Page 20 of Cry Havoc
“Yes,” Penkovsky granted. “The difficulty of acting on information from deciphered encrypted communications. If we do, they know we’ve broken the code. An age-old problem in intelligence circles.”
“But a good problem to have,” Lavrinenko replied. “One of the main reasons for our existence.”
“Quite.”
“What is your assessment of John Walker?” the director asked, referring to a new source.
“I have my reservations.”
“What are they?”
“Who would have thought a U.S. Navy warrant officer ‘walk in’ to our embassy in Washington, D.C., would ever be so useful? And for a few thousand dollars he gave us top-secret keying material that allowed us to build the rotor reader. He could be an American plant to give us the ability to decrypt communications. It would give the NSA the ability to tailor their communications to influence our decisions knowing we are intercepting them.”
“Quite elaborate. And why would they use so obvious a target for exploitation? Walker has marriage and alcohol problems, and, from the assessments, he does not seem to be among their best and brightest.”
“Maybe that is why they chose him?” Penkovsky opined.
“Perhaps, if he is in fact a plant. We will get a new set of keying material from Warrant Officer Walker and compare it to what we are getting from a disassociated asset, one who might prove more valuable than the navy man. But there are complexities, Deputy Penkovsky. Do you have his file?”
“Here, sir,” Penkovsky said, handing the director a brown folder.
Lavrinenko opened it to refamiliarize himself with the new asset.
“Desmond. Allister Desmond,” he read aloud. “I remember. Though not a Philby by any means, it appears that Desmond has an attraction to the lies, the performance art necessary to deceive not just his work colleagues with but also his family and friends.”
“Thus far he has passed all his verification tasks.”
“He seems drawn to living a fabrication, as was Philby,” Lavrinenko said, referring to one of the Cambridge Five. “He’s never asked for payment. His compensation is the thrill of living the fantasy of the spy’s double life.”
“It appears so.”
“Philby,” Lavrinenko continued, almost spitting out the name. “He lives not far from here. I had lunch with him once, you know. He’s been in the Soviet Union since ’63. Useless to us now for anything other than a propaganda tool.”
“I agree.”
“This American, Desmond, at the NSA, he was recruited by the Stasi, correct?” Lavrinenko asked, referring to East Germany’s Ministry for State Security.
“Yes.”
“Recruitment?” Lavrinenko asked, continuing to flip through the file.
“The oldest kind.”
Lavrinenko looked through photos of Desmond taken at a distance; one at a café, another at a bar, one getting into a Peugeot taxi in what looked like Paris. He was struck by how ordinary the man looked.
“Who is his handler?”
“Right now, it’s her,” Penkovsky said, handing over another file.
Lavrinenko glanced at the name: Clara Müller. He opened it to a photo of a stunning, young, red-haired woman who looked more like a model than an intelligence officer.
“A swallow?”
“Yes, she’s dyed her hair and wears glasses to tone down her looks. Keeps her hair much less stylish than in that file photo from the academy. She’s a brunette now,” Penkovsky said.
Lavrinenko ran a finger down the file’s bio as his deputy continued.
“As you can see, she is a graduate of our State School 4. Easier to infiltrate West Germany with an actual German. She met Desmond in Paris.”
