Deep Lie (24 page)

“What part of the country are you from?” Helder asked. anxious to turn the questioning from himself.

“Georgia; small town called Delano. I’ve got a law practice there with my father.”

“You on vacation, too?”

“Yes, in fact, I’ll be in Helsinki in a couple of days. but only to change planes.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Place on the west coast called Pietarsaari, or by its Swedish name, Jakobstad. I’m picking up a new boat from a yard there for a friend; sailing it to Copenhagen.”

Holder’s interest was piqued.

“What sort of a boat?”

“Sloop, forty-two feet, a Swan. You sail?”

“Oh, I did some dinghy sailing on the lakes in Minnesota.

Finns, mostly.”

“Single-handed, huh? I’ve done some of that myself. but in larger boats.”

“I don’t think I know the Swan,” Helder said.

The man looked surprised.

“No? They have the reputation of being the best production yachts in the world.”

“Well, I guess there weren’t many Swans on the Minnesota lakes,” Helder laughed.

Their food arrived, and they chatted easily through lunch.

Helder rather liked the man, and he enjoyed the mental exercise of holding up his end of the conversation, relying on the training Jones had given him and his own ability to improvise. They finished their coffee and divided up the check, then rose to go.

“Well, have a good stay, both in Stockholm and Helsinki.” the man said.

“And keep drawing. You’re good.”

Helder was grateful for someone to talk with and was sorry the lunch was over.

“Would you like one?” he asked, holding up his sketch pad.

“Oh, thanks, but I’m sure you’ll want them for the memories.”

“I’d be very pleased to know one of my things was hanging in a lawyer’s office in Georgia,” Helder said. He really would, too. It amused him to think the man would never know who had done the drawing, and there would be a little of himself in America, even if the CIA didn’t get him.

“Well, thank you very much. I’m partial to the one of the palace guards, I think. May I have that one?”

“Of course,” Helder said, tearing the drawing from the pad. He signed it quickly and handed it over.

“We never introduced ourselves properly,” the man said, “and I’d like to know whose work will be hanging in my office.” He stuck out his hand.

“I’m Carl Swenson.” Helder said, returning the handshake.

“It’s good to meet you, Carl. If you ever find yourself in Delano, Georgia, look me up. My name is Will Lee.”

They parted the best of friends. RULE blinked in the dazzling Roman sunlight, shading her eyes with a hand. and searched the — I crowd in vain for Emilio Appicella. She was seated in an outdoor cafe in the Piazza Navona, feeling like death, and suffering a major continental disorientation.

She had taken a night flight from Washington and arrived at the crack of dawn, gone straight to a room at the Hassler-Villa Medici, where they remembered Simon, if not her, and slept restlessly for two hours. The walk from the Hassler to the restaurant had passed like a stroll on another, but oddly familiar planet, waves of heat from the paving stones riffling through the throbs of her jet lag.

She had made a luncheon appointment with Appicella before leaving D.C.; he had agreed to see her with alacrity, even eagerness. What had Jim Gill told the man about her. anyway? Appicella had suggested lunch, suggested the restaurant, an old favorite of hers from her Rome station days, but he was twenty minutes late, and the ice in her San Peligrino had melted. She waved at a waiter for a refill and searched the crowd in the square again, wondering what he looked like. (“I will find you,” he had said when she asked.) She had a feeling he would be an Italian version of that well-known American breed, the computer nerd.

She watched a man walking slowly through the restaurant and smiled to herself. He was not her lunch date. He might have stepped out of a Mastroianni film. He was outrageously handsome, dressed in a white suit, the jacket draped over his shoulders, and a Panama hat. A pale yellow silk shirt was open at the throat, and the only spot of color was a wildly patterned silk handkerchief in the jacket pocket. He moved easily through the crowd, shaking a hand here, kissing another there, tossing a wave to somebody across the terrace. He had a habit of running a finger along his thick, dark mustache, which gave him a rakish air, and the waiters lined up to speak to him. He was a caricature of everything Hollywood believed about Italian men, and she wished forlornly that she was having lunch with him, instead of some half-baked computer pirate, who, she knew. would turn up in a wrinkled polyester suit with a lot of pens stuck in the jacket pocket. It was no way to spend her one day in Rome.

The man eyed her as he stopped a couple of tables away, and she returned his gaze frankly. If her man didn’t show, what the hell? He exchanged a few words with the couple at the table, then moved toward her and stopped, removing his straw hat to reveal a dark headful of gorgeously barbered hair. She looked up into the dark eyes and tried not to giggle.

“Signorina Rule, I believe.” he said, smoothly in comically accented English.

She was speechless. “I am Emilio Appicella.” he said.

“I believe we have an appointment. May i sit down?”

“Of course,” she said, recovering slightly.

He lifted an eyebrow, and a waiter instantly materialized at the table. Appicella spoke to him for half a minute in Italian too rapid for her to follow, and the waiter vanished.

“I have taken the liberty of ordering for you,” he said.

“I hope you do not mind.”

“No,” she said, putty in his hands already.

“Well,” he breathed,. leaning back in his chair and looking at her. “you are certainly the loveliest C1A agent I have ever seen.”

“Jesus Christ!” she hissed at him, rattled.

“Will you keep your voice down!”

He laughed loudly.

“Ah, Signorina Rule, nobody here is listening to us. Not on a day like today.” He waved a hand.

“They are all too busy making plans to take each other to bed immediately after lunch.”

The waiter materialized again, bearing a tray with a pitcher of orange juice and a bottle of cold champagne.

“It is a wonderful drink I am ashamed to say I discovered in England,” Appicella said, supervising the pouring of equal measures of the two drinks.

“It is called a Buck’s Fizz, and it is far too cheerful and sunny a concoction for such a dismal place. They do not deserve it.” He placed a glass in front of her and raised his own.

“To successful missions,” he said, conspiratorially.

“Mr. Appicella,” Rule said quickly, “I think you must have the wrong idea about who I am. I…”

He held up a hand.

“Please. First we will have a good lunch, then we will talk of spying and such things.”

Rule tried to relax and enjoy herself, though she had a late afternoon plane to catch. A huge platter of antipasti arrived, followed by pasta with sour cream, cheese, and flakes of smoked salmon, followed by tiny lamb chops and a salad. They chatted like new friends, about the heat in Rome and Washington, the best restaurants on the Amalfi coast, the best hotels in Venice. Appicella was familiar with them all.

Finally, over coffee, Appicella leaned back, belched discreetly, and said, “Now, to business. I expect you wish me to spy on Firsov for you, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Rule replied. She was too surprised to say anything else. She had been preparing for a long exercise in subtleties and, perhaps, some batting of the eyelashes.

“All right,” he said, “I will do it.”

“You will?” she asked, weakly.

“Of course. Did you think I was some communist, or something?”

“Well, no…”

“Do you wish me to photograph documents?”

“Emilio, I haven’t brought you a camera or any other paraphernalia. It would be extremely dangerous for an ama… a nonprofessional to try that sort of thing.”

He shrugged.

“As you wish. I will be happy to take photographs if you like. I have a Minox of my own.”

She shook her head.

“No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.

I simply want to know where Firsov is and what he might be up to. Look, I don’t have authorization for a fee, but I might be able to…”

He stopped her with a glare.

“Do you think I do this for money? Good God, woman, didn’t Gill tell you about my grandmother?”

“He said she was Russian, and that was why you spoke the language.” “My grandmother was a countess,” he said, ‘married at nineteen, twenty when the revolution came. The Bolshevik bastards murdered her husband and stole everything she had. She arrived in Italy in a third-class railway car, penniless, then she had the good fortune to meet my grandfather. Soon, she was an Italian countess. My parents were killed during the war, and I lived with her from my early childhood. She spoke nothing but Russian to me, and she told me everything I ever needed to know about the communists. I will be very pleased to do whatever I can to hurry their downfall. I take their money,” he smiled, stroking his mustache, “in order to impoverish them. I do for them only small things, not things for war.”

“I understand,” Rule said, “and I am grateful for your help.”

“What, exactly, do you wish me to find out for you?”

” Firsov’s exact location and as much as possible about his activities. I want to know in what sort of place he is working, and what, if any, military equipment is in evidence around him. I want lots and lots of detail, whatever you see and can remember. It could be very important to a great many people. Lives could be saved, you understand?”

“Of course. I will do as you ask. How will I be in touch with you?”

She wrote down her home telephone number.

“Please memorize this number; don’t take it into the Soviet Union written down.”

He gazed at the card for a moment.

“Yes, yes, I have it.”

“I will normally only be there during the evening hours, but there is a telephone answering machine, and you can leave a number or address for me to reach you. You can talk for as long as thirty minutes to the machine, and it is quite secure. Please don’t try to call from the Soviet Union. Wait until you are back in Rome or in some other Western city. If it’s possible, I’ll come back to talk with you, but there may not be time for that.”

“Do you know about computers, Kate?” he asked.

“I work with them a lot.”

“Do you know what The Source is?”

“It’s an information utility in Maryland. I’ve played with it.”

“Good. I keep files in The Source at times. My account number is ZZP100. and my password is WHOP Can you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“If for some reason I cannot telephone, I will leave a message for you there in a file called KATE. Check it every day,” “All right.”

“And now, my lovely spy,” Appicella said, signing the bill, “Will you come back to my villa and make love with me?”

Rule was not sure he was serious but thought he probably was.

“It is not an unpleasant thought, Emilio. but I have a plane to catch.”

“I am desolated.” he said. and it made her feel good to believe him.

Helsinki ferry as the ship was warped in to the docks. He was rested and well fed. The previous evening, he had enjoyed a sumptuous dinner, had danced with a couple of Swedish girls, and had slept well and alone by choice. He had risen early, had an excellent breakfast, and watched as the ship entered Helsinki harbor.

It was a beautiful city, seen from the sea. but now his eyes were on the docks. He had made the required phone call from Stockholm but had been told nothing, and he hoped he would be met. Helder left the ship by an elevated gangplank that emptied into a terminal building. Inside, he walked slowly toward the street, wondering what to do next.

“Carl!” a voice somewhere behind him called. It took a moment for the name to register, and when he turned, Mr.

Jones of Malibu was shaking his hand.

“Carl, it’s your Uncle Jan! How are you?”

“Very well. Uncle Jan.” Helder replied, astonished to see the legend maker.

“Your aunt is dying to see you,” Jones said.

“Come, the car is outside.”

Helder followed as Jones quickly led the way from the terminal to the car park. Jones motioned him into a blue Volvo station wagon, all the time smiling and keeping up a flow of banter about family and America and Holder’s aunt. When they were under way, Jones said.

“Helder, it really is good to see you. When you didn’t return to the mother sub, we feared the worst. Where’s Sokolov?”

“Still in the mini sub Helder replied.

“She was unable to leave it.”

“I see,” Jones said, glancing into his rearview mirror.

“Pardon me if we don’t chat for a few minutes. I have some driving to do.”