Snark

by William L. DeAndrea

  “Who needs proof? You know the English papers. Sir Lewis is missing, the murders are happening, they’ll love it. And they’ll dig. And they won’t stop.”

  The Congressman just grunted. He spat again into the Channel. He turned to his son and asked him again what he intended to do about it.

  “I think I’m going to arrange the meet.”

  The Congressman looked grim. “I suppose there’s no help for it. It could be a trap. Calvin doesn’t care for you any better than you do for him.”

  “It could be a trap,” Bellman conceded. “But we do know the Russians have been after him.”

  “They’ve been after you, too,”

  “But I’m only supposed to be their enemy, right? Calvin in their eyes is a traitor—he messed up the Cronus project. He’s got no choice—he has to go somewhere. And who else has the muscle to save him from the Russians?”

  “I taught you from the beginning never to let the other side call the shots, son.”

  Bellman smiled. “They won’t, Congressman. At least not all of them.”

  The old man listened while his son told him what he had in mind. After a while, despite wind, cold, and the relentless motion of the waves, the Congressman was smiling, too.

  2

  SIR LEWIS STOOD QUIETLY under the bus shelter across Putney Hill from the big old house and watched the lights in Felicity Grace’s windows. The drizzle had stopped, but a cold, wet wind was blowing off the Thames, and it was nice to have the protection of the glass panels and metal roof. Every few seconds he glanced farther up the hill to see if a bus was coming. He had no intention of taking it, and would move to another vantage point as soon as he saw one. The last thing he needed was for some nosy Parker of a driver to remember the strange old man who scorned the bus on a cold night.

  Cold and uncomfortable as it was, Sir Lewis’s vigil had already paid off. An hour or so ago, the American, Bellman, had turned up carrying a bag of food. He hadn’t emerged, and Sir Lewis was sure he was in for the night. Sir Lewis would have given a lot to know where the young man had been all day, but he was happy enough to know where he’d be when Celeber’s men turned up tomorrow morning.

  Sir Lewis was amazed at how long it had taken him to think of going to Celeber. Not the man himself, of course—Sir Lewis had had no idea of his existence before he’d found the name in the classified directory earlier today—but some other private detective. Once he’d decided that the American was the best possibility to lead him back to this Leo, to this other American who’d made such a mess of things, the idea of a private detective fairly shrieked out.

  But Sir Lewis hadn’t heard. He’d let the events of the past year alienate him, turn him into a rogue animal, unused to the idea of friends or helpers. He’d been lying on his bed in the cloth room late this morning when it occurred to him that friends and helpers needn’t be the same people. He had plenty of money; he could hire help.

  It had to be done carefully, of course. Carefully at every step. For instance, it made him decide, once and for all, what the plan was to be. He had to take his chances with the American. He could hardly walk into the office of a private detective and offer to pay him to shadow the Agricultural Attaché to the Embassy of the Soviet Union every time he stepped out of Number 18 Kensington Palace Gardens. At least he couldn’t do it without causing ripples that would bring attention to him. Sir Lewis wanted attention, and fully intended to get it. But not quite yet.

  It was important, too, for Sir Lewis to pick the right detective. Securicor, or one of the other big agencies, would be out of the question. They’d request too much information, and they might be tempted to check it. And they had too many official friends with whom they would want to maintain the proper relationship. Not that they would ever violate the legitimate interests of a client—it was a matter of what one meant by “legitimate.” No, the big security companies would be too damned ethical to suit Sir Lewis’s present requirements.

  On the other hand, he needed an outfit large enough to maintain a twenty-four-hour daily surveillance until further notice, and competent enough to keep their operations secret, even from a fellow professional.

  Celeber Security was the fifth place Sir Lewis had tried, and he had known as soon as he’d walked in the door of Hugh Celeber’s office that it was the right place.

  It was Celeber’s eyes that had told him. Sir Lewis had prepared for his little shopping expedition (in another piece of careful planning) by adopting a new disguise. He walked in wearing a beard, spectacles, wig, homburg, gloves, overcoat, and scarf. He also carried a stick. He looked like a rich London Jew circa 1915; he looked like a man wearing the most blatant disguise imaginable. It was bait.

  And what it was designed to catch was the look in the detective’s eyes. He saw through the disguise immediately—no one was trying to fool anyone on that issue—but he said nothing except “Good afternoon,” and “How may I help you, sir.”

  Sir Lewis begun to tell Celeber the story he’d prepared. Sir Lewis gave him the name “George Smith,” the verbal equivalent of his disguise. He said that wasn’t his real name.

  Celeber was a deceptively young-looking man, tall and lanky, with an innocent face, guileless brown eyes, and a suit and a head of hair in matching shades of beige. “Your real name will be on your check, Mr. Smith,” he said. His voice was respectful, and boasted a studied lack of regional or class accent.

  “There will be no check,” Mr. Smith had said. “Cash. In advance. I shall phone you daily for reports—you will tell me when you require more money, and a messenger will bring it. Here is two thousand pounds for a retainer.”

  There was a flash of something in the guileless eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

  “There is a young woman,” Sir Lewis began.

  Celeber nodded. It gladdened Sir Lewis’s heart. He knew his lie would go over—it was common enough, and unsavory enough that anyone with a normally soiled mind would believe it.

  “There is a young woman,” Sir Lewis said again. “My interest in her is known to no one, but it is considerable. And it is backed by a serious financial commitment.”

  Celeber nodded again. His face was impassive, but the phrase “dirty old man” was so strong in his thoughts Sir Lewis could almost hear it.

  “This young woman was recently injured in an accident. Nasty business. Lost an eye.”

  “That is nasty,” Celeber conceded.

  “That bit’s even nastier. She was with a man at the time. A young man. An American named Bellman. She says it’s innocent. Someone she knows from work. Maybe so. I want to be sure.”

  “A perfectly reasonable attitude,” the detective assured him. “What is it exactly you’d like me to do?”

  “She’s home from hospital now. Watch her flat. I’ll give you her address—place in Putney. I’ll get you a description of this Bellman character as well. Watch her place. If Bellman shows up, follow him when he leaves. I don’t care where he goes. If he wants the woman, fine, but I suspect he’s playing up to her to get at my interests, and I won’t have it. I want to know where he goes, whom he sees, whom he talks to. I’ll pay what it costs, but I’ll want my money’s worth.”

  “I think we can make each other happy, Mr. Smith,” Celeber said.

  And so it was arranged. Celeber would call in operatives and brief them and have them on the job by 0700 this morning. Mr. Smith would ring every evening at half past seven for his report. And, though no specific words were spoken, Mr. Smith was given to understand that it was the policy of Celeber Security that the client be exclusively the beneficiary of their investigations, never the subject.

  That suited Sir Lewis Alfot fine.

  Sir Lewis looked to his left up the hill. High headlights and the double row of wide, lighted windows told him a bus was coming. He left the shelter of the bus stop, pulled his head down into his scarf, and headed up the hill to the corner, where he could watch Felicity’s window (the lights were still on, though it wa
s well past midnight) from the cover of a privet hedge. He was grateful for the protection from the cold offered by Mr. Smith’s beard.

  Sir Lewis reflected, not without pride, that he was getting a feel for functioning under the new rules he faced. In the old days, he could have ordered wiretaps and surveillance on Felicity, the Russians, and the American, with resources limited only by his own discretion.

  Still, he’d had done all right. One night of discomfort, then he could retire to his hotel room once more while Celeber and his men kept track of Bellman for him. With luck, it could lead him back to Leo, which was where, in all the world, he most wanted to be. They could do the work—he would be working on backup plans. A good agent always had backup plans.

  The bus was gone, but Sir Lewis decided to wait awhile before returning to the shelter. He looked up again at Felicity’s windows. He wondered how she thought of him now.

  He wished he knew what was going on up there.

  3

  WHAT WAS GOING ON UP there was an argument.

  No, Felicity thought, not an argument. It takes two to argue. What we have here is me making a fool of myself in the presence of a man. Something, she reminded herself, she had made a solemn vow never to do.

  Something she couldn’t stop doing, either.

  “Can’t you see how dangerous this is?” she demanded.

  “It’s dangerous,” Jeffrey conceded.

  “You can’t take all this on yourself,” she insisted. “You need support. You need backup. Tell Mr. Tipton.”

  “I intend to. As soon as everything is set.”

  “But you’ve already told Bulanin!”

  “Not me personally. I sent him the message through a double agent he trusts. He’ll check it out—and he’ll learn the time and place of the meet, of course, if he isn’t in on it in the first place—and he’ll find out the information is accurate.”

  He came over and sat next to her on the sofa. “Look, Felicity, I’ll go through it all again. Either Bulanin is in on this little ploy of Calvin’s or he isn’t. If he is, we let him think none of us suspects him. If he isn’t, we get him involved, get him thinking what we might do, what Calvin might do. What kind of publicity might come out of this.”

  Felicity put her hand to the side of her head. Under the bandage, the empty eye socket itched as though it would drive her mad. “Do you understand all this yourself?” she asked wearily.

  “I’d better. I’m not having much luck making you understand it.” He smiled briefly. “I’ll quote the Congressman. ‘Best thing to do with a potential arsonist is set fire to him.’”

  “Fight fire with fire,” Felicity said. “I’ve heard it.”

  “That’s it. From Bulanin’s point of view the worst thing that could happen would be for Leo Calvin to start telling us everything he knows. It could destroy him, and all his work. Bulanin is the type to care a lot about his work. He’ll take steps to protect it. We watch what he does, and we learn something. The worst that could happen is that our double agent gets his reputation enhanced. When are you going to be able to make love again?”

  Felicity closed her eye and shook her head. It had been a wretched day, big things and little things. Jeffrey had been gone, of course, off to France to do the marketing and whatever other mission he’d set for himself. He had moved in with her, but that didn’t mean he would tell her any more than he wanted to.

  Despite that, it had been unsettling not to have him around. He was very solicitous, and he had a way of talking that kept her mind off the obscene hole that had once provided her with half her information about the world. She shuddered and felt ill every time she thought of it, every time she pictured herself with the biro sticking out of her eye.

  But it was fitting, in a way, too. Since Derek had died, Felicity had felt diminished, incomplete. She felt about two ounces less than a whole woman. The lost eyeball was a perfect physical representation of that fact.

  And leaving everything emotional aside, it was just a bloody nuisance. She had no depth perception—the world was as flat as a cinema screen. The doctors had warned her to expect it, told her that in time her brain would adjust and she’d hardly remember the difference, but that was no help when she’d pour tea all over the table. It was heaven to be allowed (with proper precautions) to wash her hair at last but she seemed to knock over the shampoo in the bath every time she reached for it.

  And of course, the world of objects had chosen this time to revolt. The drain in the tub had backed up. She hadn’t trusted herself to use lye to fix it—probably would have spilled it all over her wet skin and burned herself horribly! Jeffrey had taken care of it when he returned. He cleaned the whole place while he was at it, scrubbing, mopping, using traditional British thick bleach to clean the WC. He laughed at Felicity’s injunction to him not to mix them. He told her he’d studied basic chemistry a long time ago.

  One thing he couldn’t fix was the telly, which had also decided to go haywire. The picture was washed out in a blaze of brightness. That, Jeffrey couldn’t fix, though he did diagnose the problem as a burnt-out resistor. To her surprise, he suggested she forgot having the regular man round, and rang Dave Hamilton instead.

  Ordinarily, Felicity would have let it go for days or even weeks—she didn’t share the national preoccupation with the box (only the Americans watched more), but since the incident in Brighton she had been obsessed with seeing things. Motion. Color. Form.

  Then the special light had flashed on the telephone. Jeffrey had installed it to signal when one of his informant’s calls was being forwarded from the number he had given them to ring to this one. Jeffrey had picked up the phone, listened for a few seconds, said good, and then rung off.

  Felicity, without really thinking, had asked him what it was all about.

  And he told her. He was making sure the Russians knew exactly what he was planning. That news had outraged all her professional instincts, and had started the nonargument, during which Jeffrey agreed with all her objections, but changed his mind not a bit.

  And finally, this. He wanted, he said, to make love to her. Was it pity? Or was he one of those sick bastards who enjoyed doing it with mutilated women? No, she told herself, he was a good commander, concerned about her morale. The way, for example, Sir Lewis Alfot had always been.

  “It will be some time,” she said, “before I’m ready even to think about sex again.”

  “Anytime you’re ready,” Bellman said. “I’ll be available.” He spoke softly, but Felicity heard him. She went off to the bedroom while Jeffrey took a shakedown on the couch.

  She thought about him for a long time before she went to sleep.

  4

  LEO CALVIN WAS BEGINNING to believe in the brain drain.

  In America he had worked with British men and women, and had been impressed with their quality. English, Scottish, Welsh, and especially Northern Irish, they tended to be intelligent, cool in a crisis, ruthless enough for any purpose, and (rare, for Leo’s usual line of work) they even seemed to have a sense of humor.

  That was in America. Now that he was here, all his effort and most of the money he had left had gone to secure the services of Stan Hope and a man who admitted to no other name that Grunter Martin.

  They were not, in Leo’s expert opinion, terrorists. They had no political leanings, not even an understanding of the causes they had ostensibly enlisted in. They were in it for the money, but they weren’t mercenaries, at least not in the professional fighting man, dogs-of-war sense.

  What they were was hoodlums. If it weren’t for the coal strike, Leo would never have heard of them, and that would have suited him fine. Beggars, however, could not be choosers, and Leo needed help.

  Specifically, he needed Stan Hope. Hope had been out of place along the violent fringes of the coal strike. Not because of the violence. There were numerous tarts, gambling debtors, and people late with interest payments who could testify that Stan could be, when the spirit was on him, an artist of
violence, a sculptor who carried a slim, sharp engraving tool in the same pocket as he kept his gold cigarette case and lighter. It wasn’t the violence; it was the fact that if there was one thing not at issue in the recent dispute, it was that digging coal was hard work. Stan

  Hope would always look out of place around anything that even hinted at hard work.

  Stan was willing to listen to Leo’s offer because Leo was the one who’d thought of the best way to make use of him during the strike. That was to send him around to wives of working miners. Let him talk to them. Let him make the veiled (or unveiled) threats about violence to their husbands, violence or worse to themselves or their children. There was a greasy elegance about the man, with his slick black hair, wavy red lips, and wide white smile, that made a threat from him terrifyingly credible.

  Leo was sure it was a class thing. He had no idea what Stan Hope’s antecedents might be, but he looked and acted like an aristocrat gone horribly wrong. Unlike the miners, or the hoodlums who might be miners (Grunter Martin, for example), the recipient of a threat from Hope could make no cultural connection, appeal to no kind of shared interest. Stan Hope would smile, and threaten anything. And he would do anything, and still smile.

  Leo’s idea had made a useful man of Stan Hope, and that had earned him a lot of money. He was ready for some more. Leo knew the signs. The expensive scent masked the smell of a body that hadn’t been bathed in quite a few days. Stan Hope was living in a place with a shilling meter, too. The shirt was custom-made, but it was soiled and beginning to fray. Twice he had seen Stan go for the gold cigarette case, something the chain-smoking Mr. Hope normally did every five to seven minutes. Each time, Stan had caught himself, and had instead drawn a crumpled pack of Benson & Hedges from the side pocket of his leather-patched tweed jacket.

  Leo was glad to see it. That had to mean the gold case was in a pawn shop. He mentally reduced the offer he was about to make. He would give Stan Hope no more than necessary. Leo loathed Stan Hope. But Stan was the only man he knew smart enough to keep quiet, and (if he were well paid) dependable enough to do what was required of him.