Lucky Bastard by Charles McCarry Read Free Book Online Page B

sidewalk. He opened the door. I glimpsed a woman’s legs, crossed at the ankles—not the legs I had admired in the Italian restaurant, but another pair, longer and even more shapely. This one must be an agent under discipline if Peter was allowing her to see me.
    I said, “A clarification, please, Comrade General.”
    Peter closed the car door. The lady could look, but she could not listen.
    I said, “This asset will be unwitting?”
    â€œOf course. As you say, he is deeply unstable, committed to nothing. How can we trust him?”
    In the jargon of espionage, an unwitting asset is a dupe who does not know (or may not wish to know) that he is working for a foreign intelligence service. Such an operative sometimes believes (or pretends to believe) that he is working for an entirely different secret entity from the one that actually controls him. He may never even meet the case officer who is handling him, but report instead to a third person who carries instructions to the unknowing agent and reports of his activities back to the case officer.
    â€œThere must be no one in his life but you and me,” Peter said.
    â€œUnderstood,” I replied. “But I will need Arthur for the fellowship business.”
    â€œAll right, but only that,” Peter said. “When you’re through with him, tell him goodbye. Tell him another man will work with him in the future. I will make some arrangements in Cuba.”
    â€œWhen will this happen?”
    â€œAs soon as you’re through with him.”
    The conversation was over. Wordless departures were part of Peter’s stage business. He whirled, got into his limousine, and drove away.
    Alone, like a figure in a movie—which in a way I was—I walked downtown through the sleeping metropolis. In those days they still opened the hydrants to wash the streets in the early hours of the morning. The air smelled laundered, and where water gushed from the standpipes, creating mist that enveloped the street lamps, there were miniature rainbows.

5 By the Metropolitan Museum, where there were coin telephones on the sidewalk, I called Arthur. We met an hour later inside the park. He arrived by cab, having directed the driver straight to the place where I was waiting. This was a serious breach of security, but I didn’t have the heart to reprove him.
    Arthur was sleepy-eyed but alert. He had brought me coffee in a paper cup. The sun was just coming up. We sat on a bench, sipping awful, acidic coffee while I told him what was required for Jack Adams.
    He said, “To Germany? This will be difficult.”
    â€œBut not impossible, surely. What about a Fulbright?”
    â€œYou’re joking. It’s May. The Fulbrights have all been awarded for next year.”
    â€œCan’t someone be disqualified?”
    â€œNot by sneaky means,” Arthur said. “The system is designed to prevent that. A committee of Americans and Germans bestows the awards, so nobody but the committee can take them away. And even if they did, they’d just award it to the applicant who came in second.”
    I said, “Then get him some other kind of scholarship, as long as it’s genuine. He must believe that it’s genuine. Do not discuss it with him.”
    â€œPennies from heaven,” Arthur said. “You want him. That must mean I’ve done a good job.”
    I said, “Better than you know. Can you do the thing I’ve just asked you to do?”
    â€œI think so, Dmitri.”
    â€œYou must be sure.”
    â€œAll right, I’m sure. An idea is forming in my mind.”
    He started to elucidate. I stopped him. “No need to tell me details,” I said. “I’ll count on you. Be quick.”
    â€œIt may take several days. This will take organizing.”
    â€œAll right. But, Arthur, there must be no failure. Do you understand?”
    â€œComrade,” Arthur said, “I do not need to