In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  “Me, for instance. Couldn’t I be an option?”

  “You mean he might have given you the message. And eventually the proof, too.”

  “Possibly. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that he’d regard me as a better friend or that he’d trust me more, but, well, I’m American. And I’m Company.”

  “Yes, I’ve thought about that. But I couldn’t accept it. And there’s no need to apologize. My personal feelings have nothing to do with it. It’s a matter of logic. Look, he claims that he’s carrying a vitally important message and that some proof to support it will be delivered to him. How? When? He doesn’t know. Or he doesn’t want to tell me. Okay. But even if we accept that all this is true, we know, at least we have his word for it, that he badly burned his finger when he contacted Holly against the girl’s alleged warning. One thing is certain. Holly is dead. If Rust is telling the truth, that experience must have convinced him to go directly to the top. He’ll trust no one. Not me, not you. After all, he claims to have been betrayed by the Moscow station chief himself.”

  “Incidentally, don’t you think we ought to try to check out that story with Holly’s widow?”

  “It won’t run away, Jake. But if we move now, we’ll have to explain to everybody how we know about Holly’s death and the rest. Besides, if Rust is a plant, he may be part of a smear campaign against the station chief.”

  A radio call came through. The surveillance team reported that “suspect has just stolen two apples from a street stall.” The officer asked if Sir Charles wanted to have Rust apprehended.

  “No, just add the theft to his charge sheet. There’ll be plenty more on it. Continue the watch, but do not interfere with anything he does. We’ll soon be there.”

  “What the hell does he want with those apples?” Schramm turned to Charles: “You think there’s something hidden inside?”

  “You mean the proof?” Charles shrugged his shoulders. “The proof is in the eating.”

  “Very funny.”

  “He’s started eating one of the apples, sir.”

  “Let me know if he doesn’t eat them both. And if he passes the remaining apple on to someone else, hold them both.” The officer went off the air. “He hasn’t eaten anything today,” said Charles, “and he can’t have more than a couple of pounds left.”

  The car was speeding down Cromwell Road when the surveillance team reported that “suspect is sitting on a bench munching chocolates in Kensington Gardens.”

  *

  The chocolates were gray and dry and had the texture of fine sand. But Rust was hungry, and eating gave him a chance to examine the contents of the box without calling attention to himself. He knew he could not be watched, but he tried to take precautions as if he might be. Under the second layer of chocolates, through the base plate of the box, he could feel the outline of the passport. He tore up the paper and there it was. Tom Craig, Jr. She’d cheated him. She’d made him learn all about Arthur Foster only to swap the “shoe” afterward. He could have killed her. But it might have been a mistake. Rust closed his eyes. He could visualize Yelena clearly. He could hear her self-assured voice. You need help, Helmut. You must trust me. I must take precautions. Was Tom Craig, Jr., another of her precautions? Rust relaxed. It might have been a safeguard even against Florian. If you’re caught, they make you tell them everything. And her “cheating” had already begun to work in Rust’s favor: Charles would now be busy alerting all British exit controls to the possibility of an Arthur Foster, American citizen, trying to leave the country. Rust’s mood swung to euphoria. He could have kissed her now.

  Evening mist descended on the park. McGregor’s ill-fitting clothes failed to keep out the damp air. Rust ate his second apple. Keep warm. He closed his briefcase and broke into a brisk walk. Keep warm. In a public bathroom he pocketed the passport and flushed down the remains of the chocolate box. He examined the multilingual dictionary. There was nothing to reveal its importance. The thirteenth dot on page thirty-one was a perfectly natural camouflage for the microdot that might be a guide to several more hidden on other pages.

  He walked, made sudden stops and turns, checked the street behind him in shop windows, doubled back on his track several times, and used all the tricks he had once learned from Jake Schramm to be reasonably certain that he could not be followed except by a truly professional and sufficiently large squad. On his way, he finalized his plans. First he must obtain money or a ticket to fly to America. He would then choose a safe place for depositing Yelena’s dictionary. Finally he would try to arrange a meeting with someone as close to the President as possible, probably a member of the Security Committee or the U.S. Intelligence Board. He decided not to trust a diplomat or anyone who was just a high-ranking member of the Company. After all, that was why Yelena had chosen him for the mission. Only when such a high-level meeting was arranged would he recover the microdots.

  The strict criteria he had set for his choice of eventual trustee to receive and handle the message and the proof imposed a severe limitation on the contacts and channels he could use. For apart from his brother and Jake Schramm, everybody would be likely to ask too many questions first and offer help only if satisfied.

  From a public phone booth he called Schramm’s office in Miami. The call was answered by a machine. Rust had no money and so he couldn’t leave a message. It was 10:30. In Washington it would be 4:30 in the afternoon. His brother might already be at home. He gave Elliott’s number to the operator. “Could you please make it collect?”

  “You mean transfer charge, sir.”

  “Right.”

  There was no answer. Rust walked around for another twenty minutes and tried again. He asked for the Washington number. “Could you transfer the charge, please?”

  “Sure, sir, we’ll make it collect, right?”

  Anna answered the call. She hesitated, then accepted the charge. Rust recognized her voice immediately, though it was a bad connection. His mouth ran dry. His tongue stuck to his palate. She helloed impatiently. The operator urged him to speak. “It’s your number in Washington, go ahead, caller.”

  “Oh … hi … Helm here.”

  “Hi, where are you?”

  “In London. Is Ell there?”

  “Sure. Hang on.” He heard her shout, “Ell!” Then distant sounds. She returned: “He’ll take it in the den.”

  Elliott’s voice was strange. “What are you doing in London, Helm? And what great event can I thank for the pleasure of hearing from you?”

  “I need some cash.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Well, at least it’s nice to know that your brother comes to mind when you’re broke.”

  “It’s no joke, Ell, and it’s urgent. I need a ticket in the name of Tom Craig for the first flight to New York. And I mean the first flight, even if it’s got to be first-class.”

  “How about a private charter, Mr. Craig? Are you a member of the Playboy Club?”

  “I’ll call you again in half an hour. Let me know then which flight I’m on. Then meet me at Idlewild. And I’ll need protection.”

  “Go to the embassy. I’ll give them a call.”

  “No good. And I’m serious.”

  “What’s it all about?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.”

  “Give me a clue.”

  Cuban confetti, Rust wanted to say, but controlled himself. “Think of the odd expression in the shopping list I sent you.” There was a moment’s silence. “What list?”

  “The one in July.”

  “You sent it to me?” There was another pause. “Can’t remember.”

  It could not be just the bad line. The voice was strange. “Ell?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound peculiar. As if you were somebody else.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “What was Mother’s favorite color?”

  “Don’t be a
fool.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Mauve, of course.”

  “Sorry. I must be seeing ghosts everywhere. And your voice was odd.”

  “I’ve got a cold.”

  Half an hour later Rust called again. Elliott gave him the number of the first New York plane in the morning and asked him to take a connecting flight to Washington.

  “No good. I must meet you in New York.” He did not want to spell out his suspicion that Elliott’s home might be watched. It was unlikely, but it was just possible that Moscow, having discovered his real identity, would try to track him down through his brother. To tap Elliott’s line at short notice could be ruled out even if they had access to some specialist’s services in Washington. So the phone was reasonably safe. “Ell? Are you there?”

  “Sure. It’s only that I’ve been trying to figure out something. But it’s no go.”

  “Must be.”

  “I’ll be on special twenty-four-hour duty, and there’s no way to get out of it. You’d have to wait all day for me.”

  “It’s really urgent. And don’t suggest the embassy.”

  “Mm. What if I sent a couple of guys to meet you? I mean guys whom I trust as much as myself. They’ll be briefed. And they’ll know Mother’s favorite color. How’s that? You just tell them whatever you want.”

  “No. But I’ll tell them what I want from you.”

  “Okay. They’ll be authorized to do anything I could do.”

  “Thanks. I’ll meet them at the Hertz desk. Got the name?”

  “Tom Craig, Jr. Beats your own hands down. The ticket will be telexed to the TWA desk, Heathrow. Take care.”

  “Keep warm.”

  Rust walked around shivering through the night and swore at himself for having dumped Charles’s coat in the cab. Steaming cups of coffee at a night stall tempted him, but he wanted to save his money for the bus fare to the airport. He knew he could drink the coffee and then run away without paying, but that seemed too great a risk to be worth it. So he walked faster.

  Saturday, September 29

  Republicans demand Naval blockade of Cuba to stop further arms deliveries. Vice-President Johnson warns: “Stopping a Russian ship is an act of war.” Upheaval in Belgium: drivers will need a license! Foreign journalists will need special permission to venture outside Havana. On Moscow’s Gorky Street (the Brodvey in local “jet-set” parlance), new kokteil (wine with milk) is the craze. U.S. decides to send missiles to Israel to counter-balance Nasser’s new Soviet bombers.

  *

  THE TICKET WAS WAITING FOR RUST AT HEATHROW. HE had no difficulty going through passport control. Charles, you’re slipping — in the old days you’d have been here, trapping me personally, he thought and decided to warn him at the first opportunity. At the same time, he was grateful to Yelena once again. He wondered what her real name could be, and what she would be like if she ever turned up in Florida. It was reassuring to know that he had helped her with the details of the Odessa run and the Cuban contact, but he could not decide whether or not he hoped that she would ever need or want to make use of them.

  With the last of McGregor’s money he bought a half-bottle of Scotch in the duty-free shop. It was yet another long wait for the flight to be called, but this time, he was the first to answer it. He ate the largest breakfast the stewardess had ever been asked to serve on first class, then slept for three hours. The aircraft was not even half full, and apart from him, there were only two other passengers up front. Both were midmanagement executive types who spent most of the flight, probably their first in first class, guzzling free champagne.

  Near New York, Rust asked for a postcard. He scribbled a few lines to “Dear Hal,” signed it “Tom,” but did not address it. He slipped the card, a bar of soap, an unused notepad, a pen, a pair of sunglasses, the matches and the multilingual dictionary into the plastic bag from the duty-free shop. Then, sadly, he added his razor to the contents. There had to be something of some value in the bag. During disembarkation he appeared to be sleepy. He was the last off the plane. In the corridor he stopped a ground hostess and handed her the plastic bag, saying that he had just found it. Together they glanced through its contents. The postcard to Hal with no address was insufficient to help trace the sender who had lost the bag, but good enough for identification if the owner ever claimed it. The hostess promised to take it to Lost Property, and Rust watched her all the way. The bag would be safe in there for the time being.

  As he had no luggage to wait for, he would have been the first at immigration control, but he waited for a small crowd to gather before joining the line. He didn’t quite trust Yelena’s cobbler. But his doubt was unjustified. He was passed through without any hitch.

  Somebody touched his back lightly. “Hi.”

  He spun around. “Anna.”

  “Long time no see.” She smiled. And when he said nothing, she stepped closer and whispered, “Ell thought you sounded worried about the arrangement. So he sent me to pick you up and reassure you. And yes, I do know that the color is mauve.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Is this a decent question?”

  “I mean … ”

  “I know what you mean, you fool.” She turned and nodded toward a tall, pancake-faced man with cauliflower ears. The man nodded back. “That’s Lieutenant Lanigan. He’s to observe that we behave ourselves. And to make sure that nobody is trying to follow us. It’s all very hush-hush.”

  “Is Ell coming over?”

  “As soon as he can. But he’ll call us in … what’s it called? A safehouse?”

  On their way to her car they tried a couple of conversations, but it was no good. Both of them knew it would be hard to talk. So she drove in silence. Rust kept looking back. Lanigan with the mashed ears was right behind them, driving a heavy old pickup. They turned west along the Long Island Expressway but kept the speed down. She pulled up at the Queens Midtown Tunnel and paid the toll. “Keep your head down,” she whispered in a mischievous tone. “Ell said this would be where we’ve got to lose them.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever’s following us.” She accelerated. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  Behind them, the pickup had pulled up awkwardly. It was blocking the entire lane. The other lanes were also blocked by some stupid drivers. Anna was well into the tunnel by now. Rust heard the ever-increasing volume of hooting behind them, but they were moving away from it fast.

  “Did we have a second backup?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Ell didn’t say.” They emerged from the tunnel. Still no cars behind them. She turned right, and right again and stopped. “We have to change cars.”

  He followed her without any questions. Elliott had made the arrangements; it was okay with him. In Manhattan they had a chance to disappear in any direction. She drove up on Second Avenue, then turned onto the Queensboro Bridge to double back toward Long Island, along Queens Boulevard and Northern Boulevard all the way to the Glen Cove intersection. Eventually she left the main road, and Rust lost track as she negotiated narrow lanes with hardly any hesitation.

  “You know the area pretty well.”

  “Ell told me to drive around here while waiting for your flight.”

  The house was completely cut off from any other habitation in the mature forest. She had the keys and led the way in. The place was damp, and obviously nobody had lived there for quite some time. “Could you bring that in?” She pointed at a large open cardboard box full of food and bottles. It reminded him of Yelena’s emergency supplies.

  “How long are we planning to stay here?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d love a drink even if it’s only five minutes. You might find some glasses in there.”

  He moved to the far end of a large living room. The phone rang in the adjoining room. Through the open door, Rust heard Anna talking. “Hi, honey. Yes, everything’s okay. Yes, fine.”

  Rust raised his hand to signal to
her that he also wanted to talk to Elliott. She didn’t notice it. He crossed the room and called, “Hold it,” but she had hung up by the time he got there.

  “Sorry, he was in a hurry.” She turned to apologize and bumped into him. For three long seconds they said nothing. She then stepped back. “He … he said his man would soon be here, and if necessary he’d come over himself.”

  *

  Charles was swearing. He and Schramm flew into Idlewild only five minutes after Rust’s plane had landed. Rust’s collect calls had been traced, and so they knew he had been in touch with his brother. It was considered best not to sit on Rust’s tail but arrange a “reception committee” at the airport.

  “Idiots. How the hell did you lose him?” Schramm raved and ranted. “I gave you his name, flight and picture.”

  The men had no excuse. They saw Rust coming through immigration, saw him being met and driven away by a woman whom they described as “a real knockout.” They admitted losing her and Rust in the jam at the tunnel tollgate. “He had no luggage, just a briefcase, and he was one of the first out,” one of the men said, only to infuriate Schramm even more.

  “A briefcase and a plastic bag from the duty-free shop, you mean.”

  “No, just a briefcase.”

  “You didn’t look.”

  “There was nothing else. Maybe he put the bag in the case during the flight.”

  Schramm turned to Charles. “Could he?”

  “Not unless he threw away a few things. That case was absolutely full. But is it all that important?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Look, even if he has some proof, it may be meaningless without him and the message itself.”

  Schramm was losing his patience with Charles. “That’s why I thought it was wrong to let him escape in the first place. Because if he’s joined the opposition for blackmail or whatever reason, he’s now free to carry out his mission and cause all the damage he might be assigned to cause long before you can trace him and gun him down.”

  “It wasn’t I who lost sight of him, was it? And it isn’t for me to find him. We’re in your territory.”