had ever happened. But if it could be made, a location might be uncovered, a dual execution guaranteed.
He had been about to call the Secretary of State to suggest a very unusual, early morning meeting with the Soviet Ambassador. But too much time would be consumed with diplomatic complications, neither side wishing to acknowledge the objective of violence. There was a better way; it was dangerous but infinitely more direct.
Congdon got out of bed quietly, went downstairs, and entered the small study that was his office at home. He went to his desk which was bolted into the floor, the lower right-hand drawers concealing a safe with a combination lock. He turned on the lamp, opened the panel and twisted the dial. The lock clicked; the steel plate sprung open. He reached inside and took out an index card with a telephone number written on it.
The number was one he never thought he would call. The area code was 90-Nova Scotia-and it never went unanswered; it was the number for a computer complex, the central clearing station for all Soviet intelligence operations in North America. By calling it, he exposed information that should not be revealed; the complex in Nova Scotia was not supposedly known by U.S. intelligence, but time and the extraordinary circumstances overrode security. There was a man in Nova Scotia who would understand; he would not be concerned about appearances. He had called for too many sentences of death. He was the highest ranking KGB officer outside of Russia.
Congdon reached for the telephone.
"Cabot Strait Exporters," said the male voice in Nova Scotia. "Night dispatcher." "This is Daniel Congdon, Undersecretary of State, Consular Operations, United States Government. I request that you put a trace on this call to verify that I'm telephoning from a private residence in Herndon FaUs, Virginia. While you're doing that, please activate electronic scanners for evidence of taps on the line. You won't find any. I'll wait as long as you wish, but I must speak with Voltage One, Vol't Adin, I think you call him." His words were greeted by silence from Nova Scotia. It did not take much imagination to visualize a stunned operator pushing emergency buttons.
Finally, the voice replied.
"There seems to be interference. Please repeat your message." Congdon did so.
Again, silence. Then. "If youll hold on, the supervisor will speak with you. However, we think you've reached the wrong party here in Cape Breton." "You're not in Cape Breton. You're in Saint Peter's Bay, Prince Edward Island." "Hold on, please." The wait took nearly three minutes. Congdon sat down; it was working.
Voltage One got on the line. "Please wait for a moment or two," said the Russian. There followed the hollow sound of a connection still intact but suspended; electronic devices were in operation. The Soviet returned.
"This call, indeed, originates from a residential telephone in the town of Herndon Falls, Virginia. The scanners pick up no evidence of interference but, of course, that could be meaningless." "I don't know what other proof to give you...
"You mistake me, Mr. Undersecretary. The fact that you possess this number is not in itself earthshaking; the fact that you have the audacity to use it and ask for me by my code name, perhaps is. I have the proof I need. What is this business between us?" Congdon told him in as few words as possible. "You want Taleniekov. We want Scofield. The contact ground is Washington, I'm convinced of it. The key to the location is your man from Brussels." "If I recall, his body was delivered to the embassy several days ago." "Yes.,, "You've connected it with Scofield?" "Your own Ambassador did. He pointed out that the man was part of a KGB section in East Berlin in 1968. Taleniekov's unit.
There was an incident involving Scofield's wife." "I see," said the Russian. "So Beowulf Agate still kills for revenge." "That's a bit much, isn't it? May I remind you that it would appear Taleniekov is coming after Scofield, not the other way around." "Be specific, Mr. Undersecretary. Since we agree in principle, what do you want from us?" "It's in your computers, or in a file somewhere. It probably goes back a number of years, but it's there; it would be in ours. We believe that at one time or another the man from Brussels and Taleniekov operated in Washington. We need to know the address of the hole. It's the only connection we have between Scofield and Taleniekov. We think that's where