Free Back Channel by Stephen L. Carter Page A

London during the war.
    The undersecretary owed her a favor, and so gave her half an hour the very next afternoon.
    And listened; and said no.
    But, unlike Gwynn, the undersecretary gave reasons: Fischer is too unreliable. He needs a minder. No, his asking price is too high. No, a college sophomore is too young. Also, this particular sophomore is a girl. And a Negro. And has a radical roommate and probably smokes marijuana.
    Harrington battled back. She had built her storied career on standing her ground, and if those with whom she worked disliked her at times and resented her always, they nevertheless admired both her fortitude and her stellar record. Her magic was the string of successes she had built upon similarly shaky operations. Harrington had enjoyed a marvelous war, much of it lived behind German lines, and although nobody ever talked about the details, everybody gave her a little extra maneuvering space. True, she had had her failures as well, most spectacularly the operation known as PBFORTUNE , aimed at bringing down the Guatemalan government by assassinating key leaders. But she was still the great Harrington, and when she spoke, even Higher Authority in the end had no choice but to listen.
    Bobby was perfect, she said. The very nuttiness that had people worried made him an unlikely target of recruitment. Therefore, nobody would suspect him. As to the money, surely it was trivial when placed beside the value of the intelligence dividend.
    “What about GREENHILL ?” the undersecretary asked.
    Nineteen years old was perfect, Harrington insisted. Young enough to be an idealist still, to believe that the world was fair, and thereforeto take part willingly in the sort of mission that would frighten a more jaded soul out of her wits. Besides, Harrington herself had run younger agents in occupied France just twenty years ago, and not without success. “Needs must,” she said.
    The undersecretary frowned.
    Female was perfect, Harrington gushed on. G REENHILL ’s gender provided natural cover as Fischer’s supposed girlfriend. Negro was perfect, because she would be so prominent and obvious that nobody would imagine for a moment that her role was covert. Here again, her youthful innocence would help, for it was precisely what was needed to pull off her dual role of bucking up Fischer and keeping her ears open: a more mature and watchful young woman would have every secret policeman in Bulgaria on her tail within minutes. Even the radical roommate was perfect, said Harrington, because—
    The undersecretary gave in.
    By formal memorandum three days later—one copy up the chain of command, another to the file, a third to the Agency, and of course a copy for Gwynn— SANTA GREEN was born. But the delivery was not without complications.
    The case was full of disturbing anomalies. Back at her desk now after briefing Margo Jensen, Harrington pondered the most troubling of them all: the body that had washed up on the shore of the East River in Flushing just this morning. It was very strange. The dead man was a habitué of the coffeehouses and chess clubs of the Lower East Side. He was also the one who had overheard Bobby Fischer one evening talking about his strange conversation on Curaçao with Smyslov, and had brought it to the attention of the proper authorities. He had apparently drowned—although how he had wound up in the river, nobody seemed to know. The remains had been in the water less than a day, but the fish had savaged his flesh.
    Harrington saw no reason to burden her agent GREENHILL with the news.
IV
    Viktor Vaganian was sitting on a bench in Dupont Circle, polishing his gold-rimmed glasses with a cheap cotton handkerchief. At a lowstone table nearby, two old men were playing chess. Viktor slipped his glasses back on and watched the game as he fed the pigeons the remains of his sandwich. He marveled at the amount of food the Americans wasted. They were awash in luxury, and yet always wanted more. He was not