Silent Partner

by Leigh Brackett

  "We came into it, of course, working with our opposite numbers in Britain, Europe, and the Middle East. This was when regular security measures had failed. Our objectives were to locate the fountainheads and find out how the contraband was moving. All the obvious targets had already been shaken out, and most of the secondary list, the suspect but not proved. We went on to the impossible and ridiculous—and still came up with nothing. We began to realize that there was a whole new concept here, a whole new organization, carefully separated from any Iron Curtain contacts and from the local activist and phony-front groups. A hidden network made up of perfectly ordinary, respectable merchants who could move the supplies anywhere over half the world with only a minimal risk. Not a large network. It wouldn't have to be, shouldn't be, large. There wouldn't need to be more than one or two centers in each Western country and one or two outlets in each Middle Eastern country. An elite organization, very painstakingly recruited and used to supply only the most important subversive operations.”

  Corbett’s large hands were spread out on the desk. He folded them into fists, and they lay there like stranded icebreakers.

  “So there was no place to begin. You can’t shake out all the businesses in the world. You can’t inspect every piece of every shipment that moves. We had two things we could do. We could try to infiltrate the organization, a million to one shot, or we could sit patiently and wait. We did both. Zacharian was the ideal choice—a legitimate merchant, a top agent, and an expert on the Middle East.”

  "Oh?” said Tony.

  "Rug merchants,” said Zacharian, "get around. I had a head start. I was born in Julfa.”

  Tony frowned. "Julfa—”

  "Oh, for God’s sake, Tony! You’ve been there. The Armenian quarter across the river from Isfahan. I learned the business from my father, traveled with him, grew up speaking eight languages. It didn’t help me this time. I’ve been through the Middle East four times, before and after the June war, traveling on an Iranian passport where the U.S. one won’t take me anymore. I’ve prowled in palaces and scratched fleas in goat-hair tents, drunk gallons of Turkish coffee, and smoked myself blue on hubble-bubbles, and so far the only concrete thing I’ve come up with is you.”

  "The first ray of light was when you told me Karim Hassani had not wanted Martin as a partner. Only a possibility, there could have been a dozen reasons. Then there was all that business in London, and the possibility looked much brighter. Now with Ellen Lofting gone off the map and Byron and Cornellis come onto it, the possibility looks so good that it scares me.”

  "You goddamned Judas,” said Tony. "Getting me to talk and using everything I said against my friend. Well, you’re wrong. Karim’s no Commie. I know him. His family used to own a bunch of villages down in Fars. They were rich. I've met the old man, and he wouldn't even spit on me, let alone a Commie. And anyway, Karim did not kill Harvey Martin." He was pounding his fists on his knees. “Ellen found that out. I don't know what's happened to her since, but she said she’d been wrong.”

  “Correction, Tony. Karim said. In a cable. You never heard a word from Ellen.” He turned to Corbett. “Let's have the photograph.”

  Corbett opened a folder on the desk and took out a photograph. He watched Tony's face while Zacharian put the four-by-five black-and-white glossy into Tony's hands.

  “Recognize them?”

  The shot had been taken in poor light, with very fast film and a telephoto lens. It showed Karim walking across the main concourse of the Teheran airport. There was a girl with him, a tall, long-legged girl with dark hair.

  “It's Karim,” said Tony, “and . . . Ellen.”

  “You're quite sure it's Ellen.”

  Tony said irritably, “Who else would it be?”

  “That's an interesting question. But are you sure?"

  “It looks like her.”

  “I know it looks like her. But is it?”

  “It's a lousy photograph.”

  Corbett said, “We went to a lot of trouble to get it. That's the girl Karim put on the plane for Rome. Her passport said she was Ellen Lofting.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “Because you know her.”

  Tony scowled at the photograph. It was grainy, the fine detail obscured. He tried to call into his mind the exact replica of Ellen's face and compare it with the flat blob in the photograph. He couldn't tell, really; but his reason said that it had to be Ellen, and he was going to say yes. Then he remembered, far more vividly than her face, the beautiful shape of her legs going up the stairs in front of him.

  The girl in the picture had long legs. But—

  Corbett said, “What strikes you as wrong?"

  “I didn’t say anything did.”

  “Look, Mr. Wales, I’ve interrogated experts. And what are you afraid of? You can't incriminate Karim if he isn’t guilty. If he is, remember that Harvey Martin was also your friend. Now, what bothers you about the photograph?"

  “Her legs. They’re too thin, and the ankles aren't right. And Ellen’s got a way when she walks, a swing— But it has to be Ellen. How could it be anybody else?"

  “It’s not difficult at all, Mr. Wales, given the kind of well-equipped operation our friends run. Just bring in a ringer. This girl arrived in Rome. She went through immigration and customs, confirmed her onward reservation to Sicily, which was for the next day, and took a train into Rome. She was trailed to a hotel, where she signed the register and went to her room. Nobody ever saw her again. That's a pretty difficult trick to do, unless you can do it simply by going back to being who you really are. Could you be a little more certain?"

  “No. Why don't you ask her parents, her friends? I didn't know her that well."

  “Her parents aren’t sure. They’re emotionally upset and not reliable. The others are divided—yes, no, and undecided."

  “It’s a lousy photograph,” Tony said again. “People do disappear; they do it all the time. Maybe she wanted to run away. Or maybe—maybe something happened to her. Anyway, why would Karim want to pretend some other girl was really Ellen? I don’t see—”

  But he did see. And Corbett lined it out for him.

  “He could hardly afford to lose another partner so soon, even by accident. If he had to shut Ellen up, to stop her making trouble for him, he could have picked this way to clear his skirts. As far as the authorities are concerned, Ellen Lofting left Iran whole and happy. If she went missing in Rome, that’s her own affair. No reason to look around Teheran.”

  Tony rose and threw the photograph down on the desk. “You don’t really know anything. If you did, Karim would be behind so many bars you couldn't see him. You're just talking, trying to make up a case any way you can, against anybody.”

  “Of course we are,” said Corbett. “Do you know any other way to do it?"

  “Well, you’re not going to use me anymore.”

  He started for the door. George was still leaning against it. He did not move, and Zacharian said, “Cool it, Tony. Just a little longer. There's still Byron and Cornellis.”

  Tony stopped, breathing hard, looking from one to the other, hating them, feeling trapped and sold and foolish—and afraid.

  “I suppose,” he said, “you’re going to tell me Karim put those two on to me in London.”

  “Give it some thought,” said Corbett.

  “He wasn’t even there.”

  “Bronson was, and Karim had talked to him that morning. Bronson called you, got you over there. He fixed you up with Miss Thompson—”

  “That was my idea.”

  “One you could hardly avoid, wasn’t it? Do you normally get that drunk, Mr. Wales? On—what was it?” He referred to the folder. “Four drinks?”

  “I said four was all I remembered. No, I don't. I've got a cast-iron gut, especially when I’m taking uppers. But—”

  “How did you feel when you came to?”

  “I was paralyzed. But—”

  “And then Byron and Cornellis beat you right into a
hospital bed.”

  “Yes, but what’s that got to do with Karim?” Tony was shouting again.

  “Suppose he did kill Harvey Martin. Suppose Bronson is part of the organization, working with him. It would be vital for them to know whether any suspicion attached to Martin’s death, on your part or Ellen's. They couldn’t have known, for instance, what Martin might have said in his letters that could add up to trouble. So Bronson sent you out on a date. You were drugged. Miss Thompson got all the essential information out of you, relayed it to Bronson, and then on his instructions turned you over to the butchers. So you didn't go to Iran at all, and Ellen went alone. And they were ready for her.” He watched Tony steadily. “It does all fit together, doesn't it?”

  Tony moved, turning this way and that. “I don’t believe it. Anyway, they robbed me.”

  “They wanted to make it look right. We know they didn’t need the money.”

  “Maybe they did it just for fun. Maybe they get their jollies that way.”

  "Possible. Quite possible. But it's a little bit of a coincidence, isn’t it, that you just happened to walk in off the street at exactly the right time and place to be the victim?”

  Tony turned his back on them, avoiding the hard stare of Corbett’s eyes, the sight of Zacharian's face.

  “You’re trying to get me all mixed up. Trying to make me think—”

  “I don't give a damn what you think,” said Corbett. “We're trying to build a workable premise, that's all. At the moment Karim Hassani is the brightest prospect. If he doesn’t shape up, we have to look for another.”

  “Well, go ahead,” said Tony. “See where it gets you.”

  “We hoped, Mr. Wales, that you might be willing to help us.”

  Tony swung around. “You mean . . . work with you?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked from one to the other. He began to laugh. “You fellows must be desperate.”

  He stopped laughing because it really wasn’t funny at all. And Corbett said, “We are.”

  10

  Work with them. That was it. That was the reason they had brought him here and told him all this stuff. They were trying to surround him, close him in.

  “No,” he said. “Oh, no! Zacharian told you what a blabbermouth I am, and you’ve both been telling me what a damn fool I am, so you know what kind of secret agent I’d make. And besides that, go take a long running jump. I’m not going to start spying on my friends. I’ll leave that to Jake.”

  He turned toward the door again, passionate to leave the place. George shifted his weight forward onto the balls of his feet and let his hands swing free. He smiled at Tony and shook his head.

  Zacharian caught Tony’s elbow. “Will you stop going off half-cocked? Calm down and listen.”

  Tony shook his hand away. “Why should I?”

  Zacharian fixed him with that tigerish gaze he found so disconcerting. “Because,” he said quietly, “you’re not going to get out of here until you do, and don’t start squawking about your civil rights, or I'll ram them right down your throat.”

  On a note of incredulity Tony said, “You really mean that.”

  Zacharian nodded.

  Tony humped his shoulders and set his jaw. “All right, I’ll listen. But you’re wasting your time.” He went back and sat down.

  Corbett said, “We’re not asking you to become a secret agent, God forbid, and we’re not asking you to spy on your friend. Not in the sense you mean.” He took a sheet of yellow flimsy from the folder. “This came through yesterday. We’ve been discussing the wisest way to handle it—or, I should say, you. Then the Byron and Cornellis business broke, and we had to throw the whole thing open.”

  He passed the flimsy to Tony, who glanced at it and turned cold.

  "Hanookh Maktabi, Iranian—”

  "Security. They’ve been in close touch since the beginning. They realize that the evidence against Karim Hassani is, so far, a lot of guesswork. But they’re even more desperate than we are, and they’re acting on it.”

  Tony said to Zacharian, "You really did a job, didn’t you?”

  "I wish I knew.”

  "What are they going to do to him?”

  "Nothing, directly. With so little to go on, it wouldn’t be wise. They’re going to do what Harvey Martin tried to do—check the company records. They’re doing it under cover of the tax division, questioning Hassani’s returns for the past three years and demanding a complete audit. That way they can shake him out in a perfectly routine manner, without letting him or anyone else know that it’s a security matter.”

  "Well,” said Tony, "okay. But what do they want with me?”

  "They would like you to go over the records with them.”

  "What for? I’m no accountant.”

  "Oh, God in heaven,” said Corbett. "Is he always this dense, Jake?”

  "He’s not dense at all. Just congenitally lazy. They’re not worried about accountants, Tony. They have those. What they need is someone to pick up discrepancies, little things that don’t quite jibe. The kind of thing Martin might have noticed. Otherwise they may come up with a perfect tax audit and nothing else. They’re willing to believe that Karim is smart enough to keep his arithmetic straight.”

  Tony put the flimsy on the desk as though the physical possession of it were dangerous. "Jake,” he said, pleading, “you know I don’t work. I don’t know beans about the business.”

  “You've run a lot of errands for Karim. Mostly busywork, I imagine, though he may have used you for a courier now and then. So you do know something about who he deals with on this side of the world. It may not be much, but it might be enough. They’ll pay your expenses.”

  “You wouldn’t appear openly,” said Corbett. “Hassani wouldn’t know you were there. There'd be no danger of your going the way of Martin and Ellen Lofting—though, of course, you wouldn’t worry about that. I can’t see any real reason for you to refuse, except that it would take a few days of your time.” He indicated the flimsy. “As you see, Mr. Maktabi considers that since you are a partner, you’re a little bit responsible.”

  “I don’t know,” said Tony. “I don’t like it. It’s—it’s dirty pool somehow.”

  “How? You are a partner. They're your records, too. Haven't you got a right to see them? Or are you afraid of what you might find out?” Corbett was leaning over the desk now, fairly harpooning him. “Apparently your single virtue is a strong sense of loyalty to your friends, and I'm certainly not suggesting that you throw it away. I’m only reminding you that you once had two friends.”

  Tony remembered how Ellen had looked at him in the room at the nursing home when she said good-bye. A number of times in his life people had looked at him like that, but he had always managed to squirm away. He thought of the live fish in the wells of the mackerel boats at Santa Monica, how they jumped and dashed and threw themselves against the sides.

  “Oh, Christ,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  He got up, and Zacharian blocked his way. “Don’t you think you owe it to Harvey Martin? Don’t you think you ought to find out where that thirty thousand a year comes from, before you get a nasty surprise? And if Karim is innocent, don’t you owe it to him to help clear him?”

  Tony stood still. “What happened to the day?” he said. “I was all happy and sleeping like a baby, and then the phone rang, and it’s all too much; I can’t take it all in. You’re too sudden; you push too hard. I’ve got to think. I’ve got to get out of here and think.”

  There was a brief silence, and then Corbett said, “All right.” He spoke into the intercom again. "Agnelli, will you come in, please?” He closed the key. "When you want to get in touch with me, Mr. Wales, Agnelli will do it. How long do you think it will take you to make up your mind?”

  "I don't know,” said Tony, thinking blindly of escape.

  "Then I’ll give you a limit. Twenty-four hours.”

  There was a knock on the door. George opened it, and a young man came
in, a junior-executive type in a neat dark suit. He nodded to George and Zacharian, glanced at Tony, and stood waiting.

  Corbett said, "Agnelli, this is Mr. Wales.” He gave him Tony’s address. "I want him taken home, and I want him watched over like your sister’s virtue. I’ll arrange your relief.”

  Agnelli said, "I hope there is some. Otherwise it’ll be a long night. Are you ready, Mr. Wales?”

  Tony was not listening. "Jake,” he said. "I know Karim is not a Commie.”

  "No. That’s just the point. He’s pure as the driven snow, and he’s got you fronting for him.”

  "But,” said Tony, "if he isn’t a Commie, why would he work with them?”

  “Sometimes it’s money. Sometimes it’s fear, if they have a pressure point. Generally it’s hate, and I’ll gamble on that one. Old Hassani was a rich man and proud. The shah's land reforms took away his serfs and his villages and made him poor. He wouldn’t be the first man in Iran to hate the government for that, and hate makes more men brothers than love or religion.”

  "But he’s with the mullahs and the fat-cat landowners. Why would the Commies help him? And how could he work with them?”

  "Our little Red brothers are in the business of selling trouble, and they don’t care who buys it. What they like best is a man with a cause. Doesn’t matter what the cause is—free contraceptives for kindergartens, peace, racism, nationalism, universal love and brotherhood—anything at all that leads to somebody kicking another hole in the existing fabric. They probably contribute to the KKK and the neo-Nazis, if you could dig deep enough. And a man with a cause doesn't much care who contributes to it. The end always justifies everything along the way.”