Sustenance (44 page)

She managed a bark of laughter. “It must be,” she concurred, and stepped down one stair, watching him as she did. “I’ll listen this time, if you tell me how you came to be alive.”

“You mean, how I came not to die,” he said, and dropped into the bath.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM NATHAN WATERS IN ANTWERP TO MANFRED CHANNING IN WASHINGTON, DC, WRITTEN IN CODE AND CARRIED BY CIA COURIER; DELIVERED ON AUGUST 20TH.

August 16, 1950

Antwerp Station

Manfred Channing

Satellite E

Washington, DC

Dear Fred,

What on earth is Broadstreet up to? I know you gave him free rein on whatever he’s up to, but he’s interfering with my work, and with Phil Rothcoe’s. He’s got six more field agents on his roster now, and has requested more. He’s been leaning on the Coven members, especially the most problematic of the members, and has ordered more of our men to keep close watch on Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain, as if he thinks the Grof is working for the other side. I shouldn’t have to remind you that he’s the one who has been carrying refugees to work and family all over the world, no charge to us or the refugees. He’s even kept Inspector Mielle in line, which no one else has been able to do; Mielle is as corrupt as they come, but he stays bought, and right now, he’s bought by useful people. I gather Ragoczy has similar arrangements in Venice and Athens. I’ve been trying to set up a meeting with him before I head for home, just to find out a little more about why he’s doing this, but no luck so far. His manservant has politely turned down my invitation.

Life here at the Antwerp Station has been surprisingly dull these last few months. I could almost think we were actually on the edge of peace, but I can’t make myself believe it. Lajos Hovarth keeps going on about the Soviets and Hungary, but we haven’t seen anything specific in that regard; he keeps talking about the wheat harvests in Russia, saying that if that fails, the Russians will have to take their wheat from Eastern Europe, and that could turn ugly. Hovarth is reluctant to go back to Buda-Pest, and I can’t say I blame him. I’d recommend we keep him on for a time. He can read the signs better than I can.

I gather you’re interviewing replacements for me. I trust that does not include Broadstreet; he hasn’t the temperament for this kind of work, little though he would admit it. He’d end up causing a host of problems, and it would be difficult to rein him in. I think you might want to look at some of the group that has come on board in the last four years. They know more about the current state of things and are not fighting the Nazis still. You’ll want someone with field experience, I would think, someone with a good grasp of European politics. Ideally, you’ll choose someone who speaks Russian, and maybe Czech or Serbian, or Romanian. We need that skill more than ever now, with the Communists attempting to infiltrate our intelligence operations everywhere, but not to the degree that Tail-Gunner Joe does. He’s got a burr under his saddle on Communists; Hoover does, too, but he’s slyer than McCarthy, and he is in a position to do us damage if he puts his mind to it. You might want someone less zealous than McCarthy for a Deputy Director or Station Chief.

When I get back, I’ll set aside a week for debriefing, before I start looking for a place to live. My ex is letting me stay in her guest room while I go over things with you, but she wants me out from underfoot as soon as possible. I’m thinking of looking for something entirely different from spycraft: an apple orchard, perhaps, or a sportsmen’s lodge. If you have any suggestions, let me know.

Sincerely.

Nate Waters

NW/hbr

5

L
ATE
A
UGUST
heat had turned the sky bronze and the sun to an orb of molten gold that shimmered over the hills northeast of Paris, with only a hint of blue at the horizon. Like many others, the Ex-Pats’ Coven had fled the city for the rural suburbs to find a break from the soaring temperatures. Hapgood Nugent was glad to welcome them to the Victorian cottage he had been leasing since he first arrived in France, and in preparation for this occasion, he had set up tables for a picnic in his rear garden. He was standing in the open gate, smiling under his wide-brimmed straw hat, waving to the various Coven members as they arrived, and directing them to a place to park. As Szent-Germain turned up the gravel drive in his Jaguar XK120, Nugent ambled out to greet him.

Szent-Germain brought the Jaguar to a halt in a cloud of dust, its top down and its two seats occupied. As soon as the engine was turned off, Nugent spoke up. “I like it better than the Delahaye.”

“So do I,” said Charis from the passenger seat.

“Yeah, that’s a snazzy car you got there, all right,” Nugent said, doing his best not to sound impressed by the elegant vehicle. “I like that maroon color. I’ll bet that’s a special order. And the roof is black?”

“It is,” said Szent-Germain, getting out of the car and going around to open the passenger door for Charis, offering his hand to help her out.

“McCall’s going to be jealous, and Jesse, too,” Nugent said with a trace of begrudging admiration in his words. “And you might as well park it right where it is, so everyone can be flabbergasted, including the neighbors across the road.” He nodded to another Victorian, this one looking more like a farmhouse than a toy box.

“Are we the first to arrive, then?” Charis inquired, looking at her wristwatch; they had arrived ten minutes late.

“No. Bjornson and the Praegers are in the back garden already. And Steve is checking out the cottage to be sure we aren’t being eavesdropped upon. I had them park on the north side of the house; there’s room for three cars under the sycamore. It’s a little cooler than the south side, which has direct sun.” He fiddled with the collar of his short-sleeved shirt, watching while Szent-Germain opened the boot and removed a large wicker basket from a nest of insulating blankets. He slammed it closed and bent to lock it.

“A contribution to the occasion,” Szent-Germain said, lifting the basket.

“And a precaution, as well,” said Nugent. “You’re smart to lock it. A car like that could be a target, even out here at the edge of the country.”

“My thought exactly,” said Szent-Germain, coming back to Charis’ side.

“We have three kinds of pate and fresh bread and crackers. There’s also a tapenade of olives and figs.” Charis grinned, and reached for her large bag in the well of the passenger seat. “And two bottles of wine. One red, one white.” She smiled from under her elegant sun-hat. “It’s a lovely day, Happy.” Kissing his cheek on only one side, she smiled and went on, “I know we’ll have a good time. I’m just sorry it’s because you’re leaving. We’ll miss you. You’re sort of the last break with my past.”

“Well, I haven’t left yet, and I don’t want the party to be dismal, so try to be glad for all of it,” said Nugent, indicating the short walkway to the porch of the cottage. “I’ll show you the way to the garden, and give you a look at the house at the same time.” He moved ahead of his guests, pointing out the parlor, the dining room, the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom—“There are two more bedrooms upstairs, and a second toilet”—and the screened porch that projected over this end of the garden. “The steps are down the side of the cottage, right through that door. I’ve put in a hand-railing, so you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“How many are you expecting?” Charis asked.

“Sixteen, counting me. Almost the whole Coven.” Nugent sighed in contentment. “I hadn’t thought so many would want to come.” He smiled in a self-deprecating manner. “The weather probably has more to do with it than I do.”

“That’s doing it up too brown,” Charis chided him affectionately.

“Me?” Nugent in mocked dismay. “I’m the soul of modesty, or I could have made the party sound far grander.”

“Pretty large gathering,” Charis said, summoning up a half-smile to answer his. “And a good turn-out for a bon voyage party. It makes for a good send-off.” A sudden frown flashed over her features too quickly for Nugent to see it, but Szent-Germain did, and wondered what was bothering her.

Nugent opened the front door and indicated the stairs down to the garden. “They’re a bit steep, so use the railing if you need it. I’m going back to the front of the house. Oh, there’s a pond at the bottom of the garden; spring-fed, so it doesn’t get brackish. It’s pleasant, and a little cooler than most of the garden, and that might be important by mid-afternoon. Be careful at dusk, though. The pond gets swarms of some kind of midges, and they’ll eat you alive. Until sundown, it’s a nice place; there’re a couple of benches near it, and some other features.”

“We can manage from here,” Charis called to him as he strolled away.

“Do you want to go down first?” Szent-Germain asked Charis, stepping aside to give her more room. The heat was unsettling to him, but he kept himself in order; he had attended occasions more demanding than this, that required more of him. He was wearing black slacks and a charcoal-gray linen shirt with long sleeves; he was relieved that Rogers had refilled the soles of his shoes with his native earth last night, for it provided some protection from the relentless sunlight.

“Thanks,” she said, letting him hold the door open for her. It took her a step or two to become accustomed to the steepness of the stairs, but she made her way down all twelve of them without mishap. As she reached the foot of the stairs, she called out, “Hello, Coven!”

Axel Bjornson, in a khaki outfit more suited for fly-fishing than a picnic, rounded on her and waved. “Professor Treat,” he greeted her. “Good to see you.”

“Glad you’re here, Doctor Bjornson,” she responded.

“How’s the work coming on your second book?” Bjornson asked, doing his best to be sociable.

“I have some new material that should create interest in it; I expect to have it completed in a year or so,” she answered, a bit obliquely.

Elvira Praeger hurried up to Charis, bristling with enthusiasm. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m sorry I wasn’t at the last Coven meeting. Couldn’t be helped. We can talk now, though, can’t we? You look wonderful. Come and let Jesse pour a drink for you.” She took Charis’ elbow and all but dragged her to the long table. “Doesn’t it look wonderful?”

Charis studied the place for a couple of seconds, then said, “Let me put these down”—referring to the two bottles of wine in her large tote—“then we can talk.” She handed the bottles one at a time to Jesse Praeger.

“’Thirty-five for the red, ’forty-five for the white. Someone knows the good vintages,” Jesse approved.

“Talk to the Grof about it; he’s providing them.” Charis turned in time to see Elvira approaching again.

“Oh, good,” said Elvira, now keeping close to Charis as she went along the outer side of the tables set up under the eaves of the screened porch above them. “We can have a glass of wine, and find a nice corner to sit. I’m afraid it’s going to be hot in an hour or so.”

Charis did not look forward to either the conversation or the heat very eagerly, but she said, “If Jesse will open a bottle for us, we can have a little time to ourselves until the rest arrive.”

“Very nice,” Jesse said, inspecting the labels. “Red or white?” He managed a jaunty half-smile for Charis.

“White,” said Elvira, looking at the array of glasses, tankards, and mugs at the end of the third table. “And that glass, please, the one like a balloon.”

Jesse scowled, but picked up the glass. “And you?” he asked Charis. “Any preference in your glass?”

“The pear-shaped one would be nice, and red.” She saw a look flare between husband and wife, and wondered why they were at odds; there were so many things that might account for it, it was impossible to settle on only one. “I’m not really finicky, if you think another would be better.”

“The pear-shaped one is fine,” said Jesse, not quite genially; he had the corkscrew in hand and was peeling the foil cap off the bottle of 1945 white Burgundy Szent-Germain had provided from his own vineyard. “It’s going to be a long afternoon, honey,” he said to Elvira, a hidden warning in his calm remark. “Don’t wear yourself out too soon. You need to take care of yourself; your doctor said you shouldn’t get overtired.”

Elvira gave an angry giggle. “Good company with plenty of food. Just what the doctor ordered, don’t you think, darling,” Elvira said, then turned away to greet Russell McCall, who was making his way down the stairs, a large steel bowl in his arms. “After we eat, I’m going to spread a blanket in the sun and make the most of the day. How could I wear myself out?”

As soon as their glasses were filled, Elvira took Charis by the elbow once again and steered her to the bench at the edge of the overhang. “It’s so good of you to do this. You have kids, so I know you’ll understand.” She was talking rapidly, glancing around to determine if they were overheard. “It’s just that since the miscarriage, Jesse keeps putting limits on me, and it just drives me wild. I have to rest every afternoon, I’m not allowed to smoke, or go shopping without him. He wants me to stick to the regimen the doctor’s provided, but I can’t do it every day; it’s just too boring.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I think I might be pregnant again, but I don’t dare tell him: he’ll wrap me in cotton batting and put me in a—”

“Do you really think you might be pregnant?” Charis asked, her voice lowered.

“Well, I’m more than two weeks late, and that doesn’t happen to me.” She took a long sip of wine. “I’m getting edgy, keeping the secret.”

Charis looked at her, choosing her words with care. “Do you want to get pregnant now, so soon after your miscarriage?”

“Yes.” Her nervous smile became a forlorn mask. “It’s for Jesse, more than me. He wants kids, the sooner the better. I know I should be glad he does, but…” Her words faded away.

“What does your doctor say?” Charis asked.

“He doesn’t know. I have an appointment with him the end of next week, and I don’t know what I’ll say to him.”