Company

Littell Robert Littell

Description

Christopher Lehmann-Haupt of The New York Times called it "a perfect little gem, the best Cold War thriller I've read in years," and the praise kept coming with critics hailing Littell as "the American Le Carre" (New York Times) and raving that his books were "as good as thriller writing gets" (The Washington Post). For his fourteenth novel, Robert Littell creates an engrossing, multigenerational, wickedly nostalgic yet utterly candid saga, bringing to life through a host of characters-historical and imagined-the over 40 years of the CIA-"the Company" to insiders. At the heart of the novel is a stunningly conceived mole hunt involving such rivals and allies as the MI6, KGB, and Mossad. Racing across a canvas that spans the legendary Berlin Base in the 1950s-the front line of the simmering Cold War-to the Soviet invasion of Hungary, the Bay of Pigs, the Afghan war, the Gorbachev putsch, and other major theatres of operation for the CIA, The Company tells a thrilling story of agents imprisoned in double lives, fighting an enemy that was amoral, elusive, formidable. Littell tells it like it was: CIA agents, fighting not only the good fight, but sometimes the bad one as well. Littell also brilliantly lays bare the warring within the Company to add another dimension to the spy vs. spy game: the battles between the counterintelligence agents in Washington, like the utterly obsessive real-life mole hunter James Angleton, and the covert action boys in the field, like The Company's Harvey Torriti-the Sorcerer-a brilliant and brash rule breaker and dirty tricks expert who fights fire with fire, and his Apprentice, Jack McAuliffe, recruited fresh out of Yale, who learns tradecraft and the hard truths of life in the field. As this dazzling anatomy of the CIA unfolds, nothing less than the world's future in the second half of the twentieth century is at stake. At once a celebration of a long Cold War well fought, an elegy for the end of an era, and a reckoning for a profession in which moral ambiguity created a wilderness of mirrors, The Company is the Cold War's devastating truth, its entertaining tale, its last word.

Informations

• Publié par: ABRAMS BOOKS
• Date de parution: 22 avril 2002
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781590208342
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright
This is a work of fiction. It draws from the historical record, but real people have been used fictitiously, and some of the incidents, conversations, and characters have been invented.
First published in the United States in 2002 by The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc. Woodstock & New York
W OODSTOCK : One Overlook Drive Woodstock, NY 12498 www.overlookpress.com [for individual orders, bulk and special sales, contact our Woodstock office]
N EW Y ORK : 141 Wooster Street New York, NY 10012
Copyright © 2002 by Robert Littell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
P HOTOGRAPH CREDITS : pp. 13 , 51 , 683 , 887 © Bettmann/Corbis; p. 7 Mark Stephenson/Corbis; p. 257 Hulton-Deutsch Collection/Corbis; p. 373 AFP/Corbis; p. 505 Richard T. Nowitz/Corbis; p. 679 Wolfgang Kaehler/Corbis; p. 781 Marc Garanger/Corbis.
ISBN 978-1-59020-834-2
For the witnesses, Michael and Jimmie Ritchie
And the guardian angel, Ed Victor
Contents
COPYRIGHT
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
INTERLUDE: THE CALABRIAN
PRELUDE: THE ANATOMY OF AN EXFILTRATION
PART ONE: PRIMING THE GUN
1: NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT, SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1950
2: MOSCOW, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1950
3: FRANKFURT, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 1951
4: BERLIN, FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1951
5: BERLIN, TUESDAY, MARCH 6, 1951
6: WASHINGTON, DC, FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 1951
7: WASHINGTON, DC, THURSDAY, APRIL 5, 1951
8: HEIDELBERG, MONDAY, APRIL 9, 1951
9: BERLIN, THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 1951
10: BERLIN, TUESDAY, APRIL 17, 1951
11: FRANKFURT, MONDAY, APRIL 23, 1951
12: FRANKFURT, WEDNESDAY, MAY 2, 1951
13: BERLIN, FRIDAY, MAY 11, 1951
14: ARLINGTON, SUNDAY, MAY 20, 1951
15: GETTYSBURG, SATURDAY, MAY 26, 1951
16: WASHINGTON, DC, MONDAY, MAY 28, 1951
17: BERLIN, SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1951
18: CHERYOMUSKI, MOSCOW DISTRICT, MONDAY, JUNE 4, 1951
PART TWO: THE END OF INNOCENCE
1: MOSCOW, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1956
2: NEW YORK, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1956
3: BUDAPEST, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1956
4: WASHINGTON, DC, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1956
5: BUDAPEST, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1956
6: VIENNA, MONDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1956
7: BUDAPEST, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1956
8: WASHINGTON, DC, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1956
9: BUDAPEST, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1956
10: VIENNA, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1956
11: BUDAPEST, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1956
12: WASHINGTON, DC, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1956
PART THREE: VICIOUS CIRCLES
1: WASHINGTON, DC, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1960
2: NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1960
3: PALM BEACH, TUESDAY, JANUARY 10, 1961
4: WASHINGTON, DC, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1961
5: WASHINGTON, DC, TUESDAY, APRIL 4, 1961
6: BLUE BEACH, THE BAY OF PIGS, MONDAY, APRIL 17, 1961
7: WASHINGTON, DC, FRIDAY, MAY 5, 1961
PART FOUR: SLEEPING DOGS
1: CHERYOMUSKI, MOSCOW DISTRICT, WEDNESDAY, MAY 1, 1974
2: WASHINGTON, DC, SUNDAY, MAY 12, 1974
3: WASHINGTON, DC, FRIDAY, MAY 24, 1974
4: MOSCOW, SUNDAY, JUNE 9, 1974
5: WASHINGTON, DC, THURSDAY, JULY 4, 1974
6: WASHINGTON, DC, TUESDAY, JULY 30, 1974
7: EN ROUTE TO THE SOVIET UNION, SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 1974
8: WASHINGTON, DC, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1974
9: SANTA FE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 12, 1974
10: WASHINGTON, DC, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1974
INTERLUDE: THE CALABRIAN
CIVITAVECCHIA, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1978
PART FIVE: BLIND ALLEY
1: PESHAWAR, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1983
2: WASHINGTON, DC, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1983
3: SOMEWHERE IN AFGHANISTAN, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1983
4: WASHINGTON, DC, MONDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1983
5: CHERYOMUSKI, MOSCOW DISTRICT, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1983
6: YATHRIB, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1983
PART SIX: DEAD RECKONING
1: MOSCOW, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1991
2: PERKHUSHOVO, FRIDAY, APRIL 19, 1991
3: BASEL, SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1991
4: DRESDEN, THURSDAY, AUGUST 1, 1991
5: NEAR FOROS ON THE CRIMEAN PENINSULA, MONDAY, AUGUST 19, 1991
POSTLUDE: THE ANATOMY OF AN INFILTRATION
VIENNA, VIRGINIA, SUNDAY, AUGUST 6, 1995
A UTHOR’S N OTE:
Since its creation in 1917, the Soviet intelligence service has changed names several times. It started out as the Cheka, then became the GPU, OGPU, NKVD, NKGB, MGB, and finally, in March 1954, the KGB. In order to keep readers from drowning in an alphabet soup, I have used the appellation KGB, even in the parts of the story set prior to March 1954. Similarly, before March 1973, the CIA’s clandestine service was known as the Directorate of Plans, headed by the Deputy Director for Plans, or DD/P. After March 1973, the name was changed to Directorate of Operations, headed by the Deputy Director for Operations, or DD/O. Again, to avoid confusion, I have used the current appellation, DD/O, throughout the book.
INTERLUDE

THE CALABRIAN
“This must be the wood,” she said thoughtfully to herself, “where things have no name.”
ROME, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1978
H IGH OVER THE CITY, A RACK OF CLOUDS DRIFTED ACROSS THE hunter’s moon so rapidly it looked as if a motion picture had been speeded up. On a deserted avenue near a long wall, a dirty yellow Fiat mini-taxi cut its lights and its motor and coasted to the curb at Porta Angelica. A lean figure wearing the rough ankle-length cassock and hood of a Dominican friar emerged from the back seat. He had been raised in the toe of the boot of Italy and was known as the Calabrian by the shadowy organizations that from time to time employed his services. As a teenager, the Calabrian, a beautiful young man with the angelic face of a Renaissance castrato, had trained for several years as an equilibrist in a circus academy but abandoned it when he fell from a high wire and shattered an ankle. Now, despite a perceptible limp, he still moved with the catlike elegance of a tightrope walker. From the hills above the Tiber, a church bell that had recently been hooked up to an electric timer sounded the half-hour half a minute early. The Calabrian checked the luminous dial of his wristwatch, then walked the fifty meters alongside the colonnade to the heavy wooden doors. Pulling on a pair of surgeon’s latex gloves, he scratched at the tradesmen’s entrance. Immediately a heavy bolt on the inside was thrown and the small blue door set into the larger doors opened just enough for him to slip through. A pale, middle-aged man, dressed in mufti but with the ramrod bearing of an army officer, held up five fingers and nodded toward the only window of the guard barracks out of which light streamed. The Calabrian nodded once. With the officer leading the way, the two started down the alley, ducking when they came to the lighted window. The Calabrian peered over the sill; inside the orderly room two young soldiers in uniform were playing cards, three others dozed in easy chairs. Automatic weapons and clips of ammunition were visible on the table next to a small refrigerator.
The Calabrian trailed after the officer in mufti, past the Institute for Religious Works, to a servants’ door in the back of the sprawling palazzo. The officer produced a large skeleton key from his jacket pocket and inserted it into the lock. The door clicked open. He dropped a second skeleton key into the Calabrian’s palm. “For the door on the landing,” he whispered. He spoke Italian with the flat elongated vowels of someone who came from one of the mountainous cantons of Switzerland bordering the Dolomite Alps. “Impossible to get the key to the apartment without attracting attention.”
“No matter,” the Calabrian said. “I will pick the lock. What about the milk? What about the alarms?”
“The milk was delivered. You will soon see whether it was consumed. As for the alarms, I disconnected the three doors on the control panel in the officers’ ready room.”
As the Calabrian started through the door, the officer touched his arm. “You have twelve minutes before the guards begin their next patrol.”
“I am able to slow time down or speed it up,” remarked the Calabrian, looking up at the moon. “Twelve minutes, spent carefully, can be made to last an eternity.” With that, he vanished into the building.
He knew the floor plan of the palazzo as well as he knew the lifelines on the palms of his hands. Hiking his cassock, taking the steps three at a time, he climbed the narrow servants’ staircase to the third floor, opened the door with the skeleton key and let himself into the dimly lit corridor. A long tongue of violet drugget, faded and worn in the middle, ran from the far end of the corridor to the small table facing the antiquated elevator and the central staircase next to it. Moving soundlessly, the Calabrian made his way down the corridor to the table. A plump nun, one of the Sisters of the Handmaids of Jesus Crucified, sat slumped over the table, her head directly under the pale circle of light from a silver desk lamp almost as if she were drying her hair. An empty tumbler with the last of the drugged milk was next to the old-fashioned telephone perched high on its cradle.
The Calabrian pulled an identical tumbler, with a film of uncontaminated milk at the bottom, from one of the deep pockets of his cassock and retrieved the nun’s glass containing traces of the doped milk. Then he headed back up the corridor, counting doors. At the third door, he inserted a length of stiff wire with a hook on the end into the keyhole and expertly stroked the inside until the first pin moved up into position, then repeated the gesture with the other pins. When the last pin moved up, the lock snapped open. The Calabrian eased open the door and listened for a moment. Hearing nothing, he padded through the foyer into a large rectangular drawing room