Hidden Agenda

by Anna Porter

  The woman led the way back through Room 39, skirted the outside of the Gallery Shop, through Room 31, around the leather settee in Room 29 where a small battalion of tourists was pushing toward the Vermeers. She held Marsha back while another broad man in a tan raincoat hurried past and joined the tourist group. When they had gone, he reappeared and waited in the doorway for them to follow into the Rembrandt room.

  The two men in raincoats looked so much alike they could have been brothers. Both had black hair, thinning on top, long sideburns, flat square faces with prominent, muscular jaws, long arms that reached down past where most people’s arms end, and short legs tucked into even shorter trousers that left a good two-inch gap between where they stopped and the wide, chocolate-colored brogues began. They were dressed rather like refugees from Eastern Europe.

  By contrast, the man they now approached appeared to have been dressed on Savile Row, his suit the perfect casual cut worn by men who spend their lives in expensive environments. He carried a briefcase too thin to be of much use.

  He was tall, at least 6’2”, broad-shouldered and erect. His hair was gray, turning white at the temples, coarse enough to challenge his expensively careful layer-cut. His long narrow face was tanned a light golden brown, and lined deeply around the eyes only—they were large, watery-black, sentimental eyes that reminded Marsha of Omar Sharif playing Doctor Zhivago in the latter part of that movie. His eyebrows were prominent, darker than his hair. They kept his eyes in shadow. He had a long aquiline nose, tapered at the nostrils. His chin was wide and dimpled, his mouth finely sculpted. Smiling as he turned to Marsha, he flashed even white teeth.

  “Already, I feel as if we have met,” he said. His voice was soft and deep. There was a trace of an accent in the way he pronounced each word. Like the woman’s, too precise. “In preparation for this occasion, I have taken time to learn something about you.” His movements were lithe and smooth; he walked from the center of his back, the European way, not from the shoulders, as Americans do.

  Before she had even formed an appropriate response, Marsha found herself smiling politely at him. His theatrical courtliness was contagious.

  “I am delighted that you have almost finished your reading. I chose the Gallery because it is my favorite place in London. Almost a second home. It is entirely appropriate that we should meet here. And this room,” he indicated the small room behind him, “is my special choice for the occasion. Rembrandt, you see, is my favorite artist. The master. I have admired him all my life. Like Kenneth Clark, I have tried to reproduce his drawings, to learn to understand the deftness of his touch, the feeling he must have had each time he drew a line. How, with a few short strokes of his pen, he could capture the whole of a man’s soul. Here, let me show you something.” He held Marsha gently by the elbow and led her into the room.

  “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly” was the line that came to Marsha’s mind, but what she said was: “I presume you are The Dealer?”

  “F-e-r-e-n-c,” he said. “The last ‘c’ is soft, almost like an ‘s.’ Please call me that. You will, I hope, allow me to call you Marsha. It is a lovely name. Your father’s choice, I believe. A charming man. Great pity he did not take time to learn to know his daughter better. He would have been most proud of you. He was too busy, devoted to his ambitions, as I have been, all my life, to mine.

  “Look at this portrait of Rembrandt”—he steered Marsha forward, “—painted in 1640, when he was thirty-four. Self-possessed, self-satisfied, in control of his own destiny. His eyes, curious and unafraid, his mouth turning into a small suggestion of amusement as he gazes at you. And over here”—he indicated the far wall “—this one was painted in the year of his death twenty-nine years later. The change in the expression is even more startling than the way his features have submitted to age. The tragedies and disappointments those eyes have seen.” He stared into Rembrandt’s face. “He is no longer amused at your looking in on him, he is amused at himself. He looks inward now, and how he dismisses as unimportant what he finds there…”

  Marsha was growing impatient.

  “The Dealer, then, is some kind of code name?”

  “It’s more of a…” he seemed to be searching for the right word “…an epithet. An entirely appropriate one at that, because that’s what I’ve been all these many years—a dealer. Strangely, the Arabs gave me the name, and it stuck.”

  “What exactly do you deal in?”

  “The most important commodity of all: information. I buy and I sell, I trade and I solicit at the right time, from the right people and for the right people.”

  “And you knew my father?”

  “That would be overstating our brief acquaintance. I was pleased to be of service to him once. A small matter.” He waved his hand as though to dismiss the topic. “I only mentioned him because you reminded me of him. Something about the chin, jaunty and determined. Or perhaps it’s the gait…” He looked at her intently. “You’re not frightened, are you?”

  “Considering all I’ve been through to read your manuscript, I’m managing fairly well, but I still…”

  “I’ve kept an eye on you since you arrived. If I’ve been less than diligent…well, you’ve been somewhat unpredictable.”

  “You didn’t expect me to capture your messenger?”

  “My messenger?” He looked over at the woman, still guarding the door.

  “Arnold Bukowski. He brought your note to invite me here. What I don’t know is why he attacked me.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  Marsha explained.

  “Frequently they have resorted to using young idealists with no training,” Ferenc said. “People who don’t know their names, only the cause. If they are caught, they have no information leading to the three men. Mr. Bukowski fits the mold. He must have found my note inside the door. That’s where my messenger had left it. Now Bukowski will have a difficult time at the police station, but eventually, as you will not appear to prefer charges, they will let him go.”

  “I will not?”

  “He will tell his contact of our meeting.” He ignored her question. “This does rather limit your options, doesn’t it? Seems you are already committed.”

  “And my friend Judith Hayes in Toronto? Will they leave her alone?”

  “She has nothing they want. You have the manuscript. Now, tell me, what do you think of it?”

  “It’s terrifying. It’s also incredible. I haven’t had a chance yet to think about it, but if it’s true, you have a fantastic news story…”

  “If it’s true? My dear Marsha, please don’t mock me. Would I come out into the light, when it’s in my best personal interest to stay in the shadows, to reveal a story if it wasn’t true? Would I give away what I have spent decades to build if I didn’t feel it is of the utmost importance the world be informed of the pending catastrophe? I abhor acts of heroism, as I abhor all pretensions, but this time I have to come to the verge of perpetrating a heroic act. Don’t you see, I believe I’m about to save democracy—at least for the next generation.” His vast black eyes had become ever more watery, his voice deepened to a whisper, but the words remained measured, evenly emphasized.

  “Yes,” Marsha said quickly. “Yes, I suppose you do. Still—” she had to come to the point sooner or later “—one does have to have considerable proof…and documents…perhaps then…”

  Ferenc laughed, his teeth flashed white. It was an affable, amused laugh, inconsistent with his tempered speech.

  “Is that all? Easy. We have the manuscript for you and, of course, it comes with all the proof anyone should require. Immaculately legal. Not one loose end. For a moment I thought you were going to get cold feet. It would have been most disappointing.”

  Inside the soft blue running-shoes, Marsha curled down her toes. It was perhaps in response to what he had said, but there was no doubt they were icy cold. She shivered involuntarily.

  “Well,” she said, “there was Harris,
and probably Max Grafstein and Eric Sandwell…”

  “Most regrettable.” Ferenc shook his head again. “Most regrettable. Harris was the cause of the whole disaster, poor chap, I’m sure he meant no harm.”

  When she was sure he wasn’t going to continue, Marsha prodded again.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I had assumed you knew.” He looked at her curiously. “Harris, unlucky man, started the ball rolling. Not intentionally. Not in the least intentionally. Though I had given him my personal reassurance, he didn’t wait for the documents. He consulted his lawyer. The lawyer, an unimaginative citizen with utmost faith in law and order, consulted the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The Horsemen—a delightful name for them, don’t you think?—are riddled with informers of every stripe and, since they’ve been taken over by the Ottawa civil servants, no one in his right mind would trust them with real information. I know that. The CIA knows that. Even MI5 knows that. My old associate and adversary, Boris Andreevich of the KGB’s North American branch, was most proud of the fact that he knew more irrelevant bits about the private lives of Canadian politicians than anyone in the world. But Harris’s lawyer didn’t know. Harris was given a chance to back off. When he wouldn’t, he was eliminated.”

  “They made it look like suicide.”

  “Not very successful, I am told. A reasonably simple procedure. Requires one organizer and a number of hirelings. They have several organizers in Canada. Most have never met them. The hirelings are paid off—one-time service, usually.”

  “And the manuscript?”

  “It was taken from Harris before they stuck him under the train. The fool brought it with him. He was expecting to meet me at the station.”

  “And where does Detective Inspector David Parr fit in? Who does he work for?”

  Ferenc shrugged.

  “Small potatoes—local city cop. Reports to the Horsemen. He may be useful to us later.”

  “And how did Grafstein and Sandwell get involved?”

  Ferenc closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. “Harris sent copies to Grafstein and Sandwell early to protect his investment. The $1.2 million I wanted seemed too high a risk for him…”

  “Predictably,” Marsha said, her mind pausing over the numbers. She would have to contact Larry to approve the funds if… Would she take the risk?

  “Do you think so?” His accent thickened with sarcasm.

  “What I meant is, Harris didn’t have too much cash in the kitty.” That hadn’t been what she had meant at all, but it served the purpose. Ferenc went on.

  “He should have taken my advice and waited. I would have guaranteed his safety. I would have guaranteed the others’. When Grafstein went to Harris’s funeral in Toronto he was ready to make a deal with the son. That’s hearsay. The facts are that he was murdered because he wouldn’t tell them where the manuscript was. His office was ransacked. They set it up to seem like random vandalism. Very imaginative: urinating over the entire editorial department.” Ferenc chuckled. “Of course, they found the manuscript and destroyed it.”

  “And Eric Sandwell?”

  “He was poisoned.”

  Her throat was dry, her palms clammy. She rubbed them against her thighs to restore the feeling in the fingers.

  “Old-fashioned cyanide in his Coquilles St. Jacques. I never eat anything spicy. The strong flavor covers secret ingredients.” He smiled at his joke. “The effect of cyanide will frequently simulate heart failure. Please. I think we should start moving on.” He took her elbow again and began to steer her around the corner past the huge Van Dyck portrait of Charles I on horseback. Marsha shuddered as his hand touched her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, knowing she would now have to see it through.

  “A change of scenery. We have business to conclude.”

  “You haven’t told me what happened to the manuscript Eric read?”

  “Don’t you know?” The Dealer stopped and stared at her. “Didn’t your friend tell you?”

  “Peter Burnett?”

  “A pleasant young man, but not quite right for you. You are rather exceptional. A man would have to do you justice.”

  Marsha was relieved when he resumed their progress.

  “I think you were about to tell me about the manuscript,” she said coldly.

  “Mr. Burnett protected his own interests. You may have noticed that his interests coincide rather directly with those of the peace-loving threesome. He was recruited by Anthony Billingsworth-Powell while he was still at Oxford—a close friend of the great man’s son. Or didn’t he tell you who nominated him for the Hamilton, Thornbush board?”

  Marsha was concentrating on keeping up with him. She didn’t answer.

  “I see. He did tell you.”

  “He would have had no part in the killing.”

  “What difference does it make? He knew Sandwell didn’t die of a heart attack.” Ferenc clucked appreciatively as they went by the fulsome women of a Rubens painting. “And he did return the manuscript to Billingsworth-Powell.”

  “Did you know Eric Sandwell had copied some of the initial pages?”

  “Only when I was told you emerged with them from Hamilton, Thornbush this morning.”

  Marsha was flanked by the shorter of the two men in raincoats. The woman and the other man led the way. Among the crowds of visitors from all over the globe, no one gave their odd group a second glance.

  They descended two flights of stairs to the basement. The man who led the way opened a brown, unmarked door and disappeared. Ferenc had his arm through Marsha’s, holding her close. They waited.

  Marsha had a strange sense of remoteness, as though she had inadvertently entered a drama on an unfamiliar stage. “Where does this lead?” she asked.

  “Specifically, through the storage rooms and a restoration area,” Ferenc explained. “In general, however, it leads to one of my offices. I rarely use the same office twice.”

  The door was opened from the inside. The room they entered was badly lit with a few neon runners in the ceiling. There were long tables with small lamps bending over them, and canvases of all sizes. They weaved around the tables, sidestepping jars of liquid and paint. The odor was like that of a hospital bathroom.

  “Thanks to the fervor of the British unions, this place is always empty at noon,” Ferenc said. “We have some sixty minutes to decide how we will proceed with the publication.” He opened his thin briefcase and took out a pile of papers. He switched on one of the overhead lamps and deposited the pages in front of Marsha.

  “An hour?” Marsha protested.

  “Slightly less. But it will have to do,” he said. “Time enough to establish to your own satisfaction that the material is as explosive as I say it is, that it is publishable, and that it contains the requisite amount of proof. Use your own judgment. You will want to have it lawyered later. You’ll pick some safe lawyers. For our purposes, remember truth is still an adequate defense against libel suits. I will leave you alone.”

  Ferenc walked softly away from her. He wandered through the tables examining the paintings being repaired. Then he sat in the far corner, in the shadows, and watched Marsha read. She was uncomfortably aware of his attention, as she was aware of his three companions near the exits, their faces immobile, listening.

  She forced herself to concentrate.

  The manuscript called itself Better Red Than Dead? It was a clearly-written narrative that began with the backgrounds of MacMurty, Roberts and Billingsworth-Powell, continued with their Harvard resolution and traced their goals, acquisitions, reviews of achievements, their positions today.

  There were detailed accounts of their activities in business, through charities and foundations. Profiles of their associates and senior employees. Their criteria for hiring and firing were included, in the form of a four-page typed list, signed by the three, dated June 1, 1967.

  There were minutes of their regular meetings, one per year, with different datelines: Paris, Lond
on, New York, Sydney, Toronto. The minutes reviewed progress and set new goals. There were detailed plans for such actions as bringing the US before the International Court of Justice in The Hague over its clandestine activities in Nicaragua and Nigeria, and the subsequent media coverage of the Court’s rebuke, resulting in many European demonstrations and the burning of the US embassy in Brussels. There was a battle plan for the establishment of the Russian gas pipeline into Europe, a proposal that had initially met with vociferous opposition from the public. Through the careful manipulation of public opinion, Roberts had soon switched the positions of Italy, Germany and France. The diehards in Scandinavia could be ignored for a while. The pipeline was under construction, paid for by the European financial community.

  The anti-NATO plan was proving successful. Two post-nuclear films had swept the United States into a furor against the President’s military budget, severe cutbacks were certain at the US end of the arms race. The CIA had put its controversial director on trial for supporting right-wing regimes in South America. US withdrawal from Egypt was maybe a couple of months away. Israel was to be left to its own devices.

  Ethan MacMurty had been experiencing difficulties in battling the powerful Jewish lobby in the Senate, but he was sure of victory if they could now implement plans for “gentile liberation.” The latter was a forty-eight-point project involving all the media at their disposal. The purpose: to fan the fires of anti-Semitism throughout the United States. It was MacMurty’s assumption that, if properly frightened, the Jewish lobby would crumble. Minutes of the eighteenth meeting recorded that all three pacifists regretted such methods, that not one of them was an anti-Semite and that, once their objectives had been achieved, they would do all they could to repair the damage. Meanwhile, the end would justify the means.

  The manuscript contained a complete list of their holdings; a selection of photographs; a copy of the BREAD Manifesto; their early studies of the Soviet Union and of the Western powers; lists of acquisition targets, by country; memoranda detailing latest news from each in relation to specific targets; and some excerpts from Roberts’s diaries.