Who's on First

by William F. Buckley

  17

  The old barn had been a storehouse for wine casks, dozens of them scattered about in varying stages of dilapidation, on the dusty dimly illuminated rotting wooden floor. Erno had traveled out at dawn to loop the rope and contrive a rudimentary courtroom. He found a stout plank which he propped up over two old wine casks—they would sit on the plank. A large barrel would serve József, the chief judge, as a table. Another cask, serving as a bench, would be for the defendant.

  To that seat Blackford was now guided. “Sit,” József motioned with the pistol. The three Hungarians moved in front of him. They sat down on the plank, the man with the gun in the middle, the girl on his right. The man in the blue shirt placed the pistol on the cask in front of him, the barrel pointing at Blackford. The tool chest József had brought from the car he placed under the plank.

  The trial of Harry Browne had begun.

  “‘Harry,’ as you call yourself, I am József Nady. This is Frieda Darvas—I am aware that you have met her—and on my left is Erno Toth. We are here to try you for conspiring to deliver Theophilus Molnar to Soviet executioners on the seventh of November 1956. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

  Blackford drew breath and said most solemnly, “Not guilty.”

  “Do you deny that you gave him a key to an address on Dohany Street?”

  “No, I don’t deny it. It is true that I gave him the key. I sought to protect him. I knew he was likely to get into trouble.”

  “How could the Soviet executioners have got hold of the address on Dohany Street unless you were in collusion with them?”

  “I don’t know. I have tortured myself wondering. There is only one explanation. It is that Theo disobeyed my orders and confided the address to someone from whom the Russians got it, possibly by torture.”

  József turned to his companions and spoke in Hungarian. The tones were unmistakably contemptuous. The girl said nothing, but Erno gestured to József, then addressed Blackford: “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

  Yes, said Blackford, he spoke German.

  The questioning resumed. What was Oakes’s profession?

  Blackford thought for a moment, decided he had very little to lose.

  “I am an American intelligence agent. I take orders from the CIA.”

  “In that case,” József broke in sneeringly, reverting to English, which Toth evidently understood but had difficulty in speaking, “you should be able to prove you are with the CIA. What were you doing in Budapest?”

  “I was collecting information for the Agency on the likelihood of a revolt against the puppet government, and the probable popular reaction to such a revolt. In addition, I had a hand in establishing contact points for escape routes.”

  “Oh? Where did you establish these contact points?”

  Blackford was at once eager to convince, and wary.

  “Some of those I helped to establish have been detected. One or two, so far as I know, continue to operate.”

  “But where were these contact points?”

  “You must realize that you are asking me for information I am under no circumstances permitted to give out. There are lives at stake.”

  “Including your own,” said József, looking up at the noose.

  Blackford decided to take a risk. A reasonable risk. He turned to Frieda. “You came out through the candy store of Madame Zlaty on Ferenc Street.”

  Frieda was visibly startled.

  József on the other hand was triumphant. “Ah! And three days later Madame Zlaty was arrested, tortured, and executed!”

  Blackford’s face reddened, and he lost his temper. “You’re saying I set up that old lady to get tortured and shot? Fuck you, Nady. If the revolution was made up of types like you, I’m glad you lost!”

  The effect of Blackford’s outburst was convulsive. All three Hungarians spoke at the same time. József kept gesturing toward the hangman’s rope. Erno appeared to wish to pursue the interrogation. Frieda, after an initial burst, left it to the men to contend with each other, but appeared to detach herself from them. Suddenly there was silence. József spoke:

  “What are you doing in Paris, Oakes?”

  Blackford was startled to hear his own name, which he had never used, in Budapest or in Paris. The others did not appear to have noticed an obtrusive syllable. Blackford let it go.

  “I am here to pick up whatever information my superiors ask me for.”

  “What have they asked you to look into?”

  “I am not on assignment at the moment.”

  József spat on the floor to give conviction to his disbelief. He conversed now with Erno, who nodded his head as he spoke. Frieda listened, and then addressed Blackford quietly. “Do you wish to pray?”

  He broke into heavy sweat. “Yes,” he managed to say, and closed his eyes. The talking had stopped, and the three judges were on their feet.

  Blackford, pale, opened his eyes and addressed Frieda. “I wish to talk to you alone.”

  József gestured his refusal impatiently.

  But Frieda turned on József angrily, and pushing him to one side stepped forward, took Oakes firmly by the arm, and led him away a few steps to the corner of the barn. She whispered, “What do you want to say to me?”

  “That I loved Theo. That when he was killed, which was done before my eyes, I came close to going mad. That because he died, I renewed my pledge to devote my life to avenging him and others who suffer every day from similar fates. I wanted you to know that I too have a fiancée I love, as you loved Theo. She is an American. She was going to marry me as soon as I left the Agency. She broke off the engagement because I refused to leave after seeing Theo killed. And then I wanted to tell you one more thing.”

  Frieda stepped back for one moment, shaken. She saw Blackford, his face white, the sweat of his agony suppurating through his shirt, his hands bound behind him. Theo must have looked much like that in those final moments. In her mind’s eye she saw them together, Theo and Blackford, and she recalled, in a way she had entirely forgotten, the communion between the two men. Could such a man have betrayed Theo?

  “What was it you wanted to add?”

  Blackford’s whisper was hoarse: It was now, or never, he knew.

  “That I arranged with a bank in Paris to advise the fiancée of Theophilus Molnar that Theophilus’s aunt had turned over a part of her savings to that bank and directed that the money should be paid to Frieda Darvas. That bank made inquiries and tracked you down. The money was in fact my own money. The Crédit Lyonnais acted on my instructions. Theophilus was betrayed, yes. But not by me.”

  She stared at him, ashen. Tears began to flow. She reached out her hand, forgetting that he could not take it. Then Frieda clenched her teeth, and turned to her partners.

  They spoke interminably, the pitch of their voices rising to a yell. But Blackford could see that Erno was apparently now arguing with Frieda, not against her. At one point Erno left the little group, came over to Oakes, wheeled him about, and untied the line holding his wrists together. Oakes spotted a movement by József and lunged across the room, hitting him with a tackle seconds before József’s hand reached the pistol on the wine cask. They struggled furiously. Oakes smashed him, using the bottom of his hand with all his force on the bridge of the nose, stepping to one side as József fell, and then kicked him hard on the temple, leaving him motionless. Breathing heavily, Blackford turned to the girl and Erno. There was an interval before he could speak.

  “There is your traitor.”

  Frieda and Erno talked hoarsely in Hungarian. Blackford interrupted them. “How did József know Theo had a hiding place on Dohany Street?”

  Erno replied. “He told us that Theo said you had given him a hiding place on the street but that Theo hadn’t given him the number.”

  “I should have known,” Frieda said, as if to herself. “If Theo had a hiding place, he would never keep it merely for himself. He would never give out the street to a friend, and not give the address. He and József
were together at the field house when the Russians came. He must have told him then.” She looked at Blackford directly. “I believe you.” And to Erno she said, “Our colleague,” spitting it out at the figure on the floor, “is Theo’s killer.”

  The rays of the sun, risen to its meridian, had left them in relative darkness. “Is he dead?” Erno asked Oakes.

  “I expect he is.” He got down on his knees, and put his fingers on József’s wrist.

  “Yes.”

  Again there was silence. Frieda finally spoke. “We’ll have to bury him, Harry; can you attend to that?”

  “I’ll see to it. And quickly. It is now clear József was on assignment today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Blackford reached into the tool kit and opened it inquisitively. Along with the paraphernalia of a radio repairman was a black object with a circular aluminum attachment. He drew it out. “József was going to take a picture of me—hanging from that beam. I assume he was in touch with people who would have paid him well for the picture.”

  Frieda came to him, and extended her hand. Blackford impulsively put his arms about her. They walked silently to the cars.

  18

  Blackford Oakes was at an apartment on Avenue du Roule in Neuilly. The kitchen was well stocked. Impatiently he opened a bottle of red wine, took out a tin of crackers, and chewed absentmindedly, without appetite. Two hours earlier, from the outskirts of Paris, he had telephoned Rufus.

  “I’m hot.”

  Rufus’s voice did not change. Indeed it was unchangeable. “I see. Can you meet me at Adam’s house in twenty minutes?”

  Adam’s house was emergency meeting point #1, even as Baker’s house was emergency meeting point #2.

  Number one was at the Louvre, in the Salle Mollien; they sat in the fauteuil looking at canvases by David.

  “They’re on to me. Tried to kill me, using a double agent from the Hungarian freedom-fighting gang. He’s dead and I’ve drawn a map giving the exact location of the barn where the body is, about fifty kilometers out on the road to Fontainebleau. Can you take care of that?”

  “Yes … maybe even with due ceremony. Go on.” Blackford slipped Rufus a rolled newspaper.

  “Okay, next problem. They tracked me from the hotel. So I can’t go back there. Somebody’s going to have to collect my gear right away and check me out. Better than just leaving it there, do you agree?”

  “I’m not so sure. Your room is probably being watched. If we pick up your stuff, we’ll have to shake them off. Besides, they’d guess then that their mission didn’t succeed.”

  “They’ll know that when Nady fails to show up with the photograph. Fails to show at all.”

  “Yes. But he wouldn’t necessarily be expected to show up right away. We’d confuse them for a while anyway. At any rate, give me your room key and the key to your car. We’ll have to dispose of that. I know where it’s parked. I was watching. How many were involved?”

  “There were three of them; the other two are good guys. One’s a girl. I’ll give you the details later. Where do I go?”

  “To the Avenue du Roule in Neuilly. Ring the bell and tell the landlady Madame Rondpoint told you to use her apartment. She’ll let you into 4D and give you a room key. Don’t move until you hear from me. The place was swept a week ago and the telephone is clear. From now on use a disguise. A beret, a pair of glasses. Give me your sunglasses, and I’ll have a plain-glass pair made up and sent to the apartment along with the hat.”

  Blackford drew breath, and felt free to ask:

  “How’s it going at Chantilly?”

  “Very good. I made other arrangements to get the material to Trust when you didn’t show up this morning. Tell me the name of the dead man. You said ‘Nady’? We’ll try to get a line on him.”

  “It’s written on the map. Phonetically—I forgot to get the spelling from the girl.”

  “Do you know how to contact her?”

  “I know a bank that has her address.”

  “If they tracked you beginning Monday, they’d have moved in on the operation by now. My guess is they didn’t pick up your trail until yesterday. What perplexes me is why they would want to bump you off when you might have led them to Kapitsa.” Rufus paused. Oh God, thought Blackford: He is going into one of those infuriating trances. Of all times.

  But it didn’t last long. Rufus said, “I shall do some thinking. You’ll hear from me. Some clothes and toiletries will be delivered to the landlady.” Rufus rose, and ambled leisurely down the gallery, pausing here and there to consult the catalogue he had bought at the ticket office. Blackford walked down the staircase, past the “Winged Victory,” and stepped into a taxi. He directed the driver to take him to the public gymnasium at the Hôtel Claridge on the Champs-Elysées. There he got out, paid the thousand-franc locker fee, picked up a towel, and went up to the second floor. For an hour he worked out, running through every exercise he knew as vigorously as he could, using the punching bag and the bicycle and the rowing machine and throwing himself, finally, into the large green pool with the sickly-tepid water. He showered and, his towel wrapped around him, closed his eyes as he lay on one of the gymnasium reclining mattresses; but he didn’t sleep. It was enough that he didn’t dream. After a half hour he rose, approached the locker, oblivious of the two attendants in the otherwise empty gym who, though it was their routine business to witness exertion, remarked that his had been a most extraordinary example of it.

  “Tiens,” said the fat man in his clinical white. “Avec raison il garde sa ligne.” (No wonder he’s so trim.) Blackford dropped a five-hundred-franc note in the wicker basket, nodded merci, and went out.

  Halfway through the second cracker and after the first glass of wine, he realized that he had suddenly become hungry. He explored the refrigerator. There was chicken, ham, cheese, white wine. He put together a plate with slabs of each and, after finishing the red wine, opened the white. He drew up his chair to the kitchen table and suddenly felt an eerie sense of joy. He could not exactly situate it in the repertory of his emotions. He had been a combat pilot in the last days of the war, and knew what it was to emerge the victor in a dogfight. Was it the same feeling? No, it was, somehow, far deeper. He felt almost like laughing. He drank another glass of wine and put more salt on the chicken. Was there a radio? He would like to hear music. In the salon he found an ancient set which, however, worked; and brought him a Frenchman who droned on for a bit, but whose voice gave way finally to the overture to Don Giovanni. He opened the drawer of the desk, found writing paper, and sat down.

  Dear Sally:

  And what did you do today? I of course miss you, and continue to wonder why it is that you insist that I resign my placid career in order to practice engineering in Washington, D.C., while you teach the Georgian novel to that little band, those happy few, who are left hungry after feasting on the cornucopia of twentieth-century literature. What would you like me to build for you? Tell me. Anything. Sky’s the limit. Skyscraper you say? Where would you like it, and how tall? Will you order the cement for me, and have it ready when I come back? Since my leave may be for only two or three weeks, I wouldn’t want to waste any time. Let me see. I should think 28 stories would be about right, one for every year you have graced. Order me 180,000 tons of cement, 80 miles of nickel steel beams—I’ll leave it to you to specify the size, that way it will be your-and-my skyscraper. Figure 5 bathrooms per story, times 28, 140. One hundred and forty toilets, washstands, tubs, showers—bidets? I leave that to you. Twelve acres of carpet—my Sally will have wall-to-wall. When Blacky does things, he does them wall-to-wall. Decorations? I have taken a liking to Miró. Please order 140 Mirós—do you want his address? I’ll give you a secret telephone number in Washington where you can get unlisted phone numbers, SPo-okie. Easier to remember than numbers. Did you ask me am I drunk? I resemble that. I have to confess something. I told somebody today I was “devoting” my life to resisting the tyrants. I’m ashamed of myself. It
made me sound pompous. I’d rather die than sound pompous. Actually, that’s not true. I’d rather sound pompous than die. Oh dear how I miss you. It has been a hectic day. More in a couple of days.

  Love,

  Blacky

  He scratched out the address on an envelope, sealed it, and was wondering why in the hell he hadn’t heard from Rufus when the phone rang.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Don Giovanni just finished screwing another nympho.”

  “I want you with the others. Anthony will explain. He will pick you up at six in the morning. Your belongings will be in his car. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Rufus. Say, I feel like gambling. Thought I’d go to the races at the Bois de Boulogne tomorrow. Want to come?”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  19

  Blackford rose at five-thirty, put water on the stove, and, impatient to discover which switch corresponded with which burner, flicked all six of them on. He went to the window and instinctively shielded himself from view while peering out at an angle. It was raining heavily and the air was warm, the light still meager. His baggage consisted of Pride and Prejudice, which he stuck in his pocket, the few toilet articles he had found in the paper bag on the bed, the beret, and the glasses. Opening the door, he locked it behind him after spotting Trust pulling up outside. He dropped the key in the landlady’s mailbox and bounded out, opening the car door and sliding into the right seat.

  Trust slipped the little Mercedes 180 into gear.

  “Let’s stop at a newsstand. Or have you already looked?”