Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax (3 page)

Higgins put down his coffee and sighed. “I was afraid of that. Tourists I can supply by the droves, but a particular type—well, go ahead, I’m free for half an hour.”

“He or she will have to come from your inactive list. This tourist must be someone absolutely unknown, Higgins, and that’s vital.”

“Go on. For what type of job, by the way?”

Carstairs hesitated. He always hated divulging information, a feeling bred into him during the war years, but Higgins was not likely to meet with torture during the next twenty-four hours. “There’s a package coming into Mexico City. This particular tourist is to be nothing but a tourist for several weeks but on a certain date stop in at a specified place and pick up the package—rendered innocuous for customs, of course—and bring it into the United States.”

Higgins lifted an eyebrow. “A regular courier won’t do?”

“Couriers are pretty well known to them,” pointed out Carstairs gently.

“And to mail it…?”

“Far, far too risky.”

Higgins’ gaze grew speculative. “I see. I gather, then, that
this package of yours is dynamite—not literally, of course, but figuratively—and that you are therefore reduced to being terribly ingenious and circumspect, but that the job is not dangerous so long as said tourist is utterly unknown to
them
.”

“Bless you for saving us both precious minutes,” said Carstairs fondly.

“Have you considered someone not inactive but absolutely new—a fresh face?”

Surprised, Carstairs said, “No I hadn’t—that would mean someone totally unseasoned, wouldn’t it?”

Higgins shrugged. “If there’s no point of contact would it matter?”

“Mmmm,” murmured Carstairs thoughtfully.

“One has to sacrifice something for said tourist’s being unknown to anyone. I mean, that’s what you want to avoid, isn’t it—someone met in Vienna in 1935 suddenly popping up in Mexico City years later?”

Carstairs smiled faintly—he doubted if Higgins had even been born in 1935. “Suppose you show me the possibilities,” he suggested. “Very little is demanded of my tourist except accuracy, but he or she must look exactly right.”

They walked back into the files where photograph after photograph was drawn out, sometimes to be instantly withdrawn with a “Oh dear no, he won’t do, he broke his tibia in the Balkans,” or “Oops, sorry, this lady’s been loaned to the Orient.” When Carstairs left it was with five photographs and a soggy carton of cold coffee.

“Nothing yet,” said Bishop, glancing up from his typewriter.

“Damn,” said Carstairs again, checked his watch—it was just half-past nine—and went into the office. Bishop, bless his heart, had left a fresh carton of coffee on his desk and Carstairs peeled it open, brought a cube of sugar from his desk drawer and dropped it into the coffee. He reminded himself that Tirpak was good, one of his best men, but if Tirpak had reported from Nicaragua two days ago he should have been in Costa Rica by now. For eight months Tirpak had been on this job, and from the bits and pieces he’d sent out of South America by wireless and coded mail his eight months had been extremely fruitful. Visually Tirpak was only a photograph in the top-secret files, but Carstairs knew his mind very well—it was that of a computer, a statistician, a jurist. Months ago he had been fed all the tips, stories and rumors that reached the department and from these he was bringing back neat, cold, irrefutable
facts on all of Castro’s secret operations in the hemisphere. But alone the facts were nothing; what was most vital of all was the proof that Tirpak was carrying with him out of South America, proof so concrete and detailed that each nation in the Alliance for Progress would know once and for all the face of its enemy and in exactly what form the Trojan horse of communism would appear in its country.

Coffee in hand Carstairs walked to the ceiling-high map on the wall and stared at it moodily. One might say that Tirpak’s job of work was finished now, and so it was in the literal sense, but actually it was only beginning. This was “phase two,” the most difficult of all, the getting of the proof into the right hands, moving it north, country by country, until it would arrive here on Carstairs’ desk to be forwarded upstairs. That was the difference between this particular job and the others, that it entailed quantities of documents, photographs, dossiers and descriptions of operating methods. It could only be expected that eventually the wrong people would get wind of Tirpak’s job, and it was no coincidence that several of Tirpak’s informants had begun disappearing. The wonder of it was that Tirpak had worked for so long in secrecy. Now time was against him and Carstairs realized that he was worried. He knew the shape that phase two ought to take if everything went off perfectly … the shabby photographic studio in Costa Rica where Tirpak’s bulky packages of material would be reduced to microfilm, and then the trip into Mexico to leave the microfilm with DeGamez, for Tirpak was
persona non grata
in the United States, a myth that had to be perpetuated for his safety. Once the microfilm reached Mexico City it would be out of Tirpak’s hands and the rest would be up to Carstairs and his tourist—but Tirpak ought to have reached Costa Rica before now.

Restlessly, Carstairs lit a cigarette. This was when he sweated, this was when his own war experience went against him because he knew what it was like to be on the run. He wondered where Tirpak was on this humid July morning, whether he was running scared or still had the situation well in hand. If he couldn’t reach Costa Rica would he try to push through to Mexico? Was he being followed? Had he been killed, and all that documentation scattered and lost? This had happened before too.

The door opened and Carstairs immediately rearranged his features into their habitual mask. “Yes, Bishop,” he said.

Bishop was smiling. “Tirpak has reached Costa Rica.”

Carstairs’ reaction was fervent and brief. “Thank God,” he said, and then added savagely, “What took him so long?”

“They’re decoding the message now,” Bishop said. “It’ll be here in exactly five minutes.”

Five minutes later Carstairs was frowning over the message from Tirpak. It was the longest one that Tirpak had permitted himself, but Costa Rica was the safest place he had visited in eight months. In essence Tirpak said that it was Castro’s Red Chinese friends who were interested in him, and he had decided it was time for him to go into hiding. All the documents were being processed as planned, and would be forwarded to Mexico City, suitably camouflaged. Tirpak planned to throw them off the scent by remaining in Costa Rica for a week or two. Carstairs could absolutely (repeat,
absolutely
) count on the microfilms arriving in Mexico City between August 12 and August 18.

When he had finished reading the decoded words a third time Carstairs put down the sheet and lit a cigarette. Tirpak had obviously been having a rough time or he wouldn’t be planning to stay in Costa Rica to “throw them off the scent.” In a word, things were getting very hot for him. He must have been closely watched and followed, so closely that for him to travel any further would jeopardize both the documents and any other agents he contacted.

But Tirpak was a seasoned man, and not a giver of reckless promises. Carstairs had unalterable faith in Tirpak’s ingenuity, and if Tirpak said the microfilms would arrive in Mexico City between the twelfth and the eighteenth then the microfilms would be there. It was time for Carstairs to get his tourist moving.

“Bishop,” he said, arranging the five photographs on his desk, “Bishop, you know the setup. Which one?”

Bishop sat down and carefully scrutinized the five photos. “I’m afraid I lack your imagination, you know. They all look like authentic, true-blue American tourists to me.”

Carstairs sighed. “Heaven knows that nobody should be judged by face alone, but this chap’s expression is too damn eager for me. Retired businessman, excellent background, but personality a bit—ingratiating, shall we say? Might get carried away in a foreign country and do some bragging—it’s amazing the loss of identity some people suffer in a strange country. This man might do except that he was in on some behind-the-line work in China during World War Two. If it’s the Red Chinese
that have been hotly pursuing Tirpak we certainly can’t risk him.”

“And the woman?” Bishop asked only from curiosity. Carstairs had an uncanny knack for assessing people; he was astonishingly perceptive and of course he was a perfectionist or he would never have gotten away with the outrageous operations he launched.

“Too young. I want someone over forty-five for this, especially if they’re inexperienced. This tourist must be absolutely
right
.”

Bishop stabbed the fourth picture with a finger. “How about this woman?”

“Mmm.” Carstairs studied the face. “Humorless, but not bad. Compulsive type. She’ll do the job, won’t mix, probably won’t talk to a soul.” His glance dropped to the data beneath the photo. “Charlotte Webster, age fifty-eight—” He frowned. “She’s not precisely what I had in mind, but she’s passable. Bishop, I’d like to take a look at Miss Webster without committing myself. Is there some way in which I could see her without being seen, so to speak?”

Bishop said promptly, “Yes, sir. I can ask Mason downstairs to set up an appointment to review her credentials. He can meet her in his first-floor interviewing room and you can stop in and look her over.”

“Absolutely inspired, Bishop. Excellent. Contact Mason and ask him to take over. Tell him he’s to handle it completely and without involving me. Tell him I’d like to see her today if it’s possible. I’ve a hectic afternoon ahead but I’m free for a few minutes at two o’clock. See if he can set up an appointment with her for two this afternoon.”

“Right, sir.”

When Bishop had gone Carstairs took a last look at the photograph, frowned, sighed heavily and then resolutely put it aside.

Carstairs went to lunch at forty minutes past one. The table-service rooms were filled and so he walked on to the cafeteria and picked up a tray instead. He finished eating at two, and after consulting his watch he hurried toward the first-floor interviewing room. To the guard stationed outside he said briefly, “Mason’s appointment in there?”

“Yes, sir. A woman.”

“Good.”

Carstairs opened the door. The woman was seated alone in the room, waiting, and she was at once so utterly and astonishingly
right for the job that Carstairs could scarcely believe his eyes. He had always been extremely intuitive about his people: it was almost a psychic quality that enabled him to separate pretense from authenticity. His glance first noted the really absurd hat—it was difficult to overlook—with one fuchsia-colored rose completely askew; it then traveled over the wisps of white hair that refused to be confined, marked the cheerful mouth, and when it met a glance that was as interested and curious as his own he felt the triumph of a casting director who discovers the perfect actress for a pivotal role. He strode across the room with hand outstretched. “I’m Carstairs,” he said warmly. “I wanted to meet you while you’re here. We’re not really interested in your qualifications, you see, we want you for a job. Have you been talking with Mason?”

“Mr. Mason?” For just a moment she appeared bewildered. “Oh yes, but he was called to the telephone, and—”

“It doesn’t matter, I’ll take over now.” He sat down beside her on the couch. “I realize that you’re inexperienced but this is the very simplest of jobs. The important thing from the very beginning has been that I find someone absolutely right. I think you’ll do. I think you’ll do very well indeed.”

“I will?” Her cheeks turned pink with pleasure.

“Yes. Are you free to work for us from August 3 to August 22?”

“Why—oh, yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I’m quite free—I’d be delighted!”

“Excellent. Have you ever visited Mexico?”

“Mexico!” She looked positively radiant. “No, never. You’d like me to go to Mexico?”

He appreciated the quick response; there had been no hesitation at all. “Yes. You’ll be paid the usual fee for courier work, and of course all your expenses will be taken care of while you are there. It’s quite simple. You’ll be an American tourist and use your own name. The job consists of visiting a specific place in Mexico City at a specific date, and for the rest of the time you’ll be on your own.” She was listening with a look of wonder, as if she could not believe her good fortune. He reflected that an extremely bad photographer had taken her picture; Miss Webster was not only right but perfect. “You can handle this?” he added with a smile.

She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “That’s why I came, you see—because I thought I could.” She added quickly, “Yes, I’m sure I can handle it. I will do my very,
very
best.”

“I think you will, too,” he said. “Look here, do you mind coming up to my office for a moment? I won’t have time to brief you this afternoon, and only my secretary can tell me when I’m free, but I’ll want to arrange an appointment with you as soon as possible.” With a nod Carstairs dismissed the guard outside the door and guided his companion toward the bank of elevators. “I’d like to wrap this up without delay. I’ll need you for at least an hour and my schedule this afternoon is quite hopeless. I could see you this evening but I think tomorrow morning would be better. Would that be convenient?”

“It would be perfect,” she assured him, beaming. As they entered the elevator she had been fumbling in her purse; now she extracted a small white card and held it out to him. “I don’t believe you know my name,” she told him. “I always carry these with me.”

Carstairs was amused, but he dropped the card into his pocket. The doors slid open at his floor and he grasped the woman’s arm to escort her down the hall. “Here we are,” he said. “Bishop? Ah, there you are. Am I free tomorrow from nine to ten?”

Bishop sighed. “Are you ever? Yes, technically you’re free.”

“Good. Nine it is then.” He held out his hand. “I’m terribly sorry to bring you back again but I always insist on very thorough briefings.”

“I think you should,” she told him approvingly. “And really, you have been so kind. So
unexpectedly
kind. Thank you.”