Free Shadow of the Condor by James Grady Page B

government wouldn't have lost it."
    "Is that all? Did he explain himself?"
    The man shook his head. "'No, I never asked. He didn't tell me anything else neither."
    Kevin sighed.
    "Do you have any more questions, anything more you would like me to tell you?"
    Kevin looked at the bleary-eyed figure in front of him. Little more of value would come from him~ at least not in the next few hours. If there were weeks to work on a total-recall interrogation. But there weren't weeks, at least that's what the old man assumed, so it made no sense to spend any more time pursuing this angle. "No," Kevin said slowly, "I can't think of anything else, but if I do, I'll get in touch with you." He stood, gesturing for his companion to retain his seat. "I'll leave first, you follow in about ten minutes. No more beer and no drinking from now until you get the word this is over. I want you to take very good-care of yourself. Keep your eyes open. You're the only link we have to Parkins, and that's not much, but we don't want anything to happen to you."
    The little man's eyes widened. "You mean you think I might be in---
    Kevin cut him short. "I don’t think anything. I just want to be very, very careful. You do the same."
    When he reached the door, Kevin looked back at the Air Force Intelligence officer. The small man sat staring after him. Kevin turned and walked into the open air. After he reached the street, he slowly shook his head in wonderment, then concentrated on making some sense from the rambling narrative.
    The next morning Kevin flew back to London . A resident CIA agent who met him at the airport noticed circles under Kevin's eyes. When Kevin ordered him to take him to the local CIA headquarters, the agent knew better than to suggest that his superior should first get some sleep.
    The CIA director for the British Isles doesn't like to work with L Group. It distorts perspective, he thinks, and makes a mockery of in-house proceedings. The director knew he had no choice, but that didn't stop him from grumbling when Kevin asked to use the special line.
    Communications is the heart of espionage. It does an agent absolutely no good to know the opposition's most important secret if he can't communicate that secret to his superiors. Indeed, much of espionage basically boils down to intercepting and redirecting "secret' communications, whether the method is a bugged room, a tapped phone, a microfilmed dossier or a blackmailed diplomat. There are no uncommunicated secrets, for that would mean knowledge by one man. Such knowledge is not "secret," for it is not really known. It is part of the individual.
    Kevin needed to communicate with the old man, and he needed to do so as quickly as possible. Kevin was fortunate, for in London he operated out of a basically friendly base. The British are extremely cooperative with American intelligence, as long as that cooperation does not encumber their own operations or damage their own interests. British intelligence, first organized in 1573, is very good-when it comes to defining and protecting its own interests, and its assistance to its allies is equally as good. For example, M15, the domestic security branch of British intelligence, paved the way through the appropriate private and government channels when the CIA strung a private telephone line between its London headquarters and the American embassy. MI5's assistance was of such a caliber that the line's location is known to very few people indeed. The CIA shows its gratitude by allowing British intelligence to use the line whenever both parties deem it appropriate.
    The private telephone line is no ordinary communications device. Specially made at the CIA Langley complex, the wire hooks into a security system which automatically scrambles all conversations and registers all but the most elaborate taps placed on the line. To guard against the more elaborate taps, M15 and the CIA run sporadic checks on the whole system. The private line ties in with a