The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  A table had been reserved for them near the door, but tucked protectingly against a wall. A “happening” was in progress, all eyes intent on the stage. Their entry, expertly guided by one of the owners of the place, who had glanced at the newspaper and the bright little green bag, then welcomed them with a nod, was unnoticed. They sat down in the semi-darkness with some feeling of safety. Even when the muted blue illumination coloured the room again, it was dim enough to keep their table nicely shadowed. Drinks came quietly. They didn’t need to make a pretence of animated conversation. For no one seemed to be paying them the slightest attention. They looked, this well-dressed man and this elegant young woman, like many of the other couples who were watching the silvered square of dance floor with tolerant amusement.

  So this was Alex, she thought, as he lit her cigarette. And can he be nervous, when he talks so little? Or is he trying to gauge me? After all, it is the first time we have made contact. But it won’t be the last, so let’s hope he loses some of this stiff manner. Would he have preferred to work with a man? Instinctively, she opened her bag, drew out her mirror, pretended to add some lipstick to her perfectly coloured lips. She was reassured by what she saw. In the soft light, her face seemed luminous, as pretty as she remembered it: pale gold hair was perfect, slightly negligent, yet carefully in place; triangle of green shadow on each eyelid made the eyes look truly green. He was studying her profile. Now that was much better. She hoped he liked tip-tilted noses and long lashes. One might as well enjoy one’s work.

  But, when he spoke, his voice was business-like. His elbow was on the table, his chin resting in his cupped hand so that his lips were shielded. “Keep your bag open,” he told her. “I have to leave soon.”

  “What a pity,” she said. And I’m just a necessary nuisance, she thought angrily. She smiled brightly.

  “That’s better,” he told her, glancing at his watch. “You were much too solemn.”

  She had to laugh. Alex was only anxious about his own private timetable. Where did he live? What did he do for a living? She would never know. He was an American, that was all she could guess; his French was fluent enough, but the accent was unmistakable. He knew how to dress, have his hair cut, hold himself. He was good-looking but in an inconspicuous way. For that, she was grateful. If one had to make a public appearance, perhaps run into friends, there would be no need to explain her companion. He would fit in perfectly. Even his age—the late thirties—was right; he would have money to spend. “When?” she asked, as the lights dimmed for another girl-show and the dancers started pushing their way through the tables to their own chairs. “Now?”

  He nodded, relieved that he did not have to prompt her. He dropped his arm, straightened his sleeve, pulled his cuff into place. “Now.”

  Her lipstick fell from her fingers. He bent to pick it up, left it lying under the black shadow of the table, brought up his closed fist as if he held it safely retrieved. She showed only a fleeting astonishment as her hand felt the strange shape of the cuff link he had pressed into it. Quietly, she dropped it into the small zipper compartment in her bag, replaced her mirror, snapped everything secure. So, she thought, he had come prepared to meet Bruno, he was annoyed that he hadn’t a lipstick to replace mine; idiot, did he imagine that I’d exclaim and open my hand and have a look at his cuff link? Does he think that a woman has to be plain, dowdy and intense before she can have brains? He was one of those very security-minded people, who liked things to go as planned. He would be frowning now, instead of smiling with relief, if he could know her guesses: he had got a message this evening, probably around six, when she had been given her emergency instructions, telling him to cancel Bruno and substitute her. She almost said, “Don’t worry about how I get home. Someone is waiting for me in a car nearby. I’ll see he gets your cuff link.” But she resisted the impulse. She would only set him on edge again, at all this extra caution which spelled danger; couriers, like herself, were accustomed to it. She, for one, enjoyed it.

  “Like to leave?” she asked, her hand lying lightly over her green bag. From now until she delivered the cuff link, that bag was part of her body. “I’ll go first. That looks better. Shall I make my exit directly, or head for the ladies’ room?”

  “Directly.” He wanted her out of this place before his visit back-stage. That was another operation altogether, and it was its combination with this meeting with Erica that really had annoyed him. Much too dangerous, he felt, even if some crisis had caused it. But instructions were instructions, and you did not make a protest over a telephone.

  “Then,” she said with a pretty pout, “we are having a small quarrel. And I take my leave with a woman’s last word.” She tucked the bag under her arm, holding it securely with her hand. At least, he thought, she intends to keep it safe, but what if someone in French Counter-intelligence arrested her on her way to deliver the gold cuff link? What if her purse was searched? Such an unlikely object would be at once examined; it wouldn’t take long for trained men to find the way the heavy design lifted off, like a cap, and exposed the small flat square of microfilm. Blown up, it would make four full pages of concise information. He had found out all the answers to the questions in last week’s pencil stub—a dangerous worrying job. And now a woman, still in her twenties, enjoying every minute of her little play-acting, was holding his possible death warrant in her green satin purse. She was rising, saying clearly, “Thank you for a miserable evening. And don’t call me tomorrow. Or the next day, either.” She walked out as the lights dimmed completely, and all eyes turned to watch the stage.

  He gave her five minutes to get her wrap and leave. Even if no one had been listening at all, she still would have played her exit lines perfectly. She was as exhibitionist as the girl-show. It wasn’t difficult for him to look depressed as he paid and left the room, the folded newspaper in his hand. He had his handkerchief out as he entered the lobby, up at his face as if he were battling an attack of sneezing.

  He collected his coat, for he wouldn’t leave by the front entrance, and, as a seeming afterthought, made his way to the men’s lavatory. With the show in progress, there was no one standing around the narrow corridors, and it was a simple matter to leave one and enter another that led behind the stage. A couple of men, watching the girls from the wings, paid him no attention—special friends dropped in to the dressing-rooms frequently. A man fussed over lights, an elderly dresser argued quietly with the make-up artist, who practised his technique too obviously on himself. He disliked this place the more he visited it; what had seemed intelligently amusing at first did not stand up to repetition, and was now preciously erotic and pretentiously boring. The nonsense world, he reflected, the supply and demand of decadence. It was comic, though, that the secret backers of this night club should find it so easy to stimulate the neurotic among their enemies and make them still more incompetent to deal with the real world.

  The last corridor reached along the back of the night club. It contained four unused dressing-rooms, two doors marked “Supplies, electrical,” and the back entrance from the old delivery yard. It was poorly lit, its walls were peeling and cracked in the best Italian movie style, and it smelled faintly of cheese and sausage. A fair-haired young man in worn overalls and soiled undershirt was sitting on a crate near the entrance. He rose as he saw Alex, came towards him, his eyes checking the folded Greek newspaper, and knocked five times in rapid succession on a dressing-room door. It opened. A man’s voice said quietly, “Come in!” It wasn’t the voice that Alex had been expecting. Makarov—could it be Makarov?

  And it was Konstantin Makarov who was sitting behind the door, keeping out of sight from the corridor. He closed the door swiftly, pointed to the chair that faced the looking-glass on one wall, took the remaining chair (it was in the corner of the small empty room, beyond the stretch of light from the bulb that hung high over Alex’s head), and lit another long cigarette. There were two stubs at his feet. Other stubs lay in the dust near Alex’s feet. Whoever had b
een sitting here had retreated to the next dressing-room through the connecting door that lay between Makarov’s chair and the mirror.

  Makarov glanced at his watch. “Well timed. Congratulations. You have been doing well in everything.”

  This was Makarov’s old manner—cool, but pleasant, and completely professional. There was no reference to the fact that he had not seen Alex since he had recruited him in Moscow. Was he now stationed in Paris, perhaps as assistant to the director of the network which controlled Alex? The director, himself, might very well be the man watching this room from next door. The mirror was certainly a one-way arrangement, letting Alex be seen as clearly as through a window, while he stared blankly at its chipped frame and then let his eyes wander back to Makarov. He had no objection to being watched and studied. A director must have a definite curiosity about those who worked for him. He would be a Russian, of course, and, like Makarov, a highly trained intelligence agent. This meeting, thought Alex with rising excitement and pleasure, must be important if Makarov and his superior are taking a personal interest in it. But I can’t even show that I’m honoured he trusts me this much. He is merely the man I met in Moscow at many literary parties, under a name which was probably just as invented as the names he used in Washington and at the United Nations. Does he remember the night we got drunk together and he talked about his visits to America?

  Makarov’s cold grey eyes held a small smile, as if this meeting was a nice little joke to be shared between old friends. He was a short man, solid, square-faced, snub-nosed. Thinning red hair receded from a massive brow. He spoke English fluently, with a husky rasp in his voice—he always seemed to be on the point of clearing his throat—and his manner was that of a dependable and pleasant-tempered man. Suddenly, the joke was gone from his eyes. Briskly he said, “You will know me as Peter.”

  Alex nodded. That was definite: the past was wiped out; Makarov was dead, Peter lived.

  “First,” said Peter, “you made the delivery to Erica?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “A pretty girl,” Alex said coldly.

  “And a clever one. Don’t underestimate her, my friend. You did not like her? In one way, that has a big advantage. You will be able to keep your mind on business when you work with her. Oh, yes, you may have to see more of Erica. Bruno is out.”

  Alex asked, in quick alarm, “Something happened?”

  “He was followed into the Bois, yesterday morning. The drop was intercepted—no, no, don’t look so worried. We took quick action. Regrettable, of course. We would prefer not to be forced to defend ourselves in that way. But results justified our decision. Bruno has been saved from his carelessness and is now away from Paris, and you have been saved from discovery. You were in very great danger, my friend.” Alex was still too close to panic. He could say nothing.

  “You will understand now why we advised you, on your six o’clock call to us, not to ask Antonini any direct questions at Farraday’s party. We had hoped that by getting an invitation, you could talk closely with Antonini. But because of the interception of our orders to you, we decided that no suspicion must be aroused. We were forced to rely on what you could pick up in general conversation. Which leads me to our second point of business: what did Antonini say about the discovery of the microphones in the American Embassy in Moscow? Give me an exact report while the words are still fresh in your mind.”

  Alex told him, quickly, concisely.

  “Was that all?” Peter hid his disappointment well.

  “He said he was the wrong man to be asked any questions.”

  “Meaning that there was someone else who could tell more? Or was that just a feint, to save himself from further trouble, to pretend he is of less importance than he actually is?” The questions were rhetorical, for Peter was lost in thought. “Did the man Rosenfeld talk privately with Antonini? With any of the others? No?” Again there was only the hint of disappointment. “Well, then, anything else?”

  “The usual stories about Moscow,” Alex said. “And one story about a dead Nazi who may be alive.” He smiled, allowing himself some credit for having waited, as a matter of tact and protocol, for the end of Peter’s important questions before he presented his one small triumph. “The name was Heinrich Berg.”

  Peter said nothing. He did not move a muscle. He was watching and waiting.

  Alex explained quickly, “I noted that name, late in February, when I was asked to check any files where Berg might be mentioned. I found nothing. I reported that back to headquarters, in March.”

  “Who was speaking of Berg?”

  “Mrs. Farraday brought the subject up. Her brother, John Craig, had heard the story from one of his professors whom he met in Paris yesterday.”

  “And Craig believed this story?”

  “No. But the professor—his name is Sussman—I think he should be questioned. If he did see Berg, then—”

  “Berg is of no interest to us.”

  Isn’t he? He certainly was last February. Alex remembered the chances he had taken to try to find out about Berg. And the extreme care to protect himself. Utmost caution, his instructions had read. Utmost danger of self-revelation, they should have been labelled.

  “What kind of man is this John Craig?”

  “Quiet, disinterested; perhaps stupid outside of his own subject; the type of intellectual who doesn’t have much interest in what is going on. Politically immature. The talk, which was frank, seemed to shock him. Perhaps he did not want to believe what he heard. In that case, he might be useful to us. Physically, he is personable. Pleasant, easy manners. An economic historian, I believe.”

  “Why is he in Paris?”

  “He is only passing through on his way to the Greek Islands—Crete and Rhodes, places like that. So his sister told me. He is writing a book about trade routes. She told me that, too.”

  “Did he himself see this Heinrich Berg?”

  Alex hid his surprise at the reintroduction of Berg, who was of no interest to anyone. “No. Craig only gave Sussman a drink to cheer him up—I’m quoting him—and then Sussman left. Craig was embarrassed at the story being spread around by his sister—he didn’t believe it himself, as far as I could judge.” And I don’t make many mistakes, as Peter must well know if he has read any of my reports, and I think he has. “Craig is staying at the Saint-Honoré. Do you want me to see him soon?”

  “No. Forget Berg. Forget this fantastic story. We have something more important to occupy your mind.” Peter paused for emphasis. “Can you arrange for yourself to be assigned to Smyrna?”

  “No.”

  “But there is a very large American installation near there! With their wives and children the Americans have established—”

  “I know. It is quite a civilian colony. Even so, I would need a very good excuse even to visit it. People would want to know why I was going to that part of Turkey.”

  “You have friends stationed there?”

  You know I have, Alex thought; you’ve read my dossier. You’ve got all my possible sources of information around the world. He nodded.

  “When do you go on vacation?”

  “Actually, I’ve been planning to go to Spain for a few weeks.”

  “Have you talked about Spain?”

  “Not yet...” Alex was embarrassed. “It’s purely a private affair, not a business trip this time.” It was a delicate reference to the fact that he hadn’t had a real holiday in three years.

  “Then you will cancel your idea of Spain. And you will spend your little holiday in visiting your friends around Smyrna. That is a good excuse, isn’t it? Ephesus is near by, and many excursions you’ll enjoy. You can also hire a boat in Smyrna and sail around some of the Greek Islands—even as far as the island of Mykonos. Yes, that would be a pleasant way to come back to Paris. On Mykonos, you could hand your information to Erica, herself. You wouldn’t have to worry about meeting a stranger—no more tiresome identifications neces
sary. Your work would be done, you would know you had delivered it into safe hands, you could forget about it and even have a few days of real vacation.”

  Alex had to smile at Peter’s almost authentic enthusiasm. Smyrna should be pleasant at this time of year; the Greek Islands would be heaven. Too bad that he had business as well as pleasure on this vacation. Still, he could have been sent to Lille or Marseilles; that kind of “vacation” had happened before.

  “And now you must leave,” Peter said, rising to his feet, smiling regretfully. “You will hear from me. Then you will know the details of your assignment. Meanwhile, there will be no more visits to the Bois de Boulogne, no more meetings here. Not for you, my friend.” He shook hands very formally. “We value you, comrade.”

  Alex flushed with pleasure. “I’ll do my best.”

  “And that will be excellent.”

  Alex left quickly, ignoring the young man who let him out by the delivery entrance. I’ve been promoted, he was thinking: it is something big, and I’ve been picked for the job. He didn’t even mind the devious journey back to his parked car, or the careful manoeuvrings before he could hit the right road. Even the dull drive back to his rooms, after this long day in Paris, didn’t worry him tonight.

  * * *

  The man who now called himself Peter opened the connecting door between the dressing-rooms. “What did you think of him?”

  Insarov rose from his chair, switched off the translucent mirror. His usually calm face was frowning. He smoothed his dark hair, touched with grey at the temples, as he always did when he was making up his mind about a rather evasive problem. “Impression, favourable. He is intelligent. I could almost feel him making guesses about you, about me sitting in this room. But that is why you recruited him in the first place.” Insarov’s bright blue eyes looked very directly at Peter. “You say he is right for this job. I accept that.” And I hold you responsible, the steady gaze said.