Agent in Place (32 page)

So, Tony thought as he sat down on the bed, we talk with Gerard, make him realise we’re faced with a major problem, and say nothing about Parracini. Not even a circumlocution like
high-ranking enemy agent
. Nothing. Yet we can’t keep Gerard out of this. Tempting, but not possible. How do we warn him?

Tie loosened, belt unbuckled, Tony stretched out on the thin mattress. How? he asked the ceiling.

* * *

He felt a tug at his arm and was instantly awake.

Georges was saying, “Time we called Geneva. Sorry to do this, you were sleeping so deeply that I—”

“Just drifting in and out.” Tony swung his legs on to the floor. Exhaustion had left him: he felt as clear-eyed and brisk as if he had been asleep for several hours, but his watch told him it was barely twenty minutes since he had stretched out on the bed. “What about Brussels?”

“Completed. Don’t worry, they received the message. Now, we wait.”

“And what will we get—pie all over our faces?”

We’ll get worse than that, thought Georges, if we have miscalculated Gorsky’s possible reactions. What if it could be all plain sailing to Nice, and no interference? Hastily he put that thought out of his mind. “By the way, I expanded that reference to Department V—Executive Action. Just a little. A neat insert, I thought. Hope you don’t object.”

“Too late, anyway. What did you add?”

“Gorsky’s file number. Okay?”

“Wish I had thought of it,” Tony admitted, walking over to the table, looking at the equipment, wondering if a telephone call using voice code might not be the quickest way to contact Gerard. He noted that Georges hadn’t only been busy expanding references, but had found a spare minute to dump a small hunk of boiled ham, some Brie and Chèvre cheeses, along with a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, on the free end of the table. “Is Gerard as fascinated by Gorsky as you are?”

“More so. And with good reason.”

“What, for instance?”

Georges hesitated.

“Come on, come on. This info could help us now.”

“Gerard had a Soviet defector from Disinformation three years ago—sequestered him in a safe-house, twenty-four-hour guard. But Gorsky got at him, through one of the kitchen staff. The defector died, and two of our men with him. Food poisoning.”

“What was his code name in Gerard’s case-book?”

“That’s Gerard’s private property. It wasn’t even listed—”

“All the better. Less chance of its being recognised by outside ears. Our talk with Gerard could be monitored if we use the telephone. You know that.”

Georges nodded. For at least a year, Soviet Intelligence had been able to intercept and record telephone calls in all foreign countries, not only between government officials but between private citizens. Computerised scanners could monitor and separate the microwave frequencies. Fixed antennae on the roofs of Soviet embassies were picking up signals between foreign relay stations—even signals beamed to American communication satellites. “They’ve been using our technology,” Georges burst out, suddenly as much American as he was French. “That’s how our telephone call to Geneva could be monitored—by Telstar! Ironic, isn’t it?”

Tony said thoughtfully, “Now wouldn’t it be nice to cause a hiccup or two in those busy little Soviet computers?” He paused. “What was the code name Gerard gave to his dead defector?”

“Hector.”

The Trojan hero, dragged around by his heels at the tail-end of Achilles’s chariot... “Well,” said Tony, “do we use the telephone? Or have you a better idea of how to contact Gerard?”

“Yes. But he will want to talk with you. And that could tie up our transmitter for the next hour.” Further explanations requested, counter-suggestions—“No,” said Georges, “we’ve got to keep our lines of communication open with Brussels.”

“Then we haven’t any choice, have we?”

“We could always use the old-time scrambler for telephone conversations. That might help.”

“What would, nowadays? Twinkle, twinkle satellite, shining in the sky so bright, what d’you hear up there tonight?” That at least brought a small smile to Georges’s worried face. “All right,” Tony went on, “get Gerard on the line. You speak first, soften him up with a few friendly phrases. He likes you.” And the sober truth is that neither Gerard nor I have ever liked each other. We are two Englishmen with clashing personalities, which can make for disagreeable sounds. Remember, Tony warned himself as Georges at last handed him the telephone, don’t let Gerard’s bloody bullheadedness get one rise out of you. Sweetness and light and firm persuasion. And keep it brief.

* * *

And brief it was, four minutes of talk with Tony in control most of the way. For once, Gerard gave little argument: perhaps the initial shock was so great that its tremors lasted through the remainder of the conversation.

Tony plunged right in with, “Bad news about the condominium you are planning to build here. Serious difficulties have developed with the construction plans; a real crisis, in fact, that needs your personal attention. I know you were sending your two architects to consult the builders, but you ought to be here yourself. Why not fly down with them? We’ll meet all three of you, and we can go over the blue-prints without delay. I’d suggest an hour earlier than previously arranged—we have a lot to discuss about building specifications. They must be met—and that means you should oversee the necessary changes in the blue-prints. A brief visit should be enough, but your presence is imperative. We need your guiding hand—just to ensure that your special project goes smoothly and agreeably.”

“The blue-prints were excellent. They met all building specifications. Who’s objecting to them?”

“One of your rivals in real estate. He has an eye on your property. An aggressive type. The Achilles complex, you might call it. Remember Achilles? He was the fellow who killed poor old Hector and dragged his corpse around the walls of Troy.”

“I’ve read my Homer,” was Gerard’s icy reply.

“And so you have. Stupid of me to forget. Three years ago—was it? Yes, three years ago you used to have a passionate interest in the Trojan heroes.”

There was a short but painful silence. “Achilles is actually in—”

“Intolerable, at times,” Tony broke in, blotting out any mention of Menton. “I agree. A memorable character, though: not easily dismissed. Stays in mind, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Gerard. He began to recover. “I’ll make arrangements to join you.”

“Good. And you’ll inform the others about the time of arrival?”

“They won’t like it. It means a very early start.”

“A proper nuisance,” Tony commiserated, and gave Georges, listening-in with an earphone, a slow and solemn wink. He rang off abruptly before any other question about Achilles might come blundering forth.

“Okay?” he asked Georges.

“Not for me,” Georges smiled. “Gerard won’t like me giving away the name of Hector—or ‘three years ago’, either.”

“How else could we have warned him that Gorsky is here?”

“But not one word about Parracini’s true identity? You could have disguised it, meshed it in with your reference to Gerard’s special project.”

“Sure, I could have said his pet project had changed shape, got twisted, had an ugly face, turned into a monster to haunt his dreams.”

“Don’t you trust Gerard?” Georges asked bluntly.

“That isn’t the point. If I had told him the truth about Parracini, how do you think he would have behaved? Kept quiet? No. He’d now be sending messages, sounding the alarm, putting his department on red alert—other departments, too. He’d have started some action. And coopered ours. Look, I’m hungry.” Tony settled himself at the table, checked the St Emilion label. “Not a bad year,” he said, and began breaking bread.

* * *

They made a good supper. “It will help keep us awake,” Tony suggested, serving a second portion of Brie along with a large slice of Chèvre—the ham already sliced to the bone, the St Emilion at its last glass. There hadn’t been much talk during the meal. But even as it ended and Georges lit a cigarette, his silence continued. “My voluble French friend,” said Tony, relaxed and expansive, “what’s worrying you now?”

“Gerard. Do I meet him at Nice airport tomorrow?”

“You meet all three, and give them the full report as you drive them to the Menton dock. You’ve got all the facts. I don’t need to be there. I’d like to stay near the harbour.”

“I wish you had trusted Gerard more. He’s no fool.”

“Not always.”

Georges said sharply, “It
was
a good debriefing in Genoa. Gerard handled Parracini well. Nothing slipshod, I assure you.”

“I believe you.”

Georges tried some diplomacy. “If it hadn’t been for you, Tony, we’d still be accepting Parracini at face value. I know that. He’d even be on his way to a post in Gerard’s department. But—”

“But nothing! How could he have been accepted in Genoa?
That’s
the first question to ask.”

“He came guaranteed all the way. Made his first contact with us in Istanbul. He knew the address of our agent there, gave all the right identification signals. That
was
Palladin who reached Turkey.”

Was it? Tony wondered. He said, “How long was he in Istanbul?”

“Several days. Had to get passport and documents, clothes, money—all that.”

And in Istanbul, too, he was given the right recognition signals for his next contact in Lesbos, passed on from agent to agent, each giving him the next name to contact, the next signal to use.
Guaranteed all the way
—beginning with our agent in Istanbul who had accepted him as authentic. Tony said slowly, “Didn’t any of you in Genoa know him personally? Was there no one who had been in Moscow and could identify him?”

“Palladin was a careful character. Didn’t meet foreigners, avoided all contacts with the West. How do you think he stayed safe for twelve years?”

“There must be someone in NATO Intelligence who saw him in Moscow, knew him as Palladin.”

“Palladin wasn’t his real name. A cautious type, I told you.”

“Even so—there must be someone who could have identified him. What about our agents who recruited him twelve years ago?”

“He recruited himself—as his private protest about the renewed campaign against Russian intellectuals. He volunteered, using a Polish journalist to contact a NATO agent who was briefly in Moscow. He wasn’t really taken seriously at first, but the information he started sending—using his own methods to get it out to us—was of excellent quality.”

“Where’s the Polish journalist now?”

“Dead.”

“Where’s that NATO agent?”

“Retired. In London. He was hospitalised over Christmas—badly smashed up in a traffic accident. So he couldn’t attend the debriefing in Genoa.”

“Such a convenient and well-timed accident,” Tony murmured. “What did they use to run him down—a truck?”

Georges let that pass. “It seemed merely a piece of bad luck at the time,” was his only comment. “And now, of course, even if the old boy came out here on his crutches—well, we’ve seen how Parracini has changed his appearance. Right under our eyes, too. Ironic touch, isn’t it?”

Tony had risen and was moving over to the balcony door. “I could wish the irony wasn’t always turned against us these days. Time to start dealing out some of it, ourselves. Switch off that light, will you, Georges?” As the room darkened, Tony prepared to step on to the balcony. “Coming?” he asked.

“No, I’ll stay here and watch for a radio signal. What’s troubling you now? The
Sea Breeze
again?”

Tony closed the door gently behind him. Yes, the
Sea Breeze
. And Palladin’s arrival in Istanbul, too. Or had Palladin actually arrived there? He could have been trailed to Odessa—taken into custody and questioned under torture. A substitution wouldn’t be too difficult: find a KGB officer who worked in Palladin’s department and knew the same files. He only needed to be Palladin’s approximate age—and possibly close to his height too, in case someone out in the West recalled that Palladin was of medium size. (Colouring could be faked or changed. Heights were always the give-away.) Facial differences wouldn’t matter: it was the impersonator’s photograph and general description that would appear on the new Palladin travel documents. Odessa... Yes, that could be the place. There had been a delay there, before the next step had been made to Istanbul. And the man who was to replace Palladin could have increased that delay. He didn’t need to make a tortuous journey from Odessa to Istanbul; he could have flown to Turkey direct, at the last moment, giving him that extra time he needed to question Palladin. And Palladin himself? If not dead then, certainly by this time.

Tony stared down at the harbour and its protecting walls. All was silent, all was at peace. Within the giant horseshoe of black water, white hulls floated side by side, gently, easily. Neatly-spaced lights, like hard bright nailheads, studded the edge of land, secured it from the dark bay. The sea was gentle; small ripples, glinting even and constant under the gibbous moon, stretched to the dark rim of the horizon. The stars were brilliant, barely veiled by the thin clouds teased over the night sky. Silent and peaceful, Tony thought again. He gave a long last glance at the
Sea Breeze
before he stepped back into the warm room.

“All quiet out there?” Georges asked, as he switched on all the lights again. “No signal, so far, on my receiver.”

“If we have to use the
Sea Breeze
tomorrow—”

“Better wait for Brussels’s answer before you start thinking about that.”

“Tomorrow,” repeated Tony, “we’ll have Emil check under the water-line.”

“What?”

Tony saw once more the quiet line of boats, all neatly moored, dark waters lapping at their sides. We aren’t the only team around with an experienced underwater swimmer, he thought. He said, his smile self-deprecating, “I keep thinking of an explosion set off by remote control. Don’t look at me like that, Georges; it was you who gave me the idea to start with. When do you think we might hear from Brussels?”

“It’s barely midnight. And the longer we have to wait for an answer, the better. A flat refusal comes back in no time at all.”