Checkpoint Charlie (18 page)

“Still,” I said, wanting to get him off his political stump, “for an idiot she seems to have done a capable professional espionage job against us.”

“Every week,” Ross said, “the name of another of our agents appears in
Sydney Exposed
. They promise to keep doing it until they've named every last American spy in Australia, New Zealand and New Guinea.”

“Can they make good on the threat?”

Jaeger smiled. “We don't know. But they've done it so far.”

Ross said, “We're working with the Australians on this — they don't like it any better than we do. It embarrasses them as much as it does us. After all, the Australian government knows we're here. But they can't be seen to infringe the freedom of the press, and obviously Washington can't be seen to bully the press of an independent nation. It's got to be handled in such a way that it doesn't look like official repression. That's why you're here, Charlie. To think of something clever.”

“At least Myerson hasn't lost faith in my ability to work miracles,” I remarked. I brooded at Ross, then at Jaeger. They seemed to be waiting for me to provide an instantaneous solution to their difficulty. “My problem,” I confessed, “is a deep-down fanaticism in behalf of absolute freedom of the press. Wherever censorship begins, that's where tyranny begins.”

“I agree,” said Jaeger, “but the Australian press tends to be a bit lurid anyway, and this particular rag goes far beyond the limits of responsible journalism.”

That was putting it diplomatically. The real issue was the fact that
Sydney Exposed
was blowing the covers off our agents. When you expose an agent you render him inoperable. The newspaper was systematically closing down our network. Given the premise that the survival of nations depends on the accuracy of their intelligence, we had no choice but to stop publication of these revelations. Yet I could not bring myself to think in terms of strong-arm methods. There has to be a difference between the good guys and the bad guys.

I said, “Has anyone tried to reason with them?”

Jaeger said, “I had a talk with Stenback. He listened politely and laughed in my face.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Sort of a guru type. Brown scraggly beard shot with grey. Wears his hair in a ponytail. Ross has the official details.”

Ross turned a page in his notebook. “Thirty-four years old. Born in Sweden. Was a lieutenant in the Swedish army — a crack shot, by the way. Immigrated here five years ago. Naturalized Australian citizen. Background reports indicate he used to hang out with American Vietnam draft-dodgers in Sweden. Earlier, his father was a quisling in Norway during the War, which may explain why Stenback grew up with a chip on his shoulder. Before he came down here he worked a while as a leg man on a few of the cheap London tabloids, publishing cheap filthy innuendos about prominent Members of Parliament and the like. Digging up dirt seems to be his mission in life — the worse it smells the better he likes it.”

Ross closed the notebook. “Myerson would prefer it if you arranged a fatal accident for them, Charlie.”

“I don't much care what he prefers. I don't kill people, Ross, it's not my style. Any fool can kill people.”

“Maybe this time you haven't got a choice. How else can you stop them publishing this stuff?”

*   *   *

W
E SAT
in a four-door Humber across the street from the shopfront office of
Sydney Exposed
. It was a shabby old part of the city — cheap flats, a boarded-up cinema, rubbish in the gutters. In the newspaper's windows the lights burned late — tomorrow was this week's publication day and Stenback was in there with his staff composing the late pages. “She never comes to the office personally?”

“Apparently not,” Ross said. “We've had it staked out for ten days. If she's set foot in the place we're not aware of it. Of course we're not sure what she looks like. The last available photograph is from nine years ago when she was eighteen. Blonde hair, gorgeous face and figure — the beach beauty type. You know these athletic Australian girls. But who knows. Maybe she's gained weight, changed her hair, whatever. She could be any one of a dozen women who've wandered in and out of there.”

I said, “Assuming she doesn't report in person to the office, it follows she must send her copy in. Not by the post; I think she'd be too paranoid to entrust her copy to government mails. Her articles would be hand delivered.”

“Ross began to smile. “Then —”

“It'll take man-hours and leg work but let's try to put surveillance on anyone who brings an envelope into this office.”

*   *   *

T
HROUGH THE
wraparound corner windows the sky was cheerful but Jaeger was glum. “Our security's all right — I'm pretty sure we've plugged all possible leaks. But it's a case of locking the barn door after the horse thieves have made their getaway. Probably they've got all the names already — they're publishing one or two a week, holding back to keep the circulation up. It's like a week-to-week cliffhanger serial. Every week the public clamor grows — they're starting to call for blood in Adelaide and Melbourne. Our blood. If it keeps up we'll all find ourselves deported. It'll be done with man-to-man shrugs and smiles and abject apologies but they'll do it all the same — they'll have no option if the public pressure grows bad enough. You'll have to move fast, Charlie.”

“I'm ready to,” I said. “We've found Myra Hilley.”

*   *   *

S
HE
was clever but all the same she was an amateur and it hadn't occurred to her that a cutout and blind drop setup can be breached. For a week we had backtracked all the messengers who had delivered envelopes to
Sydney
Exposed
. We doubted she would use a formal messenger service; we were right.

The drop was mundane but adequate: a left-luggage locker in a railway station. But the thing about lockers is that you have to transfer the locker key from hand to hand. Once we knew the system we broke it easily. Hilley would leave the envelope in the station locker and put the key in an envelope and leave it with the landlord of a pub she frequented near the waterfront. The kid — a bearded long-haired boy in frayed denims and a patchwork jacket — would collect the key from the bar, go to the locker, retrieve the envelope and carry it by hand to
Sydney Exposed
. The kid, like five others who made deliveries regularly to the newspaper, was shadowed for a week and when he collected the key and opened the locker we knew we were onto Myra Hilley: we simply staked out the lockers until she arrived to deposit the next week's copy.

She lived in a small flat on a suburban street near a shopping center. As it turned out she hadn't resorted to any disguise. She was still blonde and gorgeous with a leggy showgirl look. Three nights in a row she emerged in evening dress, drove her white MG into the heart of Sydney and rendezvoused with a man: each night a different man, each night a different posh waterhole. Each night she and the man — two politicians, one diplomat — would repair afterward to a luxury hotel.

Ross laughed. “So that's how she meets so many prominent guys. She's a call girl!”

*   *   *

W
E REQUISITIONED
revolvers and special-effects equipment from Jaeger's station. We were leaving when Jaeger met us in the corridor. He glanced at the revolvers as we fed them into our attaché cases. “Then you're going to kill them after all.”

“Nobody gets killed on a Charlie Dark caper,” I told him.

“You want any help? I can give you a back-up squad.”

“Let's keep it quiet,” I replied.

Ross said cheerily, “We'll handle it, Bill.”

He was still dubious when we left.

*   *   *

W
HEN SHE
answered the door I pushed the gun up under her nose and she backed away in alarm. I stepped inside and closed the door. “Stay loose, birdie. No screams, all right?”

A veil slid across her eyes. Contempt began to mix with fear. “What do you want?”

“Sit down and don't talk. We're waiting for somebody.”

“Who are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“You're an American.”

“Really? I thought I was doing a fair 'Stryne accent there.”

She managed a snort of contemptuous laughter. She wore a white jumpsuit with a yellow scarf at the neck — crisp, very smart. She had a tan complexion as soft and smooth as Japanese silk; she'd have inspired desire even in a jaded centerfold photographer. I had no trouble with the notion that she would be able to extract information from men.

“Come on,” she said impatiently, “what
is
this?”

“Sit down.” I wiggled the gun. “It's only a .32 but they're hollowpoint bullets — they make a terrible mess of flesh and bone.”

Making a face she took a seat on the divan and tucked her long legs under her. I crossed the room to close the drapes. It was a comfortable efficiency flat, not terribly big, the furniture a bit Bohemian: an old door on bricks served as a coffee talbe and the divan was one of those pull-out convertible beds. Apparently she spent most of her money on clothes.

“I suppose if I sit here long enough you'll tell me what this is about?”

“Count on it, Myra.”

“You're the CIA, aren't you. Which one? Cole? Ludlow? Fortescue?”

“What's in a name?” I sat down and rested the revolver on my knee. “Be patient, Myra.”

With enviable aplomb she rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes, feigning boredom. A very tough sullen young lady. I hoped we could crack her. It wouldn't be easy.

*   *   *

R
OSS BROUGHT
Iwan Stenback into the flat at gunpoint. The Swede was a short man with a beard and long hair tied back with a rubber band. His pale eyes took in the scene quickly. “So. The CIA brings us together to murder us. I suppose you'll give it the appearance of a lovers' quarrel. Do you honestly think anyone will believe such a crude sham?”

“We like to think we're a bit more sophisticated than that,” I said. “Sit down, Stenback.”

He moved to stand beside Myra Hilley. She touched his hand possessively and not without fear. I flicked the gun in his direction and he eased past the arm of the couch and sat down next to Myra Hilley. He wasn't a bad looking man. There was a jaded professorial cynicism about him — the kind of
weltschmertz
that sometimes appeals to women: they see immediately through the bitter veneer and convince themselves that beneath it is a sensitive being who needs coddling and protecting.

I said, “We need to have a little talk.”

Ross snarled. “What do you want to talk for? Let's get it over with.” He cocked his revolver. It made a nasty sound in the room.

“Patience,” I told him. To Stenback I said, “My associate favors brute force but I suspect we'd all prefer to avoid that.”

It was the old two-cop dodge: the good cop offers you a cigarette, the bad cop slaps it out of your mouth. After a while you begin to look upon the good cop not as your jailer but as your friend.

I sat down facing them and placed my revolver on the tabletop in front of me to free my hands so that I could take out my wallet and flash it at them. “My name is Charles Dark. I'm a security officer with the United States Government.”

I heard Ross's melodramatic sigh of exasperation.

Stenback wasn't falling for it. “You've got no jurisdiction here,” he said coolly.

Myra Hilley leaned forward to read my ID laminate. “Charles Dark. A new name for our list, Iwan.” She favored me with an icy smile.

I returned it in kind. “Now that you've demonstrated your fearlessness shall we get down to business?”

Stenback yawned. “What business?”

“You're an entrepreneur,” I said. “You publish at a profit. Suppose we sweeten it?”

They looked at each other with cynical amusement. It was clear there was an attachment between them — a strong sexual bond. He was one of those flagellants who prefer shopworn goods.

I said, “For every week's issue in which you refrain from publishing names of American agents, a payment of ten thousand dollars.”

“Australian dollars?”

“American if you prefer.”

The woman laughed. “They think they can buy anyone off. Isn't it just like them?”

I said, “How about it, Stenback?”

“I'm glad to know how much Judas money you're willing to offer me. Of course my answer is no. Did you think I'd be that easy to bribe? I can't compromise the people's right to know.”

“Good for you,” Ross said. “That's all we wanted to know, ain't it, Charlie. Let's get it done.”

Myra Hilley reached for Stenback's hand.

Ross spoke again, the petulant snarl increasing. “I told you it'd be a waste of time, Charlie.”

“In conscience,” I said wearily, “we had to offer them the option.” I stood up and went over to the side of the room to get out of the line of fire; I put my back to the wall and shoved my hands in my pockets. “You can change your minds, of course. My associate — well I'm afraid he enjoys rough-and-tumble. Regrettable but there you are. We're forced by people like you to employ people like him. Actually I detest the young oaf. I'd hoped to one-up him by denying him his pleasure.”

Ross turned angrily toward me. His revolver rode around in my direction. “You fat old bastard. I've had all I can take of your sanctimonious —”

It was the distraction Stenback must have been praying for. He pounced on the .32 revolver that I had left lying on the table; in an instant it was in his fist and roaring.

In that confined space the blasts were earsplitting. My jaw went agape. Deafened, I saw Ross spin wildly around and slam against the wall. The gun dropped from his fingers. He clutched at the wall and slid down, leaving a wet red smear against the plaster. His shoes drummed the floor and reflex made him curl up, foetal; then he went still.