by Greenberg
“Who runs the outfit?”
“The firm’s director is Herr Doktor Franz Staub. We suspect he’s sympathetic with the East and that, at very least, the secret laboratory has his tacit approval. But he’s small fry. The laboratory’s director is much more important. His name is Yonov.” Wilburforce glanced across the spotless linen, pointedly. “Dr. Genther Yonov.”
An ugly memory ticked in Nick’s mind. “I saw a dossier a year ago. The Athens thing. Something he’d sold. A compound. They had a code name for him.”
Wilburforce nodded. “Yes, Dr. Sweetkill.”
A long silence. The shadow of Wilburforce’s head loomed malignantly on the wall.
“Dr. Sweetkill, the seller-to-all,” he said at length. “Pacific yet ghastly death available on the open market. Almost uniformly, he seems to sell to the East. A filthy man. We understand Yonov has delivered to the East the formula for a new, quite deadly nerve gas code labeled Pax 11-A.”
Nick lighted one of his cigarettes that cost twice as much as the ordinary kind. “And I’m supposed to do the old formula-stealing bit?”
“Already done,” Wilburforce replied. “By our lads in the East. The mechanics needn’t concern you. We have Pax 11-A, right enough. But now we have another signal from Top Planning. The Yonov gas and germ factory is to be destroyed. Blown up, obliterated. This will represent a considerable setback for the other side. Years, perhaps. And you, dear Nicky, win the choice assignment. You are to penetrate the basic research laboratory within the Chemotex headquarters, and finish it off.”
Slowly, Nick blew out smoke.
“How do I get in? Knock politely?”
Once again Nick found himself amazed by the thoroughness of Wilburforce’s preparations. Despite being a bastard, the man was good. There would be a six-week training period in England. During that time Nick would be melded into the personality of Nicholas Lamont of Ridgefield, New Jersey, a young man with an impeccable record in international sales for a leading U.S. chemical firm. No relation to the American football player who enjoyed some vogue a few years ago, et cetera. N. Lamont had been hired by a man in the U.S. who was on the payrolls of both Wilburforce and Chemotex. N. Lamont would work for Chemotex in its legitimate international sales operation, and would, on a date not far away, travel to Munich to take over his new post. He would be trained by Chemotex, at factory sales training sessions.
“We have the papers, we have the photos, we have everything but the man,” Wilburforce said. “We even have your wife for you.”
One of Nick’s black eyebrows hooked up. “Wife?”
“Chemotex Worldwide treats its new employees rather royally. She will be traveling with you, all expenses paid. She’s one of ours, of course. And she will not be with you,” Wilburforce added rather nastily, “to gratify your sexual appetites. She will be there to aid and assist you in handling the necessary details. A man could do it alone, but a wife provides a better cover for a man your age. How you get out of the factory after you set the explosives – indeed, how you even get in to set them at all – is your affair.” Wilburforce leaned forward. “Do you still want the little task, Nicky?”
Nick was cold in his mid-section. He tried to check his temper. “You hope I do.”
“I hope you do. You’re a smart, cheeky so-and-so. Lots of flash and brag. And there’s Tenderly. He was one of my best. A lifelong friend. I hope you want it.”
In the private, protected, sealed and guarded dining room, all Nick Lamont could think about was a ridiculous stack of unpaid bills. For his guilt there was no specific symbol. It was only a feeling, heavy on his mind, never concrete except in dreams.
“I want it,” Nick said. “And I’ll come back in one piece.”
Wilburforce dabbed his lips with a napkin. “That’s doubtful. But I’m delighted you accepted all the same.”
2
Six weeks later, on another of those dim, wet London afternoons, Nick Lamont met his bogus wife at the airfield. He had seen photos of her while he was in training. A round-hipped, slim-waisted, high-breasted girl with a pretty, though not beautiful, face. She had been trained separately. Once Nick inquired pointedly about this unusual procedure. Wilburforce fobbed him off with a reply that made no sense: the less dillydallying between the two of them while in training, the better they’d learn their lessons.
She wore a lavender suit, a small, wifely hat, and very little makeup. Her diamond rings sparkled. She had a crisp, athletic stride, a pink mouth that suggested passion.
“Hello, Nicky darling,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“Hello, Anne.” His smile was easy. “Couldn’t we have a more wifely greeting?”
“I think not.” She said it low, but with a perfect smile. Something in her eyes bothered him. It was something hard and direct, which made him stop paying attention to the rather choice way her firm, high breasts thrust out.
He’d looked forward to this part of the trip even if the rest of the excursion promised to be grim. She was a damn fine-looking girl. He’d hoped they might act husband and wife in more than name. Now he was doubtful.
“I’ve checked my luggage aboard,” the girl told him. “Including the cameras.”
In the noisy, aseptic terminal, Nick chilled again. The cameras were the explosives.
They strolled toward the boarding area. “You don’t seem overjoyed to see me,” Nick said.
“Didn’t Wilburforce tell you my real name?”
“No, just Anne Lamont.”
“It’s Tenderly.” She paused, faced him. She stared directly into his eyes. “Charity Tenderly. I know what happened in Gib. He was my uncle, you see. We were both in the trade. I know his death was technically an accident. So I’ll do my utmost to see that this job is a smasher.” Her smile was bright and hollow. “I do want to make sure you succeed, you know.”
Through the terminal came the mechanized scream of a BOAC jet taking off. Charity Tenderly – he was going to have a hell of a time thinking of her as Anne Lamont – walked a few steps ahead of him. She smiled again over her shoulder, as if beckoning for him to hurry. There was a red fury in Nick for a moment, which he quickly quelled. Then came a vast, fatalistic depression.
In the assignment of this girl to be his partner he sensed the hand of Wilburforce at work.
Destroy the factory.
And himself.
3
Below, the picture-book prettiness of a Germany that looked unreal and untroubled gradually came up to meet them. They would land in Munich shortly. Nick tried to open the conversation again, meeting the difficult subject square on:
“Look, I know I’ve got a reputation for a temper but – ”
The hostess was passing in the aisle. For her benefit, Charity interrupted, “Why, darling, I’ve grown used to your temper in all the years we’ve been married.”
Nick’s fingers closed on her wrist. “Don’t play smart games. What happened was – ”
“Final.” She said it looking him straight in the eye. “A bullet. My uncle. But it’s over. We don’t want to be harping on it, not on airliners, not anywhere.”
Nick momentarily forgot caution. “Why the hell did you come on this trip?”
Charity Tenderly grew quite serious. All malice was gone. “Because this kind of career – your career – is important to me. I do what I do – well, darling, not for cash, that’s for certain.”
“Then it’s going to be all business?”
“Let’s not argue, shall we? We’ll be forced to stay in the same room. But there will be separate beds.”
Nick scowled. The seat belt sign came on. Charity Tenderly said nothing more, only stared thoughtfully out the aircraft window.
A small reception and dinner party was scheduled for them at the colorful but rather touristy inn located in the tiny village not far from Munich. They had reached the inn via a limousine waiting at the airport courtesy of the Chemotex management. The Chemotex works itself was several kilometers from the c
ity, and one kilometer past the village inn.
At the inn that evening, Nick and Charity dined by candlelight in company with Herr Doktor Franz Staub and several other executives of the firm.
The dinner was excellent. Nick avoided wine, concentrated on dark beer and told a great many American jokes. Dr. Staub, an ascetic figure in a narrowly cut suit and small, gold-rimmed glasses, dry-washed his hands and nodded, pretending to understand the humor. Charity was seated between two of the sales executives who directed the European operation. She acted properly wifelike.
They were seated in a private dining room with a glass wall which overlooked the winding inn driveway. Shortly after the dinner began, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes arrived. Its occupant came in to join the group. She was tall, rather shapely, wearing a billowy out-of-season print dress and a large picture hat. Nick, a shade fuzzy with beer, was introduced.
“Permit me to present Fraulein Judith Yonov,” said Dr. Staub.
Nick took the woman’s hand briefly. Under the shadowy hat, her eyes were luminous, challenging. They were dark brown above a strong nose and full, brightly made-up lips. He judged her to be about 30. She had large breasts, a low voice, pale cheeks. She seemed to wear a great deal of makeup. She did not remove her hat, even though the private dining room was dim.
“This is the young salesman from America?” Judith Yonov said in lightly accented English. “How pleasant.”
“Your father,” Nick began. “I’ve heard the name. Research director, isn’t he?”
“Yes. I am most regretful that he could not be here to share the occasion. But his projects – and Herr Doktor Staub’s insistence on Chemotex competing vigorously in the world market – keep him laboring late many nights, I’m afraid.”
Up his backbone Nick felt another oppressive crawling sensation. The daughter of Dr. Sweetkill. She reeked of Chanel. There was something eerie about her.
“I’ve heard among the competition in the States,” Nick said, still trying to sound off-hand, “that your father has led Chemotex into some interesting basic research areas. I’d like to know more about that, Fraulein Yonov.”
Was he pushing too hard? Across the table Charity’s glance was a brief flicker of warning. Dr. Staub clinked his spoon against his demitasse, laughed politely.
“Ah, my dear young Herr Lamont. How fascinated you Americans are with all things new! Actually, the nature of our basic research program is a rather closely guarded secret. If I may put it as tactfully as possible, I am afraid that new employees are not permitted access to that area of our operations. At least not immediately. Indeed, we must insist upon heavy security to protect our patents and processes, as well as work in progress. In any case I’m certain you will be kept quite busy learning our current commercial line, and selling that in the U.S. markets.”
Judith Yonov pushed one of the candle holders slightly to the side, in order to get an unobstructed look at Nick.
“Perhaps, Herr Doktor,” she said, “if Herr Lamont is truly interested in product development – and he is one of the family now, so to speak – ” There was a pause. “Perhaps I might talk with father and we might arrange a tour.”
“The rules forbid – ” Staub began.
“We shall see,” Judith Yonov interrupted. Staub flushed, silent.
The smoke from his cigarette burned Nick’s throat. It was plain to see who in the group had the clout. But he hadn’t liked the shrewd, luminous glare of those eyes from beneath the big hat. He wished her face were not so heavily shadowed. The party was spoiled. He was sitting across the table from the daughter of a mass murderer. A concertina played a bright air in another room.
Had Wilburforce triple-crossed him? Was he somehow part of a game, the rules of which were known to every damn one of them except himself?
Or had there been a leak during preparations?
Judith Yonov had been baiting him.
Or had she?
Did she know?
Presently, as dusk fell over the spectacular scenery outside, the party broke up. Nick would report to the Chemotex works tomorrow to begin training, Dr. Staub said. Pleasantries were exchanged all around. The sliding doors of the private chamber were rolled back. Judith Yonov excused herself and disappeared, presumably into a powder room.
Charity – he could not think of her as Anne, though he had no difficulty calling her that in public – was still chattering brightly with several of the executives. Nick discovered he was out of cigarettes. He left the room to buy some.
Going through the door into the inn lobby, he noticed a big, thick-shouldered man with a shaven head and a splayed nose. The man was emerging from the main tap room. He wore a dark uniform and highly polished boots. He had several inches on Nick, who was by no means small, at just over six feet.
The man walked unsteadily. He halted and blinked toward the party breaking up. He had a chauffeur’s cap clutched in one hand. His eyes were small, and he reeked of beer.
Nick crossed the lobby, purchased his cigarettes and was just turning round when he heard a quick, brittle exclamation of alarm. He knew the voice. Charity!
He whipped around fast. Several of the executives had gone to fetch their homburgs from the check rack. Charity had apparently walked into the lobby to wait for Nick. The big chauffeur had stumbled against her, because he was standing so close to her now, an idiot’s smile on his lips.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Charity said.
“Nein.” The heavy man stroked her forearm. “American lady, ja? Very pretty. Looks pretty, feels pretty – ”
Charity glanced past him, and her eyes for once were something other than cold. The man had her cornered. Nick crossed to her quickly, touched the man’s shoulder.
“Beg pardon, but she’s not for handling.”
“Don’t put hands on Rathke.” The big man slobbered it, scowling.
“I’ll put hands on anybody I damn please. Get away.”
“Very pretty, very nice,” the man called Rathke said, squeezing Charity’s wrist. The girl made a face. That was all it took for the Lamont temper to crack.
His mouth wrenched as he punched Rathke hard twice in the belly. Rathke stumbled back, more surprised than injured. Nick’s arm ached. His knuckles hurt. Several of the executives began to jabber. Staub bore down on them.
Thoroughly drunk and raging because of it, Rathke planted his big boots wide and swung a huge, flailing punch. It caught Nick’s chin, spun him just enough to unbalance him and set off the red fury in him in earnest.
He went in fast. For a second or so, Rathke punished Nick’s belly with big, brutal hands. Then Nick got through the man’s guard, counter-attacking the beefy German face with four fast, vicious punches. One of them slammed Rathke against the wall, brought a dribble of blood and a wild bellow of rage out of his mouth. Rathke lunged for Nick’s throat. In between the men there was a swirl of print fabric.
Judith Yonov spoke curtly in German, ordering Rathke to control himself. Rathke lowered his hands. He swiped his mouth with his uniform sleeve.
Nick was waiting. His tie was askew and he was breathing hard. But he was pleased, because he’d caught a glimpse of Charity’s face.
She was irritated. He interpreted this to mean she was secretly pleased.
“Rathke, nein!” Judith Yonov exclaimed as the chauffeur made up his mind, and shoved past her. Nick’s head ached. Afterward he wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but he believed Judith Yonov reached into her handbag, then touched her hand to the bare flesh of Rathke’s left fist.
The man stopped. He blinked again. He took one more faltering step. With an audible swallow, he put on his cap.
The chauffeur stood docile. Blood made a thin red tracery down from the corner of his mouth.
“I do extend my deepest apologies for my chauffeur’s behavior, Herr Lamont,” Judith Yonov said. “He is under strict orders not to touch alcohol in any form. But I cannot watch him constantly.”
Now
the executives pressed close, apologizing in turn. In a moment Judith Yonov and Rathke had gone. But not before Rathke glanced back once, and gave a black scowl before sinking back into placid-featured obedience.
Nick guessed that Rathke had been subdued by some sort of needle-prick. A Dr. Sweetkill special? Very likely. What a nice poison-flower Fraulein Yonov turned out to be.
As the party at last ended for good, Nick Lamont quietly cursed himself for the burst of temper. He might have handled it another way, though he couldn’t think of a good one offhand. As he shook hands with Herr Doktor Staub and the others one by one, he noticed Charity watching him again. Not quite with approval, but without animosity.
That was worth it, he decided – that single look. Worth it even if Rathke did remember, caused more trouble and – God forbid – endangered the mission.
Charity said nothing about the incident as they went upstairs, however, and they slept in separate beds.
4
Two evenings later, Nick got a measure of satisfaction when Charity did at last mention the fight. Earlier they’d driven into Munich in a sea-blue Volkswagen which the factory had provided for the length of Nick’s training session. After a good deal of beer, a sumptuous meal and some reasonably friendly if inane talk, they returned to the inn around midnight.
Nick flopped down on his twin bed. Charity stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. He lay sprawled, his hard chest speckled with cigarette ash as he squinted through the smoke at the black beams of the high-ceilinged room. In his mind he went over what he’d learned about Chemotex in his two days of attending classes.