locker where the keys were kept was just outside Paul’s office, and there he was, burning the midnight oil, and—”

  Rhodes glanced out the window. Two black SUVs pulled up to the curb. Doors opened. Men and women in coats and armored vests marked FBI scrambled out. Rhodes stood, leaning on his desk, panic on his face.

  “Jack—”

  “What?”

  “There must be a way.”

  “Afraid not.”

  Rhodes’s eyes flitted to his desk for an instant. Jack followed his gaze. The Kimber .380 was only inches from Rhodes’s manicured hands.

  Jack slid his coat jacket back, revealing a pistol on his hip. “I’m begging you. Pick it up.”

  “I think not.”

  “Coward. Pick it up.”

  Rhodes took a step back from his desk, palms up. “I can’t shoot you, Jack. I need you.”

  “Need me? What for?”

  “You’re my insurance. This whole affair—you’re up to your eyeballs in it. So is your father. Defense contractors? Spies? North Koreans? Your father would never risk the scandal. It would ruin his administration. Call him. Call this whole thing off, now, before it’s too late.”

  Two FBI agents marched into the study. One of them held a sheaf of papers in one hand. “Senator Rhodes?”

  “Jack? Trust me, this can all go away. Make the call.”

  Jack shook his head and smiled. “You really don’t know my dad, do you? He called the attorney general himself.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I was hoping I could save the taxpayers a few dollars.”

  “Weston Rhodes, this is a warrant for your arrest.” The FBI agent tossed it on the desk as the other agent approached Rhodes with a pair of handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent.”

  75

  SULLY, IOWA

  Jack stood at the guest book in the foyer of the old Lutheran church, patting his pockets.

  “Lose your pen?”

  Jack turned around, surprised. “Yeah.”

  President Ryan handed Jack his own Zebra F-701 stainless. “Do I want to know how?”

  Junior didn’t say a word, but Senior recognized the look. Jack took the pen and signed his name on the register. He turned back around and held the pen out to his dad.

  “Keep it, son. In case you need it.”

  “I saw Mary Pat inside. I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Security wouldn’t let me tell you,” Senior said, nodding at the two Secret Service agents standing behind him.

  “It’s usually a three-ring circus when you come to town. How’d you manage to keep this quiet?”

  Senior smiled as he signed the register. “The press plane was accidentally delayed a few hours by an unexpected mechanical inspection.”

  The first few notes of an old Hammond organ began to play in the sanctuary.

  “It’s time,” Senior said.

  —

  The pastor concluded his brief homily and introduced President Ryan, seated in the front row, along with DNI Mary Pat Foley, CIA director Jay Canfield, Gerry Hendley, John Clark, and Jack Junior.

  Junior recognized several other retired dignitaries from the IC community farther back in the chapel. He was surprised at their turnout. Was it just a courtesy to his dad?

  The doors were closed and guarded inside and out by Secret Service agents as helicopter rotors beat the air above the small country church, keeping overwatch. The President’s handlers weren’t taking any chances after Mexico City.

  President Ryan stepped forward. He paused briefly, laying a hand on the closed casket that stood in front of the altar before ascending the three short steps to the pulpit.

  He glanced out over the small gathering of fifteen or so people, mostly gray-haired far
mers and dairymen with their sturdy wives, all dressed in their Sunday best. They stared at the President, skeptical and surprised.

  Junior felt underdressed in his short-sleeved shirt and tie, but with his arm in a cast and a sling, he couldn’t manage a suit. His bruises had all turned to purple and yellow, and his scratches had scabbed over. He looked like he’d fallen through a hay baler. He wondered if these farmers thought so, too.

  “It is my honor and privilege to mourn the loss and celebrate the life of Paul Brown with you today,” the President began. “You all knew Paul better than I did, but I doubt that anyone here owes a greater personal debt of gratitude to him than me and my family, and I wanted to express that publicly.” He turned toward the casket. “Thank you, Paul.”

  Senior gave the slightest nod to his son, who returned the same.

  “Paul Brown was a brilliant, modest, hardworking man who rendered a quiet and selfless service to his country and his friends. Our nation was built on the shoulders of such men and women, and our greatness will be sustained by them as well.

  “It may surprise some of you to know that I am not the first American President to praise the name of Paul Brown in a closed-door meeting among family, friends, and colleagues. In 1985, President Ronald Reagan awarded Paul Brown the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the CIA’s equivalent of the Medal of Honor. It is usually only awarded posthumously, but Paul Brown was not usual by any measure. Those that knew him tell me that he never spoke about the honor or the sacrifice that earned it. We only know about the events that transpired so many years ago thanks to the testimony of the only living witness, former Senator Weston Rhodes—”

  Ryan glanced over at his son.

  “—who unfortunately, owing to personal circumstances, couldn’t be with us today. However, I think it’s important for you, his family and friends, to better know the kind of man Paul Brown really was.

  “Let me begin by reading the text of the speech Ronald Reagan gave when he awarded the DIC to Paul.”

  Senior removed a sheet of paper from his suit coat and laid it carefully on the pulpit, then put on a pair of reading glasses, perched them on his nose. He glanced up at the audience over the top of them. “I can’t imitate the Gipper’s voice, but I’m sure you all remember it well enough.” He allowed himself a smile, looked back down at his notes, and began to read.

  “‘My fellow Americans . . .’”

  76

  SOFIA, BULGARIA

  1985

  Rhodes dashed down the basement stairs straight to the security locker. He spun the tumbler lock until it clicked, then yanked the metal door open. The only keys hanging on the rack were for the old Lada, an underpowered four-cylinder with a slipping clutch and the sex appeal of an outhouse brick. But it was local and clean and his only option. The problem was that he hated driving a stick, and he needed to follow his paper map closely. Better if he had a driver.

  Rhodes scratched his head, thinking about his limited options and the ticking clock, when his eye fell on the light shining out from beneath the door at the end of the hall. He hurried down that way. A name plate on the door read PAUL BROWN and FORENSIC ACCOUNTING. He didn’t recognize the name. The door was ajar. He pushed it open wider.

  The room was no bigger than a broom closet—in fact, it used to be one, he recalled. A heavyset man sat hunched over a stack of ledger books, scratching notes on a yellow legal pad with one hand and squeezing a pair of hand grippers in the other.

  “Excuse me, Paul,” Rhodes began.

  Paul startled and swiveled around in his banker’s chair. “You caught me by surprise. No one’s usually around this time of night, except for the Marine guards.”

  Rhodes strode confidently into the room, his hand extended. “You’re Paul Brown, aren’t you? You probably don’t remember me. I think we might have met at an embassy function a while ago. My name is Weston Rhodes.”

  Paul stood and took his hand, now even more startled that the famous spy, Weston Rhodes, knew his name. He nearly knocked over his steaming cup of tea. “Everybody knows you, Mr. Rhodes. It’s an honor—”

  Rhodes waved away the compliment. “Nonsense. We all have our parts to play, don’t we? Speaking of which, I was wondering if you were terribly busy at the moment.”

  Paul turned around in his cramped little office, taking in the stacks of ledger books, notepads, cardboard boxes, a typewriter, a personal computer, a dot matrix printer, spreadsheets, and everything else he was using to conduct his current forensic investigation.

  “Not really. What can I do for you?”

  “Can you drive a stick shift?”

  “Every Iowa farm boy does. Why?”

  “I’ve got a little problem, and I need your help.”

  “Name it.”

  —

  Rhodes talked their way through the few checkpoints they encountered on the way out of the city, doling out generous wads of paper lev to the Bulgarian policemen, resentful and bitter as always, but who nonetheless waved them through as they pocketed the cash in their coats.

  Paul sat stiffly in the broken-down driver’s seat, his white-knuckled hands clutching the steering wheel like a life preserver, even after they cleared the city.

  “You can relax now. This is the easy part,” Rhodes said. He took a swig from a flask, then offered it to Paul.

  “No, thanks. Never touch the stuff.”

  “Helps take the edge off,” Rhodes said, taking another swig and capping the flask.

  “You do this kind of thing all the time?”

  “Oh, you know, ‘When duty calls’ and all of that.”

  “I think I like accounting better.”

  “I’d shoot myself if I had to sit in an office all day.”

  “It’s not that bad. Numbers are interesting. They tell a story—”

  “Yes, I’m sure they do. Let me check the map.”

  Paul tried to talk away his nervousness over the course of the next hour, but Rhodes wouldn’t have any part of it. He lit a cigarette and filled the cramped cab with smoke. Paul kept waving his hand in front of his face and even rolled his window down in the chill night air, but Rhodes didn’t give a damn and smoked one after the other.

  The Lada wheezed and creaked over the two-lane asphalt, winding its way up the grade and into wooded farm country. Paul began to fidget. He’d forgotten to use the restroom before they left the embassy, and three cups of tea were battering against his tiny bladder.

  “Slow down, I think we’re close,” Rhodes said, checking the map. “There, the next turn.”

  Paul slowed to a near stop and eased the sedan onto a rutted dirt road.

  “Kill the lights.”

  “Okay.”

  They bounced along in first gear for another fifteen minutes, inching along through the ruts in the dark.

  “Stop here,” Rhodes said. “See it?”

  Paul squinted through the filmy windshield. A quarter-mile away, a small rustic farmhouse stood in a clearing, a few lights burning in the windows. A black ZiL-117 was parked out front, the Soviet version of a luxury four-door sedan.

  “That’s Zvezdev.” Rhodes checked his watch. “Excellent. We’re ten minutes early.” He checked all around them. “No one followed us here, and I don’t see anyone around.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “It’s just supposed to be me and Zvezdev and the man we’re picking up.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re not supposed to be here. I was told to come alone.” Rhodes grinned and patted Paul on the shoulder. “I don’t always do what I’m told.”

  Paul nodded. “Where do you want me to park?”

  Rhodes pointed away from the farmhouse. “Over there in that stand of trees. Keep your lights off.”

  —

  Paul pulled in behind a couple thick pine
s and killed the engine as Rhodes reached into a coat pocket. He handed Paul a pistol.

  “You know how to shoot one of these?”

  “My dad was a cop.” Paul weighed the 9x18mm Makarov in his hand as Rhodes checked the mag on his full-sized Beretta 92. “Why do I need it?”

  “You probably don’t.” Rhodes snatched it back out of Paul’s hand. “You’d probably just shoot yourself anyway.” Rhodes pocketed the Makarov and reholstered his Beretta. “Just stay in the car and keep quiet until I return. It’ll only be a few minutes. Understood?”

  Paul nodded, still fidgety.

  Rhodes frowned. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be here, ready to roll, when you get back.”

  Rhodes patted Paul on the shoulder again. “Good man.” He carefully opened his door and closed it gently, avoiding making any noise.

  Paul watched Rhodes pick his way through the trees and cut over to the road, and then march up to the front door of the farmhouse. Rhodes knocked and a man’s shape appeared in the doorway. Paul couldn’t hear anything from this far away, but everything must have been okay because he shook hands with the man and the two entered into the farmhouse.

  Paul rolled down his window. The car was stuffy and smelled like stale cigarette smoke. His bladder screamed. Paul looked around again. Nothing, except the trees and the sound of the breeze in the pine needles.

  He had to pee.

  Paul carefully pulled on the handle and used both hands to open the door to keep it from squeaking, just the way Rhodes had done.

  There was a tall bush on the other side of the car, open on one side, like a booth. He made his way over to it, unzipping his fly with each hurried step.

  He stood in the middle of the man-sized bush and let go. A piss never felt so good. He directed his stream back and forth against the leaves to minimize the sound and to keep it from puddling. The splash made a little noise, but not much, like crunching leaves. It wasn’t long before he was done and wagging himself dry.

  But the leaves were still making noise.

  Paul froze.