chapter ONE
DURELL AWOKE knowing that this day was both an end and a beginning. It was not like any other day of his life.
He felt the same, hut he was not the same. Overnight, there had been a change. It was nothing tangible as yet; nothing he could see or touch. But the difference was there, hanging heavily in the humid dawn of Washington in August.
He had not slept well. He was not a man given to nerves, since in his profession the nervous ones were those who were most quickly dead. But there had been the quarrel with Deirdre, and that brief telephone talk with General Dickinson McFee.
Staring at the gray dawn light on the ceiling, Durell heard Deirdre’s voice again, cool and clear and remote.
“I must go to New York, Sam. Can you come with me?”
“No.”
“Will you marry me, Sam?”
“No.”
“Not now? Or not ever?”
“Not yet."
He sensed her hesitation, pain and conquered pride. “Is something wrong, Sam?”
“No.”
“Is it something with your job?”
“You know better than to ask me that, Dee.”
“Please tell me, Sam. I’m hurt. If it‘s your job, I can understand. I want to understand. And I can wait. I’ll wait forever, darling. I love you, Sam.”
He said nothing. The telephone hummed.
“Then I guess it’s good-by,” she whispered.
“Good-by,” he said.
So there everything had changed.
Durell got out of bed slowly, aware of the oppressive heat, his sticky skin, his fatigue that struggled against a mounting inner tension. He was a tall man, heavily muscled, with an athlete’s grace of movement. His hair was thick and black, and he had a thin, carefully trimmed mustache. His blue eyes were quick and temperamental. He had gambler’s hands, inherited from his Grandpa Jonathan, down in the bayou country below New Orleans. His hot Cajun temperament required constant discipline, since a spy who lived by reflex emotions was one who did not live very long. He was a subchief in the K Section of the CIA, and before that he had been with G2 in the Pentagon, and before that with the old OSS in Europe. It was lonely and dangerous work, but he could not imagine now any other kind of existence for himself.
But today that would be changed, too.
The telephone rang in the other room of his small bachelor apartment while he stood under the cold shower. He let it ring. He spooned black Cuban coffee into the pot in his kitchenette and started it perking while he dressed. The telephone rang again. He ignored it and went to the window and looked out at the sunlit street.
The hot morning light made sharp, geometric patterns of black and white on the placid sidewalk. The green sycamore trees stood in patience under the blasting heat. A man in a seersucker suit lounged at the bus stop on the corner, holding a newspaper. Frank Wyatt. An open convertible was parked diagonally across the way from the apartment house entrance, and a man with a pink bald head fringed with curly yellow hair sat uncomfortably in the sun. Joe Tramm. Durell’s mouth tightened and he began a swift, systematic search of his rooms.
He had been out of the apartment all day, which had given them plenty of time to do what had to be done. He found the first bug behind his radio-phonograph, in a corner of the living room. The second bug was tacked to the back of a pigeonhole in his desk. A third was behind a Rivera print over the telephone. He looked at the telephone itself with some suspicion.
Now he knew for certain that it had begun.
He felt anger, and then smiled wryly at himself for resenting the surveillance that he himself had invited.
The telephone rang while he sipped the hot, black Cuban coffee. This time he picked it up.
It was Sidonie Osbourn. Sidonie was the widow of Lew Osbourn, who had been Durell‘s teammate years ago, in Germany. She was Dickinson McFee’s secretary now. She knew nothing about today.
“Sam? Glad I caught you in." She sounded breathless, and an image of her petite French figure drifted across Durell’s mind. “I haven’t much time, dear. I’m calling from Alexandria. The twins are just off to school. May I be blunt?”
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Deirdre spent the night here. What happened between you two yesterday?”
“Nothing.”
“I thought you were going to be married next week.”
“It's off.”
“Oh, Sam!”
“I’m sorry, Sid. I can’t explain it now. I can’t even talk to you now.”
“I’ve made all the arrangements. I talked to the minister only yesterday morning. Quiet, simple ceremony, just as you and Deirdre wanted it. What is the matter? You sound so strange."
“I feel strange.”
“You and Deirdre love each other. I thought you both—”
“She’s gone to New York. Forget about it, Sid. Please. I'm sorry for all the trouble you’ve gone to.”
“Aren’t you going to call her?”
“No."
“Aren’t you going to see her?
“No.”
“Sam, don’t be so damned stubborn!"
“Good-by, Sid,” he said gently.
He hung up.
He stood still, his blue eyes darkening almost to blackness. The morning heat of Washington invaded the open windows of his apartment, still and breathless and heavy, The corners of his mouth quirked as he looked around the room again. Then he picked up the telephone, hearing the dial tone like a strident insect against his ear.
“Art,” he said.
The phone buzzed.
“Art, come on, this is Sam. You’re not fooling me.”
The buzzing ended with a click. The silence was thick with embarrassment. “Sorry, Sam,” came Art Greenwald’s voice.
“Why did you bug me?” '
“Orders.”
“Whose orders?”
“Swayney.” Burritt Swayney was chief of the K Section.
Durell said simply, “Why check me?"
“It’s a hell of a note. I’m lust doing what I’m told to do. You know how Security is.”
“What am I supposed to have done?”
“I don’t know," said Greenwald. “I blew my stack at the Swine Boy when he told me to cover you. He was licking his chops. I said I’d quit first. But you see how it is. You found my bugs? ’
“I worked with you too long not to spot them."
“Don’t tell Swayney,” Art said,
“I won’t.”
“At least, I didn’t put any under your bed, kid.”
Thanks for nothing," Durell said.
He hung up, finished his coffee with two quick swallows, and started the movements of the day that would turn his world upside down.
From under his pillow he took out a thick Manila envelope and slit the seal with his thumbnail. Inside was a sheaf of currency, all in crisp new hundred-dollar bills. He counted the money expertly, his fingers deft and incredibly fast. Twenty thousand. He put the envelope of money inside his gray gabardine coat pocket. From the night table he took his gun, a short-barreled .38 Special, checked the cylinder, dropped a dozen extra cartridges into his side pocket, and fitted the gun inside his coat in the tailored pocket specially designed for it. He took a long look at the apartment before he left. He did not know when, if ever, he would be back.
Treason, Durell thought, was a word with a dirty sound, almost synonymous with spy, a word of darkness and death.
It was not quite eight in the morning, but the tree-lined street was already desolate under the heavy hand of Washington’s summer. Durell squinted in the glare of humid sunlight. Frank Wyatt in his seersucker suit still lounged at the bus stop, pretending to study his newspaper. Joe Tr
amm sat in his convertible nearby, his pink bald head and curly golden fringe of hair in contrast to the wedge of shadow that fell over his narrow face. Durell turned left, and by the time he reached the corner, he heard Tramm’s car start and swing in a U turn to follow him.
He knew Tramm and Wyatt thoroughly. Knew their good points as well as their faults. He made it easy for them at first.
Number 20 Annapolis Street was a sedate graystone building with a Georgian facade. A brass plaque beside the front door announced it as the premises of the Johnson-Kimball Company. The front offices off the marble-floored lobby echoed with clattering typewriters from the cover activities that hid the real business conducted here. Number 20 was headquarters for the K Section of the CIA, its rental not listed in the federal budget except as an unidentified sum buried in the General Disbursement funds. The doors that looked like fine walnut paneling were actually of armor-plate steel. The windows were not exactly windows.
There was no visible change in Alex, the guard at the elevator, when Durell entered. Alex was big and blond, with an automatism that perfectly suited his duties. His eyes were always cool and objective as he checked credentials, as if you were a stranger, when in reality he had seen you every day of the week for the past three years.
“Good morning, Mr. Durell. Third?”
“Fourth floor today.”
Alex’s finger hovered over the button. “Got a pass?"
“Yes.” Durell nodded.
“You know the rules, Mr. Durell.”
Durell took a card from his wallet and let Alex examine it. He had no right to the card. It did not belong to him. There were only ten in existence, and those ten were delegated to very special members of the Joint Chiefs, the AEC, a member of the White House staff, and two people from the State Department. Durell waited while Alex made up his mind. He could read nothing in the guard’s face, and he was inwardly annoyed at the way his pulse quickened like the beat of a tiny hammer inside him.
“Fourth floor,” Alex said. “Right.”
Durell hoped his relief was not too evident.
He had never been above his own section offices before. A second guard at the elevator exit examined his stolen card with care, lifted shaggy, suspicious brows at Durell, and then jerked his head as if it had been pulled by a puppet’s string. The signature could not be ignored.
“Down Corridor C to the Safe Section."
“Thank you,” Durell said, and Waited.
The shaggy brows lifted again. Cool brown button eyes grew inquisitive. “Waiting for something?”
“The card," Durell said. “May I have it back?”
“We keep it. Check at the White House for it.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“You have ten minutes to consult the files.”
“Thanks again.”
He found Corridor C, walking through an armored doorway into the building adjacent to Number 20. Nobody bothered him now. The filing cabinets in the Safe Section reached from floor to ceiling, and a gray-haired anonymous clerk helped him to find what he wanted. The file folder containing the dossiers of three men in Eastern Europe was made readily available to him. Durell noted that his fingers shook very slightly as he took the folder from the clerk’s hand, borrowed a Manila envelope in which to stow it, thanked the man, and walked out. It had taken six minutes to steal the dossiers on the most efficient organization maintained by the CIA beyond the Iron Curtain. In his hand he now carried the lives of three brave, brilliant, and desperate men. When he took the envelope with him down in the elevator, he knew it was done. He had passed the point where any of his acts might be revocable. He was committed. There was no turning back.
He had the feeling that he was being watched as he turned from the elevator on the third floor to his own office. Hazel, his secretary, was on vacation, and Sidonie Osbourn’s cousin should have been at his outer desk. Corinne was not there. He strode into his office, paused, looked at his desk, and felt his chest tighten. Someone had carefully examined the papers he had left here last night. Carefully, but not well enough. It was all of a piece with the bugs in his apartment and the watchers out on the street. He dried his hands on a handkerchief, picked up his mail, and tossed it aside without checking any of it.
There were eyes on his back.
Whirling, he saw the girl who stood in the open doorway. Corinne Ybarra had none of Sidonie’s petite figure and manner. She was a tall, firm-fleshed girl, disturbing to have in an office where concentrated work had to be done. She did not belong here, and if it hadn’t been for Sidonie’s pleas, she would not have been employed. But ever since Lew Osbourn was killed, Sidonie had been granted carte blanche in the K Section, working for General McFee. She had argued for Corinne, and Corinne was hired.
The girl looked at ease. She smiled. “Where have you been, Sam?”
He said flatly, “You’re in early.”
Still smiling, she closed the door and leaned back against it with her hands behind her. She wore a gray skirt that hugged provocative hips, and a creamy sweater with translucent beads. Her dark hair had deep glints of copper in it, like fire seen distantly in the black of night. Her mouth was full and red, suddenly pouting.
"You don’t like me, do you?”
“Liking you has nothing to do with anything that goes on in this building. You ought to know that, Corinne.”
“What were you doing up in Heaven?"
He stared at her. “Heaven?”
“The Fabulous Fourth Floor. The sanctum sanctorum. The supersecret, inviolate, sacred fourth floor.”
“I wasn‘t there,” he said heavily.
She smiled again. “But I saw you, Sam.”
“How?” .
“I saw the elevator come down. I saw you get off. I was surprised, because poor damned souls such as you and I never get to Heaven. You had an envelope, too—the one in your pocket now. Am I being too curious?”
“Much too curious.”
“But it is only because I like you, Sam. Sidonie thinks you are wonderful. Her husband, poor Lew, used to swear by Sam Durell. I am inclined to agree with them. I consider myself lucky to be working for you while Hazel is on vacation.” The quiet irony in her throaty voice belied the meaning of her words. She had only a slight accent that gave away her Catalan origin. Her hazel eyes were wide and luminous and intelligent. Opalescent earrings that matched her necklace glinted and shimmered when she shook her head. “I wish you would trust me. I would like to help you, if you would only let me.”
He sat down behind the desk. His body felt heavy and tired, although it was not hot in the office, thanks to the quiet purring of the air-conditioner. He dragged the flat of his hand across his mouth. He wanted a cigarette. “Why should I need help, Corinne?”
“Because you are in trouble, dear,” she said.
“What makes you think so?"
“The whole office is talking about it.”
“Come here," he said. “Sit down.”
She moved with the grace of a jungle animal. He could not resist Watching her body. She was aware of this and made no effort to hide her pleasure in it. She sat opposite him at the desk, her back straight, her primness only emphasizing the womanliness of her.
“What are they saying about me, Corinne?” he asked.
“Nothing definite. Just the usual office grapevine. I think people are shocked. You are considered a security risk.”
“Who considers me a risk?"
“Mr. Swayney. Dickinson McFee. I don‘t know.” She shrugged delicately. “I don’t like to believe it. Sidonie is terribly upset, of course. She's perfectly furious and she is defending you like a. little mother cat. But after all, they say—" She paused.
“Go on,” Durell urged.
“They say you were once a professional gambler. You have been playing bridge at the Triton Country Club, over in Alexandria. Very regularly. They say you have lost a great deal of money to a certain Colonel Gibney, Henry Gibney, from the Pentagon.”
Durell was shaken. So much of it was true, and so much of it was already public knowledge. He told himself that this was to be expected, that it was all planned for and arranged. It was easy to leak rumor, suspicion, threat. But the reality of hearing it from someone else made him feel as if a giant hand had reached inside him and squeezed his organs in a cold and iron grip.
The girl sat there, smiling, waiting for something.
He did not know what she wanted.
“Sam,” she said quietly. “Where is Deirdre?”
“In New York today. Why?”
“Sidonie says that your marriage is off.”
“Yes. Why?”
She looked at her hands. “I am glad.”
“I don’t understand why you should be interested.”
She stood up, gracefully, smoothly. “You’re too much of a man to understand. But I’m glad. Will you meet me for lunch?”
“I’m busy,” he said bluntly. “It’s not good policy."
“But it is important.”
“I don’t need help, Corinne,” he said, forcing patience. “If you have any dramatic ideas about undercover work, get them out of your head. Most of the work done in this office is routine, clerical analysis and integration of reports from field men abroad. There is no glamour. no danger, no excitement in any of it. It’s drudgery. You’re in the wrong place here, if you want the other thing. And if you want it, out of some juvenile delusions of adventure, you don’t belong out there, either.”
“I understand. But you wish you were back in the field, don’t you?”
“I get restless,” he admitted.
“Are you planning to go back to Europe?”
He looked up sharply. “What kind of a question is that?”
She smiled and did not answer. She went to the door and opened it and then turned to face him again. Her wide skirt rustled. “I think it would be wise if you met me for lunch. At Marco’s, one o’clock. I dislike waiting. So please he prompt.”
She closed the door. It was not an invitation. It was an order.
chapter TWO
HE WENT to see Burritt Swayney. Each step of this day’s work was carefully planned and had to be carefully executed.
Swayney, chief of K Section, was a round-bottomed, pear-shaped man with a pursing mouth and cool, codfish eyes. His wife was a thin Bostonian who gave him little satisfaction, and Swayney’s one weakness was for women to whom he had no legal attachments. His memory was encyclopedic; his efficiency vied with that of the electronic calculators. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and a tidy blue bow tie and a starched white shirt that remained unwilted despite the August heat.
Assignment - Treason Page 1
