Agent in Place (11 page)

The officer had listened patiently. “Yes, sir. Now I’d like to have some names.”

“I am John Browning,” Oleg volunteered, giving himself a moment to think up a name for Mischa. “I’m at the Hotel Toronto.”

The senior nurse returned, frowned a little when she found them still talking at the desk.

The officer persisted, dropping his voice even more. “Your friend’s name?”

“Robert Johnstone.”

“Johnson?”

“No.” Oleg spelled out the name, watched the slow pencil record it in the officer’s book, and was ready for the next question when it came.

“His address?”

“Somewhere on East Seventy-second Street. He’s been living there since he separated from his wife. That’s all I know.”

“You had his telephone number,” the officer reminded him.

“Oh yes, he gave me it when he called, and I jotted it right down. I’ve got it right here—” He began searching his pockets, became frustrated. “Must have left it on the telephone-table in my room.”

“We can get that later.” The officer seemed amused by something else. “Johnstone,” he said with a grin, looking at the young nurse. “A good old Russian name.”

She reacted at once, large brown eyes widening with indignation. “But that man
is
Russian.” Her tone was definite, her accent tinged with Spanish. “I know Russian when I hear it. I was in Havana in 1963.” She flashed a glance at Oleg’s startled face. The senior nurse shook her head over this display of Cuban temperament. The officer enjoyed it quite obviously.

Oleg had to be sure. “The man spoke Russian? My friend can speak French, of course. But Russian?” He looked at her in disbelief.

“Ask Dr. Bronsky,” she told him sharply, quick to defend herself. “Dr. Bronsky knows Russian well. He was there when the man was fighting the anaesthesia. We
both
heard him.”

“That’s right, we’ve got it all down in Dr. Bronsky’s statement,” the officer said, trying now to calm the little storm he had helped to raise.

“Some patients do curse and swear when they are under an anaesthetic,” the older nurse said. “I have heard some surprising things myself.” Nothing to worry about, her crisp manner implied.

But Oleg had to know. “Perhaps my friend did learn some Russian in New York—enough for a cuss-word or two. That isn’t so bad, is it?” he asked the girl.

“There was more than that. He cried out, began struggling and calling for his friend to help—”

“If we
must
talk here,” the older nurse broke in, “then let us keep our voices as low as possible. Haven’t you finished yet?” she demanded of the officer. I’m willing to co-operate, she thought, but really! This is a hospital, not a police-station.

“Almost,” the officer told her. He had been watching Oleg. “Alexis,” he said very quietly.

Oleg stared at him.

“Alexis,” he repeated. “Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Browning?”

Oleg shook his head.

“His wife’s name, perhaps?”

The Cuban nurse said quickly, “Alexis could be a man’s name. Alexis and Oleg—he called on them both for help. And he cried out—”

“Yes,” the officer cut her short, added placatingly, “It’s all noted down, every word of it.” He looked at Oleg again, sensing something he couldn’t explain. And yet the man’s face was expressionless, almost blank. “His wife?”

Oleg forced a smile. “His wife is called Wilma.”

“Wilma Johnstone.” It was written down. “Her address?”

“Patchogue in Long Island. She may now be using her maiden name. Konig, I think.” Oleg could feel the cold sweat breaking over his brow.

“Do you have her full address so that we can notify her if necessary?”

But at that moment, Oleg was saved. The door to Mischa’s room had opened, and all heads turned towards it.

Two men came out, both in ordinary civilian clothes. One carried a camera, the other a small hand-case. Behind them was a tall man dressed in white trousers and white tunic. A doctor?—No, an attendant, Oleg decided. After the two violent shocks that had almost paralysed him into this stiff and foolish smile, his brain was coming to life again. And the other two men? Detectives? The police officer seemed to know them, anyway. One of them was saying to him, “You can tell the lieutenant that we’ve finished here. Got a good set of prints. They’ll be on his desk tomorrow first thing.”

Prints?

“Is he conscious yet?” the older nurse wanted to know.

“Sure, he’s conscious,” said the attendant. “And hating every minute of it. When they took his fingerprints, he—”

“Did he tell you his name was Johnstone?” Oleg burst out; and drew a censuring look from the nurse. “I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his voice back to the proper level for a hospital corridor.

“He’s telling nothing to nobody,” the attendant said as he left. “Doesn’t remember a thing about anything.”

Oleg measured the distance to the room with its open door: twenty steps, perhaps less. Then his ear caught the Cuban’s words to one of the detectives. “What do we do with these things?” He looked back at the desk where she had placed a cane, a pair of cuff-links and a cigarette-lighter. “We were told to keep them aside for you.”

“Not for us. The lieutenant probably wants to have a look at them. He’ll be here shortly.”

The police officer couldn’t resist saying, “Try the lighter, Ed.”

The man with the camera picked it up gingerly. It was just the usual throw-away-when-finished lighter that had become popular in the last few years. This one was white in colour, like the one he had bought for his wife last week. He flicked it on. There was no flare from the flint. Instead, a strong light glowed through the white plastic, turning it transparent. “Well, what d’you know?” He laughed, shook his head, released his finger pressure, and let the glow disappear. “A flashlight.”

“Useful for a keyhole in the dark,” the older nurse said as she left for Mischa’s room.

“Pretty strong for that,” the policeman suggested. “It’s got no brand name on it. No patent mark, either. That’s what caught my eye. And then I couldn’t see any butane inside. Empty. So I flicked it on.”

“Real cute.”

Not half as cute as the cuff-links, Oleg thought, as he watched the group gathered at the desk. It would take more than that young pig’s curiosity to open them. But let someone with more experience get his hands on them, and the cuff-links would be quickly identified as a tool of espionage. He hesitated only for one moment. All his plans were abandoned. The situation had become impossible. He walked over to the door of Mischa’s room, his hand searching deep in his pocket.

The nurse had checked the cords attached to the vein in Mischa’s left arm. Now she was adjusting the bottle of glucose overhead. “Come in, come in,” she said briskly.

The room was deeply shaded. Oleg said, “I can’t quite see,” and came nearer, drawing his hand out of his pocket. Mischa was lying very still, his eyes closed against the world.

The nurse went to the door to switch on the ceiling light. But before it blazed over the room, Oleg’s hand had grasped Mischa’s wrist and pressed. That was all. For a second, Mischa opened his eyes, almost smiled. He knows, thought Oleg, and took a step backward.

“That’s better,” said the nurse. “Now you can see him.”

“Yes.” Oleg’s hand slipped deep into his coat pocket, and edged the small empty vial with its broken needle into its hiding-place. Then he couldn’t speak. He stood there, looking down at Mischa as if he were a stranger.

“You don’t know him?”

Oleg shook his head. He turned away abruptly, made for the door. The policeman was there. “Any identification?”

“None,” said the nurse.

The officer closed his book and tucked it into his breast pocket. He said nothing at all.

She glanced back at the bed. “Sleeping peacefully. And about time, too.”

She switched off the light, leaving only the small night-lamp gently glowing over the side table. The door she left ajar. She looked at the watch pinned to her stiff apron front. “The rush begins any time now. Saturday night, you know.” It was a hint to the officer to go sit on a chair and stop upsetting her routine. Thank goodness, the two others had left. Really, as if she hadn’t enough to do without all this interruption. What had been gained by it, anyway? A lot of notes in a police officer’s little book, that were now useless.

Oleg had hesitated at the desk, as if he had lost his sense of direction. “What do I do now?” he asked her. He eyed the cuff-links.

“Try Missing Persons. The police will help you,” she said not unkindly. Her voice sharpened. “Maria—put all that stuff on the desk out of sight until the lieutenant gets here. Safely, now!” She moved the cuff-links well aside from Oleg’s hand. “You know,” she told him to give him a little encouragement—he seemed so depressed, “you should be glad that the man is not your friend. He is in trouble.” She tapped the cane. “Because of this. Carrying a concealed weapon.”

“It didn’t protect him much,” the officer said. “That happens: your own weapon turned against you.”

“That happens.” Oleg nodded a good night to the nurses, and started towards the elevator.

The officer came with him. “As we figure it,” the young confident voice went on, “four perpetrators attacked and the victim drew the sword to scare them off. But there were three too many for him. One seized the sword and slashed him as he put up an arm to defend himself. Two officers were in the vicinity and intervened before he was killed. Yes, you can say he’s a lucky man.”

“You got the sword back, I noticed.” Oleg’s pace slowed almost to a halt.

“Thrown away as the perpetrator tried to evade arrest.”

“But no wallet?”

“We have it. It wasn’t lifted. Not enough time.”

“And there wasn’t even a credit card inside?”

“Just money. Plenty of that,” the officer said briefly.

Yes, thought Oleg, almost a thousand dollars. Mischa had always put his trust in money. It was more reliable, he used to say, than any false documents.

What’s his interest in these details? the officer speculated. First he was too impatient to wait, and now he’s dawdling around.

“And not one label on his clothing?” Oleg asked.

“None. But we have the clothes. The lab can start work on them, if necessary. There’s always a way. Good night, sir.”

“Good night.” Oleg stepped into the elevator.

“We’ll let you know if we hear anything about Mr. Johnstone. The Hotel Toronto?”

The elevator door closed, leaving Oleg to his own thoughts.

* * *

Slowly, he walked back to his car on Sixty-ninth Street. There could have been no other solution. There was too much information packed inside Mischa’s brain. Too many chances that he would be interrogated by experts. Too many question-marks around him, too much risk for all of us. “There’s always a way,” the young officer had said, a trite phrase, but one that Oleg had found to be true. Given the right men, properly trained, complete identification of Mischa could be made within a few days. There it was: no other solution possible. His pace quickened.

Reaching the car, he thought of Alexis as he stepped into the front seat. Alexis was now on record. So was the name of Oleg. And Alexis must have been seen tonight when he met Mischa.
Two officers were in the vicinity
... How many more? Had he himself been observed? Almost certainly. Yet no cause for alarm, he concluded as he eased the car towards Fifth Avenue—he had kept his distance from both Mischa and Alexis. But the sooner he left New York, the better. He gave up the idea of spending any time in Queens. Instead, he would drive to Trenton, where he knew the location of another safe-house. From there, too, he could send out the news of the assault on Colonel Vladimir Konov—place, time, and hospitalisation.

And his report would state, quite simply, that he had tried to save Colonel Konov and failed. Konov had died before he could be reached. Unidentified. The body would remain in the hospital morgue for three days: after that, it would be moved to the police morgue for one week. (This he knew from a previous incident, on his last visit to New York.) Therefore any plan to claim the body should be made as soon as possible, although he himself would advise against it. End of report.

Tom Kelso, with a successful visit to Paris behind him, arrived back in New York only one day late. Which was pretty good going, considering what he had packed into the preceding week: lunch with an editor of
Le Temps
; two interviews with foreign affairs experts (on the record); two sessions with other Quai d’Orsay men (off the record); a brief but important meeting with a cabinet minister; four encounters extending past midnight with journalists ranging from far-left to right-wing in their opinions; and a relaxed dinner with an old friend (Maurice Michel, once assigned to NATO, and now back at his desk job in Paris at the Quai d’Orsay), a purely personal evening which was passed amusingly, a welcome interlude in a week of hard business.

The twenty-four-hour postponement of Tom Kelso’s return did mean that he couldn’t take up Chuck’s suggestion to spend Sunday night at East Sixty-sixth Street. But the invitation had been casual enough: Chuck had probably sensed that Tom would be heading home to Washington and Dorothea.

He delayed in New York just long enough to drop in at the
Times
and deliver his final article on Paris and its current attitudes to NATO. “Sorry about the typing,” he told the copy-editor. “Finished the piece at two o’clock this morning.”

“Seems okay.”

“It gets messier towards the end. Three of the letters have started acting up. I cleaned them, but they keep gathering ink. The type-face is worn. Needs replacing, I guess.”

“What have you got against a new typewriter?” the copy-editor hinted. Reporters’ loyalty to their old machines always amused him: brought them luck, they thought, although they’d never admit it openly.

“I’m attached to this one. Easy action. Rattles off a fair copy in no time flat.”

“This looks clear enough. I’ve seen worse. At least, you can spell.”

Tom glanced at his watch. He had twenty-five minutes to board the Metroliner for Washington, and none to spare. He gave a casual wave and was on his way.