Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

  Tony said, “Like to join me this evening for a drink in the bar at the Casino?”

  “Shall I be literal about that?” The word still stung. “Or do we just keep an eye on each other?”

  “A very close eye. And ear. Eight o’clock. Okay?” Tony stepped out of the car and began walking uphill towards the house high above the olive-trees.

  Georges noted the slow footsteps, the slightly bowed head. He could have ditched going up there, Georges thought, as he reversed and turned to point the Renault in the right direction for the drive down to Menton. Damned if I wouldn’t have telephoned my sympathy and condolence, and let it go at that.

  * * *

  From the olive-trees came a persistent sound, a light and steady tapping of wood on wood. Tony halted to look. The house was only fifty yards away, and perhaps he wanted any excuse to delay the first meeting with Tom and Dorothea. If I hadn’t promised her, he thought, I’d never have faced the next half-hour. What good would it do, anyway? I can’t tell them what I know or fear, can’t drag them into this bloody bloody mess. It’s safer for them, for everyone, if they just stay out and accept what will be reported as a tragic accident. Tom is too intelligent not to ask questions: that will be my worst problem. And Dorothea—God, I wish she hadn’t so much quick intuition. Not now, at least.

  The constant sound of the small firm blows didn’t miss a beat. He could see, far below this driveway, a white cloth spread under a tree, and, perched on its gnarled branches, two men with long canes. What the devil were they doing?

  “Tony!” Thea called, and she came hurrying down to meet him in spite of high-heeled sandals. She had dressed up for this afternoon—a white frock whose pleats floated around her as she moved, some thin soft material that was as fluid as the swirl of a chiton on a Greek vase. “Tony, are we glad to see you!” she cried, happy and breathless, her smile radiant. “You’re early, and that’s sheer luck. Come on, come on.” She caught his hand, urging him forward.

  They don’t know. Tony halted, looking away from her. They don’t know. He stared down at the olive-trees. What now? Blurt everything out, or wait till I get them both together? That was the thing about news: if it were good, you’d tell it and repeat it and go over it a third time willingly; when it was bad, you only wanted to say it once, briefly, and then wish you hadn’t been forced to do even that. “What’s going on down there?”

  “They are tapping the olives. They sit up in a tree and beat it gently, and the ripe olives fall to the ground.” She looked at him curiously. “Does the sound annoy you? Tom said it was getting on his nerves. So we’ll probably avoid the terrace and sit indoors—too bad on such a heavenly day. Come on, slow coach!” She pulled his arm gently, and started him towards the house.

  “Where’s Tom?”

  “Oh, the telephone rang just as we were coming down to meet you. He went back to take the call.”

  He checked the time on his watch. Ten minutes to five.

  “You’re early and Chuck is late. But that’s all to the good—Tom has some questions he needs answered before he sees Chuck.”

  “Dorothea—”

  “Just like Chuck,” she was saying; “he decided he couldn’t wait till six o’clock, so he ’phoned—”

  “When?”

  “After lunch. Around two, I think.”

  “What did he say?” The fool, Tony raged secretly, he actually called them from Shandon Villa; and told them—how much?

  Dorothea’s smile had vanished. “He was going to give Rick Nealey exactly until four o’clock. If Nealey was still avoiding him by that time, he was coming up here. By half-past four. He said he had a tremendous problem and would Tom help him solve it? Tom had friends who worked in Intelligence—or even Brad Gillon—people who could act, take the right measures. What measures, Tony?”

  They had reached the terrace, and Tony stood there silent, his face averted, his whole interest seemingly on the view of coastline that spread before them.

  “Tony—what is wrong? Oh, I know Chuck must have had a bad quarrel with Rick. But why?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?” And I hope to God the answer is no, thought Tony. Let the pros deal with Nealey, not the amateurs. “Hints, mostly—but they were strong enough.”

  “What kind of hints?”

  “About Rick Nealey. Chuck’s anger was all directed against him. What could have happened between those two? They were so close.” She drew a deep breath. “But out of bad news there comes some good. Chuck’s call ended abruptly—he was using the telephone in Maclehose’s office—his own was out of order. But as he signed off, he sounded less worried, even relieved. When Tom promised to help in any way he could, Chuck said, ‘I’ve been a god-damned idiot. I know that now. And I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry.’ Which, you know, was a considerable admission: I’ve never heard Chuck say sorry like that, meaning it, truly meaning it. For once, he wasn’t going through his usual routine—all charm and little substance. He was really contrite.” She studied Tony’s impassive face. “But that is good news,” she insisted. “Tom needed it. Oh, he’s worried about Chuck—yes. But contact between them is re-established. And that counts, you know. Tom—” She broke off, unwilling to admit just how difficult those last months had been. And then, still watching Tony’s face, she asked quietly, “Is Chuck’s news as bad as that?” Her eyes widened, pleading with him for the truth.

  There was no evading the directness of her gaze. “It was bad enough. And now it’s worse—the worst possible kind of news for you and Tom. I didn’t want to break it to you, not alone. Better that you and Tom should hear it together. But possibly he already knows—if the telephone call was from Shandon Villa. Chuck has met with an accident. A fatal accident.”

  For a moment, Dorothea stood rigid. Then she turned and ran into the house. Its silence paralysed Tony. The Shandon call must be long over. And Tom? Tony slumped into a chair, lit a cigarette, listened to the insistent tapping on the olive-trees below.

  I handled that badly, he thought. But how could news about death ever be handled well? And now Tom would come out here, start asking questions once the first shock had worn off. (And, as a seasoned reporter, he was adept at questioning.) I’ll tell him everything that’s possible to be told. No mention of Palladin’s escape, or that he’s still alive as Jean Parracini. Enough to let Tom know that the NATO Memorandum had been lifted from his brother’s New York apartment and ended up in the hands of the KGB in Moscow; that Nealey seems to have been the only man who had access to Chuck’s apartment on that Saturday night. Yes, we’ll have to talk about Nealey—Chuck made sure of that. But I’ll keep silent about Mischa and Alexis and Oleg, and not only for security reasons. A matter of safety, Tom’s and Dorothea’s.

  Chuck was true to the last: lost in his self-centred world, righteous anger at being duped, hints blurted out about the source of his problem, sharing trouble when it overwhelmed him. Involving others, endangering them?—No, Chuck hadn’t thought of that. Or he would never have unburdened himself in a telephone call. From Maclehose’s office. Where a red-headed secretary had monitored every word. Why, oh why, couldn’t Chuck have stayed in New York, made contact with Brad again once the truth began to get through to him? Perhaps he still couldn’t believe he had been duped until he had a chance to confront Nealey and demand an explanation. Whatever Nealey had told him, on that ride from the airport this morning, hadn’t worked. And Nealey knew it.

  Tony lit a second cigarette, and then threw it away. If Brad hadn’t pushed Chuck into facing unpleasant realities—and that was my doing: I suggested Brad see Chuck, lay the facts on the table (two men executed, several still under rigorous questioning, others scattered and hunted)—yes, if I hadn’t urged Brad to talk frankly, pierce through Chuck’s rationalisations with some truth, Chuck would probably be alive today. Skiing merrily in Gstaad, no thought of Nealey or Shandon Villa in his head, all things right with his own world; and who worried about what happened to other men in other places? Especi
ally when they were espionage freaks, spooks wandering in a maze of threat and danger—their own choice, wasn’t it? Probably their own creation, too. They did it for kicks or the money, everyone knew that. (Read your friendly local newspapers.) Saving the West? Me included? That’s a big laugh. All part of their own hothouse fantasies. Who’s threatening me—little men in black pyjamas? Look, get rid of the ego-trippers, the paranoiacs. Then we can all make nice profits and get promotion and enjoy our skiing (or bowling or golf or fishing) and our suntanning (or dining or wining or women) and live in a better, still better and better, world without end amen.

  Tony lit a third cigarette. It tasted worse than the others.

  Yes, Chuck would have been alive if I hadn’t wakened him to the truth. (He awoke. That’s something. Millions wouldn’t have.) He’d be safely far away, in happy Switzerland. And when I visited Shandon Villa today, Nealey would have been on hand to give me a guided tour, all wreathed in smiles and innocence. But Boris Gorsky would not have been there. Not visible, certainly.

  And so I’d have learned nothing, and known less.

  Not that I know too much. But now I make that knowledge count. This I owe to Chuck Kelso.

  Behind him he heard Tom’s footsteps on the terrace. He rose and faced him.

  16

  Sunset had come, a blaze of vermilion and gold dissolving into an amethyst sky. The olive-trees, twisted ghosts rising out of deepening shadows, rested in peace. Down on Cap Martin, the heavy foliage became a massive block of blackness against a sea of faded ink. The air had turned shrewd and cool, but the two men still talked and walked on the terrace. Dorothea, chilled perhaps as much by Tony’s information as by the evening breeze, had long since retreated into the warmth of the Michels’ living-room.

  Tom’s manner was quiet, dangerously quiet. From the first moment he had come out on to the terrace, he had been in taut control of himself. His first words to Tony were cold, totally unemotional. “How did you learn about Chuck’s death?”

  “I was visiting Shandon Villa.”

  “You saw what happened?”

  “No one did.”

  “Tell me what you can. Exactly.”

  And Tony had done just that.

  Then came the questions. And answers. And long pauses. And more questions. And now, with the sun already set, colour and warmth drained from the land, Tom halted his steady pace and stared out at the bleak scene.

  “And who,” he asked at last, “is to deal with Nealey?”

  “We will.”

  “How? You haven’t had much success in these last months.”

  “There wasn’t enough hard evidence to support official action. No witnesses to back up some of the statements in my report on Nealey.”

  Grimly Tom said, “And you’ve lost your best witness now. Holzheimer, if you could get him to tell what he knows, could only testify that Nealey approached him, put him in touch with my brother, was present when the first part of the memorandum was handed over... Where did that happen?”

  “Holzheimer supplied his editor with the address—the apartment below Chuck’s. Nealey spent the week-ends there. But that’s still not enough evidence.” Then, as Tom’s face twisted with sudden emotion, Tony said, “We have one possible lead.” And Parracini had better come through, he thought. “I can’t tell you any more than that. Not now, Tom. There’s no need to know. And it’s much better not to.”

  “I’m going down to Shandon Villa tomorrow, look around, question Maclehose.”

  “You’ll get no information—”

  “I’ll pick up some details. That’s my job, Tony. And I don’t expect much from Maclehose. He didn’t even telephone me this evening. Bugged out.”

  “Then who—”

  “Nealey. All-purpose Nealey. Yes, that little bastard called me himself to tell me that my brother was dead.”

  “Good God.”

  “I let him talk. You know what I think? He was trying to find out how much I had learned from Chuck. He even brought up the subject of the quarrel they had this morning. About a girl—Katie, he called her—all a misunderstanding. So Nealey blamed himself for not having cancelled his engagements today and stayed with Chuck, explained more, made him understand the truth of the matter.” Tom stuck a clenched fist against the palm of his hand as his anger broke loose. “His phrase. The truth of the matter.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Is that important?” Tom asked bitterly.

  “It could be.”

  “I said, ‘You son of a bitch.’ And I hung up.”

  Tony was silent. Nealey had caught Tom at an agonising moment when all defences were down.

  “You think that wasn’t too smart of me,” Tom said, suddenly truculent. “But that is what Nealey is. He’s one—”

  “I know, I know. I agree completely. I’d probably have called him worse.”

  “Not you. You wouldn’t have given him a hook on to which he could latch his suspicions. Sure, he now probably thinks I know too much. So let’s see what he will try with that.”

  “Stop goading him, Tom.”

  “How else do you trap him into a false move?”

  “Don’t you try it.”

  “That’s right,” Tom said, “leave it to the professionals. And what use have they been so far?”

  Tony’s fatigue suddenly caught up with him. His voice sharpened. “Ask that question of your own people. Who has been building up public opinion against your professionals? Nothing but denunciations, imputations, revelations, recriminations—how the hell do they manage to work at all?” He turned away. “I have to get back into town. I’d better call a taxi.” He headed for the living-room. At the French windows, he paused. “I’m sorry, Tom. Forget what I said.”

  Tom didn’t answer, didn’t even look round. He stood staring out at the lights circling the bay, hearing nothing, seeing nothing.

  * * *

  Tony found the telephone easily enough. It stood on the same old, rickety, eighteenth-century table he remembered from his week spent as a guest here. Solange had put him to work—she believed in keeping her visitors busy. These wall panels, on the other side of the room, testified to that. He had painted them and Michel had added the finishing touch by smearing them with a dirty rag. Antiquing, Solange had called the process.

  “You know,” said Dorothea as she appeared quietly beside him and noticed his interest in the panelled wall, “Solange did that. She’s really very clever about such things.”

  “Indeed, she is.” He opened the telephone directory, and actually smiled. There was relief, too, to see that Dorothea was avoiding an emotional scene. “That’s sensible,” he observed of her change of clothes: the thin dress had been replaced by a heavy sweater and tweed pants.

  “I was frozen.” She studied his face. “I’ve made some coffee. Boiling hot. Sandwiches, too. I think you need both.”

  It was twenty to seven, he noted in dismay. The half-hour planned for his visit had stretched considerably. “I’d like that. I’ll have some coffee while I wait for a taxi.”

  “No need to call a cab. We’ll drive you down to Menton.”

  “Wouldn’t hear of it.” He glanced back at the terrace.

  “Tom often stays out there by himself. Don’t worry. Please don’t. And, Tony, don’t let his words disturb you. He didn’t mean them. He—he often has these moods.”

  Tony concentrated on dialling. “Tom’s had too rough a day to drive anywhere tonight.”

  “He’s going down to Menton anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “To see the police. They ’phoned him just after Rick Nealey’s call.”

  “Time enough to talk with them tomorrow. They’ll know more by—” He broke off as he made the connection with the taxi-stand near the Casino. (A cab for seven thiry without fail, at the gate of the Michel Nursery, Roquebrune. Night rates, of course, and a hefty tip, if punctual.)

  “That’s what the police suggested. But Tom wouldn’t wait. He�
��s a man who needs action.” She hesitated. “These last months have been difficult for him.”

  And for you? Tony wondered. He remembered his first glimpse of her today, down at the market. An unhappy girl, he had thought. “Let’s have that cup of coffee.” Possibly a sandwich too, just to please her. Besides, she was right: he needed it.

  “Rick Nealey—” she began, as they sat down at the kitchen table, and then fell silent.

  Tony braced himself. More questions, more answers. The only way to handle them was to plunge right in, keep everything brief and restrained, and—above all—generalised. “He’s been working in Washington for the last nine years.”

  “As an enemy agent?”

  So she had either heard talk from the terrace, or added up her own suspicions to score a solid guess. He shrugged a reply.

  “And never discovered?” That horrified her.

  “He’s good at his job.”

  “Good? How can you say that? He’s a monster.”

  “To us, yes—he’s one of the bad guys. To the opposition he’s the hero, and we are the villains. It just depends on what side you stand.”

  “But you can’t approve of what he has done.”

  “No. If I did, I wouldn’t be interested in him.”

  “Were you following him on the day we met in the Statler lobby?”

  “Frankly, until I saw him there, I didn’t even know the fellow. It was you who told me who he was, remember?”

  “But you were interested. Immediately.” She looked at him angrily. “Why didn’t you tell the CIA?”

  “And have them up before another investigatory committee for more interference in domestic affairs?”

  “Then the FBI—”

  “From that day at the Statler until he left Washington, Nealey kept his head down. No peculiar ’phone calls, no contacts with anyone doubtful: just an innocent citizen going about his own business.”

  Her anger faded, leaving only bewilderment. “How can these things happen? The cold war is over.”