“All taken care of. I also got in touch with Brussels via Lyons.”
“You did?” Tony was impressed. “So you’re all set up? Quick work.”
Georges nodded. That morning he had transferred all his special equipment from the Sea Breeze to his new room in the Old Town: good and safe communication with Brussels was a first necessity. He eyed two more couples entering the bar. “That’s a smasher,” he observed of one of the girls.
“Things are looking up all over. Two sore thumbs begin to seem normal. Swelling much reduced.”
“I hope that guy in the corner is beginning to believe that too. An odd place to choose. Not much visibility from there.”
“My guess is that Popeye isn’t here to watch the hall.” And thank heaven for that: Parracini could arrive at any moment. A few people had already been drifting towards the cinema.
“Waiting for someone to make contact?”
“And keeping a low profile until he gets the signal. You know, he ought to attend to that thyroid condition before his eyes really bug out.”
Georges’s laugh was spontaneous. Interesting, he thought, how Tony’s attention never drifts far from the hall outside. “Expecting someone?”
“Any minute now. Our friend Jean is going to the movies tonight.”
Jean Parracini? Georges’s head turned casually towards the hall, as he lit a cigarette. “I don’t like it,” he said softly. Far too much risk, he thought, and stopped watching the hall. He’d have to keep the same balance as Tony, between looking and not-looking. No staring allowed.
“Oh, he won’t be alone. He’s bringing Bernard and Brigitte with him—Bill’s devoted cook and butler.” And devoted they were. Loyal and trustworthy. But the weakness was that they knew little. Only that Bill’s household, and Bill’s guests whenever they appeared, had to be safeguarded. Parracini was someone who spoke Russian and was learning French: that much was obvious. Parracini was important: that much they had been told. Palladin was a name they had never heard. Few had. “Keep smiling, old boy. We’re on camera.” More people had drifted into the bar. So far none of the tables near the entrance was occupied, but soon Tony and Georges might be surrounded, and that would make any further exchange of information a very tricky business.
“I still don’t like it,” Georges insisted. “Why couldn’t the damned fool stay at home? He’s safe there.”
“And getting bored. Wouldn’t you be? Besides, he’s quite confident he can fool anyone. His appearance has changed. Completely.”
“I see—he’s trying out the transformation on the moviegoers. But I wish—” Georges checked himself.
“So do I. Perhaps he’ll get more sense talked into him tomorrow. Is the boat ready?”
“Everything’s repaired. Emil is sleeping on board.”
“You’ve radio contact with him?”
“Of course. Weather reports aren’t too good for tomorrow, but improving on—”
“Here they come.” Tony’s eyes looked away from the three new arrivals in the hall and studied his sherry with disapproval.
Georges registered all three of them: a light-haired man, balding, of medium height; a woman with short red hair, a patterned dress and cardigan; a man, also of medium height, tanned face, thick dark brown hair, a black moustache. Both men wore blue suits, white shirts, black ties. Georges shook his head, finished his drink. “I give up.”
“The dark-haired one.”
Nothing like his photograph, thought Georges, remembering its details. Nothing. In Genoa, Parracini had been blond, thin on top, with a round fleshy face and a heavy body—corpulent, in fact. “He doesn’t even wear glasses.” Georges’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “Contact lenses?”
“The miracles of modern science,” Tony said. “Why don’t you slip out, have a closer look at him? See they all get into the movie safely.”
“All the way?” Georges suggested.
“Might be an idea to mark their position. We may join them later.” And as Georges shot a quick glance at him, Tony said, “Why not? We have to put in an hour and a half until the movie ends. Better there than here, perhaps.” Then, very quickly, “Make sure no one is tailing them.”
So that’s it, thought Georges, already on his feet, excusing himself, moving into the hall. We’re here as added protection for Parracini. And for once, Georges didn’t think old Tony (nine years older than Georges’s thirty) was overworrying. Georges was still slightly shaken by Parracini’s self-confidence, even if an outing of the domestic staff from Garavan House would seem to be normal downstairs procedure: cook, butler, chauffeur out on the town for their night off. He caught up with them as they were about to pass the roulette and baccarat tables. (So far, no customers there.) Brigitte was already complaining about the coolness of the air, while the two men, in comfortably warm jackets, discussed the lighting overhead. Parracini seemed totally natural and quite oblivious to those who passed him. He put on a good show, Georges had to admit. Searching for the price of admission, he angled himself near enough to Parracini to have a front view of the new face. Totally unrecognisable. Reassured, Georges made his way just ahead of them into the cinema, felt its cold air strike the back of his neck, and wondered how long Brigitte in her thin dress and skimpy cardigan would last.
* * *
The bar was now almost half full, and a couple of men had taken the table next to Tony. It had to come some time, he thought: when Georges returns (four minutes gone, allow him ten at least to get Parracini & Co. nicely settled), we’ll be reduced to discussing Uncle Joe’s gall-bladder operation, or the weather, that good old standby. Which reminds me that tomorrow’s forecast, according to Georges, is not promising. Let’s hope that a rising sea won’t distract Parracini too much from our questions—or us from asking the right ones to start unlocking his memory. He must know more about Alexis than he has been able to recall so far. It’s all a matter of deep recesses in the mind which have to be explored: we all need that now and again. Yes, I’m convinced that he knows more than he realises. Or am I being too insistent that he can lead us to Rick Nealey through Alexis? No. I don’t think so. Why?
What, for instance, would I myself have done if I had been Palladin? On that day in Moscow when I was faced with disaster? When I knew there was no option but escape? My plans would have been long made, ready for such an emergency. What would I have done with the time left me before I could set these plans safely into action? (We know from the delay in Palladin’s alarm signal to us, that several days had elapsed before it was safe for him to set out for Odessa. He hadn’t just received the NATO Memorandum, with Alexis’s covering report, and walked out of his KGB office, there and then. He had played it cool, probably sidetracked the report for at least a few days of respite; no sign of panic to arouse suspicion, no precipitous flight.) How would I have used those last three or four days in Moscow?
Of course, it’s easy to say how I’d have reacted: I am sitting here in a quiet bar, not in my KGB cubbyhole with wary eyes all around me. Still, as Palladin, I’d have done some things automatically—I was a topflight operator, with a built-in sense of what was vital information, and powerful enough to make a try for it. I’d have damned well found out every possible detail about this Alexis in Washington, the man who had ended my career and smashed everything I had built up over the last twelve years. And I’d have brought those details out with me. Not just an educated guess—but hard information, even if it was in small bits and pieces. Every little helps. That’s the first rule of the good investigator. And you were that, Palladin.
An educated guess... The phrase rankled in Tony’s mind. Alexis was middle-aged, was he? A Washington reporter or columnist? Oh, come on, Palladin, you were one of the best we’ve ever had as an agent in place. But as Parracini, you’re a real pain in my— Tony’s thoughts were chopped off. The man entering the bar, looking directly at the corner table without even having to let his vision become accustomed to the understated lights, was Boris Gorsky.
As Popeye rose obediently, payment for his drink already calculated down to the obligatory fifteen per cent tip, Gorsky turned to leave with a sweep of his eyes around the other tables. Tony sat unmoving, totally uninterested, a picture of boredom. He had resisted his first impulse to drop his cigarettes under the table and go looking for them. Too obvious a manoeuvre, enough to solidify Gorsky’s suspicions of him. What has he chalked up against me so far? Tony wondered. Someone who always seems to turn up where he isn’t wanted? I hope that’s all, I hope to God that’s all...
Gorsky had left, trailed by Popeye at a short distance. Keeping that formation, they strolled towards the other end of the hall, and soon were out of sight from Tony’s vantage point. A new worry lunged at him, gripped his mind. Somehow, some way, they had managed the impossible. Gorsky knew who Parracini really was; he had found Palladin.
How?
A traitor among us?
No. Couldn’t be... Bill, Nicole—both were unthinkable. Bill’s faithful retainers? Unlikely. Someone closer to home, like Georges or Emil? Totally impossible. Gerard, receiving reports of Operation Parracini in far-off Brussels? Or someone on his staff, a trusted aide? Hell and damnation, Gorsky is turning me into a paranoiac, throwing suspicions around like streamers at a New Year party. Tony signalled to the bar attendant, made a sign for his bill. Pointless now to keep on sitting here. He had to see for himself. His fears might be unfounded: Gorsky could be here on other business than Parracini.
“You didn’t drink your sherry,” said the attendant. “Perhaps it was too dry for you, sir?” Only appreciated by true connoisseurs, his manner implied.
“I had a sip.” And that had been quite enough. “Of both of them,” Tony added with a smile.
The man was uncomprehending, counted out Tony’s change in silence.
Resist complaining, Tony decided. He wouldn’t believe me anyway, that someone had accidentally mixed two sherries together, an Amontillado with a Tio Pepe, and hadn’t thought it mattered—both were dry, both light in colour. Who’d notice?
What was more important, thought Tony as he left for the hall, was to find Georges and alert him, and then keep Gorsky under judicious observation. Now I can be thankful that this is a quiet night in the Casino—no mob-scene to increase our difficulties. Gorsky must have bought some chips: he was one of a small group forming at the opened roulette table. Some distance away Popeye was circulating aimlessly. And Georges, equally nonchalant, was walking back towards the bar.
Tony halted to light a cigarette, let Georges do the approaching. “Gorsky is here.”
Georges stood still. “That’s big trouble.”
“More so if he and Popeye had headed for the movie-house. Where’s Parracini?”
“On the aisle, third row from the back. Right-hand side of the theatre as you enter.”
“Watch Gorsky. At the roulette table. Can you identify him? He’s wearing—”
“I know him. Not all my identifications are made on the strength of photographs,” said Georges. Or perhaps it was the sudden increase in worry that had spurred his sharp response.
“Then he knows you.” Tony’s voice was extra mild.
“Not necessarily. There were at least a hundred journalists milling around Kissinger at that Paris press-conference on the Vietnam peace talks. Gorsky was there, calling himself Zunin, a representative from Tass. He had no reason to be interested in me.”
“But you had a reason to be interested in him.”
“He was masterminding that West Berlin kidnapping—” Georges forgot Berlin. He was looking past Tony’s shoulder. “Someone’s just arrived. Very uncertain. But he keeps watching you. Almost six feet, dark hair greying at the temples, rugged features, light tweed jacket.”
Kelso? Tony risked a glance behind him and met Tom Kelso’s eyes. “Hold the fort,” he told Georges. “Don’t let Gorsky out of your sight. I’ll be back as soon as I can—a matter of minutes.”
“Something wrong?”
“I hope not. Something important, though.” If it wasn’t, Tom wouldn’t be here. Not tonight. And he had stayed only long enough to catch Tony’s attention. He was already out of the front door into the street, as Tony walked (don’t run, show no sign of haste) down the short flight of stairs into the small foyer.
The convergence of avenues and streets around the Casino was placid enough; there was little automobile traffic and less people; bright lights over empty sidewalks, a town dozing off into early sleep. Tom was maintaining his head start: he had crossed over to the English Church, was striding on without one turn of his head to make certain that Tony was still with him. And for his part, Tony was keeping to his side of the avenue—he had no wish to catch up with Tom until he was reasonably sure that no one was interested in their movements. Apparently no one was. Not one loiterer or follower in sight. A short distance beyond the church, Tom stopped at his car and got in. Within seconds, Tony was slipping into the front seat beside him.
“Neat,” Tony said. “But I can’t drive around and talk. Have to get back—”
“This won’t take long. It may not be as important as I think it is. But you ought to hear about it.” Tom, without wasting a word, plunged into a brief résumé of what he had seen and heard tonight on his visit to the Commissariat de Police. “So,” he concluded, “they know where you are both staying in Menton. The way Nealey went after your addresses was just too purposeful.”
“We’ll disappoint them. Thanks for the warning, Tom. And for the other details too.” Boris Gorsky was driving a green Opel with a Nice plate, was he? “Most useful.”
“What did they want with Chuck’s suitcase? There’s nothing of interest to them inside it, as far as I saw. No letters, no documents. Not even a diary—just an address-book with a section for engagements.”
“Have a careful look through that,” Tony advised him.
“For what?”
“Anything that catches your eye. And you’ve got a good one, Tom. I’ll call you later, around midnight. If possible.”
“Call me as late as you like. I’ll be awake.”
“And one thing more. When Brad Gillon puts in a call from New York, any hour now—yes, we let him know about Chuck—ask him to start working hard on Katie Collier. The FBI must have made a thorough check on her ’phone bills. Get Brad to find out the calls that were made from her apartment during the week-ends.”
“Made by Nealey?” Tom asked quickly.
“Always a possibility. Sorry to lay this on you tonight, Tom. Really sorry.”
“Don’t be. I need something to do. Take care, Tony.”
Tony half-smiled. “You know me, old boy,” he said as he stepped out of the car and began walking back to the Casino. The deserted streets were still innocent, so he made no detours but concentrated on speed. Sixteen minutes since he had left Georges, whose usual sang-froid must now be simmering with anxiety.
* * *
Georges met him as he reached the hall. “Thank God,” he said. “It’s all breaking loose. Haven’t enough eyes to keep watching everyone. They’ve left the cinema.”
“Parracini and party?”
“Brigitte insisted on leaving. Her complaints about incipient pneumonia were loud and clear. She’s walking around the hall, trying to warm up, while Bernard has gone to pick up his car and bring it here to take them all home.”
“And Parracini?”
“Walking around too. Damn his eyes.”
“Gorsky?”
“Deep in a game of roulette. His friend is playing at the other table.”
“Let’s move in their direction, By the way, Gorsky has discovered my hotel. And the Sea Breeze too. Don’t go near her tonight. You’ve left nothing of your special bag of tricks on board?”
“Nothing but Emil’s transceiver—enough to keep contact with my room. I’ll alert him when I get back there.”
“Do that. Where’s Parracini?” Tony couldn’t see him. The red-haired Brigitte was now alone, s
tanding still, hugging her cardigan close to her body, looking around her in rising alarm like an abandoned waif.
“He was near the big windows—only a minute ago. With Brigitte.” Georges’s face was as tense as his voice.
“We’d have seen him leaving,” Tony said reassuringly, but his own stomach tightened. Then he relaxed a little. “I spot him.” Almost in despair, he added, “I could wring his bloody neck.”
Georges had followed the direction of Tony’s eyes, looked aghast at the carefree Parracini sauntering around the tables. Roulette seemed to fascinate him. He halted, found a place in the small grouping of onlookers, listened to the croupiers’ calls, watched the turn of the wheel with obvious interest.
“Let’s join the spectators,” Tony suggested. But not too close to Gorsky and keep behind him: nothing noticeable. And as Tony was about to congratulate himself on finding a place where they could see without being observed, Parracini made his move.
He reached Gorsky. Halted. Stood beside him. Seemed absorbed by Gorsky’s play. He bent down to drop a few friendly words of advice in Gorsky’s ear. There was a brief but amiable exchange between them. All most casual, it seemed, all perfectly natural, the polite smiles included. Gorsky went on playing, concentrating on his winnings. And with a final remark, Parracini turned away, his gaze now sweeping around the spectators. Both Georges and Tony, apparently absorbed in the game like the others who crowded near the table, passed muster. Parracini gave them neither a hard look nor a second glance. He strolled off in search of Brigitte.
There was a long, long silence between Tony and Georges.
At last it ended. Georges said, “I think the roof just fell in.”
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