That was excessively melodramatic, of course; but I was using a psychological approach.
He pulled the key out of his breast pocket and held it out to me. I started to reach for it, then remembered that we were separated by several feet of pincers. I pulled Jansen toward me, then dropped the pincers and took a grip on his throat “Unlock me,” I told him.
He got the handcuffs off, and then unwound the chain from around my waist. I was free. I hit Dr. Jansen behind the ear with a loop of chain, and he went down hard and didn’t move.
I stepped over Beppo and went up the staircase to the corridor. It was dark, and I couldn’t see anyone. I thought I heard footsteps to my left, so I turned right and began to run.
10
I ran down endless marble corridors, and I could hear my footsteps echo from the plaster ceilings. I passed rows of narrow medieval windows, and each of them was covered with a modern steel shutter. There were a lot of them, and I began to think I was running in circles. I had a stitch in my side and a cramp in my leg, but I kept on going. Then I found an unlocked door and I went through it into fog and salt air, and the slick round touch of cobblestones. I was outside.
I was on an insignificant street that ran alongside a stagnant canal. To my left was the mouth of a dark alley, far ahead to my right was the halo of a street light. I was lost. Although I couldn’t be more than a few blocks from San Marco and the Riva degli Schiavoni, I didn’t know in which direction they lay. I turned right and began to pursue the street light.
Venice is an extremely small city unless you want to get somewhere in a hurry. Then its dirty tangle of streets, canals and bridges clings to you like an outrageous old beggar. The city takes on insufferable airs. All of those ridiculous piazzas, small as postage stamps, yet each with five or seven threadlike streets radiating from it—and those endless calles, salizzadas, rios, fondamentas, molos—crossing and recrossing each other like courtiers in a minuet, eternally ready with the exquisite and unnecessary gesture. It is a provincial town pretending to be a metropolis; a superfluous and fantastical monument pretending to be real and necessary. … Go to Venice and look at the monuments, spend money, make love—those are its proper pursuits. But never try to save your life. The eccentric old city resents your practicality.
I passed over a humpbacked little bridge and found myself in a concrete courtyard. Gaunt houses rose on all sides with their backs turned to me. Through their blank stucco walls I could hear the sound of television. When I stopped walking, I felt someone else stop.
I moved quickly toward an alley between the buildings. Behind me I heard a sound like a heavy cough and then a sharp crack as brick dust rained on me. Someone had fired with a silenced gun and had scored the wall near my head.
I ran, crossed canals and went through more alleys, and came into a wide square dominated by a church. I thought I recognized the bulge-eyed stone monster that adorned its battlements: Santa Maria Formosa. I had gone in the wrong direction, to a section I didn’t know. Behind me was a whisper of footsteps.
I went past the church and into another knot of alleys. The stitch in my side was gone, dissolved by terror. I ran like a grass-fed stallion, and the sound of pursuing footsteps slowly diminished behind me. Agent X had done it again.
But I had congratulated myself a little too early. I cantered to the end of the alley, and had to rein short at an unjumpable stone wall. There was another wall to my left. I whinnied in dismay. Venice had sprung one of her little surprises on me.
On the right, ten or twelve feet up, I saw an ornamental iron balcony. I backed away, took a running jump like a Steeplechase winner, caught the bottom edge and pulled myself up to the rail. The balcony creaked heavily. I managed to swing one leg over the rail. In that awkward position I discovered that someone was trying to jab me in the face with a knife.
“Don’t do that,” I said.
“Get off that balcony!” she said. I caught a glimpse of black hair and a billowing bathrobe; then I was trying to ward off the knife and nearly going over the balcony backwards.
“Get off!” she screamed.
“All right,” I said bitterly. “If you’re so anxious to see me killed, I’ll get off your damned balcony.”
She stopped jabbing. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m in trouble,” I said. The girl was American, about twenty-five years old, and nice-looking. No knife-fighter, though.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Of course not,” I said. “Maybe you think I do this for my evening exercise?” She ignored my somewhat hysterical attempt at humor and asked, “What kind of trouble are you in?”
“Serious trouble. Some men are chasing me.”
“Why?”
“At the moment,” I told her, “I’m in no position to explain.”
She looked at me thoughtfully. She was not at all bad-looking. In fact, she could be sensational without the knife. At last she seemed to conclude that I was neither a murderer or a rapist, and perhaps not even a cat-burglar. That left many things I could be, but none of them too much for a Forest Hills girl to handle.
’1 don’t know,” she said. “It’s really very strange—”
“Make up your goddamned mind,” I said. “I can’t hang around here all night.”
She frowned and stuck out her lower lip. Cute. I turned my head and got ready to jump back to the street. She said, “Oh, hell, come on in.”
I climbed over the rail and walked into her apartment through the tall French windows. She followed me, tying her bathrobe more firmly and keeping the knife handy. I walked to the nearest armchair and sat down. After a while she sat down on the couch and curled her legs under her.
From the chair I could watch most of the street. No one was in sight. Perhaps I had shaken my pursuers, or perhaps they were waiting farther up the block. I lighted a cigarette and tried to think. About my future, mostly. Once again I found that I was filled with doubts concerning my aptitude for secret-service work. Somehow, I just wasn’t getting the knack of it. It seemed to me that the best thing might be to fold in my hand, check out of the game, get back to Paris. …
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to explain?”
“I can’t,” I told her. “I’m not allowed.” After I had said this, it struck me that it might well be true. But even if it wasn’t, it seemed to impress her, and it spared me a tedious and somewhat embarrassing explanation.
We exchanged vital statistics. Mavis Somers had gone to Hunter; I had gone to NYU. She lived in a walkup on East Sixty-first near Third; I was a West Villager. Both of us had been in Miami in late February of 1961. She had gone to high school in Summit, New Jersey; I was from nearby South Orange.
We talked, Mavis prepared instant coffee, and we talked some more; we exchanged many inconsequential items, out of which we constructed an invisible network of accord. I did not sweep her into my arms and feel the momentary resistance melt as her arms tightened around my neck and her proud stiff breasts pressed against my white shirt. Shucks, I didn’t even think of it. Besides, it would probably happen next time, or maybe the time after. (American men may try to sleep at once with those they like; but they tend to desist for a while with those whom they might love.)
And so the night passed, the dawn birds sang in the charcoal-gray shadows, and morning light crept over the housetops. No sinister figures lurked in the sun-cleansed alleys. I borrowed Mavis’ telephone and tried Guesci’s apartment. I was surprised when he answered.
Guesci had learned that his plan was compromised half an hour after I left, and he had gone to the Palazzo Ducale to call off the operation. He had found Karinovsky in time; but by then, I was in the torture chamber.
He and Karinovsky had made their rescue raid in commando fashion. Guesci had killed Beppo while Karinovsky guarded the corridor. They had been forced to leave me to take care of Jansen while they fought their way out of the Palazz
o. The result: a thigh wound for Guesci; a knife wound in the arm for Karinovsky.
It was all very unfortunate,” Guesci said. “Especially for Karinovsky. There is an irreversible dynamism at work in these matters; a matter of tempo. The efficiency of the hunter increases in proportion to the decline of the hunted. We must get Karinovsky out of here tonight.”
I didn’t subscribe to Guesci’s theory. I knew that Venice was simply too small for this cat-and-mouse game and that Forster had too many men out against us. But even beyond this handicap, I didn’t like the way we were rushing into bad moves. Haste makes waste. The way we were going, a hole in the shoulder today might be parlayed into a hole in the head tomorrow.
“Perhaps we should sit tight for a day or two,” I said.
“Absolutely impossible,” Guesci said. “Aside from everything else, this is the last night of the spring high tide.”
That sounded as if it should mean something. It didn’t to me. “So what?” I said.
“So we must get Karinovsky out tonight, since my plan depends on the tide.”
“That much I understood. But why does it depend on the tide?”
“There is no time to explain now,” Guesci said. “Karinovsky will give you the necessary details. You will meet him at number 32, Viale di Santazzaro, near the Piazetta dei Leoncini. Do you know where that is?”
“I can find it. But I want to know—”
“There is no time. You must be there at eight-thirty tonight. No sooner or later.”
“What if I’m followed?”
“The plan takes that possibility into account,” Guesci said.
“I’m very glad to hear it,” I told him. “What does the plan suggest that I do about it?”
“You must be very careful, of course. I can’t over-stress that. Forster’s reputation is at stake in this; perhaps even his personal safety, considering the nature of his employers. I strongly recommend that you avoid lonely places. Forster may not be desperate enough to assassinate you in public, although we cannot discount the possibility. Beyond that, I think that the choice of specific courses of action might be most profitably left to your personal judgment.”
“Thanks, coach. And where’ll you be while I’m choosing my specific courses of action?”
“Waiting for you on the mainland, near Mazzorbo. Karinovsky knows the place. I had planned to accompany you on the escape route, but my leg would only be a hindrance.”
I felt ashamed of myself for asking. Hurriedly I said, “How bad is Karinovsky’s arm?”
“Bad enough. It gives him considerable pain. But he has a truly fine stamina and determination. Also he has great faith in you, Mr. Nye. I hope you can bring him through.”
’1 hope so, too,” I muttered.
“Now I had better arrange for my own departure,” Guesci said. “Good luck!”
He hung up. I did the same, and realized I had forgotten to resign. Typical of me, Anyhow, I couldn’t run out with the boys in their present shot-up state. That kind of cowardice takes more courage than I possess.
Mavis said, “My God, you really are in trouble.”
I nodded morosely.
“Can’t you get out of it?”
“It’ll be all over in another day,” I assured her. And so it would, one way or the other.
We arranged to meet in Paris in a week. She kissed me and told me that I was an imbecile and made me promise to take care of myself. Then I kissed her, and so forth, and Agent X came near to retiring from the Organization, effective immediately. But Mavis spotted a man lounging not far from the building, and I recognized Carlo’s sharp features. It was time for Pepe Le Moko to flee once more over the rooftops of the Casbah.
11
I left by a convenient back alley, eluding Carlo without difficulty. It was late morning, and I had considerable time to kill. I took a gondola to the Rialto Bridge and had coffee near the telegraph office. Then I walked around for a while, and then bought a ticket for the afternoon performance at the Teatro Fenice. I slumbered through Aïda, left at four-thirty and went for a drink. By five o’clock all was still well. I began to experience a considerable uplift of spirits. This gave me an appetite for the first time in two days, so I went to Leonardi’s and gorged on pasta and soup and shrimps Veneta. I paid my bill at six-fifteen and started to leave.
Someone was smiling at me from a table near the door. I smiled back automatically, and then saw that it was none other than Forster. He had just finished his dinner, too. I began to experience a considerable downpress of spirits.
“Mr. Nye,” he said, “may I speak with you for a moment?”
“What do you want?” I asked, keeping my distance.
“Really,” Forster said, “I won’t bite. Do you expect me to machine-gun you here in the restaurant?”
“A silenced pistol would be better,” I suggested.
“No, no, not here,” Forster said. “Not in Leonardi’s.” He grinned at me, determined to exercise his whimsy. “This particular place serves the finest scampi in Venice, and therefore has been declared an inviolate sanctuary by all the secret services. Except for the Albanians, of course, who don’t count. But an Albanian would never be allowed in here anyhow.”
“Nice to hear the local rules,” I said, taking a chair.
“We try to keep up appearances. A glass of wine?”
“No, thank you.”
“You are cautious about the wrong things,” Forster said.
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Your departure.”
“Am I going somewhere?”
Forster took a long envelope out of his pocket and put it on the table. “Inside this you will find the sum of five thousand American dollars. Also a ticket on Alitalia flight 307 to Paris. Your seat is reserved, and the plane leaves in approximately one hour.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said, not touching the envelope.
“I enjoy doing favors,” Forster said. “It is a part of my nature. Besides, you will be doing something for me in return. You will tell us where to find Karinovsky, and also save us the trouble of killing you.”
“Five thousand isn’t much for all that,” I said.
“I consider it more than generous. Your departure really isn’t worth any more to me.”
“Then I think I’'ll stay, if it’s all the same to you.”
Forster frowned and said, “No, it is not all the same to me. Obviously, it would be convenient if you gave me the information and left. But it would not be a serious hindrance if you didn’t. Your influence in this case has become negligible, Mr. Nye.”
“Five thousand dollars worth of negligible,” I commented.
“Surely you realize that the money is merely a courtesy, a gift to sweeten the taste of defeat. You and I are professionals, we can look at these things honestly. We know that a war consists of many battles; the wise soldier retreats without shame when the odds become too great. We adhere to the logic of the situation rather than the emotion of the moment. Above all, we can face the facts.”
“What do you consider the facts?”
Forster took a sip of wine. “Your position has been untenable from the very beginning. We have known all along who you were, whom you worked with, and what your objective was. We have detained you twice in 24 hours, without the slightest difficulty. We know that you are still determined to get Karinovsky out of Venice, and that you will probably make a major attempt tonight. And we know that you haven’t got the slightest chance of success.”
“Bleak outlook,” I said.
“It gets bleaker.”
“Go on.”
Forster leaned forward earnestly. “Nye, we could have killed you at any time since you came to Venice. The fact that we didn’t was solely due to a conflict between Security and Counterespionage. From the viewpoint of Security, you should have been taken out of the game as soon as you were identified. Counterespionage, on the other hand, wanted to let you run as long as po
ssible, in the expectation of following you to Karinovsky. Previously, the requirements of Counterespionage have prevailed.”
“And now?”
“Now it is time to close the case. Other matters require our attention; we can’t tie up our forces indefinitely while you hurry around Venice. We insist upon knowing where Karinovsky is. We will find him whether you tell us or not. Your refusal to talk now will make matters only slightly more difficult for us, but infinitely more difficult and painful for you. We will get the truth out of you anyhow. But the only reward for stubbornness will be a quick death. What do you say?”
Forster held the envelope out to me, and I felt shaken because he really expected me to take it, and my refusal seemed naive and suicidal. But I stood up and shook my head.
“Very well, Mr. Nye,” Forster said. “Since you refuse the pleasant, civilized way, we are forced to use the unpleasant, uncivilized way. We will ask you about Karinovsky again very soon; but next time we will ask with more firmness.”
And that was that. I left the restaurant. Outside, the sun was going down.”
12
I told myself that I was in a very serious situation. But I found it difficult to believe. There was a warm sunset glow on the old buildings. The canals sparkled a brilliant blue and brown. A thousand people pushed past me along the narrow streets. An unshaven man tried to sell me a toy gondola while real gondolas glided past. There was a smell of roasting coffee in the air. The sunlight, the crowds, the narrow protective streets, the gleaming water, all conspired to lull me into a dangerous sense of security.
I walked for a while, then caught a vaporetto near the Teatro Malibran. It was as crowded as a New York subway at rush hour. I was able to hang on to a pole in the center of the boat.
A squat workman clung to the pole beneath my left arm. Directly facing me, almost embracing me, was an attractive blonde girl in a green sweater, carrying an art portfolio. We bumped and recoiled and stared vacantly over each other’s left shoulder.
The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage Page 5