Hidden Agenda

by Anna Porter

  “Please,” Ferenc said, as they pulled into the airport, “you must not worry. Everything has been taken care of.” The two men emerged from the front seat and unloaded her fake luggage. One of them held the door for her. “Next time, perhaps, we shall meet in a more relaxed atmosphere,” Ferenc said as he lifted Marsha’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

  The gesture fitted the absurdity of the situation.

  “Just one more thing,” he said. “You will please remember that you have chosen yourself as the publisher. It was you who pursued the manuscript.”

  “I know,” Marsha said.

  “Ah, but what a wonderful choice you have turned out to be.”

  When he said “wonderful,” he sounded exactly like Bela Lugosi.

  Thirty

  PLAYING THE DEDICATED tourist was easy. Judith had planned the day with earnest precision. At 9:15 they took the subway to The Battery and boarded the Staten Island ferry at 10:00. The Statue of Liberty came out of the rising fog, on cue, as the ferry passed. The sun caught the last of the soft cloud around its feet and all across the bay; the clammy morning drizzle gave way to a gaudy rainbow. Anne exposed two rolls of film uninterrupted by Judith’s cautionary tales about the cost. Jimmy hurled invective at the curious gulls.

  Anne had loved the subway graffiti, the hard slate-gray seats, the torn posters, the seedy peeling walls—a world away from Toronto’s squeaky-clean, cheerful subway cars.

  For lunch they bought sloppy hamburgers to eat in Central Park. There were jugglers and mime artists, sidewalk painters, a clown, crowds of roller skaters, ponies, a pet monkey collecting money into a battered hat.

  “Is someone following us?” Anne asked once.

  “No, why?”

  “You’re looking over your shoulder again.”

  “Nervous habit I picked up the day before yesterday.”

  From time to time they brought up the kidnapping, but no one wanted to spoil the day and Judith had reassured them the police department was searching for the kidnappers. The children were easily distracted.

  They returned to the apartment at 2:00. Anne had a headache, Jimmy was happy to rest. Judith said she had to run an errand for Marsha. While she was away, they were not to answer the phone or open the door for anyone.

  Judith listened outside while they triple-locked the door, and tipped the doorman ten dollars to allow no one into Miss Hillier’s apartment: not even deliveries.

  Carefree, she thought, affecting a jaunty walk around the rim of Gramercy Park. Then a quick cab ride uptown to Saks Fifth Avenue. She went directly to the Chloé counter and purchased a scented hand cream; up the escalator for a brisk browse in women’s fashions, down again through scarves and hosiery. Frequently she found herself ducking behind mannequins, to see if someone had followed her. A quick tour of some of the best costume jewelry in the world, then outside and into a passing cab.

  “Bloomingdale’s, please,” she said once they were moving.

  She went directly to the second floor and selected two Céline summer dresses, fresh from Paris with matching prices. Watching over her shoulder, she walked to the changing rooms. They were still on the right of the counter, thank god, near the Ladies’ Powder Room.

  Room two was empty.

  Marsha had brought Judith here on her birthday three years ago and invited her to select a dress she liked. There had been one condition: Judith was not to check the price tag. The black and beige silk Chanel had transformed her into a woman of slick social grace. She could still hear Marsha’s deep-throated laugh as she surveyed her in her new finery. Judith had called the outfit her “armor.” It gave her confidence in unfriendly situations.

  Inside the dressing room Judith told the solicitous attendant she preferred to undress alone. She stood gazing encouragingly at her own gently-lit reflection in the full-length mirror, and waited.

  All day she had been puzzling over Marsha’s instructions about what she had to tell David and how. Judith had derived the strong impression that David was a pipeline of information to those who had directed the killers. Then Marsha had suggested Judith play the tourist quite openly and added that Judith should consider a shopping spree: “Perhaps another suit of armor to fend off your amorous policeman. Only three hundred dollars at today’s prices.”

  At BSS they had often met after curfew outside the school walls. It had been fun making secret arrangements during dinner. They had used dollars to indicate the time and special references to things they had done together to mark the place.

  She had been sure Marsha had been trying to tell her something she didn’t want others to hear. As soon as she recognized the code for the time, she had only to remember the elegant suit of armor and where it had come from.

  Judith held up one of the dresses and surveyed herself in the mirror. The mauve frills clashed with her hair. The other was simpler, gray, but not her style. She regretted she hadn’t taken a closer look—if she was going to stand around in this room, she might as well try them on.

  There was a rustling sound outside, a footstep.

  “Judith?”

  Marsha’s voice, in a soft whisper. Judith whipped the curtain aside and stared at the unfamiliar black-haired woman outside.

  “Marsha?” she said uncertainly, trying to discern the eyes behind the dark glasses.

  “Thank god you came,” Marsha whispered, pushing past her into the dressing room. She dropped the armful of clothes she had been carrying, pulled the curtain shut behind her, took off her glasses, and embraced Judith.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand. And even if you did, I couldn’t be sure you’d come…all you’ve been through with the kids…”

  “Of course I came,” Judith said into the soft wig. “It took a while to figure out what you meant…”

  “I made it up on the spur of the moment… Back then I didn’t even know why I wanted you to come. Now I need your help.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Far too much to explain. We have four or five minutes left. After that I expect they’ll come in here to see why I’m taking so long.”

  “Who will?”

  “Two men The Dealer sent to look after me.”

  “What?”

  “They haven’t left my side. They were on the plane yesterday and we spent last night in a hotel room, all three of us. They’ve given me ten minutes alone to change and right now I should be trying on a dress.” Marsha started to slough off her crumpled jogging suit. “Did anyone follow you?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so.”

  “Good. But you’ll have to be doubly careful now. Take a number of cabs. Better start going downtown, then double back.” Marsha was wriggling into a beige dress.

  “I’ve had some practice recently. But why am I playing hide-and-seek again?”

  “You’ll be carrying part of The Dealer’s manuscript with you. Can you zip up the back?”

  “I don’t think I want to,” Judith said, zipping up the dress. “If you want to publish it—OK, but…”

  “The manuscript contains irrefutable proof that two influential citizens of this country, together with an Englishman, are conspiring to change the course of history. They have decided on our behalf that the world cannot afford democracy and are perilously close to achieving their target.” Marsha was trying on another dress. The beige one had a plunging neckline that revealed all there was of her small breasts.

  “Why don’t you leave this to the CIA or MI5?”

  “There isn’t time. And I believe The Dealer when he says the agencies wouldn’t let this material be published.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Marsha tightened her new belt. The black silk dress suited her new hair.

  “It’ll have to do,” she said, glaring at her own reflection, before taking a thin portion of the manuscript out of her blue canvas bag. “I sorted this on the airplane. Take it to 77 East 61st Street. Leave it with the receptionist on the fourth floor f
or Mr. Sankey. Ask her to give you an envelope and address it. S-A-N-K-E-Y.”

  Judith was still reluctant.

  “Who’s Sankey?”

  “A writer—reporter, really. He’s a possible solution. Or at least a kind of insurance.”

  Judith took the manuscript and began to read the first page. Marsha adjusted her hair, put on the glasses and her raincoat.

  “At 3:45, meet me in front of the New York Restaurant on 54th, east of Fifth. I’ll be loitering outside.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to M & A with the rest of the damned manuscript.”

  “And if you don’t show up?”

  “I will,” Marsha said with conviction. “Those two guys are professionals.” She turned to hug Judith again. “Wait at least five minutes till I’m gone. I’ll have to go to the shoe department with the guards. Can’t wear Adidas with the dress.”

  “Be careful,” Judith said, sitting on the low stool. She began to read the minutes of BREAD’s fifteenth meeting at which they had resolved to remove the last vestiges of US influence in the Middle East. As she scanned the detailed plans for defeating the Jewish lobby, a number of photographs slipped out from between the pages.

  “May I be of some assistance?” the polite voice asked from the other side of the curtain.

  Quickly, Judith gathered up the manuscript and pictures.

  “Thank you. No. Thank you.”

  She stuffed the manuscript into her shirt and pants, put on her coat and left, holding her purse close to her chest. She apologized to the attendants for not purchasing anything, while making sure Marsha and her escort were nowhere in sight.

  She took a cab to Madison and 28th. She took another to Times Square; another to 5th and 62nd. She walked two blocks in the wrong direction, ducked into a drugstore, bought a copy of Life and some cigarettes, doubled back on the other side of the street to 61st. Once she was in the elevator she extracted the package and placed it between the middle pages of Life.

  Sankey’s bored receptionist grudgingly handed her an envelope. Judith stuffed the manuscript inside and left it, with a note taped to the top: “Mr. Sankey: top priority.”

  She reached the corner of 54th with a minute to spare, but Marsha was already there, flapping her hands in an old-fashioned wave. So now she’s trying to draw attention to herself?

  “Where are they?” Judith asked when she drew up to Marsha.

  “Gone,” Marsha said. “I think their mission is completed. Did you reach Sankey?”

  “Not in person. But I delivered the package. How is this mission completed if the book isn’t published?”

  “Come on,” Marsha said, her voice higher than usual. She put her arm through Judith’s and started to walk rapidly toward Fifth Avenue.

  “It’s almost over, or I’ve got it all wrong.”

  They entered the lobby through the side doors at the corner of Fifth, hurried past the stores and into an elevator.

  “I sure hope you’re right,” Judith said. “Much more of this and I’m going to need a therapist.”

  Marsha took off her wig, shook loose her long blonde hair and stretched.

  “Maybe they’ll give us group rates. And one more thing: next time you come across a big story, would you please call somebody else?”

  On the twentieth floor the receptionist greeted Marsha with a broad grin.

  “Himself will be a little surprised to see you so soon,” she said. “Only yesterday he sent a memo around saying you’d be in London another week.” She looked quizzically at Judith.

  “She’s with me,” said Marsha. “We’re going to see Larry.”

  “He’s got someone with him.” But they were already on their way, past the accounting department, marketing, the plants decorating the door to the boardroom.

  “Are you sure you want me to come along?” Judith asked, hanging back.

  “All the way,” Marsha said. “Or don’t you want to meet the incomparable Mr. Shapiro?”

  Larry’s secretary was on the phone when they entered. She looked up, smiled, and cupped the receiver with one hand.

  “So early?” she asked. “He’s been anxious about you.”

  Larry’s office was larger than Judith’s house and a lot brighter, with a comforting wall-to-wall green plush carpet, low bookshelves, framed book-jackets and plaques for excellence in design on the walls. On a side table, a framed Time cover.

  Larry sat behind his solid oak desk, leaning on his elbows, listening with exaggerated attention to the motionless man who sat facing him. Larry jumped to his feet.

  “Well,” he said, glancing at his watch, “punctual as ever. No. Actually, you’re a touch early. I’ve been trying to reach you. We’ve been calling your hotel. And there’s no one at your apartment.” His shiny head bobbed up and down in excitement. “I was hoping to talk to you alone…before…” Then he noticed Judith. “Who’s this?”

  Marsha introduced them.

  “What does she have to do with…” Larry hesitated “… all this.” He indicated the chair, whose occupant hadn’t moved. But now he stood up. A slender, elegant figure in cool charcoal gray, he turned and surveyed the two women with an expression of grave interest. He took a step toward them, hesitated, leaning on the back of his chair with one hand, then, drawing his shoulders up with obvious effort, he advanced again.

  “I should like to introduce,” Larry said with overwhelming formality, “Mr. Ethan George MacMurty, the next governor of Massachusetts.” He looked at Marsha, then at MacMurty, then again at Marsha.

  He was taller than Marsha remembered, and grayer, his hair almost white at the temples, his long sideburns completely white. His eyes were warm brown ovals, the skin on his face sallow.

  “Miss Hillier…Mrs. Hayes, I’m glad to meet you.” He stretched out a big, friendly hand, the kind Judith had always trusted. His palm was hard and dry, his fingers encircled Judith’s hand completely.

  “Do you still take an interest in toys?” she asked.

  “Alas, my dear,” MacMurty said, sadly, “I no longer have time to play. The world around us has turned far too serious—wouldn’t you say, Miss Hillier?” His voice was deep and resonant, with a slight Boston twang that reminded Judith of the Kennedys.

  “And rather dangerous,” Marsha said. “Especially for publishers. You and your friends have been thorough.”

  “Apparently not,” he said. “Since I am here as a supplicant.”

  “Perhaps we should all sit down,” Larry said, attempting to take charge. “Then we can review our options.” He was fussing with the broad leather chairs around his checkerboard coffee table. “Mr. MacMurty has explained to me some of the implications…”

  “Did you know when I would be back?” Marsha interrupted, turning to MacMurty.

  “No. I wasn’t expecting you till later. I assumed you had unfinished business in London. Lawyers…”

  Larry tried to usher Judith into one of the chairs. She wondered why Marsha looked so pleased at the mention of lawyers. That was part of the information she had given David. Why would David have agreed to work for them? Money?

  Marsha sat with her blue canvas bag on her knees, waiting.

  “Lawyers usually take such a long time,” MacMurty sat, heavily, next to Judith.

  “What implications?” Marsha asked.

  “I don’t think we have time to review all the details, Miss Hillier. I have explained our position to Mr. Shapiro. Our lawyers have drawn up the documents to prevent you from publishing this libelous material—and libelous it is, I think you will agree. I also have reason to believe you will have great difficulty proving the veracity of your ‘author.’ ” He said the word with disgust. “I have told Mr. Shapiro some of the known facts about this ‘author’ of yours—a vicious, reptilic creature not likely to desert his natural habitat to be a witness in your libel action…”

  “His name?” Larry asked Marsha.

  “Ferenc Jozsef,” she said.

 
“How much did you learn about him?” MacMurty asked, his brown eyes small pinpoints.

  “We were not there to discuss him,” Marsha said.

  “I would have thought, Miss Hillier, that one of the primary rules of your profession is to check the credibility of a source. Perhaps this one would not have mentioned his primary profession, which is blackmail and murder? Did he tell you about his gang of assassins? About his personal responsibility for several hundred deaths?”

  Marsha held her bag closer. She had already guessed Ferenc was prepared to trade in whatever came his way.

  “Human life,” MacMurty went on, “is of no importance to him. Mine isn’t, yours isn’t. Karen Poole’s wasn’t, and she had been an associate of his. Her mangled body was found under the Northern Express. Did he tell you about Floud and Oleg Lyalin, Herbert Norman, Alfred Johnson and Leonid Zaitsev? I expect not, or you might have backed away from him. And perhaps he didn’t mention that his modest share of the international arms trade is worth $40 million? That he thrives on others’ hardships? That he has supplied tanks and handguns to the Iraqis, French military equipment to the Argentines, F-4 fighters to Iran? Peace is bad for his business.” MacMurty’s finger stabbed at the air, emphasizing each word.

  “Yes,” Marsha said after a moment. “Yes, that could all be true, but it wouldn’t change the substance of the manuscript.”

  “Don’t you see he is using you, that you have become one of his pawns? That the publication of this pack of contrived lies would serve his ends and his alone?”

  Marsha shook her head.

  “He is counting on your natural gullibility, and, forgive me for saying so, your greed. Surely you are not going to believe what a rabid warmongering son-of-a-bitch tells you? You are not going to publish that garbage?”

  “We have hardly had time to review this…” Larry said. “We haven’t even…”

  “He has proof,” Marsha said, quietly. “You know that. You have collected up the other copies of the manuscript…”

  “And killed in order to do so,” Judith said. “Whatever your purpose is, you cannot justify that. And you kidnapped…”