of Art Fredericks, putting the booklet back into the rack. âGot some good references.â
âSoviet or British?â
Fuck you, thought Charlie. Take your pick,â he said.
Charlie walked deeper into the embassy alongside the CIA Resident, grinning at the Marine as he passed and thinking what an incongruous couple they must look; Charlie realized he scarcely reached the other manâs shoulders. There was a further identity check from more Marines at the actual entrance to the intelligence section of the embassy, and Fredericks signed his personal authority for Charlieâs admission. Beyond the desk, the corridors were blank walled and the doorways contained no glass, so that the offices beyond were completely concealed. Charlie looked up expectantly, found the camera monitor and winked.
Fredericksâ office was large, because he was the CIA officer in charge, but it still didnât seem big enough for the man. Charlie guessed the enormous enveloping chair had been specially imported. There was the obligatory US flag in the corner and the nameplate on the front of the desk, and behind, on a low cabinet, an array of sports pictures and pennants. Charlie identified the boxing prints and thought there was also a photograph of Fredericks in American football kit. It would, thought Charlie, have been a sight to see. On the desk itself was a family photograph of a pretty blonde-haired woman and two blonde-haired girls, faces of both dominated by freckles and a foundryâs supply of steel that always seemed to go into American teeth braces.
âSo weâre going to work together?â said Charlie.
âThat was always the plan.â
âYouâre setting up the meeting for me, with Kozlov?â
Fredericks hesitated, glad heâd given the undertaking the previous night and was not being forced into an open capitulation or admission of how heâd tried to screw the scruffy son-of-a-bitch. Harry Fish was right; the bag women on 42nd Street were in better shape. He said: âIâve started things off. Like I said, itâll take a while.â
âYou also said you thought Kozlov was genuine. Why?â
There was another pause from the American. Heâd worked his butt off, regarding this as probably the most important case he was likely to encounter in a dozen years, and now this guy was coming in and expecting to be fed it all on a plate. âEverything heâs said checks out.â
Charlie sighed, conscious of the attitude. Openly to challenge would make things worse. He said: âOK, letâs start at the beginning. Anything known, in your records?â
Fredericks shook his head. âWeâve run the name â and his wifeâs â through every computer there is: ours, FBI, NSA and military and navy. FBI have two Kozlovs, both who served in Washington at one time or another. One is now in the Soviet embassy in Ankara, the other in Paris â¦â
âPhoto-comparisons, to make sure theyâre the same people?â interrupted Charlie.
âOf course we made photo checks!â said Fredericks, irritably. âThe Kozlovs who are in Ankara and Paris are the guys who were in Washington. Neither of the wivesâ names were Irena, either. Kozlovâs clean.â
âSure thatâs his real name?â
âWeâve no way of telling.â
Charlie frowned openly at the evasion. âYou want me to believe you havenât taken a photograph, during one of your four meetings!â
Fredericks smiled, in reluctant admission. He said: âTwice. We freighted the pictures back to Washington. Heâs not on any mug file we or any other agency have.â
âBorn?â
âLeningrad, 1940.â
âAge seem right?â
âYes.â
âAnything unusual?â
âUnusual?â queried Fredericks.
The man knew what he meant, for Christâs sake! Charlie said: âFacial hair. Or lack of hair.