Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

  Still absorbed by his newspaper, Tony took up his position behind a family group—mother and two children waiting for Dad to pay the bill—and let his eyes study the scene. Some of the agricultural experts were now debating a point: they had gathered in a tight knot in the centre of the lobby, voices firm but expressions friendly. The translator was busy. And who was he? He hadn’t been around last week. Covertly, Tony studied the stranger. Powerful shoulders, about five foot eleven in height, dark hair liberally streaked with grey. Well, thought Tony, the hair-colour doesn’t correspond to the New York Police report, complete with composite sketch, on the man who had visited Lenox Hill Hospital; but the height and build, the heavy dark overcoat, seem just about right. (Bless that young police officer who had noted so many details about the man who came to view Konov.) Now, if I could only see his face and his bone-structure—blue eyes, too—then I might have found Boris Gorsky... A long shot, of course. Still, who else but Gorsky would have gone to the hospital and talked his way into Konov’s room? Who else? The two of them had arrived secretly in New York: that we do know. Both were coming to Washington, and then touring Chicago and the Middle West along with the agricultural experts. Cancel Konov. But that left Gorsky to fulfil their mission here. So he was probably still around. And what easier way to return to Moscow than accompanying the delegation home? No suspicions aroused, no need for any covert and complicated escape-route via Canada or Mexico.

  And still the broad-shouldered man kept his back turned to Tony. A lot of talk going on, over there. Impatiently, Tony glanced at his watch. Seven minutes past three. Come on, he urged silently, turn around, let me see your face. From the direction of the ballroom, others were now emerging, no doubt slipping away before the last speech had ended—they had the slightly harried look of people who had to get back to their offices. A woman, young and smartly dressed and—even from this distance—decidedly pretty, caught Tony’s eye. Dorothea Kelso? Yes, it was Dorothea. She was now pausing at the cloakroom, speaking to a man who waited to retrieve his coat. A youngish man, Tony noted automatically: fair hair, pleasant face, excellent grey suit and blue shirt. A smart dresser. And with curt manners. He had made a quick goodbye to Dorothea and was already walking away from her. And that, Tony found, was astonishing. Particularly as the young man was now crossing the lobby at a most leisurely pace, even pausing half-way to pull on his topcoat and fold a blue scarf around his neck. He was looking around him, and yet giving the impression that nothing interested him. Which was less astonishing than leaving a very pretty woman so abruptly, but still—to Tony’s expert eye—a little peculiar. He’s looking for someone, Tony decided; I’ve seen that kind of frozen expression before.

  Then Tony’s senses sharpened even more. The fair-haired man was about to pass the group of agricultural experts. At last, they were showing signs of leave-taking. Tony’s attention switched to the man with the grey-streaked hair. He was saying goodbye, speaking clearly and in English, thanking everyone, a neat little speech. Dorothea’s friend, still adjusting the blue scarf at his neck, paused for a second as he glanced at the speaker. Had he recognised the voice? Tony wondered. Or perhaps it was a natural hesitation, a curiosity about all those foreigners blocking his path. At that moment the Russian ended his farewell, and, without waiting for the rest of his friends, walked with smart decisive steps towards the front entrance. He passed barely six feet away from Tony, who caught a glimpse of piercing blue eyes before he dodged behind the shelter of Mom’s bouffant hair-do. And there was no doubt about the man’s features. Strong: determined chin, high-bridged nose, broad brow. It was the composite sketch come to life.

  Drawing a deep breath, Tony stepped away from his camouflage group (the two children were becoming impatient; poor Mom was losing her temper) and prepared to follow. It was an instinctive movement, and it brought him almost into collision with the young fair-haired man, no longer fussing with his scarf but leaving in a definite hurry. “Sorry,” said Tony. The man barely nodded, turned his head away, continued on his set path to the main door.

  Tony checked his step, and stood irresolute. Yes, it could be interesting to follow the possible Gorsky. But what was the use? This wasn’t his territory, he was about to leave anyway, his job here was over. A telephone call to Brad Gillon should be enough. Brad would know where and how to drop this piece of information. For what it was worth, Tony added. Perhaps his own curiosity had led him into exaggerating the importance of this small discovery. Now, if he were only playing on his home ground, with plenty of back-up—yes, that would be another kind of game altogether. And yet, and yet... On impulse he began walking to the front door. Just ahead of him the fair-haired man with the blue scarf quickened his pace. Gorsky had already left.

  Coming out into the broad busy street, Tony mixed with a small cluster of people waiting for taxis in front of the hotel entrance. He looked left along K Street and saw neither of the two men who had interested him. To his right was K’s intersection with Sixteenth Street. And there, at least, was the younger man, waiting to cross—no, it seemed as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind. Perhaps, thought Tony in quick dismay, he isn’t following Gorsky at all, yet I’m damned sure I heard a voice-contact being made in the Statler lobby: Gorsky spoke, the younger man noticed him, and everything went according to schedule after that. Until now. Then suddenly, with a last glance around him, the man in the blue scarf crossed Sixteenth Street at a smart clip. Tony followed, trying not to hurry, and reached the other side as his quarry was half-way along to Seventeenth Street.

  Careful, Tony warned himself. There weren’t too many people around in this stretch of handsome buildings, and no shops to give him the excuse of window-gawking. But he didn’t have far to travel. There, some distance ahead, was Gorsky, stepping smartly into a parked car. His young friend had marked the spot, and headed for it. As he reached it, he glanced back, but Tony had already stopped two passing girls to ask them the way to Lafayette Park. They were a pleasant and diverting screen, delighted to set him straight with wide smiles and repressed giggles—you go down Sixteenth Street, can’t miss it. What he didn’t miss was the open door of Gorsky’s car, ready and waiting for the fair-haired man to slip out of sight. All very neat, thought Tony.

  He said thank you to the two girls, and retraced his steps to Sixteenth Street, letting them draw well ahead so that they wouldn’t notice he was losing his way again as he crossed over to the hotel.

  * * *

  Dorothea’s attendance at the Media luncheon was one of Bud Wells’s bright ideas: she had been seated between two prospects for his Sunday Special—interviews in depth, as Wells liked to subtitle it—so that she might gauge, between shrimp cocktail and tournedos and raspberry sherbet, the way they talked about what and where. The journalist on her right was easy in manner, with a wry humour about his recent assignment in Indonesia: he’d make an interesting guest on television. But the writer, expatriate by choice and now on a buy-my-new-book tour of his native land (it galled him, obviously that the country he continually criticised should make him the most money, although he concealed that with his usual deft barbs about the American scene), was in one of his spiritually constipated moods. Apart from initial remarks calculated to annoy the journalist, and a mild pass at Dorothea herself, he relapsed into heavy concentration on food and drink. A difficult guest, Dorothea decided, to be handled with metal gauntlets. Or a hatpin, she added to that, dodging a leg that slid over hers just as the fourth speech of the day began. She left with a smile and a whispered excuse for the journalist.

  There were other early departures, so she wasn’t alone in her long walk through the ballroom. Ahead of her was Rick Nealey, making his way carefully through the array of tables. Immediately she thought of Chuck, and wondered if Rick had any news of him.

  She increased her pace and reached the cloakroom outside, only a few steps behind Rick. She hesitated but briefly. Her anger with Chuck was mixed with worry: his silence was incomprehensible. Tom hadn’t
heard one word from him all this hideous week. “Hello, Rick.”

  Startled, he swung round. His smile of recognition was slow in coming, almost nervous. “Hello there. Just dashing back to the office,” he explained unnecessarily.

  “How have you been?”

  “Fine.”

  “And Chuck—how is he?”

  “Chuck? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “Oh, I thought you went to New York for week-ends.”

  “Haven’t been able to get away for several weeks.” Rick reached for his coat and scarf. “Nice seeing you.” He gave a parting nod.

  Dorothea didn’t even have time to say her goodbye. He was off, heading for the lobby. How odd, she thought: scarcely the same man who used to visit us and stay and stay. Oh damn, why did I even bother to talk to him? The feeling of rebuff grew sharper. Angry with herself, with Rick, with Chuck, she turned towards the powder-room, there to comb her hair, and wash, and apply lipstick. In the mirror she was glad to see she looked normal and not someone infected with hideous leprosy. Lighting a cigarette, she allowed herself five minutes to let her emotions subside. Also, to let Rick Nealey be well out of sight before she braved the lobby again. She tried not to think of what Tom would say when he heard about her attempt to get news of Chuck. (She wouldn’t mean to tell him, but it would slip out: it always did.) Tom was refusing to discuss Chuck at all. He was waiting—of that she was certain—for Chuck to call him. An explanation was more than due about that borrowed typewriter. But Tom wasn’t making the first move. He was right, of course. How did you go to your brother and say, “You were responsible for breaking security, and you did it with my typewriter, you bastard”? No, you waited for your brother to come to you and admit what he had done. That was all Tom wanted: an honest admission. After that, there could be frank argument. And for my part, thought Dorothea, I’d tell Chuck to resign from Shandon House and find a job designing chairs and tables, something where his ideals wouldn’t do any damage to other people’s careers.

  She had a second cigarette.

  Then she went back to collect her coat, just ahead of the grand rush out of the ballroom. Still thinking about Chuck, still worrying about Tom, she paid scant attention to anyone in the lobby.

  “Dorothea!” a voice said delightedly, and she turned to look. At first she scarcely recognised him, with his hair wind-blown and his tie carelessly knotted. He was wearing a tweed jacket and flannels today, and carrying a bundle of magazines and papers under one arm; he looked like a college professor rather than a wine-merchant. “Mrs. Kelso,” Tony Lawton said, more restrained, “how very nice to see you.” There was no doubt he meant it. “What about a cup of coffee with me?”

  “I really have to get back to the office—”

  “Ten minutes, twenty minutes?” He had a most disarming smile. “I’m just about to leave Washington. There’s nothing more depressing than waiting around in a giant hotel by oneself.”

  “The café may be closed.”

  “Then we’ll try the drug-store.” He took her arm in a gentle but firm hold and steered her towards the café. “How is Tom?”

  “He’s in New York today.”

  He noticed the evasion. “It has been pretty rough on him.” And will be rougher, he thought. “I visited Shandon a couple of days ago.” She looked at him inquiringly. Her step no longer lagged. But he said nothing more until he had managed to persuade a waitress in the empty café that they only wanted two cups of Irish coffee and a quiet place to sit. He selected an unobtrusive corner, helped Dorothea slide her coat back from her shoulders, took a chair directly facing her, and studied the picture she made, blonde hair, blonde wool dress. “The colour of champagne,” he said with approval. “You should always wear it.”

  Dorothea laughed, and surprised herself.

  “Much better,” he told her. “You had a bad day, I take it.”

  “And a very bad week. Does it show?”

  “It did. I saw this beautiful creature walking across the lobby and said to myself, ‘Tony, if ever a girl needed a cup of coffee with a slug of Irish whiskey topped with cream—’ And here it is. To order.” He gave the elderly waitress a warm smile of thanks. “Now, have a few sips, and I’ll tell you about Shandon House.”

  “You saw Chuck?”

  “Briefly. He was buried in work.” A slight smile played around Tony’s lips.

  “He’s the best excuse-manufacturer I know.”

  Tony nodded, his smile deepening, his eyes studying her with some surprise.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” she retracted quickly.

  “Why not? It’s the truth.”

  “Tom—” She paused and sighed, shrugged her shoulders.

  And that tells the whole story, Tony thought. “Tom hasn’t got in touch with Chuck? No, I don’t suppose he could. Perhaps it’s just as well. I tried. And got nowhere.”

  “Nowhere at all?”

  “I talked about the NATO Memorandum—it’s the main topic at Shandon these days. But Chuck is admitting nothing. He answered in generalities. The fellow responsible must have had very good reasons for doing what he did. It couldn’t have been for money; and it certainly wasn’t because of lack of patriotism. There were no traitors at Shandon. In fact, if this hypothetical fellow was keeping silent now, it was probably to protect Shandon and keep its good name untarnished by publicity.”

  “What?” She stared at him.

  “Yes. There was no proof that the leak had come from Shandon. So why should this hypothetical fellow supply that proof?”

  “And what about the typewriter—or didn’t you mention it?”

  “A mild suggestion: wasn’t it a little odd, most peculiar indeed? But his reply was rather lofty. I shouldn’t believe all the gossip I heard. The whole thing had been blown out of all proportion. Anyone could borrow a portable typewriter—slip into a hotel room and use it when the owner wasn’t around. A couple of hours were all that was needed.” And that, thought Tony, had been an interesting admission.

  “Oh, come now—” Dorothea began.

  “Besides, as Chuck pointed out, no one who knew Tom was going to believe any of that gossip. The whole idea was best treated with complete contempt. And silence.”

  “And Tom, meanwhile?”

  “Tom could handle anything.”

  Dorothea stared out, through the wall of windows, at the open stretch of Sixteenth Street with its quiet houses and placid traffic. “And that is that,” she said, trying to mask her anger and failing.

  “The truth is,” Tony said slowly, “Chuck is a very scared young man. He is suddenly faced with the unpleasant realisation that his whole career might be ruined. So he rationalises: and persuades himself he is right.”

  “And that will really break Tom. Far more than any gossip could do. Oh, Tony—”

  “I know.”

  Here I am, thought Dorothea, discussing family with a man I once disliked. No, not exactly disliked; not exactly distrusted, either. A man I couldn’t understand, perhaps a man whose job scared me. Too mysterious, too much out of my world. And yet now—“How do I tell Tom about this? He ought to know.” She waited anxiously for his advice.

  “Let Brad Gillon do it,” Tony suggested. “He’s coming to Washington this week-end, isn’t he?”

  Dorothea half-smiled. Tony was really a most perceptive character, she thought. “I just can’t discuss it with Tom,” she admitted. “I’m too impatient with Chuck. Prejudiced, perhaps. So I back away from any criticism. Family loyalty—” She shook her head. “I wish it weren’t so one-sided, though. Doesn’t Chuck realise what his actions have done to Tom? It was Chuck who copied the NATO Memorandum, wasn’t it? You and Brad were there when he came to borrow Tom’s typewriter. You both know and Tom knows and I know. And Chuck knows we know. Oh, how can he not come to Tom and admit it?”

  “Because the natural reaction in most people who have made a big mistake is to cover up. It takes a very honest man, and there are damned few
of them around, to admit an unpleasant truth. Not right off, at least.”

  “I hate to believe that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—because I want people to be honest.”

  “And all things bright and beautiful?”

  “What makes you so cynical, Tony?” she asked softly. “Your job?”

  His smile vanished. “Cynical? Realistic is a kinder word.” Then, very quietly, he added, “What job?” His anger was sharp, even if concealed. “Has Tom been fantasising?”

  He doesn’t do that!”

  “Not usually.”

  “I’m the one who thought you might be—well, attached to some kind of—” She hesitated and dodged. “Tom argued me out of it, told me to stop speculating about people. It’s one of my bad habits. But, Tony, you really are a mystery man.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, poor little innocent you.”

  “What on earth gave you such a mad idea? Flattering, of course. I’d hate to be considered just a routine type.”

  “You’d never be that.” This pleased him in spite of himself. Encouraged, Dorothea said, “And anything I’ve noticed about you is strictly for my eyes only. I don’t chatter, Tony. Not about serious matters.”