Agent in Place (42 page)

“You’re overplaying it, buddy,” the taller of the two said. “We aren’t as decrepit as all that.” He looked about sixty or a little less, grey-haired, slightly stooped, with a white indoor complexion.

“Just the VIP treatment,” Emil assured him. “We’re being watched.”

The other one said nothing, just pursed his pale lips. He was of medium height, putting on weight like his friend, his reddish hair fading with age. He too looked as though he spent most of his time at a desk.

What a pair of elderly ducks, thought Emil; where did Bill find them? And these are the men who patrolled up and down the mole last night, making sure no one boarded the
Sea Breeze
! If that had happened, they might have needed more help than I did. Emil was smiling broadly as he ushered them into the cabin.

“Hi there,” said the grey-haired man. “I’m Saul.”

“Walt,” said the other. “Tony? Emil?”

They shook hands, looked round the small cabin, noted its tightly-drawn curtains. “Who’s doing the watching?” Saul asked.

“That cabin cruiser you passed. The
Monique
.”

“We saw her arriving just as we were knocking off duty last night. Neat looking piece. So that’s our target.”

“Rather,” said Tony, “we are their target.” His study of the two men ended. “Excellent,” he told them, “an excellent job. But you can start stepping out of character.”

“What?” asked Walt. “No more VIP treatment? And just as I was beginning to like it.” But without wasting a second they shed the raincoats, pulled off the ties, stripped themselves of shirts and neatly-creased trousers. They were now in tight-fitting jeans, coarsely-knitted sweaters (Saul’s was navy; Walt’s, a dirty white). The wigs were next to go, revealing Saul’s hair to be light brown, longish, sun-bleached at the edges, with a loose wave falling over his brow. Walt had black hair, thick and heavy, curling close to his head. From the attaché case, out came one pair of faded espadrilles, one pair of old sneakers, a small jar of cold cream, tissues, a mirror. With lightning speed they went to work on greasing and wiping their faces. The white indoor look vanished, was replaced by their permanent tans. And once the polished shoes were changed for espadrilles and sneakers, the transformation was complete: two young men, not much older than Emil and equally lithe and lean.

Emil’s admiring stare was cut short by Tony. “Time to jolly your fishing friends into making a bet,” he was told. He left immediately.

Tony studied the two quick-change artists. “Congratulations,” he said. Three minutes it had taken them, no more.

“What now?” Saul asked.

“As soon as some diversion starts on board the fishing-boat, you can slip out and stroll back down the dock.”

“That all?” Saul didn’t hide his disappointment.

“It’s plenty. Did you know you were photographed?” Just wish, Tony thought, there had been three of them; still. Gorsky might possibly deduce, when he saw two men, that Gerard had substituted for one of the officers who were originally coming to meet Parracini. Did I mention “three” to Bill when he was wearing that bloody watch? or did I have enough sense to keep my big mouth shut, only talk of Gerard? No time now to start recalling that garden scene—and stop worrying, there’s nothing you can do about it, anyway. “You’ll drive some guys crazy, back in Moscow, trying to fit names to your faces.”

“Who’s running their show here?”

“Gorsky.”

“Who’s Gorsky?” asked Walt.

“A tough customer. He had his underwater experts attach an explosive to the
Sea Breeze
last night. Emil found it.” They seemed to know what that must have entailed, for they looked impressed and were no doubt reassessing Emil. Tony continued, “There is something else you could do. Risky, of course; you’ll possibly be on camera again. What I’ve got in mind—”

But Emil had returned. “No need to place a wager,” he told Tony. “They’ve been working on the mainsail, got it hoisted half-way, and it’s stuck. Quick,” he urged Saul and Walt, “now’s your moment.”

Walt didn’t budge. “What did you have in mind?” he asked Tony.

“At ten thirty, wait at the head of the dock. You’ll see me, wearing this checked tweed—” Tony picked up his denim jacket, showed its lining—“accompanying a man, dark hair and moustache, dark suit. Run some interference for us when we pass the
Monique
. Will do?”

They were on their way. “Ten thirty,” Saul said as he and Walt stepped on deck. Quickly, they passed Emil, leaning against a rail, watching the fishing-boat with amusement. So far, its sail hadn’t come slithering down, exposing the bow of the
Sea Breeze
to curious eyes on board the
Monique
. Emil drew a breath of genuine relief: the two men were now on the dock, with no connection observed between them and the
Sea Breeze
.

Behind him Tony’s voice said, “I’ve got three minutes to catch a cab. See you.” And Tony left, too, almost on the heels of Saul and Walt. He was once more wearing his denim jacket, knitted cap, eyeglasses; his walk—when Emil risked another glance at the dock—was a brisk sea-going roll. He caught up with Saul and Walt, passed them, was lost in the thickening crowd.

Definitely thickening, Emil noted. The harbour had come to life. Now there was constant movement on the dock and on the long mole above it. In the anchorage itself, some boats had already left for a cruise, weather permitting; some were being sluiced down and polished; others, with less optimistic owners, were being secured against any afternoon storm. It was the usual Saturday crowd of week-end sailors, wandering around when they weren’t on board, interested in anything new and different. There were tourists, too, taking the air, feeding the seagulls while they had their photographs snapped. And the old salts, gathered in two and threes, watching this waste of good bread on birds who knew how to scavenge for themselves, were more convinced than ever that foreigners were crazy.

Emil left his post at the rail. It was ten fifteen. Better get the cabin straightened up, he warned himself. And what do we do with the clothes that Saul and Walt have left strewn around? Sure, stow them away in a spare locker meanwhile; but how and where do we return them? He went inside, shook his head over the wild disorder that met him, and set to work.

* * *

The taxi was waiting, just as arranged. Thankfully Tony got in: at least this was something that hadn’t gone wrong. He gave the driver exact instructions that would take him half-way along the bay front, a brief run that would only last four or five minutes. There, at the same red light where he and Georges had stopped last night—good God, was it only last night?—the taxi made its left turn into the westbound avenue. “Just here,” Tony said, money ready in his hand as the cab drew up.

He waited until it was bowling back to the Old Town before he moved over to a row of shops, so new that some were still vacant like the apartments above them. This was where he would meet Bernard, just outside the tea-room.

He had let Bernard choose the rendezvous, as they had driven down to the
Alexandre
that morning, to give the quiet unassuming man a touch of needed confidence. Bernard might be Bill’s faithful retainer, but he was the last man Tony would have recruited for the job on hand—except that there had been no other choice available. The tea-room with cakes for sale, Bernard had suggested at once. He and Brigitte often went there; Brigitte liked their napoleons, cream inside instead of custard. It had lime-green curtains and pots of cyclamen. Couldn’t be missed.

“All right,” Tony had said. “Once you drop Bill and Parracini at the boat, at ten twenty-five, start driving like the hammers of hell. And pick me up near your tea-room.”

“Not at your hotel?”

“No. At the tea-room. And waste no time, Bernard. This is pretty urgent. And also our own top-secret plan.” That had impressed Bernard, even if he was mystified. “Say nothing to Brigitte or Parracini or Nicole. Bill knows I’m making arrangements with you, so there’s no need to discuss them with him.”

And Bernard, still perplexed but always obliging, had told Tony to rely on him. He’d be at the tea-room as soon as he could. He wouldn’t forget Bill’s walking-stick. He’d wear a dark suit, as Tony had suggested. And he wouldn’t say a thing to anyone.

So, thought Tony, here I am now, looking at green curtains and splashes of cyclamen, waiting for Bernard. I am far enough from the harbour, where Gorsky must have someone stationed as lookout for the arrival of Bill’s Mercedes; I am far enough from the
Alexandre
and its weary watchdog. The taxi wasn’t followed. I may actually be in the clear, unobserved except by that girl behind the counter arranging her cream-puffs.

He moved away, farther along the row of shops, chose a safer place to loiter unnoticed—a window display of real-estate photographs, desirable properties for sale—but kept a constant eye on the road that led from the marina. Bernard wasn’t late. It was Tony, over-anxious about traffic jams and distances to be covered—he kept forgetting how short they were in Menton—who was five minutes early.

But so was Bernard.

In astonishment Tony caught sight of the Mercedes speeding towards him. He had scarcely time to get his moustache peeled off without taking three inches of skin before Bernard was about to reach him. And pass him without recognition. Tony whipped off his glasses and cap, waved, brought the Mercedes to a startled halt. “Well done,” he told Bernard. But, he was thinking, I’m glad that none of my friends were around to see that messy encounter: amateur night at the Palladium. I’d never have heard the end of it. And he wondered briefly, as Bernard followed his instructions and drove on past the tea-room with its roving-eyed girl, if Bernard was able to do what was expected of him without blowing the whole show. “How did it go?”

Bernard burst into a quick and excited story. Bill had made them leave the house early, insisted on driving, said they could be followed, kept watching the rear-view mirror, taken the winding curves of the narrow road like a crazy man. Then, once round a sharp turn, Bill had pulled up short. And there
was
a car following. It came round the curve, saw the Mercedes standing there, avoided it, side-swiped a wall at the edge of the—

Tony caught Bernard’s arm, interrupting the flow of words. “We’ll stop here.” He was drawing off his denim jacket, pulling out a dark brown wig and moustache from a pocket. “We’ll change before we reach the harbour, arrive as expected. So—” he told Bernard, applying the moustache for him—“press hard on it. Hold your fingers there. Yes, that’s right. And now this wig. Get it well down. Cover your own hair completely.”

Bernard, after his first startled moment, was quick enough. His own thin reddish-fair hair vanished. He studied the transformation in the car mirror, took out a comb to arrange his heavy dark waves in place, fingered the moustache once more, and nodded his approval. “It alters a man,” he admitted, and smiled.

Tony had pulled on his own wig, changing his medium-cut hair, indeterminate brown, into longish blond locks. “Serious business,” he warned. “No more smiles, Bernard. We could be watched every step of the way, from the Mercedes to the
Sea Breeze
. Let’s get moving.”

They started on the last lap of the journey towards the harbour. “What did Bill do?” Tony asked, prompting Bernard back into his story. “Did he drive on?”

Yes, that was what he had done. He had driven like a madman, and turned on the radio, and talked through it—about a change in the arrangements.

“And Parracini? How did he take it?”

“At first, angry. Told Bill to turn around, he was going back to the house. And Bill said, ‘You don’t want to meet Gerard? Because he’s not coming near the house. It’s no longer safe. You saw that car—it knew where to pick up our trail. What’s your choice? Go back? Or go on, as arranged?’ So we didn’t go back.”

“And Parracini?”

“As relieved as I was to arrive at the marina. Six minutes early.” Bernard shuddered, remembering the speed with which they had made that wild descent. “We were lucky, I think. But Bill’s a good driver—I’ll say that for him.” He pointed ahead. “I can park there. All right?”

Tony nodded. Yes, he was thinking, Bill is good. If he hadn’t remembered Parracini’s watch—well, he did: and I didn’t.

The Mercedes came to a halt. Bernard’s hands were still on the wheel, his grip tightening until white knuckles showed.

A case of stage fright, Tony thought, and at this moment I’m not too certain of my own lines. “Now, all we have to do is walk along a dock,” he said reassuringly. “Look at no one, Bernard. No one. Just keep talking to me.”

“Am I supposed to be Parracini?” Bernard’s doubts were growing. “We’ll never manage to—”

“You’re his height, and that’s the important thing.”

“But if you are Bill, then—”

“I know. I’m three inches shorter, but he never was seen around town, was he? I’ve got his colour of hair and his limp and his cane. So we’ll manage. Shoulders back, Bernard, remember the way Parracini walks. And keep to my left side, your face turned towards me and away from the boats. Ready? Here goes.” He reached over to the back seat for the walking-stick, gripped it in his right hand, and got out of the car. Bernard had no choice. He got out too. “Left side, Bernard, left side! And you look fine.”

As they crossed the avenue to reach the harbour, Bernard asked, “Are we doing this because of Parracini?”

“Yes.”

“To distract the KGB?” Bernard’s face was grim.

“Yes,” said Tony again, and repressed a smile. “Just a little distraction.” And a very big bluff. “Now let’s talk of other things. What did you think of that Milan-Turin soccer match last week? A near riot, I heard.”

And Bernard, who followed every football game on television, had a topic to keep him going on that nerve-racking walk to the
Sea Breeze
. Once he paused in his monologue—almost as they were reaching the
Monique—
to glare at a couple of young men who were about to pass and then, as they came abreast, slackened speed while they argued about some item in the newspaper one of them was opening.