“Go on,” Durell said.
“Nothing much more. You owe Gibney a lot of money now. You get mud in your eye tomorrow. You lose friends and alienate people. You're accused of treason—and you escape. You contact Gibney for help. We’ll see if they take you into their club.”
“Suppose he turns down the bait?”
“Then we‘re wrong.”
“Whom do you suspect in K Section?”
“Nobody. Everybody. We‘re up against a problem of time, Sam. We may not be able to help our three men. But maybe others can be saved. That’s why I’m pushing you. It won’t be easy. Still want to do it?”
“It’s my job,” Durell said.
McFee looked at him for a hard moment. Durell could not begin to guess what the small man was thinking. A pigeon landed on the stone window ledge and cooed and burbled and rustled its feathers. It looked dusty and tired. Durell suddenly saw before him a succession of gray, tired days, of long hours of disgrace, accusation, despair, and danger.
“You understand,” McFee said quietly, “nobody is to know what you’re doing. Other men have had similar jobs, in other times. It wasn’t easy for them. Or for their families. Or for the folks who liked them and loved them. You don’t confide in anyone, naturally.”
“I know.”
“Is Deirdre in New York today?"
“Yes.”
“You broke with her deliberately?”
“Yes.”
“She is not to suspect anything except what appears on the surface. Or Sidonie Osbourn.”
“They don’t suspect. They’re just worried about me.”
McFee stood up. “That’s it, then. You’re the man.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief?”
McFee smiled. “Or a spy to catch a spy.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be alone, Sam. Be careful. If they take you into the club, be doubly careful. But make it convincing.”
“I will.”
“You start with Gibney. We’re pretty sure of him. He’s sour. But he’s not the one we want. The one we’re ultimately after is someone right here in K Section. Somebody you’ve worked with, somebody you drink with. Maybe somebody you’ve made love to and slept with. Whoever it is, it's the last person you might suspect. It might even be me,” McFee said. “That’s the way you’re to look at it.”
“All right,” Durell said. “Even you.”
The interview was over. Durell felt oddly reluctant to leave. He knew it would be the last friendly conversation he could have with anyone for a long time.
“Good luck,” McFee said.
They shook hands.
chapter THREE
THE TRITON CLUB was a remodeled Virginia colonial of old rose brick, with lawns that swept down to the banks of the Potomac. It was a supper club, eminently respectable, frequented by brass from the Pentagon and upper-echelon people from State and Defense who desired a cool, quiet evening. There was a colonnaded veranda that rivaled Lee’s residence, old live oaks that formed an avenue of the driveway, and a refreshing river breeze. White sails bent and bellied on the blue surface of the water as Durell drove up the shell driveway.
Colonel Henry Gibney was not there. He had a drink at the bar, a frosted julep sewed by a competent waiter in a starched mess jacket; he sat on the veranda and looked at the boats on the river; he chatted with an Air Force major who seemed to know him.
He thought of Deirdre.
He thought of Bayou Peche Rouge, of his boyhood in the Delta swamps, the long, long days of heat and dust, and his home aboard the old Mississippi side-wheeler fast in the mudflats, the gambling shop that Grandpa Jonathan had made into a home. It was long ago, and all of it belonged to another, far distant world. A clean and simple world of schooling, hunting, fishing, of exploring the Indian mounds and creepy, shadowed cheniéres. The world was uglier now, too complex, filled with forces that pushed and pulled at a man, twisting him in all directions until his head spun dizzily and he became easy prey for the shouted command, the glib slogan, the hammered reiteration of crass propaganda.
He thought of tomorrow: the trial, the disgrace, the loneliness ahead.
Well, what did you expect, an egg in your beer? You’re a spy, you do what you’re told to do. You’re told to give up your girl; so you hurt her, you drive her away. You’re told to give up your honor and your friends. And maybe to give up life itself. And you do it all. But you don’t have to like it.
Durell was not a conscious patriot. But when he looked across the Potomac, at the gently swelling hills under the hot sun, the peaceful houses, this river and this land were a part of him that he loved fiercely, above all else. He never spoke of this. It was part of him like the air he breathed, woven into the texture of his blood and flesh and bones. Yet his devotion to his work did not confine him to this place or that or to any particular people in the world. If someone had called him a humanitarian, he would have laughed. . . .
Usually Gibney was here by two o’clock, every afternoon. He was not here today. Of all days. He told himself not to worry, but he could not help worrying.
Long ago, and until recently, he had traveled a lonely way, knowing that death waited with a ’hungry appetite for anyone in his profession whose attention was distracted by the love and affection of others. Deirdre had changed all that. He was in love with her. He wanted her. He could feel a twist of desire in him when her image, cool and lovely, drifted across his mind. Perhaps she would stand by him, trying to understand. But there were limits to the strain one could place upon human relations. He had been cruel to her; he had built a protective wall between them. It had to he done. Yet there was in him an overwhelming desire to go to her and tell her what he was doing, and this desire alarmed him, because he had never known this conflict before.
He returned to the bar and had another drink. Gibney had not shown up. He had promised to be here promptly at two. It was very late now. Gibney had insisted on the appointment, for a settlement of the seven thousand dollars Durell had managed to lose to him.
The wind died on the river, and the heat settled over the clubhouse like a slowly lowered blanket. The glare of the sun made Durell squint when he looked out through the windows of the bar. He saw Colonel Gibney walking across the oyster-shell driveway toward the bar entrance, with a girl in a thin summer frock clinging to his fat arm. The girl was Corinne Ybarra.
Durell finished his drink and went to meet them.
Gibney was a portly man, over six feet tall, with white hair the color of week-old snow. His face was brick-red from the sun, and his pale eyes were bloodshot. He had a loud, hearty manner as false as his booming laugh, and Durell did not like him. It had been quite an effort to force himself to lose at cards to this man.
“Sam Durell!” Gibney shouted. “Sorry we’re late. I was showing Corinne our little place at Cramden Beach. You know Cramden?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Guess you thought you’d lost me, hey?”
“I didn’t think I’d have the luck.”
Gibney laughed again. He always laughed. It didn’t mean anything. Durell looked at Corinne. She was smiling, but there was a great deal of meaning in her hazel eyes, in the curve of her rich and promising lips. Her bare shoulders were creamily tanned above the gray of her cotton frock. The hot sunlight sparked brush fires in her dark hair.
“You disappointed me for lunch, Sam. I waited,” she said softly.
“Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry at all. But I forgive you. I feel as if I shall always be forgiving you. Do let us have a drink, shall we? I am parched.”
They returned to the bar. Gibney ordered, his manner expansive. But there was a guarded look about him as he surveyed the quiet room, with its colonial prints and brick fireplaces. The Triton was not crowded yet, although in half an hour, when the floodgates opened at the government offices up the river, there would be a deluge of voices, clinking china and glassware, and music. For the moment, Durel
l was grateful for their relative privacy.
“You wanted to see me, Henry," he said.
“Yes, yes. But that can wait.”
“You made it sound urgent.”
“Did I? Well, your credit is good.” Gibney laughed again. His face was very red, his eyes swimming in yellow-red liquid. He smoothed his thick white hair. He had square military shoulders under his Palm Beach suit, but his paunch had got out of control and destroyed the briskly efficient look he hoped to achieve. “There’s no hurry now, Sam.”
“I got what you asked me for,” Durell said quietly.
“Eh?” Gibney was startled. He licked his lips. “Look here, I wasn’t really serious.”
“I was. Let’s go where we can talk,” Durell said.
Corinne frowned with mild annoyance. “What kind of secrets do you boys have that I can’t hear?”
“It’s a personal matter,” Durell said. “Please excuse us.”
“I will, but I don’t like it.”
Durell put a hand under Gibney’s elbow and urged the fat man up from his bar stool. He sensed a reluctance in the other, and for a moment Gibney silently resisted him. Then the Colonel bolted the rest of his drink, muttered an apology to Corinne, and walked with Durell to the veranda. Durell led the way down the shell walk to the riverbank No one was nearby. The boats had cleared off the broad surface of the water. The sun slashed at them. There was no wind at all.
"How long have you known Corinne?” Durell asked suddenly.
“Eh? Oh, she’s a fine girl. She visits at Cramden Beach quite a bit. Lovely child. Lovely.” Gibney hesitated. “Never seen you at Cramden. Sam. Lots of fun there.”
“I hear it’s rather decadent.”
"Nonsense. Private colony for exhausted government people, that’s all. Chance to recoup our vitality, that sort of thing, without a mob around. The world is a crowded place these days, my boy, Privacy around Washington is at a premium. Why not come down to my shack tonight rather than talk here? It might be better.”
“Suddenly, you seem afraid to be seen with me,” Durell said.
“It isn‘t that. Not a bit of it. I just heard—you were in trouble, that’s all.”
“Did you hear that from Corinne?"
“Well, some of it. But there’s other talk.” Gibney licked his full lips. His eyes were like cloudy milk in the glare of the sun. “Look, about that seven thousand you owe me—”
“I’m ready to pay off.”
“In cash?”
“No.”
“Frankly, I could use the money,” Gibney said. “Cramden is expensive. You lost it to me fair and square, you know. Gentleman’s debt.”
“Not in money,” Durell said flatly.
Gibney’s mouth stretched briefly in a quick, meaningless smile. “You didn’t take me seriously about that other thing, did you?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord, man, I didn’t mean—”
“You meant it,” Durell said.
“But I was—I had too much to drink. I didn’t realize you would—”
“You’re being blackmailed by the Reds for your son’s safety. They’ve got him over there and they’ll kill him unless you do something for them. You told me all about it."
“Yes, but—”
“I’m ready to help you, and pay off what I owe you.”
“You must be mad! I was drinking too much, I didn’t know what I—” Gibney paused, his voice suddenly breaking. He looked down at the dusty grass underfoot. They were almost at the river’s edge. “I want to help my son,” he whispered. “I’m at my wits’ end. They’ll kill him. They‘ll torture him. I’m sorry I told you about it. I was desperate that night. They had just sent me photographs of him.”
“Who contacted you?” Durell asked.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“What’s their price?"
“Information. From K Section.“
“Then I have it for you,” Durell said.
Gibney looked at him. For a moment there was a spark of keen intellect, deep suspicion, and anger behind his fat, flushed features. Then it all collapsed into soft, red jelly. He looked as if he were going to cry. He turned from Durell and took a few quick steps back toward the clubhouse, then halted. His shoulders sagged.
“I heard that you are under suspicion, Durell," he said hoarsely. “I don’t want to get caught. I want to help Roger, but I don’t want to ruin everything by getting caught at it. It would be as if I'd killed him myself, if he ever heard about it.”
“But you got information from them before, from K Section, didn’t you?" Durell asked sharply.
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m not the first person you contacted over there. It didn't begin with me. You got your hooks into me for seven grand, and I’m willing to pay off to help you out. And to get you to tear up the chits. Why didn’t you work on your first contact, instead of me?”
Gibney looked broken. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you want the stuff, or don’t you?” Durell demanded.
“I—I don’t know what to do. I didn't realize you——”
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes,” Gibney whispered. His eyes looked sick. “And I'm damned to the depths of my soul.”
Durell pretended anger. “Look, I took some big chances getting that tile of information for you. It may kill several good people. I’m not sentimental, and I don’t ever wave the flag. I told you before, when We first met, that I regard this as a dog-eat-dog world. It’s the Big Me first, last, and always, and to hell with the suckers who aren't quick enough or smart enough to stay on their feet. I risked everything to get clear of your hooks, and now you’re putting on this big deal of an act, pretending your conscience bothers you.”
“It does,” Gibney whispered. “I’m sick with it."
“Do you want them to torture and cripple your only son? Do you want them to kill him, or maybe worse, turn him into a blind and brainless idiot?”
“No. No. I want to help him."
“I have the papers with me,” Durell said briskly. “Do you want them now?”
Gibney swallowed loudly. “Not here."
“Make a date, then.”
Gibney drew a shaken breath. His face was tormented, hating Durell, hating the world around him. He stared at the river, at the clubhouse, and at the huge red ball of the setting sun that seemed to finger the sky with hands of fire.
“Damn you. Come over to my place at Cramden Beach tonight,” he said. “Bring the documents with you.”
“What time?"
“Make it late. I have some guests coming for a barbecue and a swim. Make it after midnight.”
“All right,” Durell said.
“I’m sorry about all this," Gibney said. “I don’t know where it will end. They’ve promised to release Roger if I do this last thing for them. Do you think they’ll keep their word?”
“If it suits them,” Durell said.
Gibney hesitated. “You really got what you said you could get for me?”
Durell tapped his breast pocket. “All here.”
“God help me. And them.“ Gibney drew a deep breath. “Tonight, then. Cramden Beach. Can you find my place, or shall I—”
“I’ll find it," Durell said. “Let’s get back to Corinne. She‘s a restless woman.”
The bar was crowded when they returned, and two Air Force colonels were drinking with Corinne. She seemed happy enough, oblivious of their long absence, although her eyes did not miss Durell’s tall figure as he came in from the veranda with Gibney. A small orchestra was playing in the dining room. Gibney became his loud, hearty self the moment he reached the bar, as if he could turn his personalities on and oft with the flick of a switch. He drank quickly and greedily, then suggested dinner. It was growing dark outside when Durell at last made his excuses and rose from the table to leave.
“Take me home, Sam,” Corinne said, rising also. “I want
to talk to you.”
Gibney protested. “Honey, you said you were coming to the beach tonight.”
“Later, darling. I want to chat with Sam first. I’ll find my way there, never fear.”
Durell did not argue about it. An attendant brought his car from the lot. Corinne’s perfume was light and delicate as she sat close to him on the front seat. She was silent until they were on the highway to the Potomac bridges, and then she said quickly, “Take the next left, Sam. Please drive slowly. I have a lot to say to you.”
“You're building up something in your mind that just isn’t there,” Durell told her. “You’re being melodramatic without reason.”
“Perhaps I just like to be with you.”
"I thought you were interested in Colonel Gibney."
“I am. For other things.”
“Such as?”
“Allow me my feminine secrets. Turn left here, please.”
He did as she suggested. The road was a small, winding lane between tall oaks and sycamores, and there was a coolness under the interlaced branches of the trees, as if they had entered a long underground tunnel. The sun had set, and dusk crept over the Virginia countryside. There was no other traffic on the blacktop road.
“Where are we heading?” he asked.
“Nowhere. Everywhere. Heaven,” she said. “Or hell.”
“You seem to prefer to talk in riddles.”
“That depends on how obtuse you choose to be. Be nice to me, Sam. I really don’t know how to be subtle. I just know that from the moment we met at Sidonie’s house, I’ve wanted to be near you, that’s all.”
He thought of Deirdre. “You know I’m in love with someone else.”
“Are you? You said you wouldn’t marry her.”
“That may change,” he said.
“You don’t truly love her. You only think you do. You look lonely; perhaps you are lonely. And Deirdre won't stand by you when you need—friends.” .
“And what does that mean?”
“It means that I know you’re in trouble and that you’re doing something desperate and terribly wrong in order to get out of it. I want to help you.”
“Why?”
Assignment - Treason Page 3