Fellowship of Fear (16 page)

"Hey, Doc! What are you sitting outside for?"

"Hi, John. It’s beautiful in the rain."

"Not to me. I’m not going to sit out here. What are you, crazy?"

"Okay," said Gideon. He picked up his beer and, under the protection of John’s umbrella, they both went inside. Finding a corner table they ordered
Nurnbergerstadtwurst
and
weinkraut

"Hey, where’s the cane?" John said.

"I left it at home. The ankle felt pretty good this morning. Haven’t missed it yet."

"That’s great," said John with such genuine warmth that Gideon was moved. "I’m sorry I was late. I’ve been finding out lots of good stuff."

"Like what?" Gideon said.

"First tell me what you got from Marks."

"Not much." Over their plates of pungent little sausages and cooked, sweet cabbage, he told John what he had learned from Marks and Dr. Rufus. He also told John that he had no real evidence that any of it was true.

"Uh uh," said John, chewing his
wurst,
"I think it’s true all right. It fits in with what I’ve found out."

"But it doesn’t make sense. Why would they have sent that guy all the way down to Sicily just to protect me? I didn’t have any real kind of assignment, and I was apparently just one of a string of USOC’rs they used. Certainly they can’t have enough men to give that kind of protection to all their informants. Or do they?"

"Yes, they do. Look, whatever else you might think about Marks and the rest of the Intelligence outfit, they don’t just use people callously. If they thought there was a chance you could get in trouble, yes, you bet they’d have protection for you. Sometimes they use Safety people. I’ve had that kind of assignment."

"Is that what you were doing in Sicily last week?"

"No, I came as part of my regular job—protecting USOC life and limb."

John, who had done more listening than talking, had finished his meal. For a while he nursed his beer, watching Gideon eat.

"Doc," he said finally, "I hate to admit it, but you were right about the apple."

"Come again?"

"The guy on the bridge. You said he was an American because he ate an apple with his mouth."

Gideon had forgotten. "Right!" he said excitedly, with his mouth full of sausage. "He
was
an American?"

"Yup."

"Ha! You see what scientific ratiocination can do? Who was he?"

"Come on, I can’t tell you that. You want me to compromise—"

"I know, the need-to-know principle. I didn’t mean
who
is he, I meant
what
is he?…Where is he from?"

"From where Marks told you. He’s an American, an NSD intelligence agent, and his assignment was to watch out for you."

"Well, I wish he’d watched out a little earlier."

The policeman showed a sudden flash of temper. "You’re lucky he got there when he did. And that he was brave enough to risk his life for you."

Gideon accepted the rebuke. "You’re right. He saved my life. He wasn’t hurt, was he?"

"Yes, he was hurt," said John, still angry.

"I’m sorry to hear that. Not seriously, I hope."

"Bad enough," John muttered into the nearly empty stein. "About like you. Lacerations, contusions, broken collarbone." He was showing the concern, universal and understandable, of the policeman for his brother. Gideon kept forgetting he was very much a cop.

"Look, John, I’m sorry for what I said about him getting there earlier. I meant it to be funny and it wasn’t. If our positions had been reversed, I don’t know if I would have had the courage to stop and shoot it out with those guys. I owe him my life. I’d like to thank him for it some time." It was easy for Gideon to put conviction into his words; he meant every one.

John seemed mollified. "Not much chance of that. I only know his code name myself. What happened was that the searchlight got shot out and the bad guys managed to get to their car. Our guy chased them for a while, but finally wound up going off the road outside of Catania. That’s where he got hurt."

"Did you know this when we were in Sicily?"

"No, I just found out. I’m breaking all kinds of rules to get the information I’m getting, let alone telling you. But I think NSD has put you in hot water, and I’m not so sure

Marks knows what he’s doing. And you sure as hell don’t."

"Thanks a lot. I appreciate your confidence."

John smiled. "You know about bones and about languages; I give you that. But you’re operating in a different world—with different rules and very nasty people."

"I know it, John. Believe me, I’ll take all the help I can get."

"Are you going to have another beer?" John said.

Gideon shook his head. "I’ve already had two."

John signaled for a beer and then waited for the waiter to deliver it and leave before he began. "You know the questions you keep asking? If we don’t know what it is that the Russians are trying to find out, and we don’t know why they want to know it, what makes us think they’re looking for anything?"

Gideon nodded. "And why," he said, "do we think they’d look for it at Sigonella and Torrejon, as opposed to a hundred other bases?"

"Right," John said. "The answers are pretty simple, it turns out. NSD has been intercepting KGB messages for months that say just that."

"That they don’t know what they’re looking for, either?"

"No, that they need ‘X’ information from certain bases like Torrejon and Sigonella. It’s the ‘X’ that’s the problem. The messages are in cipher, and the ciphers change all the time. We—that is, our Intelligence cryptographers— have been able to get the gist of most of the messages—
where
the information is;
when
it’s needed by. But not the most crucial parts, not the ‘X.’ The Russians seem to be using some sort of special codes for those. It could be they don’t want their own field personnel to know what they’re looking for."

"Wait a minute, John. That doesn’t make sense. How can you look for something if you don’t know what it is? How would you know when you’ve found it?"

"You’d know when some person you were waiting for— your source, I think they call it—handed you an envelope or a package, or maybe even just gave you some code word or number that you had to transmit back. You wouldn’t have to know what it meant."

"I’m not following you."

"That’s because I haven’t given you the kicker yet. Doc, you sure you don’t want another beer?"

"Am I going to need one?"

John’s eyes twinkled momentarily in his familiar smile, then turned sober. "No, you can handle it. The kicker is that there’s somebody from USOC involved."

"On
their
side?"

"Yup. The source—the guy that gets the information from the base and passes it on to the Russians—he’s a USOC’r."

"Holy moley," said Gideon. "This is beginning to sound like a movie. Maybe I will have that beer."

Again they waited for the waiter to leave before they continued.

"Who is it?" Gideon asked.

"Don’t know. Or at least that’s what my contact tells me. Apparently the Russians refer to him only by code name. But I guess there’s no doubt about him being from USOC."

"John, let me get this straight. Are you telling me that someone on the USOC faculty is a Russian spy?"

"Well, an American traitor. It amounts to the same thing. Whatever they’re looking for, a USOC’r gets it and passes it on to them."

"You mean Marks doesn’t have any leads? I mean, it doesn’t sound that difficult. If they know the bases the stuff is gotten from, and when it’s needed, all they have to do is find out which USOC person has been at all the right bases at the right times, and it has to be him."

"Very good; you’re starting to think like a cop. The problem is that this has been going on for a long time, a year or more. At least ten bases have been involved. We still haven’t figured out what the first seven were—never broke the codes. Then the codes changed or something— this is out of my line, remember—but we were still only able to figure out the last three the Russians needed: Rhein-Main, Sigonella, and Torrejon. Now only Torrejon is left. If they get what they need there…" John had been leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He sat back and moved his glass in slow circles on the table. "If they get what they need there, then they’ll have everything they need…for whatever purpose they need it. And nobody on our side knows what that is. Or who the leak is. Hey, Doc, you haven’t touched your beer."

Gideon thought he saw where the discussion was leading, and it made him uncomfortable. "I don’t really want it. What I’d really like is to take a walk in the rain. How about it? You have a raincoat, and that monster umbrella of yours will cover us both."

"Out in that rain? Brr…But okay, you’ve had it tough; I’ll humor you."

After the stuffiness of the restaurant, the moist, cool air renewed Gideon’s strength. Even the sound of the rain hissing on the paving stones was refreshing. They walked a block to the river, each in his own thoughts, and found themselves at the foot of the Alte Brucke, the oldest of Heidelberg’s three bridges across the Neckar. For a while they stood looking at the twin towers that marked the entrance, each one topped by a "German helmet" that gleamed wetly.

"There’s a cell in one of those towers, did you know?" Gideon said.

"Fascinating," said John.

"Yes, the left one. Or maybe the right, I’m not sure. There was a pope imprisoned there in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. Or the twelfth? Maybe it was a bishop, not a pope, come to think of it.." He paused. "I think I better go back to the guidebook."

They walked across most of the deserted bridge in silence. Then Gideon finally said what was on his mind. "As far as the last two bases go—Rhein-Main, Sigonella— there
is
one person from USOC who was at both."

"Yes," said John, "you. You landed at Rhein-Main from the States."

"Yes. Does Marks suspect me?" He stopped walking suddenly, struck with a thought that should have been obvious. John continued on for a step, and the soft rain fell on Gideon’s face. He hurried to catch up.

"No, he couldn’t," he said, answering his own question. "Marks is the one who
sent
me to Sigonella."

"That’s right. Anyway, Marks isn’t involved in this part of it. His job is to flush out the KGB agent. Finding the USOC’r, the traitor, that’s Bureau Four’s responsibility. And they and Marks don’t share their information."

"The need-to-know principle in action. That’s really insane, isn’t it?"

"No, to tell the truth, I think it makes sense. You couldn’t do ordinary police work—the kind I do—that way…separate investigations, completely separate systems. But espionage is a different thing. It took us a long time to figure out that you can’t let even your own agents in on other agents’ secrets—"

"Come on, John, really—"

"No, it’s true. That’s why the British have MI-5 and MI-6. The Russians have their separate departments too, but they keep changing the names. Even the U.S., for that matter, has the FBI and the CIA. A Russian spy in Texas, that’s FBI business; the same spy goes over the border to Mexico, it’s the CIA’s affair."

"All right, I buy it…I don’t, really…but if Marks doesn’t tell this Bureau Four the reason I was in Sigonella, won’t
they
suspect me?"

"Marks
has
told them. They
do
communicate when they have to. They’re on the same side, you know. They just don’t do it any more than they absolutely must."

At the far end of the bridge, they turned left along the path that followed the bank of the Neckar. The rain had subsided to a mist; Gideon stepped away from John’s umbrella to enjoy the feel of it moistening his face and collecting in his hair.

"You’re crazy," John said. "You really enjoy getting wet, don’t you? You’re going to catch one hell of a cold."

"You don’t—"

"You don’t catch colds from the rain. I knew you were going to say that." John was slightly annoyed. "Colds are caused by getting wet and tired," he went on. "Goddamit, just because you’re a professor doesn’t mean you know everything about everything. Why the hell do you want to take chances? You just came out of the damn hospital."

John’s tone was exactly that of an anxious mother scolding a five-year-old who had gone into the rain without galoshes. He was not so much angry as worried, Gideon realized with a stab of guilt.

Gideon moved back under the umbrella’s shelter. "You’re right," he said.

"It’s stupid to take chances."

"You’re right," Gideon said again.

When they reached the modern Theodore Heuss Brucke, they turned back. The rain had stopped, and blue sky was visible.

"John," Gideon said after a while, "it just occurred to me that there’s someone else from USOC who was at Sigonella. Does Bureau Four know that?"

"Who?"

"Do you know Eric Bozzini?"

"I think so. Middle-aged surfer type?"

"Yes. When I telephoned him from Sigonella, he told me that he’d been there a few days before. Friday, I think he said. That’d be the day after I was ambushed."

"Do you know why he was there?" It was a professional question. John wasn’t impressed.

"Can’t remember. Whatever it was, it sounded legitimate at the time."

"It probably was. He’s Logistics. Has to visit a lot of bases. So do some of the other administrators: Dr. Rufus, Mrs. Swinnerton—"

"Still, it seems worth getting the information to Bureau Four, doesn’t it?"

"All right," John said without enthusiasm. "I’ll mention it to my contact, and they’ll hear about it if they don’t already know. But I can’t just go up to Bureau Four and say, ‘Here’s some information I have on this super-secret case I’m not supposed to know about.’ I wouldn’t even know who to talk to, and I don’t want to know."

Fine. If John didn’t think it was worth fighting the bureaucracy, then Gideon would follow it up with Eric himself. In a way he was pleased. It gave him a direction, a place to start. Not that he believed Eric could be a spy or— appalling word—a traitor. But then, could Bruce Danzig, or Janet, or Dr. Rufus, or anyone else he’d met at USOC?