by Aaron Elkins
As he sat down with the coffee, an aide from the director general’s office ran breathlessly to his table; there was a top-priority call for him from Spain. Would he come at once?
"YES, Karl," Delvaux said into the mouthpiece, "I understand. But I wish to hear his exact words. Will you read the transcript to me, please, from the point where he admits what he was doing, or rather, just before?"
Clearly, but crackling and thin, the words came from the agent in Madrid:
Pino: I ain’t no thief, man. I wasn’t stealing nothing. I was putting something in the dude’s room.
Crow: So what were you doing with the radio? Come on, Manny, you better start telling the truth.
Pino: I am telling the truth. I was putting some secret information in one of his books.
Crow: You want to let me have that again?
Pino: Printouts. I copied some stuff off of printouts in the computer room, and I wrote them on a little piece of paper like the guy told me, and I snuck into this guy’s room, and stuck them in his book, like he told me.
Crow: Who told you? Oliver, the guy whose room it was? Pino: No, I never seen him before. He wasn’t supposed to know about it, man. No, this was the guy I met in the bar.
Crow: All right, never mind. What was it you copied?
Pino: I don’t know. The guy told me the code number of the sheet. It was mostly numbers. Uh, deployment, something like that. Yeah, deployment patterns, stuff like that. Tactical fighters or something. I don’t remember.
Crow: All right. Now listen to me, Manny. You’re in a hell of a lot of trouble. You’ve been spying—
Pino: Hey, man, I ain’t no—
Crow: You’ve been spying, and that means you could be executed.
Pino: (Shouts and jumps from chair; forcibly restrained.)
Crow: Manny, you’re only making it worse for yourself. Now either cooperate—
Pino: Okay, okay, okay.
Crow: All right, then tell the truth. I mean it.
Pino: I am telling the truth. Look. I’m in this bar in Madrid on Monday night—
Crow: What was the name of the bar?
Pino: Oh, come on, man, I don’t know. It was where all those bars are, where they sell those shrimp. All the guys go there.
Crow: All right, go ahead.
Pino: So I’m in this bar, and this guy comes up to me, and he’s a reporter from the New York Times. Mr. Johnson.
Crow: Did you see some identification? Pino: What, are you kidding? A guy starts talking to me in a bar, I’m supposed to ask for his ID?
Crow: What did he look like?
Pino: I don’t know—like a reporter, I guess. He was pretty old, fifty or sixty. He seemed like an okay guy.
Crow: All right, go ahead.
Pino: So he tells me he’s writing this story about the crummy security on American bases. Like a, a…
Crow: An expose?
Pino: Right, right. So he says if I put the stuff in this guy’s book, he’ll sneak it off the base and then the Times does a big article, and then they’ll pass some laws to tighten up security.
Crow: Go ahead.
Pino: Well, that’s all, man. I know it’s dumb, but I done it. I was trying to be patriotic.
Crow: He gave you money, didn’t he?
Pino: Well, yeah, a hundred dollars, but that’s not why I done it. I—
Delvaux cut in. "Karl, did he tell you how he knew which book to put it in?"
"Yes, he—"
"No, read me the transcript." For a moment there was no sound but the crackling and humming of the wires.
"Here it is," said the agent.
Pino: The guy in the bar, he told me to put it in the back of a book, just stick it between the pages so it doesn’t show.
Crow: Just any book?
Pino: No, he gave me the name. I wrote it on a piece of paper. Hey, I still got it. It’s in my wallet. (Contents of wallet examined. Found cocktail napkin with penciled note: Skull of Sinanthropus Pekinensis, Franz Weidenreich.)
"Why did he say he took the radio, Karl? Impulse?"
"Uh-uh. Here, let me find it…"
"No, no. You can just tell me."
"He says the man in the bar told him to take it. Not the radio, necessarily, just something. Pino said the man told him it would be a cover."
"I’m afraid I don’t see—"
"Well—this is according to Pino, now—the alleged reporter told him that Oliver had ways of knowing if anyone had been in his room, even if a single book or anything was moved a fraction of an inch. But if something was missing, the idea was that Oliver would be bound to think somebody had been in there to steal something; it wouldn’t occur to him that somebody had left something."
Delvaux laughed drily. "What do you think of all this, Karl?"
"We haven’t put Pino on the polygraph yet, but I’d bet he’s not lying. I think the whole thing is so crazy that maybe it’s true."
"That’s precisely what I think. Splendid work, Karl. You’ve done wonderfully."
Delvaux’s breath was shallow with excitement as he replaced the telephone. So Monkes had been correct after all. It was Gideon Oliver, but an innocent Gideon Oliver, who was unknowingly carrying tactical aircraft deployment plans from Torrejon. No doubt the Russians had gotten the information in the same way at Sigonella, only then it had been three pairs of socks, not a radio, that had served as cover.
If only he had given credence to Oliver’s complaint then and had investigated the theft …But it was too late for that now. Now the only important thing was to find Oliver and the book before the Russians did. How strange to think that the key to an East-West confrontation might lie between the pages of an abstruse text in the care of a brilliant but frighteningly naive professor of anthropology.
But where was Oliver? He had been scheduled for a flight from Madrid to Frankfurt that afternoon. He was probably in Germany already, on his way to Heidelberg. My God, was it already too late? There must have been a hundred chances for them to get the information from Oliver: at the airport in Madrid, on the airplane itself, at the Frankfurt airport, at the train station in Frankfurt… No, he told himself. Do not become addle-brained at the moment of success. Be rational.
There was no time to waste on speculation. Oliver had to be found quickly. With Operation Philidor set for Sunday, the Russians would have to get hold of the information within the next twenty-four hours, and that would mean some time tomorrow, no doubt at Heidelberg. Whoever the USOC source was, and however patient, he would be tense with the strain of operating on a timetable that left no room for error. And tense spies were dangerous spies; Oliver’s life would be in considerable peril as long as he held the deployment plans.
There were many things to be done. It would be another night without sleep. First, a call to SHAPE at Mons to tell them about the Pino affair. Then he would telephone Thomas Marks in Heidelberg. Finding the professor could hardly present a problem, even for Marks. The schedule of trains arriving at Heidelberg that evening from Frankfurt could be easily obtained, and one or two men placed at the bahnhof to intercept Oliver. For insurance, Marks could be sent to Oliver’s room at the BOQ to wait for him.
Delvaux smiled a small, tired smile. Once again, the harried professor might have a surprise encounter with strangers in his room. This time, however, he would have no cause for complaint. Until Gideon Oliver was separated from the vital, deadly information he carried, his life was worth nothing. And the closer Operation Philidor’s deadline came, the more danger he would be in.
Heidelberg: BOOK 6
NINETEEN
AT ten-thirty that night Gideon lay naked on his side, languorous and content. He was moving his hand down Janet’s bare back in long, slow strokes, starting with firm pressure on her hair, then down the length of her torso, and ending with a gentle caress of her firm, smooth buttocks. Janet was sighing deep in her throat.
"I didn’t know human beings could purr," he said dreamily.
"Was t
hat me?" she said.
"Yup."
"I guess they can, then," she said, and made the sound again. "Ah, Gideon, I’m so glad you’re here, it’s scary. I don’t like liking anyone this much."
Gideon had told her the entire story, from the first solicitation by NSD to Monkes’s death and the theft of the radio. Afterwards, although they had made love earlier, they did so again, with a fierce, almost desperate tenderness on Janet’s part.
At one point during their lovemaking, she had sobbed— a single, gasping sob, like a man’s—and said with anguish,
"They could have killed you," her voice muffled by his chest.
"What?" he had said.
"Nothing," she replied, but he had heard her, and his heart had constricted with pleasure and worry.
"Gideon," she said, "how did you get here so early? I thought your train wasn’t due until eleven."
"I sat next to an army captain from USAREUR on the plane. His wife met him at the airport and they gave me a lift right to the door. That reminds me," he said, beginning to pull his arm from underneath her, "I’d better go down and register. I came straight to your room without stopping at the desk."
"You don’t really want to get out of bed, do you? I’m not going to let you sleep in your room tonight anyway, so why don’t you register in the morning?"
"But—"
"This way, you get the continued uninterrupted pleasure of my wondrously beautiful body."
"Well…"
"Plus the immediate gratification of any perverse wishes you’d care to make known."
"Well…"
"Plus you don’t have to pay them six dollars for the night."
"Now that’s a point," he said, snuggling down against her.
"I thought you’d think so," she said. Then, just as they were falling asleep again, she added, "I’ll only charge you three."
"Do you charge extra for perverse wish gratification?"
"First two are on the house."
"Deal," he said, and fell happily asleep.
FORTY feet down the hall in Room 15, Tom Marks was staring gloomily at his reflection in the mirror. He could already see the bags under his eyes, and wasn’t the left one getting a little bloodshot? He looked at his watch: nearly 2:00 a.m., and he had to get up at 6:00. He was a man who needed his sleep. If he didn’t get enough, it made his stomach queasy all day and he couldn’t eat right. Even if he left right now and slept on the cot at the office, he’d only get three hours’ sleep. How was he supposed to function on that? His work was very demanding, very detailed.
Damn. Where was Oliver? The Madrid plane had been on time and Oliver had been on it; they knew that. But the 11:00 train had arrived in Heidelberg without him, and the next one wouldn’t be in until 9:20 a.m. He hadn’t stayed over at the Rhein-Main Air Base Hotel, and so far the Polizei hadn’t turned him up at any of the hotels in Frankfurt.
There was something fishy about that smart-mouthed professor, even if Delvaux didn’t think so. One way or another, everything he touched got screwed up, including tonight. Delvaux had made it sound simple: "When he arrives, you will obtain the book from him and take it at once without opening it to Major Lauffer for deposit in the maximum-security vault." Simple, except what if he didn’t arrive?
This was ridiculous. He was not a field operative used to all-night stakeouts. He was an official; he needed his sleep, and who knew when, if ever, Oliver would come? And when he finally came, he would naturally be without the book, and with some fantastic story of how he’d been set upon by Spanish pirates who had stolen all his jockey shorts at saber point.
And they’d check it out, and it would be true.
There was really no point in continuing to wait. He might have some idea of what to do, had Delvaux taken him into his confidence and told him what was so special about the book, but le directeur, in his wisdom, had chosen not to. It was the source for some code, probably. Well, enough was enough.
He left the room, slamming the door behind him. At the noise, the slow, steady snoring from the room across the hall fractured into a series of little hiccups and stopped. Good. Why should that sonofabitch sleep when he had to stay up all night? He hurried down the stairs, just in case the interrupted sleeper came out to see about the noise.
He got a sheet of paper from the sleepy attendant at the reception desk and wrote, "Oliver—Call me at once no matter what time. Do not let book, Skull of Sinanthropus Pekinensis, out of your sight. Extremely urgent. Tom Marks." He put the sheet in an envelope, sealed it, wrote "Oliver—urgent" neatly in its center, and gave it to the attendant.
"See that he gets this the minute he arrives."
"Check," the attendant said.
"Even before he registers."
"Right."
Marks formed his lips into a thin, tight line. "This is of the first order of magnitude," he said.
"I hear you, I hear you," the attendant said.
Marks glared at him a moment longer, then turned on his heel and went home for a few hours of hard-earned sleep.
Gideon was awakened by a gentle nuzzling high up between his shoulder blades. He lay on his side with Janet pressed close behind him, her hand resting on his hip, her soft belly against the base of his back, her knees fitting comfortably into the hollows behind his own.
So had he awakened peacefully with Nora on a thousand mornings. Nora…A black shadow of grief and despair darkened his mind suddenly. His stomach twisted, and a violent shudder ran across his back from one shoulder to the other.
"Oh oh, it’s awake, folks. Better stand back," Janet said, snuggling in even closer and moving her lips softly over his shoulders.
The black shadow passed on.
Gideon closed his eyes again and sighed. "Ah, Janet, how good you feel."
"Boy, do I ever," she said. She moved her hand to his chest—the touch excited him—and she pressed him still more tightly to her. "Mmm, I’m glad you have a hairy chest."
"Not always. I just wear it with girls who like truck drivers." He was sorry as soon as he said it and twisted to face her. He placed his fingertips on her mouth. "I’m sorry," he said. "That was stupid. I’m glad you like me, Janet. I don’t think you have any idea how glad."
He took his hand from her lips and softly stroked her cheek. She lay still, watching him with glowing eyes. Her hair was tousled and her cheeks a little flushed. Something made Gideon’s breath catch in his throat. He kissed her softly on the lips, a long, serene, relaxed kiss, with both their heads resting easily on her pillow.
This was getting serious. If he didn’t watch out, he was going to find himself right up to his ears in a Meaningful Relationship, and with an odd female of whom he barely approved, if at all. Somehow, the prospect failed to repel him.
Her hand had stayed at his chest and now began to lightly caress his nipple. He leaned toward her and kissed her again, harder this time, and stroked her long, solid thighs.
She caught his hand and lifted it to her lips. "Don’t get me excited. We don’t have time for that stuff."
"It’s six o’clock in the morning," he said plaintively. "And it’s Saturday."
"We’re going on the faculty Rhine cruise. They do it every year, with whoever’s in town. I guess I forgot to mention it."
"Janet, I hate stuff like that—"
"I know, but I have to go. I’m on the administrative staff, remember, and Dr. Rufus likes all of us to be there. I just figured that you’d want to come along, so I booked a place. You don’t have to if you don’t want to."
"Well, I haven’t seen the Rhine yet, but the idea of a group cruise—"
"It isn’t, really. They’ve just reserved thirty places on one of the regular Rhine steamers from Rudesheim."
"How do we get to Rudesheim?"
"Most of the others are going up on an army bus, but we’re driving up with John and Marti in their car."
"Who are they?"
"John Lau."
"John’s married?"
> "Sure. You’ll like Marti. She’s really off the wall."
"Do you know, I had no idea he was married?" It made Gideon feel vaguely guilty that he had never even asked. Had his relationship with John been as one-sided as that? "Okay," he said, "sounds good. I’m game."
"Great. We have to meet them at the Admin Building in half an hour. Let’s go." She kissed him with a loud smack: the perfunctory sort of kiss shared by people who have kissed many times before and know that many more will follow. Then she reached down and gave his genitals an amiable little jiggle—as if she were scratching a friendly dog behind the ears—and jumped from the bed.
Gideon liked the possessiveness and indulgence implied by the gesture. Meaningful Relationships aside, he had wondered whether he would ever again share with any woman the comfortableness he was beginning to feel with this one.
With mixed feelings, all of them pleasant, he watched her walk toward the bathroom.
"Gideon, don’t look at me when I’m not wearing any clothes," she said. "I look fat from behind."
"You don’t look fat," he said with sincerity. "You look beautiful."
"No, I don’t. My hips are fat." She ducked into the bathroom and got into the shower.
Gideon got up and came to the bathroom door. "But that’s not any old fat. That’s good, luscious, female adipose tissue, the kind of fat you can get a handful of, the kind of fat—"
"Gideon…!
"No, I’m serious," he shouted above the sound of the water. "Anatomically speaking, all the things that look so great on women are fat, if you come right down to it—"
"Could we please talk about something else?" she shouted from behind the curtain.
"Okay, but I intend to look at your rear end a lot—every chance I get. And I want you to know how beautiful you are down there. There isn’t a man in the world who wouldn’t think so. You’re so solid, so—"
