The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  “Abduction?” Duclos was startled.

  “And questioning. They tried that on Antonini in Moscow, remember? How else could they get the completely full information they want? They’ve got to have it before they start setting any plan into operation.”

  “Then you’d do well to guard Sutherland. Completely. Every way.” A new idea gleamed brightly in Duclos’ eyes. “Insarov... Isn’t he interested in psychology, in the art of questioning a prisoner? Would he deal with Sutherland himself, if they managed to get him?”

  “Sutherland might be considered too important for subordinates to deal with,” Partridge agreed. His worry grew.

  “Perhaps they’ll still aim for Antonini. Even I assumed he was your chief expert until you told me the facts.”

  “I think they may now be looking around for another man. Antonini let one small remark slip at the Farradays’ party. Something about not being the guy the Russians were looking for. He said it half-jokingly, among friends. But Alex was there. He would pick it up and report it. So the question is now: does Insarov believe it was a joke or the truth? I don’t think we can risk anything on his answer. We’d better make sure that we have someone else in Smyrna along with Antonini and Sutherland. Someone who was in Moscow at the time they were there. Someone who was one of Antonini’s friends.” Partridge’s voice quickened as if he already could see the man. “And now he turns up in Smyrna, is seen again with Antonini. Not constantly. Just enough. As if they were together but trying to conceal the fact. How’s that for a nice red herring?”

  “Thank God I don’t fit the role,” Duclos said. “Who is he? George Farraday?”

  “No amateurs on this job. We want a professional who knows what he is letting himself in for. Thomas O’Malley.”

  “The Australian? Who is he working for—you?” And I never guessed it, Duclos thought with annoyance. He liked O’Malley, had known him for a couple of years.

  “For British Intelligence. And if you don’t know that, Yves, then I don’t think Insarov will.”

  “But he might not believe, either, that an Australian could be on your team of experts.”

  “Except that O’Malley was born in the United States and lived there until his people took him back to Australia when he was twelve years old. Insarov will soon find that out, once he starts digging into O’Malley’s history.”

  “But will he believe that ‘Australian journalist’ could be a cover for working with Americans?”

  “Why not? He has been conditioned by his own experience to believe such a pattern of espionage exists—it’s employed constantly by his own side. Think of the Polish journalists and the Czech diplomats who have been working for the Russians.”

  Duclos nodded. Yes, he had to admit, even chauffeurs attached to the Eastern European missions abroad had turned out to be radio experts or fully qualified engineers, often of far more importance in rank than the diplomats they drove around. All of them had been trained by the Russians; all of them acted on Moscow’s instructions. Their own countries, Communist as they were, came second.

  “Yes, O’Malley’s the man for this job. He is as tough as they come,” Partridge was saying. “He has such a sense of humour that he might even enjoy it.”

  “That depends on how far Insarov will go with his questioning, doesn’t it?” Duclos asked grimly.

  “We make sure,” Partridge said equally grimly, “that Insarov never reaches that distance.”

  “It is still a cold-blooded idea—using O’Malley as a decoy.”

  “You inspired it. You said Insarov might deal with the questioning himself. If he thought O’Malley was the man they wanted, he would be on hand when they tried to take him. It’s easier to question a man near the abduction point than to smuggle him through hostile territory, like Turkey, into Russia. If you were Insarov, where would you have your prisoner taken out from Smyrna?” Partridge pointed towards the map.

  Duclos didn’t even need to look at it. “Into the Aegean,” he said. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean Mykonos.”

  “No,” Partridge agreed. But, he thought, it does mean some place where Insarov feels he has established a margin of safety.

  “The examination of a prisoner could even be done on a boat, a small yacht,” Duclos said unhappily.

  “Yes,” Partridge agreed again. But, he thought, that depends on the weather and Insarov’s seamanship. The Aegean could make more people helpless in shorter time than any other body of water. Even the best of sailors ran for the shelter of an island when the north wind suddenly rose. “Anyway,” he said, closing the topic, “it will be entirely up to O’Malley whether he wants to help us in this. I’ll contact him through Chris Holland, of course.”

  “That should make everything quite regular,” Duclos said sadly.

  “We are not asking O’Malley to do anything we wouldn’t be prepared to do ourselves.”

  “You mean you’d let yourself be abducted by Insarov to help the British?”

  “If it would catch Insarov—yes. And so would you.”

  “I’d have to think about that. To help my own country—I’d agree. But, for the sake of the British—” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

  “Against men like Insarov,” Partridge said, “there are no French or British or Americans. Let’s leave that kind of stupidity to our politicians.”

  Duclos was smiling. Partridge had offered him one of his own favourite arguments. “Touché,” he said quietly.

  Partridge relaxed. “Why argue, anyway? As Rosie would say, we could all be wrong. Insarov may now be en route back to Moscow by way of Milan.”

  Duclos laughed briefly at some thought of his own. “Sorry. I was thinking of that innocent little party at the Meurice. Apart from the Farradays and John Craig, everyone else was Intelligence of some kind, except for Wilshot and Bradley.”

  “And which of those two is Alex?”

  “The one who is planning to go to Smyrna.”

  Partridge smiled. “They are both going to Greece. Separately. Seemingly quite ignorant of each other’s vacation plans. Bradley has leave coming up from his job with NATO; Wilshot has been talking of finding some sun and a story about Grivas in Athens. Take your pick, Yves. Which?”

  “Then we’ll have to wait and see which one travels farther east than Athens,” said Duclos amiably.

  “That’s about it,” Partridge agreed. Unless, of course, Rosie turned up some extra information: Alex seen without horn-rimmed glasses or his face averted or his handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. Too cautious, Erica had called him. But she was the one whose picture was filed in Bernard’s office. “Erica’s choice—the American girl over at the Hotel Beauharnais—what do you think we should do about her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Let her be played for an idiot?”

  “Just that,” Duclos said. “It’s better than having her dead, isn’t it?”

  Put that way, it was. “Well, I’d better get back to the Saint-Honoré,” Partridge said, glancing at his watch.

  “Are you going to talk with Craig?”

  “If he hasn’t already packed and left Paris in disgust.” Partridge could guess Craig’s view of the situation: we do nothing, while Berg walks around unarrested.

  “That would be a pity. As you said, he’s a natural.”

  He is more than that now, thought Partridge. Craig is a necessity. He has met both Wilshot and Bradley; he can identify Berg at one glance. And who else have we got who can make that claim? “We’ll keep in touch. By telephone. I don’t think we should meet again in Paris.”

  “You won’t drop in at Le Happening tonight? We needn’t meet. But you never know who may be drifting around there. Alex, for instance? And there are a couple of other men who have been making weekly visits behind stage. They’re due to turn up this evening. So the cloakroom attendant tells me.”

  “Have you talked much with her?” Partridge asked quickly. “No, no. Just a word in p
assing. Don’t worry. She thinks I’m another policeman, one of her own crowd.”

  “You know,” Partridge began, and then stopped short. He wasn’t only taking over Rosie’s job, it seemed; he was taking over Rosie’s supercaution. Anyway, Duclos had his own job to do for Bernard, and the night club had become part of their action. “Can I plan on your help in Mykonos, or will Bernard need you here?” he asked.

  “Plan on it,” Duclos said with a wide grin. “I’ve always wanted to paint. Mimi, will you come as my model?” He caught up some opalescent silk from a display stand and draped its transparency around her shoulders. Partridge closed the door on their laughter. No picnic, Rosie had said. But Partridge was smiling as he straightened the CLOSED ON TUESDAY notice. From what he had heard, Mimi at a picnic could be as dangerous as a sidewinder.

  Then he put thoughts, ideas, guesses, worries out of his mind, and concentrated on his careful journey to the Saint-Honoré.

  9

  Partridge had been right about John Craig. That afternoon he decided to leave Paris and head for Rome and points east. Possibly tomorrow, Wednesday, marking a week exactly since he had arrived here and gone strolling along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Almost a week since Sussman had died; almost a week for Heinrich Berg to walk around the streets of Paris, a completely free man enjoying his victory. What was Rosie doing, Partridge, Messieurs Galland and Tillier of the Sixième Arrondissement? What the hell was anyone doing?

  After an angry lunch, he tried to walk some of his bad temper away by marching at a good pace along the left bank of the Seine. He didn’t stop at the bookstalls today. He didn’t even slow up for the corner of the Rue Bonaparte as he usually did when he passed this way. The girl was never in sight. Around this district he had passed hundreds of pretty girls, hundreds of students, singly, in groups, but she was never one of them. By half-past three his temper was less ragged. He took a bus back across the Seine towards the Avenue de l’Opéra, and walked on to the American Express office. There was sunshine above, trees were now a brighter green. Spring clothes were venturing out, faces looked happy to be breathing gentler air. April was a resurgence, a welling of plans and hopes. And all he could feel was annoyance and disappointment mixed with incredible loneliness. Why, he thought suddenly, no one has stopped to speak to me or strike up an acquaintance in the last twenty-four hours. And at that, he had to smile at himself.

  He felt still better when he reached his destination and collected a nice assortment of travel folders. Rome, Brindisi, Corfu, Athens, Crete, Rhodes, Istanbul... Domes and towers, blue skies and minarets, sunshine and rippling water; delightful exaggeration and a highly coloured come-on? Even so, this was more like it. Now for some airline details, an enjoyable hour of decision, and then back to the hotel to pack.

  But, standing in the downstairs hall, studying a flight schedule for Rome, a crowd of young Americans around him opening letters they had just collected, he glanced up at a couple of long-haired jubilants pulling out their expected cheques, and beyond them, now visible, now half-hidden, now visible again, he saw the girl. Or was it? Quickly he pushed his way through the various small groups, some triumphant, some downcast, clustering together as if they were afraid of being alone, and almost reached the smooth dark head, the profile that he remembered. Then he halted, amazed at his speedy reaction; embarrassed too. It was the girl, all right, a slender outline in grey suit and white silk shirt among the sloppy Joes and straggle-headed Janes flapping around in their uniform of beatnik conformity—dirty blue jeans and drooping sweaters, straight from the Rue de la Huchette. From her thin-heeled pumps to her softly brushed hair, she was quite remarkable. Simplicity. A distinction of taste, of quiet manners, of independence.

  He stood, hesitating. He could hardly go up and say “Remember me?” He was the man who had witnessed her hurt. Watching her now, he could realise how her tears, shed in public, would be an agonising memory. He had been the invading stranger, someone she never wanted to see again.

  She was studying a list which she held in her hand, her face grave as she calculated and then relaxed a little as she came to some decision. As she slipped the piece of paper into her handbag, she glanced up as if she had actually felt him look at her. For a moment, her eyes widened. She had recognised him. Then, just as abruptly, she averted her head and turned towards the door. He let her go. And I’ll never get a second chance, he thought; luck doesn’t run that way. He followed slowly, giving her plenty of time to escape from an unwelcome encounter.

  But as he came through the doorway into the gentle warm sunshine, she was standing there. Waiting. Looking towards him. Slightly uncertain, she took a step forward; then thought better of it. Does she think I don’t want to meet her again? he wondered in amazement. This time, as she moved away with her head high, he caught up with her. “Hello, there!” he said, and stopped her completely. “Sorry for staring. I didn’t think you’d recognise me.”

  “And I wasn’t sure that you remembered me.” She smiled. “I wanted to—I wanted to thank you.”

  “Then come and have a drink with me.” He glanced at his watch. “Or tea, or coffee, or something.” My God, he thought, where has all my conversation gone to?

  “I’m meeting some people at half-past four.” She frowned at her own watch. “It isn’t far, fortunately.”

  “That gives us exactly ten minutes to get to know each other. Couldn’t you be late? Or send despairing messages?”

  “Such as?” Her eyes were actually smiling.

  “Oh, that you’re coming down with measles.”

  She laughed, shook her head. “This is too important for me. You see, I’m running away.” The laughter had vanished; her voice and eyes became expressionless.

  He stared at her. “Where are you meeting your friends?”

  “The Café de la Paix.”

  “I’ll walk you there. If I may.”

  “Of course.” She started walking slowly, and he fell into pace. She glanced at the folders in his hand. “Are you leaving Paris, too?”

  “Tomorrow. At least, that was the plan.”

  She took the folders and looked through them. “All these places? But how wonderful!”

  “I’m travelling until September. Getting material for a book.”

  “On what?” She was genuinely interested.

  “Trade routes,” he said, and waited for her comments. They weren’t stupid. She didn’t gush “How fascinating!” She didn’t take refuge in a blank “Oh!” She said, “I think we’d need more than ten minutes to hear about that. Are you an economist?”

  “Partly that, partly a historian.”

  “Ancient history?”

  “Trying to learn something about it,” he said with an attempt at diffidence.

  “Rhodes,” she said softly. “I’ve always wanted to visit it. Do you know, in June, there’s a valley filled with butterflies? They rise in a cloud—” She smiled handing him back the folders, checking her enthusiasm. “Of course, if the cloud was so thick that it blotted out everything, it might be more frightening than beautiful.”

  “So you’re leaving Paris, too,” he said, wondering where she was going. Back to America?

  “For a little while.” She added with painful frankness, “I think that’s the best cure, don’t you?”

  He thought of last Wednesday evening, of that long and unhappy quarrel. So she was still vulnerable, was she? “It usually works,” he said briefly.

  “I’d have thought you would never run away from your emotions.” She looked at him with new interest.

  “I guess we all do, at times.” He stopped thinking of his own defeats. “And where are you bound for?”

  “Mykonos.”

  “That isn’t so far from Rhodes. Perhaps you’ll see your cloud of butterflies yet.”

  She shook her head. “The budget won’t stretch as far as that. I can just manage the fare to Mykonos and back. I don’t have to worry about hotel bills. I’m staying with a friend—a girl I know
at art school here. Her uncle has lent her his house for the summer. It must be nice to have uncles like that.”

  “Provided they stay in the background and don’t arrange your days for you.”

  “Oh, Maritta’s uncle isn’t going to be around much, if at all.”

  “Then it sounds perfect. How long will you actually stay with your Greek friend? I might be passing Mykonos in July—”

  “Greek? Maritta is French. Her father was Flemish, I think. Her second name is Maas. Anyway, she was born in Paris. But lots of French artists and writers go to Mykonos, you know.”

  “You’re going to paint?”

  “And relax.”

  And forget, he thought. “How long—” he began again.

  “Three weeks. I have to be back in Paris to finish my classes.”

  “You take them very seriously. More than your friend does.”

  “Maritta doesn’t have to take anything very seriously,” she said with a smile.

  “Ah, those rich uncles again.”

  “There’s only one, as far as I know. And not so rich, really. He just knows how to spend the money he has. That’s an art in itself, isn’t it?”

  “Wish I could afford it,” he said with a grin. He saw the Café de la Paix just ahead of them. He had passed this corner several times in the last few days, and it always reminded him of a bend in a river with several currents all jostling in perpetual motion. People rose from tables, people sat down at tables, people walked past on the narrow strip of pavement left to them, buses and cars poured in and out of seven tributaries to sweep around the Place de l’Opéra and gouge their way through the persistent streams of pedestrians. “This may hardly be the place,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the grinding gears and screeching brakes, “but don’t you think it’s time we introduced ourselves? I’m John Craig.”