by Len Deighton
'You could just make that flight where they serve free champagne in tourist,' I suggested.
'You really in Wall Street? Or are they patching this to some number in Langley, Virginia?' He gave a little chuckle.
'What's on your mind, Gerry?'
'Listen! I wanted to avoid Mann. It's you I want to talk to. Spare me thirty minutes over a cream-cheese sandwich. You know the Cookery? — University Plaza? Say one o'clock? Don't tell Mann — just you alone.'
He had chosen a restaurant about as close to the C.I.A. safe house in Washington Square as it was possible to get. It could have been just a coincidence — the Cookery was one of my favourite haunts, and Gerry Hart might well know that — but I had a feeling that he was trying to cut me down to size before hitting me with his proposition. 'O.K.,' I said.
'I wear a moustache nowadays. Will you be able to recognize me?' he said. 'I'll be reading today's New York Times: 'You mean with two peep-holes cut in the front page?'
'Just make sure you don't bring Captain America with you,' said Hart and rang off.
Gerry Hart pinched his trousers at the knees, so that he wasn't putting any strain on his twelve-ounce wool-and-mohair suit. That done, he eased his shirt sleeves far enough to reveal his cufflinks, but not so far that his black-faced Pulsar wrist-watch was hidden. The file said he was an authority on New Orleans jazz. 'Can't be all bad,' Mann had remarked at the time.
'I'm in politics now,' Hart said. 'Did you know that?'
'I thought perhaps you were playing the horses.'
'You always had a great sense of humour.' He smiled for just a fraction of a second. 'I'm not so touchy as I used to be in the old days,' he said. He fingered his new moustache self-consciously. I noticed the manicured fingernails. He'd come a long way from that nervous, opinionated State Department clerk that I remembered from our first meeting.
The drinks came. I put extra Tabasco into my Bloody Mary and then offered the same to Gerry. He shook his head. 'Plain tomato juice doesn't need flavouring,' he said primly. 'And I'm certainly surprised you need it with all that vodka.'
'My analyst says it's a subconscious desire to wash my mouth out with disinfectant.'
Hart nodded. 'Well, you have a lot of politician in you,' he said.
'You mean I approach every problem with an open mouth,' I said. I drank quite a lot of my Bloody Mary. 'Yes, well, if I decide to run, I'll come and talk to you.'
I knew it would be foolish to upset Hart before I knew what was in his mind. His file said he was a 31-year-old lawyer from Connecticut. I regarded him as one of the first of that growing army of young men who had used a few years' service in the C.I.A. as a stepping-stone to other ambitions, as at one tune the British middle classes had used the Brigade of Guards.
Hart was short and saturnine, a handsome man with curly hair and the sort of dark circles under deep-set eyes that made you think he was sleepy. But Gerry Hart was a tough kid who didn't smoke and didn't drink, and if he was sleepy it was only because he stayed up late at night rewriting the inaugural address he'd deliver to Congress on the day he became President.
Hart sipped a little of his tomato juice, and wiped his mouth carefully before speaking. 'I handle more top-secret material now than I did when I was working for the company — would you believe that?'
'Yes,' I said. Gerry Hart liked to refer to the C.I.A. as 'the company' to emphasize that he had been on the inside. His file didn't mention service in the C.I.A. but that didn't mean a thing.
'Did you ever hear of the 1924 Society?' he asked me.
'I'd rather hear about it from you,' I said.
'Right,' said Hart.
The waitress came to the table with the menus. 'Don't go away,' he told her. He ran his eye quickly down the list. 'Club sandwich," mixed salad with French dressing, regular coffee, and I'll take the check. O.K?'
'Yes, sir,' said the waitress.
'The same,' I said. That made Gerry Hart feel very secure, and I wanted him to feel very secure.
The waitress closed her pad and took the menus from us. She came back with our order almost immediately. Hart smiled at her.
'We have penetrated the 1924 Society. That's why we can do it,' Gerry Hart explained when she had gone.
'What's inside a club sandwich?' I said. 'Do what?'
'Bring Mrs Bekuv here.'
'Is it like a triple-deck sandwich?'
'Bring Mrs Bekuv out of the U.S.S.R., officially or unofficially.'
'How?'
'What do you care how?'
I took the top off my sandwich and examined the filling. 'We don't have club sandwiches in England,' I explained.
'Even Greenwood hasn't been told that this is a C.I.A. operation,' Hart said. 'Sure, we'll try to get Bekuv's wife by asking the Russians through the Senate Scientific Development sub-committee but if they won't play, we'll make it work some other way.'
'Wait a minute,' I said. 'What is this C.I.A. operation you're talking about?'
'The 1924 Society.'
'I don't even know what the 1924 Society is,' I said truthfully.
Hart smiled. 'In 1924 Mars came very close to Earth. Scientists said maybe Mars would try to communicate with Earth. It caused no end of a ruckus in the scientific press, and then the newspapers joined in the speculation. Even the U.S. Army and Navy ordered all their radio stations to reduce signals traffic and listen for extra-terrestrial messages. The 1924 Society was formed that year. Twelve eminent scientists decided to pool information about communications from outer space, and plan ways of sending messages back.'
'And it's still going strong, is it?'
'Now there are twenty-seven members — only three of them founder members — but a lot of people take it seriously. In 1965, when three Russian astronomers picked up radio waves on a hundred-day cycle from quasar C.T.A. - I02, the 1924 Society were considering the report even before the Soviet Academy got the news, and before the Kremlin ordered them to retract.'
'And the C.I.A. has penetrated the 1924 Society?'
'How do you think we got the first indication that Bekuv was ready to defect?'
I polished my spectacles — people tell me I do that when I'm nervous — and gave the lenses undue care and attention. I needed a little time to look at Gerry Hart and decide that a man I'd always thought of as blowing the tuba was writing the orchestrations.
Gerry Hart said, 'This is a big operation, make no mistake. Bekuv is only a tiny part of it but we'll get Mrs Bekuv here if that's what you want.'
'But?'
He stabbed a fork into his sandwich and cut a small triangle of it ready to eat. 'But you'll have to prevent Mann from putting his stubby peasant fingers into the 1924 Society. His abrasive personality would really have them all running for dear life, just at a time when we've got it ticking along nicely.' He changed the fork over to his other hand and fed himself some sandwich.
I picked my sandwich up in my fist, and didn't reply until I had a big mouthful to talk round.
'You've been frank with me, Gerry,' I said, 'and I'll be frank with you. You think we are worrying ourselves sick about getting Mrs Bekuv here? I'll tell you, we don't give a damn where she is. Sure we have made the right sort of noises and let Bekuv think we are pushing hard on his behalf, but we prefer things the way they are.'
'You can't be serious,' said Hart.
'Never been more serious in my life, old pal.'
'I wish someone had told us this before,' he said irritably. 'We have spent a lot of money on this one already.'
'On what?'
'We've paid some money to a couple of Russian airline people… we have organized travel papers for Mrs Bekuv. There was talk of getting her here by Saturday week.'
'This is a good sandwich, Gerry. They call this a club sandwich, do they? I must remember that.'
'Is your pal Major Mickey Mouse really planning to tear the 1924 Society apart?'
'You know what he's like,' I said.
Gerry Hart forked throug
h his salad to find the last pieces of cucumber. He dipped them into the salt and ate them before pushing the rest of the salad away. He wiped his mouth on his napkin. 'No one would believe that I was trying to help you guys,' he said. 'No one would believe that I was trying to solve one of your biggest headaches and trying to stop you giving me one.'
'Are you serious about being able to get Mrs Bekuv here… getting her here by next week, I mean?'
Hart brightened a little. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and got out a tiny chamois purse. He opened it with his fingertips and dropped the contents into the open palm I offered him. There were two gold rings. One of them was old, and burnished to a condition where the ornamentation was almost worn away. The newer one was simpler in style and inside, where there was an inscription in Russian, I could see that the gold was only a thin plating.
Hart said, 'Bekuv's wife's rings: the plated one is their wedding band — with suitably euphoric Komsomol slogan — and the other one is Bekuv's mother's ring, inherited when she died.' He reached out and I returned the rings to him. 'Good enough for you?' he asked.
'A wonderful piece of foresightedness, Gerry.'
'I know it's all part of your technique,' said Hart. 'I know you are trying to irritate me but I'm not going to be irritated.'
'I'm delighted to hear that,' I said.
'But there is a time factor,' he said. 'And if you don't give me a tentative "yes", shortly followed by a suitable piece of paper, I'm getting to my feet and walking out of here.'
'Yes, well, don't forget to pay for the sandwiches,' I said.
'There's nothing in this for me personally,' said Gerry Hart. 'I'm trying to prevent a foul-up between two separate investigations.'
'Why don't you make an official report?'
'You've got to be joking,' said Hart. 'It will take weeks to go through and at the end…" he shrugged.
'And at the end they might decide that Major Mann is right.'
'There's nothing in this for me,' said Hart again.
'You're too modest, Gerry. I'd say there was a lot in this for you. You tell me that Greenwood doesn't know you are up to the neck in a C.I.A. investigation of the 1924 Society. You're too smart to hazard the main chance in search of a little career-garnish. I'd guess you keep your boss fully informed. And I'd say that you plan to come out the other side of this one having demonstrated what a powerful man you are, and what important connections you have with the C.I.A. and how you can mangle its policies if you feel inclined. If Greenwood was impressed with that — and we both know that he might be — you could wind up in Congress, or" maybe in the White House. Now don't tell me you didn't think of that possibility.'
'Don't you ever get depressed?' he asked. 'You always talk like everyone is on the make. Don't you ever get depressed?'
'I do, Gerry. Each time when I turn out to be right, which is practically always.'
'Do you hate me so much? Would you prevent Mrs Bekuv joining her husband just in case I get some political mileage out of it?'
"You're not talking to a junior cipher-clerk, Gerry. I've been there; and I know how the wheels go round, when jerks like you press the buttons…'
'Now, I've heard…'
'I've listened to you through a Bloody Mary, a club sandwich and a cup of coffee, Gerry. Now you listen to me. I'm not preventing Mrs Bekuv making a journey anywhere because I'll put my pension on an old underwear button that Mrs Bekuv has already made her journey. She's in Manhattan, right, Gerry?'
'We've got a leak, have we?'
'No leak, Gerry,' I said. 'Agents in the Soviet Union — the ones that survive there — don't send messages to guys like Gerry Hart explaining what kind of travel arrangements they might be able to get for the Mrs Bekuvs of this world — they see an opportunity open up, they make a snap decision, they act on it, and disappear again.'
'I suppose so,' said Hart.
'And I picture Mrs Bekuv as a hard-nosed Party-worker, as smart as Stalin but only half as pretty. I see her pushing her absent-minded husband into his high-paid, top-secret job, in spite of his theories about flying saucers. I don't picture her as the sort of woman who hands over her wedding rings to some strange creep who might be a K.G.B. man who likes a little hard evidence. No. But she might loan them out… for an hour or two.'
Gerry Hart didn't answer. He poured cream into the last little drop of his coffee and drank it slowly.
'We'll take her off your hands, Gerry,' I said. 'But no pieces of paper, and I can only advise Mann about the 1924 Society: no promises.'
'Do what you can,' he said. For a moment the bottom had dropped out of his world but, even as I watched him, I saw him coming up at me again as only soft rubber balls and politicians know how to bounce. 'But you're wrong about Mrs Bekuv,' he said. 'Wait until you see her.'
'Which of you asked for the check,' the waitress said.
'My friend asked for it,' I said.
Chapter Seven
Gerry Hart and I were both right. He delivered Mrs Bekuv to us within five days and had to be content with Major Mann's worthless assurance that any investigation of the 1924 Society would be conducted by men wearing velvet gloves. But I was wrong about Mrs Bekuv. She was in her middle thirties, a cheerful strawberry blonde with a curvacious figure that no one would ever persuade me to classify as plump. It required a superhuman faith in departmental files to believe that she'd been an earnest fourteen-year-old Young Communist, and had spent eight years touring the Soviet Union lecturing on fruit-crop infections. Gerry Hart was right — Mrs Bekuv was quite a surprise.
Elena Katerina, like her husband Andrei, had prepared her shopping-list long before her arrival in New York. She was complete with a easeful of Elizabeth Arden creams and lotions, and a complete range of Gucci matching luggage containing a wardrobe that would cope with any climate and a long time between laundries.
Sitting up front in Mann's Plymouth station-wagon, in suede pants-suit and white silk roll-neck, her blonde hair gleaming in the lights of the oncoming traffic, she looked more American than Bessie Mann or Red Bancroft sitting at the back each side of me.
Mrs Bekuv was wide awake but her- husband's head had tilted until it was resting on her shoulder. Mann had left it too late to avoid the Christmas Eve traffic build-up and now it seemed likely that we would arrive late.
'Should we call them, honey.. tell them to save some dinner?' said Bessie.
'They know we're coming,' said Mann. He pulled out and took advantage of a sudden movement in the fast lane. Bekuv had found a radio station in Baltimore that was playing Latin American music, but Mann reached over and turned the volume low.
'They say Virginia is like England,' said Red Bancroft trying to see into the darkness.
'I'll let you know, when it gets light,' I said.
'Anyone wants to drive,' offered Mann, irritably, 'and they've only got to say so.'
'And see where it gets them,' said Bessie Mann. She leaned forward and patted her husband on the head, 'We all have great faith in you, darling,' she cooed.
'Don't do that when I'm driving.'
'When shall I do it, then? It's the only tune you turn your back.'
Red Bancroft said, 'Whenever my father asked my mother what she wanted for Christmas, she'd say she wanted to go away to a hotel until it was all over. But we never did spend Christmas in a hotel.' Red lit up one of the mentholated cigarettes she liked to smoke and blew smoke at me. I pulled a face.
'Because of all the work,' said Mann over his shoulder. 'She wanted to get away from all the cooking and the dishes.'
'Men see through us every time,' said Bessie Mann, feigning admiration.
'That's what she meant,' insisted Mann.
'Of course it is, darling,' she leaned forward to touch his cheek, and he took her fingers so that he could kiss the back of her hand.
'You two hide a torrid affair behind these harsh exchanges,' I said.
'Hold it, Bessie,' said Mann urgently. 'We've got two romantic kids i
n the back.'
'Why is it called Virginia?' said Mrs Bekuv suddenly. Her English was excellent, but she spoke it in a curiously prim voice and with poor pronunciation, like someone who had learned from a text-book.
'Named after England's virgin queen,' said Mann.
'Oh,' said Mrs Bekuv, not sure if she was being mocked.
Mann chortled, and changed down for the steep hill ahead.
It was certainly a remarkable hide-out: an old house set in four hundred acres of Virginia countryside. As we came up the potholed road our headlights startled rabbits and deer, and then through the trees we saw the hotel, its windows ablaze with yellow light and the facade strung with coloured bulbs like a child's Christmas tree.
Parked in the metalled space alongside the barn, there was a bus. It was a shiny metal monster, left over from the days before buses got tinted windows and air-conditioning. Alongside it there was another car, and as we came to a stop our headlights caught the shiny bodywork of a vintage Packard convertible, reconditioned by some enthusiast.
Mann switched off the lights and the radio. 'Well, here we are,' he said. 'Plenty of time for supper.'
'Eight twenty,' said Bessie Mann. Bekuv yawned, and his wife eased her shoes on and opened the car door.
'Happy Christmas,' I said, and Red kissed me on the ear.
'You'll love this place,' said Mann.
'We'd better,' said Bessie, 'or I'll never believe you again.'
As I climbed out of the warm car the cold of the open countryside bit into me. 'Isn't that beautiful,' said Red. 'It's been snowing.', 'Is that like home, Professor Bekuv?' Bessie asked.
'I was born in the desert,' said Andrei Bekuv. 'I was born in a region more desolate than the Sahara — the U.S.S.R. is a big place, Mrs Mann.'
'Is your home hi the desert too, Katerina?' said Mrs Mann.
Mrs Bekuv wrapped herself hi a long red cape and pulled the hood up over her head to protect her from the chilly wind. 'America is my home now, Bessie,' she said. 'I loved New York. I will never leave America.'
Mann was locking the doors of the car and I caught his glance. Any fears we'd had about Mrs Bekuv's conversion to capitalism seemed unfounded.