Strange that Sandra was the one who would escape. Where was justice now? Very much there, she realised sadly: Justice blindfolded, so that she would play no favourites, and Kalganov could be caught. You’ll have to settle for that, she told herself: what is unfair to you is fair to others. How else would people be able to go on spending pleasant Sundays in their free-walking, free-talking, free-thinking world? Kalganov, uncaught, would end all that: if not this time, some time. He had the will, and he had the cunning, and he was gathering the power. Strange, she thought, the Russians may yet be thankful to us—although they’ll never admit it—if we can stop Kalganov. Unless, of course, they want a return to Stalin the Awful... Ivan the Terrible... Kalganov the Frightful.
All right, she told herself, you’ve talked yourself into accepting Sandra’s importance. She comes first. You’re a poor second. As far as the Kalganov problem goes.
Strange, though, so many things are strange... For eight years, you’ve had no personal need to survive. Since Jim’s death, no real meaning in your own life. All you wanted was the cause of Jim’s death removed, the cause of those other murders exposed, the blackmail of terrorism and the threat of violence gutted out—the way cancer is destroyed before it runs through the whole body. And you had fine words to speak: you said you’d die happy if, in one small way, you could help. You told Rosie that. You meant it, too. You still mean it. Only now, today, you would like to have helped and stayed alive, too. Strange... on the day you found life anew, you may lose it.
She closed her eyes. She allowed herself one long, unhappy sigh. The mice rustled. She came back to the room again. She stared at the shutters. How long shall I be kept here? How long have I been here?
She couldn’t even tell that. Her watch had been taken off her wrist. Regrets and sad thoughts vanished. She was suddenly angered by the very meanness, the calculation of that theft: she was to know neither place nor time. She stopped staring hopelessly at the shutters and looked around for something to use on them.
Spindle-leg chairs, a broken marble table, cracked or spotted mirrors in gilded frames, antiquated footstools, a carved chest, chipped golden cupids, a high old-fashioned trunk with carved lid, smaller trunks of battered tin, an elaborately carved candlestick with broken feet and a chunk of wax still in its holder, uncovered boxes exposing a clutter of yellow-paged books half-fallen from crumbling bindings, a music stand tra-la, a do-re-me recorder, two repellent busts of Roman matrons, inlaid trays, broken chessman...
Her eyes travelled again over the most likely objects. Quietly, she moved through the crush of junk. She was searching for something strong enough to act as a lever, force the shutters apart; something sharp enough to try to turn the padlock. Everything was made of wood, or marble, or plaster, or glass, or tin. Inside the large trunk, she found faded brocades and silks. She picked up the tall candlestick—wood, too, but a solid piece of carving—and studied the remains of its broad candle. The wax was so hardened by age that even a mountaineering mouse had only fretted its edge with gnawings. Possible?
She hit the squat chunk of wax against the edge of the marble table. It split after three quick, hard blows, and the candle could be gouged away from its holder. She found what she had hoped for: a metal point almost two inches long on to which the original candle, tall and heavy, had been jammed for safe anchorage. She found, too, something she didn’t want: after the sound of the blows, someone outside the door had walked a few heavy paces, and stood listening. She waited. The footsteps receded again, and silence returned. The guard must have sat down on a chair; the guard, by the footsteps, must be a man. So she knew what was outside in that direction. She would have to work cautiously.
She carried the largest footstool over to the window to give her ten more inches of height. She examined the padlock more closely. Its keyhole was too small for the thick point of the candle holder. That was a bad disappointment. She would have to concentrate on the shutters. It should have been a simple job, but it wasn’t. The candlestick wasn’t too heavy, but it was cumbersome to handle. Its spike, once she had managed to insert it between the two shutters, refused to catch on either wooden edge to give her enough leverage. It slipped, held, slipped, almost caught again, slipped. If she could have risked noise, it would have been easier. She was almost weeping in frustration when she felt the point hold as if, this time, it meant to keep its grip. She pressed, pressed. One shutter trembled for an instant, sighed, and moved free.
She pulled it inward, as far as it would come. She had her full inch of view. Of black nothing. Idiot, she told herself, kicking off her shoes and running over to the light switch near the door. She remembered the guard outside, looked down at the gap of door above the threshold. Not always an idiot, she thought, as she dropped her coat along the edge of the door, and switched off the light. She could see what lay outside.
It was a view of night sky, black suffused with red. So she was in Venice—that was a city’s glow—and not in some remote house far out on the shores of the lagoon. Stars, bright when the light clouds drifted away from them. A small piece of moon. Some distance away, directly opposite her, there were roofs, a row of them, broken in silhouette, possibly belonging to large and handsome buildings. But she could only see their unlighted upper floors—her downward view of them was blocked by some kind of balcony outside this window. Did they rest on water, or on some broad piazza near water? (She had been brought here by gondola, hadn’t she?) To see the ground floor of that row of houses, she would have to stand higher, be able to look down over the high balustrade that cut the view in half. She would have to drag apart some of the clutter behind her, pull that marble-topped table to the window.
The idea, when she had switched on the light again and could study the table, defeated her. She couldn’t move it six inches. She stood there, dispirited, looking down at the silks and satins in the opened trunk. It was made of light wood, covered with leather. The lid felt thin to her touch. Perhaps she could empty the trunk, drag it gently over to the window. But even as she pulled at a piece of heavy brocade, white turned yellow, she knew she was too tired, too weak. She sat down on a low chest beside the trunk, her hand fallen on the silks. She’d rest for a little. Opening those shutters had been harder work than she had thought at the time. Or else she had hope then; and now it was slipping away.
Bill—what had happened to him? Where was he? Her thoughts kept being forced back to him, as if they were being drawn...
She raised her head. From the silent darkness outside there had come a ship’s warning travelling over water—not the heavy blast from a liner or freighter, but the peremptory little siren she had heard today on a water-bus travelling to the Lido. Could that be a vaporetto plying its way up the Grand Canal? She rose, moved quickly to the door, switched off the light, returned to the window. The shutters had swung closed again. She forced the inch of space open. As if to answer her question, she heard music floating toward her, at first faint, louder, very loud; less loud, decreasing, passing. O sole mio. So it was the Grand Canal down there, far below her. And there were gondolas, with their people looking up to admire the view on either side. And even if the dark houses far opposite were museums or offices, closed for the night, there were other houses near them where people lived and stepped out on to their balconies to look at the night. People...
She picked up a shoe and wedged its toe into the little opening between the shutters. That would hold them. She ran to the light switch, her exhaustion forgotten.
She flicked the switch on. And waited. She flicked it off. Count a slow five, switch on. Count a slow five, switch off. Count; on. Count; off...
That was all she could do. That, and hope.
26
Hurrying, but not too alarmed, Robert Wahl had made his quiet return to Ca’ Longhi. A black gondola in a small dark canal, an unlighted door waiting to open for him, and he was safely inside the heavy walls. He was more annoyed than worried. Lenoir’s guarded telephone call only told him that there
was trouble with Sandra, that he was needed. He arrived, expecting to stay for ten minutes, blaming Lenoir for any difficulty that had arisen: Sandra Fane had been obedient enough when he had left her.
Then he heard the details. The problem had developed a different dimension. The quiet, understanding, wisely tolerant smile of film producer Wahl was wiped out; the handsome face became Kalganov’s mask, eyes narrowed and calculating, mouth grim and unrelenting. The voice changed, too, from ironical innuendo to savage contempt, goading Lenoir into a flood of self-justification.
The situation was not out of hand, Lenoir insisted at the end of his detailed report. Sandra had realised her situation was hopeless. She had confessed. She was in the library, next door—writing out a statement of her guilt. Martin was guarding her.
Kalganov listened impatiently. “And what have you done about Ballard?”
“Tarns reported he was in the Vittoria bar. I took immediate action, of course.”
“Such as?”
“I had a man pick him up at the hotel.”
“How?”
“He met Ballard coming out of the bar. He persuaded him to walk to the front door.”
“With what?”
“A gun concealed under a raincoat over his arm. It was discreetly done. Ballard made no trouble. He was taken completely by surprise.” Lenoir’s temper was shortening, his voice became more clipped.
“And at the front door?”
“I had a motorboat waiting.” Lenoir paused. “Naturally.”
“And the letter? Did Ballard have the letter?”
“I am waiting for a telephone call about that.”
Kalganov’s silence lasted a long minute. At last, he said, “They will not find it. He will swear he never saw it. That is why he walked out so quietly from the hotel. Nothing could be proved against him, and so he felt safe.”
“He also felt the gun hard at his ribs.” Lenoir eased his voice. “I think he still has the letter. That could be the only reason why he was in the Vittoria bar—to meet Fenner and give him the letter.”
“Fenner,” Kalganov said very softly, and frightened even Lenoir.
Nervously he glanced at the telephone. “We’ll soon know whether Ballard has the letter or not. Meanwhile, we have to deal with Sandra’s written confession. It is important to us.”
“To you, particularly. The first question that Moscow will ask when they hear of her treason will be, ‘How did Comrade Lenoir live with this woman for three years and not notice anything wrong?’ You are in trouble, Comrade, if she does not confess correctly.”
And so are you, Lenoir thought. “I am aware of that,” he said coldly.
“I hope you have instructed her adequately.”
Lenoir almost smiled. “Certainly, I persuaded her to leave out the reason for her defection. She blames you for that, Comrade Wahl.”
“She has put the party in jeopardy, and you make jokes?”
Lenoir’s amusement died away. “It was no joke.” His voice was bitter.
Kalganov stared at him. “I shall see her. I am taking charge here. Your part of the operation is over. Without the letter—” He snapped his fingers.
“There can still be a campaign of rumours and newspaper speculation. It worked last April.”
“And failed, because we had no evidence. This time we had evidence. And we let it slip.”
“Along with the ten-thousand-dollar bills,” Lenoir reminded him. That had been Kalganov’s project. Its failure had not been emphasised, Lenoir couldn’t help remembering.
Kalganov changed the subject, and his manner, abruptly. In a more normal tone, he said, “Fortunately, the main operation goes through. That is what counts, anyway. The essential action—that is the heart of the matter.”
“Fortunately, too,” Lenoir suggested, “I did not mention De Gaulle’s name in the letter, nor the actual time and date of the assassination.” He paused, waiting for some recognition of his skill in the letter’s wording: it would make clear sense once the event had taken place. Its careful phrases only implicated, meanwhile, the Americans and the British go-betweens in some cynical and devious plot holding an enormous threat against France. “I shall concentrate instead on the co-operation of progressive newspapers. You still need their headlines in order to give some reasonable cause for Trouin’s panic and suicide.” My part in this operation is not over, he thought: Kalganov needs me. He relaxed. “You agree?”
Kalganov was scarcely listening.
“You agree?” Lenoir insisted.
Kalganov said slowly, “Are you sure she did not tell Ballard about the assassination?”
“Martin examined her thoroughly on that point. She insisted she had told Ballard nothing. She had simply given him the letter to pass on to Fenner.”
“Did she tell Fenner about the assassination?”
“How could she? She hasn’t seen him yet. She was to meet him tomorrow night.”
“Who made this arrangement with Fenner?”
“Ballard. She asked Ballard to make contact with Fenner in Paris—and he did, as we know from André Spitzer’s report.”
“She asked Ballard? Why?”
Lenoir hesitated. “She had discovered you were having her recalled.”
“You told her?”
“Not I.” Lenoir returned Kalganov’s cold stare and hoped he was believed. If she learned from me by subterfuge, he thought, that was not a calculated error on my part: it was a personal betrayal on hers. “She was afraid, because she did not know the reason for her recall,” he went on quickly. “She says she was driven into an attempt to escape. She thought Fenner would help her. She used the letter only to bargain for help.”
“You believe her?” Kalganov did not.
“Who can believe a traitor?” Lenoir asked diplomatically.
“We have other ways of learning how much Fenner knows. Where is the woman, this Mrs. James Langley?”
Why should he speak so bitterly of that name? Lenoir wondered. He said, “She is upstairs. A pity—” He paused delicately.
“What is?”
“That you did not have Fenner brought here, too,” he said innocently. And that is one mistake for which I cannot be blamed.
Kalganov moved to the library door. “We are wasting time. I have business of my own tonight,” he reminded Lenoir. Aarvan’s arrest had to be investigated, thoroughly, and this fool had brought him here. “I’ll deal with the confession and with Langley. After that, I go.” This house smelled of stupidity and bungling, of evasions and excuses... Kalganov’s instincts urged him to finish what had to be done and leave. Quickly. Too many unanswered questions, too many imponderables. More might lie behind Aarvan’s arrest than just some mistake Aarvan had made on the Simplon Express. The mistake could have been Fenner, Fenner the seemingly negligible... Kalganov looked at Lenoir bitterly as he paused at the door. These intellectuals were all the same: elaborate little plans, fussy attention to small perfections, and then, when something went wrong because of their inborn blindness, they screamed frantically for help, for someone else to act. To do. To complete. “We shall see how well you have instructed Fane,” he said bluntly, and entered the library.
Lenoir had been right about one thing, though. Sandra Fane was without any hope at all. It was possible, Kalganov thought as he looked at her, that she would confess everything sooner than he had expected. Despair was the necessary catalyst to produce satisfactory obedience.
She was sitting at the table, staring down at what she had written on a piece of paper. She had cried. Tears were still half-dried on her cheeks. Crying from pain? Or crying because she was defeated? He congratulated Martin on leaving so little evidence of his work. She looked almost normal except for the fear in her cringing body.
He picked up the confession and read it. “Totally inadequate,” he said, letting it drop.
She looked at him, put a hand over her aching mouth. She took a deep breath. “What do you want me to write?” she asked faintl
y.
“The truth.”
She picked up the pen, waiting for him to dictate. “Yes?” she asked. He eyed her coldly. Was she still capable of insulting him?
“You forgot to mention that your ex-husband, William Fenner, has been an agent of American Intelligence since Korea; that you kept this secret, deceiving your comrades in New York, Mexico, Prague, even in Moscow itself. Because you knew that this fact would damage your career.”
So, she thought slowly, I not only deceived Kalganov, I deceived everyone. Everyone must share the blame. The more blame shared, the less for him. Cunning, clever Kalganov. So generous in sharing.
“Why,” he was demanding, “didn’t you mention the fact that Fenner made secret contact with you as soon as you came to Paris?”
“Three years ago?” Her eyes, half-closed with the knifelike pain that jabbed inside her left shoulder, opened in wonder.
“Three years ago. He pretended he was still in love with you, didn’t he? Poor Sandra—you believed him. Because you are still in love with him. Aren’t you?”
His voice was gentle, suddenly, like the first touch of a wire noose against her throat. His eyes narrowed, watching her face. The wire noose seemed to tighten.
“Complete the confession,” he said. “Add one more page to what you have written. Give the facts. All the facts. The blame for your treason lies with Fenner. And with you, for your weakness.” His eyes were satisfied now. He laid a fresh sheet of paper in front of her, then turned away. “I shall see you in fifteen minutes. If it is not correct—” He looked across the room at Martin. The wire noose, which had slackened, tightened again. “But if you write the truth, Moscow will take your honest remorse into consideration. You might even stay alive.”
He left, stopping to tell Martin something she couldn’t hear. Martin nodded and looked at her. Her hand fell away from her painful mouth, and the pen began to write. Martin, big and slow and thorough, studied her with amusement, as if he were admiring the artistry of his persuasive powers.
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