The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,36
to move now.”
“We could do a crash meet in Tehran, I guess. We’ve got safe houses the station thinks are clean. But I hate to do that. If we expose our guy, then we’ve got nothing at all.”
“Do it, brother. If this works, we’re inside the tent.”
“Does it have to be face-to-face?”
Harry nodded. “The only lie detector that really works is looking someone in the eye. We need it. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
“I’ll need to ask the chief,” Adrian said solemnly.
“He’ll do whatever you tell him.”
“Get your hand off my pud, Harry. I don’t need any extra strokes.”
“Does that mean yes?”
Adrian nodded. “It’s a long shot, but I reckon it’s the best you’ve got. If you don’t find out who your Ali is, he’s useless. And if the Iranians are really building the Big One, you need to know who he is now—yesterday, actually. So what do we task my man to find out—that your man will hear about?”
“I’ll have to ask Fox. Let me work out the details with him.”
“I told you, I don’t like Arthur Fox.”
“Get over it, Adrian.”
“I’ll try. I’m going to have to tell the chief, you know.”
“Of course. I already told you that was okay.”
“And I will have to tell our one-man station in Tehran, so he can tell our Joe what to look out for. Good lad. A kid, but smart.”
“Understood. So long as you don’t tell him why you’re asking the question.”
“And then what do we do, when your lad surfaces? Do we meet him? Do we get him out of the country?”
“I don’t know yet. But I note that you are using the word ‘we’ in reference to this operation.”
“Fucking hell! Of course I am. In for a riyal, in for a toman, old boy. Joined at the hip, you and me. Am I right?”
The door to Winkler’s office opened without a knock just before noon, and in strode Sir David Plumb, Winkler’s boss and the head of the service. He was a sturdy-looking man in his early sixties, with thinning gray hair and traces of red on his nose and cheeks that testified to a career of late-night meetings poached in claret, port, and anything else that was handy. He might have been a senior civil servant in any of the Whitehall ministries, except for the playful look in his eyes. Plumb observed the map of Tehran on the desk and nodded approvingly.
“I heard you were coming, Harry,” said Plumb. “I thought I might join you two for lunch. Talk things over. Where do you like?”
“Anywhere but the Travelers Club,” said Harry. The club was notable for its high quotient of SIS members and its poor food.
“I’ve sworn off the Travelers. Everyone there seems to be working for the Daily Telegraph these days. Even the porter. Tell you what. Let’s go to the Ritz.”
Harry smiled. The Ritz was known to be Sir David Plumb’s favorite spot for lunch. It was fabulously expensive, with prices that would make even a Saudi prince check his wallet.
Sir David went back to his office to collect his umbrella and summon his driver. Harry had something more he needed to say to Winkler, in these last few moments they were alone.
“This may sound strange,” said Harry, “but I have a funny feeling about this case. I don’t like where it’s going.”
Winkler’s brow tightened. “What do you mean? Seems to me like a jolly good case. Don’t you trust us?”
“No, no. It isn’t that. Of course I trust you.” Harry lowered his voice. “The stakes are too high. We are tasking an agent to find out the details of Iranian plans to build a bomb. Suppose they provide the details. What do we do then? The linkages are too tight. How are we going to stop that without going to war?”
Winkler ventured a cocky smile. It was a look Harry remembered from Moscow, back when his friend was the golden boy, the rising star of the service.
“There are ways and ways and ways, Harry. Don’t let them rush you. One thing at a time. And don’t let the worriers push you to make bad decisions. That has become the American disease. Don’t succumb, old boy. You’re the last sane American I know.”
They walked together toward the elevator. Plumb was coming out of his office, fifteen yards away.
“There’s one more thing, Harry, before we go,” whispered Winkler.
“Tell me.”
“Mahmoud Azadi.”
“Who’s that?”
“That’s the name of our agent in Tehran.”
LONDON
The maître d’hôtel at the Ritz had prepared Sir David’s favorite table,