by William Hood
“We’re a bit busy right now. How long will it take you to get here?”
“Give me ten minutes … ”
“Stop at a cafe. Pick up some sandwiches, some cheese, and step on it … ” Trosper put down the phone and glanced at Pickett, still rigid on the chaise longue, staring vacantly at the wall. He turned to Grogan. “Our friend’s nearly under the weather — do you think a drink’s in order?”
“Only if it’s a stiff one.”
Trosper walked over to Pickett. “The bar’s open — as far as I can tell, there’s just about anything you might want from bourbon to vodka, white or red wine, sherry or port. Whiskey or vodka?”
“I’ll never touch vodka again … ” Pickett stared across the room at Grogan. “Not as long as I live … ” His shoulders began to shake. It was as if he were sobbing, but there were no tears.
“Scotch it is … ” Trosper took a tray of miniature ice cubes and a bottle of Perrier from the refrigerator in the Pullman kitchen and mixed three drinks.
Grogan picked up a drink and walked back to Pickett. “When you’ve finished this, take a good relaxing bath, you could swim in that tub. Or, maybe take a hot shower. Then we’ll have something to eat and decide about your wife and what we do tomorrow.”
Pickett gulped some of the drink, and walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. Grogan reached around the doorjamb, turned the lights on, and told Pickett to leave the door ajar.
Trosper took a deep drink and shook his head. “He’s not in such hot shape … ”
From the bathroom came the sound of the shower at full volume.
“I know,” Grogan said. “What the hell are we going to do about his wife?”
“These days there’s probably at least one woman officer assigned to the military attaché’s office here. If so, maybe she could come along when we drive her back … ”
From the bathroom, the muffled whap of a pistol shot. Then a plop, like a full teapot dropped onto a tile floor.
Grogan leaped toward the bathroom.
A choked, unarticulated shriek came from the bathroom.
A second muffled, but louder, pistol report.
Trosper jumped to his feet, two steps behind Grogan.
There was a second of silence before Grogan, reeling back from the open bathroom door, cried, “Oh Christ, Christ Almighty.”
Trosper pushed Grogan aside and stepped through the door. He retched and vomited into the bidet, and stumbled back into the living room.
Grogan stood leaning against the wall beside the bathroom door. He took several deep breaths, turned, and stepped back into the tile-walled room.
Trosper picked up his drink and walked slowly to the small sink beside the minibar. He splashed cold water on his face and took a mouthful of the scotch. He rinsed his mouth, and spewed into the sink. He repeated the process, and spilled the remains of the drink into the sink. He tossed the glass into a wastebasket, and slumped into a chair beside the coffee table. In the soft light, he could just make out the spots left by the champagne on Pickett’s red blazer, carefully hung on a chair beside the chaise longue.
Grogan stepped back into the living room, wiping his hands on a heavy, blue bath towel. “I’ll take that drink now.”
Trosper added another tot of scotch to the untouched drink and handed it to Grogan. “Is it my imagination, or were there two shots?” Grogan took a long swallow of the drink. “For some reason, that poor, suffering bastard wrapped the gun in a towel. Maybe so the neighbors wouldn’t hear and cause us any trouble.”
“But two shots … ”
“Thanks to the damned towel,” Grogan blurted, “he nearly missed with the first shot. What he did was blow some of his face off, half his jaw, teeth and everything right across the floor and against the toilet.” Grogan’s eyes watered. “He must have fallen to his knees. He was blind, and couldn’t even scream. All he could do was make that Christ-awful sound. But then he got the gun up to his ear and fucking blew the back of his head off with the second shot.”
“Where the hell did the gun come from? I’d swear he wasn’t carrying … ”
Grogan stared at the floor. “It’s a 9-millimeter P-12 Grendel. Probably the smallest 9-millimeter made. Who’d have thought the poor bastard would carry a piece like that in an ankle holster?” Grogan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth and eyes. “Damn all blackmailers to hell … ”
“I’d better get hold of someone … ”
“Call the Pope, he’s the only one can straighten out this mess … ” As Trosper began to dial, he willed David Hutton to be at home. “I’m glad I could reach you this time of night … ”
“Always here, ready to help any passing friend,” Hutton said, his voice tight with irritation.
“I wouldn’t have called you this late, but something has come up … ”
“Damn it, Alan, you promised. What the hell is it with you these days?”
“Believe me, I’d have preferred not to have to call this late.”
“All right, already,” Hutton said. “I’ll make my case directly with the boss in my monthly letter. What is it this time?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to drop by … ”
“At half-past nine? Won’t it keep?”
The doorbell rang. Three short rings.
“Hold for a minute, Dave, there’s someone at the door … with my luck, it’s Mitterrand.”
Trosper kept the phone to his ear as he stretched to open the door.
Widgery dropped his raincoat and a plastic shopping bag on a chair and mouthed, “Where’s Grogan?”
Trosper gestured toward the open bathroom door, and continued to speak into the phone. “I’m afraid there’s no choice, Dave. You really will have to come over.”
As Widgery strode across the room, Trosper shouted, “Don’t go in there, it’s a mess … ”
Trosper heard a sharp curse, the thud of a falling body, and a long, keening groan. Then Grogan’s harsh voice, “You goddamned idiot, that’s evidence you’re rolling around in … ”
“What the hell are you people up to down there?” Hutton wailed. “Three short rings when you get here,” Trosper muttered.
30
Paris
Widgery looked up from his fourth, generous Johnnie Walker and water. “What kind of a place is this, ‘Le Paddock,’ right in the middle of Paris? If it was any more authentic you could smell the horses … ”
“It’s called ‘The Paddock,’” Trosper said. “I don’t know why it’s made up to look like a tack room, but it’s a photographers’ hangout. You can always tell, none of the girls who’ve been eyeing you weighs more than a hundred and five pounds, or drinks anything but designer water that probably tastes as if it had been bottled by Kodak.” Trosper was not sure whether he resented the instant impression Widgery made on women more than he did the fact that Widgery seemed oblivious to it.
“This has been the worst twelve hours of my life,” Widgery said. “I was all steamed about spotting poor old Pickett’s date. If I hadn’t been in such a rush to tell you he was making a meet, he’d still be alive … ”
“It’s a mistake to confuse the racket with the Boy Scouts, Widge,” Trosper said softly.
“I feel like punching somebody … anybody.”
Trosper looked at his watch. “It’s after midnight, time for the good guys to go home … ”
“You should have taken a swing at Hutton when he made that crack about the only contribution Mr. Bates ever made to the Firm was bouncing you out … ”
“Hutton’s all right, liaison people tend to go prissy when there’s work to be done … ”
“Even so, how could you justify leaving Grogan and Hutton with the crazy-eyed Frenchman who came boiling in just as we were leaving?”
Trosper signaled for the bill. “Look at it this way — no laws were broken, Grogan is legally in France, he was operating entirely within his rights, and by now he’s squared everything with the legal a
ttaché at the embassy. All he did was question an American citizen who freely admitted to a serious crime.”
“Yes, but … ”
“Don’t forget,” Trosper said with a slight smile, “whatever their peculiarities, the French have always been keen on military security. You remember the fuss they made about Captain Dreyfus, not to mention Mata Hari?”
“But neither of them was really a spy … ”
“Exactly.”
“Can’t you be serious?” Widgery’s face was drawn and there were dark circles under his eyes.
“In truth, Widge, I find it difficult to be serious after a day like this,” Trosper said slowly. “The fact is that the French have good reason to help squelch any scandal. NATO doesn’t mean anything to them, but that’s an expensive apartment-hotel our friend messed up. Neither the management nor the tourist office want that kind of news on the front page.”
“But … ”
“If we’d hung around until the Frenchman and Hutton cooked a story and the cops had dealt with the hotel, it could only have complicated things.”
“I think it’s rotten, what happened to Pickett, and the mess he left for his family … ”
“He did it to himself. He violated orders and common sense when he got mixed up with the Czech girl. When the Moscow thugs began the blackmail, he should have gone to his boss, or the ambassador. He’d probably have been cashiered, but he’d be alive and in a position to take care of his family. As it was, Moscow read him perfectly — he was weak, greedy, and, up to the last moment, feckless.” Trosper took a sip of whiskey. “Pickett was a self-serving villain. He sold his family, his society, and his country for cash on the table.”
“Yes, but … ”
“If you can put the Grand Guignol out of your mind for a moment,” Trosper interrupted, “you might question Pickett’s story about the boudoir photos. It’s possible they merely threatened him and then offered some heavy money, perhaps even more than he admitted. Creeps have been known to use dirty pictures and blackmail as an excuse for their treason.”
“I still feel like whacking somebody … ”
Trosper glanced at the bill, decided he would need an adding machine to check it, and dropped a credit card on the serving platter. “There’s more to this than congratulating ourselves on having closed a serious leak, and brooding about the blood we didn’t spill.”
Widgery’s expression teetered between hostility and interest.
“When you get around to thinking about it, remember that Sinon said he told us about Pickett to prove his access to important information. Has he got any more data, or has he used it all just to set us up for some serious money?” He finished his drink. “We’ve got to find it out before Moscow takes steps to protect its own interests — which will be damned soon now.” That, he decided, should give Widgery something more than the bloody bathroom to think about.
Widgery drained his glass. “It’s too late for me to analyze it tonight, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“It will keep,” said Trosper.
“This has been a dreadful day,” Widgery said grimly. “My parents expected me two hours ago. I’m a mess, and there’s no way I can change before I get to the Crillon. I haven’t had so much to drink since I graduated, and I intend to have more if my old man has his usual bottle at the hotel.” He shook his head and managed a wry smile. “The only hope I have in keeping a penny of my trust is that it’s a suite, and the parents are in a deep and dreamless sleep.”
He got to his feet. “Dad expects you for breakfast at nine, but it’s not a command performance.”
*
Breakfast in a good hotel always gave Trosper a sense of well-being. Yet the food — in France his choice ran to soft scrambled eggs, cafe au lait, and a croissant or brioche — and even the tableware and napery could more easily be reproduced at home than any other restaurant meal. He had never uncovered the root of his enthusiasm for breakfast out, but was satisfied to accept it as a fact. The sparkling breakfast room of the Crillon met his standard in every respect.
“I’m sorry that Nellie — Mrs. Widgery — couldn’t join us this morning, Mr. Trosper.”
His reverie broken, Trosper looked up and said, “Alan, please, Mr. Widgery.”
“I’m called Tom. It was my father — who lived to be ninety-two — who had exclusive use of ‘John’ most of my life.” John Thomas Widgery smiled across the table. “Except for young James Russell here, Widgery men are always called some variation of John Thomas. If there are two boys, the first is John Thomas, and the second Thomas John. James, here, broke the spell. He’s the only third son the family ever spawned. The custom gets even more complicated if the generations begin crowding in on one another, but that’s too confusing a story to go into over breakfast.”
Trosper nodded thoughtfully. John Thomas Widgery’s lean six feet and an inch of height, straight, carefully trimmed hair, light blue eyes, and winter tan combined to present an all but ageless member of the New England patriciate.
“Young James, here, rolled in rather late last night, and Nellie wouldn’t let him go to bed until she had a full report.”
Trosper glanced from Widgery to his father. No wonder the young man had problems. Just sipping his coffee and adding a dab of apricot jam to a croissant, Tom Widgery’s understated presence was spectacular.
“Come on, Dad,” Widgery said, “Mother just hadn’t seen me for a bit, she wasn’t all that exigent.”
“I’m afraid I was the exigent one,” Trosper admitted with a smile. “We had rather a night of it, one way and another.”
“James is our youngest — and quite a surprise he was. What with both his brothers having already tottered into premature middle age, it’s no wonder that Nellie can’t understand why her youngest has got so far off the straight and narrow in just two years.” Tom Widgery smiled as he raised both eyebrows for an instant. It was, Trosper realized, an Olympian version of a wink.
“For God’s sake, Dad, let Alan have something to eat.”
“You look as if you could use some more coffee yourself,” Tom Widgery said. “Why don’t you go up and have another cup with your mother?”
Widgery turned to Trosper and shook his head in mock despair. “You can see why the youngest are the first to leave home.” He dropped his napkin beside his plate. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
Trosper watched the young man hurry out of the dining room. “You’ll understand that it’s a little difficult for me to say very much about what James is up to … ”
“I realize that,” Tom Widgery said. “I’ve known Darcy Odium ever since he wasted a winter chasing my older sister around Wellesley. That was before he signed on with General Donovan and that gang of his. Years later, Darcy was just as close-mouthed when he set up what he persisted in calling ‘the Firm.’ I suppose it still goes with the territory — insofar as you have much territory left?”
“I’ve been more or less out of it the last three years, but I’d say that’s about right,” Trosper said. “Things have changed tremendously since the breakup of the Soviet Union, but it’s my guess that the Firm, or something much like it, will be in business for a long time. The Ames fracas even reminded some of the op-ed moralists that people have been spying on one another since the creation. Now, with nuclear weapons and biological warfare devices proliferating, and every country on earth trying to keep significant parts of its activity secret, I can’t imagine any of the world powers gratuitously striking themselves blind.”
Tom Widgery raised his eyebrows again. “Money, perhaps?” Trosper shook his head. “Actual spying comes cheap — the cost of a military aircraft and a tank or two would more than cover most espionage budgets. It’s the technical operations that chew up the budget.”
Widgery’s expression did not change. “Is the boy qualified, is he doing all right?”
“He’s well qualified, and he’s certainly up to speed with his contemporaries,” Trosper said. “Like mo
st of us, he’ll profit from more experience.” He took a final morsel of croissant. “There’s just one bit of advice I plan to give him. In the next twelve months, he should be sure that he’s prepared to make a full commitment to the life he’ll have to lead if he stays on.”
Widgery gazed speculatively at Trosper. “That’s fair, and I appreciate your saying it.”
Trosper managed another bite of his cold eggs.
“When James came in last night, I was reminded that just about dawn on June 11th, 1944, I got a little too close to some incoming fire in Normandy,” Widgery said. “I had a platoon in the old 29th Division. My radio man lost his arm, but I just got nicked. Not much of a wound, barely enough for a Purple Heart.”
Trosper nodded.
“So you can believe me that when James came in last night, I was surprised, to put it mildly, to see the condition of his trousers. Once you’ve seen bloodstains, you’re not likely to forget what they look like.” This time, Tom Widgery’s eyebrows remained raised a full two seconds. “I was also surprised to see him dip into the scotch that late at night, and in front of Nellie.”
“We tried to clean him up, but it was impossible, and he had no chance to change. I hope Mrs. Widgery wasn’t upset?”
“She hadn’t the foggiest notion of what she was trying to sponge out of his flannels,” Widgery said with a slight smile. “But it was the first time she’d seen James quite so crocked.”
“All in all,” Trosper said thoughtfully, “we had a really rotten eighteen hours.”
“Frankly, from what I’ve heard from a couple of Washington people, I thought the cowboy stuff was a thing of the past.”
“So did I,” Trosper said softly. “But at least this one was pretty much in-house.”
“I felt I had to ask,” Tom Widgery said.
“The fact is, James was never in any physical danger. None of us were.” There was no point in mentioning the emotional wear and tear.
31
Washington, D.C.