by Trevanian
“Oh, bullshit!”
“OK. I told you I was in trouble. Explaining will deepen my trouble. And it might give you some. I’m mixed up with some nasty people, and they’ll do old Jonathan in, unless he can get into The Cloisters and accomplish something for them.”
“And you came here to cash in old debts of friendship.”
“Yes.”
“Dirty bastard.”
“Yes.”
She stood up and wiped the haze off a pane of the window, and for a while she stared out past the garden and rain to the dull brick facades across the street. She ran her fingers through her cropped hair and tugged hard at a handful. Then she turned to him. “Now I insist you have a drink with me.”
“Done.”
She poured out a good tot of Laphroaig and passed him the glass. Then she perched herself up on the wide windowsill and spoke while looking out on the rain, squinting one eye against the smoke that curled up from the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. “I’d better tell you first off that you’re in more trouble than you know. I mean . . . Jon, I don’t know how much pressure these people can bring to bear on you to force you to try to get into The Cloisters, but it better be pretty big league. Because The Cloisters people are maximal bad asses. They could kill you, Jon. Honest to God.”
“I know.”
“Do you? I wonder. You remember reading about this Parnell-Greene? The one in the tower of St. Martin’s? The Cloisters people did that. And think of how they did it, Jon. That wasn’t just a killing. That was an advertisement. A warning in good ol’ Chicago gangland style.”
“I’ve been filled in on Maximilian Strange’s response to intruders.”
She drew a very long oral breath. “Maximilian Strange. Jon, you’re in worse trouble than I thought. I wish I could tell you. But if I did, I’d run a fair risk of being killed. I know that I’ve often described my life as a pile of shit.” She smiled wanly. “But it’s the only pile of shit I’ve got.”
Jonathan leaned forward and took her hand. “Van, I’m very sorry you’re in this thing at all. I’m not asking you to get me into The Cloisters yourself, because I know they could trace it back to you. Just put me onto someone who can. You know it’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.”
She stood and set her glass aside. “Let me think about it while I make us a pot of tea. We’ll drink tea and watch the rain.”
“Sounds fine. I’d like that.”
As he glanced over the titles of some of her books, she made tea in the kitchen, talking to him all the while in a heightened voice. “You know, scruffy and middle class though it is, I really love this house, Jonathan. I bought it, and fixed it up, and painted it, and swore at the plumbing—all by myself. And I love it. Especially at night when I’m working by the window and I can watch nameless people shuffle by in the rain. Or on days like this, drinking tea.”
“It’s a great place, Van.”
“Yeah. You’re about the only person from the old New York bunch who would understand that. The little row house, the antimacassars, the mauve hydrangeas—all pretty far from the image I used to cut.”
“True. Even the other evening at Tomlinson’s you were still playing it for superbutch.”
“I know it’s silly. I just feel impelled to be the first to say it. You know what I mean?”
“I know.”
“What?”
“I know!”
“Still. This is the real me. Little lady peeking through lace curtains. Cup of tea in hand. Brilliant statement taking form on my typewriter. Gas fire hissing in hearth. Christ, I’ll be glad when I get so old I’m never horny. Being on the hunt makes you act such a fool.” She came in with a small pot under a cozy, and two Spode cups, and pulled her chair up close to his and poured. “I used to fear the thought of becoming an ugly old woman. But now that I’m there, I can tell you this: It beats hell out of being an ugly young girl.”
Jonathan raised his cup. “Cheers.”
“Cheers, Jon.”
They drank in silence as the rain stiffened against the window.
“Grace,” she said at last.
“Madam?”
“The person who can get you into The Cloisters. A really beautiful black woman who owns a club in Chelsea. She’s very close to Strange.”
“Her name is Grace?”
“Yes. Amazing Grace. Kind of a stage name, I suppose. A nom de guerre. Her club is superposh with expensive drinks and cute little black hookers with tiny waists and fine wide asses. But she’s the real attraction herself.”
“Beautiful?”
“Oh, Christ, yes!”
“Amazing Grace. Great name.”
“Great chick. Her place is called the Cellar d’Or. It doesn’t open until midnight.”
Jonathan finished his tea and put down the cup. “I better get a lot of sleep before I go over there. It may be a long night.”
Vanessa walked him to the door. “Listen, old friend and aging stud, you’ll take real care of yourself, won’t you?”
“I will. Now, let’s think about you. Is there somewhere you could go for a few days? Somewhere well away from here?”
“I see your point. There’s a woman I know in Devon. She writes mysteries.”
“And she lives in a cottage, keeps a Siamese cat, and drinks red wine.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“No, I don’t know her, Van. It’s just that people love to play out their stereotypes.”
“Even you?”
“Probably. But it’s hard to recognize. I’m a typical example of a species of which there is only one living specimen.”
“Blowhard bastard.”
“Right family, but what’s the genus?”
“Wiseass?”
“I didn’t know you were up on animal taxonomy. But seriously, Van. You will get out of town, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will.”
“This afternoon?”
“I have a little work to do. I’ll get through it as soon as I can.”
“Make sure you do.”
She smiled. “For a cold-blooded bastard, you’re not a bad guy. Come, give us a big hug.”
They embraced firmly.
Halfway down the walk, he stopped to smell the wet hydrangeas again. “I’ve got a problem,” he told Vanessa, who was leaning against the bright green door, the Gauloise dangling from her lips. “I can’t remember what bathing caps smell like.”
“Like hydrangeas,” Van said.
Back in the gaudy Baker Street flat, he stretched full length on the bed he and Maggie had used a few days before. Beyond the windows, a cold wet evening had already descended, and he lay in the growing gloom, alone and unmoving, putting himself together for whatever lay ahead at the Cellar d’Or.
Amazing Grace. Outlandish name, but somehow consonant with this whole bizarre business. This was not at all like his sanction experiences with CII. Those had been simple mechanical affairs. He had taken an assignment only when he really needed the money, and had gone to Berne or Montreal or Rome, met a Search agent who had already done all the background work, and received the complete tout on the target: his habits, the layout of his home or office, his daily routine. And after working it out, he had walked in, performed the sanction, and walked away. They were never real people, only faceless beings, most of them examples of the humanoid fungus that populates the world of espionage—scabs and pus pots the world was better rid of.
And there had been very little personal danger for him. He traveled freely under his professional role of art historian. He had no motive, no personal relation to the target. He didn’t even have fingerprints. CII had seen to that. When he became a sanction active, his fingerprints disappeared from all government, police, and army files.
But this Loo business was different. He hated this job, and he was afraid of it. He had quit working for Search and Sanction because his nerves had become frayed, and because his tolerance for working with well-meaning patriotic monsters had worn t
hin. And now he was older, and the task was more complicated. And there was Maggie to look after. The ingredients of disaster.
Shit!
But they had him. Loo and that damned vicar had him against the wall. And he wasn’t going to prison for murder, even if it meant killing a dozen Maximilian Stranges.
He ran a shallow meditation unit and got some rest that way, slightly under the surface of the still pond he projected on the back of his eyelids.
He snapped out of it. It was time to call Sir Wilfred Pyles.
“Don’t speak,” Sir Wilfred said directly they were connected. “Fifteen minutes. This number.” He gave Jonathan a number, then hung up.
During the fifteen minutes before he dialed, Jonathan sat hunched over the instrument, realizing that something had tumbled. Sir Wilfred obviously couldn’t use his own phone for fear of a tap and he had doubtless moved to a public phone to await the call.
The phone was picked up on the first ring. “Jon?”
“Yes.”
“I assume you have the picture?”
“Yes.”
“Rather like old times, eh?”
“I’m afraid so. I take it something tumbled.”
“Indeed it did! You’re into something very hot, Jon. I rang up an old chum in MI–5 and asked him to run a little check for me. They often do it for old boys who want to sort out a business acquaintance, or a call girl. He said he’d be delighted to. It seemed a piece of cake. But when I mentioned the name of your Maximilian Strange, he froze up and asked me to hold the line. Next thing you know, one of those intense young spy wallahs was talking to me, demanding to know details. Well, I fobbed him off as best I could, but I’m sure he saw right through me.”
“So you weren’t able to find out anything.”
“Well, nothing directly. But their reactions speak volumes. If that constitutionally lethargic lot in MI–5 were stirred to action by the mere mention of your fellow’s name, he must be top drawer. You haven’t gotten to Bormann by any chance?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“I’m afraid I’ve done you a disservice, Jon. MI–5 is onto you.”
“You told them my name?”
“Of course. Surely you haven’t forgotten the code of our line of work: every man for himself.”
“And fuck the hindmost.”
“You must be thinking of the Greek secret service. Well, tchüss, Jon.”
“Ciao, buddy.”
Jonathan raked his fingers through his hair, and took several deep oral breaths before lying back on the bed.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
He lay there for hours, forcing himself to doze occasionally. Eventually, he swung out of bed and prowled around the house for something to eat. He was not really hungry; he had taken care of that before coming up to his flat, eating a large meal of slow-burning protein; treating his body, as he used to in his mountain-climbing days, as a machine requiring the right fuel, the proper amount of rest, the correct exercise. He had eaten correctly. If there was any action tonight, it would come between midnight and three o’clock. The protein would be in mid-burn by then, and he would have consumed two or three drinks—just the right amount of fast-burning alcohol.
A goddamn machine!
It was only to fill the time and distract his mind that he looked around for food. As usual, wherever he lived, the only food in the place was a chaotic tesserae of exotic bits. He had always had a fascination for rare foods, and he enjoyed wandering about in the gourmet sections of large department stores, picking up whatever struck his fancy. His search of the kitchen produced a small jar of macadamia nuts, a tin of truffles in brine, preserved ginger, and a half bottle of Greek raisin wine. He ate the lot.
As he wandered through his flat, turning off lights behind him, it occurred to him to check the guns he had asked Yank to stash for him. His directions for concealment had been followed exactly. He took one out and examined it. The bulky blue steel .45 revolver felt heavy and cold in his hand as he snapped out the cylinder and checked the load. The slugs were scooped and a deep cross had been cut into the head of each. No range. No accuracy to speak of. The bullet would begin to tumble five yards from the barrel. But when it hit, it would splat as wide and thin as a piece of tinfoil, and a nick in the forearm would slam the victim down as though he had been struck by a train. Good professional job of dumdumming.
He considered taking one of the guns with him to Chelsea. Then he decided against it. It was impossible to conceal a howitzer like this, and a pat down would tip him before he had come within striking distance of The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange. He’d just have to be careful.
He flicked the cylinder back and replaced the gun.
The phone rang.
“What’s up, Doc?”
“Why are you calling, Yank?”
“Oh, I got a couple of things up my sleeve. My arm, for one. No laugh? Oh, well. Then tell me this: How did things go with Miss Dyke?”
“I had a pleasant visit.”
“And?”
“And I got a possible lead to The Cloisters.”
“Oh? What was it?”
“I’ll tell you about it if it works out.”
“No, you’d better tell me about it now. The Vicar wants to know what you’re up to at every moment. He wouldn’t want to have to start back at square one if something were to happen to you. Or if you were to do something foolish.”
“Like?”
“Like try to run off. Or sell out. Or something like that. Not that I really think you would. Having met the Vicar, I think you have a pretty good idea of what he would do to anyone who tried to do the dirty on him.”
“Ship me off to the Feeding Station?” Jonathan brought that up on purpose.
After a swallow: “Something like that. So tell me. What is your lead to The Cloisters?”
“A woman named Grace. Amazing Grace. She runs a place called the Cellar d’Or. Mean anything to you?”
“Are you sure it’s a woman?”
“What do you mean?”
“Amazing Grace is a hymn, after all. Get it?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
“Sorry. No, I never heard of the woman. But I’ll check through the Loo files for you. Anything else?”
“Yes. Do you have a tail on me?”
“Pardon?”
“A man’s been following me all day. Out to Vanessa’s and back. Is he one of yours?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Medium build, blue raincoat, one hundred and sixty pounds, glasses, left-handed, rubbers over his shoes. He’s probably standing down in the street right now, wondering how to appear to be reading his newspaper in the dark. If he’s not yours, he’s MI–5 ’s. Too fucking amateur to be anything else.”
“How could he be MI–5? They’re not in on this.”
“They are now. I made a mistake.”
“The Vicar’s not going to like that.”
“Hard shit. Can you get in contact with MI–5 and pull this guy off? There are probably three of them, the other two out on the flanks. That’s normal shadow procedure for your people.”
“It could be they’re only trying to help.”
“Help from MI–5 is like military advice from the Egyptian army. If you don’t get rid of them, I’ll do it myself, and that will hurt them. I don’t want them blowing my scant cover. Remember, I’m the only man you’ve got in the game.”
“Not quite. We’ve managed to situate Miss Coyne.”
“Oh?”
Yank was instantly aware that he had breached security. “More about that later, when we get together with the Vicar for a final briefing. Meanwhile, good hunting tonight. See you in the funny papers.”
Jonathan hung up and crossed to the window to look down on the man who had followed him from Vanessa’s. Christ, he was getting sick of British espionage. Sick of this whole thing. He indulged his anger for a while, then brought it under control by taking shallow breath
s. Calm. Calm. You make mistakes when you’re angry. Calm.
Chelsea
As Jonathan stepped from the Underground train at Sloane Square, he was still being followed by the fool in the blue raincoat who had been with him since Vanessa’s. Presumably, Yank had not been able to get through to MI–5 and give them the word to discontinue surveillance. Jonathan decided to let him hover out there on his flank. At least he could keep an eye on him until the time came to shake him off, should the shadowing seem to endanger his cover.
Halfway up the tiled exit tunnel he passed an American girl sitting on a parka. Flotsam of the flower tide. She abused a cheap guitar and whined a Guthrie lament, having chosen a spot where the echo would enrich her thin voice with bathroom resonances and allow her to slide off miscalculated notes under the cover of reverberation. She was barefoot, and there was a large rip in the stomach of her tugged and shapeless khaki sweater. The surface of the parka was salted with small coins to invite passersby to contribute to maintenance.
Jonathan dropped no coin, nor did the man following in the blue raincoat.
Once away from the square, he closed into himself as he walked along seeking the address Vanessa had given him. He had no desire to come into contact with the jostling crowds of street people. It had been fifteen years since last he had been in Chelsea. In those days, a few of the young people who chatted in pubs or made single cups of cappuccino last two hours eventually went home to paint or write. But not these youngsters. They neither produced nor supported. Chelsea had always been self-consciously artsy, but now it had become younger, less attractive, more American. Head shops crowded up against the Safeway, and jeans were to be had in a thousand varieties. Discotheques. Whiskey a go-gos. Boutiques with scented candles and merchandise of green stamp quality. Shops vied for obscure names. Tall girls with hunched shoulders clopped along the pavement, and peacock boys swaggered in flared suits of plum velvet, cuffs flapping with dysfunctional bells. Rancorous music bled from doorways. People in satchel-assed jeans stared sullenly at him, an obvious representative of “the establishment,” that despised class that oppressed them and paid their doles.
He had hoped the young would spare Chelsea the humiliation they had inflicted on San Francisco, Greenwich Village, the Left Bank. And he was angry that they had not.