The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

  Trosper stepped out and into the study. A few signed photographs of Pickett’s various chiefs, none of whom Trosper recognized, hung from the side wall. An expensive, high-tech, miniature German TV sat on a bookcase built to fit the leather-bound set of the Encyclopedia Britannica. A locked gun cabinet was wedged into the corner. In it, a chrome chain linked two expensive hunting rifles and an over-and-under shotgun to an iron grating. Mounted beside the rifles were two pistols, a Browning 9-mm semiautomatic and a 22-caliber Haemmerli target pistol with custom handgrip. A slightly faded space suggested that a smaller pistol had hung beside the Haemmerli.

  In a bookcase protected by a heavy, stoutly padlocked, iron grill and surrounded by a miscellany of large photo books was a row of five leather-bound stamp albums. In the half-light, Trosper could read the gold embossing on two volumes: “Germany, 1933-1945” and “Germany, 1945-1955.”

  Trosper turned to the desk, but after a moment dismissed the idea of switching on the portable computer. He pulled open the desk drawer, pushed odd bits of stationery aside, and picked up an envelope with a sheaf of color snapshots. A few alpine shots from the balcony of a hotel or apartment and several more of an eighteen-foot daysailer. Two children, a boy and a girl, with Pickett at the helm, on a lake framed by the Alps — summer vacation, perhaps at the Thunersee in Switzerland. At the bottom of the pack, three late-afternoon shots of Pickett leaning against the balcony, eyes fixed on the distant mountains. Trosper slipped two prints into his pocket and closed the drawer.

  Grogan stepped into the room. “Nothing special upstairs,” he said. “TV sets in each bedroom, lots of gents’ apparel, enough underwear to go a month without any laundering, fancy shoes.” He glanced around the study. “I don’t know, but I’d guess the women’s stuff was about as plentiful.” He turned to the gun cabinet and nodded appreciatively. “Expensive toys, pricey gadgets. The army must pay better than the Corps did in my day.”

  Trosper bent over the desk and picked up a travel brochure.

  Stapled to it was a carbon copy of an itinerary, “Captain and Mrs. C. George Pickett, One night, Hotel La Clairière, Illhausem, with reservation at the Auberge de l’Ill for dinner eight pm. Six nights, Hotel George V, 31 ave George V, Paris. All travel by personal vehicle, map with preferred route enclosed.” Trosper remembered the Christmas photograph — “For Clyde and Tiffany … ” What hankering for acceptance or status had persuaded Clyde G. Pickett to become C. George Pickett? Clyde Pickett was a solid, straightforward American name.

  He turned to Grogan. “I guess the hell he does have a rich wife — the Auberge de l’Ill has got to be one of the most expensive restaurants in France, and that hotel in Paris could cost him more than three hundred bucks a night. They’re in Paris right now, and for another three days.”

  “As long as they’re happy,” Grogan said. “But we’re out of here now.”

  Trosper picked another folder from the desktop. “He’s obviously taking in this stamp show … International Philatelic Exhibition, Salle Vincent … ”

  “We’re out of here right now.” Grogan moved toward the door.

  “I wish you’d stop saying that, Mike, you’re making me nervous.”

  “I’m making you nervous?” Grogan’s tone hardened with each syllable. “The minute after Mrs. Jones from next door begins to wonder who is prowling around the Pickett place, we’re both looking for a job — as soon as we get out of Leavenworth.”

  “There really is a problem, Mike … ”

  “If we don’t get out of here now … ”

  “If this guy is SSD,” Trosper said, “Pentagon security is not even going to consider leaving him in place until we sort out Sinon … ”

  “We can talk in the car, get your ass in your hand and let’s go … ”

  “If they transfer him abruptly, and after that stupid phone call, and my little gift of bonbons, Pickett and Moscow might have reason to think something’s up.” Trosper folded the exhibition brochure and stuffed it in his pocket. “I mean, I think we better take a look at him in Paris. We’ve got plenty of time — at least three days.”

  “We’re bugging out right now … ”

  Trosper reached for the door and took a last look around the living room and hall. The candy sat primly on a narrow table beside the hall coatrack. He pulled a felt-tipped pen from his breast pocket and scrawled a note on the card tied to the package. “Thanks again for all of your help.” He hesitated for a moment, pleased with the irony. Then he signed the note “Harry”. Everyone must know someone named Harry.

  Trosper started the car, and turned to glance at Grogan. “What will happen to these people?” He drove slowly, keeping scrupulously to the fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit posted at every intersection within the Patrick Henry housing compound.

  Grogan shook his head, and continued to stare straight ahead. It was not until a crisp gesture form from the immaculate MP had signaled them through the gate and out of the housing compound that Grogan said, “Three families — Captain Pickett, wife, and two lads, his parents, and her parents. I really don’t know what happens to people like that when it hits the fan … ”

  25

  Paris

  “Why the hell doesn’t Widgery call?”

  Trosper was impatient. He had been away from operations long enough to have lost his hard-won tolerance for waiting, the part of the racket that he was convinced accounted for the best years of a case man’s life. He could not erase memories of the airports, steam baths, phone booths, train stations, street corners, and barrooms in which he was convinced he had squandered half his career. Or even forget the restaurants ranging from a wooden table, a bench, and dirt floor in Nicaragua to a vulgar temple of gourmandise in Dusseldorf that served dainty portions of a mousse allegedly compounded chiefly of the cheek meat of blue trout. Once, he lingered so long at a public swimming pool in Bucharest that he came away with incipient pneumonia and a case of athlete’s foot so fierce that Otto Max, the Firm’s resident physician, had dubbed it Ceausescu’s revenge. He dropped the paperback book beside his chair and stepped to the window.

  “He was supposed to telephone as soon as Pickett tucked into lunch.”

  Grogan looked up from his newspaper. “You’re too hard on young Widge. He made Pickett in less than three hours, and was on him all day yesterday without the least trace of — what do you guys call it in your colorful argot?”

  “A squeal,” Trosper said. “Short for a security problem.”

  Grogan glanced around the living room of the suite. “Relax,” he said. “Take it easy. As safe houses go, this will pass for comfortable.”

  “It’s not a safe house, it’s a clac.”

  Grogan looked puzzled.

  “Spelled c-l-a-c, pronounced like clickety-clack, short for a ‘clandestine accommodation.’ In our salad days, safe houses — an oxymoron if ever there was — were a big budget item. Now that we’re on short rations, hotel rooms are all the fashion.”

  “So how do you guys justify a joint like this?” Grogan glanced sceptically around the suite. The high ceilings, serious furniture, pastel gray walls, and heavy draperies were several steps above the motel rooms most commonly used by the Bureau when operating on its own turf.

  “It’s just a backup for real emergencies — a hot agent meeting, or perhaps to house an agent for a few days. In the long run, short leases on upscale places attract less attention than something on the cheap.”

  “And are more comfortable?”

  “That too … ” Trosper glanced at his watch again. Widgery’s call was now an hour overdue.

  *

  “If you want to see my pigeon,” Widgery said, “I’ve got him right out in the open.”

  “Speak up, we’ve got a lousy connection,” Trosper said loudly.

  “I can’t yell into the phone, there’s a dozen people milling around. But he’s sitting, plain as day, at a sidewalk table. You know the kind of place — like some movie set, tables on the sidewalk,
but permanent, with glass windows, an awning sort of roof for this time of year and everyone talking. It’s the Brasserie d’Athos, around the corner from the Scribe, a hop and a scoot from the opera.”

  Trosper glanced at his watch; it was a few minutes after two. “Is he alone?”

  “Just a minute … ” Widgery’s voice faded.

  “Is anyone with him?”

  “He’s alone … but wait a minute … there wasn’t anyone … hold everything … ”

  Trosper cupped his hand over the telephone and turned to Grogan. “He’s still on our chum, but either Widge is being arrested, or World War Three’s just broken out.”

  “Good,” Grogan said, putting down his newspaper. “We could do with a little excitement.”

  “God damn!” Widgery spoke softly. “My friend’s just met a woman.”

  “His wife?”

  “He’s making a meet. It’s a woman. She came into the cafe, looked around, walked right over to him and sat down. There’s no doubt about it, she came here to meet him.”

  “Is it his wife?”

  “Can’t you understand? It’s a real goddamned contact, a Treff, right here, right in front of me … ”

  “Once more, can it be his wife?”

  “Not unless she’s lost forty pounds and had her face redone … ”

  “Stop the crap, I can barely hear you. Where are you calling from?”

  “From the cafe,” Widgery said softly. “I’m inside, at the phone by the cabinet. There’s no coin telephone here, you have to use a Télécarte, like a credit card you slip into the phone. So, first I had to buy a Télécarte from the cashier, it’s good for several local calls, but it cost a mint — ”

  “Damn it, just tell me who’s with him … ”

  “She’s absolutely gorgeous, could be five-nine, blond, a hundred and fifteen pounds if that. She’s wearing one of those little-nothing dresses that cost eight hundred bucks, shoes you would faint for — ”

  “How long has he been there, where’d the woman come from?”

  “Just like yesterday, he spent all morning ogling and negotiating for stamps at that stupid exhibition. He must have dropped a bundle. Then he made two phone calls, and walked over here. He had lunch across the street, and came here, could be for coffee. Ten minutes later, just now while I’m calling you, this girl shows up. Talk about new-look operations! If you ask, I’d say he knows her all right, she’s probably handling him. Maybe she even recruited him. God knows she looks like the real thing. She’s authentically stunning … ”

  “For Christ’s sweet sake, stop babbling.” Trosper could not hide his exasperation. He turned to Grogan. “Widge is convinced he’s caught our friend in a meet.”

  Grogan got to his feet and stepped closer to Trosper.

  “Listen to me now,” Trosper said softly into the phone. “Why do you think this is a meeting?”

  “Because there’s no doubt that it was prearranged, that’s why. I was looking right at the woman when she came in here. She took one glance around and went straight to our friend. He jumped up like some schoolboy who’s been waiting for his first date.”

  “Okay. Does it look as if they would be there for a while, are they having coffee or something to eat?”

  There was a long pause before Widgery said, “The waiter’s just brought him a menu, could be they’re going to eat something or have a drink … Look, I’ve got to get off this phone, half the quartier is waiting to use it … ”

  “We’re coming down for a look,” Trosper said quickly. “Give us fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. But no matter what happens, don’t associate yourself with us in any way. If she leaves before we get there, see if you can stay with her.”

  “A distinct pleasure … ”

  Trosper put down the phone and turned to Grogan. “Quick like a bunny, we’ve got to get to Widgery before his chum takes off.” Grogan shook his head. “Why?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Trosper said. “This might be the time for us to have a little chat, maybe get to know Captain Clyde George Pickett.”

  “No way,” said Grogan.

  “This could be just the time … ”

  “Just the time?”

  “Look, if he was recruited, it almost certainly happened in Prague,” Trosper said. “There’s not much chance of Moscow getting at anyone in his line of work in Washington these days.”

  “Unless, of course, he volunteered,” Grogan said.

  “Either way, it doesn’t matter, because he’s probably been on their payroll for four years. For a year or so, he really sweats security — every strange face on the street, anyone behind him in the supermarket, puts him in a panic. A security briefing in the office is a nightmare. But this wears off. He gets more and more confident, more relaxed, less guarded. It’s happened in every case I know — particularly with mercenaries. They always think they’ve got ten steps on the rest of humanity.”

  “So?”

  “So by now he’s cocky. He’s a small-town chump who’s stumbled into the inner circle at the Pentagon, and then cottoned on to a really plush, tax-free sideline provided by Moscow. In fact he’s just a jumped-up small-timer, who thinks he’s outsmarted everyone.”

  “And?”

  “Here he is, a big shot, swanking around three-star beaneries, playing with his expensive toys, looking forward to an early retirement and a fat job with some high-tech Pentagon supplier, and all the time keeping his hand in the Moscow honey pot.”

  “That might be,” Grogan said.

  “He’s a flat-out mercenary, with no political motives at all … ”

  “If you’ve got it right,” Grogan said, “he’s the kind of a guy who’ll keel over in a dead faint or he’ll take a swing at the arresting officer and try to brazen the whole thing out. If he folds, he’ll whine, talk about suicide, and blame someone else for all his troubles.”

  “Can you think of a better time to have a little chat? Now, when he’s completely off the reservation, isolated, unsuspecting, and living high in Paris?”

  “A little chat?” Grogan said. “You keep talking about a little chat. There’s no such thing as a goddamned little chat with a suspected felon … ”

  “Trust me … ”

  26

  Paris

  “Maybe not quite the dish Widge described, but she’s not exactly easy to ignore.” Grogan leaned forward across the small, marble-topped table. “If she’s Clyde’s contact, Moscow has surer than hell upgraded its staff in the two weeks I’ve been out of town.”

  Trosper looked toward the table across the cafe terrace, took a sip of coffee and shrugged. “It’s l’heure bleue.” Then, with a half-smile he added, “It’s l’heure bleue all over again.”

  “It’s what?”

  “It’s like a noonie, only later in the day,” Trosper said with a smile. “Some people call it a ‘cinq à sept’ though that actually comes a bit later.”

  Pickett and the woman were seated at the opposite corner of the cafe. She faced the sidewalk, with Pickett at the side of the table to her right. Without moving, Trosper had a direct line of sight to Pickett, and could glimpse the woman in profile. She sat erect, her shoulders squared, her back arched like a dancer’s and scarcely touching the chair. No one, Trosper decided, sat like that unless acting a role, in this case a chic jeune fille bien élevée, and the very model of decorum. Her ash-blond hair was cut short, presumably to set off her modish high cheekbones and generous lips. Her deceptively plain dress was accented by expensive costume jewelry.

  But it was Captain Pickett who interested Trosper. His clothes — a dark red blazer, tan trousers, striped rep tie, and a starched, button-down shirt — looked as if the price tags had been snipped off a moment before he stepped out of the hotel. The best photograph in Pickett’s Heidelberg quarters had attempted to cast him as an aggressive executive with a high forehand and an intense, challenging expression. In life, Pickett’s lofty brow was more clearly the product of a receding hairline than e
vidence of a roomy brain box, and rather than projecting a challenge, his expression was blurred by frequent motion, like an actor struggling to compose a face appropriate to his role. His hands kept busy, patting his hair, touching his tie, groping into the sleeves of his blazer to tug at his shirt cuffs and failing each time to keep a bit exposed below the blazer sleeve. Pickett’s attitude flickered between a proprietary satisfaction at being seen with an attractive woman and a nervous anxiety that the nature of their relationship might be obvious.

  The woman’s attention shifted from the pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk to her attentive host, and then back again to the sidewalk. Although she did not ignore Pickett, her divided interest was so obvious that it could only be part of her role, and calculated to underline her independence. When she did turn to Pickett, Trosper could not be sure whether she was offering a comment or merely answering a question. When for a few moments the early afternoon sun broke through the low-hanging clouds, she reached into a leather handbag to retrieve a pair of sunglasses, distinctive enough to certify an expensive taste in accessories, and dark enough to put even more distance between herself and her host.

  Pickett smiled diffidently and for a moment rested his fingers lightly on the woman’s hand. She turned slowly, and seemed to speak pleasantly as she freed her hand to reach for the flute of champagne.

  “Perhaps not for every day,” Grogan muttered thoughtfully, “but she’ll do nicely for an occasion.”

  Trosper shook his head. “She’s just an expensive tart, maybe a model who’s out-aged the camera and found a less demanding way of picking up a few hundred bucks.” He turned to Grogan. “She may even be accustomed to clients who seem less of a hick than our chum.”