Taylor frowned.
“I often use it to reach Muir,” Bristow said, and Karen marvelled at his patience. “Now, why don’t you get a few hours’ sleep? One of you be on deck by six o’clock. I’ll be leaving then—no later. And if we need more food, Hansen can take the Ford and drive to some supermarket. No difficulty there,” he added quickly and cut short an objection from Taylor. “I often have an old friend from college visiting me for a couple of days.”
And Taylor, who must be fifty, Karen thought, doesn’t look young enough for a college friend. He had relaxed though, when he heard Peter was leaving by six o’clock—work ahead, not just fun and games. It’s me he disapproves of: he’s been tight-faced ever since he saw the sleeping arrangements.
The two men took Bristow’s advice and left for their room.
“I hope they can cook. I’m strictly short-order,” Karen said. “Peter—how much sleep did you get on the plane?”
“Plenty.”
“Then let’s have breakfast.” She led the way into the kitchen. “And we can talk,” she added. “Or can’t you tell me what has happened?” Before we arrived at the airfield, he was in high spirits. We laughed, we joked, we made plans. Since he spoke with that man who met us, Peter has been depressed, has tried to conceal it, but every now and again I can sense something is wrong. He’s troubled. And sad.
“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” he said. “After breakfast,” he added. “You already know most of the background, darling.”
Not troubled or depressed by something between us, she thought with relief, watching his face, listening to his tone of voice. “I’m starved,” she admitted. “Bacon and eggs and hot buttered toast? I never get these things abroad to taste the way they do here.” She opened the refrigerator.
“There’s enough food for a week, Peter! Hansen won’t need to go shopping.”
“Enough for one man,” he said, breaking into a smile. “Not for three.”
“Do you do your own shopping?”
“Mrs. Roscoe does it on Fridays when she comes in to scour and clean.”
“And you manage all by yourself?” She was horrified.
“I’m out most of the time. Not the way I like to live,” he admitted, “but at least I’m free.” He hesitated, then said frankly, “Free of memories. When a marriage turns sour, it’s pretty bad—for both people.”
But some get more out of it than others, thought Karen: Peter had his books and records and pictures; his ex-wife took everything else, along with emeralds and a millionaire husband. “Two eggs or three?” She began breaking the first shell.
“Make it three. Sandwiches at the Imperial seem a long way off.” And he’d skip lunch. A busy day ahead.
“What would we ever do without sandwiches?” No bitterness in his voice when he had mentioned his marriage. And that was all he might ever tell her about it. Thank heavens, the outsize bed was rented with this apartment, she thought, and lowered the heat under the frying pan. “Do you know how they were invented?”
He had taken charge of the toast and coffee making. “Sandwiches?” He repressed a smile as he watched her absorbed by the sizzling bacon, ready to remove the rashers and drain them of grease. “How?”
“There was an Earl of Sandwich who liked to gamble, never could leave the gaming table when he was playing. So when he got hungry, he called for his servant to slap a hunk of roast beef between two slices of bread, and he ate it while he—oh, damn, I nearly broke that yolk. Sunny-side up, Peter?” She looked at him, saw the amusement on his face. “You knew the story all along, didn’t you? Really—”
“I liked the way you told it. Sunny-side up, if you can manage it.”
“Help! This fork is no good—where’s something flat?” She took the spatula he found for her in a drawer. At least he was smiling—something he hadn’t done very much for the last three hours. Complete the cure, she told herself. “Just remembered a silly saying about sandwiches. Fourth-grade humour. Can you stand it?”
“I’ll brace myself.”
“If you want a sandwich, you go to the beach and pick up the sand which is there.”
He hadn’t heard that one in thirty years. “Do you do this often?” His smile broadened into a laugh.
“Only when trying to cook at five in the morning. Oh, see what I’ve done!” She stared at a broken yolk in dismay. “It will run worse when I dig a knife into it. Come on, darling—”
“I forgot the orange-juice!”
“We’ll have it as dessert.” Then, sitting across from her at the small kitchen table, he said, “Thank you, Karen.”
She could only guess what he meant and hoped she was right. Whatever news he had heard this morning must have shattered him.
They finished eating, sat over their third cup of coffee, and she heard how bad the news was. The Vienna tapes had been stolen on Saturday night. Menlo had been investigating for the last two days. Menlo had met with an accident early this morning. “He died?” Karen asked, watching Peter’s eyes.
“Yes. But few know that yet. We’re keeping quiet about it.”
“Because it was murder? And the murderer has still to be caught?”
“First found, and then caught.”
Suddenly, she was filled with foreboding. “Your job, Peter?”
“No. My job is to finish Menlo’s report. So I won’t be home until late, Karen. Sorry, but—” He shrugged.
“I’ll stay here, won’t show my face even at a window.” The stolen cassettes would make her sure of that. They explained a lot: the bullet; the quick flight from Rome—“Well, we did escape from Waterman,” she said. “I suppose he must have heard about the cassettes.”
“He may even have listened to them. He isn’t in Rome. He’s back here.”
“Here?”
“In New York, certainly.”
And that means here. She set down her coffee cup as she felt her hand tremble.
“Darling—”
“I’m safe, Peter. You’ve given me two good watchdogs. And you did smuggle me in here most expertly. Could I borrow your little study, use the desk? I thought I’d keep out of Taylor’s way. He doesn’t approve of me, you know,” she added with a good attempt at a smile. “I’ll show him I work, too, for a living.”
“You are writing about the terrorists?”
“Schleeman will expect some copy. And soon.”
“Don’t call him,” Bristow said quickly. “I’ll do that later this afternoon.”
“And explain what?”
“Enough. He knows you escaped the bombing.”
“He’ll want to know the details. That call he made to me last night—” and nearly caused us to be late in leaving the Imperial—“well, I was rather brief.”
“He’ll put it down to shock. I’ll talk with him, reassure him that all is well. I like the old boy as much as you do, honey. So stop worrying, darling. Will you?”
“All right. If you’ll stop worrying about me, I’ll stop worrying about you. A bargain?” She rose to throw her arms around him. “And this seals it,” she said, and kissed him.
He kept hold of her, eased her onto his knees. “No telephone. Promise?”
“I won’t even answer it.”
“No calls will come in here. The ’phone is switched on to the answering service.” It had better be left that way meanwhile. The apartment should seem as unoccupied as possible. His arms tightened around her, and they kissed again. And again. “I love you,” he told her softly.
At the kitchen door, Hansen cleared his throat. “Five thirty, Mr. Bristow. Any further instructions?”
“I think you know the routine.”
“Let me cook some breakfast for you,” Karen said, regaining her feet and some composure.
“I’ll cook,” Hansen said cheerfully. “Do it all the time.”
“See you around midnight, Peter?” she asked as he rose to leave. She was half-joking, half-anxious.
“Whenever. I have to finish a
report and turn it in tomorrow. If there’s the least suspicion of an emergency here—”
“Call your answering service?”
“No. Not you, Karen. Let Hansen do that.” He gave her one last kiss. To Hansen, he said, “Identify yourself as an old friend staying with me for a couple of days.”
“Won’t even need to do it,” Hansen assured him. “We can reach Mr. Doyle any time.”
“Should have thought of that,” Bristow admitted as he reached the hall. He almost left, remembered additional instructions. “Spare keys for front and back entrances in my middle desk drawer. And—yes, better pull the desk well away from the study window.” This time, he left.
Menlo was right, he told himself as he ran downstairs: love and business don’t mix, make a man forgetful. And, thinking of Menlo, his pace increased. He reached his car. As he unlocked its door, he recalled his last words to Menlo, spoken in anger, something he would always regret. Goaded by that memory, he reached Langley in record time.
22
First, Bristow retrieved Menlo’s envelope and tapes from the deposit vault. It was too early for Miriam to be there herself, but an assistant on night duty handed them over with a glance at Bristow’s identification. Next, he reached his office and prepared to read the notes and listen to the tapes. Without them, he would have been blind and deaf. He knew only two facts about these last three days—the Vienna cassettes had been stolen and Menlo was dead.
With his door securely locked, and no one in the offices around him—he’d have two good hours before they started drifting in to their desks—he set to work. There were four closely written pages in Menlo’s small neat hand, with abbreviations and jotted phrases to make everything compact, but the dates and times and sequence of events were all in good order. Menlo had gathered an incredible amount of detail, enough for circumstantial evidence. His report was almost ready to be typed and presented.
And yet—he hadn’t named the mole. As if he still had some doubts in spite of the facts he had gathered. What had prevented him? Some instinct—or some need to double-check? His brief memorandum on Waterman and Coulton—who was the control?—had only queries on the incentives of the unnamed mole. Possibly, he had wanted more investigation into the past histories of either Shaw or Fairbairn. They were certainly Menlo’s candidates for the enemy agent who had infiltrated his section. And Fairbairn held the definite edge on that, Bristow had to admit against his will. He liked Fairbairn, had always trusted him.
His depression deepened as he played the two tapes and listened first to Shaw’s words and then to Fairbairn’s words as they answered Menlo’s questions. It was obvious that Menlo was tending towards Fairbairn—why else talk at the end of Fairbairn’s interview about the four choices a traitor faced when he was discovered? As if Menlo had been giving him a chance to admit his guilt. Menlo was right about suicide as no choice at all, but he had forgotten—or ignored—the real fifth choice. Murder. To save your mission. To save your own miserable hide.
But Fairbairn is no murderer, Bristow told himself angrily. That, I can’t believe. Or is it prejudice that is prompting me to find him innocent? Yes, I’m prejudiced when it comes to judging a friend. So let’s go over the evidence again, let’s see if I am trying to ignore facts, let’s discover any small gaps in Menlo’s findings that should be explored.
He reread the notes, slowly, carefully, and marked a few points that might need more investigation. Pitifully few, he realised: Menlo had done a complete job. Still—for his own peace of mind, he’d check them out. And then he thought of the discrepancies in the accounts of Saturday night given by Fairbairn and Shaw. Check these, he told himself, check these thoroughly; trap the mole with his own lies. A long chance, he knew, but worth a try. Once more, he played the two taped interviews.
Voices in the corridor warned him: the beginning of the day’s work. He gathered notes and tapes and locked them in his safe. He left the office in search of either Fairbairn or Shaw.
Fairbairn was at his desk. “Hello!” he said in surprise as Bristow entered his room. “That was a short vacation. When did you get back?”
“This morning.”
“Just in time for the bad news. Or is it good? Menlo’s in the hospital. An accident, I’ve heard. Happened last night. Fell down in his own home, cracked his head. But if I know Menlo, he’ll be up and around in a few days. He’s on the warpath, Pete, and he won’t give up until he’s added another scalp to his belt.” Fairbairn was nervous and tense. Bitter, too. He looked as if he hadn’t slept much last night. “My scalp, I think. And God knows why. I didn’t take those damned cassettes. I was there, sure, just before the guard was doped. But I swear to you, Pete—” He stopped. “You heard about the cassettes?”
“Yes. Menlo telephoned me.”
“He probably gave you the story, too.”
“Some of it. Why don’t you give me the rest? Where’s Shaw, by the way?”
“He’ll be here this afternoon. He has a dentist’s appointment at eleven.”
“Did he call you about that this morning? Or was it a long-standing appointment?”
Fairbairn looked in surprise at Bristow. “Sure, he called. Reached me at home before I left.” Then Fairbairn’s surprise vanished. “Are you stepping in where Menlo left off? What in hell is so important about a couple of damned cassettes? Shaw couldn’t steal a run at a softball game. I didn’t take them, either. So why the devil are you—”
“Wallace—stop talking and listen, will you? Let’s clear this thing up together. You and Shaw are in deep trouble, and you know it. All I’d like to do is prove you didn’t take the cassettes.”
“Prove innocence? And how do you do that?” Wallace shot back at him.
“By finding the man who is guilty.” Bristow watched a struggle of emotions on Fairbairn’s face: anger, anxiety, hope. Hope seemed to win. At least, Fairbairn calmed down. Bristow said, “But I need your help. Come on, let’s walk in the fresh air. You can fill in some of the details for me.”
“Do you think I have this office bugged? God, you’re as suspicious as Menlo.”
“Not bugged by you,” Bristow said quietly and led the way into the corridor.
“I could use some coffee,” Fairbairn said. “Didn’t feel like breakfast this morning. The Commissary’s quiet at this hour.”
And more private than being in public view. “Coffee sounds good.”
There was no more talk until they had settled at an isolated table with a pot of coffee. Bristow studied his friend’s face, a handsome face that appealed to a lot of women with its thin features, tanned skin, hazel eyes that usually seemed amused, fair hair that fell into a wave no matter how hard it was brushed. Today, Fairbairn’s tan looked grey, his eyes were shadowed and didn’t find life so comic, his hair was unkempt. Even his well-fitted seersucker jacket was crushed and dejected.
Bristow said awkwardly—this conversation would be as embarrassing for him as it was disturbing for Fairbairn—“Wallace—just give me straight answers, will you? Cut out the humour and your throwaway remarks and understatements. Give me the facts, even if they bore the hell out of you.”
“But Menlo heard everything. There’s nothing to add.”
“I wasn’t there to hear it,” Bristow reminded him. “So let’s get started—shouldn’t take long—just a few points that puzzled me.”
“I was clear enough, I thought.” Fairbairn was annoyed.
“Then I’m stupid.”
Fairbairn’s laugh was forced. It broke off abruptly. “Sorry. I guess you’re right. I’ll be dead serious. No flippancy. Okay?”
“Okay. For starters—you told Menlo you had no idea when Coulton and Shaw had met.”
“But I have no idea. They knew each other before Shaw ever introduced me to Coulton.”
Bristow’s voice sharpened. “Shaw introduced you? When?”
“Must have been six weeks ago. A Saturday evening. Emma and I had been at a cocktail party in Georgetown and wen
t on to dinner at a French restaurant in M Street. Shaw and Coulton were there. As we passed their table, Shaw rose and stopped me. I had to introduce him to Emma, and he introduced me to Coulton. But how long they had known each other, I haven’t the foggiest notion. Never asked Shaw. Why should I?”
“No reason.” Not until now, thought Bristow. “Was Shaw using the extra desk in your office at that time?”
“Oh, he had been dotting in and out for some weeks. Questions, you know. Always eager for my advice.”
“When did he move in?”
“Last week, when we were working on the same problem but from different angles. It seemed simpler to me to have him there—it’s a double office, actually, and his was only a cubicle.”
“It seemed simpler to you... Do you mean you suggested the change, or did he suggest it and you agreed?”
“I agreed. I was tired of having him bouncing in and out.” Fairbairn was puzzled. “Just where is this getting us?”
“A little deeper into the picture. So tell me—when the cabinet in the file room jammed on Saturday night, you stood at the door and watched the corridor. Why?”
“No need for me to stay with Shaw and the guard. I thought someone ought to keep an eye on the corridor and on—” Fairbairn halted abruptly.
“And on what?”
“Coulton. I don’t really cotton to the guy. I couldn’t understand why the hell he hadn’t waited in our office until we had finished with the file room. In fact, he and Shaw could have left, let me handle the Greek files alone.”
“Did he make any move while you watched the corridor?”
“None.”
“Just stood there?”
“Just stood. I felt like an idiot. So when he wanted to find the washroom, I showed him the way—being extra polite to make up for my rudeness.”
“Rudeness?” Bristow smiled. “Never heard you being rude to anyone in my life, Wallace.”
“Well, I had a strange feeling about the guy—the way he arrived and needed a lift home and all that. I didn’t say much on our way to the file room, cut him down a bit. What else is rudeness?”
So Fairbairn had a stirring of suspicion, but then dismissed it when he felt it was unwarranted. As most of us do, thought Bristow. “When the guard, O’Donnell, came out of the file room, did he go straight to his table?”
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