Debut for a Spy (17 page)

I bet he does, I thought.

“What about tomorrow? Do you have any plans?”

She was silent for a moment.

“Yes,” she said softly, “I have plans for tomorrow.”

“
Uh… oh,” I stammered, my heart sinking like a stone.

“
Something is wrong?”

“
I guess I was hoping we could spend the day together,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“
Then this is a happy coincidence,” she said with a smile, “for these are my plans, too.” She saw the look on my face. “I'm sorry if I tease you, David. Do you prefer I don't do this?”

I laughed.
“No, my darling, just be yourself. That's who I'm falling in love with.”

She looked at me, startled, and kept looking for the longest time. I couldn't find any more words, so I just kept driving and glancing her way. There was almost a look of fear on her face, and then she relaxed, put her head on my shoulder, and we continued on to Kensington Square.

When we arrived at her flat we stood beside the car for a few minutes, just looking at each other and holding hands.

“
You come for me at eleven tomorrow?”

I nodded.
“What will we do?”

“
I decide. Perhaps we stay overnight.” She smiled, shyly. “You are crazy, David Baird. Maybe I start to love you, too.”

She kissed me quickly, dashed into her flat, and left me in a complete daze. I stayed there, leaning against the car, and stared at the door for several minutes.

When I had recovered and driven away, I stopped at a call box on Bayswater Road and put through my call to Hammond. I waited for the required procedures, but I was connected immediately.

“
Hello, Minstrel. No problems with the crossing, I take it?”

“
No, sir, no bother at all.”

“
Good. Now, about our meeting. Come to the Royal Albert Hall tonight at 2030. Go to the artist's entrance. Do you know it?”

“
I sang in the Royal Choral Society for three years, sir.”

“
Then you know exactly where I mean. Tell the attendant you want dressing room 8. I'll see you there.”

“
Sir, I haven't changed my mind.”

“
2030 hours, Minstrel.”

He's not happy, I thought, on my way home. Still, I'd been involved in something quite unnecessary, and it tainted the way I felt about the whole affair. I hoped he would understand.

Back at the flat I parked, went in, waved at the week-end man, and walked up to my floor. I opened the door, stopped abruptly, and sniffed the air.

Not again, I raged. This time it was different – not B.O., but cologne, and Old Spice at that. It was strong, and that could mean he was still here. I walked softly, scanning the living room. Nothing. Kate's flat? Perhaps. I'd check mine first.

The kitchen opened to the dining room. I could see there was no one there. That left my bathroom and bedroom. The bathroom door was open. There was no place to hide. My bedroom was next. On top of my dresser in the corner there was an antique mirror. Before I walked in I glanced at it.

He was behind the door.

In his hand was a gun.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Moscow
,
U
.
S
.
S
.
R
. –
the
same
day

General Josef Dmitrienko answered the light tap on the door of his apartment on Marxa Prospeckt.

“
Come in, Bren.” They walked through to his study. “What is so urgent?”

“
This afternoon I read a signal which reported the death of one of our agents in Paris yesterday. His codename was Dragon.”

“
That bastard. Good riddance. What happened?”

“
Paris station thinks it was a British courier. He was shoved out a window.”

“
What are they basing it on?”

“
Dragon was holding the Englishman for our people, and an Englishman was seen leaving the area in company with a Canadian.”

“
I don't follow, Bren. What's the significance?”

“
I had a call from Marijke. She was in Paris yesterday.”

“
Did she say anything about Dragon – anything at all?”

“
Nothing.”

“
What's the connection?”

“
Marijke was traveling with a singer, her present assignment.”

“
Well?”

“
He's Canadian, and they were accompanied by a British army officer.”

“
Does anyone else know?”

“
Doubtful. It was a personal call from Marijke. Even if it were monitored I don't think anyone would make the connection.”

The general was thoughtful.

“Leave it with me, Bren.”

*

London
,
England
–
the
same
day

I stared at his image in the mirror as the anger and frustration of the previous day caught up with me. It was an effort to hold back, fighting for control and focus. What was the word Sergeant Kobayashi had us memorize? SADAI, that was it. Surprise and Disarm and Incapacitate. Thank you, sergeant.

I hit the door hard with my body. It was solid wood, and went back like a hammer. I grabbed the handle and did it again. Pulling the door as I leapt into the room, I destroyed his cover. There was blood on his face and he was dazed, but still the gun in his right hand came up.

I kicked, catching him on the wrist, and the gun fell. He lunged at me. I let him come, then fell back across the bed as I grasped his lapels, my feet arching him up and over me with his own momentum. I released my hold, giving him a final foot-thrust. He flew over me, landing head first against the wall. His neck might have snapped, but, no, he tried to rise. I jumped onto the bed, and as he came up I kicked, catching him square on the jaw. He went down in a heap and didn't move.

I retrieved his gun. It was a Walther PPK. The kind the pros carried. Well now, I thought, let's see what kind of pro he is.

I kept the gun pointed at him. The safety was off, and the indicator pin was protruding through the top of the slide, so there was a round in the chamber. I approached him warily. If he had so much as stirred I would have fired. I placed the muzzle against his temple, waited a moment, then started through his pockets. Bingo. On the first try I found his wallet. I backed around the bed and began flipping through it.

Oh, Jesus! There was a card with the US eagle on it, stating that Anthony Cippola was with the US Department of Agriculture. Not on your fucking life,
paesano
. Then a business card. This one gave the address of the American Embassy – 24 Grosvenor Square – and stated that Mr. Cippola was a liaison officer on the Joint Agricultural Review Commission. Balls! The only connection I could see with farming was how high they were piling the shit. I couldn't call anyone – the tap was undoubtedly still on my phone, and until I knew what was going on I didn't want the KGB to become involved in anymore of my business. I decided to wake him up and see what he was doing here.

There were spirits of ammonia in my medicine cabinet. I grabbed a facecloth, then the pitcher of ice water from the refrigerator. Warily I approached him again – I didn't want to find him playing 'possum and jumping me. He didn't move, and as I held the gun on him with my right hand, I wafted the ammonia under his nose with my left. When he started to groan and move a bit, I stepped back, and from a safe distance gave him a splash of icy water in the face.

He was shocked awake, almost jumping up.

“
Hold it!” I yelled. “Move slowly or I'll shoot!”

He settled back on the floor, gradually taking in his surroundings. He was very confused, and unable to speak. The blow on his head had been severe. He probably had a concussion.

“Can you hear me?” I asked, loudly.

He focused on me for the first time, then nodded his head, wincing as he did so.

“I'm going to throw you a damp cloth. Wipe your face and neck with it. Don't try anything or I'll shoot.”

“
Not much chance,” he croaked. “I can hardly move.”

I dipped the cloth and tossed it to him. He began using it.

“Who are you, and why were you in my apartment?”

“
Tony Cippola. I work for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. I must have come to the wrong apartment – it's all a mistake.”

“
Bullshit! How did you get in here without a key, and what was the gun for? I'll call the embassy or Dwight Vandenburg and find out what they've got to say about you. My guess is that you're CIA, and if you don't talk to me I'll call right now.”

“
Okay, okay… don't call the embassy until you hear me out, at least. Can I get up?”

“
Yes, but slowly, and then walk to the living room and sit down. I'm right behind you.”

He struggled to get up, but I wouldn't help him – I wasn't taking any chances.

“Jesus, my head,” he muttered as he went through the door.

He looked in the bathroom, stopped, then looked back at me.

“I'm sorry! Don't shoot! Please!”

He grabbed for the toilet and threw up. I waited at the door, holding the gun on him in case it was a trick. After the fourth heave I thought he must be a pretty good actor or it was for real.

He cleaned himself up at the sink and came out. I indicated that he should proceed as before, and he walked a few steps, stopping again.

“
I know I'm a pain in the ass, but have you got any aspirin? My head's like a sledgehammer.”

“
Stand still and I'll get it.”

I grabbed it from the medicine cabinet, taking the bathroom glass and the ice water with my left hand. We walked slowly to the living room. I handed him the aspirin and the water, and he downed three tablets.

“Lie on the sofa,” I said, “and keep your hands in plain sight. I didn't check for another weapon, and if you have one, don't try to get it or you'll get shot. Now, tell me the truth or I'll call Dwight Vandenberg, and I'm not kidding. Are you CIA?”

He hesitated, reluctant to break one of their unwritten rules. I held the gun on him, walking over to pick up the phone.

“Christ, man, hold on. You talk to Vandenberg about me I'm finished.”

“
Well, what's the answer?”

“
Off the record? Yeah, I'm CIA.”

I put down the phone.
“What's your job?”

“
I'm what's called a case officer. I recruit and run agents, collect information any way I can.”

“
Why are you in my flat?”

“
One of my informants tells me something strange. He's an Arab who works for an oil company. It's about Cal Fletcher and a missing list. I do some nosing around and I damn near get my head bitten off. They tell me it's classified, that I better forget about it or I'll end up in Finland countin' reindeer turds.

“
But something's really wrong here, so I call this guy at Langley I can trust, and he tells me the official word is that there isn't any fucking list, that it never existed, and the file on it is closed. See, but I know there's this wild hunt going on, and my informant tells me the KGB is in it up to their goddam keesters. I figure I can't let it go.”

“
So you go on a scouting expedition all by yourself with no official sanction?”

“
Yep. I knew Fletcher had lived here, so I wanted to have a snoop around. I know his kid has the granny bedsit here. I figure I might come up with something.”

“
Did you?”

“
No, and I checked just about everywhere. I was just gonna leave when you got home. Heard you were in France so I thought I had plenty o' time. Shit, I didn't even know it was you until you popped me in the bedroom. Jesus Christ, for a singer you're one mean son-of-a-bitch. Where'd ya learn all that shit?”

“
In the army. Now, what am I going to do with you? Should I hand you over to Scotland Yard, or should I call your head of station, or whatever the hell they call him?”

“
Either way, I'm finished. Look, I'm sorry the way things went down, but I was only trying to find out what this cover-up is all about. There's something real bad happening, and I dunno know who's involved so I couldn't make it official. Maybe I'm outta line, but we got too many questions and not enough answers.”

I thought about it for a few minutes. If I turned him in, I would only draw attention to myself again. And there was always the possibility that he was telling the truth. Perhaps he could be an ally, in the event I needed one. Decision time.

“Sit up. I'm sorry I hurt you, but you didn't exactly make an appointment. You'd better see a doctor. You probably have a concussion. Here's the deal. If you get anything on that list, or if you hear anything about Cal Fletcher, then I want you to fill me in. I'm responsible for Fletcher's daughter and I wouldn't mind some answers of my own. If you agree, then I forget about your visit.”

“
Suits me. You coulda flushed me, so I'll play fair with you. If I can help with anything, call me, and we'll meet.” He hesitated. “One thing, can I have my piece back? Otherwise I'm in trouble.”

I released the clip, emptied it, ejected the cartridge in the chamber, snapped the clip back and tossed him the gun. He stared.

“Shit, I shoulda' taken music,” he complained.

“
I hope you're not driving, Tony.”

“
No, I'll get a cab outside.”

I retrieved his wallet, kept one of his cards, and opened the door for him. He held out his hand, and I took it.

“Thanks, Dave. I owe you.”

He went out, wobbling a little, then turned to me again.

“You ever think of changin' jobs, lemme know.”

He gave me a crooked grin, then headed down the stairs.

*

I took a long soak in the tub – more to relax than to scrub. What had it been now – five days? Less than a week ago I was leading a relatively simple life – singing, coping with producers, agents, club managers – well, maybe not that simple, after all. But this was ridiculous – phone taps, KGB, CIA, MI whatever numbers, grenades, pickpockets, that disaster in Paris, and now a fight in my own flat. Enough, enough, enough! Even a month at the old Chiswick Empire couldn't have been this much trouble.

I relaxed in the tub, got a couple of hours of sleep, then cold-showered to re-start the engine. Toad-in-the-hole with coffee in Knightsbridge, and I arrived at the Royal Albert Hall with a few minutes to spare. I presented myself at the artists' entrance.

“
Can I help you, sir?” asked the attendant.

“
Dressing room 8, please.”

I thought he looked at me strangely.

“Take the stairs down one floor, turn right. It's the second door on the left.”

As I walked down I could hear the sounds of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra being led through Vaughan Williams
London
Symphony
by Sir Adrian Boult. Strange, I thought, how certain composers are able to evoke the feelings of their homeland in their music, and become identified with it forever. Vaughan Williams in England, Sibelius in Finland, Wagner in Germany, to think of a few. There was something mystical about it which defies analysis. I wished I were in the hall listening.

Dressing room 8 was open and empty. I sat down in one of the chairs to wait, but within a minute Colonel Hammond had appeared. I stood as he entered.

“David, I'm glad to see you're all right. Sit, please.”

We did.

“Before you say anything, colonel, I think you should know that I can't go on with this. The secrecy stuff is one thing, but yesterday I was involved in the senseless death of a man that'll haunt me the rest of my life, even if he was a sadistic bastard. On top of the thing at Charing Cross, it's too much. What am I supposed to do – pretend it didn't happen? Just so much dust that gets swept out by the broom? This could affect my music, even my sanity. I don't think I can take any more.”