Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

All too late, she thought again, all of us.

  * * *

  Another forty yards, Tony was calculating as he drew out Georges’s neat little Beretta from his belt, and we’ll be at the lemon-trees; I can take the French windows, Auguste the rear of the house. And at that moment he heard Auguste’s warning shout. In front of him, suddenly appearing around the curve of the driveway, came a tight cluster of three dark figures. They halted as abruptly as he did.

  Surprise only lasted for one intense moment. Tony dived for the bank of grass beside him, chanced a shot, and missed. The three had already separated, two scattering on to the hillside above the driveway, with Auguste after them. The third man had darted into the row of olive-trees on his right.

  Tony picked himself up, ready to follow, and dropped once more as a shot came from behind one of the trees. Only one shot. Perhaps the man was in full flight, didn’t want to give away his direction by any more firing. But he was bound to circle around, head for the car, thought Tony. He got up, quickly scanning the darkening terraces that descended, row upon row, towards Cap Martin. The moon was failing him: she had retreated into a swarm of clouds, dimming all chances of seeing the fugitive for at least several minutes. The car, Tony warned himself: that was to be the quick getaway. He began running towards it.

  From above him, on the hillside, came the blast of a shotgun. Tony smiled, kept on his way. There were lights now, near the Roquebrune road. And voices. The truck was still there. So was the car, its door wide open. The minute he saw it, he stopped running, his angry eyes searching the terraced slopes of olive-trees that fell towards that heavy dense band of blackness, the thick woods encircling the bottom of this hill. “Damn it to bloody everlasting hell,” Tony said aloud. That car, abandoned—the man had seen it, veered off.

  Behind him, on the driveway, there was a slip and a stumble. He whirled round.

  “Hey, don’t shoot at me!” a voice yelled.

  “Tom?”

  “Tom.”

  “Thank God.” Tony’s head jerked back to the olive-trees.

  “Thea?” asked Tom as he slid to a halt beside Tony.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Safe.” Tony’s eyes never left scanning the terraces below him. “One of them is down there. The others took to the hill with Auguste at their heels.”

  “The two in ski-masks?”

  So that’s why they looked like a couple of black skeletons. “Yes.”

  “Then that’s the guy we really need,” Tom said, pointing towards the terraces. “He was in charge. Gave the instructions, knew what he wanted.”

  Tony said quickly, “Get down to the gate. Tell the police to put out an alarm, search the woods, check the Cap Martin roads. Two men headed there.”

  “Two?”

  “The driver of the car—ran off—deserted—wouldn’t like to be in his—” Tony felt sudden hope; and then major disappointment. No, that had only been a shift of cloud over the moon, a swaying of branches touched by the early-morning breeze. “Get moving, Tom!”

  But it’s useless, he realised as Tom raced away. Only shadows out there, shadows and twisted trunks that looked like crouching men. You could call it luck, he thought of the armed man’s escape, but he’s the kind that makes his luck: instant decision, no hesitations. I must have been an inviting target, standing up here on the driveway; but he resisted the impulse to fire, drew no attention to his escape-route, and slipped safely away. As for the other one—the driver—I’d like less and less to be in his shoes. Instead of running, he could have got into his car, gunned it uphill to the house, given them warning. They’d all have scattered, and neither Auguste nor I would have glimpsed them. And we’d have found Tom dead—he had seen them at work, had known what they were after—yes, Tom would have been silenced like Chuck. How the devil did he escape, anyway? Or Thea? These amateurs, Tony reflected, shaking his head in wonder.

  He stayed where he was, still watching the wide stretch of terraces. The driver must have reached the woods some time ago; but it was always possible that the armed man—the leader of this little expedition—was still hiding behind a tree-trunk, waiting for all interest to ebb before he risked another step. From the direction of the gate, Tony could hear the truck being moved, and voices raised in urgency. One quick glance reassured him: two policemen had arrived, one of them still listening to Auguste, the other leaving Tom to run back to his Citroën, possibly calling for reinforcements, certainly putting out an alert. At least, Tony decided, some action has been taken, and he went back to watching those damned olive-trees.

  Tom and Dorothea limping along with her husband’s arm tightly round her waist, came up to join him. In time, he remembered to tuck the Beretta out of sight. “The alarm has gone out,” said Tom. “And two more policemen arrived. They’ve been sent down to the woods—young Lucien is with them to show them the short-cuts. And Auguste caught one of the ski-masks—wounded him in the leg. The other is being chased right now by Auguste’s two older sons. So relax, Tony, relax.” Then Tom’s voice began to race with excitement. “That car down there—it’s a green Opel, same registration as the one I saw earlier this evening. I now think the guy who ordered everybody around was the one who was driving it then. Same height, same build. Yes, could be.”

  Tony stared at him. Colonel Boris Gorsky?

  Dorothea said, “But he wasn’t the driver tonight. That was Rick Nealey. I saw him clearly—just before he ran.”

  Tony began to smile. The best piece of news I’ve heard today, he thought. He said gently, “How did you manage to escape?”

  “By way of the wisteria.” She tried to laugh, and failed.

  “And you?” he asked Tom.

  “Oh—I sort of threw him off balance.”

  Gorsky? “How?”

  “First, by telling him where he could find Chuck’s letter—he didn’t even know one existed.”

  Nor did I, thought Tony. But there’s no time now for explanations.

  “It mentioned Nealey?”

  “It nailed him. Then I said there were four copies of it, now in other hands, and that Nealey—” Tom paused. “I blew it, Tony. Sorry. But I had to. No other way out.”

  “Blew what?”

  “Told him that Nealey had been under surveillance for the last three months. Slight exaggeration, of course, like these four copies. Still, it worked. And then I caught him with a poker across the shins, and bolted.”

  Tony’s smile broadened. “Threw him off balance? You yanked the rug right out from under his feet. And you settled Nealey’s future, too. Both of you.” He kissed Dorothea, clapped Tom’s shoulder. They looked puzzled, but he’d explain later, another day, another place. He nodded towards the police car that was starting up the driveway. “They’ll want a guided tour and a lot of answers from you. But there’s really no need for me to hang around, is there? See you later—when we’ve all had some sleep.”

  Dorothea had noticed his second quick look at the approaching car. “Auguste has told them all about you.”

  “All?”

  “You just happened to be passing by. You saw a mysterious Opel in the driveway, you wakened Auguste, and the two of you went after the burglars.”

  “Burglars?” Tom said with amusement.

  “And why not? Everybody knows that all Americans are loaded with cash. Think of all the jewels I have hidden away, darling.”

  She has recovered, thought Tony. He kissed her again, and began moving towards the police car.

  “Hey, there—two in a row?” Tom asked with a laugh. Old Tony was going quite emotional tonight. Tom tightened his grip around his wife. “You think Nealey and his friends will be caught?”

  The man in the ski-mask, possibly. Gorsky? Improbable. “Nealey will be dealt with,” Tony called back over his shoulder. Of that, he was sure. He was still smiling when he reached the police car. “Good morning, officers,” he began briskly, and then stared as Auguste, ending a long description of tonight’s s
kirmish, got out to join him.

  “That’s all,” Auguste told them. “Monsieur Lawton could add nothing.”

  One of the policemen wasn’t so sure. “I believe two bullets were fired. Two pistol shots, monsieur?”

  “Yes,” Tony said, and could only hope the Beretta’s small bulk wouldn’t show through his jacket. “And two misses.”

  “You were the target?”

  “I thought so.”

  Auguste broke in with, “Instead of hugging the ground to dodge a couple of bullets, you’d have done better following me. I caught one of them, lost the other. Together we would have captured them both. Now let’s go. I’ll guide you back through the nursery. Don’t want any more feet trampling over my freesias.” He looked at the policeman and tilted his head.

  Both of the officers smiled. They seemed to know Auguste well. Tony seized the relaxed moment to say, “If you need me, gentlemen, I am staying at the Alexandre.”

  “Your passport?” the younger policeman asked.

  “The concierge still has it. I arrived only this morning.”

  “How long do you expect to stay?”

  “Two or three days. I’m on a sailing holiday along the Côte d’Azur.”

  “Be so good as to notify us when you leave. We may need you to identify anyone we apprehend. Could you recognise the man who shot at you?”

  “By height and build only. And that isn’t too certain. The moon was clouded—only patches of light.”

  Auguste said impatiently, “I’ve told you all that, Louis.”

  Louis had one last question. “Do you own a revolver, Monsieur Lawton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “It’s in London, actually—in a bedroom table drawer.”

  Auguste said, “Much good it did you tonight.” He grinned for Louis. “And you know where to find me if you need any more information.” That raised a small laugh. The two officers saluted informally, and the car drove on.

  I hope, Tony thought, that Tom will keep his mouth shut about finding me with a gun in my hand. Yes, he’s got enough sense not to complicate life unnecessarily. “That’s a smart young man,” he told Auguste.

  “Both good lads. They know me well. But why did he ask about your pistol?”

  “He may have heard the two shots from a distance. One might have seemed louder, heavier, than the other.”

  “Were they?”

  “Yes.” Tony unbuttoned his jacket, showed the Beretta briefly. “Belongs to my friend who owns the Renault I am driving.”

  “And you happened to find the gun in the glove-compartment? You’d have been a fool to leave it there, when you were going out to hunt down trouble. But you could have told Louis—”

  “And used up everyone’s valuable time? That doesn’t catch any of your burglars, Auguste.”

  “Do you have a gun in London?”

  “Of course. I kept strictly to the truth. Always do, with policemen. And with my friends.”

  They had entered the nursery, walking slowly along the paths, now dark, between the soft fragrances and muted colours of the flower-beds. “Two shots of different calibre,” Auguste ruminated, and smiled. “Yes, that Louis is smart. His father was a policeman too, and in the Resistance, fought alongside me against the Nazis. It was on a night like this, just about this time of year, we helped guide a small group of Americans and Canadians—Special Forces, landing ahead of Tassigny’s five divisions—right up through the mountains behind Menton. Didn’t use the road, of course, kept to the hillsides, rough country, not like this but rough as the devil’s backside, all the way to Castellar. Now, that was a real battle. The Germans were deep inside the mountain, quadrilateral fortifications. But we took it. Yes, a real battle. There were twenty American and Canadian graves up at Castellar, and many of ours.” Auguste shot a quick glance at Tony. “And now, when I tell my sons about it, they only count the lives that were wasted. Why not wait for the troops to come in, with tanks and artillery? That’s what they ask.” Auguste shook his head, a mixture of anger and sadness. “But there was no waste. Many of us died, all the rest were wounded, we silenced the German guns. They didn’t blow the troops to pieces down on the beach, or coming up the pass. Yes, we won that battle.”

  “You won that war.”

  Auguste said nothing more. Then, as they entered the yard, his step became as brisk as his goodbye handshake. “Next time you choose to visit, make it in daylight.” A nod of the head, and he was heading for bed.

  “I will,” Tony promised. “And tell Lucien he did a fine job.”

  And that reminded Auguste. “If you see him down by the road,” he called back from the doorway, “send him packing up here. He has a full day’s work ahead of him tomorrow.”

  The door closed, and Tony stepped into the Renault. For a moment, his eyes rested on the glove-compartment. It was just possible that the alert was in force, and there could be police checks on all drivers and their cars in this area tonight. He opened the compartment and placed Georges’s Beretta inside, everything nicely legal, for the ride to Menton.

  Quietly, he started the car, drove out of the yard and down the Roquebrune road, back to the Old Town.

  23

  The all-night vigil ended at five o’clock when the final message was received from Brussels.

  “All set,” Georges said, coming over to the bed where Tony had been having one of his periodic cat-naps.

  At once Tony was awake and on his feet. “They’ve agreed?”

  “More or less. Some advice, of course. And one alteration.”

  “What?” Tony shot out.

  “Their cabin cruiser is in the fourteen-metre—”

  “Forty-six feet, almost? That’s something. How many knots?”

  “Over thirty.”

  “That’s about thirty-five miles an hour, more than three times the speed of the Sea Breeze,” said Tony. “So what’s the reason for any change in plans?”

  “The length and bulk of the Aurora.”

  “I like her name.” But Tony was beginning to see the problem.

  “She has ample room for our party and her three-man crew, but that size would be difficult to manoeuvre inside the anchorage. It might be a very delayed departure.”

  Tony nodded. The harbour was small, and jammed with boats. “So what do they suggest?”

  “That we board the Aurora where she is now docked—in the port privé at the other end of Garavan Bay. It’s big, three times as big as the harbour. Can hold eight hundred boats in its private anchorage, another two hundred in the public section. Actually, it’s more convenient for us—quicker to reach from Bill’s house.”

  Tony’s voice was clipped. “And just how do we persuade Parracini to accept this change?” Our whole plan will end before it begins, he thought, if Parracini’s suspicions start being ruffled.

  Georges laughed. “That, they said, was for you to work out.”

  “Very funny.” For once, Tony’s sense of humour failed him. “And what about that escort?” he asked, bracing himself for more complications.

  “Provided.”

  “We got it?” Tony’s surprise changed to delight. Old friend Jimmy Hartwell had really pushed and pulled. “We actually—”

  “Yes, you got what you wanted.”

  The two men looked at each other. “Then let’s see what we can do with it,” said Tony. Together, smiling broadly, they moved over to the table.

  * * *

  The next half-hour was an organised jumble of big and little things to be done, all of them necessary. While Georges dismantled his equipment and turned it back into innocuous objects, Tony burned the clutter of notes and scraps of paper in a metal basin, after he had memorised some last details—the Aurora’s exact position in the port privé; the name of Vincent, their chief contact in the crew; radio signals for communication. Coffee was brewed and drunk while they drew up their timetable for this morning. They washed and smartened up, finished the coffee,
and went over their schedule once more.

  Outside, it was still dark, with only a hint of diffused light spreading from the east. “Time to call Emil,” Tony said. “We’ll give him a pre-dawn swim.”

  “You mean you are actually serious about—”

  “Better to look foolish than be stupid.” Tony pulled out the transceiver and called in the Sea Breeze. Emil was awake. A peaceful night—no actual approach made to the boat. Two men had patrolled the mole. They had been quite obvious, making no effort to hide themselves from the Sea Breeze. Two of ours?

  “Yes, could be. Possibly Bill’s men trying to reassure you. And you heard nothing at all? Not even the lapping of the mere?”

  Emil, not a literary type, was puzzled but definite. “Nothing.”

  “All right. Let’s take out some insurance. Get into your wet-suit and slip over the side. Examine the hull—keel—rudder—every damn thing under the water-line. How quickly can you do all that? Twenty minutes? Less? Good: get started before the light strengthens. Call us back.”

  Tony switched off, saw Georges’s amused eye studying him. “Need something to do? Then listen to the weather reports.” He himself walked restlessly around the room and then went out on to the small balcony for a few breaths of cold dank air. The sky was slowly turning a bleached black, banded with grey at the horizon. The last of night lingered over the lighted harbour. There the Sea Breeze nestled cosily with the other boats, all at rest, everything tranquil. Looking down at her, watching for any sign of Emil—nothing to see, Emil was good at his job, as slippery as a seal—Tony was already working out his own immediate problem: Parracini’s tender suspicions.

  As the grey of the horizon, softly, surely seeped into the sky, like water over a river-bank, Tony returned to the room. “It looks calm enough out there. Some clouds, but nothing threatening. What’s the forecast?”

  “Bright sun. Cool. And possibly heavy winds from the south-east this afternoon. But we’ll be in Nice before then.”

  “With luck.” Tony picked up the telephone and dialled Bill’s number—not his private line, just the ordinary one that would ring at his bedside and rouse him from sleep. He kept his call brief, once he had Bill fully awake. “I’ll drop in to see you this morning. In half an hour? No, nothing is wrong: everything’s fine. I just want to go over your timetable, make sure that it matches ours. Meet me down at the gates, will you? A walk in the garden will be just what I need—to work up an appetite for breakfast. Yes, at the gates. See you.”