“And just what have you noticed?” He had decided to play this for laughs.
“Well...the way you met Brad in our room at the Algonquin.”
“Old Brad rather likes that kind of mystery. Reminds him of the best years of his life.”
“Yes,” she agreed, and her eyes sparkled bright blue with amusement, “there’s some truth in that.”
“What else?” he asked lightly. How could he explain that he had been followed all the way from Brussels, kept under tight surveillance until he had managed to dodge it in New York? Even then, he had been forced to move with the greatest care. There had been no purpose in dragging either Brad or the Kelsos into any possible danger. Contact with them had, for their sakes, best been kept disguised. Now, of course, in this last week—since the memorandum had actually been filched—interest in him had dropped. It would be revived again, once he was identified as the man who had been so interested in viewing Konov’s corpse. So far that had not happened. Either he had actually avoided being photographed as he came out of the morgue, or the KGB had been slow for once—it was possible that Konov’s death had meant a lot of rearrangement in their priorities. At any rate, these recent days had been blissfully free of any surveillance.
Dorothea was saying nothing at all. The smile in her eyes spread to her lips.
He changed the subject by glancing at his watch. “I’m being picked up here by a friend at four o’clock. Before then I’d like to ’phone goodbye to Brad. Too bad I can’t be here for this week-end, but I’ll see Tom trailing Kissinger in Brussels next Thursday. He’s still going there, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Not very enthusiastically, though.”
“A delicate situation,” Tony agreed. He helped her with her coat. “By the way, wasn’t it Basil Meade I saw you chatting with? I didn’t know he was in town.”
“Basil Meade?” She was puzzled.
“You met at the cloakroom—”
“Oh—that was Rick Nealey. He’s one of Chuck’s friends.”
Tony left a good-sized tip and led her to the cashier’s desk at the door. “From Shandon House?”
“No. He’s communications aide or something to Representative Pickering.”
Tony paid the check, and guided her into the lobby. “Does he still see Chuck?”
“At week-ends.”
“You mean he goes to New York each week?”
“Yes. At least, I always thought he did. But he hasn’t seen Chuck in ages—so he said.”
“Does he stay with Chuck in New York?” Tony asked, his voice casual.
“He’s at the same address, but in the apartment underneath. It belongs to his girl-friend.” Dorothea frowned. “Perhaps he and Chuck have quarrelled.” That might be the reason for Rick’s embarrassment at meeting her. “But they always got along so well. It’s really very odd. Oh, I’m sorry, Tony. This can’t possibly interest you. I’m only trying to find some reason why Rick practically cut me dead. You saw it?”
“I saw it. And I thought he was a bloody idiot.” That brought the smile back to her face. “How long have they been friends?”
“From away back. Ever since Germany.”
“Old Army buddies?”
“Rick was a refugee, actually. From East Germany.”
“With a name like Nealey? The Irish do get around.”
“Rick was born in New York. His mother was German. The Nealeys were Brooklyn. His father was killed in the Pacific, and so Rick ended up in Dresden or Leipzig—some place like that.”
“A beautiful sequitur. Clear as mud.”
Dorothea laughed. “But perfectly normal. His mother wanted to see her own people as soon as the war ended.”
“And once in, they couldn’t get out?”
“Yes.” She was studying him thoughtfully. “You seem to know his story.”
“Just the pattern. It happened often enough. When did Rick escape from East Germany?” Tony’s voice was conversational.
“As soon as his mother died. She became an invalid, you see, and Rick couldn’t leave her there alone.”
“Rick—short for Richard?” The question was casual.
“Heinrich.” Then Dorothea challenged him, her eyes widening. “This really does interest you.”
“I always like a sad romantic tale.” He took her hand. He held it gently, his face suddenly serious. “Goodbye, Dorothea.” And always my luck, he thought: the beautiful woman out of reach.
“Goodbye.” Then, as their hands dropped, she said with undisguised amusement, “And who is Basil Meade?” She left before he could even think of an answer. He watched her as she walked towards the door and passed out of sight. He was smiling too.
* * *
He had six minutes for his call to Brad Gillon. He wasted no time on explanations. “Listen, Brad,” he said as soon as he got through. “Remember the chap in the composite sketch I saw last Tuesday? He’s here. In Washington—with the same delegation that our late unlamented friend should have been accompanying. Possibly leaving tomorrow. Today he has been meeting Rick Nealey, a friend of Chuck’s and some kind of factotum to a Congressman—Pickering by name. Nealey visits New York at week-ends—apartment in same building as Chuck’s. Got all that? Okay. I leave it in your hands. You have such interesting friends. Goodbye, old scout. Take care.”
Tony left the public ’phone, gathered up his magazines and papers (now slightly crumpled), and was out at the front door as the small army car drove up. His luggage was already waiting for him at the airport, along with the NATO Memorandum under heavy guard. The stable door was securely locked, he thought.
“Had a pleasant lunch, sir?” the sergeant-driver asked civilly.
“Very pleasant.”
“Nice hotel. You’d enjoy staying there some time. There’s a lot going on in the evenings.”
There’s a lot going on any old time, thought Tony. Not a bad day after all.
11
Nothing had gone as he had planned. Rick Nealey’s irritation increased. First, there had been the unexpected encounter with Dorothea Kelso, detaining him, wasting precious seconds when each one of his minutes had been carefully estimated. Next, Oleg had chosen to make contact by voice and lead the way out of the hotel. His own preconceived ideas of how to deal with a difficult meeting, far too dangerous for his taste, had been swept aside. And now here he was, as Alexis, following this madman along a public thoroughfare on a bright afternoon, neither the place nor the time appropriate, and far from his choosing. Insanity, he thought.
Grudgingly, he had to admit it was paying off. So far. The lobby was safely behind him, and no one was on his heels. To make sure of that, as he walked along K Street—keep nonchalant, no haste, let the space between Oleg and him widen—he took the usual precaution of dropping a book of matches, which gave him a quick glimpse of the Statler entrance as he bent to pick it up. He saw only a cluster of people outside its door waiting for taxis, no solitary figure, no head turned his way. At the corner of Sixteenth Street he hesitated, as if in doubt of his direction—a harmless excuse to look around him. At the Statler, there was still the cluster, and no one following him. Quickly he crossed Sixteenth Street and continued along K. Well ahead of him was Oleg, halting beside a parked car.
Irritation flared into alarmed anger. In broad daylight, for God’s sake: Oleg stepping into a car as if he were an old-time Washington bureaucrat, not even glancing back. He’s leaving that job for me, thought Alexis. Perversely, he didn’t look over his shoulder until he had almost reached the car: only two women standing in front of the Fiji Legation, talking with a man—legs were all that was visible. Beyond that, a mother and small child; two priests on the other side of the street, some automobiles driving at a quick steady pace.
The car door was open. All he had to do was step in. Somehow the simplicity of it only angered him more, proving Oleg was right and himself over-worried and fearful.
“You weren’t followed?” Oleg asked, as he eased the car out into the t
raffic.
“I could say no, and I could say yes.”
“And what does that mean?” Oleg’s mouth was tight.
“Anyone could be following us. Secretaries, priests—”
“And your own shadow.”
There was a long silence. “Where are we going?” Alexis asked at last.
“Driving around, like good Americans.”
“You take a lot of risks. That telephone call this morning—”
“Stop talking and let me pay attention. There are bigger risks in getting a traffic ticket than in walking out of a hotel.” As Oleg spoke, his eyes kept watching the rear and side mirrors. “No one did follow you,” he said at last. He was concentrating carefully now on the one-way streets, avoiding the busy circles or the underpasses and the giant avenues. It was as if he had memorised a certain number of blocks in this part of town and wasn’t going to venture into strange territory. As it was, Alexis had to admit, Oleg was doing not at all badly for someone who didn’t know Washington too well; and how typical of the man, to keep the wheel himself instead of asking him to drive. Within six minutes Oleg had found the parking spot he wanted, back once more on K Street, but this time further east, near the bus terminal for Dulles Airport. It was a busy section with plenty of movement. Their car, a rented Buick in unobtrusive brown, was not conspicuous; nor were they. Just two people waiting for friends to arrive from a flight to Washington.
But Alexis could not resist raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t unnoticed. Oleg, switching off the ignition, said, “Less risk too, in not driving far afield. And to what purpose?”
True enough. The shorter the time they spent together, the safer. They had not been followed. No other car drew up within view. That was all that mattered. But Alexis was still nervous and unsettled. He searched for a cigarette.
“Ah, the microfilm. You had enough sense to bring it with—”
“I’ve already sent it to Moscow.” Alexis lit the cigarette, only remembered then to offer his pack to Oleg. It was impatiently brushed aside.
“There has been no report of its arrival,” Oleg said, eyes angry, face tense. “When did you send it?”
“As soon as I got back to Washington.”
“You were instructed—”
“I know. Mischa told me to give it to you on the Tuesday. But that was before he was injured. Which changed everything.”
“Who told you it changed anything?”
“You did not contact me. You could have been back in Moscow for all I knew.” And if Oleg wasn’t notified about the arrival there of the microfilm, Alexis thought, then he isn’t as important as he thinks he is. Encouraged, Alexis said in a cool crisp voice, “The NATO Memorandum went by the usual channels. It is in Moscow now—has been for the last seven or eight days.”
“Usual channels,” Oleg repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Which means it reached the desk of the wrong man.”
“Wrong? It would reach the usual office—”
“Where one man has sidetracked it, misfiled it, kept it hidden for as long as he dared.” Oleg’s cold anger mounted with his voice.
“But why?” Alexis was instantly alarmed.
“To let him make his escape. He is a traitor. And you gave him a week to perfect his plans. By this time he is well away from Moscow. And he’s laughing at you, Alexis. You were too clever by far. You played right into his hands.”
“I don’t believe it,” Alexis said, fighting back. “A traitor? In such an important job? He wouldn’t have lasted one hour.”
“He lasted twelve years.”
Alexis stared, aghast. “If you knew he was an enemy agent, why didn’t you—”
“Mischa had suspicions, that was all. The proof could be in the NATO Memorandum, Part III.” Oleg’s bitter face was accusing. “Which you sent, so obligingly, so kindly, straight to him.”
“His office always has received my reports. Mischa did not warn me, nor did you. I only followed—” Alexis broke off, his worry doubling as he saw a new and immediate danger. “All these years, he has known who I am.”
“No. We are not as stupid as that. He only knows that there is an Alexis, established in Washington, who sends weekly reports.”
“If he is as good an enemy agent as you say he is, he could analyse the material I sent him, and know what kind of job I have here, even trace—”
“At this moment, he is too busy saving his own skin. If he gets clear—if (and we’ll see about that)—then he may start tracking you down.” Oleg looked as though he might enjoy that idea. “In the long run you may have damaged yourself. And others too. Unless we find him.”
“He is CIA?”
“No. He’s an agent of NATO.”
“The same thing.”
“Only in our propaganda.” And that, thought Oleg, is at least one recent success. The slogans and chants against the NATO—CIA combination were growing stronger each week in Europe. “It even impressed you,” he said contemptuously. “You have become an American.”
The sneer reminded Alexis of Mischa. He had said something like that too, but jokingly. And then Alexis wondered why Oleg had given no news of Mischa. “How is—” he began, and was cut off by Oleg’s next question. It dealt with the problem of Chuck Kelso.
“I see no problem,” said Alexis. “He is reliable.”
“He may endanger you.”
“I don’t think so.” But Alexis frowned.
“How did you procure the memorandum?”
Alexis told him, keeping it brief, and waited for a word of praise.
Instead, “Kelso may tell his brother that you were with him on that evening.”
“Even so, would that matter?”
“The brother has several friends in NATO. That would matter.”
“Intelligence officers?”
“They could be. And they would certainly be interested in anyone who handled the full text of the NATO Memorandum.”
“Chuck doesn’t know I touched it. He has no way of guessing.”
“You had better find out. Exactly. What is he feeling? What is he thinking? Will he talk? Make your report next week.”
“Too soon. I can’t get away to New York until—”
“Next week. And direct it to me personally in Moscow. Make sure of that. It will be your last report for some time. Do nothing. Keep quiet. I shall let you know when you can be active again.”
So he is giving the orders now, thought Alexis. “Where is Mischa?” he asked. Had Mischa been demoted, blamed perhaps for the escape of a traitor?
“Mischa is dead.”
“Dead?” A moment of disbelief. “But how? Where?”
“In New York.”
Mischa is dead. Oleg is in command. The shock died away. “But how?” Alexis repeated. Oleg kept silent. “The result of the mugging, I suppose.”
“The result.” Oleg drew out something from his pocket. Three small photographs. “Have you ever seen this man with Chuck Kelso? The one in the tweed jacket?”
Alexis studied the snapshots of three men. There was no clear view of the face above the tweed jacket. The man had his hand up, coughing, in one picture. In the second, he held a large handkerchief at his nose. In the third, his head was bent as he looked at the ground. “No,” Alexis said slowly. “But these photographs don’t help much. Who is he?”
“An expert,” Oleg said.
“And the other two?” Their faces were clear enough.
“New York City detectives.”
“Arresting the expert?” It was the kind of small joke that would have amused Mischa. Oleg said nothing. Reproved, Alexis became serious again. “Where were the pictures taken? That could be a clue.”
Oleg came slowly back from his own far-ranging thoughts. Suspicions, always suspicions that couldn’t be pinned down... Anthony Lawton, wine-merchant... Or NATO Intelligence officer? On a tip from an informant, he had been followed from Brussels to New York. (Possible close connection with memorandum, the informant had said.) In Ne
w York he vanished. Reappeared in Washington. Reported to have entered Shandon House this Tuesday, the morning of the newspaper publication of the first part of the memorandum. What reason for this visit—Chuck Kelso and NATO security? Or had it been merely wine-business? The only detail the report had given was that Lawton was casually dressed in tweed jacket and sweater. Tweed jacket...yet many people in New York dressed casually, even wildly. Oleg stared down at the elusive figure in the photographs. Yes, Lawton—if he were a NATO agent—would certainly have an interest in Mischa. But how had he found out Mischa was dead? Oleg slipped the snapshots back into his pocket. “They were taken at the morgue,” he said.
Alexis looked uncomprehending. But there was no further explanation.
“I’ll be waiting for your report on Kelso,” Oleg said, and gestured to the door. “Give me five minutes before you take a cab.” He started the engine. Alexis got out. The Buick edged into the traffic and was soon part of a steady stream of cars.
Alexis walked into the bus terminal. Five minutes, Oleg had said. Alexis wondered where he could find a drink, a stiff Scotch. And then, remembering that cold look on Oleg’s face, he found a telephone-booth instead. He would call Chuck now. At Shandon. Catch him before he left for the day, keep the conversation generalised and innocuous, try to arrange a meeting, something. Something that would look adequate in his report to Oleg. Adequate? He would have to do better than that.
“Rick here,” Alexis began.
Chuck sounded surprised, then diffident. No, he wasn’t going to be in New York tomorrow. He had a pile of work to finish at Shandon. And Sunday too was impossible. Anything wrong?
“Of course not. Just thought I’d like to see you, chat about everything. What did you think of that item the Times published last Tuesday? About NATO. Caused quite a sensation.”
“Yes,” said Chuck. He didn’t sound enthusiastic.
“I thought you’d have liked it. It sent me. It’s good that we know what’s really going on, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Chuck said again.
“You seem—disappointed.”
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