CHAPTER 1

Philip W. Sinclair, the American Ambassador to Switzerland, considered the entire matter "utterly absurd". A deserted park on a cold damp winter night was a decidedly eerie place. The globes of light with their frosted haloes left unwelcome shadows, and a park, like an office building, was meant to contain people. As far as Sinclair could see, unless someone was hiding in those damned shadows or in the equally forbidding, dense, man-high, evergreen shrubbery, there were no people. Anyway, why should there be? Who in hell, in his right mind, would want to go for a stroll in a park in Munich on a night like this?

Sinclair wished fervently he had never mentioned the name Feodorovski.

He continued looking to the right and left and forced himself to walk more slowly. Why had the man chosen him to confide in? He had nothing whatever to do with this cloak and dagger business. Why hadn't the man picked on Willard? Willard was the Agency's man in the Embassy. Everybody in the Embassy knew that. Surely the Russians must have known. All that whispering in his ear at the Christmas party in the man's atrocious English.

Sinclair had not been able to understand much of it; and when he had collected himself sufficiently to face the man and ask him what all the whispering was about, Feodorovski had disappeared. Sinclair would have forgotten the matter, if he hadn't found the note in his dinner jacket.

The note had requested this meeting in the park in Munich four days after Christmas "on a matter vital to the security of your country and entire vorld".

Very well, maybe even cranks like this one could not be ignored, but why couldn't they have accepted his suggestion to send Willard - or someone else - to keep this meeting? Surely an Ambassador was too important to risk on such a trivial matter. He had made it very plain that he knew nothing whatever about this cloak and dagger business. He did not want to know and had not refrained from adding that such business was for people of a considerably lower order, although he reflected, Willard seemed to be of a higher type, good merchant family, and he did "fit in" rather well, but then he was more the analyst type, a planner—coordinator sort of chap.

Sinclair tripped on some obscure obstacle and just managed to stay on his feet. Not only had they forced him to keep this ridiculous appointment, but they had refused him any protection. They said they did not want to frighten Comrade Feodorovski!

He was now nearing the opposite end of the park. He paused

He thought he heard footsteps behind him. The sound was muffled by the night and the mist. He slowed He could not bring himself to turn around. He heard more footsteps as if there were now two people behind him!

There were the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle. He froze, and – finally - forced himself to turn around.

There was nothing. No one, only the globes of frosted light, one behind the other, and the unmoving shadows of the benches, the man-high evergreen shrubs and bare limbed trees.

He stood and listened. Surely there had been someone. He had heard something. Was there movement in that large clump of shrubbery off to his right? Sinclair turned and, moving considerably faster now, continued to the street that bordered the park.

A police car pulled up in front of him as he reached the sidewalk. The police officer in the driver's seat wished him good evening and asked if everything was all right. For a moment, just the briefest moment, Sinclair considered mentioning the incident and pointing out a certain clump of shrubbery, but - he shrugged, he had done all that he had agreed to do. It was not up to an Ambassador to become involved in some sort of undoubtedly sordid, nocturnal struggle in a Munich park.

"No,"

Sinclair replied in English, "everything is in order — ah — Alles in Ordnung."

"Ach, so." The police officer nodded. "Es ist eine kalte Nacht für Spaziergang, nicht?"

Sinclair looked blank for a moment.

"Oh, yes," he said, "it is rather cold. Good night."

The policeman shook his head, muttered something in Swiss German about crazy Englishmen and drove off.

Sinclair managed to find a taxi. He leaned back against the seat and gave a sigh of relief. He had done his duty. He was still in one piece. He even found himself experiencing a feeling of elation. Perhaps he wasn't so bad at this cloak and dagger business after all. Nothing much to it really. Piece of cake as the English would say. A thing like this would look good on his record and especially when he wrote his memoirs. He already had the title, MEMOIRS OF AN AMBASSADOR. His smile was smug. After all, he had been in the service for quite a few years, and he had never been anything less than an Ambassador. Yes, all in all, it had turned out to be a rather diverting incident------now that it was all over.

Sinclair couldn't have known then that it was by no means all over; that because of his unwillingness to become involved in an "undoubtedly sordid, nocturnal struggle", several people would die and the country which had chosen him as an ambassador would be entered into a new race to maintain its position in the ever delicate balance of power.

The morning following Sinclair's brush with the cloak and dagger his report, which omitted the footsteps and the possible scuffle, was coded and sent to Washington. On the afternoon of the same day he received an Eyes Only cable instructing him to forward, directly to Washington, anything further pertaining to the Feodorovski affair. He was also requested to discuss the matter with no one. He read the cable, tore it up and put it in the Burn Bag. The affair was closed. Surely Washington would realize that. Anyway, it was a little late to tell him not to talk about it. Certainly anyone he knew would be cleared in any case.

Four days later a very agitated, young Vice-Consul was waiting for Ambassador Sinclair when he returned to his office after a rather long lunch. The white wine had made Sinclair rather sleepy, and he was seriously considering the idea of going home for a nice afternoon nap. When Anne Parker, his secretary, told him that Thomas Fowler was waiting to see him on what he had assured her was a most urgent matter, Sinclair was put immediately out of sorts.

"Hasn't the boy ever heard of channels? Oh, very well."

He stifled a yawn and entered his office.

After he had done so, Miss Parker watched Tom Fowler enter the office and close the door behind him. She remembered noticing that, though he had looked right at her, he had not seemed to see her. She had thought that odd because, up until that moment, he had noticed her a great deal. This was in retrospect, and reflected later in a comment to a man she admired very much.

What caused Anne Parker to find anything really disturbing was the fact that immediately after what turned out to be a rather long meeting, she was told to book Fowler on the first flight out of Zurich to Washington. What she did not know, what nobody in the Embassy knew, including Sinclair and CIA officer, Arthur Willard, was what happened after Fowler boarded Swiss Air to Washington.

Fowler was followed on board by two rather burly men. He was unaware of their presence, but at least one of them kept him constantly in sight except when Fowler went to the men's room, and that fact was duly noted in their report. It was also noted that he talked to no one except one of the stewardesses. Her name was Moira Carling and she was later questioned.

When Fowler debarked in Washington, D.C., he was met by two other men, equally burly, and driven by government limousine to the new State Department building. He was escorted without delay to the office of the Secretary of State. The interview lasted an hour.

From there, he was taken by the same two men to CIA headquarters in Maclean, Virginia, where he was interviewed by the Director and three other men to whom he was not introduced.

Fowler spent the evening in a small hotel in Washington's less fashionable northeast section.

He was not alone. The men remained with him. They were polite, but not friendly, and they took turns sleeping. Fowler knew, because they made it plain, that he was not to phone, talk to anyone, or go anywhere but to scheduled destinations. What he did not know was that they were ordered to guard him with their lives if necessary. They were not told why, nor were they permitted to accompany him to the actual interviews. Fowler, on the other hand, had been told not to discuss the nature of his business with them.

On the next day Fowler was conducted to a doctor's office. He agreed to submit to a polygraph or lie detector test and permitted himself to be given sodium pentathol, the so-called truth drug. He also allowed the doctor to try some other more sophisticated drugs.

When Fowler came to, he was informed that it was the next day. There were no "escorts" and apparently he had the run of what turned out to be a very lovely and very private country estate in Virginia.

Fowler spent almost four weeks at the "estate" during which he received the most intensive training in his twenty-six years. The emphasis was on espionage tradecraft: clandestine communications, the use of live drops, dead drops, secret writing, concealment devices, concealed weapons, courses in hand-to-hand combat, every conceivable method of quiet murder, methods of surveillance - photographic, audio and physical. What seemed most important for Fowler to learn was how to surveil and how to prevent surveillance. When he was through, he was completely exhausted, but he was certain there could be nothing new, no surprises the enemy could think of to which he had not already been exposed. However, as is usual in such cases, the results were inconclusive. There was no negative political information. Fowler was considered to be generally immature, both in his working and sexual life. There was an indication of latent homosexuality, but nothing definite or provable. He was known as flamboyant in his outward relationships with girls. He liked to play the wolf role, but he was probably more the lamb type. Fowler was considered a mama's boy.

The teachers' reports on his training all agreed that Fowler was willing but passive and not overly bright. He appeared to have no flair for the business. He was likeable in a rather juvenile way. His tastes were rather feminine. His interest in the intellectual seemed pseudo and definitely secondhand. None of his teachers at the "estate" recommended him as suitable for an agent role.

All of these various reports were channeled, unread, to the Director's office. Their reception was not a happy one.

When Fowler had met Ambassador Sinclair in his office, Fowler had had a letter. The letter, with no return address, was typewritten and was postmarked from Paris.

Mr. Fowler,

At the Christmas party given by the Consul General in Zurich for the diplomatic community in Switzerland, your Ambassador, Philip Sinclair, was approached by Comrade Feodorovski, a prominent Russian scientist. Comrade Feodorovski requested a private meeting with Ambassador Sinclair in a park in Munich four days later at 2030 hours. Comrade Feodorovski did not attend that meeting, though your Ambassador did. I saw him talk with the police at the edge of the park.

Comrade Feodorovski is now in my custody along with that which he was prepared to share. I refer to a film, a cartoon, which shows in complete technical detail, the method by which the USSR is planning to launch artillery satellites, safe from attack by anyone and capable of destroying any major city on earth within fifty minutes notice.

Comrade Feodorovski not only has the film but also the proposed completion dates and the location of the launching sites to be used. He was one of the engineers of this project.

Comrade Feodorovski is an idealist and a real humanitarian. He wants to do for the West what Klaus Fuchs did for the East when he "shared" with Russia the secrets of the atomic bomb. He believes world peace, or the prevention of world annihilation, can only be achieved through a perfect balance of power. In the bomb, the West for awhile had the ultimate weapon — and used it. Because of Fuchs the Russians now have it, so nobody would think of using it because of the fear of terrible retaliation. Now, it seems, the Russians are about to possess the new ultimate weapon. Comrade Feodorovski believes it should be shared.

I find myself in agreement, I think, but unfortunately I do not feel quite so idealistic. I do not believe in giving away anything, particularly anything so valuable, and for which there are so many buyers. As one capitalist to another, it has been my experience that one tends to undervalue that for which there is not a substantial price tag. I consider, in this case, ten million dollars to be a fair price.

I have selected you, Mr. Fowler, to be my intermediary. I will deal with your government only through you.

I realize these things take time, especially in such an unwieldy government as yours, so I will give your government five weeks to prepare itself for a definite answer. At the end of that time I shall contact my other customers. Maybe we'll even have an auction. I imagine the USSR might be willing to join in the bidding.

Incidentally, Comrade Feodorovski is missing. The Russians will not, of course, announce this fact, but surely with the great capability of your intelligence service you will be able to discover whether a man of his importance is missing.

I have written this so that an inexperienced intermediary such as yourself will not have to depend on memory. You are to take this letter to Ambassador Sinclair. I feel certain he will relieve you of it. I will contact you again at the end of five weeks. In order that you will be certain of the authenticity of my next contact with you, I have given myself a name which, if your intelligence security is adequate, no one but your own people will know.

Aran Bethor.