Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

  He might not have appeared so calm if he could have heard his lawyer-accountant-illustrator-advertising types. Once they had passed the flagpole on its little island of grass, they had dropped behind some bushes to cool off. It had been a hard pull up that hill.

  “Strange guy. What the hell does he think he’s doing, walking alone at this time of day?” The red face faded back to its natural pink.

  “Stranger in town.”

  “Well dressed. In good training, I thought. Better than he pretended.”

  “Wouldn’t have had much chance against four, though. What now, Jim? Continue patrol, or double back? See what that wolf-pack is up to?”

  “Looking for some other lone idiot,” Jim said.

  “Don’t complain. Think of the nice open-air job they give us.”

  Jim stood up, flexed his legs. “On your feet, Burt. Better finish our rounds. Seems quiet enough here.” There were three other joggers—bona fide ones, these—plodding in from the west towards Sixty-ninth Street and home; a man walking two Great Danes; a tattered drunk slumped on the cold hard grass, clutching the usual brown paper bag; two sauntering women, with peroxide curls, tight coats over short skirts (chilly work, thought Jim, on a cool November night), high heels, swinging handbags. “Nothing but honest citizens,” Jim said with a grin. The wolf-pack had vanished, prowling for better prospects.

  “Here’s another idiot,” said Burt in disgust as he and Jim resumed their patrol northward. The lone figure walking towards them, down the path that led from the Seventy-second Street entrance, was heavily dressed and solidly built, but he moved nimbly, swinging his cane, his snap-brim tilted to one side. He paid no attention to them, apparently more interested in the Fifth Avenue skyline, so that the droop of his hat and the turned head gave only a limited view of his profile. He seemed confident enough. “At least he carries a hefty stick. He’ll be out of the park in no time, anyway.”

  “If he doesn’t go winging his way down to the zoo,” Jim said. He frowned, suddenly veered away to his left, halting briefly by a tree, just far enough to give him a view of the flagpole where the four paths met. Almost at once he came streaking back, the grass silencing his running-shoes, the grey of his tracksuit blending into the spreading shadows. “He won’t be alone,” he reported as he rejoined Burt. “So he’ll be safe enough.” Two idiots were safer than one.

  “So that’s their hang-up, is it? We’ll leave them to the Vice boys. They’ll be around soon.” Dusk would end in another half-hour, and darkness would be complete. The two men jogged on in silence, steps in unison, rhythm steady, eyes alert.

  2

  They arrived at the flagpole almost simultaneously. “Well timed,” said Mischa and nodded his welcome. There was no handclasp, no outward sign of recognition. “You look well. Bourgeois life agrees with you. Shall we walk a little?” His eyes had already swept over the drunk lolling on the grass near the Sixty-ninth Street entrance. He glanced back, for a second look at the two women with the over-made-up faces and ridiculous clothes, who were now sitting on a bench beside the lamp-post. One saw him, rose expectantly, adjusted her hair. Mischa turned away, now sizing up a group of five people—young, thin, long-haired, two of them possibly girls, all wearing tight jeans and faded army jackets—who had come pouring in from Fifth Avenue. But they saw no one, heard nothing; they headed purposefully for the near-by clusters of rocks and crags and their own private spot. Mischa’s eyes continued their assessment and chose the empty path that led westward across the park. His cane gestured. “Less interruption here, I think. And if no one is already occupying those trees just ahead, we should have a nice place to talk.”

  And a good view of anyone approaching, Alexis thought as they reached two trees, just off the road, and stepped close to them. The bushes around them had been cleared, so even a rear attack could be seen in time. Suddenly he realised that Mischa wasn’t even thinking about an ambush by muggers at four forty-five in the evening—he probably assumed that ten o’clock or midnight were the criminal hours. All Mischa’s caution was being directed against his old adversaries. “Central Park has changed a lot since you were last here,” Alexis said tactfully. This was a hell of a place to have a meeting, but how was he to suggest that? “In summer, of course, it’s different. More normal people around. Concerts, plays—”

  “A lot has changed,” Mischa cut him off. “But not in our work.” His face broke into a wide grin, showing a splendid set of teeth. His clever grey eyes crinkled as he studied the younger man, his hat thumbed back to show a wide brow and a bristle of greying hair. With rounded chin and snub nose, he had looked nine years ago—although it would be scarcely diplomatic now to mention the name of a non-person—very much like a younger version of Nikita Khrushchev. But nine years ago Mischa had had slight gaps between his front teeth. The grin vanished. “There is no détente in Intelligence. And don’t you ever forget that.” A forefinger jabbed against Alexis’s chest to emphasise the last five words. Then a strong hand slapped three affectionate blows on Alexis’s shoulders, and the voice was back to normal. “You look like an American, you talk like an American, but you must never think like an American.” The smile was in place again.

  Mischa broke into Russian, perhaps to speak faster and make sure of his meaning. “You’ve done very well. I congratulate you. I take it, by the way you walked up so confidently to meet me, that no one was following you?”

  The small reprimand had been administered deftly. In that, Mischa hadn’t changed at all. But in other ways, yes. Mischa’s old sense of humour, for instance. Tonight he was grimly serious even when he smiled. He’s a worried man, thought Alexis. “No, no one tailed me.” Alexis’s lips were tight. “But what about you?” He nodded to a solitary figure, husky and fairly tall, who had walked along the path on the heels of two men with a Doberman, and now was retracing his steps. Again he didn’t glance in their direction, just kept walking at a steady pace.

  “You are nervous tonight, Alexis. Why? That is only my driver. Did you expect me to cope with New York traffic on a Saturday night? Relax, relax. He will patrol this area very efficiently.”

  “Then you are expecting some interest—” Alexis began.

  “Hardly. I am not here yet.”

  Alexis stared.

  “Officially I arrive next Tuesday, attached to a visiting delegation concerned with agricultural problems. We shall be in Washington for ten days. You are bound to hear of us, probably even meet us at one of those parties you attend so zealously. Of course I shall have more hair, and it will be darker.”

  “I won’t flicker an eyelash.” As I might have done, Alexis admitted to himself: you did not live in a Moscow apartment for six months, completely isolated from other trainees, with only Mischa as your visitor and tutor, and not recognise him when you met him face to face in some Senator’s house. But Mischa had not slipped into America ahead of his delegation, and planned a secret meeting in Central Park, merely to warn Alexis about a Washington encounter. What was so important that it could bring them together like this? “So now you are an expert on food-grains,” Alexis probed.

  “Now, now,” Mischa chided. “You may have been one of my best pupils, but you don’t have to try my own tricks on me.” He was amused. Briefly. “I’ve been following your progress. I have seen your reports, those that are of special interest. You have not mentioned Thomas Kelso in the last three months. No progress there? What about his brother, Charles Kelso—you are still his friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because Chuck Kelso now lives in New York. Tom Kelso lives mostly in Washington.”

  “But Charles Kelso did introduce you to his brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Four years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have not established yourself with Thomas Kelso by this time?”

  “I tried several visits on my own after Chuck left Washington. Polite reception. No more. I was just an
other friend of his brother—Chuck is ten years younger than Tom, and that makes a big difference in America.”

  “Ridiculous. They are brothers. They were very close. That is why we instructed you to renew your friendship with Charles Kelso when you and he met again in Washington. Five years ago, wasn’t that?”

  “Almost five.”

  “And two years ago, when it was reported that Thomas Kelso needed a research assistant, you were instructed to suggest—in a friendly meeting—that you would be interested in that position. Your reaction to that order was negative. Why?”

  “It was an impossible suggestion. Too dangerous. At present I am making $22,000 a year. Did you want me to drop $14,000 and rouse suspicions?”

  “Was $8,000 a year all he could afford?” Mischa was disbelieving. “But he must make—”

  “Not all Americans are millionaires,” said Alexis. “Isn’t that what you used to impress on me? Sure, Kelso is one of the best—and best-paid—reporters on international politics. He picks up some extra money from articles and lectures, plus travel expenses when he has an assignment abroad. But he lives on the income he earns. That is what keeps him a busy man, I suppose.”

  “An influential man,” Mischa said softly. “What about that book he has been writing for the last two years?”

  “Geopolitics. Deals with the conflict between the Soviet Union and China.”

  “That much, we also know,” Mischa said in sharp annoyance. “Is that all you have learned about it?”

  “It is all anyone has learned in Washington. Do you think he wants his ideas stolen?”

  “You had better try again with Mr. Thomas Kelso, and keep on trying.”

  “But what has this to do with your work in Directorate S?” That was the section of the First Chief Directorate that dealt in Illegals—agents with assumed identities sent to live abroad.

  There was a moment of silence. It was impossible to see Mischa’s expression clearly now. Night had come, black and bleak. Alexis could feel the angry stare that was directed at him through the darkness, and regretted his temerity. He repressed a shiver, turned up his coat-collar. Then Mischa said, “The brash American,” and even laughed. He added, “It has to do with my present work, very much so.” He relented still further, and a touch of humour entered his voice. “Let us say that I am interested in influencing people who influence people.”

  So Mischa had moved over to the First Chief Directorate’s Department A: Disinformation. Alexis was appropriately impressed, but he kept silent. He had already said too much. If Mischa wasn’t his friend, he might have been yanked out of Washington and sent to the Canal Zone or Alaska.

  “So,” said Mischa, “you will persevere with Tom Kelso. He is important because of his job and the friends he makes through it—in Paris, Rome, London—and, of course, in the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation. They trust him there in NATO. He hears a great deal.”

  Alexis nodded.

  “About NATO...” Mischa was too casual, almost forgetful about what he had intended to say. “Oh yes,” he remembered; “you sent us a piece of information a few days ago about that top-security memorandum they passed to the Pentagon. You said it was now being studied at Shandon House.” He was being routinely curious, it seemed, his voice conversational.

  “It is being analysed and evaluated. A double check on the Pentagon’s own evaluation.”

  “What is the real function of this Shandon House? Oh, we know it is a collection of brains working with computers; but—super-secret? Capable of being trusted with such a memorandum?”

  “It is trusted. Everyone has top clearance. Security is tight.”

  “Ah, patriots all. Yet you said that it might be possible to breach that security. How? When?” The tone was still conversational.

  “Soon. Perhaps even—” Alexis restrained himself. Better not be too confident. Better not be too precise. Then if the project turned sour, he wouldn’t be blamed for promising too much and achieving too little. “I have no guarantee. But there is a possibility,” he said more guardedly.

  “When will you know more than that?”

  “Perhaps later tonight.”

  “Tonight!” Mischa exploded. “I knew you had something. I knew it by the way you worded your message!”

  So it was his information on the NATO Memorandum that had brought Mischa chasing over to New York. He had read Alexis’s message last Tuesday or Wednesday. By Saturday he was here. In person. Was the memorandum so important as that?

  “You are set to act?” Mischa demanded. “What is your plan?”

  “I have three possible variants. It depends. But I’ll deliver.”

  “You are using microfilm, of course? The memorandum is in three parts—over forty pages, I hear. You will need time.”

  Another hazard, thought Alexis. “I’ll make time.”

  “And when you deliver, do not employ your usual method.”

  “No?” Alexis was puzzled. It was a set procedure. Any photographs he had taken, like his own reports in code, were passed to his weekly contact in Washington. The contact delivered them to Control, who in turn handed them over to the Residency. From there they were speeded to the Centre in Moscow. There had never been any slip-up. His contact had a gift for choosing casual encounters, all very natural.

  “No! You will make the delivery to Oleg. He will alert you by telephone, and contact you some place of his own choosing. On Monday.”

  “But I may not have the microfilm by Monday. It may be the following week-end before—”

  “Then you deliver it to Oleg on the following week-end,” Mischa said impatiently. “You won’t have any chance to get the NATO Memorandum after that. It returns to the Pentagon, we hear, for finalised recommendations to the National Security Council. Before then, we want the particulars of that document. So press your advantage with Shandon House. You do your job, and Oleg will do his.”

  “Oleg—how will I be able to identify him?” Surely not by a lot of mumbo-jumbo, Alexis thought in dismay: recognition signals wasted time, added to the tension. He had always felt safer in knowing his contact by sight, although there his interest stopped and he neither knew nor cared who the man was. The contact followed the same rules. To him, Alexis was a telephone number and a face.

  Mischa raised his cane, pointed to their watchdog, who had stationed himself at a discreet distance.

  “He isn’t near any lamp-post,” Alexis objected.

  “You will see his face quite clearly as we pass him. Shall we go?” Mischa tilted his hat back in place. “We separate before we approach the flagpole area. I shall leave by way of the zoo. You head for the Seventy-second Street exit. Oleg takes Sixty-ninth Street—his car is parked there. He will drive down Fifth Avenue, and pick me up at the zoo. Simple and safe. It will raise no eyebrows. You agree?” Mischa moved away from the trees.

  Alexis, with a quick glance over his shoulder—he had thought he saw two lurking shadows in the rough background—stepped on to the path. Mischa noticed. “Scared of the dark?” he asked with a laugh. “At half-past five in the evening? Alexis, Alexis...” He shook his head. They walked in silence towards the waiting man.

  As they passed close to him, he was lighting a cigarette. The lighter didn’t flare. It glowed, with enough power to let Oleg’s face be clearly seen. The glow ended abruptly. The cigarette remained unlit.

  “You’ll remember him?” Mischa asked.

  “Yes. But could he see me clearly enough?”

  “He has examined close-up photographs of your face. No trouble in quick identification. That’s what you like, isn’t it? I agree. No doubt, no uncertainties.” Behind them Oleg followed discreetly.

  Some fifty yards away from the flagpole, Mischa said, “Now we leave each other. Take a warm handshake for granted.” This time the smile was genuine. “I shall hear from you soon?” It was more of a command than a question.

  “Soon.” No other answer was possible. He had forgotten how inexorable and deman
ding Mischa could be.

  Mischa nodded and left. Soon he had drawn well ahead. Alexis slowed his pace slightly, letting the distance between them increase. Oleg passed him, intent on reaching the car he had parked near by, possibly on Sixty-ninth Street itself. It was west-bound, of course: just the added touch to Mischa’s careful arrangements.

  Alexis watched Mischa as he took the southward path at the flagpole. For a few moments a near-by lamp-post welcomed him into its wide circle of white light, showed clearly his solid figure and brisk stride against the background of massive rocks that filled this corner of the park. Then he was gone, swinging down towards the zoo.

  Oleg was now well beyond the flagpole and heading for Fifth Avenue. Alexis noted for future reference the way he moved, the set of his shoulders, his height and breadth; the way he turned his head to look at the drunk, now sitting with his head between his knees. A dog-walker, enmeshed in a tangle of leashes, merited only a brief glance. One of the prostitutes still loitering under a lamp-post received no attention at all: virtuous fellow, this Oleg.

  So now, thought Alexis with a smile when he reached the flagpole, it’s my turn to branch off. Two steps, and he stopped abruptly as he heard a shout. One shout. He looked round at the path to the zoo.

  Someone rushed past him—the prostitute, fumbling in her handbag, kicking off her high-heeled shoes with a curse, running swiftly, gun drawn. It’s a man, Alexis realised: a policeman. Almost simultaneously, the drunk had moved, racing around the crags, pulling a revolver out from his brown-paper bag as he cut a quick corner to the zoo path. Alexis stood still. His brain seemed frozen, his legs paralysed. He looked helplessly at the dog-walker, but that young man was already yanking his charges towards the safety of Fifth Avenue.