unsmiling receptionist. She handed me a visitor’s badge and a three-by-five card with terse typed directions. “Don’t get lost,” she said. “If you get lost, come right back here.” Sound advice.
Goldman’s office was underground, as most of the plant evidently was. Energy efficient. I took an elevator to Level C and walked down four long corridors left-right-left-left to his room number. Goldman had his door open, waiting for me.
He was a stocky, unkempt man with cowlicks and an easy smile. The office was plain government-gray, unadorned except for a reproduction of the old World War One poster “Loose Lips Sink Ships,” upon which was thumbtacked a picture of a person with loose lips indeed.
He sat me down with coffee, emptied a half-full ashtray, and lit a new cigarette off the butt of his old one. “Wonderful coincidence, your application and clearance coming in just now. If I can talk you into taking the job.”
“There’s something wrong with it?”
“Just not very glamorous. Do you think espionage is glamorous?”
“I understand that it usually isn’t.” Except for the odd Bulgarian assassin or two.
“Listen to this.” There was an old-fashioned German tape recorder on his desk, obviously once the top of its line, but now a reel-to-reel dinosaur. He stabbed a button, and a man’s voice, distorted and blurred by noise, began speaking a truly weird brandof Russian. He let it go for about twenty seconds and turned it off. “You see the problem.”
“Two problems. The bad recording I can’t help you with. The dialect, I can. It’s north Azerbaijanian. A rural accent, farmer.” I was glad I’d refreshed my memory with Norwood’s books, though of course I’d heard plenty of Azerbaijanian Russian spoken the years I was in Rivertown.
“What’s he talking about?”
“Let me hear it again.” It was fairly clear the second time. “It’s a long-distance phone call; he’s almost shouting. He’s talking to someone named Kahn or Con, maybe a nickname for Constantine. They seem to be friends. He says there’s an error in the projection figures for wheat production in his, Con’s, district as regards some five-year plan. The figure is too low, and he’s asking Con whom he bribed. From the inflection, though, he’s joking. Maybe that’s why it’s so loud; he wants the other people in the office to overhear. Some of that background noise might be laughter.”
“That’s marvelous. You’re exactly what we need. Do you like doing this kind of work?”
“Yes, indeed.” In fact, I did.
“Well, we’ve got plenty of it, especially from around the Caucasus there. They seem to be assigning people with heavy and obscure accents to do telephone work in some sensitive areas, just to screw us up. Screws up their own operations, too, but”—he laughed and threw up his hands—“they’re Russians. What can you say?”
I looked at him through the steam of the coffee and said in Russian, “—I think you like them.”
“—
I
love
them!” he said with a happy, atrocious American accent. “—I’m glad they’re our enemies!” Areasonable sentiment, rather Russian. I took the job.
Goldman gave me a small office with an old word processor and a briefcase full of three-inch tapes to translate. It was absorbing work, entertaining the way crossword puzzles are, and for several days that’s all I did. Then I started to cultivate a social relationship with Goldman, who was a lonely man and grateful for friends.
It was a cold-blooded thing to do, but necessary. I didn’t dare give him any orders while we were in the office. In a succession of restaurants and theater lobbies, though, I set him up.
He’d been with the CIA for a long time and knew people in all parts of the organization. Through his casual conversations with people, I soon found out the main thing I wanted to know, which was that Valerie was being held by the KGB in some unknown place. Apparently, no one in the Agency
Goldman’s office was underground, as most of the plant evidently was. Energy efficient. I took an elevator to Level C and walked down four long corridors left-right-left-left to his room number. Goldman had his door open, waiting for me.
He was a stocky, unkempt man with cowlicks and an easy smile. The office was plain government-gray, unadorned except for a reproduction of the old World War One poster “Loose Lips Sink Ships,” upon which was thumbtacked a picture of a person with loose lips indeed.
He sat me down with coffee, emptied a half-full ashtray, and lit a new cigarette off the butt of his old one. “Wonderful coincidence, your application and clearance coming in just now. If I can talk you into taking the job.”
“There’s something wrong with it?”
“Just not very glamorous. Do you think espionage is glamorous?”
“I understand that it usually isn’t.” Except for the odd Bulgarian assassin or two.
“Listen to this.” There was an old-fashioned German tape recorder on his desk, obviously once the top of its line, but now a reel-to-reel dinosaur. He stabbed a button, and a man’s voice, distorted and blurred by noise, began speaking a truly weird brandof Russian. He let it go for about twenty seconds and turned it off. “You see the problem.”
“Two problems. The bad recording I can’t help you with. The dialect, I can. It’s north Azerbaijanian. A rural accent, farmer.” I was glad I’d refreshed my memory with Norwood’s books, though of course I’d heard plenty of Azerbaijanian Russian spoken the years I was in Rivertown.
“What’s he talking about?”
“Let me hear it again.” It was fairly clear the second time. “It’s a long-distance phone call; he’s almost shouting. He’s talking to someone named Kahn or Con, maybe a nickname for Constantine. They seem to be friends. He says there’s an error in the projection figures for wheat production in his, Con’s, district as regards some five-year plan. The figure is too low, and he’s asking Con whom he bribed. From the inflection, though, he’s joking. Maybe that’s why it’s so loud; he wants the other people in the office to overhear. Some of that background noise might be laughter.”
“That’s marvelous. You’re exactly what we need. Do you like doing this kind of work?”
“Yes, indeed.” In fact, I did.
“Well, we’ve got plenty of it, especially from around the Caucasus there. They seem to be assigning people with heavy and obscure accents to do telephone work in some sensitive areas, just to screw us up. Screws up their own operations, too, but”—he laughed and threw up his hands—“they’re Russians. What can you say?”
I looked at him through the steam of the coffee and said in Russian, “—I think you like them.”
“—
I
love
them!” he said with a happy, atrocious American accent. “—I’m glad they’re our enemies!” Areasonable sentiment, rather Russian. I took the job.
Goldman gave me a small office with an old word processor and a briefcase full of three-inch tapes to translate. It was absorbing work, entertaining the way crossword puzzles are, and for several days that’s all I did. Then I started to cultivate a social relationship with Goldman, who was a lonely man and grateful for friends.
It was a cold-blooded thing to do, but necessary. I didn’t dare give him any orders while we were in the office. In a succession of restaurants and theater lobbies, though, I set him up.
He’d been with the CIA for a long time and knew people in all parts of the organization. Through his casual conversations with people, I soon found out the main thing I wanted to know, which was that Valerie was being held by the KGB in some unknown place. Apparently, no one in the Agency
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