The Tears of Autumn

by Charles McCarry

  “Who was the agent?”

  “I told you it was a difficult target,” Klimenko said. “It took me three years to make contact. I wasted time. I should have realized their security is almost the same as ours. All clandestine organizations are more or less alike. When I did, I went in with almost no trouble, after I’d established my cover with them.”

  “Who?”

  “Franco Piccioni. He’s called Frankie Pigeon.”

  “What is he?”

  Klimenko laughed. “You have lived abroad for a long time, Paul. Think. What would someone called Frankie Pigeon be?”

  “Mafia.”

  “Yes, Chicago. Frankie is an important American.”

  “But why? What would you need with him? You’ve got all the guns you need.”

  “You never have all the guns you might need. You know how it is. One of the bolshoy chirey has an idea—do you know what that phrase means? The big boils—that’s what we call our senior officers, as if they will burst at any moment. It tells you something about the KGB. Anyway, someone had an idea in Moscow. I carried it out in the field. It was a contingency plan. Maybe someday they’d need a clean killing in the States. Then they’d have a man.”

  “But it was insecure.”

  “The Mafia is insecure? No one has ever convicted Frankie Pigeon of anything. It was compartmented very tightly. Frankie didn’t know who we were. He likes money, a little on the side. It wasn’t easy to find a man like Frankie—most of these gangsters won’t deal with outsiders.”

  “How often did you use him?”

  “Never, unless we used him last month. The idea all along was to employ him on a one-time basis against a target we couldn’t reach. He’ll never be used again.”

  Klimenko was shivering violently, and Christopher felt the cold seeping through his own raincoat.

  “Really, we must get under cover,” Klimenko said. “It’s getting light.”

  “What was Pigeon used for?”

  “That I don’t know. But consider the sum involved. Consider the date.”

  “I have,” Christopher said.

  “I can give you a piece of hard information, Paul. Frankie Pigeon is a sentimental man. He always spends the twelve days of Christmas in the village of Calabria where he was born. He brings his wife and children with him on Christmas Eve and stays until January 7.1 can show you on a map where he’ll be.”

  “You can show me in the car,” Christopher said.

  Sitting in the front seat beside Christopher, Klimenko drew a sketch of the roads leading to Frankie Pigeon’s house in the hills above Catanzaro. on the toe of the Italian boot. He handed it to Christopher.

  “He takes two men with him,” he said. “I don’t know what their security arrangements are. He likes to hunt rabbits in the early morning and talk with the farmers in the evening. He goes for walks before dinner.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t keep in touch.”

  “I kept myself informed.”

  “Is there anything else about this man Pigeon—as a person, I mean?”

  “The weakness?” Klimenko said. “He’s a snob—he’s been bilked of thousands by genealogists attempting to prove that his mother’s family, the Cerruti, are bourgeoisie from the north of Italy; but all the Cerruti are Sicilian from way back, shepherds and shoemakers. That’s of no use to you.”

  “Then tell me something that is useful.”

  “Frankie Pigeon is a hypochondriac. He’s morbid about germs—washes his hands all the time. He has a servant who spreads sterilized towels over the floor for him to walk on in hotels. He boils his coins before he touches them, won’t handle paper money at all because of the danger of disease. You recognize the pathology—it’s common enough in murderers.”

  The bleak shape of Monte Testaccio loomed above the car, with a cross mounted at its summit. “What’s the name of that hill?” Klimenko asked.

  Christopher told him. “It’s made entirely of pottery—the jugs the ancient Romans used to transport wheat and honey from the eastern Mediterranean. It will appeal to your Leninist sense of irony that the Monte Testaccio, a dump, is the only remaining trace of the common people of the Roman Empire.”

  Klimenko laughed, coughed, and covered his mouth. “What are the arrangements?” he asked.

  Christopher gave him an address and a key. “Be ready at five o’clock, precisely on the hour. The man who comes will say his name is Edward Trelawny. You’ll reply, ‘Do you still have Shelley’s heart?’”

  “Almost twelve hours. Can’t it be sooner?”

  “No. One last thing, Gherman—don’t talk to anyone else about Frankie Pigeon for fourteen days. Then you can spill it.”

  Klimenko was swiveling his head, watching the approaches to the car.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell your friends on January 6. There’ll be no trouble filling the time with other things, Paul.”

  5

  Christopher began to talk while Molly was still in the room. Tom Webster gave her a cold stare and held up his palm.

  Molly smiled and said, “Tell me the etiquette, Mr. Webster.”

  “Tom would feel more comfortable if you went into the bedroom and read a book,” Christopher said.

  When the door had closed behind Molly, Webster said, “What does she know?”

  “That I’m a retired agent. She had to know what she was involved in, so I told her. She took the call from Klimenko, but she doesn’t know his name or what he is.”

  “Klimenko?”

  “That’s what I have for you, Tom—Gherman Klimenko. He wants to defect.”

  “He’s in Rome?”

  “Yes, I met him twice, last night and this morning. You can pick him up at five o’clock.”

  “Why does he want to come across?”

  Christopher shrugged. “He’s pleading ideological disillusionment. I think he’s just tired of the life, the way they usually are. Even Klimenko feels his motives are a little peculiar. He doesn’t want to be offered money.”

  Webster stood up and looked at his watch. The phonograph was playing Molly’s new love songs at full volume and Christopher had to strain to hear Webster’s voice.

  “Where is Klimenko?”

  “In a minute, Tom. There are some things I need.”

  “You’re bargaining with me?”

  “No,” Christopher said. “I’m going to ask a favor. You can have Klimenko whether you help me or not. What would I do with him?”

  Webster sat down again and peeled the cellophane from a cigar. He watched Christopher through the flame of the match. “Wolkowicz sent a cable on your doings in Saigon,” he said. “He sent somebody out to that church you visited—the cellar is full of opium.”

  “Is it? Well, that’s a dividend for Wolkowicz.”

  “Like Klimenko is my dividend? For a retiree you’re pretty active.”

  “I’m like a reformed tart,” Christopher said. “People just won’t believe I don’t enjoy it anymore.”

  “You still won’t tell me what you’re up to? Wolkowicz is in a tizzy out there, and it’s going to communicate.”

  “I’ll be finished soon. Tom, I’ve gone as far as I can go alone on this. I need some support.”

  “Tell me what you’re after, and you’ve got all the support you can use.”

  “No.”

  “Then no support.”

  “Okay, Tom,” Christopher said, with no inflection in his voice. “Klimenko’s at 6 piazza Oratorio, second floor. The name on the door is Busotti.”

  “What’s that place?”

  “It’s a pied à terre Cathy had for herself. She gave me the keys when she left—there was a paid-up three-year lease.”

  “What does Klimenko expect?”

  “All I gave him was a recognition code. Tell him your name is Edward Trelawny when you pick him up. He’ll reply, ‘Do you still have Shelley’s heart?’ He expects you at five.” Christopher handed Webster a key. “You’d
better knock before entering,” he said. “He’s nervous.”

  Webster stabbed the ashtray with his cigar, breaking it in half. “Let me ask you this—does this operation of yours have anything to do with the United States of America?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me about it when it’s all over? Have you told Patchen, or anybody, so that the file will be tidy if you get your brains blown out?”

  “After it’s over, I’ll tell you if I can, Tom. Patchen knows. If I can’t tell you, try him.”

  “Then you are working?”

  “Not for the outfit, Tom. If you help me, you put your ass in hazard.”

  Webster breathed loudly through his nose, attempting to keep his patience. “What do you need?”

  “I want you to take Molly back to Paris with you and keep her off the streets until New Year’s Eve. She can stay with Sybille or you can put her in a safe house, but I want her covered twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Why is that necessary?”

  “They’ve threatened her. I can’t leave her alone—she has no idea how to protect herself.”

  “All right. Sybille and I are going to Zermatt for the holidays. We can take your girl along.”

  “Second,” Christopher said, “I want you to fix it up with the Rome station so that I can use their villa on the via Flaminia for a week, beginning day after tomorrow. It has to be the villa— I don’t want any other safe house. Third, I need the stuff on this list by tomorrow night. It can be left in the villa.”

  Webster read the list and frowned. “You want weapons?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “All that stuff in Saigon must have shaken you up,” Webster said.

  “Parts of it did. Can you do all that?”

  Webster ran his finger down the list. He said, “I think so. Rome will get credit for Klimenko—they won’t be in a mood to deny you anything.”

  “You don’t have to say the villa and the weapons are for me. Find out how to turn off the microphones.”

  Webster put on his coat. He opened his attaché case and held up a nine-millimeter Walther pistol. “Do you want this until I get back?”

  “No. I’m going to stay inside.”

  Webster balanced the flat automatic on his palm, then put it in his pocket. “Look for me about ten,” he said. “I may want to sleep here—Molly and I can get an early start in the morning.”

  Webster started to close the briefcase, then snapped his fingers and reached inside it for a copy of France-Soir, folded to the crime page. He handed Christopher the newspaper, tapping a small item with his forefinger. “I almost forgot to show you this,” he said.

  Christopher read the item:

  DEATH OF A CRIMINAL

  About eleven o’clock last night, police were summoned to the public lavatories near the place Clemenceau to provide assistance to a man who had been found unconscious inside.

  The attendant, Mile. R. Calamier, told the guardians of the peace that the man entered a compartment about 10:15. Shortly thereafter, Mile. Calamier, who was cleaning the women’s portion of the public facility, heard sounds of a struggle through the partition.

  It was a few moments later that Mile. Calamier found the unconscious man, or the man she believed to be unconscious, in the compartment and summoned policemen on duty nearby.

  The investigating officers found that the man was, in fact, dead. He had been struck a hard blow on the nape, judo-style. Police suspected at first that it was an affair of perverts.

  However, medical examination revealed that the victim had died from a massive overdose of heroin. A portion of the hypodermic needle used to administer the fatal dosage was found in his arm, perhaps broken in the struggle that preceded his death. The police physician was not of the opinion that the deceased was a heroin addict: his body bore none of the usual signs of that habit, apart from the single fresh puncture in the forearm.

  The victim was said to be Jean-Claude Gaboni, a Corsican born in Algeria. Gaboni was known to the police as a criminal type involved in the traffic in drugs. An investigation is in progress.

  “You see?” Webster said. “Sometimes poetic justice triumphs.”

  Christopher handed back the newspaper. It had been six days since he had told the Truong toe about Gaboni, three days since the Truong toe had given him Molly’s photograph. They were moving no more quickly than he’d thought they could.

  “Do you still have Kim’s place bugged?” Christopher asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You may hear something about Gaboni on those tapes. If you hear anything about me, or about Molly, I hope you’ll let me know.”

  “We’re always a week behind on the logs because of the translation problem. They talk Vietnamese all the time.”

  “That’s terrific,” Christopher said.

  “Wait a minute,” Webster said. “How would Kim know about Gaboni?”

  “I told them in Saigon about that mistake with young Khoi in Divonne-les-Bains.”

  “You told them? Why, for Christ’s sake?”

  “You have to give something to get something,” Christopher said. “I wondered if they’d kill on foreign soil and how quickly. Now I know.”

  Molly packed her suitcases without speaking. She laid Christopher’s ski clothes on top of her own in an extra bag. “I suppose there’s some remote chance we’ll both be alive on New Year’s Eve,” she said. “If you come to the mountains you’ll be properly dressed.”

  “The worst thing you can do is dramatize,” Christopher said. “I have to go away at least twice in the next few days and I can’t leave you alone. You’ll be all right with Tom and Sybille. They’re used to this kind of situation. They know what to do.”

  “And what does one do?”

  “Routine precautions,” Christopher said. “A doctor working in a cholera epidemic takes the necessary injections, boils his drinking water, burns his clothes. It’s the same idea—the play-acting, the secrecy, and the codes, and the loud music so that you can talk in a room that may be bugged—all that is the way agents immunize themselves. They may die anyway, but if they take the proper precautions, the chances are against it.”

  “All right,” Molly said. “But all this business of solving the crime of the century annoys me so. It’s an interruption. It’s almost Christmas, Paul. I thought we’d be together. I build up these scenes for the two of us in my imagination, and then they don’t play.”

  “I promise you I’ll be in Zermatt on New Year’s Eve. It’s a much better holiday than Christmas.”

  Molly closed her eyes and put her fingertips on the lids. “I have to be so passive—all our life together I’ve waited for you to come back, waited for you to feel love, waited for you to speak,” she said. “Now I have to wait for you to prevent my dying, and the odd thing is, I’m less concerned about being murdered than about being alone for a week.”

  “It’ll be over very soon.”

  “I know it will,” Molly said. “Help me to get this stuff off the bed. Before I go I’d like to hold the clean part of you between my legs once more.”

  Webster went ahead of them in another car the next morning. They met him on the road to the airport by the ruins of Ostia Antica. Webster turned his back while they kissed, and watched the road behind them. There was still no sign of danger.

  Christopher wondered what the Truong toe was waiting for.

  TEN

  l

  Christopher was alone, and that was his advantage. He controlled the rhythm of the operation. Driving back to Rome along the Ostia road, he calculated that he had eight days of safe time left. He thought it would be enough. It is almost impossible for a national police force to keep track of a single agent who continues to move, if the agent takes elementary precautions. For Christopher’s opposition, who dared not go outside their own small circle for help, it was hopeless. They could not know where he was going or what he was doing. Their only chance was to catch Christopher in the open and kill
him. He didn’t think they would be able to do that.

  He parked his car near the railroad station in a no-parking zone. After he had checked his baggage, he called the police and complained that the car was blocking traffic. By the time he made two more phone calls, the police wrecker arrived and towed his car away. He knew it would be under twenty-four-hour guard in the impoundment lot outside the walls of the city. It was the last place the Truong toe’s men would look for it.

  He phoned the Hertz rental agency in Milan and reserved a car for pickup in the late afternoon. At the telegraph office in the railroad station he sent a money order to a man in Ajaccio with a terse message that reminded him how little his methods differed from Klimenko’s; the thought caused him to smile as he handed in the cable form and the money, and the clerk gave him a puzzled look: it was odd that a man, sending news of a brother’s death in Christmas week, should look so cheerful.

  Finally, Christopher checked the train schedule for Milan again and reserved a first-class seat on the 9:40 express. It was still only 7:30 when he walked out of the terminal and took a cab to the Vatican.

  2

  Alvaro Urpi had never taken holy orders, but he had come to resemble a monk. He waited for Christopher in a corner of the Vatican library, his broad face still shining with the effect of his morning prayers. Urpi was the son of a Portuguese soldier and a Chinese woman, and his dark features were such a combination of Iberian and Cantonese peasantry that he might have passed in either country as a native. He was twelve, and already sexually corrupted, when the priests took him off the streets of Macao and taught him to read and write. Before he was wenty, the Dominicans discovered his talent for scholarship, and he never for the next forty years lived outside the Church, or wanted to.

  Urpi spoke and wrote every known dialect of Chinese. He had all but forgotten Portuguese, however, and when Christopher had brought him a letter from a relative in Macao, Urpi had had to construe it into Latin before he could understand it. Urpi’s relative had wanted him to find a place in a nunnery for one of his nieces. The girl had never taken the veil; she went to live with a policeman. But Urpi had rediscovered his family through Christopher.