The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  “Peter...” Partridge took a deep breath. “So he was looking her over,” he said softly.

  Craig’s face hardened. “You know, I believe you are crazy. You and your friend at the Sûreté with his little catalogue of faces. He thinks a man at a table looks something like a man in his files! Is he positive? Why, he didn’t even know the name of the man at the table, did he? Just a likeness, that’s all. You’re pouring an awful lot of heavy concrete on top of clay. I saw Maritta—a pretty little nitwit, gay, charming. The man was her uncle, too. I tell you—”

  “Which uncle? The one who has the house on Mykonos?” Craig froze.

  “And let me be still crazier. Maritta has invited Veronica Clark to visit her on Mykonos?”

  Craig could only stare, and nod.

  “Then here’s the craziest news of all. Dear, gay and charming Maritta knows very well what her uncle is. She doesn’t know his real name, of course, she doesn’t know who he is; but she knows what he is.”

  “Veronica?” Craig asked slowly.

  “She knows nothing at all.”

  “Why did they invite her?”

  “Not out of the kindness of their hearts,” Partridge told him. “How well do you know the girl? And that’s not a casual question. Tell me the details.”

  Craig, unwilling but troubled enough to take a hint, did just that.

  “So you know her only casually,” Partridge said when Craig had ended the brief story of their two meetings. “At least,” he corrected himself, “that’s how it would appear to most people.” If I hadn’t been watching Craig’s face for the last ten minutes, I’d have called it casual, myself. “You know that they must have questioned her about you. I wish I could have seen Peter’s face when she told him your name.”

  “How would he recognise it?” asked Craig, and brought Partridge up sharply.

  “You called yourself stupid,” Partridge said, covering up his mistake, “but I think you’re too damned quick. Let’s call it a crazy guess.”

  “I’m getting a little leery of that adjective,” Craig admitted with a wry grin. But he wasn’t going to be sidetracked. He came back to his question about Uncle Peter. “How would he—”

  “Now the problem is this,” Partridge ran on. “Will they believe you are just a casual acquaintance of Veronica’s? Or will they think you’re possibly a dangerous character after all—one of our agents, perhaps, using Veronica to trap them? No, I don’t think they will... You didn’t exactly force yourself on them; you paid little attention to them. Good. They’ll possibly still want her out there on Mykonos—she’s perfect for them, from what you tell me. Why, even you accepted Maritta because Veronica was her friend. Yes, perfect. So—”

  “You aren’t letting Veronica go to Mykonos?” Craig interrupted. “You can’t.”

  “I can. And must. What else?”

  “Warn her.”

  “How?”

  Craig finished his last glass of wine. It tasted as bitter as his thoughts. “I can see no way,” he admitted. Expect a girl to listen to a stranger, like Partridge, telling her he was saving her from Maritta? Or to listen to me? “She’d think we were—” he half smiled, in spite of his worry—“crazy.”

  “You just can’t warn people by telling them a little,” Partridge agreed. As I’ve found out, he thought. What would Rosie have done? he wondered. Told Craig as much? Yet compared to what Rosie and he knew, Craig had been told very little.

  “I’ll go to Mykonos,” Craig decided. “I’ll be there, at least.”

  “To keep an eye on her or for your own peace of mind?”

  “A little of each.”

  Partridge laughed. Then shook his head, and fell silent.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “Me, you, and me again.”

  “Don’t you want me to go to Mykonos?”

  Partridge took a very long and deep breath. This evening, on his roundabout journey back from Mimi’s shop, he had racked his brains for a reasonable approach to Craig on the subject of Mykonos; he had thought of every possible objection that might be made—this isn’t my business, I’ve a book to write, I’ve got just so much time and money, I hadn’t planned on Mykonos, why the hell do you have to drag me into this, why the hell can’t you take peaceful coexistence at its face value and stop rocking the boat, a plague on both your houses, there’s not much difference between You and Them, so why expect me to get excited? (It wasn’t that the amateurs were so much a responsibility, as he had said to Rosie, but that they were such damned wearisome arguers with prejudgments popping up all over the place like the dragon’s teeth in Colchis.) And suddenly, determinedly, no argument brooked, Craig had said, “I’ll go to Mykonos.” Partridge studied the tablecloth.

  “Because,” finished Craig, “I’m going in any case.”

  “Well—” Partridge hesitated, made a good effort at being uncertain.

  “I have a perfectly good excuse. Old trade-routes Craig. You see, the island of Delos can only be reached from Mykonos, unless you have a private yacht and can cruise around in your own good time. Delos is a collection of ruins now; no one lives there. But once it was pretty important in the struggle for power between Persians and Greeks, Asia Minor and Rome. It was a control point for a lot of trade, believe me. So, I’ve added Delos to my list. And I’ll have to stay in Mykonos. Simple.”

  “There’s only one way you could do this with safety.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Let us supply some people to keep a close eye on you. There will be several Americans, perhaps a couple of French, and—of course—Greeks. It’s their country, after all.”

  “Are you recruiting me?” And into what branch of Intelligence? Craig wondered. The FBI have liaison agents abroad co-operating with foreign police and security departments. But this operation sounds more to me like something involving either G2 or the CIA. Or perhaps there is some new outfit I haven’t even heard of. Still, Partridge is Rosie’s man—there is no doubt about that. And there is no doubt, too, that Rosie is completely authentic and reliable or else I wouldn’t have been commended to his charge by my most discreet and knowledgeable brother-in-law. “Are you?” Craig repeated, restraining his amusement as he watched Partridge’s blank face.

  “Good heavens, no. Although, of course, as well as keeping an eye on Veronica, and giving yourself some peace of mind, and studying trade routes, you perhaps possibly just could—do something for Uncle Sam? In the odd free moments, of course.”

  “Is this irony, sarcasm, or just smooth operation? All right. What can I do for you?”

  “You are one of the few people in this world who could recognise Heinrich Berg.”

  Craig’s joking stopped. “Will he be there?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Perhaps. You’d know, anyway, wouldn’t you? Certainly, his associates will be there. Maritta, for one.”

  “So,” Craig said slowly, the light dawning at last at the end of the long dark tunnel, “Uncle Peter knows Berg, and that’s how he heard my name before Veronica ever mentioned it to him. You could have told me. Why didn’t you?”

  “Everything in its place and proper time,” Partridge said gently.

  Craig smiled and wondered how much else he might have to learn in its proper place and time. “You’ll keep me informed, won’t you?” he asked, his smile broadening into a grin. “When it is suitable, of course.”

  “Of course,” Partridge assured him, wide-eyed, innocent. “When do you leave Paris?”

  “Any day. I thought I’d go to Italy first.”

  “Then avoid Milan. In fact, you could postpone Italy altogether—meanwhile. Try Athens. Stay at the Grande Bretagne; then we know where to reach you easily. By the beginning of May, be in Mykonos. Plan on two weeks there. We’ll book your hotels, and leave the reservations in your name at the American Express in Athens. We’ll pay for them.”

  “No need,” Craig interjected sharply. When had Partridge thought out all this flow of instruction
s?

  I bet there is, too, decided Partridge. “We’ll book, anyway. Have to know where all our friends and helpers are in place, you know. There’s some planning to do, so we’ll call this a day, shall we? I’ll see you tomorrow evening. In the bar, as usual. And you can tell me how Veronica couldn’t lunch with you.” He smiled briefly at Craig’s disbelief. “Just another of those crazy notions, of course, but don’t count on being allowed to meet her. That is, if her invitation to Mykonos is still valid.”

  “And if they have cancelled her invitation—then what?”

  “Then you can’t go, either.”

  “I still could use the Delos excuse.”

  Partridge studied Craig: a reliable face, bright intelligence in the eyes and brow, strength in the mouth, firm jaw line; a body kept in good condition, no flabbiness there, either. Partridge shook his head regretfully. “If they are so suspicious of you that they cancel her visit, then you’re not going.”

  “If I’m willing to risk it—”

  Partridge shook his head again. It was quite final. “Sorry,” he said. And he meant it. His hand went up to summon the waiter and pay the bill. “Okay?” he asked as he prepared to rise. He had a hard evening ahead of him.

  “Think I’ve got it all straight. And if Veronica doesn’t go, then I forget everything.”

  “Exactly.” As Partridge led the way to the door, he turned his head to say very quietly, a smile in his usually serious eyes, “And I hope you don’t talk in your sleep.”

  10

  Craig returned to the hotel alone. Partridge had pointed him in the direction of the Avenue de l’Opéra, from where he could easily strike towards home by well-known, well-lighted routes. Partridge himself had vanished into a dark street of closed butcher shops. It was scarcely nine o’clock. Early for Craig to go up to his room, but he was tired of the cosy little bar downstairs, of the same old faces and the same light chitchat around him. Besides, he had quite a number of thoughts to set in order. The place for that was upstairs in his dull bedroom, with no one else’s clinking glass or braying laughter to catch his attention. He was far from antisocial—his life was one long struggle to get his work done in spite of friends and the new Italian movie around the corner—but there were times when people blotted out thought. Perhaps that was what was so beguiling about them: a kind of sweet forgetting about the realities, a reassurance of freedom from anxiety as long as they all gathered together and joked their troubles away.

  He picked up his key and a letter from Sue at the porter’s desk. There was also a verbal message from the punctilious porter, himself, delivered with his usual lugubriousness. There had been a telephone call for Craig, a lady’s voice, no name. That was all. “When?” asked Craig. “Five minutes ago,” the porter said and, his duty done, turned to sorting out keys for the pigeonholes behind his desk.

  It couldn’t have been Veronica, Craig decided, as he crossed the worn carpet and entered the gilded cage of the elevator. He hadn’t had time to give her his address. So who was it? It didn’t matter much, if no name had been left. He forgot about it as soon as he opened Sue’s letter and was caught up in her effervescent style. Cheerful as usual, of course, hiding disquiet behind natural optimism. George was going to be in Washington for some time. News of his arrest in Moscow had been leaked, somehow, and had even reached a newspaper column, which made a new post abroad difficult—what foreign government wanted someone who had been publicly labelled as a spy to be stationed in its capital? Once a charge like that appeared in print, it became awkward to handle and difficult to ignore. It didn’t matter if—in George’s words—it was a god-damned lie. The lie was read, while the denial was ignored. “So,” wrote Sue, “that’s how a careless journalist can ruin the entire career of someone who has done more for his country than ever he has done with his little typewriter.” However (the word was heavily underlined, as if to cheer herself up), this otherwise quiet stay in Washington might be the chance to start raising a family. She had had two miscarriages in Moscow, but the doctor now said she was absolutely fine, and so wasn’t that wonderful? There had been some talk of poor Professor Sussman’s suicide, too, even on the flight over the Atlantic. Such a small world, wasn’t it, with so many unexpected people knowing everyone else? Father seemed much better and would visit them in June, when they hoped to have some air conditioning installed in their new Georgetown apartment. Take care and good luck...

  I’ll need both, he thought, as he dropped the letter on top of his dresser. As he took off his jacket and tie, and undid the top button of his shirt, he was wondering how, exactly, George’s story had “been leaked.” Purposely, of course. Sue’s phrase told him that. But by whom? He could guess the reason behind the planted rumour: George’s career was being spiked. How many other Georges were there, anyway, saying nothing, swallowing their disappointments, covering up the wounds they had received in the hidden war? And Sue—strange how people could keep silent about their personal tragedies. Two miscarriages... Good God, he thought, and I used to tease her about the time she was taking to produce a nephew for Christmas. Yes, people were surprising in the way they could disguise their feelings; or their thoughts; or even their actions. Never, in fact, underestimate anybody. A historian shouldn’t need to be reminded of that. He had three thousand years of human examples, taking his choice from any century, which could amaze—or shock. Nothing that actually happened could be called unbelievable nonsense, no matter how fantastic it appeared. I ought to have remembered that, he told himself, when I listened to Sussman.

  And if Sussman had not died, would he have listened to Rosie, to Partridge?

  Craig pulled the one chair closer to a small table, sat down, propped up his legs, began to go over in his mind all the facts, the hints, the suggestions that Partridge had given him. Heinrich Berg was not so astonishing once you thought about him in cold blood: a hidden Communist who openly joined the Nazi party. There had been at least one other man like Berg; now let’s see, what was that guy’s name—Richard Sorge? Sorge; the German-born Soviet spy who had been a trusted Nazi in the German Embassy in Tokyo during the Second World War. He had let Moscow know about Pearl Harbour in advance, too. Yes, that was something that needed remembering...

  There had been other men like Berg in those recent years, all shaping history in their own way. History wasn’t just a record of wars and peace conferences; history was a long and bitter story of intrigue and grab, of hidden movements and determined leaders, of men who knew what they wanted manipulating men who hadn’t one idea that anything was at stake: the innocent and the ignorant being used according to someone else’s plan. But every now and again, the plan would fail. Because people could be surprising, too, in their resistance—once they knew what was actually happening. Once they knew. But before they knew? Then we have men like Partridge, he thought, or else we could lose.

  And why did Partridge trust me? After all, I could be another Sorge, another Berg, waiting for my chance to infiltrate. How is he sure that I’m not a Soviet agent? We have our share of them in America. The British and Swedish and French varieties have been grabbing the headlines recently, but we’ve got them, too. And I could be one of them. A sleeper, they’d call me in the trade. Partridge isn’t trusting me for my honest grey eyes; or the books I’m planning to write; or the friends I have chosen. He isn’t judging me on these things, not by a long, long mile. They could be part of the myth I was busy creating for myself. Then why?

  It could be—yes, it could be that he knows a little of my life, enough of it to give him a measuring gauge. The army must have done some work on putting my history together when I was cleared for codes in Korea. But there was college after that, graduate work, teaching... Yet there haven’t been any unexplained gaps in that span of my life which could have been used for indoctrination or training. No unaccountable visits to strange places, no disappearances from public view for a few weeks each year. No peculiar hiatus there, or a jump here; no special introductions into s
ensitive jobs, no help from outside sources. Whatever I’ve attempted, I’ve done on my own steam; there have been a few almost-successes, a lot of failures, but they are all my own.

  Now a man like Berg cannot function alone. He gets a lot of assistance on his way up: the right recommendation to slip him into certain jobs, the right changes and promotions made with quiet help, always moving him closer to the centre of power or—just as important for his purposes—to the centres of influence. And those who help the Bergs in this world to infiltrate have helped others like him, too. That’s their purpose, their justification for existing. Yes, if I were in Partridge’s field, I’d be interested in recommendations. Because anyone ran make a mistake in recommending a man for a job, but no one can go on making recommendations that somehow always turn out to be against his own country’s interests. Unless he is, of course, just that—against his own country’s interests. If challenged, he will give that self-justification routine—who is to judge his country’s interests? Meaning himself and his friends, no doubt. There are some who just can’t resist playing God. And if you argue back that a country is a collection of people, not just him and his group, you’d be told that things weren’t quite so simple as that. Simple? It’s the majority that still counts if a country is free to decide its own interests. It may be a bad decider at times, slow and uncertain and blundering, but it does the deciding. It is in control. And that is the first of all its interests. None higher... Attack that, and you attack all of us. Including me. Simple? So are bread and water, rain and sun. The basics come first, then the elaborations. Anyway, there’s the reason that I met Jim Partridge half-way tonight. And perhaps his reason for trusting me is just as simple and basic: he has to.

  Of course, Partridge’s trust wasn’t excessive. I already knew about Berg—as the Nazi, at least; I knew there was an organisation behind him, and a hell of a time some of them gave me. I knew Veronica was going to Mykonos before he did—correction: before he told me about it. And I might as well admit that the idea of drifting into Mykonos, one pleasant morning in May, was already circling around the back of my mind. (It’s no farther away from Athens than East Hampton or Stonington from New York—perhaps less; week-end distance, easily. I’ve even travelled that for a week-end of skiing.) So Partridge only entrusted me with a little more than I already knew, perhaps to keep me from guessing wildly and blundering into the kind of situation where even professionals fear to tread. Certainly there’s a lot more to this picture than I am allowed to see. I may be told more when I reach Athens, more again on Mykonos. That depends on how I perform, I expect. Or, more likely, on what Jim Partridge needs of me. I have few illusions about Partridge, just as he has none about me.