He poured the bouillabaisse into a large tureen and carried it to the table. She brought bowls and spoons and bread. They sat and looked. “You’re six inches off the deck, Luis,” she said. “You’re going to burst into flame unless you tell me, so for Pete’s sake speak. What’s happened?”
“Oh, nothing of huge significance. I met Senator McCarthy again, and this time I conned him out of five hundred dollars.”
“I see.” She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. “And how did you do that, Luis?”
“The old Eldorado technique. Tell ’em what they want to hear. McCarthy wants names, so I sold him names. Easy money.”
“You’re serious? You sold names to McCarthy?” When Luis nodded, she stood and picked up the tureen by its handles and dumped the bouillabaisse on his head and left the dish there, upside-down. It was swiftly, deftly done. She had excellent hand-to-eye coordination. DeWolf had found that. Luis was too shocked to move. The bouillabaisse was hot and thick and for a long moment he couldn’t see. When he blinked his eyes back to some sort of sticky vision, she had gone.
He didn’t move. The carpet was ruined. No point in trying to talk. He knew her too well for that. He collected a piece of halibut with his tongue and chewed it and wondered if other couples behaved like this. Something was stuck to his upper lip. Baby cod, perhaps. And he could smell a trace of garlic.
She came downstairs, dressed differently and carrying a suitcase. She scooped up the car-keys.
“I may have overdone the paprika,” he said.
“Just stay away from me, you pathetic bastard.”
“A little parsley would have helped.”
The front door slammed.
A mouthful of food had slithered into his right hand. He raised it to his mouth before it could get away. The tureen was securely lodged on his head, so it must be his hat size, more or less. What a curious coincidence. His face was drying quickly. Bits of fish began dropping off it. Should he catch them, or let them fall? If he caught them he could eat them, but it would never amount to a full meal, would it? He was trying to decide, when the front door opened and she came in. “There are two bodies in the Buick,” she said.
“Oh.” Luis licked his lips and tasted tomato. “Well, there’s a surprise.”
“Is it? Feels more like routine.” She dropped her suitcase and leaned against the doorway. “And you look like the King of Siam.”
*
When Senator McCarthy first exposed the grim scale of Red subversive activity, back in 1950, he took a few shots at the CIA. If the agency had done its job properly, McCarthy said, it would have flushed out all these traitors. Made you wonder whether they were being protected by Leftists inside the agency. So the CIA bugged his office. Just routine.
McCarthy suspected this and asked the Justice Department to protect his privacy. The FBI sent a man to sweep the rooms. He found the CIA’s bugs and taps, cleaned and dusted and tested them, and installed a feed to the FBI’s department of electronic surveillance, a thousand yards away. Hoover didn’t like McCarthy. Bastard was stealing his thunder.
The name Arabel meant nothing to the headquarters of the FBI. Then Arabel was linked to Harding and Philby at the British Consulate in New York, and Washington asked the New York office to find out what the hell was going on.
“You’re cozy with Frobisher,” Prendergast told Fisk. “Take him to lunch. Take his mustache too.”
They met at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station.
“Cabrillo,” Fisk said. “Now a.k.a. Arabel.”
“My goodness. Has he robbed another bank?”
“He’s in Washington DC, doing business with Senator Joseph McCarthy.” When Frobisher chuckled, Fisk said, “Surprised us, too. We’re hoping your chaps in British Intelligence can shed some light.”
“Nothing to do with us, old boy. Scout’s honor.”
“Then why is he hiding behind his wartime codename?”
“Beats me. Tell you what: give me his address, I’ll go and ask him.”
“Shall we order?”
“You’ve lost him again, haven’t you? You can’t find him.”
“I recommend the clams,” Fisk said. Enough was enough.
*
You couldn’t see the bodies unless you looked in the car. Death had pulled the pins out of the joints and gravity had done the rest. They sprawled on the floor of the Buick, each looking as if he’d shoveled fifteen tons of Number One coal and was too bushed to climb into bed.
“How do you know they’re dead?” Luis asked. He had got rid of the tureen and put his head under the cold tap for a few seconds, but his eyes still felt sticky. He leaned against the car and blinked a lot.
“That one’s got a hole in the head. This one isn’t breathing. Still, don’t take my word. Check ’em out, maybe they’re playin’ possum.” Julie opened the driver’s door. The peppery stink of explosives surged out.
“Holy smoke!” Luis said. He elbowed the door shut.
“It ain’t smoke, and it ain’t holy,” she said. “And unless you want to choke as you drive, I say let it all out.” She opened the door again. Luis had his mouth open but no words came. “Or you could tell the cops,” she suggested. He shook his head. “Then we’re gonna have to drive this shambles out of here,” she said.
He looked at her as if she were a stranger. His eyes were wide open and blank, like a child’s. “Hey, snap out of it!” she said, and kicked his ankle. He stumbled, and bit the inside of his mouth. The pain shocked him out of his stupor. “Look,” he said, very calmly, and pointed. “It’s the triple virgin.” He was calm because calmness was all he had left.
“Hi, you guys,” Stevie called. “Small world, huh?” They watched her approach. There was no way they could stop her. “I was parked by the corner,” she said, “saw you guys come out, knew you straight off, fifty yards away, I got twenty-twenty vision, my optician says I could have been a fighter pilot, or maybe if I took up skeet shooting, you know, I could win Olympic gold, just takes hot shit in the fuckin’ springtime!”
“Did you kill these two?” Julie asked.
“Not me. Did you?”
“We never met them,” Luis said. “Every time I meet you, however, it’s guns and homicide and bodies left lying.”
Stevie took a closer look. “That’s my date, in the back. Chick Scatola. Him an’ me came here on business. This other …” She shrugged.
“Your date?” Julie said. “You don’t seem too knocked out about what happened to him.”
“He kept tellin’ me I drive too fast. He got on my tits.”
“Hell of an epitaph,” Luis muttered.
“I drive better’n most men. Sammy Fantoni drove like he was leadin’ the Veterans’ Day Parade. Sammy and Chick were cousins. Maybe that explains a lot.”
“I don’t really believe I’m saying this,” Julie said, “but we gotta get rid of these bodies. This is Potomac Street. They got standards”
“Dump ’em in West Virginia,” Stevie said. “They got lots of wilderness over there. Hell, they got wilderness in West Virginia ain’t hardly never been touched yet by nobody at all.”
“A triple negative,” Luis said. “And in all this heat.”
“You got fishy gunk on your shirt,” she told him.
“West Virginia,” Julie said.
*
Kim Philby made a transatlantic call to Peter Cottington-Beaufort and told him that the Consulate had traced Luis Cabrillo to Washington and to Senator McCarthy’s office, where they discussed naming names.
“When he tried to blackmail me with his so-called memoirs, I thought he was bluffing,” Philby said. “But maybe he really knows something. Why else would he go to McCarthy?”
“Yours would be a considerable scalp for the senator to wave from Capitol Hill.”
“So would yours, Peter.”
“How could Cabrillo possibly … No, I withdraw the question. Irrelevant. Pity you weren’t able to achi
eve expunction when you had the chance. Still, you know where your man is, don’t you? Hurry down to Washington and do it yourself this time.”
Long pause. The line crackled.
“Either you’re scratching your head,” Peter said, “or a hungry crab is chewing on the transatlantic cable.”
“I’ve never done an expunction. Arranged plenty, but never actually done one.”
“Remember that the bullet does the expunging. All you do is squeeze the trigger. I’m told that’s hugely reassuring.” The line went dead.
*
West Virginia was easy to find. Interstate 66 came out of Washington and barreled straight across Virginia for sixty or seventy miles until it hit the Appalachian Mountains, got discouraged and called it a day.
Luis was hungry. Lunch had been skimpy. He’d taken a quick shower, then driven the Buick with Julie sitting alongside and both corpses stiffening in the back, under the sand-colored dust sheet. Nobody had said much. Now he signaled to Stevie, who was following in the Chrysler, and they pulled off at a roadside diner. Luis was getting out when Julie said, “News on the hour.” She turned on the car radio and searched for a Washington station, WMAL or WTOP. “Might have something about the Potomac Street massacre. You never know.” What she got was a live broadcast of Senator McCarthy’s 4 p.m. press conference. She groaned. Luis brightened like a dog hearing his owner’s key in the door. “Bet you he uses my names,” he said.
A couple of hundred miles to the north, Kim Philby was in a bar at Idlewild Airport, waiting for his flight to be called. The television set showed Tom and Jerry until the station suddenly cut to Senator McCarthy. “Goose the volume a bit, would you?” Philby asked the barman. Together they watched the unlovely image, listened to the drumroll of accusations. “Dunno if he scares the Kremlin,” the barman said, “but he makes me want to hide in the broom closet.” He went away and came back. “I done nothin’ wrong,” he said. “Nothin’ un-American.” Philby nodded and the barman left him alone.
“… and this crusade—I make no apologies for calling it that, because I speak for all decent, loyal, Christian Americans in our struggle against brutal and Godless Communism—this crusade has not made me popular in certain quarters of Washington. They call me a muckraker. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I was born an’ raised in the fine state of Wisconsin, an’ my family kept hogs, an’ it was my job to clean out them hog-pens, an’ I speak with the voice of experience when I say you can’t rake muck unless there’s muck to be raked. We didn’t call it muck, but I won’t go into that. Spell it how you like, it’s here in Washington DC, and the stain of treachery and disloyalty has leaked into all the main departments of government, and soaked so deep into the fabric of America that I believe it’ll take a carload of picks an’ shovels to dig it out, and a river of disinfectant to wash it clean. Why, just this morning, a young man came to me with a list of names.” McCarthy unfolded a piece of paper. “I cannot and will not reveal that young man’s identity. Unlike some, I do not betray my friends, who have taken great personal risks to secure intelligence that is crucial to this nation’s security from foreign foes.”
“Damn right!” Luis said. Julie turned up the volume.
“I will say this: These names shocked me. I’ve taken a few licks recently from the high-falutin’ bleedin’-heart liberals who don’t like my style but cannot deny my facts, and I thought my skin was pretty tough, but I’m here to admit that I shuddered when I saw these names and knew the powerful positions they hold—in the State Department, the Pentagon, the Treasury, a dozen other agencies of government where card-carrying Communists or Commy sympathizers can secretly—secretly—inflict lethal damage. These names …” McCarthy flourished the paper “… represent a deadly virus which seeks to invade Americanism. I intend to reverse its course. I intend to turn this into the death warrant for all twisted, warped, Leftist traitors who have infiltrated our great country. It won’t be easy. I have some experience in this area.” McCarthy allowed himself a knowing grin. “For a start, I pledge to place this list in a secure lodgment. When I leave here, I will hand it over to the senior partner of the most respected firm of lawyers in Washington, the eminent firm of Grant, Delaney, Meyer and Stubbs, for safe keeping. And I’ll tell you why. There is a Presidential Order-think of that, a Presidential Order—which states that nobody, nobody, in the State Department is allowed to give any information as to the disloyalty or Communistic activities of any, I repeat any, State Department employee. It gets worse. Nobody in the State Department can say anything, not one word, about the employment of anybody there! You see what we’re up against. You see what barriers are raised. You see why certain men …” McCarthy glanced at the paper and shook his head. “…why these men remain in office. But I’m not going to quit. I want you to know that as soon as Secretary of State John Foster Dulles gives us all an indication of his good faith by lifting this odious veil of secrecy, then I will be glad to give him these names, and then the Senate Sub-Committee of which I am proud to be chairman can get down to the business of investigating those alien agents who are dedicated to selling America down the river. These men are well hidden. Well disguised. I have their real names, the names they were born with. But today, acting on instructions from their foreign masters, they hide behind false identities. Masks they have worn so long that their faces have grown to fit them. They may be listening to me right now. I hope so. They know who they are. Who they think they are. But not for long. The masks will soon be off. I have dedicated my life to exposing subversives. Ain’t gonna stop now.” McCarthy clenched the fist that held the paper. “Can’t stop. It just ain’t in me.”
End of statement. Back to the studio for news, traffic, weather.
“Love it!” Stevie said. “Ain’t he somethin’ special? McCarthy makes Errol Flynn look like he’s runnin’ for dogcatcher.”
“He didn’t use the names I gave him,” Luis complained. “I went to all that trouble, and he never used a single damn name!”
“He’s a smooth operator,” Julie said.
“Love him.” Stevie kissed the radio. “I’m gonna send him money.”
“He missed his chance,” Luis said. “He dropped the bloody ball.”
“No, he didn’t,” Julie said sadly. “I detest the bastard but that was a brilliant piece of politics.”
“Brilliant bollocks. He missed—”
“Shut up and listen. Look how he handled it. He used his old familiar technique, the list of names. Done it before. This time he puts a new hat on it: secrecy. These are secret names. We’re privileged to know of the existence of the secret but not the actual names. Once he reveals the names, he’s played his cards, got nothing left. So he hands them to his lawyers and blames it on State Department secrecy! Now that’s smart. If State can have secrets, so can Joe.”
“Yeah!” Stevie said. “They’re just bums in stripey pants.”
“Hey, wait,” Luis said. “Where’s the logic?”
“Who gives a shit? It sounds good, and everyone hates Washington.” Julie batted away some flies, probably attracted by the smell of death. “What matters is the way he dumps all the blame on Dulles. And what’s perfect is his timing. Late afternoon. He’ll grab headlines in the evening papers but it’ll be too late for the Administration to reply. The news’ll be all McCarthy.”
“There’s still tomorrow,” Luis said.
“Tomorrow’s another world. Tomorrow nobody’s listening. What everyone remembers is Joe McCarthy found another bunch of Reds in the government.”
“He did, too,” Stevie said.
“Let’s go and eat,” Luis said.
At Idlewild, Philby had ordered another drink. He too had been impressed. The brave young man whom McCarthy would not name was probably Cabrillo. And if McCarthy could create such high-grade hokum when Cabrillo gave him ghosts to work with, imagine what uproar he would provoke if Cabrillo provided some flesh-and-blood traitors. Philby felt the skin crawl at the back of his neck.
They took Route 55 over the Appalachians, past Star Tannery, Wardensville, McCauley, Needmore, and Fort Run. “Extraordinary country,” Luis said. “The bigger the name, the smaller the town.” Julie wasn’t interested. “Keep goin’,” she said. Farmland, farmland. Useless. Where were the swamps when you needed one?
At Petersburg they stopped to check out the map. South and west lay Monongahela National Forest, a hundred miles of it or more. Monongahela had mountains, creeks, caverns, and rugged names like Red Lick, Elkwater, Smoke Hole.
“Real wildernessy,” Stevie said. “You should of brought quicklime. Or acid.”
“You done this kind of thing before?” Julie asked.
“I go to the movies.”
“Where do we get quicklime?”
“Yellow Pages?”
That ended the discussion.
A month ago, Julie thought, I was a happy victim of the witchhunt, poor but harmless, bugged by the FBI, slinging burgers and beers on Mooney’s graveyard shift. Then Luis appears and I get sacked, evicted, torched, hustled off to DC and now look at me: deep in the sticks, trying to find a home for a pair of bullet-holed cadavers that I never met before, with the help of a fruitcake who believes everything Warner Brothers ever said.
“This has turned into a very peculiar day,” she said. “Let us for Christ’s sake do what we have to do, and go get a good steak somewhere.”
They drove into the forest. In the early evening, the slanting rays of the sun made it magnificent. The road climbed between vast stands of oak and sycamore, merging with pine and cedar as they penetrated the mountains. Cliffs stood sheer, and large birds heeled up there, and streams rushed below. It looked virgin, untouched, superbly original. It probably was.
After twenty miles of this, Luis pulled over at a scenic viewpoint and they got out. Stevie in the Chrysler pulled in behind them. It was odd to feel a chill in the air. Washington was virtually at sea-level. This place was not far off a mile high.
“Any suggestions?” Luis asked.
“My ears popped twice,” Stevie said. “Bet they get a hell of a good TV picture here.”
Red Rag Blues Page 21