The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  * * *

  At four o’clock his door opened and Partridge came in. Craig, almost asleep, stared at him, dizzily, then raised himself quickly. Partridge gestured for silence, cutting off Craig’s “Thank God you came” before it was uttered. He seemed normal, unconcerned, in spite of all the caution he was using. He had a quick nod of approval for the tightly drawn curtains and the meagre light, perhaps, too, for the unlocked door which had let him enter so quietly. He pocketed a key which he hadn’t needed to use as he bolted the door carefully behind him. Then, from the other pocket of his dressing-gown, he pulled out a small box of some kind, set it carefully on the small table, and touched a switch. Nothing happened as far as Craig could hear or see, but Partridge was obviously pleased with it. Only then did he come forward to join Craig, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Who was she?” he asked, his voice held as low as possible.

  “Maritta Maas.”

  “I nearly walked in, you know. I wanted to see you when I came back to the hotel, and got as far as your door. I heard voices. So I retreated. But boy oh boy, that was nearly a blooper.”

  “Would she have known you?”

  Partridge shook his head. “It’s better if she doesn’t see me until Mykonos.” If at all, he thought.

  “So you’ll be there.” And thank heaven for that.

  “Eventually.” The visit to Rhodes and a talk with O’Malley came first. Some quiet, if reluctant, permission had come from Washington, but it was obvious that this was the type of operation which might need emergency, on-the-spot decisions; regular channels would only delay critical action, conventional controls could mean defeat. Christopher Holland, who considered red tape as only something to be cut, had thought Partridge’s idea good. The rest would be up to O’Malley.

  He’s looking haggard, Craig thought. “When will—”

  “What did she want?” Partridge asked crisply.

  Craig poured it out. One thing about a sleepless night—it let him have the sequences of Maritta’s talk quite clear in his mind. He included her movements over by his dresser, her tender curiosity about his small possessions. (That had struck him as odd. If he had wanted to learn about a man, he would have looked at the books propped up against the mirror.)

  Partridge heard him without interruption, and then sat in silence when he had ended.

  Craig said, “The only bit of real truth in all that was the fact that Veronica was in love and got ditched. The rest is invention or manipulation of the facts.” He paused, but Partridge still frowned down at the rug as if its faded arabesques fascinated him. Craig tried again. “Can’t we give Veronica some protection?”

  Partridge nodded. “We can try. There’s a girl I know who might strike up a friendship with her on Mykonos. That would be the best angle, I think. We mustn’t lose contact with her. But we can’t warn her, either; we’ve already discussed all that. It still stands.”

  “I’m keeping an eye on her,” Craig said grimly.

  “Don’t stir up Maritta’s jealousy,” Partridge warned him. “There’s something personal there, too, not just her job—”

  “She’d be that way with any man. She may not want him, but no one near her is going to get him.”

  Partridge rose and crossed over to the dresser. He examined everything there, quickly, methodically, even running his fingers around the protruding edge of the wooden top. “Just seeing if she left any presents for you such as some gadget to bug this room. Did you express your opinion about her, for instance, when you came back in here?” The question was offhand, slightly joking, but Partridge was waiting for the answer.

  “By transference. I needed a drink and got my flask and dropped a tumbler—it broke over there by the bathroom door. So I cursed it heavily for the full minute it took me to get the pieces gathered together.” Craig’s voice was still grim, as if he couldn’t relax even over a comic incident.

  Partridge glanced at Sue’s letter as he turned away. Whatever he had been able to read, as Maritta must have seen it, gave him no cause for alarm. He studied Craig’s tense face. This won’t do, he thought. Nonchalantly, he said, “I guess she was really making a little test to see if you were a courier of some kind. Her friends go in for false lids on jars and boxes, hollow cuff links, all that stuff. They’re like the inquisitive carpenter who unscrewed his navel and his bottom fell off.” He searched in his breast pocket and said, “In fact, here’s one example I brought along for you tonight. The police found it on the man charged with Sussman’s murder. It proves he had more connections with Soviet espionage than a criminal usually has.” He held out a tie clip. “Go on, open it. I filled it to let you see the kind of thing you might expect to find inside.”

  Craig took the tie clip. It was thicker than most, but of the usual length and decoration. He examined it, felt he was now wrestling with a Chinese puzzle, pressed and pulled and cajoled the small strip of imitation gold without any effect. He could see no join, no seam in the heavy bar of the clip.

  “This way,” Partridge said, taking it from him, sliding the top apart. In the lower section, there nestled a small strip of microfilm protected by an equally small strip of tissue paper. “When that’s developed, you could fill twenty full-sized sheets of typing paper—perhaps even more—with the information it holds. Some of their couriers, the smart dressers, object to bearing a clip as bulky as this. They prefer cuff links. Their women use the lids of compacts, metal frames of handbags, lipsticks, watches with the works removed... And then there are the flashlight batteries, hollowed out; and the special spaces inside tubes of artists’ colours; toothpaste ditto. Et cetera, et cetera... You name them, we’ve found them. So have the British, the French, the Italians, and all the rest of our allies. You think I’m exaggerating? Inventing? Next time you visit Washington, I’ll ask my friend at FBI headquarters to show you some of the Soviet gadgets they’ve discovered right in the old USA. It’s quite a collection, believe me. And then we meet some jovial type at dinner who tells us that we have a fixation about Soviet espionage, and couldn’t we just forget the whole thing, relax the way he does, live and let live?” Partridge’s quiet voice broke into a brief but genuine laugh.

  Craig said nothing. But he really concentrated on the tie clip this time, his lips tight. He succeeded in opening it. He grinned as he handed the two pieces back to Partridge.

  “You fix it,” Partridge told him. “Their cuff links work on the same idea. Ingenious bastards, aren’t they?”

  “One thing’s certain,” Craig said, completing the small operation successfully. “They don’t trust the mail, these boys.”

  That’s better, thought Partridge, watching Craig’s face, listening to the tone of his voice. “Another thing’s certain,” he said as he pocketed the tie clip. “They’ve given you just about enough basic training for my taste. I want you to pack and leave. Oh yes, telephone Veronica, but be damned casual. Play it Maritta’s way and keep the Clark girl safe. Yes, safe.” He paused to let that sink in. “And a lot more will stay safe, too. We are in too good a position to throw the game away now. I don’t think they have any real suspicions about what we actually know. Sure they were suspicious of you, but they’re suspicious of everyone, including each other. They don’t know, for instance that we have been playing along with them to give them confidence, or that we have been reacting to every move they are taking. Oh, well—perhaps not every move; that’s a counter-espionage dream, too good to be true. Still, we are in there guessing, with some very solid facts to back up the possibilities. So when you get to Mykonos, play it very cool with Veronica. You are bound to see her—it’s a small place. But let us do the worrying about her. Okay?”

  “Will you have time?” Craig asked wryly.

  “We’ll have to make the time.” Then Partridge’s voice became brisk. “In Athens, we are going to play it very loose indeed. We won’t make any effort to get in touch with you unless there is some real emergency.”

  “Meaning I’m back on their da
nger list again?” Craig was grinning.

  “But,” said Partridge as if he hadn’t heard that suggestion, “if a Frenchman makes friends with you, don’t resist. His name is Yves Duclos. He will keep you in touch with me. It’s safer that way. Maritta’s bosses don’t expect the French to be co-operating with us. Let’s surprise them about that, shall we?”

  “It’s good to hear we can surprise them sometimes.”

  Partridge smiled at that. “You saw Duclos with me last Monday evening, in the bar downstairs.”

  “I remember. That’s when I came in, raging quietly. There was a redhead with you, too, wasn’t there?”

  “Can you describe Duclos for me?”

  “Black hair, bright blue eyes, good healthy colour in his cheeks. I couldn’t see his height, of course. He looked tall, sitting down.”

  “Just medium height when he stands—five feet eight. Around one hundred and sixty-five pounds. Think you can recognise him easily?”

  “I think so. Of course, I didn’t really look at him too hard.”

  “He’s a Breton. And he always wears a gold signet ring with an odd twisted design. If you ask him, he will tell you it’s fourteenth century from Rennes. Got that?”

  Craig nodded.

  Partridge was frowning at the rug again, hesitating. “Yes,” he said at last, “I’d better pass on the warning. One of the men you met at your sister’s party is working with Maritta. He collects information; she passes it on. We expect him to appear on Mykonos.”

  “What?” Craig asked sharply. He lost his breath, regained it. “What?”

  Partridge nodded. That was as far as he would go. He was tempted, just a little, to add that the man could be one of two. But what was the point? Craig wouldn’t have been made any the wiser by an exact name. No use loading him with extra information that would only be dangerous for him to carry around. Two men... Is one being used, like Veronica Clark, to cover up the man we want? Partridge suddenly wondered. They are both travelling in the same direction—the Aegean area. Both have good contacts, friends in sensitive jobs who’d trust them; both would make useful enemy agents. Both, again, have spent some time in Russia; both could have been recruited there; both have been living normal lives since they came to Paris.

  Craig was still recovering from the shock. He asked slowly, “But you don’t know his name?”

  “Not yet,” Partridge said. Robert Maybrick Bradley, with a security job, no less, in NATO... Edward Maclennan Wilshot, who has written many articles on NATO and its problems... Wilshot gets a free-lance assignment from a French magazine, not always friendly to NATO, to cover the eastern Mediterranean on the day that Bradley claims the leave that is due him. That’s the latest report from Rosie on the subject. But who is being used to cover for whom? That’s a new angle. Better get Rosie on to it right away. Unless he has thought about it, of course... No, this is possibly my own idea, thanks to Veronica Clark. It could, it just could solve the problem of two men with similar journeys at the same time near the same target area. “It’s been a bit of a puzzle,” he admitted. “Sorry I’m so vague. But after Maritta’s performance tonight, I think you needed the warning, such as it is. It would be easy to assume that everyone at your sister’s party was just as trustworthy as old Rosie.”

  “How is he?”

  “Still worrying about his weight. Played bowls, last night. Golfing on Saturday.” Partridge picked up the small box from the table, went over to the door, gave an easy salute and—after a careful look into the corridor—slipped outside.

  See you on Mykonos, Craig thought, and went to bed. Strangely enough, this time he slept.

  * * *

  He awoke at ten on a bright cool morning, and before he shaved or ordered breakfast he called Veronica.

  “There’s this matter of lunch,” he began. “When can I pick you up?”

  She seemed rather taken aback by this brusque approach. “I’m terribly sorry. I can’t manage lunch today. I’ve got some business to—”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I should be free by four o’clock,” she said shyly, “but I suppose you have plans of your own for the afternoon.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. I’m just about to leave Paris.”

  “I’m really awfully sorry that I disappointed—”

  “Don’t give it a thought. That’s the way things go... Well, I suppose this is goodbye.”

  “Oh!” Then she rallied. “Have a very good trip.”

  “The same to you.”

  “Goodbye,” she said, quietly and gently and—he hoped—a little sadly.

  He replaced the receiver, sat staring at it for a full minute. Then he rose, thinking now of Maritta, and his eyes weren’t so pleasant to see.

  11

  Yves Duclos arrived at the Athens airport early on Sunday afternoon. He had taken his journey from Paris in easy stages: Thursday had seen him in Milan for a quiet talk with Italian Intelligence: Friday, he had been in Florence to meet some furniture designers; Saturday, he had spent in Rome purely for pleasure... Altogether, it had been an excellent trip without any alarms or tensions. And the four days ahead of him in Athens should be fairly easy, too. It was always the same—after a week of work and urgency, of meetings and plans and problems and decisions, he was now in the waiting period. But it was not often that the waiting could be done in a place as beautiful as Athens.

  The flight had brought him right over the city, with the Acropolis in full view beneath him. Like most of his fellow passengers, he was still vibrating from that spectacular approach: a precipice rising out of city roofs, golden-white columns growing out of rocky crags, and—within seconds—a landing by a bay of blue rippling water. Not so far out there, south and eastward, lay Mykonos... But that, he thought as he walked briskly into the low-roofed hall where the Customs officers waited, would come later. He had four days, meanwhile, to enjoy Athens. He might manage a visit to Delphi, too; it was the French archaeologists, after all, who had dug the place out of its rubble and put the pieces together. His first visit to Greece certainly ought to include Delphi. “Nothing to declare,” he told the Greek who had checked his two cases. Nothing except good intentions and high expectations.

  Duclos picked up his luggage and started towards the wall of glass windows which lay at the end of the small Customs Hall, separating it from a corridor packed with waiting people. Across the corridor, he could see more windows and wide-open doors with the bright sunshine pouring in from a wide square or plaza. No doubt the buses and taxis were out there. In half an hour, he would be reaching Athens itself.

  From the crowd of people pressed close to the corridor’s glass windows, a pleasant voice said, “Monsieur Duclos?” It was a small, light-boned man in a pale grey suit, his hat in his hand, a smile on his face, his dark eyes questioning politely. He was middle-aged, sallow in complexion, dark in hair and moustache. Greek, decided Duclos, as he listened to the halting French, bravely tried. “Monsieur Duclos! At your service. I am from the office of Colonel Zafiris.” He showed a small identification card, tactfully, briefly. “There is one of your countrymen who has been waiting to meet you. He came yesterday from Paris, from Inspector Galland. There is some new development about a prisoner of the inspector’s which could be of importance—but here he is, himself.” He pointed to a younger man, about the same height and weight as Duclos, fair-haired, blue-eyed, who waited with hands plunged in the pockets of his light coat, a cigarette between his lips, a bored expression on his handsome face. “I am Tillier,” the Frenchman said, coming to life as he looked at Duclos. “I did not have the pleasure of meeting you on your visit to Galland last Tuesday morning. I only saw you very briefly as you left. Yes, the murderer of Professor Sussman has talked a little since you interviewed him. But we shall leave that to discuss in your hotel. We could not find where you are staying, so we had to meet you here. Let me help you.” He made a gesture towards one of Duclos’ suitcases.

  “I can manage, thank y
ou,” Duclos said. He went through the nearest door and found himself on the crowded pavement filled with noise and bustle and bright sunshine. Tillier was the detective who had been assisting Galland in the Sussman case, that he knew. And this man—possibly a Norman by colouring and accent—was definitely French. What was more, if Sussman’s murderer had given any information at all, then that could be of great importance. It might mean a change, perhaps subtle, perhaps bold, in the plan that Duclos and Partridge had agreed upon for Mykonos. Colonel Zafiris was Greek Counter-intelligence, that Duclos also knew. Yet why this tie-in between Greek Intelligence and Paris police? Unless Sûreté itself had telescoped action, decided that the Greeks should learn along with Duclos whatever Galland had discovered. Certainly there wasn’t much time now for last-minute conferences. And yet, and yet—Duclos looked around at the family groups, at the mixture of rich and poor, of nationalities, happy faces, worried faces, no one giving one good English God-damn about anyone else except his own problems. He looked at Tillier, who was standing beside him, and tried to measure him. The face was vaguely familiar: he could have seen it last Tuesday as he left Galland’s office. Yes, he had seen it. Last Tuesday? He said, “There’s too much crowd here. Better if we separate. I’ll go by bus. You can follow me in your car. You’ll find me at the King George Hotel. I’ll expect you at five o’clock. Does that suit you?” By then, he thought, I’ll have checked with Zafiris as well as Paris.