Proteus

by Morris West

  Old man Raymond was a genial guide – eager to quit, but still enthusiastic about the work itself and happily proud of his son’s talent. The younger man was at first withdrawn and cautious; but Spada opened him out with promises of new research facilities and capital enough to buy new talent for the team.

  The young man was frank about his own shortcomings. He knew nothing of finance but he could direct research. He had recently identified a variant of the Boise Type A Botulinus, which had remained stable through a whole series of cultures. He was still trying to determine whether the variant was an existing strain or whether it had mutated under specific laboratory conditions.

  Spada was intrigued. The botulinus bacillus was one of those designated in military handbooks for possible use in biological warfare. Its toxic effect was high. The mortality rate was more than fifty per cent and the incubation period minimal. The antitoxin was available but could normally be produced only in the later or less severe cases of an outbreak.

  This discussion led naturally to a question of major policy. Raymond Laboratories had always refused to accept any government contracts associated with biological warfare. Young Raymond himself was a resolute defender of this position. Did Spada intend to change it?

  Spada assured him he did not. There was enough horror in the world without that one. However, he was interested to know what precautions were taken against the dissemination of the bacillus, the theft of cultures from a laboratory or from a consignment in transit. They were, it seemed, rather elementary. Laboratory rules were strict, of course. There were the usual burglar alarms and a security patrol. Despatches were made in padded and sealed boxes and there were shipping agents who specialised in the handling of laboratory specimens. Apart from that, young Raymond shrugged off the issue. The market was too restricted to encourage thieves. Research documents were much more vulnerable than the cultures themselves…

  It was almost seven in the evening before Spada had finished his inspection. He accepted an invitation to take coffee with the old man, then drove back to New York, with a pocketful of notes and the conviction that Spada Consolidated had made a very good buy indeed.

  When he reached the apartment he was surprised to find Anna waiting for him. She was bored at the Bay House. She thought Teresa and Rodo would be better alone for a while. Besides, she missed her man and needed to be with him. Spada was delighted. He too was bored with his own company, suddenly aware of the swift passage of time and the waste of gentle hours.

  As he walked into the lounge with his arm around Anna’s shoulder, he noticed a package on the hall table. He picked it up. It was a large Manila envelope, addressed to Mr John Spada, marked ‘Personal. Documents – Urgent.’ He put it down again and asked:

  ‘When did this come?’

  ‘Just after seven,’ Anna told him. ‘The hall-porter brought it up.’

  Spada felt a faint prickle of unease. Corporation documents were not normally delivered through the doorman. A Spada messenger brought them to the apartment and required a signed receipt. Spada went to the telephone and dialled Kitty Cowan’s home number.

  ‘Kitty? John. Did you send me any documents this evening?’

  ‘No.’ Kitty was obviously puzzled. ‘Mike didn’t either. I cleared all his mail personally before I left. What sort of documents are they?’

  ‘I haven’t opened the envelope yet.’

  ‘It didn’t come from us.’

  ‘OK. That’s all. I’ll check around in the morning. Have a pleasant evening.’

  He cut the connection abruptly. Anna asked:

  ‘Is something wrong, John?’

  ‘I don’t know, Anna.’ He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly: ‘Ring for Carlos, please.’

  ‘But John . . .’

  ‘Do as I ask, Anna!’

  When Carlos presented himself, Spada gave him curt, precise directions.

  ‘I want you to take your wife and Mrs Spada and buy them both dinner at the Restaurant du Midi. I’ll call the restaurant and tell you when I want you back.’

  ‘But, sir, the dinner is ready to be served here.’

  ‘I know; but just do as I ask. Turn off the cookers and get going.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He went out puzzled and unhappy. Anna demanded:

  ‘John, please! What is all this?’

  ‘That envelope. It didn’t come from Kitty or Mike Santos. I want the police to have a look at it – and I want you all out of the apartment. I’ll wait till the police get here.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Anna was suddenly ashen. ‘Will this madness never end?’

  ‘Hurry!’ said John Spada.

  When they were gone, he picked up the telephone and called the police.

  ‘… This is Mr John Spada of Spada Consolidated Holdings. A package has just been delivered to my apartment. I have reason to believe it may contain explosives. Can you send someone over to this address please . . .?’

  There was a pause while the police operator copied the address, then a faintly sceptical question:

  ‘Can you give me the reason for your suspicions, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a well-known business man, with political connections which cannot be discussed on a telephone.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll have someone there within minutes. Don’t touch the package. Close the room and get as far away as possible.’

  Five minutes later two men from the explosives detail presented themselves at the apartment. They were brusque and taciturn. Depositions could wait. They took possession of the package and went away, admonishing him to wait by the telephone. Half an hour later one of them called back.

  ‘Mallard here . . . explosives. That package was a live one, Mr Spada. Half a pound of plastic, with two detonators primed to explode as soon as the envelope was opened.’

  ‘Any idea where it came from?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re checking for finger-prints. We’ll probably find the only ones we get are from innocent handlers. We’ll need a statement from you, of course.’

  ‘Could it wait till morning?’

  ‘It’s your life, Mr Spada.’ He sounded as though he did not value it very highly.

  ‘You’ve already got all the facts. The rest is speculation. I can tell you, however, that the matter will probably fall under the jurisdiction of the FBI.’

  ‘That’s for us to decide, after we have your deposition. We’ll expect you here at ten tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be there. And thanks.’

  ‘Our pleasure, Mr Spada. Oh, if you’re going out tonight, be careful. Whoever delivered that bomb may be waiting around for the bang!’

  The line went dead. He debated a moment whether to call Teresa at the Bay House, then decided against it. The night-guards were on duty; the most he could do was counsel extra vigilance. He called the restaurant and spoke briefly with Anna, telling her to finish her meal at leisure. No, he would not join them. There were details to be dealt with. Details! When he put down the telephone he found that he was shaking, as if with malaria. He crossed to the bar, poured himself a slug of neat liquor, drank half of it in a gulp and then sat, hunched over the counter, cupping the glass in his hands until the trembling stopped.

  There was no escape now from the bleak reality. The contract on his life had been issued. The assassins were abroad. And they cared not at all whom they cut down with him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The new Director of the FBI was, unlike some of his predecessors, a man of mild manners and faintly academic charm. He apologised for calling Spada to Washington; but he believed that there were certain aspects of the case best discussed, as it were, between principals. Spada was happy to agree the proposition. The Director suggested that they check, together, matters of fact in the files. Spada thought that, too, might be a good idea.

  ‘First,’ said the Director, ‘we accept, as a prime possibility, that the contract on your life was let in Argentina. There is a secondary possibility which we can examine l
ater. So, if you will permit me to lead to you . . .’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘Did you, at any time, have connections with the South American Revolutionary Junta, and specifically, with a man called El Tigre?’

  ‘Yes. I paid him two hundred thousand dollars for the co-operation of one of his groups in Buenos Aires. I am not prepared to disclose the names of any members of that group.’

  ‘But with their assistance you planned the release of your son-in-law and of a man called Chavez.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you party to the death of the prison commandant, Colonel Ildefonso Juarez?’

  ‘No. When I last saw him, he was very much alive.’

  ‘Did you import any help of your own into Argentina?’

  ‘Yes. Again I will not specify names or numbers.’

  ‘How did you enter the country?’

  ‘Illegally.’

  ‘Quite.’ The Director permitted himself a faint, scholarly smile. ‘So there is ample motive for your elimination by agents of the régime?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you aware that, after the gaolbreak, members of the prison staff were questioned intensively by the security forces?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of it; but yes, it would be normal procedure.’

  ‘One of the persons questioned was a prison orderly called Corporal Pascarelli.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘He confessed to passing a message to Rodolfo Vallenilla. The message said, in Spanish: “a fish in a box”. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s very curious.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Something very like it cropped up in a CIA report from Amsterdam. Our people there maintain close liaison with the Dutch authorities, on terrorist activities.’

  ‘I imagine they do.’

  ‘You yourself were in Amsterdam, were you not?’

  ‘Yes. I flew there from Munich to see one of our shipping contractors, Jan Pieter Maartens.’

  ‘Shortly after your visit, the body of a German terrorist, Gebhardt Semmler was discovered in an artist’s studio in Amsterdam. The evidence pointed to suicide. In his wallet the police found a card embossed with a symbol which looks like a fish in a box.’ The Director picked out of the file a photostat of the Proteus card and laid it in front of Spada. ‘Does that suggest anything to you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Perhaps we could ask your son-in-law about the fish message.’

  ‘You stay the hell away from him.’ Spada’s control snapped. ‘He’s had enough for two lifetimes!’

  The Director shrugged and turned again to his file.

  ‘There’s another curious coincidence. The same Corporal Pascarelli admitted to passing a different message to the prisoner Chavez. This message said: “The tiger is sniffing around.” You do see my point, Mr Spada? Why the fish for one and the tiger for the other?’

  ‘I see it very clearly. I’m afraid I can’t help you to elucidate it.’

  ‘Then let me put before you another possibility: that the people who want to kill you may not be from Argentina at all, but may be connected in some way with El Tigre.’

  ‘I can’t see why. I honoured the deal I had made with him.’

  ‘Well . . .’ The Director let the word hang in the air for a moment. Then he changed direction altogether. ‘What identity did you use in Argentina?’

  ‘A fictitious one.’

  ‘Supported, of course, by documents?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How did you procure the documents?’

  ‘I paid a very high price for them.’

  ‘Mr Spada. We are trying to protect your life and the lives of your family.’

  ‘Correction! You are doing nothing of the kind. You’re fishing for information to fill out files originating from the CIA which has no jurisdiction over internal security in the United States. I admit freely to committing illegal acts in the confines of another sovereign state, which itself had committed abominations against my daughter and her husband. I’d do it all again – and worse, if I had to! So would you. Let’s stop playing games. What protection can you offer me?’

  ‘Very little, I’m afraid,’ said the Director coolly. ‘We’re light on personnel, light on information. I suggest you hire your own bodyguards. There are people who supply such services. Some of them are very good . . . Oh, there’s one more question. Were you not a witness to the killing of the philosopher Hugo Von Kalbach in Munich?’

  ‘I was. I was going to the opera with him.’

  ‘But you did not stay for the funeral.’

  ‘The German police asked me to leave – for my own safety.’

  ‘You’ll be interested then, to know that the man who killed him was Gebhardt Semmler who later suicided in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Then I hope he’s rotting in hell,’ said John Spada. ‘If you’ll forgive me, Director, I think we’re wasting each other’s time.’

  He had one more call to make before he went to pick up Anna at the hotel. This time his reception was cordial. He might have called it effusive – except that Anatoly Kolchak tempered it with his habitual irony. Closeted with Spada in his private study, he said:

  ‘My friend, I was deeply distressed to hear what happened to your daughter and her husband. Will you please convey my sympathies to your wife.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ambassador.’

  ‘And I offer you, if I may, an expression of personal respect for what you have done. When I read the details, I confess I felt a very undiplomatic excitement. I was also glad you were operating in Buenos Aires and not in Moscow.’

  ‘We were lucky. We were also too late.’

  ‘You will not easily be forgiven.’

  ‘They want my life,’ said Spada flatly. ‘They sent me a letter-bomb a couple of days ago.’

  ‘And they will keep trying, of course. Governments are very sensitive about insults to their majesty. I am happy that our comrades were able to be of service to you.’

  ‘You heard about that?’

  ‘We hear almost everything, my friend. I am prompted to ask whether you need any help now. This time there will be no charge. You did us a service too.’

  ‘I still want Lermontov,’ said John Spada.

  ‘Oh yes, Lermontov.’ The Ambassador polished his spectacles assiduously with a silk handkerchief and set them back on his nose. ‘I regret – I sincerely regret – to tell you that question is now closed, irrevocably. The news is not yet public; but Lermontov died last week.’

  ‘Still in confinement?’

  ‘Unhappily, yes.’

  ‘Then, as you say, the question is closed.’

  ‘Not quite, Mr Spada. I am directed – and I use the word deliberately so as not to involve our personal relationship, which I value highly – I am directed to say that, in return for your personal assistance in certain business transactions still pending, other Jewish intellectuals would be considered for early emigration . . . There now, my duty is done. All I need to do is minute your reply.’

  ‘Nyetl’ said Spada with a grin. ‘Nyet. Nyet.’

  ‘I’m delighted.’ Anatoly Kolchak relaxed. ‘I am forced to deal with idiots. But there is some method in their insanity. In this trade, everyone gets corrupted – even if it is only a little.’

  ‘Tell me something, Mr Ambassador.’

  ‘Anything.’ Kolchak gave him a boyish, mischievous grin. ‘Except the Soviet order of battle and the date of Judgment Day!’

  ‘What’s the thing you’re most afraid of?’

  ‘Politically or personally?’

  ‘Both.’

  Kolchak considered the question for a long, silent moment, then pieced out his answer, phrase by phrase.

  ‘It is a thing which has already happened, whose consequences are already upon us. We have so debased human language, that it is impossible any longer to believe what we hear or read. I tell
you “yes”; the echo answers “no”. We state one position and negotiate another. You talk “food”, I hear “bombs”. We have created a language of the mad. You show on television bodies broken in a railway accident. The next instant some impossibly beautiful wench is demonstrating how to make floors shine like glass. The illusion is complete. There are no bodies. There never could be blood on so bright a surface . . .’

  ‘And the consequence, Mr Ambassador?’

  ‘That which you have experienced, my friend. Reason is out the window. There is left only the black magic of violence; and even then the language of the mad foments it . . . “brushfire war”, “limited actions”, “clean atom bombs”! We are all guilty, because we all co-operate with the illusionists . . . Oh, I know! If they heard me talk like this in Moscow they would want my head; but it is still the truth . . .’ He broke off, as if embarrassed, and continued on another train of thought altogether. ‘Tell me, my friend, now that you know your life is in danger, what do you propose to do?’

  ‘Ask you one more question, Mr Ambassador. It arises out of a statement made to me half an hour ago by the Director of the FBI. Is there, in your view, any possibility that my assassins are not from Argentina at all, but from the South American Revolutionary Junta?’

  The Ambassador considered the question for a moment and then smiled grimly.

  ‘He’s very clever, your Director. The Americans are much more comfortable in bed with dictators than with revolutionary governments. It pays your Director to suggest a scapegoat from the Left . . . My first answer is no. You are not in danger from the Revolutionary Junta. On the other hand, we are no more one big happy family of comrades. We pursue a dozen different roads. So, don’t take my verdict as gospel. Let me ask you: is there any reason why the Revolutionary Junta should want your head?’

  ‘None that I know,’ said Spada. ‘Unless the security boys in Argentina invented one and fed it back.’

  ‘Always possible,’ said Kolchak. ‘That is the madness of which I speak. Let me make some enquiries and get back to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ambassador.’

  ‘I am sorry about Lermontov.’

  ‘At least he’s out of the madhouse!’