Agent in Place (38 page)

“This job for Parracini in NATO—”

“Very hush-hush, very important. That’s all I know.”

“A bit soon, isn’t it?”

“Gerard thinks not. It will depend, of course, on the debriefing during our little cruise. But I’m sure Parracini will be able to help clear up the outstanding questions.”

“About what?”

“About whom. Heinrich Nealey. He’s been under surveillance for the last three months. We know he worked for nine years in America as Alexis; and one of his last contacts there was a man called Oleg.”
Are you listening, Parracini
,
are you listening?
“It’s just possible that Parracini can add to our file on Alexis. And on Oleg, whose real name is Gorsky, Boris Gorsky.”

“I don’t think Parracini has much to add to his previous debriefing.”

“Memory can play tricks—blot out small facts that don’t seem important, recall them later by some new association of ideas.”

“Where is Gorsky now?”

“Haven’t a clue.” And that was true, in its way. Gorsky might be on Cap Martin, or in a cottage up on Garavan, or six miles away in Monte Carlo.

“Could he be in contact with Nealey again?”

“If he is, we’ll get him.”

“Through Nealey?”

“Yes. And we’ll pull in several of the smaller fry too—a pretty redhead who’s secretary to Maclehose, out at Shandon Villa, and at least three others working around the place. And they are bound to have set up a system of outside contacts. It could be quite a haul.”

“Contacts,” Bill said slowly. His grey eyes looked sombre, his pleasant features grim, his usual smile—white against a permanently tanned face—vanishing. He smoothed back his longish sun-bleached hair, now ruffled by the breeze, pulled the collar of his suede jacket up around his neck as if he suddenly felt chilled. “You think Nealey is on to us?”

Tony didn’t answer. He had been studying Bill closely. Casual dress—no cuff-links, this morning; and no tie for any clip to hold in place. The suede jacket would only be worn at odd moments, so forget the possibility of buttons being wired for sound. No rings. A belt-buckle, yes. And Bill’s watch, that old favourite he had worn for years. Or was it? As Bill’s wrist came up to smooth down his hair, then adjust his collar, the watch was in clear view.

Bill’s worry was growing. “You think this house could be under surveillance?” With his set-up Nealey must have gathered a lot of information—mostly for his own security—about recent rentals, strangers signing long-term leases.

“I’m sure they’ve been taking a close look at all new arrivals who’ve set up house in the last two months. That’s the reason why you and Parracini are going to meet these NATO Intelligence officers, instead of them coming to visit you here. We’ll have them, waiting for you, keeping out of sight. All you and Parracini have to do is get on the boat as quickly and discreetly as possible. And don’t be late.”

“Sailing when?”

“Didn’t I tell you eleven o’clock? So get to the dock half an hour before that, and you step on board by ten thirty-five at latest. Can do?”

“Why not sail as soon as we reach the
Sea Breeze
.”

“Better let us make sure that no one at the harbour is too interested in her—or you. Can you lend me your two men to help me keep watch?”

“Sure. You’re taking a hell of a lot of trouble for Parracini. Or is it for the NATO guys?”

“See right through me every time, don’t you? It’s the NATO guys who are my responsibility. And they are some of our top men. Nealey would give an arm and a leg to know their faces and put names to them.”

“A high-level meeting, then.” That at least pleased Bill.

“Yes. So let’s get down to the last details, synchronise watches, and—hey, Bill, yours is running ten minutes slow.”

“Can’t be. Only got it yesterday.” Bill peered at the elaborate watch-face. “Does everything but talk,” he said, “or show the time clearly. These damned numerals—” He froze as Tony held out his wrist, let him see his own watch. The two timepieces showed only one second of difference. “What the matter with—”

Quickly Tony put a finger up to his lips for silence, pointed at Bill’s watch; then jerked a thumb back in the direction of the house, and tapped an ear. Bill stared back at him. “Needs winding,” said Tony. “Or has it stopped altogether?” Tony unbuckled its strap, drew it off Bill’s wrist.

“What the hell—”

“Damned annoying,” Tony said. “You’d better use your old one.” He was feeling the weight of the new piece—it wasn’t excessive, seemed perfectly normal.

“Can’t,” Bill said. “It got smashed up last Sunday.”

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“Not me. It was Parracini and Nicole horsing around the pool. I laid my watch beside my chair while I went for a swim. They knocked the chair over, and the watch ended up under Parracini’s heel.”

“How much did you pay for this one?”

“It was a present—Nicole went half-shares on the purchase price and Parracini bought it yesterday morning.”

“Now that’s what I mean by his taking too many chances, wandering around town like that.” Tony had his all-purpose knife out, resisted trying to open the back of the watch—it would be tightly sealed anyway—and worked on its winder instead. Anything, he thought, to give Bill an excuse for not wearing it. “Careful, Bill,” he said. “You’ll break off that key if you—damn it, you have broken it!” Tony snapped it off as he spoke, hurled the watch into a near-by bush with bright purple flowers. “Let’s get one of your acres between it and us,” he said softly as he drew Bill far up the path. At last he was satisfied, and came to a halt in a one-time rose-garden. “Now we can get down to business.”

“You think there was a bug in that watch?” Bill demanded, half-angry, half-bewildered. “Who the hell could have—”

“Parracini. I’ll begin with him, and then go on to details about plans. Be prepared for a shock, Bill. But just listen, don’t ask questions—we haven’t time for that.” Tony plunged into the story of Parracini.

“I’ll say this for you, Bill,” he ended. “You got a grip of yourself more quickly than I did last night. It took me half an hour to calm down.”

“I’ll let go once he’s trapped in Brussels,” Bill said through his teeth. “Now, what about your plans?”

“Here’s our schedule.” Tony gave their timetable, the
Aurora
’s name and exact location in the marina below this hillside. “Got all that?”

Bill nodded. “We get there by ten twenty-five. No later.”

“And sail by ten thirty. Wait until you’ve got Parracini in the car, on your way to the
port privé
, before you mention the
Aurora
. That will take all your tact, Bill.”

“I’ll manage. I can tell him I just had a signal from you belaying the
Sea Breeze
, engine acting up again. As for the weather—you took care of that angle. If Parracini was listening, he caught an earful this morning.”

“And he is now locked in your bathroom, far enough away from Bernard and Brigitte or Nicole, trying to get a message to Gorsky on his transceiver. About Heinrich Nealey,
requiescat in pace
. And about Parracini’s triumph—accepted into NATO. I don’t think he will balk at the change from
Sea Breeze
to
Aurora
.”

“You baited the hook too well,” Bill said as they left the rose-garden, started walking down the series of paths and steps. He frowned at some new problem. “Nicole—when do I tell her?”

“You don’t. She’s too attached to Parracini.”

“To Palladin, you mean. She admired him. He never took a nickel, worked for the West because he believed in us—such as we are,” Bill ended abruptly.

“To paraphrase old Winston, democracy may not be perfect, but it’s a damned sight better than anything else around.”

“Nicole—” Bill was still troubled about her.

“Just leave her in happy ignorance. I’ll tell her tonight, once I hear from you in Brussels.”

“She wants to come on the cruise too.”

“Impossible!” Tony was really startled. “Keep her out of it, Bill. She stays here. With Brigitte. And
what
about Bernard?”

“He was going down to the harbour with us, so that he could drive the Mercedes back here.”

“May I borrow him—and your car? Just briefly. I’ll tell him what I want done, myself. And where do I reach your two men by ’phone?”

“I’ll call them and pass on your instructions.” And then, as Tony raised an eyebrow, Bill reconsidered. “No, I won’t. Those damned bugs—I suppose I’ll have to leave them in place and not rouse Parracini’s suspicions.” So he gave Tony the ’phone number and the two names, with the identification password.

“Bless your sweet understanding heart. Won’t forget this,” Tony said, and he meant it.

“Okay, okay. Any other pointers you need to give me? Then what about some breakfast?”

“I’d better not meet Parracini. He may have noticed me last night among the onlookers at the Casino. If he sees me here with you—” Tony shook his head.

“How are you getting back to town?”

“I’ll start walking down the road. You send Bernard after me in that old rattletrap of his, and he can leave me near my hotel.”

The bush with the bright purple flowers was coming into sight. “I’ll pick that damned watch up and drop it into my desk,” said Bill.

“Have you another one?”

“I’ll borrow Brigitte’s. I don’t imagine she has been wired for sound.” As they reached the bush, Bill took out his handkerchief and went searching for the watch. Like a lost golf-ball, he thought, and just as elusive. At last he found it and placed it in the centre of his handkerchief, wrapping it up into a thick wad. Then, clutching it tightly inside his fist, he jammed his hand into his jacket pocket and kept it there. There was a smile on his face as they walked on in silence, avoiding the sound of footsteps on the brick path by moving on to a slope of dew-wet grass. But the joke would have to remain untold till he met Tony again: that damned watch actually had stopped.

Tony chose an oblique approach to the gates, using a row of tall thin cypresses to hide him from curious eyes at the house. Have we forgotten something, left anything undone? he wondered as he walked down the road to its next curve. There he sat on a low wall, waited for Bernard’s car, and looked at the view. Far below him Garavan Bay stretched from its eastern boundary of russet cliffs, towering over the
port privé
, to the western harbour sheltering under the Old Town. The red sky, sailors’ warning, now fading into a reassuring blue puffed with small white clouds, briefly touched the high cliffs and turned them into a wall of flame. The Mediterranean sparkled in the clear pure light, promising the mere landlubbers a perfect day.

“Good morning to you,” Bernard called out, and opened the car door.

I hope it is a good morning, Tony thought. He climbed in, and they began the serpentine descent.

Rick Nealey’s quarters at Shandon Villa consisted of an outer office, handsomely furnished with couch and chairs, where business could be conducted or important guests entertained, and an adjoining bed-sitting-room for private use only. There, one of the closets had been fitted with the necessary equipment to keep him in touch with his own secret world. Its installation had excited and pleased him, gave him a feeling of increased status, a sense of widening power. Until yesterday. Until then everything had been progressing smoothly and well. And now—

He pulled himself free from the twisted blanket, and rose. Dawn was breaking. He hadn’t slept, partly because he had spent the night on the couch in his office, partly because of Gorsky’s presence in his bed-sitting-room. It had been the only solution to the emergency that had arisen so unexpectedly on that disastrous visit to the Kelsos’ house. Shandon Villa had been the nearest refuge. Impossible, said Gorsky, to continue along the shore road to his rented cottage, even if it was only two kilometres farther west. Impossible, Gorsky had repeated, to risk travelling on foot; the police had been called in, the alert was out, the search was on. So Gorsky had taken shelter in Shandon, with Nealey guiding him safely out of view of the two yokels on their guard-duty against jewel-thieves.

He must give me credit for waiting for him on the road below the olive-trees. I watched him scrambling down those terraces, gauged his direction, was there to meet him. Without me, where would he have been? (I didn’t have to wait for him—in an emergency, it was each man for himself.) Will Gorsky admit it? No, thought Nealey, he’ll blame me for the whole of last night’s fiasco. But it was he who was up at that house, not I. Will he blame me for that too?

Nealey, in dressing-gown and slippers, padded silently down-stairs. It was too early as yet for the cook and her helper to be working in the kitchen. Some food and hot coffee, and perhaps Gorsky’s mood would be mellowed before he had to leave—soon, within another hour, while kitchen staff and Maclehose family were still asleep.

As he started back upstairs with a loaded tray, he remembered those other mornings when, in dressing-gown just like this, he’d get his own breakfast in his snug apartment in Georgetown. A simple life compared to his present one. Suddenly he felt an unexpected nostalgia for the years when he was Alexis, and worked alone. Not actually alone, of course, but he had felt a certain independence: delivery of reports to agents who stayed anonymous; telephone calls that came from voices without faces; meetings arranged and kept in reassuring secrecy. Yes, it had been a useful life, and comfortable. But here, he had been drawn deeper in. He had learned more, been told more. Yesterday, it had excited him, pleased him. Today it roused a strange disquiet.

He re-entered the office, set the tray down on the nearest table. He could hear Gorsky’s harsh but muffled tones droning on, as they had done at several intervals through the night, making contact with someone locally. But this time, the someone had as much to say as Gorsky. I’ll never know what this is all about, Nealey thought; from now on, Gorsky will tell me little. I am demoted. And why? It was the Kelso incident that made the abrupt change in Gorsky’s attitude to me. It had never been a friendly association, but—on Parracini’s orders—not inimical either. Until last night. Apart from two single words (one of them, “impossible,” used twice, the other, “idiocy,” uttered in blistering rage), Gorsky had only opened his mouth to say, “Where do you transmit?” Not one particle of praise for either the neatly-arranged closet or the clever combination-lock that would defeat more than a curious housemaid. Not one word, either, about the Kelso house. What had actually happened up there? Nealey wondered once more. Probably he would never learn. Gorsky was not the type to admit his mistakes. Gorsky... Oleg. The man he had hoped, in Washington, never to meet again. And now, thought Nealey, he is on my back: I can feel his teeth in my neck.