Moscow USA. Gordon Stevens

and stamped the second. Then he rose and walked to the mail box, hesitated for a second, slid it in, waited till he heard it drop, walked to the pay phones, and called the number in New York.

      Jack Kincaid ignored the file on the coffee table in front of him and looked at the man opposite him. The safe house was on the outskirts of Miami’s Little Havana. Outside the temperature was closing on 95, inside it was almost chilly, the drapes drawn and the air conditioning humming slightly.

      Kincaid was late thirties and deceptively big build. The man three metres away was slim and urbane, smart suit, hair greased back and thin moustache. Cuban diplomat, the Miami office had said: access to secret police records and knowledge of Russian intelligence activities in Central America, both past and present. Anti-Fidel, despite his background and position, and wanting to trade.

      Call for you, Kincaid was informed. Perfect timing, he thought. He nodded at the Cuban and went to the next room.

      ‘Jack, this is Bram.’ O’Bramsky was deputy head of division. ‘You’re needed in New York. Briefing here first. My assistant will pick you up at National.’

      ‘When?’ Kincaid asked.

      ‘It’s an immediate.’ Immediate was a message prefix. Immediate meant NOW. PRIORITY. DROP EVERYTHING. Only one prefix ranked above immediate. Flash. And flash meant the bombs were about to fall. ‘The DCI has been notified. At this moment he’s briefing the President.’

      DCI – the Director of Central Intelligence, the head of CIA.

      ‘On my way,’ Kincaid told O’Bramsky.

      Kincaid’s flight from Miami to Washington National was on a commercial 737. An Agency plane would not have covered the distance any quicker. At National he was third off. He strode quickly through the terminal, picked up O’Bramsky’s assistant, followed him to the unmarked Chevy in the satellite parking area, and slid into the back seat without asking what was running. The driver left National, turned right along George Washington Parkway, the Potomac glistening on the right, and began to climb through the trees. Fifteen minutes later the car stopped by the elevators in the underground parking lot beneath the large off-white building tucked amongst the woodlands of Virginia. The first elevator was engaged. Kincaid pressed the other button, rode the executive elevator to the division, and was escorted immediately to the bubble.

      Each division had its own secure room – no walls on the outside of the building, no windows, even internally; electronic grids, white noise and lead-lined drapes. Regular sweeps just to make sure. Conference table in the centre and communications facilities along one wall.

      Jameson, O’Bramsky and Miller were waiting. Others as well: the heads of operations and security, plus counter-intelligence. But Jameson, O’Bramsky and Miller were the ones that mattered.

      Grere Jameson, forty-five years old, tall, with the first grey playing in his hair. Chief of Soviet and Eastern Europe Division for the past three years.

      O’Bramsky, two years older and Jameson’s deputy, white hair, hands like the lumberjack’s his father had been, and brain like an IBM mainframe.

      Ed Miller, early forties and Russia desk chief.

      Kincaid sat down, was given a coffee, and the briefing began. No other formalities, because there was no time.

      O’Bramsky faced him across the table. ‘Three hours ago someone calling himself Hemmings contacted the New York office and asked to speak with Leo Panelli.’ Kincaid had worked with Panelli, starting in Berlin. ‘Hemmings, it transpires, is KGB. He and Leo know each other because they both worked the United Nations. Leo is in Paris on leave. Hemmings said it was an immediate. Because of this we arranged for Hemmings to speak with Leo. Before they spoke, Leo sent us this cable.’

      O’Bramsky passed the de-crypt across the table. Kincaid read it once.

      The Director – on the first line.

      The security classification – SECRET – on the second. Only FLASH messages warranted TOP SECRET.

      The slug, the routing indicator for the computers which would receive the cable at Langley, on the next. Slugs related cables to specific projects, operators, agents or geographic areas.

      The slug on the de-crypt in front of Kincaid was AMSNOW. The first two letters, AM, were a prefix for Soviet Division, and the next four, SNOW, indicated a general message within that division.

      I have been notified by New York office that a contact identifying himself as Hemmings has been in communication. Hemmings stated he wished to speak with me and said it was an immediate. NY station will give him a direct number into Paris station. Hemmings is a private code between the individual and myself.

      Kincaid passed the de-crypt back.

      O’Bramsky took it and slid him another. ‘Leo then sent this follow-up.’

      Never refer to someone and give their identity in the same cable, Kincaid thought. Perhaps Panelli was old school, despite encryption; perhaps it was the game; perhaps Panelli was aware he was about to send Langley ballistic. Because send them ballistic he had – DCI, the President, briefings in the Sit Room, now the eagles locked in the bubble and the whole show running like there was no tomorrow.

      Kincaid read the single line.

      Hemmings is Joshua.

      He handed the cable back and waited for O’Bramsky to continue.

      ‘Joshua wants a face-to-face, but Leo can’t make it back till tomorrow and Joshua says tomorrow will be too late. Leo suggested you and Joshua agreed. At this point we don’t know whether Joshua’s buying or selling, though we assume it’s the latter. Until Leo gets back, you’re holding Joshua’s hand.’

      ‘You’re saying there’s a chance that Joshua’s defecting?’

      ‘Possibly, but we’re still not sure.’

      At the other end of the conference table the eagles still threw the arguments between themselves. Reasons for the Joshua contact. Implications. Anything it might spin into or rebound off. Joshua’s personality. Was Joshua under stress or had Joshua been drinking? How had he conducted himself in the past and how was he conducting himself now? Had he shown any previous signs of such an approach? What might Joshua know? How much did he know about the other side and what might he know or want to know about theirs? Was the contact genuine or the first stage of a sting?

      O’Bramsky took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Nothing’s happening that might indicate why else Joshua’s been in touch. The DCI’s seen the President; according to the White House and the State Department there’s nothing in the pipeline which would impact on a defection, or which might be affected by it. Moscow station also reports that everything’s quiet. The Kremlin’s closed down for the summer and Gorbachev is on holiday in the Crimea.’

      Gorbachev the architect and champion of the new Russia.

      ‘Except …?’ Kincaid asked.

      ‘Except when Joshua made contact with New York station he said it was an immediate, and when he spoke to Leo he upgraded it to flash.’ The bombs were about to fall. ‘When Leo said he could be state-side tomorrow, Joshua said that tomorrow would be too late.’

      ‘Who’s Joshua?’ Kincaid asked.

      Bram looked at him across the table, then the IBM mainframe switched on. ‘Mikhail Sergeyevich Buskov. Born Leningrad. Married with one daughter. Former KGB rezident at the United Nations, also KGB rezident in Washington DC.’

      A rezident was the Soviet equivalent of chief of station.

      Christ, Kincaid thought. ‘What’s Buskov’s present status?’

      ‘Mikhail Buskov is now a major-general in the First Chief Directorate at KGB headquarters in Yasenevo, Moscow. We believe he’s behind some of the financial scams the Directorate is running to finance its overseas operations.’ O’Bramsky paused. ‘He’s the biggest one we’ll