Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

  “How are the tables? Close-packed?” Tony asked doubtfully.

  “That won’t matter. The noise level is intense.”

  “Well—as long as we can get our heads close together—see you at the bar in ten minutes?”

  * * *

  It may have been the recession that was affecting people’s willingness to spend, but Nino’s had four tables empty. They chose a back-corner one, insulated from the service door by a thin row of plastic plants. “Fine,” said Tony with approval.

  He had a plate of minestrone, a little Bel Paese with Italian brown bread, a glass of white wine, and that was all. Brad, deep into his calamares, didn’t question the choice. Tony wasn’t living on food today.

  “Yes, it was Konov all right, laid out like a mackerel on ice. And you know what? I felt sorry for him,” Tony admitted. “Can you imagine that? I felt sorry.” He studied the wall panel, across the room, of Vesuvius about to spew its ashes over Pompeii. “And then I kept wondering—why was the body left unclaimed? You’ve seen how the KGB takes care of its own. It always does.”

  Brad skewered a piece of white bread on his fork and mopped up the excellent sauce. “Yes. Like inventing a wife and daughter and touching family letters for Colonel Abel. They even had the woman—he had never seen her in his life—meet him, all tears and embraces, at the exchange point in Berlin.”

  “Yes, I remember those letters. They seemed to be in every newspaper I picked up.”

  Brad nodded. “Wide coverage. Everyone loves a hard-boiled spy with a much-loved wife. It must have turned Abel’s stomach, though. He was a cool professional.” Abel had slipped into this country just after the war via Canada, and set himself up in the New York area at two separate addresses, with two different names and identities as Control for a communist spy ring.

  “Abel was GRU, wasn’t he? Still, the KGB usually looks after its men too. Why not in Konov’s case?”

  “Interesting question.”

  “I’m thinking about it.” Tony poured himself a second glass of Valpolicella. “This is better,” he said with slight surprise, “than the Montrachet I had in Washington last night.” He studied the bottle with a touch of indignation.

  “Something else to investigate?” Brad asked with a smile. He hadn’t felt as good as this for a long long while. He thought of the novel, the newest output from France, waiting for him back on his desk. All very well, but— He sighed, watching Tony and remembering the days when.

  “How did your investigation go?”

  “At the Times? Couldn’t have asked for a more attentive audience. Unpleasantly shocked, just as I had been. I saw the typescript. And also a couple of pages of Tom Kelso’s last copy. Tom always uses plain inexpensive paper. The anonymous typescript had the best Basildon Bond. The left-hand margins were about the same width. But I noticed that Tom likes to get as much on a line as he possibly can, while the typescript finished each line neatly—no runovers on to the right-hand margin. And its end was marked by a series of dashes. Tom finishes off with three asterisks in a row. You were right, Tony. There were differences, small certainly, and not eye-catching unless you were on the lookout for them.”

  “Reassuring to everyone, I hope.”

  “They never really doubted Tom.”

  “Of course not. But a little proof is always comforting, even to non-doubters. Did you get to meet Holzheimer?”

  “No need. He had already told his editor where he met his unidentifiable source.”

  “I hope to God it wasn’t in a subway station or on a street corner. No lead there. Except that we’d know that we were dealing with a professional.”

  “We are dealing with an amateur. He arranged a meeting with Holzheimer in an apartment.”

  “Where?”

  “In New York. Holzheimer hadn’t given the full address.”

  “And is that all we get? A New York apartment?”

  “I couldn’t push too hard. Contraproductive. Everything is being treated very low key. No publicity, of course. The rumours will be scotched wherever they are met. And they’ll die away—no real substance in them. Tom can handle the situation.”

  Tony said nothing. How did a reporter deal with a sudden lack of confidence in his discretion? There were no cagier informants than those in high government circles. Anything they leaked was off the record unless they wanted it to go public.

  “Well,” Brad said as he concentrated on lighting a cigar, “is that all our news?” His gentle blue eyes, in such marked contrast with his hawk nose and strong mouth, were studying the younger man. He could sense something more, well hidden as it was behind Tony’s quiet control. A pleasant face, conventionally good-looking with its even features and bland expression, quickly accepted by most people when Tony produced his charm, too often underestimated when he adopted his blank-innocence routine.

  Tony smiled. “You haven’t lost your touch, have you? No, that is not all our news. I saw the police file.”

  Brad’s lips nearly lost their grip on the cigar. “And how did you manage that?”

  “By a neat quid pro quo. I’ll tell you who the dead man was, if—in return—you let me see the file.”

  “No, no, it took more than that.”

  “Well, I got one of my pals at the Pentagon to vouch for me. After that, there was no real difficulty.”

  “He must have packed a real punch.”

  “Heavyweight class, definitely. Besides, the police are now in a contest with the FBI to see who hits the bull’s-eye first. I was delighted to give whatever help I could. After all, the police had done all the real work. The FBI were called in when no record of Konov’s fingerprints were found in New York. But there was no record of them in Washington either.”

  “What about Konov’s clothing—material, cut, place of origin?”

  “The experts are working on that.”

  But it took time. And the results might be inconclusive, too. Konov had been a careful operator. “What did happen to Konov? Was he shot or stabbed?”

  “Sliced deep.” Tony paused. “Gruesome conversation for this kind of place,” he added, glancing at the brightly-lit room: people eating and drinking and talking; waiters flashing around like so many humming-birds; no one loitering near by, no one interested in anyone but themselves, everyone having one hell of a good time. “Yes, I have to hand it to the New York cops. They really had gathered a lot of material, but none of it made any sensible pattern. That’s why they allowed me to see the police reports, of course. They needed an identification to give them a steer in the right direction: not organised crime, not narcotics, just plain old-fashioned espionage. All they had was bits and pieces of information. Tantalising, when you don’t know what is the type of jigsaw puzzle you have to fit together.”

  “Bits and pieces.” These had always fascinated Brad. Puzzles had at one time been his speciality. “What, for instance?”

  “For instance, two police joggers were trotting in their rounds in Central Park, and reported meeting a young man whom they escorted, for his safety, as far as the flagpole at Sixty-ninth Street. Where, as one of the undercover policemen further reported, he saw the young man meet the victim. An hour later the two were back at the flagpole, this time walking separately. There was a third man near them, at first seemingly unconnected with the other two, but observed again later, when he watched the ambulance leave. And one more thing—the young man who had been rescued by the joggers actually witnessed the mugging, but kept his distance. He ran off when a police officer called to him to lend a hand. Yes, your cops really do take notice.”

  “As a city taxpayer,” Brad said, “I find that very comforting.”

  “The clincher is this,” Tony went on. “The man who appeared at the hospital to identify Konov—and he was the only one who did turn up there—seems to bear a decided resemblance to the man who watched the ambulance leave Central Park. A composite picture was made, you see.”

  “But why?”

  “None of his
story checked out.”

  “He saw Konov and disowned him? Then why did he go to the hospital—risk being seen?”

  “A scouting expedition, perhaps.” Tony’s voice hardened. “After he left the hospital, about twenty minutes later, Konov was found dead. Heart-failure.”

  They were both silent. Tony was thinking now of a call for help, cried out in Russian. Alexis and Oleg. The two men in the Park? Two names to remember, at least. And that composite picture might be useful too. Alexis and Oleg...

  Brad was saying, “Did you identify Konov by his real name?”

  “By one of them.” Tony smiled. “No lies, Brad. I kept my story most checkable.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Relax, old boy. I don’t plan to get the law on my back!”

  “You actually blew your cover?”

  “As little as possible. After all, the Pentagon vouched for me. Probably stamped me top-secret. I wasn’t asked to identify myself further.”

  “Dangerous. Going down to the morgue—”

  “What isn’t dangerous?” Tony asked lightly.

  “It was probably being watched.”

  “Everyone was watching. Big strong detectives—”

  “Damn it all, Tony, you know what I mean.”

  Yes, thought Tony, was Alexis or Oleg around, waiting to see who was interested in Konov? “I know,” he said abruptly.

  “It was a risk.” Brad was really worried. The brief mention of Konov’s sudden death had sounded an alarm.

  “Calculated, I assure you.”

  “When are you leaving for Europe?”

  “Want to get rid of me?”

  “You’re too much on your own here.” Too vulnerable, Brad thought: not enough back-up.

  “Leaving on Friday.”

  “Don’t try to solve all your problems before then. You may work them out more easily in Europe, anyway.”

  Yes, thought Tony, that was where the biggest problem was now rearing a very ugly head. Why had there been no more messages relayed from Moscow? By this time the NATO Memorandum must have arrived. By this time, too, the death of Konov must have been reported. So why the hell was there no message from Moscow? No call for an arranged escape? “Let’s pay the bill and get out of here,” he said, suddenly stifled by the laughter in the room.

  10

  Thirteen days had passed since Rick Nealey kept his appointment with Mischa. Almost two weeks of silence. Each morning, he would rise and go through the motions of making breakfast, an ear cocked—even when he was taking a quick shower—for the expected ’phone-call before he left the apartment. In the evenings, with all engagements cancelled, he waited once more. But the signal never came. Oleg made no attempt to get in touch with him. There were no Monday messages, either, from his usual contact, and when he tried to reach her (five times in all) there was no answer. All communications were cut off. He was isolated. Temporarily, of course. But why? Either there was an alert, a time for caution; or he was being disciplined. And again, why?

  Not disciplined, surely. There was no cause for that. He had taken grave risks and acted promptly to procure the NATO Memorandum for Mischa. Any divergence from his instructions had been made necessary by the mugging incident in Central Park: he had delivered the microfilm on Sunday as soon as he returned to Washington, instead of waiting to hand it over to Oleg on Tuesday. Just as well that he had acted as he did. Otherwise he would still be sitting here, with the microfilm of the memorandum to worry him every waking hour. It was too big a responsibility, too dangerous, and far too urgent.

  But how long would this isolation go on? he wondered as he cleared away breakfast and prepared to leave for the office. This was Friday, the sixth of December. He couldn’t go on playing the hermit without arousing some suspicions in his friends. There was a limit to excuses about overwork or ’flu. Which reminded him that he would have to call Sandra and cancel their week-end in Maryland. As for Katie, in New York—no, he wouldn’t be back there for a long long time. She’d get that message without being told. And Chuck—well, the less he saw of Chuck the better. In any case, Chuck’s usefulness was over.

  He was about to pick up the receiver and dial Sandra’s number, when the telephone rang right under his hand. Startled, he almost answered at once. And then checked himself in time. Two rings; then silence. He waited. Again, there were two rings and a break-off. Now only one more minute... When the ring came again, he was ready with pencil and paper for the coded message that would come over the wire.

  The voice was not his usual contact’s. It was a man’s. Oleg? He was almost sure of that, but he had to concentrate on the words. To his surprise, they weren’t in code. They were disguised, of course, and sounded innocent enough to any curious ear. “I am sorry I could not keep our engagement last week. There was illness in the family, and a great deal of work to be done.”

  “Sorry about that.” Yes, Alexis thought, that is Oleg’s voice.

  “What about lunch?”

  “Today’s impossible. I have an important engagement—” The luncheon at the Statler, to be exact.

  “I know.”

  So Oleg was probably in Washington. The luncheon had been well advertised locally. Four speakers (including Representative Walter Pickering, on the look-out for a cause to tide him over the next election) and eight hundred guests. Theme: Responsibility in the Media. But was Oleg actually going to be there too? Lunch, he had suggested. What was he pinpointing—time, or place? Or both? Alexis cleared his throat, gave a small cough to indicate that he was about to use code, and calculated quickly. He could slip away from the luncheon by ten past three. “Half-past four,” he said. “I’ll be free by that time.”

  “Why don’t you telephone me as soon as you leave?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “How is your cousin Kay?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Just had her sixteenth birthday, I hear.”

  “Right.”

  “You can give me all the family news when I see you. Don’t forget to telephone.” Oleg rang off.

  He’s a bold type, thought Alexis; he didn’t even follow my lead and go into code, except for some disguised words: “telephone” meant “contact;” Kay and her sixteenth birthday emphasised the Statler at K and the Sixteenth Street; and “family news”—if that meant a certain microfilm, then Oleg was going to be disappointed. His own fault, damn his eyes.

  Now, let’s see: I slip away from the luncheon towards its end, and contact Oleg at ten past three. Where? In the lobby? He’s brash enough for that. It will be crowded, of course. In any case, the contact will be visual. He leads, and I follow at a discreet distance. Or it may be the other way around: I may have difficulty in picking him quickly out of a mob of people—he may have changed the colour of his hair or added a moustache—but he will have no difficulty in identifying me. Yes, that is how I will play it. I’ll leave the lobby, taking my time, giving him the chance to see me and follow. But a meeting in daylight? And a message sent with so little attention paid to code? Oleg’s style is certainly different from Mischa’s. He scares me, Alexis admitted.

  He selected a subdued blue tie as suitable for a public appearance as Representative Pickering’s aide. (The Congressman was the first speaker of the day, with his eye on the clock and his own private plans for that afternoon.) He surveyed the full effect—grey suit, pale blue shirt for possible television—and added a navy silk handkerchief to his breast pocket. Yes, Rick Nealey was a personable character, quiet, dependable; and a damned good speech-writer, too. What would huff-and-puff Pickering have done without him in these last nine years?

  * * *

  The hotel was large, its lobby a constant stirring of people: arrivals and departures, guests waiting around either for friends or for reservations, visitors drifting in and out of the restaurant and coffee-shop. A town within a town, thought Tony Lawton as he left the notice-board with its verification of various luncheons—a formal one big enough to n
eed the ballroom, offering four speeches on Responsibility of the Media as special enticement; something smaller on the mezzanine for Environmental Science; a third room booked for the Fife and Drum Historical Society; a special meeting of Agrarian Economists. It made him feel inundated: facts and figures, statements, pleas, warnings, perorations were pouring out all over this building. Its thick-carpeted floors must be ankle-deep in eloquence and good will.

  He went over to the newspaper-stand, a small shop in itself, and walked slowly along its rows of magazines, trying to decide which he would buy to keep him company on his way across the Atlantic. It was almost three o’clock, and he had a full hour to spend before he left. There was nothing to delay him here, now that the NATO Memorandum was being sent back—with some embarrassment—to Brussels. If Shandon House had been dilatory, Washington had been prompt. And serious attention had been given to the memorandum. When the NATO meetings started next week, there might be more consensus and less disagreement on future planning. So this week, bad as it had been, could have ended worse.

  He was far from cheerful, though. From Brussels yesterday had come a brief but disturbing message: Palladin, the NATO agent, had left Moscow for a short vacation in Odessa. That was all. Was he playing it cool? Nothing he couldn’t control? Or was it the beginning of flight, and the proof that the worst fears about the NATO Memorandum were realised—it had reached Moscow?

  Grim thoughts for a bright talk-filled lobby... Tony forced them out of his mind, concentrated on buying his magazines—one on travel (the kind of travel he never had the time to do), another on food and wine, a third on foreign affairs (must keep up with what the great minds are prognosticating, he told himself). Two paperback novels completed his armoury against possible delays and certain boredom. And a couple of newspapers, of course. One of the headlines caught his eye—some young bombers blown up by their own concoctions—and he began reading as he walked slowly through the lobby, apparently purposeless.

  There was a sudden thickening in the crowd around him. A stream of serious-faced men had drifted out of the elevators. The agrarians, Tony noted with satisfaction, including some of the Soviet delegation. He could place them all: ever since Konov had been scheduled to attend the Washington meetings along with his equally mysterious friends called Boris Gorsky, Tony had made a point of identifying each face with its announced name. Most of the Russian delegates were for real, the usual hard-headed farmer and business-man types now turned bureaucrats. Konov’s absence had not been explained, either by a fabricated excuse of unexpected illness or by the announcement of his actual death. In fact, whatever name he might have used was no longer on the official list. He had become a non-person. As for Boris Gorsky, he could be any of three secretarial aides and translators, or even one of the two Russian journalists who had been touring the Mid-West with the delegation. Tomorrow was their departure date. The luncheon today was a cordial and sympathetic farewell.