Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

  Tony entered an enormous stretch of windowless space, divided by shoulder-high partitions to form a beehive of cubicles. Bright lights, the air conditioned to Alaskan temperatures, people beginning to gear up after lunch (mostly young women; only two men in sight), machines machines everywhere, a forest of them, ready to add and subtract, and type, and transpose, and copy, and possibly do your thinking for you. But “straight through” did bring him to a row of closed doors. The corner one, on his right, had Gillon’s name in very small letters—typical of Brad, Tony thought with pleasure.

  “How to deflate a male author,” Tony said as he closed the door behind him. “By the time he reaches here, he’s walking on his knees.”

  “Or demanding a flat twenty per cent royalty,” Brad Gillon said with a shake of his head.

  Tony gave him a warm handshake and the room a quick glance: a wooden desk piled with galley-proofs and manuscripts, jacket designs in the raw stage propped for consideration on a battered leather armchair, books climbing the walls wherever there wasn’t a window. “Now I know I’m really in a publishing house,” he said, as he cleared a small space on the desk, zipped open his briefcase and brought out a newspaper. “Ballast,” he explained. “Tried to look like a pregnant writer. How am I doing?”

  “Not bad at all,” said Brad, eyeing Tony’s tweed jacket, turtle neck, disarranged hair, and unpolished loafers. He himself was in shirt-sleeves, with a slight loosening at the broad knot of his restrained blue tie. “You do throw yourself into your role, Tony.”

  “I was a writer, once: mostly aspiring,” Tony reminded him. He was already taking a chair to face Brad across the desk. And then, just as abruptly, voice and manner changed. “You still know some people over at the Times, don’t you?”

  Brad recovered from the direct approach, and made a guess at Tony’s train of thought. “Don’t ask me to try and persuade them—”

  “To reveal the source of Holzheimer’s little piece? Of course not. The idea never crossed my mind.”

  “Didn’t it?” Brad’s serious face was lightened by a wide smile.

  “I simply want you to take a wise, reliable friend aside, and tell him what he should know.”

  “And that is?”

  “The real reason behind all this fuss from Washington about the surfacing of the NATO Memorandum.”

  “I’d like to hear that myself.”

  “You shall, you shall. But first let me give you the background.”

  “Off the record?”

  “For you and your wise, reliable friend—no. For others, yes.”

  “Good. If you want me to approach anyone about the NATO Memorandum, I’ve got to be able to tell him—”

  “All the facts,” Tony agreed. “Here they are. The memorandum consisted of three parts, all inter-related. The second and third parts were considered so important for future American policies, that the entire document was given top-secret rating and a transatlantic journey to Washington by courier. After being studied there, it was delivered—again by courier—to Shandon House. And, as at the Pentagon, only people with the highest security clearance were put to work on it.”

  “The Pentagon wanted a double check on its own long-range projections?”

  “Perhaps to strengthen its own final report, which would be submitted to your policy-makers for their serious consideration.” Tony shrugged. “But the point is this: no copies of the memorandum were ever made; all working notes were shredded and burned at the end of each day; there was constant supervision, even surveillance. Once the job of analysis and evaluation was over, the various parts of the memorandum were linked together again by heavy staples, placed in one folder, and filed securely away. That was ten days ago.”

  “Why the delay in returning it to Washington?”

  “It was waiting for Shandon’s own top-secret report to be completed. Tomorrow is the deadline on that.”

  “And they go back together to Washington?”

  Tony nodded. “Standard operating procedure.” He added, trying to control his annoyance and not succeeding, “But why the Pentagon ever sent it to Shandon in the first place—” He buttoned his lip.

  “Supercaution. Understandable, if some of the contents of the memorandum might influence American policy. There has to be double and triple checking of the facts, Tony.”

  “I can see that,” Tony said, but he was still depressed.

  “You think the leak came from Shandon?”

  “It’s possible. That is what we are trying to nail down. I’ve been in Shandon’s filing-room—a couple of hours ago, in fact. It’s a bank vault. No outsider could get in there without dynamite. And no insider without supervision. So they say.” Tony frowned, not so much at that problem as at the way he had sidetracked himself. Brad’s questions had been good enough to let him stray. “The point I want to make is this: the memorandum, intact, is now filed in its correct folder at Shandon. So, if someone at Shandon did take it out, he must have separated the three parts, copied one of them to hand over to a reporter, and then put everything all back in place again. But here’s the main question: what happened to the second and third parts while he was typing out the first?”

  “Perhaps Part I was all that he took.”

  Tony shook his head. He wouldn’t have the time needed to separate the three parts. Remember, he was in that filing-room under supervision. He might get a chance to snatch the NATO folder and put it under his jacket, but that would be all the time available to him—a minute or less. No, he took the whole bloody thing.”

  “You think he actually photographed the entire memorandum and sent it to Moscow?”

  “The KGB wanted it. We know that.”

  “Ah—” said Brad, remembering his last meeting with Tony. “Vladimir Konov? Now I see what is really bugging you. Konov arrived last Tuesday in Washington, didn’t he?”

  “No, he did not,” Tony said shortly. There had been some disturbing developments that he couldn’t explain at this moment. Konov had not arrived with the agrarian experts in Washington last week. Instead, there had been a coded message for Tony, relayed via Brussels from NATO’s man in the KGB. Warning: Konov has left the Soviet Union four days early, departure secret, destination New York. Possibly accompanied by Boris Gorsky, colonel, KGB, Executive Operations (Department V, Disinformation). “He was already in New York nine days ago.”

  “And when did the Times reporter hand in his material for publication?” Brad asked.

  “A week ago, we were told.”

  Brad was now both worried and angry. “And you think the man who filched the NATO material might have handed it over to Konov?”

  “Indirectly—yes. But directly? No, I don’t think so. He’s responsible for taking it out of deep security and making it accessible to others. That’s all. Bloody fool. He’s a thief, but he isn’t the traitor.”

  “Why not?”

  “If he had been one of Konov’s agents, the first part of the memorandum would never have been supplied to any reporter. It contains some hard facts about Konov’s department of Disinformation and its use of détente. The conquest of the system, remember?”

  “That was only a small part of the published document. Most readers will concentrate on NATO’s unwanted advice. I’m willing to bet that Konov’s propaganda boys are going to play up that aspect: see how NATO is trying to influence the United States—another Vietnam being prepared—NATO still pushing the cold war.”

  “Et cetera, et cetera,” Tony agreed. He lapsed into silence, kept staring out at the shapes of disguised water-towers on the roofs of the high-risers opposite. Blue sky, unclouded. Everything in sharp focus. He wished his thoughts were as clear as the picture through the window. He went back to the essential problem, arguing it aloud. “There must be one other man involved—one man, at least, who played traitor without any compunction. And the only way we can uncover him is to find the idiot who took the memorandum in the first place. Then we might learn a few leading facts—how did he
protect it, did he let anyone else know about it? If so, who? And that’s the fellow I’d really like to know about.”

  “But how do we discover your idiot? We can’t get a definite name, that’s for sure. Holzheimer will go to jail rather than tell. There was a case, last year—”

  “I know. I read about it. We don’t ask for a name, Brad. We find it out for ourselves.” Tony was recovering from his depression. There was a sudden sparkle in his eyes at some amusing prospect.

  “How?”

  “You could have a short conversation with Holzheimer. He might be just enough shaken by all the fuss he has created to tell you the place where he met his informant.

  “No, that wouldn’t work—”

  “Not even if his bosses wanted to know? They might, once they have a close look at the typescript of the memorandum—at your suggestion, of course. I’d like you to examine it. Carefully.”

  Brad frowned, puzzling out the reason for that. Yes, several details about that typed copy of the memorandum could be useful. “You want me to examine the brand of paper, the spacing, the margins—”

  “Exactly.”

  “—and the type itself.”

  “That’s hardly necessary.”

  “But to trace all those things will take time. It’s the long way round to uncovering—Hey, what was that you said about the type?”

  “It has already been identified. There’s a whisper starting up—one of my Washington friends heard it this morning—that Tom Kelso must be the man responsible. He got the memorandum from one of his high-placed informants, possibly in Paris.”

  “Tom? I don’t believe it.” Brad was shocked.

  “His typewriter did the copying.”

  “Impossible!”

  “If it did, then someone borrowed it. That’s the simple explanation. The gossips prefer a more cynical interpretation.”

  “Ridiculous,” Brad exploded. “If Tom wanted that memorandum published, he’d have done it under his own by-line.”

  “And lose future confidences from his Paris informant? Tom was safeguarding himself. So the rumour goes.”

  Brad rose abruptly, began pacing the room. For a few moments, there was only the sound of three sharp curses.

  “I agree entirely.” Tony waited for the storm to subside. “Why else did I ask you to look at the typescript?” He paused for emphasis. Then he said, “We all have our own way of arranging a typed page, don’t we?”

  Brad nodded. There could be small but definite differences, a matter of personal preference, of habit or training. “And so we get closer to finding Holzheimer’s source,” he said slowly. It was a start; small, but perhaps a lead.

  “You clear Tom—and that would please the Times, wouldn’t it? They might be more amenable to letting you talk with Holzheimer.”

  Brad almost smiled. Tony’s old practice of the honest quid pro quo always amused him. Tony never expected to get something for nothing.

  “So,” Tony summed it up, “no name is requested or divulged. Holzheimer is kept happy and virtuous. Tom is exonerated. And I get a chance to start tracing the second man.”

  “You are really hipped on that second-man bit.”

  “I can smell him. There has to be someone on the sidelines—the direct connection with dear Comrade Konov.”

  “If,” Brad said with heavy emphasis, “Konov did receive the memorandum.”

  “If,” Tony echoed, offering no argument. Then he added, “But I’d prefer to start action on the problem now, and not wait until I heard some disastrous news from Moscow.”

  Your agent there? Brad wondered. He moved back to his desk and reached for the ’phone. “I’ll get on to this, right away.”

  Tony picked up his briefcase and the newspaper. For a moment, he seemed about to leave. Then he changed his mind and walked over to the window. So far below him that he couldn’t even see it, was Fifth Avenue. And in that direction to the north, lay Central Park. That’s where it had happened, according to this newspaper, which he had folded back to the page with the police report, brief and simple but headlined in bold print.

  Brad ended his call. “Okay. The first hurdle is taken. I’m now heading for the Times itself. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes.” Tony made up his mind and decided to risk his hunch. “Can you spare me two of them?”

  “Something more for me to tell my—”

  “No, no. Just your opinion on this.” He handed his copy of the News over to Brad, and tapped the small paragraph with his finger. “What do you make of it?”

  Brad began reading. “The News has a corner on crime stories in New York. This is just another case of a mugging in Central Park, the body still awaiting identification in the morgue.” And then he looked up in surprise. “Carrying a sword-stick, and a lighter that could be used as a flashlight?”

  “I wonder,” Tony said thoughtfully. “I saw a couple of jokers keep a secret rendezvous in West Berlin last month. They used that kind of lighter for identification. They met casually at a dark street-corner. One needed a light for his cigarette. All he got was a brief flash. So he said he would use his own lighter, and flashed right back. It’s a new gadget. Simple-minded, but quick and sure.”

  Brad glanced back at the newspaper. “This fellow was mugged over a week ago.”

  “On the Saturday when we met at the Algonquin. Interesting date, don’t you think.”

  “There is only a bare description of him—about fifty years old, five foot six.” Brad looked up sharply. “No mention of eye-colour. Or hair. Or build.”

  “Naturally. Do you expect the police to make it easy for anyone who’ll try to make an identification?”

  “No, it can’t be,” said Brad, staring at the newspaper.

  “Probably not.”

  “A coincidence, that’s all.”

  “I suppose so. I’d still like to see the police file on this case, though.”

  “Now look here, Tony—I don’t know anyone in the Police Department,” Brad said in alarm.

  “All right, all right.” Tony put the News back into his briefcase. He would just have to find a less easy solution to that problem. But he’d find it.

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “They are the interesting ones.”

  Brad said slowly, half persuaded in spite of good common sense, “I wouldn’t mind seeing that police file myself.”

  “At this moment, you’ve got another job to do.”

  “That I have. But the hell of it is—even if you and I and my friends over at the Times know that piece of gossip is ridiculous—is Tom really cleared? Rumours in Washington have a way of seeping through all the cracks.”

  “It would take some publicity to kill this one dead. Perhaps an open admission from the man who started all this damage?”

  “Publicity... No, I don’t think that would be too popular with my friends.” Brad paused, then added, “Have you any notion who that man might be?”

  “Perhaps. And you?”

  Brad said nothing at all, but his lips tightened.

  Tony said, “I hope we are both wrong.” They shook hands. “I’ll call you. When and where?” He zipped up the briefcase and tucked the hat under his arm.

  “I should be back here by half-past four. I’ll be working late this evening. Until eight, possibly.” Brad glanced at his watch. “Good God!” Quickly he reached for his jacket and adjusted the knot of his tie.

  Tony left. The huge office was now a humming hive of machines and voices. Outside, at the reception desk, the girl interrupted a call at the switchboard to give him a bright smile and a parting wish. “Have a good day,” she told him, and sped him happily on his way to the police morgue.

  * * *

  Entry to the morgue was not too complicated. Identification of the mystery corpse had obviously been given top priority. It was Konov. Definitely.

  Tony stood looking down at Konov’s waxen face.

  “You know this man?”

  “Perhaps.”

&nb
sp; “Perhaps?” Another kook, the attendant thought, as he stared at the visitor: he appeared normal enough, English voice, quiet manner, but definitely a kook.

  “I’d like to see the detective in charge of this case.”

  That’s a new line, the attendant thought, and ignored it.

  “Do I have to go to the FBI?” Tony asked. That got a quick reaction from a couple of men in plain clothes who had drifted in to keep an ear open for any possible identification. “The detective in charge,” Tony insisted as they accompanied him out. “And possibly an interesting exchange of vital information.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “I do indeed.”

  The two men eyed each other, then studied the Englishman. Their well-developed instincts gave them a final prod. “Follow us, sir,” the senior man told him. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Let’s make this more private, shall we? Take me to your leader.” His grin was infectious, and his accent slew them. They were glad to have an excuse to enjoy the small laugh that each had been repressing for the last full minute. Suddenly their smiles vanished, as Tony flipped open his Pentagon identification and held it briefly in clear view. “And if we must argue about this, first get me to your top brass. Let him check me out with Washington,” he added very softly.

  They were watching closely, still hesitant but no longer so doubtful. Exchanging a glance, they made a silent decision. “This way, sir,” the senior detective said. Any bit of information about that stiff on the slab back there was worth a risk.

  * * *

  At five minutes to eight, Tony called Brad’s office on its direct line. “Like to buy me some lunch?”

  “Haven’t you eaten—”

  “Thought I’d visit the morgue on an empty stomach.”

  “You actually—”

  “Yes, actually. Where do we meet?”

  “Can’t you talk now?”

  “Too much to tell. What about your news?”

  “Good, I think. Yes, on the whole, good. Are you near this office?”

  “Around the corner.”

  “Then meet me at Nino’s on West Forty-ninth Street. Italian food. Two stars. It’s crowded, of course.”