The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

  Trosper had long ago discovered in himself an almost total indifference to the fabled attraction of top-of-the-line prostitutes and even to their supposedly intricate sociology. As many times as he had worked along the fringe of the criminal world, he had never successfully involved a prostitute in an operation which required a trace of discipline or even a briefly sustained sense of purpose. He found call girls, the expensive courtesans who claimed the right to refuse a prospective client, to be relentlessly rapacious and as a rule more wily than the case men who tried to exploit them. At the other end of the income bracket, his experience with street-level prostitutes had been even worse. Their short attention span and inability to identify with anyone who was not in the milieu had in his view ruled them off the field. This experience was further complicated by what he suspected to be a priggish suspicion of the motives of the case men who attempted to involve these women in operations.

  “You could be right,” Grogan muttered, “but whatever the case, the little creep is batting out of his league.”

  The waiter interrupted his orbit around the crowded tables to pause beside Pickett. With a flourish he plucked the wine bottle from the cooler and held it quizzically to the light before moving to add a few drops to the woman’s full glass. She waved the offer away with a barely perceptible gesture. Pickett, in a man-of-the-world mode, allowed his glass to be filled.

  “It’s showtime,” Trosper murmured, as if talking to himself.

  It was one of the moments in an operation that Trosper had always most valued — on his own, free from the layers of supervision, and solely responsible for all the decisions. But now, his sense of excitement lagged. It had been at least twenty years since he had thought that anything but the most improbable series of blunders could cause Moscow to lurch into a global shooting war. Now, the only enemy that might in a suicidal error have cleared the world of much of its treasure and humanity lay defeated, its residual capacity for sustained warfare diminishing by the hour. Did it really matter if an agent of that wasted giant remained in a position to steal secrets for a few more days? Did it matter enough for Trosper to make the decision on his own, or could it wait until a committee authorized the bureaucratic machine to clank into action?

  In the past he would not have hesitated. If he moved now, it would be with the advantage of surprise. Captain Clyde George Pickett, caught up in this absurd seduction ritual, fluttering around a woman who for all her apparent style was for sale, and who almost certainly held her customer in contempt, was as isolated, unsuspecting, and vulnerable as he was ever likely to be. At the least, Pickett seemed vulnerable — a man with no obvious ideological convictions, a self-serving careerist, selling out his family, friends, society, to prop up a modest career with a secret income to be spent on expensive toys and ostensibly exclusive whores.

  Trosper knew he could wait, avoid the responsibility and the possible conflict, compose a thoughtful cable to Whyte and Castle, and limp back to Washington without having moved the Sinon operation ahead, and with nothing to show except the unsubstantiated allegation that Pickett was a traitor.

  It would be easier to go by the book, to walk away, and to let the Bureau and the military investigate, interrogate, and in the end probably convict and destroy Pickett. But the investigation alone would take weeks. Even if everything worked according to the rules, the lead to the penetration of the Firm, if such there were, would be cold, possibly even erased by the countermeasures Moscow would surely initiate the moment a threat to Pickett was perceived.

  Trosper turned to Grogan. “Hamlet my ass, I’m going to have a chat with our friend.”

  “Hamlet? What the hell’s that got to do with … ” Grogan’s surprised expression brightened into a smile. Then, without taking his eyes off Pickett, he said, “You better lay off this coffee, Alan. It’s too strong, even for a young prince. Besides, you’ve got no legal authority whatsoever … ”

  “I don’t need any … ”

  “Listen to me for a minute,” Grogan said sharply. “Even in a friendly court, espionage cases are nearly impossible to prosecute. If you question a suspect without reading him his rights, chances are you’ll make it impossible even to bring him to trial and — ”

  “He’s not going to have the slightest idea who I am,” said Trosper. “If he comes to trial, I don’t exist.”

  Grogan looked anxiously around the cafe. “For Christ’s sake, keep your voice down. Half the people in this joint speak English … ” Over his shoulder, Trosper could hear Widgery explaining that he wanted to change his table for a larger one in the sun, and that his friend would be along shortly.

  “All I’m going to do,” Trosper continued quietly, “is tell the cheap bastard that I know he’s a spy and that he’d better tell me all about it before some hard-ass from the Bureau comes along and throws him in the slammer.”

  “Mother of God … ”

  In the background the waiter continued to argue with Widgery. “When I get up,” Trosper said, “pay the bill at once, and get word to Widge that if our friend leaves without me, he’s to stay with him just as long as possible. If the woman leaves first, he’s to stay with her until she comes to roost. Otherwise he’s to call at the apartment in an hour.”

  Grogan picked up his empty coffee cup. Without looking at Trosper he said, “When do I get to say something?”

  “Right now, but not too much.”

  “You mean, all I’m supposed to say is, ‘Let’s go ahead, hit the son of a bitch’?”

  “That’s right … ”

  “I knew goddamned well that something like this would happen if I hung around you people too long,” Grogan said. “So go ahead, hit the bastard. I can always get work as an insurance claims adjuster.” Trosper eased himself out of the chair and away from the small marble-topped table.

  27

  Paris

  Trosper squared his shoulders, expanded his chest, and stretched to gain his full height before bending slightly, to loom, he hoped, over his quarry. “Captain Pickett?” he asked.

  Startled, Pickett ducked instinctively, and then eased himself back in the chair. Staring up at Trosper, he managed a tentative, polite smile, but seemed undecided whether to get to his feet and shake hands or remain seated.

  “Clyde Pickett?”

  Total surprise. The expression faded from Pickett’s face. It was far too soon to congratulate himself, but for a moment Trosper allowed himself to begin phrasing his final report. “Wide-eyed and open-mouthed” were the only words he would remember.

  The woman pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead and favored Trosper with a serene, appraising glance. At close quarters, and in the unforgiving light of early afternoon, her makeup was less convincing. However effective her costume and performance, it had been some time since she was a jeune fille.

  Pickett’s smile faded as he attempted to push his chair away from the table. The back legs of the chair caught against the base of a serving table, leaving him wedged between the chair and table, half standing, and clearly undecided whether to struggle to his feet and shake hands or to ignore social protocol and drop back onto his chair. “Have we met?” he asked stiffly.

  “No, we haven’t … ”

  Pickett cocked his head, raised his eyebrows, and essayed a superior smile. The effect was lost when with his left hand he checked to reassure himself that his necktie was still perfectly centered.

  “ … but I’d like a word with you all the same.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve got me at a total disadvantage — I haven’t any idea who you are.” Pickett abandoned the notion of shaking hands and dropped back onto the chair. He eyed Trosper’s tweed jacket and, in what seemed to be a reflex reaction, reached into the sleeves of his red blazer to tug his shirt cuffs into position.

  “I’ve something rather urgent to discuss with you.”

  “If it’s insurance, I’m quite well taken care of.” Pickett glanced at the woman, encouraging her approval of his jest.
>
  “It’s rather more important than that,” Trosper said.

  “C’est pas fort rigolo, tout ça, chéri,” the woman murmured languidly.

  Pickett’s expression soured as he turned to Trosper. “This is really not the time or place to discuss anything, not to mention being huckstered by a complete stranger.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no reasonable alternative,” Trosper said flatly.

  “Qui est-ce, ce type?” the woman demanded of Pickett.

  “A salesman,” Pickett said, putting a gently restraining hand on her forearm. “It seems he’s forgotten his box of samples.” He looked up at Trosper. “Just who was it you were expecting to speak to?”

  “I have something to discuss with Captain Clyde George Pickett,” Trosper said, assuming his repetition of the unused first name would at the least suggest his access to records, official or otherwise.

  Pickett’s face flushed. “God damn it, I might have known who hired you. Did Tiffany — Mrs. Pickett put you up to this?” He tried to peer around Trosper, as if he expected his wife to materialize within the cafe.

  “J’en ai eu assez,” the woman said quickly. She dropped her sunglasses into her handbag.

  “It has nothing to do with your wife,” Trosper said. “And I can assure you I haven’t come all the way from Washington to participate in a divorce action.” The beads of sweat forming on Pickett’s forehead heartened Trosper.

  “Then what the devil do you want, barging in like this? Have you got a card, or some form of identification? Or is it in your sample case?”

  Trosper was reminded of one of the axioms in the Firm’s briefings on resisting interrogation. Never deliberately irritate or attempt to belittle the interrogator — he will always have the last word.

  Pickett strained to scan the cafe.

  Trosper followed Pickett’s glance. Aside from Grogan at the far corner and the two women at the nearest table, no one seemed to be paying any attention to the confrontation. He bent closer to Pickett. “There is a serious security matter that I want to discuss with you in private and right now.” Trosper realized that with the use of “Clyde,” the mention of Washington, and now the reference to security, he was rapidly using up his ammunition.

  “This is ludicrous, you just breaking in on us like this, and with some cock-and-bull story … ” Pickett’s glance darted around the cafe, apparently still seeking to reassure himself that Trosper had no confederates. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you without seeing your ID.”

  “Isn’t this embarrassing enough without my flashing ID and a warrant?”

  “A warrant?” Pickett exhaled sharply. His right hand groped behind him to grasp the chair. “What the devil do you mean, warrant?”

  Trosper glanced at the woman. “The first step will be to ask your … er … date to leave us now.”

  Pickett pulled the carefully folded, white cotton handkerchief from his breast pocket and touched it gently to his forehead. “Don’t be so foolish. I’ll do no such thing.”

  “Just tell her to go now.”

  Pickett’s head bobbed from one side to the other as he again attempted to see who might be behind Trosper.

  Trosper moved closer, until he was touching the small table.

  “This is crazy, you bothering us like this.” Pickett brushed the handkerchief across his forehead. “I’m not authorized to talk to you without seeing your ID.”

  “Do you really want my friend to serve your warrant, right here in the cafe?” Trosper turned, as if to summon the backup Pickett had been attempting to identify. “I’ve been trying to avoid that … ” Good cop.

  Pickett’s mouth moved but Trosper could not hear any sound.

  “So stop trying to jerk me around, and tell her to piss off, right now … ” Bad cop.

  Sweat showed on Pickett’s collar. Like an embarrassed child, his eyes watered and both hands rose slightly from the table in an involuntary gesture of submission. He gulped, sucking air into his lungs, and turned to the woman. “I’m sorry, Claudine, but this gentleman has a problem, something I have to deal with … ” Pickett moved, as if to begin to get up from the table.

  “Je perds mon temps ici avec vous deux.” She picked up her handbag and, looking from one to the other, added loudly, “Sales tapettes.”

  Trosper glanced at the nearby tables. The younger patrons had begun to watch with obvious amusement. Those who were older appeared torn between curiosity and the need to express their bourgeois displeasure. For a moment the persistent buzz of French conversation stilled. In the distance, Widgery stood, still locked in argument with the waiter.

  Pickett moved to restrain the woman, but changed his mind. He ran his hand down the back of his head and wiped at the sweat with his crumpled handkerchief.

  With all his resolve, Trosper silently willed the woman to leave, just to go, right now, this moment, now, before this dumb bastard gets a second wind.

  “Enfin, if faut de même régler mon compte, mon cher monsieur.” She waited a moment before graciously, adding, “You may think of it as a cadeau, a little gift.” Her English was almost without accent.

  “A present?” Pickett rallied. “What for?”

  “Just get rid of her,” Trosper said. “Give her something, a couple of hundred francs … ”

  “I will not,” Pickett said, dignity flaring. “We haven’t done anything yet, and that champagne cost plenty … ”

  The woman picked up her glass, and after a glance around the cafe to make sure of her audience, she poured the champagne slowly over Pickett’s head, down his tie, and into his lap. She checked the empty glass carefully before placing it upside down on the table.

  Trosper closed his eyes as if forever to erase the scene from memory, and reached for his wallet. He extracted three hundred-franc notes and dropped them on the table in front of the woman.

  She glanced at the money, stuffed it into her handbag, and raised her eyebrows as she once more assessed her audience. “C’est fini, cette comédie,” she said loudly. “Rentrons au travail tout le monde … ” She brushed past Trosper and headed toward the door. “Fiche toi, Monsieur Pédé, Monsieur La Chouquette.”

  “Casse toi, connasse,” Trosper called softly after her.

  Pickett wiped his face with a napkin and began to dab at the champagne spots on his red blazer.

  “It won’t fade,” Trosper said, easing himself onto the vacant chair. The waiter spun back toward the table. He glanced at Trosper. “Encore un verre pour Monsieur?” He handed a napkin to Pickett and said, “Monsieur préférerait peut être quelque chose de plus fort?” For a moment the hum of French conversation boomed and then receded.

  Trosper beckoned to Grogan.

  28

  Paris

  “What the hell do you people think you’re doing here?” Pickett’s face was flushed, his eyes moist.

  Trosper signaled the waiter, and turned to Grogan. “Something to drink?” he asked, momentarily forgetting that Grogan would consider himself to be on duty.

  Grogan shook his head.

  The waiter glanced at Trosper.

  “Une fine a l’eau, s’il vous plait … ”

  “I’ve had enough of this place, I don’t want anything to drink,” Pickett volunteered.

  “You weren’t asked,” Trosper said.

  Pickett dipped his handkerchief into the champagne bucket and began to dab at his blazer again. “Are you going to identify yourselves?” He spoke without looking up.

  “I’m here to talk to you,” Trosper said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “You said you had a warrant?” Pickett sounded querulous, as if he couldn’t believe what he said.

  “In the circumstances, does it really matter what I have in my pocket?”

  Pickett looked up, first at Grogan, then at Trosper. “In about ten seconds I’m going to walk straight out of here.”

  “Unless you want me to knock you right on your ass, you’re going to sit there until we’re all
three ready to leave … ” Drowning victims were supposed to surface three times; Pickett had fought back twice.

  “If this is something official about me, I think I should have a lawyer before I talk to anyone.”

  “All I want is for you to tell me how you got into this mess,” Trosper said. “Nothing you say to me can even be introduced into court. It’s a matter of simplifying things, and sorting out a few facts. But if you want a lawyer, you should certainly hire one.”

  “Who is he?” Pickett nodded in Grogan’s direction.

  “He’s with me.”

  “He’s with me, he’s with me,” Pickett said in a singsong voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve come a long way to talk to you,” Trosper said. “I strongly recommend that you settle down and begin to cooperate.”

  “I demand to see some identification. I’m not authorized to talk to anyone who’s not cleared.”

  “That hasn’t kept you from talking to your Russian friends,” Trosper said as harshly as he could. Captain Pickett had surfaced for the third and last time.

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  Grogan pulled his folded ID card and gold badge from his breast pocket and held it at arm’s length in front of Pickett. “Special Agent Grogan, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He pocketed the badge and put his hand firmly on Pickett’s shoulder.

  “Oh, God … ”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Grogan began softly.

  “For Christ’s sake, Mike,” Trosper said. “We’re not auditioning for some TV series … ”

  The color leached from Pickett’s face as he reached for his glass. “You don’t understand … ”

  “You have the right to a lawyer … ”

  “Let him talk,” Trosper said.

  “If you cannot afford a lawyer, the court will appoint one for you … ”

  “This isn’t happening to me, not here … ”

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law … ”