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The French counterintelligence agency, the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, had routinely informed the CIA station in Paris of his arrival in 1977 to study “nuclear medicine,” which sounded exciting but simply meant using radioactive dyes as a diagnostic tool to monitor the functions of the kidney, bladder and other internal organs. Some idiot in the Paris station, however, had assumed that “nuclear medicine” must have something to do with bombs. A false-flag operation was duly approved to find out more details and see if Dr. Antoyan could be recruited. A NOC made a pass at him in Paris, posing as a Belgian anesthesiologist, but he came away convinced that the Soviet doctor was just that—a medical researcher, with no apparent knowledge of military matters.

The only unusual thing about young Dr. Antoyan, reported the NOC, was that he talked fervently about Armenian issues—to the point of criticizing official Soviet nationalities policy. The file concluded with a brief exchange of cables between Paris and headquarters on the advisability of further development of the case. The anti-Moscow talk was encouraging, but headquarters concluded that Dr. Antoyan’s likely access to classified information when he returned home would be close to zero, and that recruiting him wouldn’t be worth the time and effort.

“I think I’ve found my man,” Anna told Stone three days later at the office in Rockville. Stone had tried to put off the meeting, and had agreed to come only when Anna threatened that otherwise she would pay him a visit at Langley.

“What man are you talking about, my dear?” he asked. Stone was wearing a striped bow tie that day, which made him look especially clipped and precise.

“My Armenian agent. I’ve found someone in Paris who would be perfect for the part.”

“That’s nice. But I still haven’t decided to add another body. We’re having enough trouble with logistics as it is.”

“This person wouldn’t present any logistical problems. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’d be self-contained.”

“How’s that?”

“Because he’s a Soviet citizen, not an émigré. And he’s on his way back to Yerevan soon, so we won’t need any extra plumbing.”

“Sorry. Out of the question.”

“Why, dammit?” She was peeved. The Armenian project was her own small piece of ground, and Stone was cutting it out from under her.

“Too dangerous.”

“For whom? Him or us?”

“Both, but especially for him.”

“You’re wrong,” said Anna.

Stone bristled. He wasn’t used to having his judgment questioned.

“He’ll know how to take care of himself,” she explained. “And we’re not asking him to do anything very risky. According to the file, he’s already quite outspoken about his Armenian sympathies, so he may be in hot water anyway.”

“I’ll think about it. But my initial response is no.”

“There isn’t time to think about it, Mr. Stone. He’s going home soon. All I’m asking is that you let me check him out.”

“What makes you think you can recruit him?”

“Intuition.”

“That’s bullshit, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I don’t mind, so long as you let me give it a try.”

“I’d like to, honestly. But it’s a delicate time, more than you realize. I won’t bore you with the details, but we’re having some difficulties with the front office. We don’t need any more baggage.”

“I’m not baggage,” said Anna. Her voice had a tremor of anger.

“I’m not talking about you, Anna. I’m talking about the Armenian.”

“Alan will back me up. So will Frank Hoffman, if I ask him.”

“How stubborn you are. I must say.”

“You gave me your word that you would let me explore this, Mr. Stone. If you back out now, it’s going to make me reevaluate a lot of other things.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I want to go to Paris.”

“I see.” Stone thought about it a good long while, long enough for Anna’s resolve to crack, if it was crackable. But she sat there nearly motionless, convinced of the righteousness and good sense of what she was proposing. And Stone, it must be said, knew when to fold a weak hand.

“Very well,” he said. “Before you go, I will insist on a plausible scenario for recruitment and termination. I’ll want all the usual paperwork and then some. After that, you’ll be on your own.”

Anna nodded, and allowed herself a modest, chaste smile of triumph. Stone studied her handsome face. There was a fierce look in her eye that Stone, had he been feeling less harassed, would surely have recognized as the product of his own tutelage. It was, in a way, a victory for his methodology, another triumph for the old boys.

36

The Armenian doctor lived in the southern suburbs of Paris, in one of the dormitories for foreign students known as the Cité Universitaire. He worked during the day at the Faculty of Medicine of the Sorbonne, just off the Boulevard St.-Germain. Young Dr. Antoyan was a creature of habit: He caught the Métro each morning at eight-thirty, changed at Denfert-Rochereau, got out at St.-Germain-des-Prés, and walked the four short blocks to the Rue de l’Ecole-de-Médecine. The best thing about him, from Anna’s standpoint, was that the files showed no trace of any KGB connections. He was, quite simply, a young research doctor—a very bright one, apparently—who had been sent abroad for advanced training.

Anna had decided that the best recruitment scenario was the simplest and closest to life. She would present herself to the Armenian doctor as a former Harvard graduate student in Ottoman history, now working with a foundation that supported cultural and historical research on the Near East and Central Asia. She would informally solicit his views on Armenian issues, ask him to do a short research paper (for which she would pay him handsomely), then ask him if he might be willing to do additional research when he returned home to Yerevan. And then—if all had gone well up to that point, she would pop the question. Stone couldn’t really argue with what she proposed. It was a standard recruitment scenario—used with minor variations on hundreds