"Good morning, Frank," said Swan. "It's suite Three-B. The door is open."
Patricio nodded to the others, who filed out again. He stayed behind, his face marked with concern. "I'll stay here with you," he said. "The squad will handle it."
They sat facing each other, waiting. Swan's tea and toast arrived, and he looked at Patricio apologetically. "You'll excuse me," he said. "As you know, my breakfast was interrupted."
Patricio smiled politely. Without invitation, he broke off a corner of Swan's toast, chewed it, and followed that with a sip from the teacup. Swan looked on, horrified, shaken to his fastidious core. He wondered swiftly how he could avoid drinking from the same side of the cup. As if reading his mind, Patricio gave him a wicked grin.
"The food's all right," he said. "Go ahead and eat."
"Thank you," said Swan in a choked voice. "You're very thorough."
"My job."
They sat in silence after that. Swan ate the second piece of toast, the untouched one, and drank his tea holding the cup in his left hand. He did it casually, almost naturally, but he was sure that Patricio was silently laughing at him. Twenty minutes later they were joined by one of the other agents, a shorter, plumper version of Patricio named Stanley. He declined Swan's offer of coffee. He looked as weary as Patricio.
"It's a gadget, all right," he said. "They're loaded with prussichydrocyanic. No wonder they seemed light to you. I'm surprised the damn things didn't float up to the ceiling."
"Toxicity?" asked Patricio.
"Absolute."
"Remind you of anything?"
"Cassavetes in Stuttgart. Manlicher, three years ago. That other guy in Turkey. Same routine. The Reds took out three of our best that way."
"The reds." Patricio gnawed at his underlip. He looked at Swan. "That doesn't make any sense. You know what I mean?"
"I think so," said Swan. "Why me?"
"I've been doing Weather Control for over ten years, and I've never seen anything like this. The Reds'll hit an operational, especially a unilateral, but not someone like you. Not a top administrator. It breaks all the rules. It invites reprisal."
Swan stared at him steadily. "Which leads you to what conclusion?"
"The egg trick. The Russians picked it up from us, but who invented it in the first place?"
Swan lifted his teacup, forgetting to use his left hand. He took the last swallow of tea and noted with disgust that his hand was shaking. He willed some control and set the cup down without a rattle.
"The one and only," he said. "Eddie Mancuso."
"You didn't recognize him?"
"I've only seen his photo on the files. My God . . ." His eyes opened wide. "The man served me my breakfast!"
"It was almost your Last Supper," said Stanley. "We found your regular waiter, Randall, tied up in the third- floor linen closet."
Patricio cut in quickly. "Look, Mr. Swan, I know this may be a delicate area, but is there any reason why Mancuso—"
Swan stopped him. "Yes. There are reasons."
"Then I'm afraid we're headed for the Fun House."
Swan nodded. Patricio turned to Stanley and snapped, "I want a four-by-four box around the DD5 from here to the cars. He rides in car number one with me; you handle the crash car. Let's move."
"One moment," said Swan. "There are three telephone calls I absolutely must make before we leave here. I'll need the scrambler phone upstairs."
"No way." Patricio's voice was flat. "There's a scrambler in the car if you need it."
"I'd prefer to — "
"Mr. Swan, I said we're moving. When all this is over you can have my ass, but right now it's my job, and I say we move. Now, let's go. Go, go, go."
Outside the Coolidge, sitting in his car parked on N Street, Eddie had witnessed the screeching arrival of the Weather Control cars, and after that he had waited only for the confirming sight of a body bag being carried out of the hotel. Instead of that, now, he saw the seven men exit in a controlled trot, two of them forging ahead to open the cars, the other four in a protective box around the tall, gray figure of Edwin Swan.
Oh, Jesus, I screwed up, he thought. I blew it. I'm getting old. He's going under - he's headed for the Fun House. And right this minute he's getting on his scrambler and telling those other three to do the same thing.
The Agency cars sped away from the curb, Eddie tried not to think of what might happen to Ginger, Vasily, and Emerson once those calls were made and their targets alerted. I can't reach them, he realized. They're on their own.
Edwin Swan sat hunched over the scrambler phone in the backseat of the speeding car, his voice controlled but urgent as he gave instructions to the relay operator at Langley. The need for speed was clear to him. An operation mounted against him by Eddie Mancuso could only be part of a counterstroke from Emerson, and any attack on him would be meaningless unless it involved attacks on his three associates. As he waited for his calls to go through, he reviewed where the other three would dive for cover once they got the word.
Andriakis had his equivalent of the Fun House in the home of Lex Enhora, and would simply cross over into Albania and hole up there, paradoxically seeking safety in a Communist country. Krause's Fun House was the bordello of Katerina Felluci in Milan; he spent half of his time there anyway, and the delightful Katerina would bury him so deep in flesh that not even a battalion of agents would ever uncover him. As for Wolfe, Swan admired the foresight that had led him to develop his relationship with the Order of San Vicente, that offbeat offshoot of the brotherhood that had flourished for centuries in the foothills of the Pyrenees. As a tertiary of the Order, a secular member who had made substantial contributions over the years, Wolfe was free to visit the monastery in the mountains near Puigcerda whenever he wished, to bury himself in the monastic life and participate in the daily rituals. Swan shuddered at the thought of some of those rituals but had to admit that the walls of the abbey provided Wolfe with the safest sort of redoubt.
The Langley operator broke in then to shatter his reflections and announce that his calls were ready. He spoke first with Brissago. Krause was not at home - at lunch no doubt with his magnificent red-head. Swan left a two-word message to be delivered at once. It was the same at the Barcelona number; Wolfe was at his chess club, and Swan left the same message. Only Andriakis was at home.
"It's time to head for the Fun House," Swan told him and outlined the situation quickly. "Get across as quick as you can."
"It's early afternoon here," Andriakis said slowly. "I can't cross over until it gets dark."
"Peter, you're in danger every minute that you stay on that side of the water."
"I realize that, but I'll have to sit tight until nightfall. There's no way I can make it during the day."
"That's up to you. Sauve qui peut: I've done the best I can."
He replaced the receiver and closed his eyes. He was still hungry, and he wondered if he would ever be able to eat a soft-boiled egg again.
Gerard Krause leaned across the table to inspect Ginger's plate. "You aren't eating your fish," he noted. "Is there anything wrong with it?"
"No, it's fine," she said, moving a morsel with her fork.
"It comes directly out of the lake, so it has to be fresh."
"I'm sure it is. I'm sorry, Gerard, but I don't seem to be very hungry today."
"Not like last night. Last night you had the kind of appetite that I love to see in a woman. It appeals to the sensual side of me."
She gave him a faint smile.
"And today you can't finish a tiny piece of fish," he said with mock reproach.
Last night I didn't have to kill you, she thought. Today I do.
But it was easier to oblige him, and so she finished the last of her fish while sailboats swooped on the waters of the lake, a ferryboat tooted, a gentle sun stippled the surface of Lago Maggiore with a handful of golden coins, and on the terrace of the Ristorante Pesch d'Oro the waiters paraded ceremoniously. It was a glorious summer day, b
ut it was lost on Ginger.
I could have done it three times so far between the soup and the fish, she thought.
One of the two tiny plastic bags of penicillin lay under her hand, enough to do the job, and at least three times she could have loaded it into his wine as he turned his head to nod at people he knew at the other tables. But she had not done it. Not from fear of being seen, but out of a last- minute reluctance that she could only think of as buck fever. She had prepared herself to kill with hearty words and thoughts, but now that her finger was on the trigger her mind shied away from action and she could feel the faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Buck fever.
This man is evil, she reminded herself. He is totally evil and he wants to kill your father.
The familiar pep talk failed to move her this time. The short, chubby man with the slick mustache who had wanted her to finish her fish was a mortal animal, and in the twenty-four hours that she had known him, despite all his talk of buying beauty and his suggestive stories, he had treated her with exquisite politeness. He had yet to press himself upon her or indicate an obligation on her part. Even the night before, after a memorable dinner at II Giardino, when she had expected him to make a move, he had simply escorted her back to her pension, taken her hand, and asked her to lunch on the next day. Now the plastic bag was beneath her fingers . . . and she had buck fever. She remembered something that Vasily had said back in Mexico, something about no sane man ever considering himself to be truly wicked, but only a misunderstood marcher to a particular drum.
That's the trouble with this business, she thought. Dividing the world up into us and them, good guys and bad guys. Gerard probably thinks that killing my father is nothing more than an ethical solution to a problem of national security. And because of that I have to kill him. If I can.
"Is something bothering you?" Krause asked softly.
"A bit," she admitted.
"I've confused you, haven't I?"
She was surprised by his perception. "Yes, you have."
He smiled broadly. "I've paid you a great deal of attention, a twenty-four-hour whirlwind, and I haven't tried to climb into your bed. Pretty rare for this freewheeling day and age, and now you're trying to figure out if I'm impotent, or gay, or what. Right? As a matter of fact, I'm neither. It's just that I have other plans for you."
"Plans?"
"I'm going to introduce you to Katerina Felluci." He paused expectantly. When he got no reaction, he asked, "Doesn't the name mean anything to you?"
"I'm afraid not," she said, puzzled. "You make it sound like being introduced to the Pope."
"How could you bounce around Milan and not know about Katerina? Didn't the other models tell you about her?"
"Gerard, I really haven't done that much modeling. And even less bouncing."
"I see." He smoothed his mustache with a forefinger. "Katerina Felluci runs the finest house in Milan."
"House?"
"Bordello, if you insist."
"Good Lord."
"Actually, Katerina's place is more like a private club. She gets only the top people there, and her girls are all either models or actresses. Believe me, I could mention some names that you'd recognize who once worked for Katerina."
"Name one."
He named several, one of whom had just married Middle Eastern royalty.
Ginger said slowly, "I'm impressed, but whatever made you think I'd be interested in something like that?"
It was Krause's turn to look puzzled. "Because you're young, you're extremely attractive, and you're a model out of work. What else would you do?"
"I can think of several things better than whoring in Milan."
"Don't use words like that. Katerina runs an exquisite operation. You wouldn't be doing anything there that you wouldn't do on your own, and you'd be getting paid very nicely for it. Aside from meeting the right kind of people." He seemed genuinely distressed. "I thought I was doing you a favor. There are plenty of girls I wouldn't recommend to Katerina, you know."
"Now I'm meant to be flattered."
"You should be."
Suddenly she realized that he must have done this with dozens of other girls, and she wondered if his superiors in Langley knew that their man in Switzerland was moonlighting as an Italian procurer. Suddenly the chubby little man with the slick mustache seemed substantially less endearing.
"Is that why you left me alone last night?" she asked. "Were you saving me for Milan?"
He shook his head and looked away for a moment, almost shyly. "No, not at all. You see . . . you're a beautiful girl, but I have rather . . . particular tastes in women, and you don't fit into the pattern."
She wondered if he was going to tell her about his particular tastes, but before he could say anything else the headwaiter was standing over him, bending in apology, and saying, "Il telefono, Signor Krause. Urgent."
Krause excused himself. She watched him work his way through the tables to the telephone booth at the rear of the restaurant. He slid closed the door of the booth and she could not see him anymore.
Now, she thought. Do it now, get it over with.
He's just another marcher to a different drum, thought another part of her mind.
I can't, she screamed silently. But while she was screaming her hand reached out and passed briefly over Krause's wineglass. Her fingers flicked open the plastic bag and dumped the powder. The crushed penicillin settled into the wine without a trace, and then the plastic was back in her handbag. She looked around; no eyes were on her. She looked down at her fingers approvingly. They had done the job without conscious command, as if they had been practicing the gesture for years. While her mind had been involved in debate, her hand had known exactly what to do.
While Ginger was congratulating herself, Krause took the telephone call in the booth and got the two-word message from his housekeeper: "Fun House."
He hung up at once. His hands were sweating, his face was pale. His first instinct was to run, but he sat for a moment, thinking. He had no idea what lay behind the Fun House order and had no time to find out. It could signify anything from an international crisis to a shakeup within the Agency itself. He had no way of associating it with the Emerson affair - as far as he knew, Emerson was dead - but he had been in the business too long to ignore an apparent coincidence. Yesterday a girl had marched into his life unannounced, and today came the order to get undercover. Coincidence? He toyed with the idea in his mind. There was no question about where he would go to hole up. Katerina Felluci would seal him into a private room and tend to his every whim for as long as he wished. If he took the girl along . . . ?
If it's just a coincidence then there's no harm in taking her along, and I get a fat commission from Katerina.
If it isn't a coincidence, if she's involved somehow and I leave her here, I'm leaving a loose end that can work against me. And if I take her with me that's the best way I have of keeping an eye on her until I can find out what this is all about.
And if I do find out, and if something has to be done, Katerina has more ways of disposing of people than the Borgias had.
His decision made, he went back to the table and announced that they were leaving for Milan at once.
"Don't be silly," said Ginger. "Sit down and finish your wine."
"Something's come up and I'm needed in Milan right away. Why don't you come with me? It might prove entertaining."
"Gerard, you look awfully pale. A sip of wine might help."
"No time for that."
"Of course there is; there's always time for wine," she said, thinking, damn it, I finished my fish like a good little girl. The least you can do is finish your wine.
"No, really, we've got to get going. It's a business emergency."
"And you want me to come along?"
"I thought you might want to. It will give you a chance to meet Katerina Felluci."
"Is that where you're going? I thought you said it was business."
"Business is a br
oad word. I have all sorts of dealings with Katerina. Are you coming?"
"Do you really want me to?"
"I wouldn't have said so otherwise."
She grabbed her handbag and stood up. If he wasn't going to drink his wine, he wasn't going anywhere without her. Not so long as she still had another plastic bag full of penicillin. She took her arm and forced a gay smile.
"You sure know how to show a girl a good time," she said. "On to the bordello."
Late Wednesday afternoon, Emerson dressed himself in a pair of shorts, an open shirt and sandals, and examined himself in a mirror. Satisfied that he was indistinguishable from the hundreds of hiking tourists on the island, he packed a light haversack with bread and cheese, a bottle of mineral water, and some extra handkerchiefs. On one side of the handkerchiefs he wedged in the stripped-down PPK Walther and on the other side, reverently wrapped, he secured the plate he had made the night before. Then he locked the door of the rented house, left the key in the lock, and set out in the car for the hills behind the Andriakis house in Kalami.
The decision to stake out the house had been a difficult one to make. One set of instincts told him to keep out of sight, to stay away from Andriakis until bouzouki time that night in Pyrgi. Another set of instincts, based on long-ago training, told him that by lying back and waiting he might lose his target. There was no guarantee that Andriakis would appear that night in Pyrgi, only a promise, and one which could be easily broken.
In the end the human fear of losing his man overcame the animal instinct to lie low, and it was late afternoon when he turned off the coast road and drove up through the winding turns into the hills. He left the car at the edge of a meadow and then worked his way downhill, going overland between the horseshoe bends of the road, until he came to the observation point he had used the day before. From there he had a clear view of the Andriakis house gleaming like a sugar cube on the edge of the sea, the beach below it, and running out from the beach the two stone jetties that provided a breakwater for the motor sloop moored offshore.
He unslung the haversack and settled down with his back against a slanted olive tree, a hiking tourist relaxing in the last of the sun. But he did not really expect any questions in easygoing Corfu.
The Sleeping Spy Page 24