“Naturally we did,” replied the colonel testily.
“Apparently without much enthusiasm,” continued Gillette angrily. “Didn’t it occur to you that someone over at Langley, or on the Council, might have helped, might have filled in a gap? I agree with Peter. We should ha ve been informed.”
“There’s a reason why you weren’t.” Manning breathed deeply; in less military surroundings it might have been construed as a sigh. “The informant made it clear that if we brought in any other branch, he wouldn’t make contact again. We felt we had to abide by that; we’ve done it before.”
“What did you say?” Knowlton put down the page summary and stared at the Pentagon officer.
“It’s nothing new, Peter. Each of us sets up his own sources, protects them.”
“I’m aware of that. It’s why you weren’t told about Brussels. Both drones said to keep the army out.”
Silence. Broken by the abrasive voice of the Security Council’s Alfred Gillette. “How often is ‘we’ve done it before,’ Colonel?”
“What?” Manning looked at Gillette, but was aware that David Abbott was watching both of them closely.
“I’d like to know how many times you’ve been told to keep your sources to yourself. I refer to Cain, of course.”
“Quite a few, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Most of the time.”
“And you, Peter? What about the Agency?”
“We’ve been severely limited in terms of in-depth dissemination.”
“For God’s sake, what’s that mean?” The interruption came from the least expected member of the conference; the congressman from Oversight. “Don’t misunderstand me, I haven’t begun yet. I just want to follow the language.” He turned to the CIA man. “What the hell did you just say? In-depth what?”
“Dissemination, Congressman Walters; it’s throughout Cain’s file. We risked losing informants if we brought them to the attention of other intelligence units. I assure you, it’s standard.”
“It sounds like you were test-tubing a heifer.”
“With about the same results,” added Gillette. “No cross-pollinization to corrupt the strain. And, conversely, no cross-checking to look for patterns of inaccuracy.”
“A nice turn of phrases,” said Abbott, his craggy face wrinkled in appreciation, “but I’m not sure I understand you.”
“I’d say it’s pretty damned clear,” replied the man from NSC, looking at Colonel Manning and Peter Knowlton. “The country’s two most active intelligence branches have been fed information about Cain--for the past three years--and there’s been no cross-pooling for origins of fraud. We’ve simply received all information as bona fide data, stored and accepted as valid.”
“Well, I’ve been around a long time--perhaps too long, I concede--but there’s nothing here I haven’t heard before,” said the Monk. “Sources are shrewd and defensive people; they guard their contacts jealously. None are in the business for charity, only for profit and survival.”
“I’m afraid you’re overlooking my point.” Gillette removed his glasses. “I said before that I was alarmed so many recent assassinations have been attributed to Cain--attributed here to Cain--when it seems to me that the most accomplished assassin of our time--perhaps in history--has been relegated to a comparatively minor role. I think that’s wrong. I think Carlos is the man we should be concentrating on. What’s happened to Carlos?”
“I question your judgment, Alfred,” said the Monk. “Carlos’ time has passed, Cain’s moved in.
The. old order changes; there’s a new and, I suspect, far more deadly shark in the waters.”
“I can’t agree with that,” said the man from National Security, his owl-eyes boring into the elder statesman of the intelligence community. “Forgive me, David, but it strikes me as if Carlos himself were manipulating this committee. To take the attention away from himself, making us concentrate on a subject of much less importance. We’re spending all our energies going after a toothless sand shark while the hammerhead roams free.”
“No one’s forgetting Carlos,” objected Manning. “He’s simply not as active as Cain’s been.”
“Perhaps,” said Gillette icily, “that’s exactly what Carlos wants us to believe. And, by God, we believe it.”
“Can you doubt it?” asked Abbott. “The record of Cain’s accomplishments is staggering.”
“Can I doubt it?” repeated Gillette. “That’s the question, isn’t it? But can any of us be sure?
That’s also a valid question. We now find out that both the Pentagon and the Central Intelligence Agency have been literally operating independently of each other, without even conferring as to the accuracy of their sources.”
“A custom rarely breached in this town,” said Abbott, amused.
Again the congressman from Oversight interrupted. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Gillette?”
“I’d like more information about the activities of one Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. That’s--“ “Carlos,” said the congressman. “I remember my reading. I see. Thank you. Go on, gentlemen.”
Manning spoke quickly. “May we get back to Zurich, please. Our recommendation is to go after
Cain now. We can spread the word in the Verbrecherwelt, pull in every informer we have, request the cooperation of the Zurich police. We can’t afford to lose another day. The man in Zurich is Cain.”
“Then what was Brussels?” The CIA’s Knowlton asked the question as much of himself as anyone at the table. “The method was Cain’s, the informants unequivocal. What was the purpose?”
“To feed you false information, obviously,” said Gillette. “And before we make any dramatic moves in Zurich, I suggest that each of you comb the Cain files and recheck every source given you.
Have your European stations pull in every informant who so miraculously appeared to offer information. I have an idea you might find something you didn’t expect: the fine Latin hand of Ramirez Sanchez.”
“Since you’re so insistent on clarification, Alfred,” interrupted Abbott, “why not tell us about the unconfirmed occurrence that took place six months ago. We seem to be in a quagmire here; it might be helpful.”
For the first time during the conference, the abrasive delegate from the National Security Council seemed to hesitate. “We received word around the middle of August from a reliable source in Aix-en-Provence that Cain was on his way to Marseilles.”
“August?” exclaimed the colonel. “Marseilles? That was Leland! Ambassador Leland was shot in Marseilles. In August!”
“But Cain didn’t fire that rifle. It was a Carlos kill; that was confirmed. Bore-markings matched with previous assassinations, three descriptions of an unknown dark-haired man on the third and fourth floors of the waterfront warehouse, carrying a satchel. There was never any doubt that Leland was murdered by Carlos.”
“For Christ’s sake,” roared the officer. “That’s after the fact, after the kill! No matter whose, there was a contract out on Leland--hadn’t that occurred to you? If we’d known about Cain, we might have been able to cover Leland. He was military property! Goddamn it, he might be alive today!”
“Unlikely,” replied Gillette calmly. “Leland wasn’t the sort of man to live in a bunker. And given his life-style, a vague warning would have served no purpose. Besides, had our strategy held together, warning Leland would have been counterproductive.”
“In what way?” asked the Monk harshly.
“It’s your fuller explanation. Our source was to make contact with Cain during the hours of midnight and three in the morning in the rue Sarrasin on August 23. Leland wasn’t due until the twenty-fifth. As I say, had it held together we would have taken Cain. It didn’t; Cain never showed up.”
“And your source insisted on cooperating solely with you,” said Abbott. “To the exclusion of all others.”
“Yes,” nodded Gillette, trying but unable to conceal his embarrassment. “In our judgment, the risk to Leland had been eliminated--which in terms of Cain turned out to be the truth--and the odds for capture greater than they’d ever been. We’d finally found someone willing to come out and identify Cain. Would any of you have handled it any other way?” Silence. This time broken by the drawl of the astute congressman from Tennessee.
“Jesus Christ Almighty ... what a bunch of bullshitters.”