Agent in Place (30 page)

Tony brushed that aside. “Not tonight.” His emotions had subsided; jumbled thoughts were coming back into order. At least, he thought, we know the worst. We can start from there.

“Let him think he has won?” Even if that gave Gorsky a false sense of security, Georges still didn’t like it.

“Why not?” Reappraisal, decided Tony: see how we stand; then act.

“We’re missing a first-rate opportunity. We may never have a second chance to find out where he is holed up.”

“And risk raising his suspicions still more?”

But Georges persisted, found good reasons to bolster his own impulse. “We didn’t add to them tonight. We showed absolutely no interest in him at the Casino. Why shouldn’t we have been there? We’re tourists. And our visit to Shandon Villa was equally understandable. We haven’t given Gorsky any reason to suspect—”

“Then we’ll keep him unsuspecting for as long as possible.” And that won’t be too long, Tony thought. How much did he actually learn about my movements in New York, last December? Or at New Jersey’s Shandon, or in Washington itself? His voice sharpened. “Damn it, Georges, you are a hard man to persuade.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I’m telling you to forget Gorsky. Meanwhile.”

“How can we? He’s in charge of this operation.”

“Not he. Think back to that scene at the table.”

“I see,” Georges said with a touch of sarcasm. It strengthened. “That’s why Parracini was the one to make contact? Here I am, sir. Reporting for duty. Any new instructions?”

A matter of protocol? Tony repressed a smile. “He had no other choice. Where’s your car?”

“Next street,” said Georges stiffly, and led the way. But he was thinking back, as Tony had advised. True enough: Parracini had had no other choice than to make the first move: he had come out of the cinema earlier than expected; he hadn’t had much time at his disposal—five or six minutes at most—before Brigitte would find him. “He’s good,” Georges admitted. “He’s flexible. Decisive. Isn’t fazed by any variant in a set plan. But that doesn’t prove he’s important enough to outrank Gorsky.”

“Which of them had the last word?” Tony didn’t wait for a reply, stepped into the car as if to close the argument.

Parracini—yes, Parracini. Administering a final piece of advice? Or instruction? “If this is true—” Georges began, and paused. The idea of Parracini’s importance was still too shocking to be easily believable. What have we been protecting—Bill, Nicole, all of us? Keeping him happy, comfortable, worrying our brains out about his safety? Yes, the joke is on us, a very sour joke indeed... Georges got into the driver’s seat, sat there, staring at the wheel. We haven’t only been fooled: we’ll become a laughing-stock when this news gets out. And Gerard, for one, may find his career—a good one, too—suddenly amputated. “If this is true,” Georges repeated, but he was less doubtful now, “Nealey is here to run the Shandon Villa operation. Parracini is here—among other things—to supervise Nealey. And Gorsky, Executive Action department, is here to supply protection.” Which meant that Shandon Villa must be of far greater importance in future KGB plans than either he or Tony had first guessed. “You know,” he admitted frankly, “if you hadn’t been so intent on Nealey, we would never have stumbled on all this. It’s one hell of a situation.”

Tony had been keeping a careful eye on the street, fore and aft. It seemed as safe as those they had passed through in the last ten minutes—no more than twenty people encountered: couples, homeward bound; an occasional singleton, self-absorbed; but no one dodging into a doorway, no one dogging their footsteps. He relaxed now, lit a cigarette, offered one to Georges. “It could be worse.”

“That is what appalls me.” Georges was remembering his discussion with Tony only that afternoon, about Parracini’s future in a cosy career with NATO. “My good God,” he said, “what have we escaped?”

A KGB agent in perfect place, thought Tony. “Let’s get moving. Take the tunnel, head for the other side of town.” I’ve had enough of this one. “Can you put me up for the night?”

“Of course.” Georges manoeuvred the car out of its parking place. “We can always toss a coin to see who sleeps on the floor.” His high spirits were returning with the thought of some action. There would be plenty to do before either of them stretched out to sleep. There would be a sense of decision, of accomplishing something important: the good feeling of being in the centre of things. His luck had been in today, and Emil’s had been out, stuck as he was on board the
Sea Breeze
. That was the way it went: stretches of boredom, of patient duty. And then—suddenly, like tonight—the big chance. “We’ll have to move fast, Tony. And Gerard could be a problem, so paralysed with shock that we could lose two good hours. Parracini has been his pet project, remember. How do you deal with that, I ask you?”

“That,” said Tony, “is what I am trying to think about.”

It was a gentle reminder to stop talking and leave Tony in peace. Georges grinned, said “Yes, sir,” and concentrated on the rear-view mirror. No car was following.

The Casino, the shopping area, the public buildings and private houses all vanished behind them as they entered the tunnel and sped through the hill on which the Old Town stood. This was a short cut, the underpass that linked the two other sections of Menton, west and east. A strange way for a town to grow, thought Georges. First, the mass of medieval houses and churches packed together on a steep spine of rock. Then, centuries later, a spread of people to lower ground, with their houses and markets and churches clustering around the base of the hill on either side. Three towns, actually, with the most ancient of them still functioning—not a historical relic, but a place with a life of its own. Today he had settled in nicely
sous les toits de Menton
, and had imagined that he’d be part of the Old Town for a pleasant week. But now, it was possible he’d be out of there by tomorrow. Parracini had changed all plans.

They swept out of the tunnel, entering on the broad avenue that followed the shore of Garavan Bay. The Old Town, dominating the harbour, rose up behind them. “The quick way up to my place,” Georges said, pointing backwards.

Tony jerked round, but saw only a solid stretch of high-rising tenements.

“It’s the street—a flight of steps, really—that lies about half-way along that row of shops and Italian restaurants.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps we’d better make the climb together.”

“Negative. We’ll stick to our usual routine. Except that I’ll follow you more closely than usual.”

“We won’t have far to go. My room is on the bottom layer of the Old Town. Lucky it isn’t up on the pinnacle. And it faces the Mediterranean. I have a front-row seat to all this.” He gestured with his right hand towards the dark in-curve of water edged by the continuous lights of promenade and avenue.

Another night, thought Tony, and I can admire the view. But now—his eyes followed the shoreline ahead of them and reached the new anchorage for yachts and cabin-cruisers. “That marina at the east end of the bay—wonder if it has boats for hire. Nice big boats with powerful engines.”

“We’ve already got a boat. With a good engine.”

Not good enough, not for what I’m thinking. “Let’s go to your room.” There was sudden urgency in Tony’s voice. “Make the turn back at the next traffic light. I have to call Bill before we start sending any message.”

“All right, all right.” Georges took the next turn and headed back to the Old Town, travelling now along the waterfront apartments and hotels that had recently mushroomed on this side of the avenue. “Sorry about all this delay,” he said too politely. It wasn’t too much, he thought, only six or seven minutes altogether.

“I’ve been admiring your caution.”

“I always take care when I’m approaching my place. It’s the only base of operations we’ve got.”

“I am still admiring your caution.”

Georges’s defensiveness ended in a laugh. He brought the car to a smooth halt, stopping short of the Old Town to leave them still about two hundred yards to cover on foot. The spot he had selected for parking was well calculated, too: the Renault had merged with a dozen cars that were drawn off the avenue, herded near a garden wall of one of the large apartment hotels. “Now for that damned walk,” Georges said, eyeing it with distaste.

“I’ll give you three minutes, and then follow.”

“Remember—it’s the first street you reach. Lies between the pizza palace and the beauty salon with yellow curtains. Forty-seven steps up, and you take the street on your right. I’ll be waiting.”

“Fine.”

Georges had one last look around him before he stepped out of the Renault. “I wish this place wasn’t so deserted at night. What we need is a good thick crowd for comfort.”

“Next time we’ll arrange our assignment for July.”

Georges eased into a smile, started along the empty sidewalk.

I don’t feel too happy about this either, thought Tony. Yet we’ve taken every precaution. There was some traffic—a few cars, an occasional taxi—but it was all fast moving. No car had drawn aside and parked. And no one was suddenly stepping out of a doorway to follow Georges. Tony’s glance flickered to his watch. The three minutes were almost up. Now it was his turn to step on to that lonely sidewalk, singing the off-season blues.

As he approached the Old Town, he had a closer view of the harbour. The mole, its claw-like arm thrown around the anchorage, was well lighted. One or two people walking out there, he noted; and one or two people, land-side, on the promenade. The boats were hidden, but he could see rows and rows of masts, the long and the short, the slender and the thick, and those of the
Sea Breeze
riding peacefully among them. Yes, he thought, the
Sea Breeze
is another thing I don’t feel too happy about. Gorsky will not only have her under surveillance, but he will find out that three of us arrived; and now only one is left aboard. He knows I’m at the
Hôtel Alexandre
. But Georges—where? He won’t rest until he traces Georges’s real address. He can sense its importance: why else did Georges keep it out of the police records? And he can easily discover that the
Sea Breeze
has been taking on supplies—more than necessary for three people who say they are sailing along the coast. And he may do exactly what I was tempted to do, at that marina on the other end of the bay. He may hire a cabin cruiser. Not a pleasing prospect for the
Sea Breeze
when she sails out of harbour tomorrow.

So we cancel our plan? Tony heaved a sigh of regret. It would have been so simple, a neat clean operation: get Parracini aboard the
Sea Breeze
, but instead of cruising—the original idea—sail direct to Nice, coax him on to a plane for Brussels. Using what as the incentive? An interview for that job in NATO Intelligence? Yes, he wouldn’t refuse that invitation. So simple. Like all might-have-beens.

What else was there, to take its place? Convey Parracini to Nice by car? He’d balk, most definitely. A secret meeting with two senior NATO officers on board the cruising
Sea Breeze
—that would seem logical enough: privacy and security combined. But a sudden switch to a car? He’d sense a trap. He’d never go of his own free will. Messy. A drugged man needs a stretcher and bearers to get him on to a plane. I’m no kidnapper, Tony thought, and shook his head.

Even a helicopter—there was a stretch of open ground near the marina at the other end of the bay—wouldn’t serve our purpose. We’d need local permission, and how do we get that before eleven tomorrow morning? And again there is the unpleasant problem of carrying an unconscious man—no, Tony told himself sharply, that isn’t the way you work. Just think harder, Lawton, will you?

Pizza advertisements, boldly printed and plastered all over a restaurant’s window, shouted at him for attention. Beyond it, a small shop with its hair-dryers showing, and curtains that might look yellow by day, but now, under the electric lights, were the colour of porridge. And between the pizza and the porridge was tucked the street—a flight of stairs—that would lead him up into the Old Town. He began climbing.

It was a steep pull, the stone steps made swaybacked by centuries of clattering feet. On either side, no more than two arm-lengths apart, were the gable ends of houses, reaching high, cutting the night sky into a sliver. But the lights on the walls were evenly spaced, and adequate enough to keep a man from breaking a leg. Tony didn’t have to fumble for his footing, grope his way. He could concentrate on moving as quickly and silently as possible. There were scattered windows above and around; sounds of muffled voices, of a radio muted behind shutters. And always, at his back, the night breeze that came funnelling up this narrow street from the sea.

Forty-seven steps, and he could turn, breathing heavily, muscles taut, into a slightly broader street. And flatter too, thank heaven. Three boys, chasing one another, jostled a young man and his girl out of a tight embrace. An older man, fisherman type, walked slowly. Tony kept on his way as if he too were
en route
home. He passed Georges leaning against a wall, heard him whisper, “Second entrance on your right, and all the way up.”

Tony reached the top landing, sat down on the last step to wait for Georges. If there hadn’t been so many neighbours behind the closed doors he had passed, he might have laughed out loud.

Georges had already drawn the curtains across his window and pulled the shade over the glass panels of the door that led on to the midget terrace, before he turned on the lights and let Tony enter his room.

It was of medium size and sparsely furnished: a heavy wooden table and two hard chairs, a narrow bed, a chest beside it with a radio on top, a small wardrobe, a scrap of rug. The paintwork was orange, the plaster walls covered with the work of a previous tenant—abstract murals in scarlet and purple. “Cheerful,” Tony said, investigating a narrow door to find a tight squeeze of toilet and hand-basin. “And running water, too.” There was a definite drip from the small overhead cistern.

“It may not be the Ritz, but it has a better view.” Georges took off his jacket, hooked it on a peg at the door.