Sustenance (30 page)

As a beginning this left much to be desired. Bethune hated being manipulated like this, knowing that if he did not supply at least some of what was asked, Leeland’s disappointment would be taken out on the Coven and their families. That meant he would have to warn them all, no matter how this meeting turned out, which brought with it a sharp pang of chagrin. He shrugged his postman’s bag off his shoulder and dropped it on the table with a solid
thunk
, then removed his coat, draping it over the back of the chair before he sat down. “Okay. What are you after? I’ll answer anything that I ethically can.”

“Two things are all I need from you,” said Rothcoe, much too smoothly. “One is a connection to D. G. Atkins—”

“He’s not a member of the group,” Bethune said, cutting Rothcoe short. “That’s one I can’t help you with.”

“We know that,” Leeland interjected. “Your group isn’t the enigma you seem to think it is. We know who’s in it now, who was in it before, and we can make a good guess about who’ll seek you out later. That Eastern European publisher isn’t the only un-American in your Coven.”

“Actually Szent-Germain isn’t in our Coven, technically; he’s associated with some of its members, but he isn’t the victim of a witch-hunt so far as any of us knows,” Bethune said with a diffident glance at Rothcoe.

“Can we get back to the question?” Rothcoe glowered at Bethune as if he suspected that the attorney was intending to confuse and delay with the interruption. “We suspect that at least one of your group is acquainted with Atkins, and may know where he is.”

“I don’t know if that’s the case, but whether it is or not, anything I could report would be hear-say at best, and not much use to you.” He heard a telephone ring behind one of the closed doors somewhere along the empty corridor.

“Can you confirm whether or not Hapgood Nugent is a member of the group you represent?” Rothcoe asked sharply.

“Since you’ve made it plain that you already know the answer, I’ll say yes,” said Bethune. “I’m assuming that Leeland gave you access to his files on the Coven. If not Leeland, someone in the upper levels of the CIA administration did.”

“That he has; Leeland is most thorough, and helpful,” Rothcoe said, looking at Leeland with an emotion very like satisfaction. “That first question isn’t so hard, is it?” He cleared his throat. “Does your group have many other associates living abroad for the same reason your group does? I mean Americans who have decided to leave the country for fear of being investigated for un-American activities. You needn’t mention anyone who isn’t American—you’ve made it clear about your publisher—he’s only doing business with a captive audience.” His smile was an unappealing blend of obsequious and sardonic.

“I don’t know,” said Bethune. “They might, or they might not. I know Nugent keeps in regular contact with his sister, who lives in St. Louis, I believe.” He directed his gaze to Rothcoe. “You undoubtedly know that, too.”

“We know she—Nugent’s sister—is coming to France in May to spend ten days with him. She has her tickets and her passport and her vaccination certificates. She flies to London and from there to Marseilles, where he will meet her.” Rothcoe rested his folded arms on the table. “Her husband doesn’t approve.”

“You or Hoover’s boys been opening mail again?” Bethune challenged sarcastically. “Tisk, tisk, tisk.” He took another cigarette from his case and prepared to light up.

“That would be illegal,” said Leeland.

“So it would,” said Bethune, as Rothcoe waved his hand at the stream of smoke Bethune blew in his general direction. He stopped talking.

Quiet sizzled in the Blue Room; Leeland opened the notebook in front of him, picked up his pencil and wrote something down, then closed the notebook. Bethune let the silence stretch out, watching Rothcoe to see how he reacted.

Finally Leeland spoke up. “Do you think you can bring to mind anything about Nugent that would suggest that he has been aiding Atkins? Providing it doesn’t compromise your integrity, of course.”

“Since I don’t know if they are in contact with each other, why would I have such an impression? You’re jumping to conclusions with little or no support. Everyone in the Coven has associates and friends with whom they communicate from time to time, which isn’t surprising; you’d probably do the same thing in their situation, don’t you think?” Bethune mused aloud. “If you are trying to make it seem as if I have been suborning treason, I will tell you right now that I have not, that I resent the implication that I would do such a thing, and furthermore, I will swear to that in any court you select.”

Rothcoe offered a singularly unpleasant smile. “That’s a reckless promise, given your state of affairs.”

“Would you care to elucidate on that?” Bethune knew he was being foolhardy, but he was beginning to dislike Philetus Rothcoe so much that he did not want to hide it. He rested his cigarette on the scalloped rim of the ashtray. “What exactly is my state of affairs, as you see it?”

Rothcoe cocked his head. “Some of your … social associates might prove problematic for you if you had to explain your friendships before a judge.”

“Another guilt-by-association ploy?” Bethune asked, though the very notion made him feel faintly ill.

Leeland held up his hands. “Let’s keep on track, fellows. No need to wrangle.”

“I’m willing,” Rothcoe declared reluctantly. “So long as Bethune here cooperates.”

Bethune took up Rothcoe’s tone as he would have done if he were conducting a cross-examination. “So long as I’m at liberty to answer questions, I will, but only about matters pertaining to your investigation, Rothcoe. I’m in no position to speculate, so if you’re on a fishing trip, keep that in mind. You want to know about the Ex-Pats’ Coven, in particular, anyone who knows someone named Atkins. Anything else is outside your purview, wouldn’t you say? Why should I succumb to your bullying—it’s all pretense, isn’t it? An attempt to bring me to heel. Well, that isn’t going to happen.” He reached for his mail-sack and pulled out four thick files, rubber-banded together, and half-flung, half-passed them to Leeland. “This is everything I can show you within the canon of ethics. Whatever your questions, any answer I can provide you is in there. These are copies of my originals; I have other copies on file with my family attorney in Raleigh, all notarized.”

Leeland and Rothcoe exchanged glances.

“Isn’t that a bit … paranoid?” Rothcoe suggested, goading Bethune.

“Don’t you mean realistic?” Bethune asked.

“You’re a damned fool, Tolliver,” said Leeland with an abrupt sigh. “If you throw in your lot with those working against America, you will have to answer for it.”

“Hardly—and you know it as well as I do.” He paused for a heartbeat. “I’m not a novice, either. You’re forgetting I’m not new to this game, gentlemen,” said Bethune, once again reining in his temper, this time with more success than his previous attempt. “You want to intimidate me as many ways as you can, and then compel me to help you in unethical dealings so that your hold on me grows stronger, and I become your tool.”

“That’s uncalled-for,” Rothcoe declared.

“Oh, really?” Bethune countered, picking up his cigarette once more. “Are you willing to sign a statement describing our current conversation, and the reason for it?”

“You seem to think we’re attacking you,” Rothcoe began only to be interrupted by Leeland.

“Gentlemen, please.” Leeland stared at the stack of files, then lit up another of his Turkish cigarettes. “If you know that any of these people are working to destroy the United States, Tolliver, don’t you have a larger ethical obligation to inform us, even if you violate attorney-client privilege? Isn’t your country worth more than a handful of Communist sympathizers?”

“I am unaware that anyone in the Coven is making such an attempt,” said Bethune. “And even if I did know such a thing, that would not release me from my obligation to keep the confidences of my clients. If my country wishes to defend itself through the persecution of its citizens, it isn’t the country I have served for half my life.” He paused as he heard a door open, accompanied by a loud clatter of typewriters. “Lunch time is almost here.” He tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.

“Stay on track, Bethune,” said Leeland.

“He’s probably hungry,” said Rothcoe, as if this were a moral failing. “I don’t imagine your clients can afford to pay you very much. You’d like to get a meal out of this, wouldn’t you?”

This time it was Leeland who took exception to Rothcoe’s prodding. “That’s enough, Phil. What he charges for his services and where he dines is none of our business.” He took two serious puffs on his Turkish cigarette; Rothcoe scowled and pretended to cough a little.

“We can subpoena bank records,” Rothcoe went on as if he were not listening to Leeland.

“You may try,” Bethune said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. The French are a bit touchy about such matters.”

“I think we have a good chance of gaining their support,” Rothcoe said with a smug look. “They don’t like mischief inside their borders.”

“If they find out about it, I will have a fairly good notion of who is responsible for it,” Bethune warned.

“But we have access to legal channels not generally used,” added Leeland. “We can file our motions in one of these courts—”

“You might not get such an order through the US courts,” Bethune said with a great air of confidence, making no apology for this interruption. “The Coven isn’t wholly without support.”

Leeland nodded. “Bethune’s uncle sits on the Ninth District Court, and Winston Pomeroy, as head of the group, is a Californian, and will want to handle the matter.”

“The liberal Ninth?” Rothcoe scoffed. “It figures.”

“And you were aware of that when I walked in here,” Bethune said firmly, stubbed out his cigarette, then addressed Leeland. “I’ve provided you what you asked for to the limits my profession allows, and both of you are cognizant of them. If this is your opening salvo, I’m not impressed. If all you want to do is try to aggravate me so that I tell you something out of turn, you’re going against the purpose of the CIA: you bastards are supposed to be invisible.” He stood up quickly, and reached for his mail-sack, handling it easily now that it was empty but for his peaked cap. Next he returned his cigarette case to the inside pocket of his overcoat.

“You’re not dismissed,” said Rothcoe.

“I’m also not under orders, so it hardly matters. Were you planning to fire me?” He said this last with a nasty smile.

“Don’t press me,” Rothcoe warned.

“Phil, shut up,” said Leeland with superficial geniality. “Tolliver, get down off your high horse.” He held up a hand. “Yes; Phil has been out of line. You’re right about that.” He smoked more Turkish tobacco. “But this is a serious investigation, and there are reasons we have to be strict in our pursuit of the truth. It involves so much more than your run-away academics. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“I certainly can. But I do comprehend the difference between truth and innuendo.” Bethune remained standing; he shook out his coat and began to pull it on. “Which is why I am leaving now.” Without any farewells, he turned and made for the door.

“Hey, Bethune,” Leeland protested.

“Another time, Peter,” said Bethune, and stepped out into the corridor, which once again presented nothing but closed doors; even the WAC lieutenant was gone from her desk, whether to lunch, or to reassignment he had no idea. Descending to the lobby, he saw a few clusters of workers gathered in the large, echoing space, but none of the Embassy personnel gave any sign of noticing him. At the iron gates, he returned the Marine’s salute as he left the grounds and turned right, bound for the small house where Boris and Wilhelmina King lived with Wilhelmina’s aunt. He would call on them first, then the Praegers, and last of all, the Frosts; in February, they had moved into what had been a fine old hotel but was now a group of neat apartments designed for those left crippled by war or misfortune or disease. He paid little attention to the ruffles of new leaves on the branches of the trees lining the street; he was reviewing the meeting in his mind, trying to discern why it had been called. Then, he promised himself, he would find a good bistro where he could dine and try to figure out what Rothcoe had really wanted. He decided the whole ploy smelled to high heaven, and he needed to proceed with great care.

Wilhelmina opened the door, her clothes making it obvious that she was doing her housekeeping. In spite of that, she smiled and said, “Come in, Tolliver. I’m sorry, but Boris is away just now. Let me make you a cup of coffee, and you can tell me how it went at the Embassy.” If she noticed his appearance, she made no mention of it.

“Thanks, Willie,” Bethune said, using her nick-name as a reassurance. He entered the small, enclosed entryway,

The entry-hall that ran the length of the house was flanked by two drawing rooms at this end, one pressed into service as a library that smelled of books and Boris’ pipe tobacco, the other graced with a fireplace and two, mismatched sofas and a trio of armchairs. There was a butler’s table in front of the fireplace piled with books and magazines. “In here, I suppose?” he asked as he looked at the cluttered, comfortable chamber.

She waved at the sofas. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring the coffee.” When she went down the hallway toward the kitchen in the rear of the house, a frail voice called from upstairs.

“Who’s there?” came the question in French.

“Our attorney, Aunt Eugenie,” said Wilhelmina in the same language. “Do you need anything?”

“Not just now,” her aunt replied.

Listening to this exchange, Bethune wondered if the old woman would listen to their conversation. He had been told that she had some English, but not much beyond pleasantries. Or was he too much concerned about being under surveillance? He had been careful coming here, anticipating being under watch; Leeland always had that effect on him. Impatiently he chided himself for not applying Occam’s Razor to his predicament, and letting his anxiety add to the convolution of possibilities that had taken hold of his imagination. The trouble was, he thought, he might be right about the convolutions, so he could not ignore them. He left his coat on, for the house was cool. He hung his postal sack over the arm of the sofa and sat back against the well-padded join of the back and the nearest arm. Now that he was in this house, the keyed-up nerves that had rattled him all morning began to fade, leaving him tired and a bit jittery.