Durell did not leave by the front door. Diagonally across Annapolis Street, where buildings housed lobbyists’ offices, press agents, printers and uniform manufacturers, was a three-story building of red brick, half a century old. There was an iron railing around a cellar entrance, and it was presumably devoted to private apartments. Durell went into the basement of No. 20 and found a young man with black crinkly hair, who stood up from a card table where he had laid out a hand of solitaire beside an S&W .38 revolver.
“Mr. Durell.”
“Yo.”
“Good to see you back, sir.”
“It probably won’t be for long,” Durell said. “Have you seen the boss?”
“No, sir. Not since I logged him in on Tuesday.”
“And out?”
“He’s still here, sir.”
Durell nodded and went through two doors that led him into a tunnel under the street to the red brick building across the way. An elevator there took him up to the roof, where another young man stood on guard.
“Al?”
“Hello, Mr. Durell.”
“When did General McFee check out?”
“I don’t know, sir. I don’t believe he has.”
The young man looked tough and burly, ignoring the cold drizzle of rain on the roof. He carried field glasses on a strap over his thick shoulders. Durell looked across the street in the evening gloom at No. 20 and nodded, then went down again to the ground level and walked out the back into a wet parking lot. The rain was as soft and ambiguous as a diplomat’s speech. The car he had signed out from Jed Callahan’s transport section was inconspicuous, drab, and had a souped-up motor and various armaments that made it virtually an armored vehicle. No one should have noticed it. But when he had gone half a mile, someone picked him up.
In the mist and rain, he was not certain at first. It did not seem possible. He drove out along US 50, heading east toward the Chesapeake, facing inbound traffic with glaring headlights and splashing sheets of water. Near the junction with Route 301 he slowed for a traffic light. The same car was still behind him. He turned into a gas station and got out and stood beside the car. The other vehicle slowed and pulled over to the side a hundred yards down the busy highway, near a hamburger stand. Durell went into the station office and used the phone booth to call back to Randolph.
“It’s a ’69 Buick. LeSabre sedan. One man in it. Not identifiable,” Durell said. “He followed me from No. 20.” “Not possible,” Randolph said quickly.
“It’s a fact. Did you put him on me?”
“Why would I do a thing like that? I admit, we’re all a bit spooky, Cajun, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“Then he’s not one of our men?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So I’m free to dispose of him?” Durell asked flatly. Randolph coughed. “Well, this isn’t exactly the Malaysian jungle, Cajun. Use discretion.”
“Right.”
Durell hung up and drove off again. The blue sedan came out of the hamburger stand fast, to pick him up once more. He hadn’t been mistaken. He turned left off Route 50, heading northeast on a subsidiary road toward Prince John, then took an even smaller road east again, through a tunnel of trees that gradually thinned out into the tidal flats along the shore of Chesapeake Bay. He drove quickly and expertly. The man in the sedan was just as good. Either he knew the way to Deirdre Padgett’s house this side of Prince John, or he was a pro. Probably both, Durell thought.
Deirdre’s residence was a family inheritance, a quiet pink-brick Colonial set on a secluded cove and point of land jutting into the wide sweep of the bay. Durell and
Deirdre had loved each other for a long time, but Durell had always refused to make it a permanent liaison; and now Deirdre, wanting to share in his world, had been accepted by K Section and was Dickinson McFee’s personal secretary-assistant, with top security clearance. Durell had spent many days and long, warm nights in the lovely house in Deirdre Padgett’s serene company. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. If he had ever wavered in his loyalty to K Section, it was because of her. But he refused to make himself vulnerable or to expose her to the dark dangers of his life by a marriage that could only end in eventual disaster, as he saw it. Deirdre always insisted otherwise, but the matter was unresolved.
He had bought her a Chesapeake Bay skipjack, a former oyster boat, and had remodeled it himself, working with his hands in the local boatyard. On the infrequent leaves he took from Washington, he and Deirdre often spent summer afternoons and nights aboard the wide-beamed, tall-masted vessel, sailing the long reaches of the bay. A quarter of a mile from the house, Durell took the dirt road that led directly to the water’s edge and the pier where the skipjack was moored.
The other car slowed, then nosed into the lane after him. There was a small shed by the water’s edge, and Durell swung his car around it, left the lights shining on the fresh paint and varnish of the boat, and got out quickly and noiselessly. He flattened against the far side of the shed, then moved around it as the other car approached. Red and green lights shone through the misty drizzle on the water. The rain made the opposite shore invisible. He smelled the tidal salt, the waterside reeds, the ozone wetness that blew up from the distant Atlantic. He heard the other car door close and moved fast.
The man was standing beside his Buick, staring at the small dock and the oyster boat. He wore a dark suit, a short dark raincoat, and had long, carefully groomed hair. He heard Durell’s approach at the last moment, but he turned too late. Durell hit him hard, slamming him back against the LeSabre, caught the radio antenna, whipped it across the man’s throat, and pressed hard. The stranger tried to get his knee up, grunting, his face just a face, a pale smear in the gloomy night. His mouth opened and closed. He was young and very strong and very capable.
“Do you want your neck broken?” Durell asked, quietly holding him.
The man tried to shake his head negatively.
“You followed me?”
“Y-yes.” It was a hiss of anguished breath sliding past the pressure of the steel antenna across his vocal cords.
Durell fanned him carefully, removed a revolver, a knife, and a flashlight with his left hand from the raincoat pockets. He found the man’s wallet, flipped it out, and then stepped back, using the other’s gun to hold him quiet.
“Wow,” the man gasped. He rubbed his throat. “I haven’t been caught like that, ever. Not ever. You’re a real tiger, Cajun.”
Durell said, “Name?”
“Look, we’re on the same side—”
“What side is that?”
“My orders were to follow you.”
“Why?”
“Ours not to reason why—”
“Shut up,” Durell said. “Stand still.”
“Oh, I will, I will.”
The wallet contained ordinary identification cards, credit cards, driver’s license. Norman D. Apple. An address across the Potomac in Alexandria. Durell counted forty-two dollars in cash. Two blank checks on the Alexandria First National Bank. A photo of a girl, smiling, on the beach. The background looked like Rehoboth. Under the picture was another card, blue plastic, quite thick, with data in minute digits and electronic figures. Durell flicked the flashlight on it and frowned.
“DIA? Defense Intelligence?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, sir. Delta Group, Internal Investigations. You’re Code Seven for us, Cajun.”
“Why is Defense interested in me?”
“It’s my boss. He’s with your girlfriend now, waiting for you. Matter of fact, he’s your boss now, too, until Pilgrim Project is secured.”
“Pilgrim Project?”
“I seem to talk out of turn,” said Apple. He had an engaging smile. “Let’s go see him, huh? And be careful with my gun. I’m embarrassed. I’m supposed to be good at my job, you see.”
“Why were you following me?” Durell asked again.
“To make sure you came here safely.”
Durell’s
voice went rough with quick anger. “Is my security clearance questioned?”
Norman Apple shook his head. “I wouldn’t know, old buddy.”
“Your boss’s name?”
“Evan Crane.”
“Hell.”
“No, it’s true.”
“Crane is a senator. He’s not with DIA.”
“He is. Ask him.”
“I will. Go ahead. You first.”
Deirdre said, “Hello, Sam.”
“Dee.”
“We’ve been waiting for you. Is that Norm Apple?”
“It’s Apple. Disarmed.”
The man standing by the fireplace clucked his tongue. “I told you to be careful, Norman.”
Apple said, “I tried to be. He’s better than I.”
“Obviously. Relax. Everyone, please. We’re off to a poor start, Mr. Durell. I apologize for the steps I took to make sure you arrived here safely. I should have known better. Your dossier in our files is perfectly adequate. Superlative. Miss Padgett also vouches for you.”
“That’s nice,” Durell said.
“Sam—” Deirdre began.
He went over to her and kissed her, touching her shoulders briefly. Her mouth was soft and willing, as always. Deirdre was a tall girl who always caused a quickening in Durell. Her perfume and shining eyes brought an
immediate rack of nostalgia for the long-ago nights and days of comforting, equal love. This quiet house, with its view of the sweeping bay, was a symbol of all that he lived to preserve, although he did not claim it for himself or admit it to himself. Her dark coppery hair had rich highlights like a brush fire seen at night; she had the quality of a summer evening, serene and composed. Everything about her was fine—her body, her carriage, her voice, her gray eyes, and the way she looked at him and touched him with her love.
The french doors were open to the worn flagstone terrace, and he could hear the whisper of rain in the giant old elms and a crab fisherman chug by offshore, while red and green running lights were flickering briefly through the mist.
Senator Evan Crane cleared his throat. “Mr. Durell, if you can overlook Norman Apple, perhaps we can start afresh.”
“Yes, sir,” Durell said. “Apple says I’m to take orders from you. If you have identity and authorization papers, we’ll talk about something called the Pilgrim Project.”
“You know me, then.”
“Your face is in the newspapers often enough, Senator, arguing for naval appropriations and reinforcement of the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean. And for resisting State’s efforts to allow the Suez Canal to be opened to the Soviet fleet.”
“Yes. Well. Do you know the Code Seven number at Sugar Cube? Call it.” Crane waved to Deirdre’s telephone. “It’s automatically scrambled and in code. They’ll give you Q clearance for this job.”
“Q clearance—”
Senator Crane smiled wanly. “Anything goes, Mr. Durell. Anything. You can pick your men and your places and use anything and everyone for the job.”
Durell went to the telephone, aware of a cold presence in the pit of his stomach. He had never had to call the number Senator Crane suggested. He had always hoped he never would have to call it. He dialed quickly. His hand was steady enough, and he was grateful for that. Small favors. This telephone in Deirdre’s house was on a separate line from her normal domestic use. While Durell waited, he considered Evan Crane’s blue card and the man himself. The senator was short and burly, with a coal miner’s face and hands, thick and strong and chunky. His shock of silvery hair was cut long in a mane that came down the back of his neck; his blue suit and striped shirt were not quite mod. He wore black-buckled ankle-high boots, and his pale blue eyes in his seamed face never left Durell.
The voice on the telephone said, “Mr. Durell, you are transferred for temporary duty with the Defense Intelligence Agency, Security Branch, under Regulation 55 Sigma. According to the terms of your contract, you may refuse this assignment; but we trust you will not. Senator Evan Crane is with you now, and we have advised him as to how to brief you. What is your answer?”
“Yes,” Durell said.
“No reservations?”
“None.”
“Very good.”
There was a click, and the line was dead. Durell let out a long breath. Deirdre and the senator stood watching him. The senator’s blunt, broad face looked faintly flushed. Deirdre was pale. She wore a light spring suit of fine tan checks, and on her lapel was a gold pin that he had bought for her long ago in Portofino. She touched the side of her dark, coppery hair and smiled at Durell; he could not tell whether or not she was relieved at his accepting Q clearance. Her gray eyes simply gave him her love.
“Fine,” said Senator Crane. “Apple, you can go now. Wait in the car for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Deirdre brought out bourbon and ice, and Durell took a drink from her. The senator lit a cigar. Deirdre’s fingers were cool and smooth as Durell touched her. He wished he were here in any other circumstances but these.
“Sit down, Mr. Durell,” said Evan Crane. “What I am going to tell you about Pilgrim Project—and Dickinson McFee—may cost you your life.”
Chapter 6
“Thank you. I’ll stand,” Durell said.
Crane grunted. “The two subjects may not necessarily be connected. Not completely. Do you understand about your Q clearance?”
“Yes, sir. Where is General McFee?”
“I wish to God we knew.”
Durell looked at Deirdre. “Do you know, Dee?”
“I know that he’s gone. That’s all.”
“Taken? Or voluntary?”
“On his own.”
“How did he get out of the apartment at No. 20? Where else did he live?”
Deirdre’s eyes were steady, her voice quiet. “He used the fireplace exit. There’s a ladder in the chimney that is quite easy to climb.” She smiled at Durell’s chagrin. “The ladder goes up to a narrow corridor and into the next building. The general often left that way, when he chose to do so.”
“So he went willingly?”
“He was not forced out of the apartment physically.” “But some pressure—some blackmail?”
Evan Crane rumbled, “We think so. He had no orders to go abroad then. Our IS people—Internal Security— traced him to Dulles International and onto a flight to Rome. Alitalia commercial flight. Three days ago, at six forty-five P.M. We don’t know anything after that. He’s vanished. Gone. Dead, for all we know. Maybe for all we care. Maybe he’s gone over the wall.”
“Not McFee. Not possible.”
“Anything is possible, Mr. Durell.”
“No, sir. I wouldn’t believe it of the General.”
“If he’s over the line, you may have to go in and kill him. Wherever he might be. Moscow or Peking or Prague —anywhere.”
Durell stared at the stocky, silver-haired man. Evan Crane smoked his cigar and looked back at him with pale, emotionless eyes. Deirdre said nothing. She had been well trained by McFee, Durell thought. She did not speak unless it was absolutely necessary. But he could never question her unswerving loyalty to Dickinson McFee.
“Dee, where else did McFee live? Where did he stay when he wasn’t at No. 20 Annapolis Street?”
Deirdre hesitated only a moment. “I’ve never been permitted to tell, Sam. You understand?”
“I understand. But you have to tell me now.”
“Yes. Well, he had a small house in Oakton, Virginia, where he lived as a Mr. David Mahon, with a complete cover identity as the president of a small corporate enterprise specializing in electronic equipment sold to the Defense Department. Nothing big enough to attract the attention of anybody.” She smiled faintly. “There actually is a Mahon Company. He actually is the president of it and operates it at a small profit. There are something like forty employees in a small suburban plant in Alexandria. His absences when he’s at No. 20 are explained as sales trips. He does the work, too. It’s a comp
lete dual life. He has only a middle-aged housekeeper to run the house for him. Everything has been set up in the most minute detail. Sam, it’s all been checked out. He’s not in Oakton, he’s not at the Mahon Company.”
“I see.” Durell reached into his pocket and took out the faded photograph of McFee in World War II uniform, taken at Valetta on Malta. “And who is this child?”
“He never talked about her,” Deirdre said.
“Did you ever ask?”
“Once. Once, only.” She smiled wanly. “You know how he is. If you get no answer, you don’t ask twice. But we think—the senator and his people think—that the girl might be his daughter.”
Durell’s face was blank. “He has no family.”
Evan Crane said harshly, “A daughter. The wife—if he ever married her during the war—is dead. She would have been the Contessa Bertollini, the daughter of an old contessa who lived in Libya, Naples, and on Gozo—the island just to the north of Malta. She was a thorough fascist, I might add—the old woman, anyway. A strong supporter of Mussolini. A natural stand, with her wealth, in those days. We already know that the mother of the child died in a bombing raid just before the Italians surrendered.” The senator took an envelope from his pocket. “These are the reports I’ve gotten in the last twenty-four hours. They’re yours, Mr. Durell. Dates, photos, places, names. We don’t believe that General McFee ever saw the child after the war. Perhaps he believed she had died in the bombing raid with her mother—our own planes, by the way, did the bombing, near Reggio di Calabria.”
Durell tapped the faded snapshot. “But he never forgot her.”
“It’s a wild thought, that’s all. The only reason we can give, except for a defection.”
Durell said, “I think it’s the child. But why now? Why at this late date?”
“He received a letter,” Deirdre said. “I didn’t see the letter itself, just the envelope. It had a Libyan stamp on it and a postmark from Tripoli. And there was a photograph in it. A duplicate of the one he kept in his apartment, Sam.”
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