Under the Freeze

by George Bartram

  “Thank you.” Tarp signed the old-fashioned book. “No luggage and no money this trip.”

  “No problem, Mr. Tarp. Clothes?”

  “Please.”

  Only minutes after he was shown to a small bedroom on the fourth floor, another man in a dark suit appeared with a garment bag. In it were a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers that Tarp had left there some years before, along with a turtleneck shirt and a pair of old but still serviceable Cordovan shoes. A discreet cardboard box held new underwear, toothbrush, and shaving kit. In the lining of the jacket was a hundred-dollar bill and the key to a safe-deposit box in a nearby bank.

  “All I’ve got is Argentine pesos,” Tarp said.

  “Fifty thousand a hundred and Five to one, sir.”

  “Street price?”

  The man laughed. “On Argentine pesos, there isn’t a street price.” Tarp gave him a quarter million.

  He put the clothes away, dropped on the bed, and was instantly asleep. Hours later he awoke as suddenly. He lay still, taking inventory. He remembered it all — the attack, the injections, the airfield. The fear. He had a lump on his head and a brutal headache.

  He lay in hot water up to his chin and tried to smooth over the torn places in his mind. He was badly hurt there, not in the way the body is hurt, but with guilt and the knowledge that he had almost been killed because he had been careless. It was humiliating. He lay in the tub until the water was cold, trying to come to terms with it. The best he could do was that he had blundered but that it was still recoverable. Whatever he had gone to Argentina to do, he had botched it, and he was lucky to be alive — and he was alive only because a completely unexpected force had intervened.

  Kinsella. He had not told Kinsella that he was going to Schneider’s, but he had told Grice, the fat English newsman. Grice worked for Kinsella; that makes sense. Kinsella had saved his backside, then had turned him over to somebody who had told him to stay out of Argentina and who had then shipped him home. That says Argentine air force. Permission to land at Orlando; some sort of routine mission, with U.S. knowledge. Returning damaged goods. They had dumped him without hurting him, meaning that they had known he was American and had assumed he was working for the U.S. Meaning that they did not know about Repin and Havana, perhaps did not know about Maxudov and the plutonium. Good guys or bad guys?

  Tarp surged out of the cold water and stalked to the telephone. Water turned to dark stains on the New Monroe’s carpeting. He ignored it, ignored his own shivering, dialed a number in Virginia.

  “Three nine seven five,” a male voice said.

  “This is Mr. Black. Tell Mr. Green I want to see him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As soon as possible. Call me at the service number and have them relay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He toweled himself dry with a towel as thick as the carpet and rubbed his skin to a bright pink. It was getting dark outside now. He saw himself in the window, draped in the towel as in a toga: straight ahead were the stark branches of the trees, silhouetted against a cold sky; below, as if part of another world, was the White House, lighted, its windows cheerful and bright and probably ready for an evening reception.

  There was a robe in the closet, courtesy of the hotel. He put it on, went again to the telephone.

  “Front.”

  “It’s Mr. Tarp. Can I get some food?”

  “Of course, sir. You’re a vegetarian, I believe.”

  “Right.”

  “Let me have a word with the kitchen.”

  They sent up two poached eggs on a bed of lightly cooked spinach, a cold smoked trout, a huge dish of fresh fruits, and a plate of cheeses. He limited himself to a single glass of clean-tasting white wine — one of four that were sent along — and ate his way through the eggs, the trout, a salad, three fruits, and two cheeses. Then he sipped French coffee and waited.

  At seven the telephone rang.

  “Yes.”

  “Unarmed services here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Green will be at Mr. White’s and will meet you in the square at plus three.”

  “Thank you.”

  He put on the comfortable old clothes and went downstairs. As he passed through the small lobby, he recognized a heavy-set, tall man by the desk. Not too long before, he had been the president of the United States. Their eyes met and politely disengaged. At the New Monroe, most people wanted to be unrecognized.

  The duty man at the front door held out an umbrella. “Started to rain, sir.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” He paused, one hand on the umbrella shaft, ready to open it. “I’m not here, if anybody asks.”

  “Okay, glad you told me. A nightcap when you come in?”

  “That would be nice. Yes, thanks.”

  He walked to a bench in Lafayette Square and stood behind it next to the thick bole of a tree, where the glow of the streetlight did not fall on him. It was raining but rather warm. Cars hissed by on the shining pavement, but the little park was deserted. Tarp waited silently, motionless, trying not to think of the shame that troubled him like an ache.

  At two minutes before eight, a squat figure appeared from Pennsylvania Avenue and walked slowly along one of the sidewalks. The man was wearing a dark overcoat and a hat and carried a folded and now sodden newspaper under his arm. He looked as if he earned some terrible sadness, perhaps because he was wearing thin-soled evening shoes that were useless in the inescapable puddles. When he passed near a light, the white shirtfront and black bow tie of evening dress appeared.

  “Hello, Hacker,” Tarp said when the man came near.

  The man raised his head to look at him under the brim of the hat. He had bags and jowls, and his little eyes looked angry. “You bastard,” he said.

  “Let’s walk.”

  “Do you know who I was having dinner with? Do you know what it’s like to have to excuse yourself between the drinks and the first course to the president of the United States?” He had a Georgia accent that got thicker when he was angry.

  “He probably thought you were coming out to meet your Moscow contact.”

  “You bastard.”

  “The president knows all about you, Hacker. Come on, let’s walk.”

  “What the hell you get me out here on a night like this for?” Hacker turned up his coat collar.

  “Two Agency men tried to interfere in my business. That sounds like your work.”

  “I don’t know a thing about that stuff.”

  “Two Agency men leased a boat in Florida and followed me around the Gulf. Why?” When Hacker said nothing, Tarp prodded him with his left elbow. “Answer me, Hacker.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about it, you hear?”

  “Hacker.” Tarp stopped. He held the umbrella high enough so that he could look into the other man’s eyes. Rain cascaded off it onto the other’s hat, then off the hat brim onto his shoulders and his nose and his shoes. “Hacker, when you decided to take Moscow’s money so your wife could live in that big house in Potomac, you gave up your claim to being treated like a human being. When I turned you and made you a triple agent, you at least got yourself back on the side of the angels. I can still blow your situation any time you stop cooperating. Now, why did you put your people on me, Hacker?”

  Hacker hunkered down into his raincoat. “You don’t need to talk so high and mighty about Moscow money. I guess you know what Moscow money is, all right, all right. We got word you was havin’ a ron-day-voo out in the Gulf with a certain representative of a certain security service that happens to have its headquarters in Moscow, U.S.S.R.”

  “What rendezvous?”

  “That bigwig you met up with.”

  “Who said?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.” Hacker seemed pleased. “You know you’d better. Who said?”

  They started walking again. Hacker moved closer and put one hand on the umbrella handle. “Moscow,” he whispered.

  “Who in Moscow?”
>
  “Aw, shit.” The plump man looked around as if they were in a crowd. “The usual.” His voice was almost inaudible. “Your usual officer?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Who’s at the top of your pipeline?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Tarp looked down at him, seeing only wet hat brim. “What rank are you now in the KGB, Hacker — a captain?”

  “Like hell! I’m a lieutenant-colonel!”

  “And you don’t know who’s at the top of your pipeline? Tell me another.”

  “Aw, shit. It’s Galusha.”

  A lieutenant-colonel in the KGB and a section head at the Agency, Tarp thought. Not bad for a Georgia boy. “All right,” he said aloud, “I want the word to go back to Galusha that there was no rendezvous so far as your people could find out. Got it?”

  “Shit.”

  “And I want my boat back.”

  “You’re a complete prick, you know that?”

  “Yes.” They crossed a street and headed back toward the square. “I want my boat back. No strings. Same condition I left it in. Any damage, I’ll come to you personally.”

  Hacker sighed deeply again. “Okay. Christ, you shot one of my best men.”

  Ignoring him, Tarp said, “Next, I want the digest of atomic materials for the Southern Hemisphere for the last twenty-four months. I’ll give you a code; you can pipe it into my data bank.”

  “What?”

  “I also want satellite coverage of atomic installations in the Southern Hemisphere for the same period.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Sure you can. Remember that you’re a traitor. Traitors are very resourceful people. Think how smart you must be, working for both Washington and Moscow.”

  Hacker said nothing while they took several steps. He was breathing heavily, and he stopped and looked down into a puddle that was too wide to step across. “I live for the day when I will have your ass,” he said in a strangled voice.

  Tarp walked away, leaving the useful traitor in the rain.

  There were fresh flowers in his room at the New Monroe and a little Fire was burning in the fireplace, above which an Adam mantel gave grace and dignity to the little space. The New Monroe was not an inexpensive hotel. Far from it. It offered rare amenities, however. For people who spent part of their lives in very uncomfortable pursuits, it was a respite, and it had the unique virtue among hotels of offering an absolute guarantee against bugs of any kind.

  There was a short bookshelf with a wide range of reading material. Tarp was trying to decide between Little Dorrit and the latest Jane’s Fighting Ships when there was a knock at his door. He opened it to see a tray with a bottle of Laphroaig and two glasses, and, behind it, the man he had seen earlier in the lobby.

  “You ordered a nightcap, I think.”

  It was not often that room service was performed by a former president, even at the New Monroe. Tarp stepped back; the man came in, moving with a westerner’s rolling stride and the sort of boyish grin and haircut that Europeans thought of as typically American. “Mind if I join you?” he said, looking around for a place to set the tray down.

  Chapter 15

  Tarp was wary. “My pleasure, sir,” he said, not very pleasantly.

  The former president put the tray down and touched the top of the bottle. “Your brand, isn’t it?”

  “It is, indeed.”

  “They said at the desk it was.” He was wearing a cardigan sweater and leather slippers, and he stood in front of the fire looking relaxed and taking up a lot of space. “My name is Smith.” Being called Smith amused him a lot, the joke being that his name was something else, that both his name and his face were so famous that calling him Smith had a profound silliness to it.

  “Mine is Tarp.”

  “I know.” He looked behind him so he could lower himself into an armchair, and when he was comfortable he said, “You pour,” like a man accustomed to giving orders. He watched Tarp open the bottle. “I’ve been across the street,” he said. “Visiting the present occupant.” That seemed to amuse him, too.

  “There is a formal dinner, I think,” Tarp said.

  “Well, I was the hors d’oeuvre. I didn’t stay for the meal.” He accepted a glass, sniffed it, made a face that suggested that Laphroaig’s smoky glory was a little stronger than he was accustomed to. Tarp sat down on the other side of the fire.

  They took a sip in silence. “Mr. Smith” put his slippers toward the fire. “Fire feels good.” He sipped again, seemingly absorbed in reverie. Abruptly, however, he said, “We’re worried. Damned worried. I guess you know who we are.” He jerked his head. “The present occupant and me. And some others. We’re worried about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Now look, Tarp …” A sudden toughness showed behind the aged boyishness. He had been a good politician, meaning that he had been cruel and opportunistic and perhaps unfair at times; the potential for that showed now. “They want me to talk to you.”

  “Is this official?”

  “Of course not. Some things can’t be said officially. But they can be said by somebody like me. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. Now, look: We think you’re in a pretty big business. We — they — think it’s very big.”

  “What business is that, sir?”

  The former president held the whiskey glass between his hands and rolled it back and forth a little before giving Tarp a long look that was meant to seem straightforward. “Cards on the table, okay? We know that KGB Central is in an uproar. We knew it before you got involved. It looks like the cow-flop’s going to hit the fan unless somebody pulls it out for them — and somebody is you. Right? Well, am I right?”

  “That seems to be the idea.”

  “Okay. Now.” He bent forward. “It’s okay with us. Understand? I was told to bring that message across the street. It’s okay with us. Let me tell you why.” He swirled his glass. “How about a splash more of that stuff. It kind of grows on you.” As Tarp was busy with the bottle, “Mr. Smith” settled back and said almost dreamily, “It’d be tempting to let the Soviets kill each other off. Most of all the KGB. That’s what the British are going to do, in fact. But it’s a very tricky time. Hell of a tricky time, with the arms negotiations, and a new ball game with Andropov in the driver’s seat. There’s this feeling that we could do a lot worse than Andropov — you follow? I mean, we may be able to deal with Andropov.”

  Tarp finished pouring and handed over the glass. “Don’t count on it.”

  “So we don’t want him to feel threatened. And we don’t want him to spend all his time putting fingers in the dike. We don’t want a potentially embarrassing KGB problem to blow up in his face. So we’re willing that they put their own house in order as quickly as possible.”

  “With my help.”

  “If need be, yes.” He cleared his throat. “The only trouble is, uh …”

  “The only trouble is, what if Andropov himself is the rotten apple in the KGB barrel.”

  “That’s about it. That’s just the question we’re asking. What if it’s Andropov himself?”

  “Well?”

  “Well, then …” The former president sipped his Scotch, looked into the glass, smiled, looked at the fire. “Then you’ll have to promise to do nothing.”

  “Swallow it?”

  “Not get him into trouble. Uh, that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t report it over here. In the right quarters.”

  So you could blackmail him. Nice. “And if it isn’t Andropov?”

  “Well, of course it won’t be. I mean, we don’t believe it will be. But just in case, you know what to do.”

  “And if it isn’t Andropov?”

  “Well, then use your own judgment. We’d like to ask a favor, however.”

  “Sir?”

  “We want you to give us the name before you tell the Russians.”

  A gust of wind rattled the window, like a reminder of the co
ld darkness outside. The former president was sincere, Tarp believed — a decent man, as that expression was used nowadays. Tarp was not much taken with decent thoughts that night, however; instead, he was thinking of the indecencies of the agent. They have somebody in the KGB top brass, and they want to cover his backside. Tarp studied the friendly, decent face opposite him. They’re afraid I’ll turn up their man, of course. Because he could be their man and a bad apple at the same time. He thought of Hacker, and what a slimy specimen Hacker was; he imagined Washington’s KGB probe as the same type, motivated not at all by belief, but by greed. “What if I find out it’s the wrong man?” he said.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Don’t you, sir? What if I find the bad guy and he’s somebody your people don’t want blown to Moscow?”

  “Kind of fishing, aren’t you?”

  “I think it would be a little dangerous, Mr. Smith, if I found that the man Moscow is looking for is Washington’s man in place.” Tarp nudged a fallen log with his toe. “There I’d be, you see, a man with information that neither side would like him to have.” He looked calmly at the other man. “I wouldn’t like to be the victim of an unfortunate accident or an unexpected heart attack, Mr. Smith.”

  “We don’t do things like that,” the other man growled. “Yes we do.”

  “Now, look here —”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Smith, but I know the business. I know how things are done.” Tarp stood up and went to the window, to stand there with his hands shoved into his pockets and his forehead pressed against the cold glass. Something reminded him of Juana; he could not see the connection. “Tell them that whatever I find will be put where it will be made public if anything happens to me. Tell them I keep my bargains, and I’ve made a contract with a Soviet. I’ll keep it, or I’ll give the job up. Tell them that I won’t protect Andropov or anybody else, because that wasn’t in my deal.”