Agent in Place (39 page)

There was complete silence, now, in the bedroom. Nealey hesitated, then knocked on its door and waited for a response. At last it opened and Gorsky, fully dressed, ready to leave, came out. His face was calm, his eyes cold. He looked at the breakfast tray and poured himself a cup of coffee. Nealey, helping himself to bread, butter, and honey, was suddenly aware of sharp scrutiny, and lost his appetite. The silence unnerved him. He didn’t even drink his coffee. He blurted out, “There was no other way. The old man shot at me. I had to run.”

“Before he shot at you,” Gorsky said, not even concealing his contempt.

“After.”

“And he missed? Yet he could aim well. He wounded Gómez and handed him over to the police.”

“And Feliks?”

“He got away—with much difficulty. He is at the cottage. I have instructed him to leave, remove what he can, destroy the rest.”

“But Gómez will give no information—”

“The cottage is no longer possible. You have ended its usefulness.”

“I? I’m not to blame for Gómez—”

“If you had dealt with Charles Kelso effectively, there would have been no need for our visit to his brother’s house. We could have concentrated on our real mission here, not on a distraction that should never have been allowed to develop.”

“How else could I have dealt with Chuck? He threatened me and I persuaded him to postpone action. That gave you time to—”

“Not time enough to examine the suitcase before his body was discovered! You should have stayed here, yesterday afternoon. You should have gone through his belongings while we dealt with him. But no—you had to run off to Eze, provide yourself with an excuse for not taking part in his death. You could even have stood watch, like Gómez. Yes, Gómez. Who is now in the hands of the police. If he can be recognised as one of the electricians who were working at Shandon yesterday—” Gorsky’s lips tightened as he stared down at Nealey, who sat with head bent, coffee-cup pushed aside and forgotten, on the edge of his chair.

Gorsky’s recital of mistakes continued. “You told me that Kelso had threatened you, that he showed you notes for a letter he was about to write—if you didn’t resign. You did not tell me that the letter was already written.”

Nealey roused himself. “It was only drafted, not actually written.”

“No? Here is one copy.” Gorsky placed it in front of Nealey. “There are four others. You do not have copies without an original. And it is ready to be mailed. Did he tell you to whom he sent it for safe-keeping?”

“He only warned me he was drafting a letter,” Nealey insisted.

“And you believed that?” Gorsky’s scorn ended in a brief laugh.

“The letter is probably hidden in his apartment,” Nealey suggested quickly.

Gorsky’s contempt increased. “I had a thorough search made there yesterday, as soon as you told me about Kelso’s notes. And no search would have been possible, if there wasn’t a time-lag between here and New York. But your luck stopped there, Nealey. We found nothing. Nothing!”

“Then perhaps he was bluffing—there was no draft—”

“And therefore no letter ready to be mailed? What a comforting thought. Idiot! Read that postscript to his brother. There
is
a letter, now in the hands of someone he trusts—someone who is waiting for Kelso’s instructions whether to send or destroy it. As soon as he hears of Kelso’s death, he will either mail or open the letter. In either case, disastrous for you. Impossible to stay here. You resign today, and leave by tomorrow morning. I will send two men with you, to make sure your journey to Moscow is without incident.”

Moscow? Recall. For what? Nealey said, “How can I resign? I am in charge here. The first seminar begins next week. Do you actually mean to sacrifice all my work, all this project? Parracini would never agree with that.”

“Parracini has a bigger project in view than even Shandon Villa. If there is a choice between them, he will concentrate on the success of his own mission.”

“And what is it that’s so important?” Nealey countered. “To throw away our control over Shandon Villa—that’s madness! And Parracini couldn’t substitute one of his agents to take over my position here. There isn’t time. The job will go to my chief assistant, perhaps permanently if he shapes up. And you know I selected him because he is excellent cover—politically a middle-of-the-road liberal who is against extremes, right or left. How far would you get with him?”

Nealey had made a good point, Gorsky conceded. “When does he begin work here?”

“Tomorrow or Monday. He arrives in Menton today.”

Gorsky was silent for almost two minutes. “Then we shall arrange it this way. You don’t resign: you will ask for a leave of absence, with your assistant taking charge for the next week or so. This will give us time enough to have another candidate ready for your job—someone who has more distinguished qualifications than your assistant. We will push him hard, just as we pushed you—use every bit of influence, pull every string we can find in Washington. And when we are ready to insert him into your slot at Shandon Villa, you can then turn your leave of absence into resignation.”

“But how could I ask for any leave at this moment? The first seminar—”

“You have been working too hard, you’ve done too much. The death of your friend Charles Kelso has caused you great distress—you need two weeks to rest and regain your health.”

“Two weeks?” Nealey was scornful. “You’ll never be able to install anyone in—”

“Two weeks.” Gorsky was adamant. “And if there is a delay in our plans, all you have to do is to request an extension of your sick leave.” Gorsky’s anger, held at a low simmer, was beginning to boil. “Any excuse, you fool, to prevent your job from being filled. You keep Maclehose expecting your return. Can’t you do even that?”

Nealey moistened his dry lips. “What about Anne-Marie, or the others?”

“They will be sent elsewhere.”

“But why?”

“Because of NATO Intelligence.”

“What?”

Gorsky didn’t explain. He continued with the problem of Anne-Marie. “You will reprimand her this morning, for incompetence. You will create a scene. She will leave in anger. And after that you will ask Maclehose for sick leave. A most appropriate request after the performance you have just given.”

“You are clearing us all out of Shandon?” Nealey couldn’t believe it. “All our work—all our organisation—”

“We take the loss, and wait, and begin all over again. But carefully. NATO’s agents will keep Shandon Villa under close observation for several months.”

“It could be a false alarm about NATO Intelligence.”

“Their agents are here in Menton. Three came in yesterday, aboard the
Sea Breeze
. One, Emil Baehren, has been identified—he is guarding their boat. Of the two others, only Georges Despinard can be definitely connected with the
Sea Breeze
.”

“Yes,” Nealey was quick to remind Gorsky, “it was I who found out his name, and the
Sea Breeze
address, at the police-station. And the third agent is Lawton, who is staying at the
Alexandre
? It must be. They were together at Shandon yesterday afternoon.”

“It doesn’t follow. An agent like Despinard could have used Lawton to arrange a visit to Shandon.” It had been Despinard who had prowled around the gardens, not Lawton. “All we know definitely about Lawton is that he is a friend of Thomas Kelso. He is a friend of many journalists—including Despinard.”

“But you have your suspicions?”

“I’ve had them for many months.” Gorsky was enigmatic.

“Haven’t you acted on them—had him followed, his rooms searched?”

“If we had discovered anything at all,” said Gorsky, as if he were talking to a child, “do you think I would only have suspicions?”

Nealey said bitingly, “I’ve never known a lack of proof to keep you from taking action.” And that, he saw by Gorsky’s face, had been a mistake. He hurried on. “So we have three low-grade operatives in Menton, sent by NATO on a fool’s errand—to protect Parracini.”

“And at last two very senior officers arriving today. But the most senior of them all was already here, yesterday. According to one of our best informants, he sent a brief message to Paris requesting dual repairs for the
Sea Breeze
—two more agents, of course—and identified himself by one of his code-names, Uncle Arthur.” And that, he thought as he watched Nealey lose his cockiness and revert to being suitably impressed, restores the correct balance between us. No need to spoil the effect by admitting that Uncle Arthur’s real name had never been identified—it was only known to four NATO officials in Brussels, and none of them were talking. As for his colleagues, they were ignorant of his rank and importance, accepted him as one of themselves. It had proved, so far, to be the best possible cover. So far... But he was here in Menton. And Lawton was here in Menton, as elusive as ever. And these two had coincided before. Accidentally? There never had been any proof that Lawton and Uncle Arthur were the same man. And yet—“When two suspicions become one,” Gorsky said, watching Nealey’s baffled face with a smile, “then I act.”

“But if Lawton is a NATO agent—how could he have any interest in Shandon? We’ve covered our tracks, we’ve—”

“NATO
is
interested. Because of you. They have been watching you for the last three months, according to Kelso.”

“Tom Kelso? What does
he
know? He was bluffing.”

“I received further confirmation only half an hour ago—from Parracini. He was trying to reach you here, give you orders to clear out. I took the message. I am now passing his instructions to you.”

“Something is wrong,” Nealey protested. “No one has been watching me. Not for three months, or three weeks, or three days.”

“Are you contradicting Parracini’s judgment? Or mine?”

“No, no. But why didn’t NATO move in on me as soon as I reached Europe?”

“Have you forgotten that a suspected agent is watched for his contacts, that the net is not drawn around him until a large haul can be made?”

“I know,” said Nealey, and didn’t conceal his irritation. He was certain he hadn’t been followed, either in Washington or in Menton. “But the point is—”

“The point is that you leave here by Monday at latest. For Aix-en-Provence. A natural choice for a man who needs rest and medical treatment. It has thermal baths, many doctors. More importantly for you—crowds and a confusion of streets. Feliks will meet you without any trouble. It can easily be reached from Menton—a two-hour drive. And it is near the Mediterranean.”

Ten miles from Marseilles. “You are shipping me out on a freighter?” Nealey tried to conceal his anger.

“If we have to, yes.” Gorsky noted Nealey’s rigid smile. “But,” he added, “we can offer you more comfortable quarters than that. We have a cabin cruiser available.” His voice had lost all harshness, had become almost friendly.

Nealey thought over that idea. Yes, once it was time for him to slip out of Aix-en-Provence, it would be easy to travel ten miles to the coast, be picked up at one of its numerous small harbours. NATO agents would concentrate on the Marseilles docks, the obvious place for a man in flight. A cabin cruiser available? “All right. Shall I type out my request for sick leave now? Make sure it suits your—your scenario?”

“Write it by hand.”

Nealey sat down at his desk, found paper and pen. Is this a trap of some kind? Or is Aix-en-Provence the trap? If I am under suspicion, the French police could easily detain me there at the request of NATO. “How long will it take you to find my replacement?” he asked, as he dated his note to Maclehose. “Any delay could be dangerous. Extradition is possible, once the Americans receive Chuck Kelso’s information. Or have you forgotten that I am supposed to be an American citizen?”

“You will not have long to wait before your replacement is here. A week, perhaps. Not more.”

“A week?” He’s lying, thought Nealey. He is ensuring my complete obedience by promises. Does he think I will defect? But this time Nealey hid his anger well. He began writing, pleading this and that, exactly as it had been dictated. He signed the letter, handed it over to be read.

Gorsky nodded his approval, and watched Nealey as he sealed the envelope and addressed it. “A week,” he emphasised as if he felt reassurance was necessary.

“I begin to think you have my replacement already chosen.”

Gorsky concealed his chagrin. “Every important actor must have his understudy.”

“You mean there was always a substitute, waiting to—”

“But of course. You could have met with an accident, or needed a serious operation. Such things happen.”

Yes, thought Nealey as he stared back at Gorsky, accidents do happen. Thank God that Parracini is in charge. If he weren’t here to restrain this man... And once again Nealey felt the same cold fear that had seized him in Washington.

“Get some clothes on,” Gorsky told him. “You’ll drive me into Menton, leave me at the market. And don’t take long to dress. Two minutes.” He had switched off the lights and opened the shutters, and was now making a quick check of the terrace and gardens. He was at the office door, his hat in his hand, his coat over his arm, waiting impatiently, by the time Nealey had pulled on trousers, shirt, and sweater, and slipped bare feet into loafers. Less than two minutes, thought Nealey, but Gorsky had no comment. His eyes and ears were intent on the silent house as he hurried downstairs, led the way through the hall, ghostly in the first light of morning.

He did not speak, even when they reached the garage safely—no one in the garden, no one at any window—and entered the car. Only as they left Shandon’s gates did Gorsky say, “Hurry! Drive as fast as you can.” He threw his coat and hat into the back seat. “Get rid of them,” was his final command. Then, slumping low, head kept well down, eyes on his watch, a frown on his face, Gorsky seemed to forget Nealey completely.

Nealey made one last show of independent judgment. He halted the Citroën a couple of blocks from the market. “Too many trucks pulling in, too many farmers opening their stalls,” he said briskly. “I’m not going to be caught in a traffic jam. You get out here.”

Gorsky had no other choice: to keep the car standing while he argued would only draw attention to them. He got out.