Agent in Place (17 page)

“And a very bad week. Does it show?”

“It did. I saw this beautiful creature walking across the lobby and said to myself, ‘Tony, if ever a girl needed a cup of coffee with a slug of Irish whiskey topped with cream—’ And here it is. To order.” He gave the elderly waitress a warm smile of thanks. “Now, have a few sips, and I’ll tell you about Shandon House.”

“You saw Chuck?”

“Briefly. He was buried in work.” A slight smile played around Tony’s lips.

“He’s the best excuse-manufacturer I know.”

Tony nodded, his smile deepening, his eyes studying her with some surprise.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she retracted quickly.

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“Tom—” She paused and sighed, shrugged her shoulders.

And that tells the whole story, Tony thought. “Tom hasn’t got in touch with Chuck? No, I don’t suppose he could. Perhaps it’s just as well. I tried. And got nowhere.”

“Nowhere at all?”

“I talked about the NATO Memorandum—it’s the main topic at Shandon these days. But Chuck is admitting nothing. He answered in generalities. The fellow responsible must have had very good reasons for doing what he did. It couldn’t have been for money; and it certainly wasn’t because of lack of patriotism. There were no traitors at Shandon. In fact, if this hypothetical fellow was keeping silent now, it was probably to protect Shandon and keep its good name untarnished by publicity.”

“What?” She stared at him.

“Yes. There was no proof that the leak had come from Shandon. So why should this hypothetical fellow supply that proof?”

“And what about the typewriter—or didn’t you mention it?”

“A mild suggestion: wasn’t it a little odd, most peculiar indeed? But his reply was rather lofty. I shouldn’t believe all the gossip I heard. The whole thing had been blown out of all proportion. Anyone could borrow a portable typewriter—slip into a hotel room and use it when the owner wasn’t around. A couple of hours were all that was needed.” And that, thought Tony, had been an interesting admission.

“Oh, come now—” Dorothea began.

“Besides, as Chuck pointed out, no one who knew Tom was going to believe any of that gossip. The whole idea was best treated with complete contempt. And silence.”

“And Tom, meanwhile?”

“Tom could handle anything.”

Dorothea stared out, through the wall of windows, at the open stretch of Sixteenth Street with its quiet houses and placid traffic. “And that is that,” she said, trying to mask her anger and failing.

“The truth is,” Tony said slowly, “Chuck is a very scared young man. He is suddenly faced with the unpleasant realisation that his whole career might be ruined. So he rationalises: and persuades himself he is right.”

“And that will really break Tom. Far more than any gossip could do. Oh, Tony—”

“I know.”

Here I am, thought Dorothea, discussing family with a man I once disliked. No, not exactly disliked; not exactly distrusted, either. A man I couldn’t understand, perhaps a man whose job scared me. Too mysterious, too much out of my world. And yet now—“How do I tell Tom about this? He ought to know.” She waited anxiously for his advice.

“Let Brad Gillon do it,” Tony suggested. “He’s coming to Washington this week-end, isn’t he?”

Dorothea half-smiled. Tony was really a most perceptive character, she thought. “I just can’t discuss it with Tom,” she admitted. “I’m too impatient with Chuck. Prejudiced, perhaps. So I back away from any criticism. Family loyalty—” She shook her head. “I wish it weren’t so one-sided, though. Doesn’t Chuck realise what his actions have done to Tom? It
was
Chuck who copied the NATO Memorandum, wasn’t it? You and Brad were there when he came to borrow Tom’s typewriter. You both know and Tom knows and I know. And Chuck knows we know. Oh, how can he
not
come to Tom and admit it?”

“Because the natural reaction in most people who have made a big mistake is to cover up. It takes a very honest man, and there are damned few of them around, to admit an unpleasant truth. Not right off, at least.”

“I hate to believe that.”

“Why?”

“Because—because I want people to be honest.”

“And all things bright and beautiful?”

“What makes you so cynical, Tony?” she asked softly. “Your job?”

His smile vanished. “Cynical? Realistic is a kinder word.” Then, very quietly, he added, “What job?” His anger was sharp, even if concealed. “Has Tom been fantasising?”

He doesn’t do that!”

“Not usually.”

“I’m the one who thought you might be—well, attached to some kind of—” She hesitated and dodged. “Tom argued me out of it, told me to stop speculating about people. It’s one of my bad habits. But, Tony, you really are a mystery man.”

“Me?”

“Yes, poor little innocent you.”

“What on earth gave you such a mad idea? Flattering, of course. I’d hate to be considered just a routine type.”

“You’d never be that.” This pleased him in spite of himself. Encouraged, Dorothea said, “And anything I’ve noticed about you is strictly for my eyes only. I don’t chatter, Tony. Not about serious matters.”

“And just what have you noticed?” He had decided to play this for laughs.

“Well...the way you met Brad in our room at the Algonquin.”

“Old Brad rather likes that kind of mystery. Reminds him of the best years of his life.”

“Yes,” she agreed, and her eyes sparkled bright blue with amusement, “there’s some truth in that.”

“What else?” he asked lightly. How could he explain that he had been followed all the way from Brussels, kept under tight surveillance until he had managed to dodge it in New York? Even then, he had been forced to move with the greatest care. There had been no purpose in dragging either Brad or the Kelsos into any possible danger. Contact with them had, for their sakes, best been kept disguised. Now, of course, in this last week—since the memorandum had actually been filched—interest in him had dropped. It would be revived again, once he was identified as the man who had been so interested in viewing Konov’s corpse. So far that had not happened. Either he had actually avoided being photographed as he came out of the morgue, or the KGB had been slow for once—it was possible that Konov’s death had meant a lot of rearrangement in their priorities. At any rate, these recent days had been blissfully free of any surveillance.

Dorothea was saying nothing at all. The smile in her eyes spread to her lips.

He changed the subject by glancing at his watch. “I’m being picked up here by a friend at four o’clock. Before then I’d like to ’phone goodbye to Brad. Too bad I can’t be here for this week-end, but I’ll see Tom trailing Kissinger in Brussels next Thursday. He’s still going there, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Not very enthusiastically, though.”

“A delicate situation,” Tony agreed. He helped her with her coat. “By the way, wasn’t it Basil Meade I saw you chatting with? I didn’t know he was in town.”

“Basil Meade?” She was puzzled.

“You met at the cloakroom—”

“Oh—that was Rick Nealey. He’s one of Chuck’s friends.”

Tony left a good-sized tip and led her to the cashier’s desk at the door. “From Shandon House?”

“No. He’s communications aide or something to Representative Pickering.”

Tony paid the check, and guided her into the lobby. “Does he still see Chuck?”

“At week-ends.”

“You mean he goes to New York each week?”

“Yes. At least, I always thought he did. But he hasn’t seen Chuck in ages—so he said.”

“Does he stay with Chuck in New York?” Tony asked, his voice casual.

“He’s at the same address, but in the apartment underneath. It belongs to his girl-friend.” Dorothea frowned. “Perhaps he and Chuck have quarrelled.” That might be the reason for Rick’s embarrassment at meeting her. “But they always got along so well. It’s really very odd. Oh, I’m sorry, Tony. This can’t possibly interest you. I’m only trying to find some reason why Rick practically cut me dead. You saw it?”

“I saw it. And I thought he was a bloody idiot.” That brought the smile back to her face. “How long have they been friends?”

“From away back. Ever since Germany.”

“Old Army buddies?”

“Rick was a refugee, actually. From East Germany.”

“With a name like Nealey? The Irish do get around.”

“Rick was born in New York. His mother was German. The Nealeys were Brooklyn. His father was killed in the Pacific, and so Rick ended up in Dresden or Leipzig—some place like that.”

“A beautiful sequitur. Clear as mud.”

Dorothea laughed. “But perfectly normal. His mother wanted to see her own people as soon as the war ended.”

“And once in, they couldn’t get out?”

“Yes.” She was studying him thoughtfully. “You seem to know his story.”

“Just the pattern. It happened often enough. When did Rick escape from East Germany?” Tony’s voice was conversational.

“As soon as his mother died. She became an invalid, you see, and Rick couldn’t leave her there alone.”

“Rick—short for Richard?” The question was casual.

“Heinrich.” Then Dorothea challenged him, her eyes widening. “This really
does
interest you.”

“I always like a sad romantic tale.” He took her hand. He held it gently, his face suddenly serious. “Goodbye, Dorothea.” And always my luck, he thought: the beautiful woman out of reach.

“Goodbye.” Then, as their hands dropped, she said with undisguised amusement, “And who
is
Basil Meade?” She left before he could even think of an answer. He watched her as she walked towards the door and passed out of sight. He was smiling too.

* * *

He had six minutes for his call to Brad Gillon. He wasted no time on explanations. “Listen, Brad,” he said as soon as he got through. “Remember the chap in the composite sketch I saw last Tuesday? He’s here. In Washington—with the same delegation that our late unlamented friend should have been accompanying. Possibly leaving tomorrow. Today he has been meeting Rick Nealey, a friend of Chuck’s and some kind of factotum to a Congressman—Pickering by name. Nealey visits New York at week-ends—apartment in same building as Chuck’s. Got all that? Okay. I leave it in your hands. You have such interesting friends. Goodbye, old scout. Take care.”

Tony left the public ’phone, gathered up his magazines and papers (now slightly crumpled), and was out at the front door as the small army car drove up. His luggage was already waiting for him at the airport, along with the NATO Memorandum under heavy guard. The stable door was securely locked, he thought.

“Had a pleasant lunch, sir?” the sergeant-driver asked civilly.

“Very pleasant.”

“Nice hotel. You’d enjoy staying there some time. There’s a lot going on in the evenings.”

There’s a lot going on any old time, thought Tony. Not a bad day after all.

Nothing had gone as he had planned. Rick Nealey’s irritation increased. First, there had been the unexpected encounter with Dorothea Kelso, detaining him, wasting precious seconds when each one of his minutes had been carefully estimated. Next, Oleg had chosen to make contact by voice and lead the way out of the hotel. His own preconceived ideas of how to deal with a difficult meeting, far too dangerous for his taste, had been swept aside. And now here he was, as Alexis, following this madman along a public thoroughfare on a bright afternoon, neither the place nor the time appropriate, and far from his choosing. Insanity, he thought.

Grudgingly, he had to admit it was paying off. So far. The lobby was safely behind him, and no one was on his heels. To make sure of that, as he walked along K Street—keep nonchalant, no haste, let the space between Oleg and him widen—he took the usual precaution of dropping a book of matches, which gave him a quick glimpse of the Statler entrance as he bent to pick it up. He saw only a cluster of people outside its door waiting for taxis, no solitary figure, no head turned his way. At the corner of Sixteenth Street he hesitated, as if in doubt of his direction—a harmless excuse to look around him. At the Statler, there was still the cluster, and no one following him. Quickly he crossed Sixteenth Street and continued along K. Well ahead of him was Oleg, halting beside a parked car.

Irritation flared into alarmed anger. In broad daylight, for God’s sake: Oleg stepping into a car as if he were an old-time Washington bureaucrat, not even glancing back. He’s leaving that job for me, thought Alexis. Perversely, he didn’t look over his shoulder until he had almost reached the car: only two women standing in front of the Fiji Legation, talking with a man—legs were all that was visible. Beyond that, a mother and small child; two priests on the other side of the street, some automobiles driving at a quick steady pace.

The car door was open. All he had to do was step in. Somehow the simplicity of it only angered him more, proving Oleg was right and himself over-worried and fearful.

“You weren’t followed?” Oleg asked, as he eased the car out into the traffic.

“I could say no, and I could say yes.”

“And what does that mean?” Oleg’s mouth was tight.

“Anyone could be following us. Secretaries, priests—”

“And your own shadow.”

There was a long silence. “Where are we going?” Alexis asked at last.

“Driving around, like good Americans.”

“You take a lot of risks. That telephone call this morning—”

“Stop talking and let me pay attention. There are bigger risks in getting a traffic ticket than in walking out of a hotel.” As Oleg spoke, his eyes kept watching the rear and side mirrors. “No one did follow you,” he said at last. He was concentrating carefully now on the one-way streets, avoiding the busy circles or the underpasses and the giant avenues. It was as if he had memorised a certain number of blocks in this part of town and wasn’t going to venture into strange territory. As it was, Alexis had to admit, Oleg was doing not at all badly for someone who didn’t know Washington too well; and how typical of the man, to keep the wheel himself instead of asking him to drive. Within six minutes Oleg had found the parking spot he wanted, back once more on K Street, but this time further east, near the bus terminal for Dulles Airport. It was a busy section with plenty of movement. Their car, a rented Buick in unobtrusive brown, was not conspicuous; nor were they. Just two people waiting for friends to arrive from a flight to Washington.