Siro by David Ignatius (classic novels to read .txt) 📗

of spying for Moscow. So much talent, so many bright careers, devoted to the task of treading water in the polar sea of the Cold War.

The only person in the room who seemed entirely at ease was Crane himself. He had already imbibed several gin martinis and was trying to enliven all the long-faced colleagues who wanted to commiserate with him. In fact, Crane looked immensely relieved that the whole business was finally over. Stone approached him after Hinkle had left the room.

“Congratulations,” said Stone.

“On what?” he answered.

“Your medal.”

“Forget it,” said Crane. “You want to know the truth? I can’t wait to get out. I feel sorry for you poor buggers who have to stay. You have to keep up pretenses. Not me. I’ve done my bit. La guerre est finie.” He was smiling as he said it, which made it almost believable.

“You had a good run, Alton,” said Stone, echoing the party line. He tried to remember just what Crane had done. Germany, along with everyone else; Mexico City; Manila; Rome. No major triumphs, no major flaps. Perhaps it really had been a good run.

“Did you hear about the lawyers?” asked Crane, still smiling.

“I don’t believe so,” said Stone.

“New edict from Hinkle, just announced today. They’re putting lawyers on permanent assignment in all the big stations in Europe so that they’ll be closer to the action. Just to make sure nobody does anything creative.”

“I once considered becoming a lawyer,” said Stone. “Perhaps I made a mistake.”

“Nonsense,” said Crane. “You’d make a lousy lawyer. Anyway, you’re all that’s left around here. They need you.”

Stone looked around the room at the collection of old boys, has-beens and hangers-on. “For what?” he asked.

Crane laughed. “You poor buggers,” he said again. As he spoke, another well-wisher approached and Stone stepped back toward the door.

“See you later?” called out Crane.

“Where are you going?”

“Oak Hill Inn. Please come. My wife wants to talk to you.”

Stone winced. “Maybe.”

“I’m counting on you.”

“I’ll try,” said Stone.

Stone did put in a brief appearance at Oak Hill Inn, a tidy establishment on a hill overlooking Route 123 whose virtues included proximity to CIA headquarters. By the time he arrived, Betty Crane was thoroughly plastered and arguing with whoever happened her way, while Alton was singing Cole Porter songs to his secretary, a Hispanic woman in her mid-twenties with chunky thighs and a big chest. To Stone’s great relief, he saw Harry Peltz walking toward him out of a cloud of cigarette smoke near the bar.

“What are you drinking?” asked Stone.

“Double whiskey,” answered Harry. “No water. No ice. No nothing.”

Stone ordered one for Harry and one for himself. It was not a night to be abstemious. Stone took his drink and walked Peltz toward a corner, farther from the Cranes.

“Has Alton been banging his secretary?” asked Peltz, looking back toward the guest of honor and his Latin song mate.

“I’m not really the person to ask,” answered Stone. “Until now, I didn’t know that Alton had a secretary.”

“He’s going to hate retirement. All that time with Betty. He’s going to go nuts.”

“That’s not what he says. He told me at the party how happy he was to be leaving.”

“Bullshit. That’s just because he hates Hinkle so much. None of the old boys likes the idea of leaving. Not even me.”

Stone wanted to change the subject. He was tired of talking about retirement, tired of feeling as if he were attending a permanent wake. “What’s happening in your shop?” he asked. “Heard anything more from Istanbul?”

“Nada,” said Peltz. “Why are you so convinced that operation is a loser anyway?”

“Why?” said Stone, looking at his whiskey glass. He didn’t usually answer questions about operations, even from old friends. He took a long drink of scotch and looked at Peltz. “Because it’s so old-fashioned. Even if it succeeds, so what? Who really cares what they’re saying in the Soviet consulate in Istanbul. It’s not for real. Do you follow me?”

“Not really.”

“What I mean is that it’s static. That’s our problem. We’ve been watching the Soviets so long that we’ve begun to see things their way. They say they’re a superpower and we believe them, so we try to bug their offices and recruit their people. Why? The whole thing is a fraud. It’s a house of cards. We don’t need to spend any more time looking at it. We need to knock it over. That’s somewhat heretical, but do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Honestly, no. You’re over my head. What have you got cooking anyway?”

“Not much.”

“C’mon.”

“The usual. Playing games. Knocking on doors to see who’s there. But honestly, it doesn’t amount to much.”

“Cut the crap. What’s up?”

Stone smiled serenely. “Sorry, I can’t tell you.”

“That’s okay,” said Peltz. “Who cares. Let’s have another drink.”

“Do me a favor,” said Stone. “If this fellow Taylor in Istanbul stumbles onto anything noteworthy, let me know. That is a part of the world that interests me a good deal.”

“Definitely,” said Peltz. He repaired to the bar and returned with two more double whiskeys.

“To the future,” said Stone, raising his glass.

“No way,” said Peltz. “To the past.”

So they toasted the glorious past, and the sorry present, and a good many other things as well. When Crane’s secretary announced that it was time to form a conga line and Crane lined up behind her and put his hands firmly on her ass, Stone decided it was time to leave. Bidding farewell to the noisy group, he had an odd sensation: Headquarters had come to resemble an aging and somewhat tacky cruise ship that was drifting aimlessly offshore; on land, in the outposts of what still passed for the real world, the imperial legions were trying their best to maintain order. It was pathetic. Stone had a plan, beginning to take shape in the neat compartments of his mind. But for now, the best he could do was watch the sorry spectacle—and wait for usable pieces of debris to drift by.

8

It was nearly