Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 01 - Fellowship Of Fear

by Fellowship Of Fear

  "Fascinating," said John.

  "Yes, the left one. Or maybe the right, I’m not sure. There was a pope imprisoned there in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. Or the twelfth? Maybe it was a bishop, not a pope, come to think of it.." He paused. "I think I better go back to the guidebook."

  They walked across most of the deserted bridge in silence. Then Gideon finally said what was on his mind. "As far as the last two bases go—Rhein-Main, Sigonella— there is one person from USOC who was at both."

  "Yes," said John, "you. You landed at Rhein-Main from the States."

  "Yes. Does Marks suspect me?" He stopped walking suddenly, struck with a thought that should have been obvious. John continued on for a step, and the soft rain fell on Gideon’s face. He hurried to catch up.

  "No, he couldn’t," he said, answering his own question. "Marks is the one who sent me to Sigonella."

  "That’s right. Anyway, Marks isn’t involved in this part of it. His job is to flush out the KGB agent. Finding the USOC’r, the traitor, that’s Bureau Four’s responsibility. And they and Marks don’t share their information."

  "The need-to-know principle in action. That’s really insane, isn’t it?"

  "No, to tell the truth, I think it makes sense. You couldn’t do ordinary police work—the kind I do—that way…separate investigations, completely separate systems. But espionage is a different thing. It took us a long time to figure out that you can’t let even your own agents in on other agents’ secrets—"

  "Come on, John, really—"

  "No, it’s true. That’s why the British have MI-5 and MI-6. The Russians have their separate departments too, but they keep changing the names. Even the U.S., for that matter, has the FBI and the CIA. A Russian spy in Texas, that’s FBI business; the same spy goes over the border to Mexico, it’s the CIA’s affair."

  "All right, I buy it…I don’t, really…but if Marks doesn’t tell this Bureau Four the reason I was in Sigonella, won’t they suspect me?"

  "Marks has told them. They do communicate when they have to. They’re on the same side, you know. They just don’t do it any more than they absolutely must."

  At the far end of the bridge, they turned left along the path that followed the bank of the Neckar. The rain had subsided to a mist; Gideon stepped away from John’s umbrella to enjoy the feel of it moistening his face and collecting in his hair.

  "You’re crazy," John said. "You really enjoy getting wet, don’t you? You’re going to catch one hell of a cold."

  "You don’t—"

  "You don’t catch colds from the rain. I knew you were going to say that." John was slightly annoyed. "Colds are caused by getting wet and tired," he went on. "Goddamit, just because you’re a professor doesn’t mean you know everything about everything. Why the hell do you want to take chances? You just came out of the damn hospital."

  John’s tone was exactly that of an anxious mother scolding a five-year-old who had gone into the rain without galoshes. He was not so much angry as worried, Gideon realized with a stab of guilt.

  Gideon moved back under the umbrella’s shelter. "You’re right," he said.

  "It’s stupid to take chances."

  "You’re right," Gideon said again.

  When they reached the modern Theodore Heuss Brucke, they turned back. The rain had stopped, and blue sky was visible.

  "John," Gideon said after a while, "it just occurred to me that there’s someone else from USOC who was at Sigonella. Does Bureau Four know that?"

  "Who?"

  "Do you know Eric Bozzini?"

  "I think so. Middle-aged surfer type?"

  "Yes. When I telephoned him from Sigonella, he told me that he’d been there a few days before. Friday, I think he said. That’d be the day after I was ambushed."

  "Do you know why he was there?" It was a professional question. John wasn’t impressed.

  "Can’t remember. Whatever it was, it sounded legitimate at the time."

  "It probably was. He’s Logistics. Has to visit a lot of bases. So do some of the other administrators: Dr. Rufus, Mrs. Swinnerton—"

  "Still, it seems worth getting the information to Bureau Four, doesn’t it?"

  "All right," John said without enthusiasm. "I’ll mention it to my contact, and they’ll hear about it if they don’t already know. But I can’t just go up to Bureau Four and say, ‘Here’s some information I have on this super-secret case I’m not supposed to know about.’ I wouldn’t even know who to talk to, and I don’t want to know."

  Fine. If John didn’t think it was worth fighting the bureaucracy, then Gideon would follow it up with Eric himself. In a way he was pleased. It gave him a direction, a place to start. Not that he believed Eric could be a spy or— appalling word—a traitor. But then, could Bruce Danzig, or Janet, or Dr. Rufus, or anyone else he’d met at USOC?

  "I’m still a little puzzled," Gideon said.

  "Only a little? Then you’re in better shape than I am. What’s your problem?"

  "I can’t figure out what a USOC’r’s role would be. We just have low-level clearance; we wouldn’t have access to secret materials or high-security areas. What could any of us do for the Russians?"

  "That’s true," John said. "Hmm."

  They had reached the Alte Brucke again and began to walk back across it to the Old Town. Now that the weather had cleared, cars were zipping down the narrow center, so they had to keep to the walkway along one side.

  "Hmm," said John again.

  Gratified to have come up with a question that hadn’t occurred to the policeman, Gideon tried to answer it. "Is it possible that the USOC’r is a go-between? That somebody who works on the base gets the information and passes it on to him, and he passes it on to a KGB agent?"

  It seemed absurd to Gideon as he said it. Talking about KGB agents so matter-of-factly was preposterous, like play-acting.

  But John was excited by the idea. "Yeah, yeah! That’s right! Maybe." As always when he was excited, his speech turned vehement, ejaculatory. "Somebody on the base gets the information. He gives it to the USOC’r. A live drop, they call it. The USOC’r leaves whenever he wants, and passes it on, probably in another country. Sure! Makes sense. Hey, good thinking!"

  He banged Gideon on the back so hard that he almost propelled him off the curb into the oncoming traffic, then pulled him back with the same motion. They both laughed.

  "I’m glad you think it’s so brilliant," Gideon said, "but it’s full of holes. If a base employee can get the stuff, whatever it is, why doesn’t he just pass it on to the KGB agent himself? Why complicate things with a middleman?"

  "Because a Russian agent would try to avoid having direct contact with someone with access to secret NATO information. It would make it too easy for us to figure things out. But what’s suspicious about some Sigonella employee— who works with computer flight-planning programs, say— talking to a USOC instructor or counselor? And why should NSD be suspicious when the same USOC’r happens to share a table with a stranger in Vienna a month later? Why would NSD even be watching him?"

  "I suppose so," Gideon said doubtfully. "But—"

  "In fact," John said, chopping at the air with his hand, "they wouldn’t have to meet at all! They could use dead drops! The base employee just leaves the information at some predetermined place on the base, and the USOC’r picks it up later. Then the USOC’r uses another drop to get it to the KGB, maybe a thousand miles away. What’s wrong with that?"

  "It’s too complicated, that’s what," Gideon said. "If they use… dead drops, then they don’t need the USOC’r, do they? You’re always telling me that the fewer people there are involved, the better. Why couldn’t the base employee just drop it off in Vienna himself? No one would ever see him meet the KGB man."

  "He couldn’t do that, because he’d never get off the base with it in the first place," said John. "Somebody who works in a top-secret area of the base gets pretty thoroughly shaken down when he leaves. At least I think he does. But a guy like y
ou just gets waved through, right?"

  "Well, yes, but now look; if all this is so important, why don’t they just check out everyone who leaves the base? They do it when they have alerts."

  "A brilliant question," said John. "I asked it myself. And the answer is that we don’t want the Russians to know that we know they’re up to something. If we put the bases on alert, they’d know we were onto them, and that might precipitate whatever it is that they’re planning to do. Which is exactly what we’re trying to avoid. Simple, yes?"

  Gideon shook his head. "My God, this is like listening to someone read an IRS tax manual."

  They were back in the vicinity of the Marktplatz. John gestured at a gray Volkswagen. "Going back to USOC Administration? Can I give you a lift? You look too confused to use the strassenbahn."

  They didn’t speak while John concentrated on driving through the narrow, busy streets of the Old Town. Even a Volkswagen beetle has difficulty with two-way streets designed to permit the passage of a single horse-drawn coach. John drove expertly, however, as quickly and confidently as the Germans themselves. Within a few minutes they were on the fast Friedrich-Ebert-Anlage, and then heading smoothly out on Rohrstrasse.

  "John," Gideon said. "No offense, but do you really know what you’re talking about? Or are you making all this up?"

  John threw back his head and laughed delightedly. "The answers are ‘no’ and ‘no.’ I’m not making any of it up, but I don’t know what I’m talking about, either." He paused, looking hesitant. "Look, Doc," he said slowly, staring at his hands on the wheel, "I understand why you’re going through with this Torrejon thing, and I admire you for it, but, well…"

  "John, if you were in my place, you’d do the same thing," Gideon said with sudden heat. "I can’t just walk away from it as if it never happened to me. I need to find out what it’s about."

  "Sure, but what are you going to do?"

  "What do you mean, ‘do’?"

  "What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean do." John was excited, too, chopping at the air again. "How are you going to find out what it’s about? Wait for somebody to try to kill you again?"

  "No. I’m going to check and see if any other USOC’rs show up, or if any have been there recently, and uh…I don’t exactly have a plan, do I?"

  "You sure as hell don’t."

  "Okay, so what would you do?"

  "Me? If I were you, I’d ask me to come down and help you out."

  "Are you serious? Would you really come? Why didn’t you say so before?"

  "I was waiting for you to ask me. You’re kind of funny about this; I thought maybe you wanted to do it all by yourself."

  "Heck, no. I’d love to have you down there, John."

  "Good. I can’t do this officially, you understand, but I have lots of leave time and nothing else doing right now. If I get a military flight to Torrejon tomorrow afternoon, I’ll get there a few hours after you."

  "Great, and who knows? Maybe I’ll get knifed or shot or run off the road, and then you can stay down there officially and wrap it up."

  "Sure," John said. "We can always hope." They both laughed.

  "I’ve gotta go, Doc. I’ll see you down there tomorrow." Awkwardly, he put out his hand. Gideon took it. "It’s been a good day, Doc. I think we’re getting someplace."

  Returning John’s wave as the big policeman drove off, Gideon wasn’t sure he agreed. Certainly, it was marvelous about John’s coming down, and it was nice to have some cogent if convoluted ideas about what the Russians were up to, but he didn’t feel any closer to answering the most compelling questions of all: What did it all have to do with him? Why was anybody trying to kill him? Why had his room been broken into three times—at least three times— in two weeks? What did anyone want with three pairs of his socks? And why was he being stalked by the ferret-faced man?

  Just possibly, Eric Bozzini might provide some answers.

  THIRTEEN

  "I can’t talk to you now, man. It has really hit the fan." His desk a jumble of papers, Eric spoke through a ball-point pen clamped between his teeth, while one hand picked up the telephone receiver and the other moved to dial. His laid-back image was showing signs of strain. Even his carefully teased hair looked dispirited, the strands having separated at a crucial point to reveal a large expanse of bare, gleaming scalp beneath.

  "I don’t have time to come back later," Gideon said. "I need to talk to you now." He sat down.

  "Come on, man. The teaching schedules are all screwed up. Half the bases are on exercises; there are alerts all over the place—"

  "What about my schedule? Is it being changed?"

  "Where you supposed to go? Torrejon?"

  "Yes."

  "Forget it, man. I don’t know where you’re going, but you ain’t going to Torrejon." He shuffled among the papers and folders on his desk. "What?" he said, staring at the paper he had dug out. He passed it to Gideon.

  The heading said, Spain, Oct-Dec 1981. Upper Division and Graduate. The rest of the sheet consisted of a single column showing NATO bases and course offerings. Most of the courses had been crossed out in pen.

  Zaragoza: All courses crossed out.

  Rota: All crossed out.

  Torrejon: Among several other listings was ANTH 242 Emergence of Man OLIVER. Like the others, it had been crossed out. Unlike them, however, a red circle has been drawn around it and a marginal note written, also in red: HOLD CLASS AS SCHEDULED. FRR, 5/10

  FRR. That would be Frederick R. Rufus; 5/10 was October 5, European-style. Today’s date.

  "Sonofagun," Eric said. "I know that wasn’t there this morning. Huh." He sat staring at the paper.

  Dr. Rufus must have gone in and checked the schedules right after he had talked with Gideon, then, and made sure his Torrejon request was put into effect.

  Eric got up and went to a file cabinet, where he stood with his back to Gideon, going through some manila folders. A Western-style shirt accentuated the soft bulge that spilled over his belt in back. If anything, he had gotten a little puffier in the last two weeks.

  "Yeah, here it is, man," he said, turning. "Got your packet all ready; never got around to canceling it. Train ticket to Frankfurt, Lufthansa to Madrid. Bus schedule to Torrejon. BOQ reservations, too." He handed the packet to Gideon. His forehead glistened with an oily, unhealthy sheen. "You’ll love it; fantastic chicks."

  "So you said. Eric, why did you route me through Heidelberg to get me to Madrid?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Why not direct from Sigonella to Torrejon? Or through Rome? Why all the way back up to Germany?"

  Eric bristled. His hand went nervously to his hair. "Hell, I don’t remember why I got your particular itinerary.

  Maybe all the direct flights were booked. It happens all the time. The instructors usually like to stop off in Heidelberg anyway; use the library, see some people. I thought I was doing you a favor."

  "I appreciate that, Eric. It’s just that it does seem the long way around."

  "Hey, look, man, I got forty fucking itineraries to worry about." With the back of his hand, he made an irritated swipe at the papers on his desk. "You know how much work that is? Shit, I’ve been on the phone to the airlines for eight hours a day for two weeks. There’s tourists all over the goddamn place. Shit." He plopped back into his chair; the cushion emitted a sympathetic, whistling sigh.

  "I don’t know, Eric—"

  "Hell, I talked it over with Rufe; he thought it was okay."

  "With Dr. Rufus? Does he get involved in that kind of detail?"

  "Yeah, sometimes. Especially with you. You’re the visiting fellow, which is such a big deal." His expression implied a differing opinion. "Besides, you were getting beat up every time you turned around. He was just checking to see you were getting treated right. He didn’t beef, and I don’t see what you’re complaining about. Christ, sometimes I gotta route people through Oslo to get them to Spain."

  Gideon sighed. "Let me ask you another questi
on, Eric—"

  "Look, man, can’t you give me a phone call next week? I’m up to my armpits right now." He slapped the arms of his chair. "Ah, what the hell. You want some coffee?"

  Gideon shook his head. Going to a messy table at the side of the room, Eric poured water from a pot on a one-ring hot plate, then added instant coffee, stirring it with a plastic spoon. He took a sip, made a face, added sugar with the same spoon, and returned to his chair.

  "So what are the questions?" He tossed back a slug of coffee as if it were a shot of bourbon.

  "I was wondering what you were doing in Sigonella last week."

  "I was making my Italian round. Logistics checks out every one of our bases at least once every two years. Looks over the accommodations, settles complaints, makes new contracts, that kind of stuff." He frowned. "Why?"

  "Just sorry I missed you," Gideon said. "If you’re going to be down at Torrejon next week, let’s have dinner."

  Eric tossed down another slug of coffee, peering suspiciously at Gideon over the rim of the cup. "All right, I just might be there."

  "Oh?" said Gideon, feeling his breath quicken.

  "Yeah, I’m scheduled to hit Spain and Greece in the next few weeks. Of course, with all the alerts, I don’t know. I’ll give you a call."

  As hard as it was to believe, then, everything was beginning to point to this harried, laid-back, not very intelligent administrator. He had been at Sigonella at the right time, and he was going to be at Torrejon at the right time.

  Eric drained the last of his coffee and made another face. "Yuck."

  Then they sat and looked at each other for a long time. Gideon attempted to read Eric’s expression. Was he trying to stare him down, or did those half-closed, dull eyes reflect no more than a bovine resignation to Gideon’s continued presence? Gideon couldn’t tell.

  Finally Eric frowned with the expression of a man who had something to say. He closed his eyes and belched—a remarkably deep, resonant sound, around which he managed to enunciate with great clarity the word "barf."