Oleg walked six blocks up Park Avenue, noting its spaciousness and its high-rising apartment houses. Against the cool blackness of night, lights seemed intensified. And there were too many of them: windows glowed with life, high overhead street-lamps cast no shadows, traffic signals—stationed along the three-mile stretch of broad pavement—sparkled bright red or green at every corner. Above all, it was too quiet for his taste; there were some pedestrians, some taxis and cars, but not enough movement to make sure of an absolutely unnoticed departure from the hospital. (There were doormen, for instance, inside every well-lighted lobby he passed.) No, Park Avenue wasn’t suitable. Madison, to the west, had been a busier place—although its small expensive shops, that reminded him of the Faubourg St Honoré, were all closed and tightly shuttered with heavy iron grilles. He cut over to Lexington Avenue, a block away to the east, and decided it was his best bet. It had a life of its own—nothing blatant, a district of neighbourhood stores, overhead apartments, cafés and bars and small restaurants. Taxis and buses, too. Enough animation for his purpose.
He was a stranger in this upper east-side district. His last assignment in New York had taught him a lot about the west of Manhattan, from Ninetieth Street right down to Chelsea. He knew his way around Greenwich Village.
Off Manhattan, he could even find his way around parts of Brooklyn, which was no mean feat. And in Queens there was the safe-house where he and Mischa had intended to spend tonight. With this experience behind him he had been considered an expert on New York by Mischa: one of the reasons why he had been approached for this current assignment. Again he cursed Alexis who (from the files on his activities) spent many a week-end in this section of the city. Alexis could, at the very least, have given him a number to call; could have waited by its telephone for further instructions; could have helped in several small ways without endangering his own security.
Oleg left the bright bustle of Lexington, walked back to Park Avenue to approach the hospital, logically, from the front. The layout was simple. The building, high-storeyed, occupied a whole block on the Avenue, and stretched along the two side-streets—Seventy-sixth and Seventy-seventh—as far as Lexington Avenue. But the first difficulty in his plan of escape quickly became apparent: a huge project of construction work was going on, a new corner-wing was being added, the building’s height increased, and the entrance from Park was blocked by high wooden hoardings and heavy equipment stretching round to Seventy-sixth Street—and there, the door was closed for the night. This narrowed his search to Seventy-seventh Street itself, a quiet thoroughfare, occupied on its north side by some apartment buildings, two houses, and a Christian Science church to challenge the doctors across the road in direct confrontation.
He walked past the hospital’s main entrance, with glass walls and wide windows giving him a clear view of the brightly lit hall and a large desk. A busy place, complete (and this aroused a sardonic smile) with a gift shop just inside its door. One policeman outside—no, a hospital guard in dark blue uniform, who was having a sneak smoke on an eight-inch cigar. America, he thought contemptuously, his confidence growing. Beyond this there was another entrance, smaller and more business-like. EMERGENCY was the sign overhead; and, adjoining it, a shuttered garage marked AMBULANCE.
So that is the target, he thought. But he walked on, and soon reached Lexington again. Too early to make his move. Besides, he wanted to find out more about this whole area.
It was a clear night, a dark sky reflecting the city’s glow: fine November weather meant no rush on taxis. He would hail one without much delay when it was necessary. There were plenty of them here, all cruising south, Lexington’s one-way direction. And enough people on foot, dressed very much in the style he and Mischa had chosen for themselves. Prosperous bourgeois, with only a few long-haired types in jeans and leather jackets, and some weirdos dolled up with heavy platform shoes and other whimsies. A variety of facial characteristics, he noted: many central Europeans, judging from the small Hungarian, Czech, and German restaurants; Chinese too, and Cuban, Greek, Italian eating-places. And Irish saloons, of course. The usual New York hodge-podge, he decided. Easy to pass unnoticed in this racial mix.
He dropped into a café and had a cup of coffee with a sandwich, sat smoking his way through several cigarettes as he arranged a flexible plan in his mind. He would have to play it all very loose, perhaps improvise as he went along.
By half-past ten, he had explored enough, and turned back to Seventy-seventh Street. The hospital ambulance was coming out of the garage. Some new casualty, he thought, and perhaps an opportune moment to begin his inquiries in emergency. He drew a deep breath, and entered a brightly-lit hall: small, square, unfurnished. The short stretch of wall to his left was occupied by a glass-enclosed counter, revealing an office behind it where several people milled around. Opposite this, to his right, was the wide entrance to a room edged with plastic chairs, where waiting relatives sat in solemn silence. Facing him was a blank wall with a closed door and a clearly printed warning that it was for patients’ use only. That was all: a bare no-nonsense place where he felt dangerously noticeable. Mischa’s departure, unless it were authorised, would be impossible to arrange through this boxed-in trap. How much easier it would have been in the large hall inside the main entrance, with its moving currents of people, its busy desk, its lack of curious eyes.
He was being watched right now. A young black woman was already at the counter, sliding one of its windows open. In the office behind her there were three other women and two men, busy people, but interested in him, even momentarily. He decided on his best line of approach. He was a worried and bewildered stranger from Canada, searching for an old friend who had failed to keep an appointment tonight. But what name would be used for Mischa—the one on his Canadian or his American passport? Or had Mischa not been carrying passport or papers? So Oleg sounded harassed and vague.
“The police sent me here,” he began. “They say there was an attack on a man in the Sixty-ninth Street area of Central Park, this evening. He may be my friend—I am searching for him.”
The girl looked at him, no expression on her face, no reaction visible.
“The police said the man was brought here. About six o’clock,” Oleg rushed on. “Would you please verify?”
The girl turned towards another clerk, called out, “About six o’clock. Central Park victim.”
There was a quick check with some records. “Admitted at five fifty-eight,” came the abrupt answer. Then someone else looked up to say, “Hey, wasn’t that the guy with no identification on him?”
Oleg felt a jump of hope. Better than he had expected. He looked crestfallen. “There is nothing to identify him? Then how do I know whether he is my friend? And I’m the only one who knows he’s missing. We were to meet this evening at six o’clock. I waited for over an hour. Then I kept phoning and—”
“You telephoned his family?”
Smart girl, he thought, in spite of her expressionless manner. “No. He lives alone. His wife lives on Long Island. In Patchogue. They are separated. I’ll call her when I find out what has happened.” Oleg raised his hands helplessly, let his voice trail off. “If I could see this man—” He paused, waiting for the right response. And he got it.
“Just a moment,” the girl said, and went over to another section of desk, one that faced a broad interior corridor. She spoke to a nurse on duty there, who telephoned to some other part of the hospital. There was a brief explanation: we have a man down here who is inquiring... The rest was lost in the sudden flurry of activity as the ambulance returned. But the nurse had received an answer and the girl came hurrying back to Oleg.
“Yes,” the girl said, “they want you to identify him. But you’ll have to wait. Take a seat in there.” She nodded towards the room opposite. Behind her the office had turned into a whirlpool of action.
“But why wait?”
“He isn’t available right now.”
“Why?”
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��He is not available.” That was all she had been told, seemingly.
“But I can’t wait.” He backed a couple of steps. “I must know. If this man is not my friend, I shall have to do a lot of searching tonight. I can’t waste any time—they might keep me waiting for an hour. Even more.” He half-turned and said angrily, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Just one moment,” she said again—a much-used phrase, obviously. This time, after a glance at the hustle and bustle around her, she did the telephoning. “You can go up,” she told Oleg. “You can’t see him as yet. But you can give the police some particulars.”
Police? He looked at her.
She didn’t explain. She pointed to the closed door that led into the hospital. “Through there straight ahead. One flight up. The elevator is on the right. Near the end of the corridor.”
“Police—is anything wrong?”
This amused her. “They always stay until identification has been made.” Then her telephone rang and she was busy with some other inquiry.
Straight ahead, she had told him. Beyond the door he ignored the busy nurses’ desk, the harshly-lit operating-room facing it, the large room on his right with several emergency beds separated by yellow curtains. It was all clean and bright and modern, with expertly-controlled pandemonium near the ambulance area far to his left. His pace quickened as he reached the end of the broad corridor, further progress barred by a door that must lead on to other stretches of this bewildering place. That might be useful, he thought, but he did not risk exploring it. Not at this moment. One flight up: that was where he was expected now. Police? He wondered again as he entered the elevator. And why was Mischa not kept downstairs in that room with the yellow curtains? In one way Oleg was pleased by this: privacy was better for his purposes. But in another way he found it somehow disquieting.
Yet, as he stepped off at the second floor and came down a corridor to reach the desk (it was all similar in set-up, he noted, to the first-floor area, except that here there seemed to be private rooms), his alarm about police vanished. There was only one officer in sight, and he was young. Inexperienced, Oleg thought with relief. So there were no suspicions brooding around Mischa. This was just standard procedure, as the girl downstairs had said.
As for the two nurses at the desk, one was middle-aged and pleasant-faced; the other young and pretty—at least the police officer seemed to think so. It was a relaxed picture, even if the light walls, bright lights, antiseptic smell all spelled hospital. Oleg felt his worry subside. “Is this where I have to identify a man?” he began, lowering his voice half-way through his question as he noticed the sign behind the desk: QUIET please. “Or am I on the wrong floor? This is EMERGENCY, isn’t it?”
“Intensive care,” the older nurse told him. “But we take the overflow from EMERGENCY when necessary. You’ve come to the right place.”
Oleg’s eyes followed her glance, to a closed door. “My friend is in there?”
“He is recovering from the anaesthetic.”
“What happened to him?”
“A severe injury to the arm. But he is resting comfortably.” She busied herself at the desk. The younger nurse, her smooth dark hair crowned by a saucy white cap that perched miraculously on top of her head, began to help her stack a pile of clothes into neat order. Mischa’s clothes, Oleg saw.
He said, “Do these belong to the man in that room? If he turns out to be my friend, he’ll need them. I am taking him home.”
The senior nurse exchanged a glance with the policeman. “The wound required many stitches. The doctor will tell you when he can be—”
“But my friend would prefer to leave now. I know him well. He has a fear of hospitals.”
“He has lost a great deal of blood. It would be dangerous to move him.”
“I could hire an ambulance.”
“He requires hospitalisation. His wound has to be dressed professionally. If he dislikes hospitals, there would be no point in moving him to another. Now, would there?” The tone was decided even if subdued, the argument over. She picked up a clipboard, consulted the instructions on it, and hurried off.
And I, thought Oleg, defeated myself in that interchange. Still, it is easier to extract a man from a sickbed in New York than it would be in Moscow. There, they really know how to be on guard. Here—one policeman, soft-spoken and hesitant, who is only now coming forward with a note-book and pencil in hand. He is about as urgent as if he were going to give me a traffic ticket.
The officer had completed his own quiet study of the stranger: just under six feet in height, husky, strong shoulders, dark brown hair worn short, eyes blue and deep set, features strong, manner argumentative. He spoke now, keeping his voice low-pitched. Pity he had to ask the questions right here. But where else? He must keep an eye on the door of that room. “Could you give me some particulars about your friend—height, weight, general description?”
“It’s two years since I saw him last, in Montreal. You see, I am here on a short visit, just arrived this morning—”
“Height and weight, sir. Then we’ll know if there is any reason for you to stay around.”
Better keep the details accurate, thought Oleg, or else I’ll be dismissed. “He is about five feet six inches tall. Weight—I’d say 180 pounds. At least, that’s what it was when I—”
“Yes, sir. Hair? Eyes?”
“Grey eyes. Hair turning grey, worn long. Age—fifty-one.”
“If he has had a haircut since you last saw him, he may be the right man,” the officer observed. “You better wait and have a look at him. How did you learn he was in Lenox Hill Hospital?”
The surprise question fazed Oleg only for a few moments. He plunged into an amplification of the story he had told the girl downstairs. His friend, the tale now ran, had telephoned him at five o’clock, just before he set out for his usual evening stroll down through Central Park. They had arranged to meet on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-ninth Street and then have drinks and dinner together. His friend never arrived. “So I waited. For almost an hour. Then I telephoned his hotel. The clerk said he had left for the evening. I had dinner. Then I telephoned again. And again. He hadn’t returned. I went out for a walk trying to think what I should do.” Oleg paused. Better not mention any police-station—that could be too easily checked. “I saw a police car and asked them for help.” The young nurse, he noticed, was enthralled by his story. She had finished her listing of Mischa’s clothes, and was now listening wide-eyed. Encouraged, he went on, “They called in their precinct—”
“Which one was that?”
Oleg shook his head. “It’s all very confusing to a stranger. Their precinct called some other police-station—one that had a record of—well,” he demanded suddenly, “what record would it have? You know the procedure better than I do. Anyway, the patrol car directed me to this hospital—as a possibility.” By now, he had memorised all the doors and exits that lay within sight. He might not need them. He would have another try at persuading the nurse. She couldn’t stop him if he insisted on hiring an ambulance and taking his friend to a hospital in Patchogue. Ex-wife or not, she was the only family he had in this country. And so on and so forth.
The officer had listened patiently. “Yes, sir. Now I’d like to have some names.”
“I am John Browning,” Oleg volunteered, giving himself a moment to think up a name for Mischa. “I’m at the Hotel Toronto.”
The senior nurse returned, frowned a little when she found them still talking at the desk.
The officer persisted, dropping his voice even more. “Your friend’s name?”
“Robert Johnstone.”
“Johnson?”
“No.” Oleg spelled out the name, watched the slow pencil record it in the officer’s book, and was ready for the next question when it came.
“His address?”
“Somewhere on East Seventy-second Street. He’s been living there since he separated from his wife. That’s all I know.”
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�You had his telephone number,” the officer reminded him.
“Oh yes, he gave me it when he called, and I jotted it right down. I’ve got it right here—” He began searching his pockets, became frustrated. “Must have left it on the telephone-table in my room.”
“We can get that later.” The officer seemed amused by something else. “Johnstone,” he said with a grin, looking at the young nurse. “A good old Russian name.”
She reacted at once, large brown eyes widening with indignation. “But that man is Russian.” Her tone was definite, her accent tinged with Spanish. “I know Russian when I hear it. I was in Havana in 1963.” She flashed a glance at Oleg’s startled face. The senior nurse shook her head over this display of Cuban temperament. The officer enjoyed it quite obviously.
Oleg had to be sure. “The man spoke Russian? My friend can speak French, of course. But Russian?” He looked at her in disbelief.
“Ask Dr. Bronsky,” she told him sharply, quick to defend herself. “Dr. Bronsky knows Russian well. He was there when the man was fighting the anaesthesia. We both heard him.”
“That’s right, we’ve got it all down in Dr. Bronsky’s statement,” the officer said, trying now to calm the little storm he had helped to raise.
“Some patients do curse and swear when they are under an anaesthetic,” the older nurse said. “I have heard some surprising things myself.” Nothing to worry about, her crisp manner implied.
Agent in Place Page 8
