The Venetian Affair

by Helen Macinnes

  He ran on, leaving Milt staring, and the students translating his words. There was a quick clatter of metal heels as the young men surged down onto the quay. (Milt, to his credit, was dragging Sue along, too, saying gloomily, “Might as well be back in New York.”) The students would find Zorzi, all right. He could hear them whooping into the sotto portico, as he approached Arnaldi’s shop. He passed it, his eyes searching for the alley. He was relieved to see the boy, Luigi, stationed near its dark entrance as if he had been waiting for him.

  “Did you—?” Luigi began, but Fenner was already in the alley. Luigi didn’t follow him at once. He stood looking along the calle toward the bridge. The students’ clatter had probably made him curious, Fenner thought as he concentrated on the alley. It twisted abruptly to his right. The light, at the corner wall, was worse than meagre. He counted three doors ahead of him, and then noticed a fourth in a very dark patch of shadow. Was that Arnaldi’s back entrance? As he hesitated, he heard Luigi’s light steps running after him. The boy brushed past him, his face worried, his eyes questioning. But he kept silent, only knocked gently on that fourth door; repeated the knock; waited; knocked again. The door opened quietly; Luigi and Fenner slipped inside. Arnaldi nodded to them and switched on the light as he locked the heavy door behind them.

  They were standing in a large cluttered space, half-storage, half-workroom, with a small stove in one corner for bachelor cooking. There was a pleasant smell of freshly made coffee. And from the next room, through its firmly closed door, came laughter and a voice (Rosie’s?) raised jokingly. The mood was merry, Fenner thought, and some of his tensions left. “Get the police,” he told Luigi. “Take them to the big gondola moored at the far end of the sotto portico, on the other side of the bridge. They’ll find a man there, badly hurt.”

  But Luigi wasn’t listening. He was talking Italian, far too quickly for Fenner to follow. Arnaldi, his smile of welcome vanishing, burst into a vehement flow of angry words. Luigi nodded, avoided Fenner’s eyes, and left. “What is it?” Fenner asked sharply. “What is it?”

  The door to the other room opened. “Fenner?” Rosie called to him. “Come in, come in. D’you know the lucky guy who was to receive the letter? Old Chris, here. Come and see his face.” Christopher Holland, in pyjamas and dressing-gown, was standing at a table spread with some papers and a large map of Venice, studying a sheet of paper. “Very funny, very funny,” he was saying bitingly. There were two other men in the room: a small, neat Frenchman with an upraised eyebrow and an amused smile; a larger, rounder man—Italian, by his clothes—pursing his genial lips, shaking his head in sympathy even as he restrained his laughter. “Joke is over,” Rosie agreed. “Any trouble with Ballard?” he asked Fenner as he entered.

  “He is in my room. I told him to wait there until you sent someone. The password is ‘Florian’.”

  “It is, is it?”

  “There has been bad trouble near the bridge. Better call the police. Where’s Claire? Upstairs?”

  Four faces stared at him blankly for a second. Rosie, as if he couldn’t believe Fenner’s question, moved into the storage room, looked quickly around it and back at Arnaldi. “Where is—” he began.

  Arnaldi burst into a stream of explanation.

  “Marco—” Rosie called to the Italian Intelligence officer, “what’s he saying? That she left?”

  Marco nodded. “Not long ago—perhaps seven, eight minutes, no more. She walked to the bridge to cancel an arrangement with someone called Zorzi. Also she hoped to meet Mr. Fenner. He was late, and she was worried. Women—” Marco shrugged his shoulders. Women worried about such small things. “Arnaldi has now sent Luigi to find her and tell her that Mr. Fenner is safely here.”

  Fenner was already in the storeroom, making for the back door. Holland darted after him and caught hold of his shoulder.

  “Wait!” Rosie moved quickly and gripped Fenner by the wrist. As Fenner tried to pull free, Rosie twisted it behind his back. “Stop it, Bill, stop it! You’ll break my arm. Listen, man—listen! You can’t run out there.”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool,” Holland told him. “Rosie’s right. We can’t go dashing in and out of that alley.”

  “Zorzi is tied up, unconscious,” Fenner shouted at him. “They took his gondola—I saw them leave. Claire—”

  “Pipe down, Bill! Do you want everyone out there to hear?”

  “Come away from the door,” Rosie said. “Come on, Bill. Tell us everything. Then we’ll know what is to be done.” He looked at the Italian, whose face was grave. “Police?” he queried softly.

  Marco asked quickly, “A gondolier was attacked? His gondola stolen?” That was indeed bad business.

  Fenner said tensely, restraining his impatience, “Yes. I found him in a freight gondola, at the sotto portico just below the bridge.”

  Marco moved to the telephone.

  “Come on, Bill,” Rosie said, releasing his wrist, getting him back into the sitting-room, closing its door. “Now tell us—”

  “They’ve got Claire.” His anger was rising again, along with the hideous feeling of complete helplessness. “Claire is—”

  “We don’t know that. She may walk back in here with Luigi. Could you have missed her on the street to the bridge?”

  “No!”

  “She may have walked on to the hotel when she didn’t find Zorzi. Could you have missed her while you were in that sotto portico?”

  Yes, that was possible. It was a slim hope, but Fenner grasped at it. His voice became more controlled. So did his mind. Quickly, he told them about the waiting men, and Zorzi. But as he talked, the slim hope vanished. He knew. He knew they had Claire.

  The others listened intently, exchanged a brief glance as he ended.

  “C’est Kalganov,” the Frenchman said. His eyes held no illusions.

  Marco, whose call to the police was over, lifted the telephone receiver again. “I shall tell our men to block the Ca’ Longhi canal. They could stop the gondola. Quietly, of course.”

  Rosie nodded. If, he added to that, Kalganov has had her taken there. Kalganov? This had his touch, all right. He has dropped the Robert Wahl pattern of action. But why? Why take such a daring risk at this stage? Was he so sure of success that risks could be taken? If so, he could not know how close he was to failure, to complete discovery. He could not know that Claire had friends here in Venice, powerful friends, ready to act. That was certain, Rosie decided. For once, we will surprise Kalganov. “Marco—can you advance your plans?”

  “To what time?” Marco asked worriedly, pausing in his telephone call.

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  Marco did some quick mental calculations. “Yes, all the material is ready, all the preparations. Just a matter of final instructions. I shall have to leave here very quickly.”

  “We’ll all be leaving. Very quickly.”

  Marco nodded, began speaking urgently into the telephone.

  “Will you all wait until Luigi gets back?” Christopher Holland asked the room angrily. First they said that Claire was probably safe, and then they all started talking of Kalganov, and advancing plans for the assault on Ca’ Longhi. Not that he had much hope, himself. No, the more you thought of Fenner’s story, the worse everything looked. “I blame myself,” Holland said, giving Fenner something else to think about. “We were having a conference in here, so I asked Claire to brew us a pot of coffee.” That had been a tactful excuse to get her out of the room where subjects were being discussed that weren’t for Claire to hear. Her job was over, finished. (“Fancy loose and foot free,” she had told Holland, holding up the letter, laughing. “Assignment over, isn’t it?”) Yes, her job was over with the delivery of the letter to Rosie. And she had dropped her guard. As we all do, Holland thought, when tension ends. I ought to have remembered that, but with all the excitement—the letter, Marco’s plan, the arrangements—“I’m sorry, Bill,” Holland said awkwardly.

  Fenner wasn’t listening. He moved to the door.
Luigi was here. And he came alone. In his hand, he held a small blue bag.

  “Where did you find it?” Rosie asked. Chris Holland was already hurrying upstairs.

  “Near the bridge. Down beside—”

  “Why did you let her go there?” Fenner burst out.

  “I was at my post.” Luigi was hurt. “I couldn’t leave it.”

  Fenner caught control of himself. “Sorry. Sorry, Luigi. It wasn’t your fault.” He looked at Rosie.

  “Yes,” Rosie said, “the fault is mine. It goes back a long way—to Saigon.” Some new speculation formed in his quick, dark eyes. “Saigon,” he repeated, as if that answered a question.

  The Frenchman, who had spent the last five minutes studying the letter, looked up to say impatiently, “The fault is with Kalganov. And with Lenoir. None of us would be here in Venice tonight if it were not for those men.” His cold logic was salutary. The surge of emotion was over in the tense room.

  “Better get back to your posts. We start leaving soon,” Rosie told Arnaldi and his son. He closed the room door behind them.

  “Then what?” Fenner demanded.

  “Chris will brief you,” Rosie said, as Holland, some clothes on his back, the rest in his hand, came at a rattling run down the steep stairs. He turned quickly to Marco, who had just finished giving his last instructions over the telephone. “All set?”

  “Completely,” Marco told him, putting down the receiver with a flourish. He was a beaming picture of confidence. “Have no fear, my friend. It has been well prepared. We are ready. At half-past eleven—” Marco made an expressive gesture with upflung arms—“and we call the fireboat. We will give you some excitement,” he promised. He was buttoning his neat dark jacket, picking up his black Homburg, grey suede gloves, silver-headed stick. He looked like a sedately prosperous civil servant, returning from a Sunday visit to his grandchildren. He knew more about arson than the terrorists he had tracked down in the course of duty. Tonight, thought Rosie, we depend completely on Marco and the skill he has learned from the men he has caught. Thank God, too, for men like Marco, who aren’t vote-catching politicians cooperating with allies only when it suits the climate of opinion. Without Marco, where would we be tonight?

  He grasped Marco’s hand, gave it a firm grip. “Thank you. And good luck.” Marco left, with a wave for everyone. “You’re next to go, Jules,” Rosie told the Frenchman.

  Jules had already looked at his watch. Three minutes, and he would leave. “I shall report to Paris that we have the letter. After that, I shall join you at Ca’ Longhi. Just about the time when our wine merchant is being flown out of Zurich.” The idea pleased Jules.

  “No one knows of his arrest?” That was important. One hint of Trouin’s extradition, and Kalganov would be warned.

  “Not even his little Communist secretary.”

  “By bedtime, she may begin to wonder where he is.”

  “By bedtime, she will have other worries.” The Frenchman looked at the letter on the table. “That could be very useful to make Trouin start talking.”

  Rosie shook his head. “You can have one of the copies that Fernand Lenoir must have at Ca’ Longhi.”

  “He may destroy them when Marco’s little excitement starts.”

  “I doubt if there will be time.” Rosie was polite, but obdurate.

  The Frenchman looked with regret at the letter. “A pity. It would certainly loosen Trouin’s tongue.”

  “He will talk, in any case. He is no Jan Aarvan.”

  The Frenchman nodded. He glanced at his watch and moved to the door. “A bientöt! And please leave Monsieur Fernand to me.”

  “He is all yours. At half-past eleven!”

  With a polite bow, the Frenchman left. Rosie said to Holland, “You’re next, in four minutes.” He turned back to the telephone. Once he made contact, he began speaking quickly, giving seemingly precise directions, but nothing he was saying made sense to Fenner.

  “You see,” Holland said, drawing Fenner’s attention to him, as he knotted his tie and pulled on his jacket, “it is less than six minutes since Luigi got back, and everything is moving.”

  “I see.” Six minutes... six hours, six days.

  “Cut out the bitterness. It gets us nowhere,” Holland said sharply.

  “I can be bitter with myself, can’t I?”

  “No—you can’t afford any emotions whatsoever. We’re going into action. Keep your mind cold, your reflexes quick.”

  Fenner found a cigarette, lit it, took a deep long drag. “What’s the action?” His voice and face were hard.

  “A little fire. Nothing dangerous, mostly a nice cloud of black smoke. Marco will see that the fireboat is there at once. And, of course, the firemen will have to go through Ca’ Longhi to make sure nothing is smouldering. There will be a number of volunteers who’ll push in with them. Like to be one?”

  Fenner said nothing. But his eyes held new interest.

  “The police will enter then, too. Tricky business to arrange. If we simply sent the police knocking at the door, there would be some delay in getting it opened—a lot of talk back and forth about illegal entry and search—enough delay, at least, to allow Lenoir to get rid of any evidence and let the Grand Canal take the blame for two deaths.” He had used the callous phrase purposely. He was watching Fenner. Damned, Holland was thinking, if I’ll risk taking anyone along with me on any action unless he has a good grip on himself. But the American had taken his advice: he was in tight control of his emotions.

  “Sandra Fane,” Holland went on, in the same quiet voice, “is in a pretty bad spot. But Claire? No. I don’t think so. If Kalganov had wanted her killed, she would have been found under the bridge instead of her handbag. She could be a hostage, held to blackmail you—keep you immobilised.”

  “But why? We gave nothing away. They had even stopped paying attention to us.”

  “Lenoir stopped paying attention. But Kalganov—” Holland shrugged. “He always has some reason. But this time, I rather think he has made a mistake.”

  Bill Fenner looked at his watch.

  “We all make mistakes,” Holland insisted, “even Kalganov.”

  Cold, cold comfort. Fenner stirred restlessly, his eyes on his watch. “Do we have to wait?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yes,” Holland said most definitely. “We wait. We can make no move against Ca’ Longhi until Marco’s men are ready. Surprise—that’s our strongest weapon, Bill. Calm down, calm down. We’ll get Kalganov. He’s in Venice. A general alert has been sent out.” He glanced over at Rosie, who was finishing his long call. “This is the first time we’ve ever been ahead of Kalganov. We’ll get him.”

  “So you have all decided to call him Kalganov,” Fenner said grimly. That might sharpen their morale, but it only plunged him into deeper depression. Kalganov. And Claire... What chance did she have with him?

  “It’s his name. We are sure of that now.”

  Fenner raised his eyes from his watch. “How?”

  “Through Neill Carlson. He finished a report on Robert Wahl shortly before he left Paris—a study of time and place in Wahl’s travels abroad, coinciding with outbreaks of violence and terror. That report was compared yesterday with our files on Kalganov’s known activities. The times and places matched.”

  “That won’t be enough evidence for a trial.”

  “No. And so he will be arrested and tried as Robert Wahl, conspirator in an assassination attempt. But in our minds, it will be Kalganov who is sentenced. That’s one file we can close at last.”

  “If Wahl is executed,” Fenner said savagely. There was going to be a lot of sympathy stirred up for a poor unsuspecting film producer who had been used by crooked politicians.

  “You’d be more sure of closing that file if you could have him tried as Kalganov.” The man who stated, fifteen years ago, that he had killed over two thousand men...

  “We may manage that,” Holland said very quietly.

  “But no one can identify
him as Kalganov except Jan Aarvan.” And he wouldn’t talk. Nor would Lenoir.

  “Or perhaps Sandra Fane?”

  Fenner’s lips tightened. Ironical, he thought, that Sandra was, at this moment, more important to Rosie and his friends than Claire. He looked at his watch again. “Time to go.”

  “Still a minute left.” Holland had picked up the letter as Rosie left the telephone. “What do you plan to do with this little document?”

  Rosie came out of his own thoughts. “Burn it.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Holland said. “May I?” He had his lighter ready.

  “It’s addressed to you, isn’t it?”

  Holland watched the flaming paper curl. “I’m sorry to disappoint Jules. He wanted it. But it’s too good—a masterly job, one I wouldn’t even trust to most-secret, triple-locked files.” His foot stamped on the black gleaming ashes, pounding them into a smear of charcoal dust on the floor. “Arnaldi will give me hell,” he said, smiling.

  “Come on,” Fenner told him from the door. He looked at a strangely silent Rosie. “Did you get any report about the gondola? Was the canal blocked in time?”

  Rosie shook his head. “Two gondolas reached Ca’ Longhi just before Marco’s orders got through. One brought a visitor—”

  “Who?” asked Holland quickly.

  “Couldn’t be recognised in the darkness. He was expected: he didn’t have to wait at the door. Just slipped in—”

  “And Claire?” Fenner asked. “She was in the other gondola?”

  “Yes. At least, two men carried something—”

  “Come on!” Fenner said savagely, and left.

  “Keep with him,” Rosie told Holland. “He’s in an ugly mood.” He paused and added angrily, “Why the hell wasn’t I told that he and Claire—?”

  “They weren’t. It must be one of those first-take, fast developers. That does happen.”

  “But why now, of all times?”

  “Something always goes wrong,” Holland said philosophically. “You ought to know that, old boy. Coming!” he called to Fenner, who had shouted back to him. “And I thought I had got him all quietened down,” he told Rosie as he left. “See you at the café on the square; just before eleven-thirty?” And then the balloon goes up, he thought, as he hurried through the storeroom. Fenner was waiting, grim-faced and silent. But he did listen to Holland’s quick instructions on how they’d leave separately, and where they’d meet.