The Sunday Spy

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The Sunday Spy Page 23

by William Hood


  “What about Gholam, the agent in Vienna?”

  “That was something Volin elicited from one of his Russian friends in Prague who had been involved with Gholam when he was stationed in Vienna. From what Volin said, Gholam wasn’t very important, but even so I suggested that he mention it just to let the Firm know he was a double.”

  “Why Prague as a meeting place?”

  “That was Volin’s idea because he knew the area so well, but it was reinforced when I remembered that in my day the Firm had no muscle there at all.”

  “What did he tell you about the data he was going to sell us?” Lotte pursed her lips and shook her head. “Foxy Viktor Feodorovich was too smart to risk my making a unilateral pitch to the Firm. All he told me was that there was one military operation he would sell as a bona fide for two thousand dollars. It was worth a lot more, he said, but he planned to let the Firm have it as a kind of loss leader, something to convince you people that he really knew what he was talking about.” She got up from the fire and sat back in the chair. “From what you said about the suicide, I guess you got full value.”

  “For what it’s worth, his asking price was ten thousand dollars,”

  Trosper said. It would do no harm to remind Lotte that Volin had his own priorities.

  “I might have known,” said Lotte, “that Volin’s idea of splitting fifty-fifty would be to keep nine thousand, and give me a thousand, minus my share of his operating expenses.”

  “What about the rest of what he claimed to have?”

  She shook her head. “All he ever said about it was that if the Firm paid what he wanted, he would provide a lead to an important in-place source.”

  “Where can I find Volin, Lotte? Where is he living?”

  She laughed. “I don’t know, but I doubt if he even has a permanent place. My guess is he moves from woman to woman, a pad wherever he wants to hang out for a few days. Aside from that, I suppose he just flops in cheap hotels.”

  “What name is on the papers he’s using now?”

  “It’s been some time since I’ve heard anything from him … ”

  “His name, Lotte … ”

  “ … and that probably means he doesn’t need anything more from me.”

  “Lotte … ”

  Her eyes watered, and she turned away from Trosper. “Despite all the things he said and the promises, I doubt if I’ll ever hear from him again … ”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s got everything he wanted from me. Besides … ”

  “Besides what, Lotte?”

  She turned to Trosper, her eyes red-rimmed, her face crumpled. “Because after your first visit, I realized what I had done, and I tried to correct things.”

  “Correct things?”

  “I wrote a letter — an anonymous letter — to the Russian ambassador in Vienna, to be passed to his intelligence man. I said that an important Soviet spy had defected and, after peddling secrets to the Americans, was now beginning to blackmail a few select agents he had not already sold out.”

  If he had been dealing with an agent, Trosper would have leaped to his feet and shouted his next question. As it was, he spoke softly. “Why, Lotte? Why on earth?”

  “I knew they would run him down as soon as they found out that Otto Karlheinz Gruber, born in Linz, residing in Chicago on an immigration visa, was identical with their man, Viktor Feodorovich Volin.” Her shoulders sagged as she added, “The Gruber passport was part of the escape kit Moscow Center had cached in the States against the day something might go wrong with the Charlotte Mills case and Volin would have to bug out. The Center also had given him a cooked American passport, but I don’t know what name it’s in.”

  Trosper exhaled sharply. “That tears it wide open … ”

  “I’m sorry, Alan. Really sorry. I was trying to help out, to put an end to that bastard, to undo some of the damage … ”

  “He’s the only lead we’ve got, if Moscow Center gets to him first, that’s all she wrote … ”

  Lotte looked puzzled.

  “It’s a bit of Charlie Parker’s jazz talk,” he said, welcoming the aside. “In this case it means Moscow will kill Volin, no matter where they find him.”

  It was dawn when Trosper scraped the sleet from the windshield of the rented car and headed back across the border toward the Munich airport.

  33

  London

  Alan Trosper had no difficulty spotting his luggage on the carousel at Heathrow. The stout leather kitbag was a gift from Emily’s mother, and had probably been acquired by her late husband sometime before the outbreak of World War II. In all but one respect it was the most practical piece of luggage he had ever owned. Packed carefully, the contents would weather the most savage handling, exposure to blizzards or hurricanes, and survive dry, intact, and unmussed. The bag wore its years comfortably, and still displayed the unmistakable grace of skilled handwork. The hitch, Trosper was reminded as he tugged the bag from the hotch-potch of plastic luggage tumbling out of the chute, came in carrying the damned thing. Even empty, it weighed nearly as much as a piece of fully packed, contemporary luggage. Given the mood he was in, Trosper could but admit that along with being a handsome, antique artifact, the bag was in fact a pretentious affectation, and that he would be better off with a plastic two-suiter.

  Shifting his burden from one hand to the other, he struggled toward the stairway leading to the Underground, the fastest transport from Heathrow to Knightsbridge.

  “Alan Trosper! Is that you, Alan?” a voice called from behind. Trosper disliked being hailed in public and, ever since he had first begun to travel under a pseudonym, had disciplined himself not to react spontaneously. He took another few steps before turning casually to see who might be calling.

  “I thought that could be you,” Harrison Slocombe said as he stepped across the walkway to eye Trosper more closely. “I must say, you’ve developed a bit more panache than some of your colleagues, those gray little fellows you usually chum around with.” He stepped back in mock admiration. “That may be the only leather kitbag that has cleared customs since the BEF came back from France in 1918.”

  “Hello, Harry.” Trosper studied Slocombe’s ostentatiously formal garb — black chesterfield, black homburg, and glistening black shoes — for a moment before muttering, “Not a death in the family, I trust?”

  “Just my work clothes, Alan. Not everyone is required to traipse around in a spy cloak the way you do.” Slocombe glanced at Trosper s trench coat and wrinkled his nose in disapproval.

  “It’s because I can still get a trade discount,” Trosper admitted.

  “I’ve just got in from a weekend in Bonn, en route from Moscow,” Slocombe said cheerfully. “I’ll be here for a week before going on to Washington. Things are definitely looking up these days.”

  Trosper nodded politely, and asked, “In Moscow or in Washington?”

  “In Washington, old fellow. If things work out, I’ll be stepping up soon.”

  “That is good news … ”

  “Actually, our meeting like this is most fortunate. I’d planned to give you a call.”

  “Had you now?” Trosper was surprised.

  Slocombe glanced over his shoulder and stepped closer. “There was something I wanted to mention about that secretary, the spy woman … ”

  “Charlotte Mills?”

  Slocombe checked again for any possible auditors, and said, “Yes, of course, it’s just that I’m rather bad at names.”

  “I’ll come around to the embassy tomorrow, any time you like … ”

  Slocombe glanced over his shoulder again. “Actually, one of the embassy drivers, the man who picked up my luggage, has a car outside. If none of your co-conspirators are waiting in the bushes, perhaps I can give you a lift into town, two birds with one stone, so to speak?”

  “No one’s waiting for me — at least no one on our side,” Trosper admitted. “I’d like a ride.”

  Slocombe took off his hombur
g, laid it gently on the seat between them, and ran both hands through his hair, flouncing it. It was an oddly vain movement, something Trosper had never seen a man make.

  “After our little chat in New York, I began to wonder what made you ask about that woman at this late date.”

  “It’s not very complicated,” Trosper lied. “When you get down to it, counterintelligence has something in common with murder — once you begin to shake it out, to look at an event backwards and forwards, upside down and every which way, there’s no telling what will turn up.” He smiled brightly. “And like murder, there’s no statute of limitations in counterintelligence.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Slocombe said with a frown.

  “As it has turned out, some of the people Mills knew seem to have been involved in another matter, a different problem,” Trosper said, his voice flat.

  “Aside from whatever your mysterious ‘different problem’ may be, there was something you said about the woman that bothered me.”

  “Tell me … ”

  “You mentioned an actor … someone you said the woman picked up at a party somewhere in Moscow.”

  “It was the other way around, she said he picked her up … ”

  “That’s hard to believe … “

  “ … and seduced her.”

  “Even harder to believe,” Slocombe said with a tight smile.

  “It’s also quite possible that somewhere along the way, he drugged her.”

  Slocombe shrugged. “That’s more in your field than mine … ”

  “It is now,” Trosper said thoughtfully. He leaned back in the seat and watched the surging stream of the rush-hour traffic for a while before saying, “What was it you were saying about stepping up?” He would let Slocombe indicate his degree of interest in Charlotte Mills.

  “I probably shouldn’t mention it to you,” said Slocombe, “but I’m up for a new assignment.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” said Trosper. “Something good, I trust?”

  “Damned good, and about time,” Slocombe said. “I’ve been carrying other people’s responsibilities long enough.”

  “A command of your own, an embassy?”

  “Not exactly,” said Slocombe. “But in a few days, I’ll be given ambassadorial rank, and made responsible for the political side of all our new aid programs for Russia, and the other components of the confederation.”

  “Wow,” said Trosper. “Congratulations are in order.”

  “You’re damned well right,” Slocombe said confidently. “All the time I’ve put in as deputy and carrying the can for the political hacks and thimble merchants the White House rewards with embassies these days, this is the least I deserve.”

  “It’s a rotten system … ”

  “I’m really quite pleased,” Slocombe said with a slight, satisfied smile. “But along with everything else, and being in Moscow again, I got to thinking about that woman … ”

  “Mills … ”

  “ … and what you said about her claim that some actor had done her wrong.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I asked about it in Moscow,” Slocombe said.

  “For God’s sake, Harry, why didn’t you ask one of us before taking an initiative like that?” Trosper groaned in dismay. Now, Moscow knew that the Mills case had been reopened, and for no apparent reason. Thanks to Lotte’s letter, the Center also knew that Volin was on the loose and preparing a blackmail program. Although Pickett’s suicide had not been mentioned in the French press, it could not be long before Moscow Center learned it had lost an important agent. There was at least one plus, Trosper told himself. Because Moscow Center looked at the world through its own eyes, chances were that in their assessment of Pickett’s death, Moscow would factor in the possibility that he had been murdered by American security forces to avoid the bother and publicity of a court trial for espionage. That, at the least, might add a complication to their evaluation of the suicide.

  Slocombe was unabashed. “Aside from the fact that you didn’t indicate that the Mills story was sensitive, I’m not under any obligation to clear any initiative I may choose to make with anyone — let alone an unofficial organization,” he said stiffly. “Besides, it turned out to be of no importance anyway.”

  “Whom did you ask, Harry?”

  Slocombe turned full face to Trosper. “One of my sources, a fellow I’ve used in the past.”

  “Who, Harry? Who was it? This is rather important.”

  “If I may say so, Alan,” said ambassador apparent Slocombe, “I’m a better judge of that than you are. You seem to forget that I spent three years in Moscow in the old days, not to mention all the temporary assignments I’ve had there since then. Experience like that gives one a real feel for things. And that’s something quite different from what you fellows who never set foot there, and who are still wallowing in all that cold-war claptrap, are ever likely to have.”

  “Just what was it you asked?”

  Slocombe sniffed angrily. “All I asked was if my source knew anything about the fellow you questioned me about — Yuri Krotov.” Trosper blinked. “And what did your good fellow have to offer?”

  “Needless to say, he had never heard of any Krotov, and when he checked with the people who used to be at SovFilm — even the name’s changed now — they had no record of him either.” Slocombe smiled again. “And that, I believe, puts paid to the silly story that foolish woman fobbed off on all you security people.”

  “In a way, I suppose it does,” Trosper admitted. He leaned back in his seat, his black mood unexpectedly cheered by having accepted Slocombe’s offer of a ride.

  34

  Frankfurt

  “What we’re getting into is going to be ad hoc, and maybe a little sticky,” Trosper admitted.

  Widgery’s expression edged from its customary sardonic tolerance to uneasy anticipation.

  “Not quite downtown Prague,” Trosper mused as he bent over the street plan. “But close enough by tram or subway.”

  By the time Sinon’s urgent call to the Peach telephone was relayed to London, Trosper had less than thirty-six hours to pick up Widgery in Frankfurt and make the scheduled mid-afternoon rendezvous in Prague.

  “Couldn’t we just fly in?” Widgery asked. “I checked, and there are two flights this afternoon that will land us there with plenty of time to get our bearings.”

  Trosper shook his head. “If the Czech security people monitor any travel these days, they concentrate on airlines. My passport says I’m Sam Anderson — you’re still traveling as Peter Lynch — and these are the names Zitkin has in the files. He may not have bothered to lift all three of us last time, but he’s too much of a pro not to have made you and Grogan, and not to have registered us all on the watch list — maybe even on an automatic arrest roster.”

  “But we’ll only be there a few hours … ”

  Trosper shook his head. “Under the Russians, Czechoslovakia was sealed vacuum-tight and the police were hated. When the Czechs shook off the occupation everything touching on the police and security services was throttled back. The cops are still in bad odor, but the uniformed staffs are being rebuilt and normal police controls are in effect. As we … er … learned, a politically correct security service is functioning, and on the basis of what we saw of Zitkin, it is working quite well.”

  “Judging by that airport,” Widgery said, “I’d be surprised if they even have a telephone.”

  Trosper shook his head. “Even if Slovakia hadn’t broken off, I’d be dead certain that the old passport controls are functioning as efficiently as ever. Zitkin knows there’s enough nasty international political activity, terrorism, and drug traffic to warrant keeping up their guard. That means airport controls come first if for no other reason than that cops assume that almost everyone of police interest — including the odd spy — travels by plane. The passenger manifests are telexed from the airport to a central computer for tracing within minutes. The few incoming flights thi
s time of year make control all the easier. There’s no way we can count on beating the system.”

  Widgery shrugged. “What’s so different about the train?”

  “No passenger manifests on the train, and on night trains only a perfunctory passport inspection at the border, around three A.M. Even if they make a note of our names, we should be on our way out by the time Zitkin learns we were there.”

  Trosper turned back to the street map. The small Krizikova Park was four subway stops from Republiky Square. The afternoon Treff would be better than the mid-morning fiasco at Karlovo Square, but less than desirable. Even if the weather were good, two men strolling through a park at three-thirty in the afternoon might plausibly spark the attention of even a street cop otherwise occupied with parking violations.

  “So, we go in by night train from Frankfurt, have breakfast, drop our luggage at the station, take a taxi to Republiky Square, and the subway to the vicinity of the park. We’ll have a quick look around, and make it back for the Treff. Then, all things equal, we’ll take the midnight train back to Germany.” Trosper attempted a reassuring smile. “This is what we used to call a quick in and out.” He thought for a moment before saying, “With any luck, we should have time enough.”

  “When you say we should have plenty of time, it reminds me of something Fred Burke used to say at his ops seminar at the Fort.”

  Trosper nodded.

  “Actually, it’s a couplet … ”

  “A couplet?”

  “‘Would have and should have, are words we don’t use, ’cause if we do, they give us the blues.’”

  Inspector Zitkin stood at the head of the platform, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his leather coat.

  “So much for avoiding airport controls by sitting up all night on that unwatched train,” Widgery muttered.

  35

  Prague

  Inspector Zitkin leaned forward, elbows on the small table, fingers laced together, his thumbs forming a shelf for his chin. He looked down at Trosper. “Tell me, Mr. Anderson, do you believe in miracles?”

 

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