by Aaron Elkins
Gideon picked up the weapon and looked at it. The soldered joints were surprisingly sloppy. "You know, it’s hard for me to believe this sort of thing really exists."
Delvaux smiled. "It was used quite successfully in Munich in 1963, in Vienna a few years after that…and who knows how many more times? The poison is unknown and nearly undetectable."
"Why didn’t he use it this time?"
"I think we can assume he was working his way up to a ‘casual’ brush against you when—so he thought—you spotted him."
"But why didn’t he use it then instead of hitting John over the head with it?"
"The poison is slow-acting. In four hours the victim notices some difficulty in breathing. In twenty-four hours, by which time he has forgotten all about the brief, stinging sensation of the day before, he is dead. Excellent for leisurely assassinations, but not much use for quick getaways, you see."
"I killed him, didn’t I?" said Gideon quietly. "In the scuffle. I heard the click."
"It’s hard to say," said Delvaux. "He was stabbed several times in the fight with Monkes. But yes, he also had a pellet in his foot. The autopsy has not yet been performed. Probably the pellet would have killed him soon enough."
Delvaux looked into Gideon’s face, his eyes suddenly concerned. "My dear friend, you cannot allow yourself to suffer for this. It was not your fault. He was an assassin, a professional killer. It was his own weapon, meant for you. He brought it upon himself."
Gideon wondered what Delvaux was seeing in his face. What he was feeling, if anything, was a detached, mild interest; it was difficult to convince himself that any of it was real, let alone that it involved him. "You’ve explained why Monkes was after me," he said slowly, "but why Sholokov? Why would the KGB want to kill me?"
"We believe that also is because of a misunderstanding—"
"I’m certainly happy to hear that."
Delvaux smiled, not without friendliness. "Let me go back a little. As you know, we have been aware for some time that a member of your university has been supplying extraordinarily crucial information to the Russians in connection with a mysterious undertaking we know only as Operation Philidor. Our hope in assigning you to Sigonella and Torrejon, the two remaining bases, was to draw this person out. We hoped that he, or perhaps she, feeling hounded and personally endangered, might turn to you, a naive, ignorant newcomer—you understand the sense in which I speak—for help in getting the needed information. We did not think he—or she—would ask you outright, of course, but we thought he might try to use you in some way. And so we sent you to Sigonella, and we watched you very carefully—"
"Yes, I understand all that. But why would they want to kill me? If he thought I was being used to trap him, all he had to do was ignore me—"
"Correct, and that is apparently what he did. But we—" here he paused to give his grandest Gallic shrug—"we, in our brilliance, not only fooled completely our own Mr. Monkes, but also the entire, mighty KGB. They have been under the impression that Dr. Gideon Oliver is in reality one of NSD’s most formidable and dangerous agents of counterespionage." He began to reassemble the umbrella.
"By association, you mean? They found out that I had been in contact with you?"
"That’s the idea, yes. They made, it would seem, the same mistake that Mr. Monkes did. They discovered that you were assigned to go to Sigonella and Torrejon, and that you had already been at Rhein-Main—all at the critical times. They assumed—correctly, in the latter two cases— that these assignments were no mere coincidences. Their deduction?… That you must be an NSD agent sent to these bases in an effort to thwart them. I think we may also surmise that they found out you had been to our headquarters in Heidelberg—the building is watched, of course— and so such a conclusion on their part was really quite reasonable."
After a moment Gideon said, "Monsieur Delvaux, does this sort of thing happen every day in your field? Or am I simply fortunate in having been involved in an extraordinarily… interesting adventure?"
Monsieur Delvaux laughed with real amusement. "I have been in intelligence for thirty-three years, and I have never—neh-vaire—encountered an affair like this. And you, you lucky devil, walk right into it the first time!" He laughed again. "Do you know, several weeks ago we began intercepting Russian messages referring to an NSD agent who was hot upon their trail—that is the correct phrase? We racked our brains many hours trying to determine who in the world they were talking about. It was only after the terrible attack on you in Sicily that we began to think it might be you. That, of course, is the reason we terminated our relationship, or tried to, when you were last in Heidelberg— concern for your life."
"I wish Marks had told me that. I wouldn’t have insisted on coming here, believe me."
"Unfortunately, dealing with others is not Mr. Marks’s forte. He did what he was told. But I am surprised that Dr. Rufus consented to send you here."
"Did he know the Russians were after me, too? Did everybody know it but me?"
"You and Monkes. No, Dr. Rufus didn’t know. But he did know we didn’t want you sent here, and that has been enough for him in the past."
Delvaux’s severely pursed lips indicated more than a little displeasure with Dr. Rufus. Gideon was tempted to inquire further into the arrangement between NSD and USOC. Instead, he defended Dr. Rufus.
"He wasn’t very keen on my coming. I leaned on him pretty heavily. And I made a point of asking him not to inform you." He wasn’t altogether sure about that, but he didn’t like the idea of Dr. Rufus, who had been so reluctant about it, having difficulties on his account.
"So," Delvaux said. "Well." He placed both hands on his plump thighs. He was ready to go. The interview was over.
"Before you go," Gideon said, "there is a small matter that worries me just a little. The KGB thinks I’m some kind of super-duper agent who’s going to foil their plan to blow up the world or whatever it is. They’ve tried to kill me twice—at least, two times that we know of. It seems rather probable that those efforts will continue, doesn’t it?"
"No, you can stop worrying. They are no longer interested in you. I guarantee it."
"I value your guarantee highly, but it would certainly ease my mind if you could share with me the reason for your confidence."
Delvaux smiled. "I enjoy you, do you know? Not all Americans have so nice a way with words, even in their own language. Here is what we’ve done. In the past twelve hours, we have sent four secret messages to our agents which make it extremely clear that you are no longer involved with us in any way, and that they are neither to communicate with you nor to accept any communication from you."
"But it’s the KGB I have to worry about, isn’t it? What good does—" He stopped when Delvaux raised his hand.
"You see, the KGB works very hard at intercepting our messages, just as we do theirs. And we are well aware of certain of our own secret channels that are not quite as secret as they are supposed to be. The new directives concerning you have been routed through several of those rather leaky channels."
"But how can you be positive they’ll be picked up by the Russians? It hardly seems certain." He was beginning to understand the way John felt in their anthropological discussions. Every question he asked received an answer that left him maddeningly incredulous and thoroughly convinced at the same time.
"Oh no. We know. You see, we are rather good at intercepting their messages too. And twenty minutes before I called you this morning, I received word that the KGB has already sent out word that the… what was it? the super-duper agent?…is no longer a threat and is to be left in peace. They did not name you, of course, but there is no question that it is you. You are in no danger. Period."
Gideon’s mind was beginning to turn soggy. It seemed as if NSD had a more reliable communication interchange with the KGB than it did with its own Bureau Four. "But look," he said. "If you can send out false messages for the sole purpose of being intercepted by them, what makes you think they can’t
do the same thing? How do you know that this morning’s message about me is reliable?"
"Ah, we can be sure about that. When a message is encoded—"
This time it was Gideon who held up his hand. "Stop. I don’t want to know. I can’t process any more data. I believe you, I believe you."
Delvaux laughed softly. "That’s fine." He looked at his watch. "And now I must go. Is there anything else I can tell you?"
"Yes. Why were my socks stolen?"
"Ah, that is a funny one. We don’t have any idea. We know that Mr. Monkes was in your room several times looking for information he thought you’d stolen. But the socks, they make no sense whatever. As for as we can tell, the incident has no significance."
"Could it have been the KGB?"
"That stole your socks? Hardly. Now, if they’d been American blue jeans…"
They said good-bye at the terminal. Gideon shook hands with affection, and felt the grip returned.
"Where are you off to now?" Gideon asked.
"Now I go back to Holland, to Brunssum, to confer with Herr Embacher, the director general."
"The head of NSD? This is as important as all that?"
Delvaux shrugged expressively but did not reply.
Gideon’s mood was one of reasonable satisfaction as he watched the bus leave. Delvaux had assured him that his personal safety was no longer at risk. The fact that he had received similar assurances two weeks before was of minor concern. More importantly, his scientist’s soul was content—or nearly so; Delvaux had fitted almost all of the missing pieces into place. Only a few annoying questions remained: Who was the spy on the USOC staff? What were the Russians really up to?
And somehow most perplexing and bothersome of all in its own niggling way: Why had someone stolen three pairs of his socks?
SEVENTEEN
AS soon as he saw the figure at the top of the stairs, Gideon knew there was something odd about him. A slight, dark young man of twenty with flashing black eyes, he looked distinctly out of place in the BOQ. He was certainly no air force officer. He would have seemed more at home on the stage of a flamenco cabaret or with a sword and muleta in his hands at the Plaza Monumental. He was an American, though; Gideon’s anthropological intuition told him that. He had the graceful slouch of a New Yorker or perhaps an Angeleno; a big-city boy returned as an indifferent GI to the land of his fathers.
What caught Gideon’s attention, however, was the boy’s hesitant stealth, a furtiveness that was almost appealing in its naivete: an abrupt, startled stop when he first saw Gideon at the foot of the stairs, then a quick intake of breath for courage, and a patently feigned nonchalance as he descended. He was even whistling tunelessly as he passed Gideon at the middle of the stairway.
He was nearly past when Gideon saw what he was carrying in his hand. Gideon reached behind him and grasped the boy by the upper arm. The biceps was stringy and tough.
"I think that’s my radio you have there, isn’t it?"
"What?" said the boy. His eyes darted quickly to the side, and Gideon tightened his grip. "Hey, let go of me, man. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You don’t let go of me, I kill you!" The words were accompanied by a snarl, but the heart-pounding fear behind them was obvious: He tried to shake off Gideon’s hand, and they both bumped roughly into the wall and staggered down a couple of steps.
The orderly stationed at the reception desk, a large, powerful man with huge forearms, came to the foot of the stairs. "Hey, what’s going on?" he said.
"This kid was just walking out with my radio," Gideon said.
"Like hell," the boy said. "This is my radio, man."
"Suppose we go up to my room and see," Gideon said.
"Sir, do you want me to call the MPs?" The orderly stood in the middle of the stairwell, one gigantic hand on each bannister.
"I think that would be a good idea," said Gideon.
"No, wait, man," the boy said. "Okay, I took the radio, but… the door was open…I just saw it there…it was stupid…Hey, let me go, man. I never done anything like this before."
Gideon was sorry for the boy, hemmed in by two threatening men who towered over him, but he didn’t believe his story.
"What were you doing here?" he asked.
"I’m a courier. I was delivering a message. My name’s Manny Pino," he volunteered. "Look, man—"
"To whom?" asked Gideon.
"Huh?"
"To whom were you delivering a message?"
"Major… Major Rosen."
Gideon looked at the orderly. The man shook his crewcut head. No Major Rosen there.
"But," the boy said, "I couldn’t find him, he wasn’t here, so I—"
"Where’s the message?" said Gideon.
The boy began to cry. Gideon kept a firm grip on his arm. "Call the MPs," said Gideon.
THE military police had been able to get nothing more from Manny Pino. In the end, they had taken him away snuffling and terrified. They had also taken the radio and had told Gideon to check through his things to see if anything else was missing.
Grumbling, more annoyed than angry, he found the list of his belongings—so well-used that it was beginning to fray along the creases—and quickly checked off the items. As he had somehow expected, nothing else was missing.
He flung himself into the standard-issue green armchair and pondered. He knew why he was so irritated; he was in the dark again. Only a few hours ago, he had considered things pretty well wrapped up. Delvaux had cogently if implausibly explained away almost everything. As far as Gideon had been concerned, the case was closed; he was ready to forget the theft of the socks.
And then he had returned to his room to pack before leaving for the airport, and found everything blown wide open again. Why in the world would anyone take the trouble to break into his room to steal a $14.95 plastic portable radio? The calculator standing there in plain sight was worth five times as much. It made about as much sense as the socks.
He did, however, know a few things for certain. He knew, most comfortingly, that it was definitely not Ferretface’s doing, unless Monkes had arranged for it before he was killed; and he knew that the theft had conveniently occurred during the time Marks had ordered him to stay away from his room. That made it rather likely that whoever was behind it had access to NSD’s instructions…or was acting on NSD’s instructions.
Was it possible that Delvaux had not been leveling with him? He pondered some more, frowning blankly at the neat green lawns below.
Brunssum: BOOK 5
EIGHTEEN
BRUNSSUM, Holland, lies in the Dutch Alps, a pleasant region of low hills that serves as a vacation destination for flatlanders who cannot afford to go abroad. To the gourmets of the world, Brunssum is known, if at all, as a good place to spend the night when on pilgrimage to the Prinses Juliana Restaurant in Valkenburg a few miles away. To the military, on the other hand, Brunssum is headquarters of AFCENT, Allied Forces Central Europe, its offices situated in the deep caverns of an old mine on the edge of town.
But for those fortunate few who are both gourmets and members of the military, Brunssum holds a secret unknown to Michelin and Fodor and Arthur Frommer: the International Dining Hall in the AFCENT compound. Here is what many claim to be the finest restaurant in the Netherlands; it is indisputably the best bargain.
Hilaire Delvaux, having shown his ID and paid his $1.50 at the door, had moved through the cafeteria line and helped himself to a double portion of dilled shrimp and asparagus salad, and to consomme madrilene. From the T-shirted man behind the counter, he had ordered the hall’s renowned Friday Night Special, Beef Wellington, accompanied by fresh slivered green beans and mushrooms.
Now he sat at a marred plastic-topped table, the food in front of him. Elfin and plump, with his small feet barely touching the floor, he made an odd figure among the lean, uniformed soldiers dressed in the blues and greens and browns of seven different armies.
Delvaux had looked forward all day to the Beef Well
ington; he had more than once described it as England’s sole contribution to the world’s cuisine. Since his hot dog with Gideon that morning, he had eaten nothing, in order to conserve his appetite. But now he wasn’t hungry. The meat lay cooling on his plate, its crust slowly turning soggy.
The conference with Embacher had gone badly. The director general, never an easy man to get along with, was understandably under pressure to solve the case. He had ranted and desk-pounded even more than usual: Who was the Russians’ USOC source? Why hadn’t Delvaux been able to identify him? What was the information the Russians were trying to get out of Torrejon? Exactly what were they going to do with it? Had they or hadn’t they gotten it? What did Delvaux propose to stop them? Didn’t Delvaux understand there were only two days left before Operation Philidor, whatever in God’s name that was?
Yes, Delvaux thought, shuffling string beans with his fork, he understood very well. For all anyone knew, Operation Philidor might be a small adventuristic sortie…or it might be the start of World War III, the end of European civilization. But couldn’t Embacher grasp the kinds of problems he faced? They had doubled his staff of agents to twenty-four, but how could twenty-four men keep track of the forty-four members of the USOC staff? They couldn’t— not when one needed at least three men to keep full-time surveillance on a single person, and not when the entire staff had ID cards that would admit them to nearly any base in Europe.
Later on, a massive review of airline and customs records, and of military records as well, might turn up the source. But how much difference would it make later on? As of now, it could be any one of them. Well, not Professor Oliver and probably not Frederick Rufus. But even there, could one be sure?
He pushed himself away from the table and went to get coffee, nearly bumping absentmindedly into two kilted Scots. What he needed was a hundred men; Embacher should have brought in agents from the CIA, from MI-5. Delvaux had suggested that, and Embacher had just raved on and turned a deeper purple. The man would rather see the end of the world than lose face. That’s what came of putting political appointees in such positions. Leaving Delvaux with no coherent instructions, he had stomped from the room and run off for an airplane to take him to SHAPE headquarters in Mons.