So Kemp was right; it was a standoff. Spode circled him cautiously and got down on one knee to get a light grip on the edges of a glass shard Kemp had pushed out of his way on the floor. It would have fingerprints on it. Spode wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket with the Minox. Kemp watched drowsily and massaged the back of his neck; his control of his emotions was superb.
Spode took his time wiping his own prints off the cold-cream jar and the surfaces he might have touched in the scuffle. Kemp said, “It’s a shame about that busted shower stall. Maybe your people can arrange to have it replaced and get the mess cleaned up before the owner of the house comes back.”
Again the statement concealed questions: Did Spode work for an organization big enough to handle that kind of chore quickly? Did Spode know how soon the occupant would return?
Spode gave him no satisfaction but took what he could from Kemp’s statement: Kemp didn’t know where Trumble was or how long he would be away.
It was all shadowboxing and Spode could do better away from here. It was time to clear out. He said, “I’ll go out first. You can lock up when you leave. When I’m gone give me a few minutes to get clear—I might get trigger happy if you’re too tight on my ass.”
“Sure you might. I can see you’re the type who’d just go all to pieces.”
“Why take the chance?”
“I’ll give you five minutes. Do I get my gun back? If I lose the thing I not only have to pay for a replacement but I’ve got to explain how I lost it. You understand.”
“I understand, but I’ll keep it. Next time you’ll know better.” Spode backed out into the hallway.
“You’ve probably left prints on some more of that glass. Was I you I’d wipe them off before I left.”
“I guess I’ll have time for that.”
“I guess you will.” Spode turned and walked toward the front of the house, not hurrying.
In a hedge across the street Spode concealed the battery tape recorder that would pick up signals from the bugs he had planted in Trumble’s house. The bugs were voice-activated and the tape would run only when there was sound, but just the same there was only two hours’ tape on the machine and that meant someone would have to retrieve the tape once or twice a day and replace it. Spode didn’t know what good it would do to monitor Trumble but sometimes a blind shot paid off.
He spent two minutes going through Kemp’s car. He had left the house ahead of Kemp for two reasons: to see what was in the Ford, and to see what Kemp might bring out of the house with him. He was sure that Kemp had been searching for something too large to hide under his jacket.
Spode made it look as if he was planting a bug in Kemp’s car. It was what he would have done if he’d had a bleeper on him, but that wasn’t the kind of thing he carried around. Anyhow it would take Kemp quite a while to make sure the car was clean.
By the same token there was no reason to believe Kemp hadn’t planted a directional bleeper on Spode’s own car before he’d gone into the house. It was unlikely because Kemp probably thought the car belonged to a neighbor, but it was always possible. Still, Spode didn’t have time to hunt for it now. He just got in the car and drove away. His headlights swept the trees when he turned the corner; he made a circuit around three sides of the block and extinguished the lights and waited near the corner, doubting Kemp would fall for it but always willing to try the elementary things first. He could see Kemp’s car through a ranch house’s corner windows. Kemp hadn’t appeared yet and Spode used the time to review the clues Kemp had dropped.
When five minutes had elapsed he was satisfied he had milked Kemp’s hints for all he was going to get out of them. But the interval began to disturb him. Kemp had had plenty of time to get on the phone and summon reinforcements and if Spode was still hanging around when they arrived he might find himself in trouble. He began to think about giving it up.
Then Kemp came out of the house and walked casually to the Ford. He was clearly emptyhanded. The Ford backed into a driveway to turn around, and came forward; and Spode let him go. No point tailing a professional: the man would know how to ditch a tail and there was no way on earth to keep single-handed surveillance on a man who didn’t want to be followed and knew how to shake pursuit.
Spode switched on his lights and drove away.
He pulled into the lot behind the Tropical Inn on Speedway Boulevard and went inside to use the pay phone. It had been a long time since he had last dialed this long-distance number but his fingers worked without hesitation. It was nearly midnight and that meant in Virginia it was almost two in the morning, but that didn’t matter to the Agency; the Agency worked a twenty four-hour day.
A girl’s plastic voice chirped in his ear. “Good morning, six-eight-seven-nyun.”
“Extension three, please.”
He heard the whistles and buzzes of the automatic switchboard. A man’s voice came on the line: “Extension three.” It was a voice Spode knew well and he was relieved it was still there.
“Howdy, George. This is Jaime Spode.”
“Well for Christ’s sake. Where the hell you been keeping yourself? Still working for that politician?”
“Aeah. Too dumb to quit. How’s everything back at the old stand?”
“Situation normal all screwed up. Where you calling from, Jaime?”
“Arizona. Listen, do you boys happen to have a tourist taking in the scenery down here in Tucson?”
“Why?”
“Because I just ran into a fellow who dropped a few hints.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s pushing fifty, all brown—hair, eyes, clothes. Maybe five-foot-ten, hundred and seventy-five, round face, no visible marks, small earlobes, square hands with small fingernails. I took him for an insurance salesman the first time I saw him. He knows all the tricks, he’s a pro. Standard American speech pattern, light baritone. He was carrying an S & W nine-millimeter with a Swiss-cheese silencer, hip holster. I took a few snapshots and I think I’ve got some fingerprints but that takes time and I wondered if the description would ring a bell.”
“Not offhand it doesn’t, but then with fifty thousand field agents kicking around the world—”
“Look, George, the guy gave me Colonel Cecil’s phone number and told me to check him out there. He didn’t say whose number it was and I guess he was waiting to see if I knew. I didn’t call Cecil for obvious reasons. All I want to know at this point is whether I should lay off this guy or not.”
“What’s your phone number there?”
Spode read it off to him.
“Pay phone?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, stay put, I’ll call you back.”
Spode hung up and stood in the airless booth with the door slightly open so that the dome light in the ceiling was off. A plump girl got off a bar stool and came over to buy cigarettes from the machine; she gave him a speculative look and Spode grinned at her but shook his head. The girl shrugged and went back to the bar.
Something was needling Spode’s mental corners. He scowled and tried to focus on it but it was elusive. He still didn’t have it when the phone rang.
“Jaime?”
“Still here.”
“Look, where’d you run into this guy?”
So it was like that. Spode stiffened and pulled the booth door shut. “Who is he, George?” His voice had an edge now.
“I don’t think we want to talk about that on an open line, Jaime.”
“Then we don’t want to talk about where I saw him either, do we?” Spode was horse-trading. Evidently George had run the verbal description through the massive computerized R & I and a card had popped up.
“Look, Jaime, this is kind of touchy because you’re not an employee any more. But we all know you’re no security risk so I’m going to play this a bit looser than the regulations call for. I want you to deliver those fingerprints and negatives to Art Miller right now. Can do?”
“Maybe. There’ll be a pr
ice tag.”
“I thought there would but that’s okay. This may turn out to be big enough for all of us.”
“Does Miller have a safe line?”
“Yes.”
“Then you phone him and tell him to cooperate with me. Will you do that?”
“Of course. He’ll tell you what you want to know. But you’re going to have to play this one strictly by our rules, Jaime. As far as this one goes you’re back on our team again.”
“Up to a point. I still work for the Senator.”
“We’ll talk about that later. I’ll call you at Art’s. How long will it take you to get there?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll talk to you. Get going and make sure you’re alone.”
Spode hung up and went out to the car. Drove out through the alley and made the right turn on Speedway and spent five minutes going through the standard maneuvers to disclose a tail. When he was satisfied he cut south across the city toward Broadway. Street lights made pale pools along the empty streets and at the Broadway corner a traffic light blinked red, on and off. Spode’s nostrils dilated; he was keyed up now, sensing the scope of things.
For three minutes he sat in the darkened car a block from Miller’s house and looked out the long empty street toward the desert. Nothing showed up, in front or in the mirror, and when he was sure he got out of the car carrying the camera and Kemp’s gun.
The lights were on and the drapes were drawn. Miller opened the door, looked past him in all directions and let him in. Miller was bald and slow-moving, but his big round gut was hard as a truck tire. He was only thirty-three or so. He edited a little regional monthly magazine; that was his cover. His editorial office was in the house and that made it handy. He had been divorced five years ago and lived alone. Spode hadn’t seen him in several years but they didn’t take time to cover the amenities; Spode put the camera and the gun on Miller’s desk and said, “Okay, so who is he?”
“We’ll have to make sure. George said you had prints too. On the gun?”
“Maybe, but they’d be mixed with mine. This’ll do better.” Spode dumped the broken piece of shower-stall glass out of his handkerchief onto the desk.
Miller picked up the camera and handled the glass carefully by its edges. “Let me set these up back in the darkroom—I’ve got a dusting-kit back there too. You want to wait or you want to come with me?”
“Hell, I want to talk. I’m coming with you.”
Miller took him through to the back of the house into a small windowless room that smelled of photographic chemicals. “What film you got in here?”
“Tri-X. Most of it’s documents and I’ll thank you not to read them—it’s for my boss. The mug shots will be the last five toward the end. I didn’t use up the whole roll.”
“Okay. I’ve got to turn off the light to transfer it into the tank. Stay put so I don’t go crashing into you.”
The room went dark and Spode stood still. “You still didn’t say who he is.”
“We’re not sure, of course. But it could be Leon Belsky.”
Spode blinked in the darkness. His lips went dry and he licked them. His whisper was hoarse: “Sweet Jesus.”
When the film was in the lightproof development canister Miller switched the light on and dusted the glass shard with powder. “Too bad it’s mottled glass. It may not come up as clear.” But it was coming up; Spode could see the whorls and ridges held by skin oil when Miller blew the excess dust away. “But these don’t look half-bad.” Miller placed it carefully upside-down on the glass carrier of his Xerox machine and ran off three paper prints of it until he had a clear one. “A lot faster than photography,” he explained. “Now we’ll shoot this off to Virginia.”
They went across the hall into the office. It was a maddening clutter of papers and glossy color photos and scattered books. The telephone had a document transmitter attached to it. Miller dialed and got through to Extension Three. “George? Art Miller. Jaime’s here and I’ve got a Xerox of some fingerprints. I’m going to put them on the phone. You hooked up? … Okay, here goes.”
Miller put the telephone receiver down on the transmitter cradle and fed the Xerox sheet into the machine. It would take the scanner a few minutes to cover the whole sheet. Miller said to Spode, “Anything else, Jaime?”
“I got the license number of his car of course, but it was a new Ford and he probably got it from Hertz. He’s going under the cover of Meldon R. Kemp. NARS researcher ID card with FBI colors. Various gun permits and the like from Fresno. I can write it all down if you want but I doubt it’ll lead us to anything.”
“How much did you give him?”
“Nothing much. But he’ll have to act on the hypothesis that I’m U.S. Government and that I’ll find out who he is.”
“So he’s probably clearing out right now. It’s a shame, but there you are. How’d you come up against him?”
“I think I’d better talk to George about that first.”
“Okay,” Miller said without rancor. The transmitter was finished and Miller picked up the telephone. “Got it, George? … Okay, I’ve got high-speed chemicals in the darkroom and we’ll probably have mug proofs for you by the time you’ve run those prints through the file. I’ll call you back. But meantime Jaime wants to talk to you.”
Miller handed him the phone and Spode said, “If it’s Belsky then we’ve got a strange situation here, George, because I ran into him in Congressman Ross Trumble’s house.”
He had made the decision in the car driving over here. If the Agency was going to be involved in this at all they were going to have to know the whole truth, or at least as much of it as Spode knew himself. There was no point manufacturing expedient half-truths because they would only backfire. The Agency wasn’t interested in Senator Forrester’s need for the Phaeton figures; there was no reason for any of this to affect Forrester’s activities. How much Spode would tell Forrester would depend on whether he came up with information of use to Forrester’s case. It was possible this had nothing to do with Forrester and in that event Spode didn’t intend to mention it at all.
So he gave George the whole thing on the telephone and Art Miller was standing across the hall in the darkroom, within earshot, taking it in.
George asked, “What did he seem to be looking for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was looking for Trumble.”
“In a dark house? With a flashlight and a gun?”
“I don’t know anything I didn’t tell you, George. I’m not holding anything back.”
“Then let’s mull it for twenty minutes and get back to each other when these paper returns are in.”
Spode cradled the phone and sat down in Miller’s office chair and tried to pull the threads together.
He went out to the living room to get on the extension so they could have a three-cornered conference. The photos and fingerprints had turned up positive: it was Leon Belsky, no mistake. It wasn’t the first time Belsky had been in the States but it was the first time they’d spotted him here; the other times he’d stayed ahead and they hadn’t caught up with him until he’d returned to his favorite East European haunts—Prague, Bucharest, Odessa. Belsky was a Control, not a field agent. Wherever he went there was something important.
Spode said, “Look at it. He circles the house, maybe he’s been driving by for hours waiting for Trumble to show up. He sees there’s nobody home. Finally he lets himself in—I assumed he had keys but maybe he’s a good lock man. He had to unlock the alarm system as well as the door. Anyhow he gets in. Assume he’s waiting to jump Trumble. He figures nobody’s home, but he’s a pro and he’s supposedly got his mind in working order, so naturally he goes through the house to make sure it’s secure before he settles down to wait for Trumble to show up. He’s not really expecting to find anybody, so he’s a shade less alert than he might be otherwise, and I manage to get the jump on him. Now we have a little tête-à-tête and I leave. Possibly he’s gone back there to w
ait for Trumble, but I doubt it—he’s got to assume I’ve reported him, so right about now he’s probably going across the border into Mexico. But we know one thing. He wasn’t there looking for the same thing I was looking for. I was after documents. Belsky was after something man-size. We have to assume Trumble. Anyway whatever Belsky was up to, you’ll probably have to find out at Trumble’s end.”
George’s voice said, “Don’t be so quick to assume he’ll pull in his horns and run for it. He hasn’t finished whatever he came here for. Moscow had something important in mind or they wouldn’t have picked a heavyweight in his class. He knows we’ve spotted him but he’s got a lot of room to hide in. He knows we haven’t got the slightest idea where to start looking for him. We have to go on the assumption that he hasn’t completed his assignment yet and that he’ll try to go through with it; he’s taken risks before, he’s not easy to scare off. So there’s still a chance we can flush him.”
Spode knew what was coming. “I don’t work for you guys any more, George.”
“Cut that out. This is big and you know it.”
“Nobody’s paying me to stick my neck out. I’m on the Senator’s payroll, not yours. He’s got things he wants me to do—I can’t just cop out on him.”
“Lose a little sleep—work two shifts.”
“I’ve got a girl waiting on my front porch right now wondering where the hell I am. If I don’t get home soon it’s going to be a cold night.”
There was a stretch without talk and he heard Art Miller breathing. George said, “You mind hanging up, Art?”
“Not at all. Talk to you later.” There was a click and shortly afterward Spode heard the darkroom door latch shut.
Spode talked quickly, trying to forestall the grey-faced Virginian at the other end of the line. “I’m going home, George. It’s not my war any more.”
Deep Cover Page 22