Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

  Emil left his post at the rail. It was ten fifteen. Better get the cabin straightened up, he warned himself. And what do we do with the clothes that Saul and Walt have left strewn around? Sure, stow them away in a spare locker meanwhile; but how and where do we return them? He went inside, shook his head over the wild disorder that met him, and set to work.

  * * *

  The taxi was waiting, just as arranged. Thankfully Tony got in: at least this was something that hadn’t gone wrong. He gave the driver exact instructions that would take him half-way along the bay front, a brief run that would only last four or five minutes. There, at the same red light where he and Georges had stopped last night—good God, was it only last night?—the taxi made its left turn into the westbound avenue. “Just here,” Tony said, money ready in his hand as the cab drew up.

  He waited until it was bowling back to the Old Town before he moved over to a row of shops, so new that some were still vacant like the apartments above them. This was where he would meet Bernard, just outside the tea-room.

  He had let Bernard choose the rendezvous, as they had driven down to the Alexandre that morning, to give the quiet unassuming man a touch of needed confidence. Bernard might be Bill’s faithful retainer, but he was the last man Tony would have recruited for the job on hand—except that there had been no other choice available. The tea-room with cakes for sale, Bernard had suggested at once. He and Brigitte often went there; Brigitte liked their napoleons, cream inside instead of custard. It had lime-green curtains and pots of cyclamen. Couldn’t be missed.

  “All right,” Tony had said. “Once you drop Bill and Parracini at the boat, at ten twenty-five, start driving like the hammers of hell. And pick me up near your tea-room.”

  “Not at your hotel?”

  “No. At the tea-room. And waste no time, Bernard. This is pretty urgent. And also our own top-secret plan.” That had impressed Bernard, even if he was mystified. “Say nothing to Brigitte or Parracini or Nicole. Bill knows I’m making arrangements with you, so there’s no need to discuss them with him.”

  And Bernard, still perplexed but always obliging, had told Tony to rely on him. He’d be at the tea-room as soon as he could. He wouldn’t forget Bill’s walking-stick. He’d wear a dark suit, as Tony had suggested. And he wouldn’t say a thing to anyone.

  So, thought Tony, here I am now, looking at green curtains and splashes of cyclamen, waiting for Bernard. I am far enough from the harbour, where Gorsky must have someone stationed as lookout for the arrival of Bill’s Mercedes; I am far enough from the Alexandre and its weary watchdog. The taxi wasn’t followed. I may actually be in the clear, unobserved except by that girl behind the counter arranging her cream-puffs.

  He moved away, farther along the row of shops, chose a safer place to loiter unnoticed—a window display of real-estate photographs, desirable properties for sale—but kept a constant eye on the road that led from the marina. Bernard wasn’t late. It was Tony, over-anxious about traffic jams and distances to be covered—he kept forgetting how short they were in Menton—who was five minutes early.

  But so was Bernard.

  In astonishment Tony caught sight of the Mercedes speeding towards him. He had scarcely time to get his moustache peeled off without taking three inches of skin before Bernard was about to reach him. And pass him without recognition. Tony whipped off his glasses and cap, waved, brought the Mercedes to a startled halt. “Well done,” he told Bernard. But, he was thinking, I’m glad that none of my friends were around to see that messy encounter: amateur night at the Palladium. I’d never have heard the end of it. And he wondered briefly, as Bernard followed his instructions and drove on past the tea-room with its roving-eyed girl, if Bernard was able to do what was expected of him without blowing the whole show. “How did it go?”

  Bernard burst into a quick and excited story. Bill had made them leave the house early, insisted on driving, said they could be followed, kept watching the rear-view mirror, taken the winding curves of the narrow road like a crazy man. Then, once round a sharp turn, Bill had pulled up short. And there was a car following. It came round the curve, saw the Mercedes standing there, avoided it, side-swiped a wall at the edge of the—

  Tony caught Bernard’s arm, interrupting the flow of words. “We’ll stop here.” He was drawing off his denim jacket, pulling out a dark brown wig and moustache from a pocket. “We’ll change before we reach the harbour, arrive as expected. So—” he told Bernard, applying the moustache for him—“press hard on it. Hold your fingers there. Yes, that’s right. And now this wig. Get it well down. Cover your own hair completely.”

  Bernard, after his first startled moment, was quick enough. His own thin reddish-fair hair vanished. He studied the transformation in the car mirror, took out a comb to arrange his heavy dark waves in place, fingered the moustache once more, and nodded his approval. “It alters a man,” he admitted, and smiled.

  Tony had pulled on his own wig, changing his medium-cut hair, indeterminate brown, into longish blond locks. “Serious business,” he warned. “No more smiles, Bernard. We could be watched every step of the way, from the Mercedes to the Sea Breeze. Let’s get moving.”

  They started on the last lap of the journey towards the harbour. “What did Bill do?” Tony asked, prompting Bernard back into his story. “Did he drive on?”

  Yes, that was what he had done. He had driven like a madman, and turned on the radio, and talked through it—about a change in the arrangements.

  “And Parracini? How did he take it?”

  “At first, angry. Told Bill to turn around, he was going back to the house. And Bill said, ‘You don’t want to meet Gerard? Because he’s not coming near the house. It’s no longer safe. You saw that car—it knew where to pick up our trail. What’s your choice? Go back? Or go on, as arranged?’ So we didn’t go back.”

  “And Parracini?”

  “As relieved as I was to arrive at the marina. Six minutes early.” Bernard shuddered, remembering the speed with which they had made that wild descent. “We were lucky, I think. But Bill’s a good driver—I’ll say that for him.” He pointed ahead. “I can park there. All right?”

  Tony nodded. Yes, he was thinking, Bill is good. If he hadn’t remembered Parracini’s watch—well, he did: and I didn’t.

  The Mercedes came to a halt. Bernard’s hands were still on the wheel, his grip tightening until white knuckles showed.

  A case of stage fright, Tony thought, and at this moment I’m not too certain of my own lines. “Now, all we have to do is walk along a dock,” he said reassuringly. “Look at no one, Bernard. No one. Just keep talking to me.”

  “Am I supposed to be Parracini?” Bernard’s doubts were growing. “We’ll never manage to—”

  “You’re his height, and that’s the important thing.”

  “But if you are Bill, then—”

  “I know. I’m three inches shorter, but he never was seen around town, was he? I’ve got his colour of hair and his limp and his cane. So we’ll manage. Shoulders back, Bernard, remember the way Parracini walks. And keep to my left side, your face turned towards me and away from the boats. Ready? Here goes.” He reached over to the back seat for the walking-stick, gripped it in his right hand, and got out of the car. Bernard had no choice. He got out too. “Left side, Bernard, left side! And you look fine.”

  As they crossed the avenue to reach the harbour, Bernard asked, “Are we doing this because of Parracini?”

  “Yes.”

  “To distract the KGB?” Bernard’s face was grim.

  “Yes,” said Tony again, and repressed a smile. “Just a little distraction.” And a very big bluff. “Now let’s talk of other things. What did you think of that Milan-Turin soccer match last week? A near riot, I heard.”

  And Bernard, who followed every football game on television, had a topic to keep him going on that nerve-racking walk to the Sea Breeze. Once he paused in his monologue—almost as they were reaching the Monique—to glare at a
couple of young men who were about to pass and then, as they came abreast, slackened speed while they argued about some item in the newspaper one of them was opening.

  “Face this way!” Tony got out in time. “Watch me!” Bernard remembered. He averted his head from the two men on his left, ignored their newspaper with its pages being turned, spread wide for consultation, and went on talking to Tony.

  The Monique lay behind them. Tony checked a surge of relief, kept the same steady pace. Brilliant, he thought of the newspaper: Saul and Walt really knew all the tricks of the trade. They had managed to break the Monique’s view of Bernard and Tony, just at the crucial moment of passing; and they had made sure, too, that their own faces wouldn’t be clearly photographed. Two bent heads, gesticulating arms, a flutter of turning pages: that was all Gorsky would make of them. Yes, brilliant. And essential. For the mainsail on the fishing-boat was no longer of any help: it had been lowered and furled.

  Tony looked at Bernard. His shoulders were squared, he held himself tall, and now that the annoyance of two young men trying to crush past him was over, he was even enjoying himself. “Careful,” Tony warned. “Just another ten paces to go.”

  They reached the Sea Breeze, entered its tidied cabin. Emil was now at the ship’s radio, talking with the harbour-master. He broke off to say, “Got this five minutes ago,” as he handed over a coded message. It was from the Aurora. It read, “Cargo fully loaded. Sailed on schedule.”

  Trust Vincent: everything done navy style. Bill and Parracini might arrive six minutes ahead of time, but the Aurora sailed exactly as arranged, at ten thiry.

  Tony crossed over to one of the starboard windows, gently eased its heavy curtain apart. Beyond the fishing-boat the Monique rested quietly. No sign of leaving. He kept watch, waiting for any sudden activity. Nothing. He stayed there, watching and waiting. At last he let the quarter-inch gap of curtain close. He was smiling broadly. “They couldn’t follow the Aurora now. She’s well away.”

  “We did it!” Emil said, and slapped Bernard on the back.

  “Easy, easy, take it easy,” Tony said, restraining his laughter and theirs. “Don’t forget that an important conference, with four very serious people, is beginning in this cabin. And you are one of them,” he told Bernard. “Don’t look out the windows. Don’t open the door. Keep the curtains closed.” He was removing the blond wig, reversing the jacket back to work-worn denim. The cap he would need; glasses and moustache expendable. “Get rid of the fancy dress,” he urged Bernard. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Bernard peeled off his dark moustache and wig. “Where are we going?”

  “For a pleasure cruise.”

  “I just sit here? Stay inside? What about you?”

  “We’re the crew,” Emil said impatiently. “And we’ll be busy on deck until we clear the harbour. We cast off at eleven. Prompt.” He turned to Tony: “I checked with the harbour-master about that. No delay, he said: there’s another boat pulling out at eleven ten.” Emil’s grin was wide. “Guess who?”

  So Gorsky was giving them a ten-minute start. Mighty generous of him, considering the Monique could raise almost thirty-five miles an hour, while the Sea Breeze, under power, could manage eleven and a half. Their thirty knots, thought Tony, against our ten: he will be right on our tail from the word go.

  “Also,” Emil was saying, “I told the harbour-master we probably wouldn’t head in here tonight. Possibly returning tomorrow.”

  “You did, did you?” Tony sounded nettled.

  Bernard interrupted them both. “I’ve got to get back by this afternoon. Brigitte doesn’t know where I am. She’s expecting me—”

  “She’ll wait,” said Emil brusquely. And to Tony, “I thought it was a good idea. The Monique is bound to be listening for any communication between us and the shore.” He paused, guessed the reason for Tony’s silence. “Of course I didn’t mention Nice. Did you think that I was fool enough to steer them in that direction?”

  Tony relaxed. We’re all getting too sharp-set, he thought. “Then it was a very good idea.” It would certainly jolt Gorsky: what overnight trip for the Sea Breeze, and where? Not according to plan. And why wasn’t Parracini’s watch functioning? Why was nothing being received right now from the Sea Breeze cabin? Yes, Tony answered him, the watch is functioning, but it has been too far away for any monitoring. Far, far away, Gorsky, and getting farther by the minute. “One thing is certain,” Tony predicted, “Gorsky won’t let us out of his sight.”

  “And then?” asked Emil, very quietly.

  “It depends on Gorsky, doesn’t it?”

  “He could try to board us—there are five of them, don’t forget. Or he could ram us.”

  “Oh, come on, Emil. Cool it. Worrying is my business, not yours.”

  Bernard stared at them. “There’s still danger?”

  “It’s only beginning,” said Emil.

  “Oh,” said Bernard. His face brightened. He forgot about Brigitte and cream-cakes for tea. “Well, I’m not going to stay in here doing nothing. How can I help?”

  “By staying in here,” Tony told him. “Don’t look out, don’t be seen. That’s the most important thing right now.”

  “And later?”

  “Later, we’ll call on you. If necessary.” Tony checked his watch for the third time, and stepped on to the deck. He passed quickly to the port side of the boat, where the cabin would shield him from the Monique’s view. There he could wait for the next two minutes and time to cast off. He would be seen then, of course, no way to avoid it. But with his collar hunched up, and his knitted cap down over his brow, his head bent, his face averted, he might just postpone identification until the right moment. And that wasn’t here, at this dock, at three seconds to eleven.

  “Okay,” he sang out for Emil’s benefit, and moved towards the lines. “Let go.”

  27

  Blue sky and white clouds, steady breeze and rippling waves, it was the Saturday sailors’ delight. Small craft dotted Garavan Bay, everything from rowing-boats with outboard engines to light yachts under sail. The Sea Breeze headed east as though she were bound for Italy. She was taking it easy, travelling only at half-speed so that she’d be less than a mile from the harbour when the Monique emerged.

  “There she is,” said Emil, “and they’ve seen us.”

  “Good,” said Tony.

  The Monique skirted the offshore craft, only began to put on speed as the Sea Breeze passed the high promontory of cliffs that formed the end of the bay, and was lost to her sight. Temporarily. The Monique, under full power, reached the cliffs, came sweeping round them to enter Italian waters. She found herself almost faced with the Sea Breeze, which had turned and was now heading back under full power towards Garavan Bay.

  Once there, Sea Breeze reduced speed and sailed on, past the harbour, past Menton’s west bay, rounded Cap Martin and again dropped out of sight.

  Again, the Monique gave chase, soon reached Cap Martin, only to find herself faced with the Sea Breeze as she turned east once more.

  And that was the way it went for the next twenty minutes. The Monique, baffled and angry, retreated to a less ridiculous position, where—a couple of miles out to sea—she could heave to and watch the Sea Breeze from a distance.

  “She should have done that in the first place,” Emil said. “Whoever is giving the orders isn’t much of a sailor. He’s more accustomed to tailing his quarry through city streets.”

  Bernard, dressed in a heavy ill-fitting sweater borrowed from Emil’s locker, clung on tightly to the rail and said, “If he isn’t much of a sailor, then he’s feeling like me.” He was cheerful, but pale of face. He averted his eyes from the waves that seemed to him to be growing bigger. It was colder, too.

  “Go below,” Emil advised. The clouds were moving, the breeze had strengthened into a wind from the south-east. Not too much force as yet, but it was blowing up.

  Bernard shook his head, clung on. Bright sun and blue sky should surely mean
that there was nothing to worry about. “I like it here.” They were far out in Garavan Bay now. He could see the whole of Menton.

  Emil’s bout of sharp temper, back in the harbour, had left him. It was the waiting that had irritated him, that and the unnecessary ballast they had been forced to carry in the shape of Bernard. Now, he clapped Bernard’s shoulder before he moved inside to the radio. The message from the Aurora was due any minute.

  Tony was at the wheel, and enjoying himself immensely. He had zigzagged across both the bays, sometimes heading out to sea as though he were actually making for the Monique. Then, before he got too close to her, he had steered a wide curve back towards land. In a light breeze, this had been simple enough to manoeuvre, but with the wind strengthening—well, thought Tony, it won’t be too pleasant for them sitting out there: they’ll have to use more power, keep themselves steady, not let the Monique get out of control.

  Emil called to him, “Still thumbing your nose at Gorsky? He’s got the message by this time.”

  “But we’ve lost our advantage,” Tony reminded him. Back in the harbour, and even for the first five minutes of this erratic voyage, the Monique had been unaware that the Sea Breeze knew all about her. The Monique had been the watcher, the calculator, the chaser. She hadn’t realised that she had been watched, calculated against, and then led into a senseless chase. But now Gorsky knew. The Sea Breeze was going no place.

  “Well, we’ve given him a couple of real problems. Is there anyone important on board of us? Has he been duped all the way?”

  “And,” Tony added, “how much has his own security been endangered? That is what really hurts.”

  “Just a moment!” Emil pressed his left hand against his ear-phone, noting down the message as he listened. “Received. Over and out,” he said at its end. He brought the slip of paper to Tony. “How’s that?” he asked with a wide and happy smile.

  The Aurora’s message was succinct. Cargo unloaded. Easy transfer made. Already airborne. Instructing escort return full speed Menton. ETA noon. Will cover your position.