Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

Building, the hallway outside overlooking the courtyard round which Hart was built. The reception desk was opposite a set of double doors, but the doors themselves were opaque so that no one could see inside, and there were imitation doors along the rest of the wall on to the walkway. The committee room proper was entered through steel doors, the walls of the isolation area in which the committee held its deliberations were lead-lined, and further protection against electronic surveillance was provided by white noise.

      Brettlaw smiled at the receptionist, signed the register, including the time he was entering the isolation area, and went inside.

      The members were already waiting in the semicircle of seats on the platform in front of him. Today was the bad one, today the bastards would be after his blood. He took his place, and the doors were closed and locked, sealing off the committee. Then, and only then, did the chairman call the meeting to order and ask Brettlaw for his opening remarks.

      ‘Before I begin, I have an announcement to make.’ It would soon be public anyway, but there were certain members who would remember that the DDO had seen fit to brief them first. ‘I have just been informed that the CoS Bonn has been assassinated.’ He waited for the room to settle. ‘This information was passed to me on my way here, as yet no other details are available. If any do become available during this session I will, of course, inform you immediately.’

      The senior Republican rose. ‘Mr Chairman, may I put on record the committee’s horror at the news, and its appreciation of the Deputy Director’s decision to attend despite it.’

      ‘Noted.’

      Even the liberals were shocked, Brettlaw thought wryly. Zev serving the Agency in death as in life.

      The questioning began, slightly less ferocious than on previous occasions, but barbed anyway.

      There were tricks, of course, almost tradecraft. Never tell a lie, because one day they might come back at you on it. But never tell the truth. Unless, of course, it suited you. Make what the politicians call lawyer’s answers, play one committee against another, the Senate against the House of Representatives. And if they had you, if you were really up against it, run a dangle, either to them or the press, lay a bait that would make them think they were on to something but which would take them so far off course they were the other side of the globe from what you wanted to protect. But never make enemies, because one day you might be sitting in front of them at a confirmation hearing for the job at the top.

      ‘Item 12d in budget document 4.’ The committee man was like a buzzard, Brettlaw thought, hungry eyes and hooked nose.

      So what the hell was running in Bonn? Why in Christ’s name did Zev have to die? How was it connected to the black projects? Was it connected to them? What about the financial discrepancy on the Red River project?

      ‘Perhaps we could look at paragraph 10 …’

      Don’t patronize me, you bastard. Don’t try your smooth perhaps we could look at … Don’t try to sucker me. Today of all days. With Zev Bartolski splattered across some fucking street in some foreign fucking country.

      ‘Yes, Senator.’ His voice was calm and controlled.

      ‘This is a major item of expenditure.’

      He checked the relevant document. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then could you explain how it relates to item 3, subitem 9, on document 8 …’

      The ass-hole was off course and out of sight. If he was anyway near the truth he’d be so far off the wall he’d be in the next room.

      ‘If you insist, Senator …’

      At three-thirty, and at Brettlaw’s request, the committee broke early. By ten minutes past four he was receiving an overview briefing on Bonn in his office at Langley. At four twenty-five he met with the DCI, at five o’clock, according to the log which was kept, he received a fuller briefing on Bonn station, the men he had summoned seated round the conference table of his office.

      ‘Zev and the First Secretary were travelling together.’ Costaine led the briefing. ‘They were killed when a bomb exploded near or below the car. They were on their way to an aeronautical exhibition. The explosion took place as they were nearing the location. The car was the First Secretary’s, not Zev’s. Detonation of the charge was probably by remote control.’

      It was logical that Zev should be with the First Secretary and that he should be doing something public, Brettlaw was aware. Everyone knew who was Station Chief. In places like Bonn it was almost a public appointment.

      ‘What was Zev doing there?’ he asked.

      ‘How’d you mean?’

      ‘Was it in his diary for the day?’

      ‘I’ll get it checked.’

      Brettlaw nodded and allowed him to continue.

      ‘A team is already airborne in case Bonn needs extra cover. All operations from Bonn have been iced. The analysts are backtracking to see if they can pick up anything.’

      ‘Any idea yet who’s responsible?’ He chainlit another Gauloise.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Where’s Cranlow?’

      Cranlow was Zev’s number two.

      ‘On his way back from Hamburg.’

      ‘Effective as of now he’s Chief of Station.’ Brettlaw had already cleared it with the DCI; there was no point in showing indecision, every point in acting quickly and decisively, and being seen to do so. ‘Samuelson transfers from Berlin as his point man. Don …’ He turned to the man on his left. ‘You fly to Bonn tonight, oversee things till the shit stops flying.’ Not to get in the new CoS’s way, just to be on hand to cover everyone’s back. Good decision, they knew, the DDO reacting the way they knew he would. ‘Sep, you’re in charge of family arrangements. Fly out with Don; make sure Martha and the boys are properly taken care of.’ Because Zev was family, and family takes care of its own. Thank Christ Brettlaw was the man in the big office, the feeling was already permeating round the table, would seep its inextricable way through the rest of the building. Thank Christ it was Brettlaw who was DDO.

      The meeting broke shortly after six Washington time, midnight in Bonn. Brettlaw closed the door, told Maggie he was not to be disturbed, and made two telephone calls. The first was to a house on the outskirts of Bonn. He identified himself and was put through.

      ‘Martha, it’s Tom. I’m phoning from my office but I don’t know what to say. Sep’s on his way to take care of things, you and the boys, that sort of thing.’ He allowed her to talk: about the barbecues the families had shared, the morning Brettlaw and Bartolski had rolled home drunk and she’d locked them out; about the boys. Sometimes he simply listened to her silence.

      The second call, twenty minutes later, was to Milton Cranlow in the secure room at the embassy. For three minutes Cranlow briefed Brettlaw with his account of events, plus the possibilities which spun from them, then waited for the DDO’s reaction.

      ‘It’s your show now, Milt.’ Brettlaw was hard, factual. ‘You’re Chief of Station. I want the fuckers. I want their balls.’

      No matter how long it takes and no matter where you have to go or what you have to do to find them.

      He ended the call, tilted back in his chair, swivelled round and peered at the tree tops outside through the slatted blind. It would be another late night; he could sleep in the bedroom attached to his office, or make the usual arrangements for his stays at the University Club. Not tonight, he almost decided, knew what Zev would have said. Big boys’ games, big boys’ rules. So what the fuck, Tom, have one on me.

      He swung back to his desk and telephoned home.

      ‘Mary, it’s me. There’s some bad news.’ He gave her time to prepare herself. ‘Zev’s dead.’ He imagined the images flashing through her mind: the trips, so long ago now, when they had all been young and new to