Sustenance (60 page)

Channing was about to upbraid her for that remark, but then sat back in his chair, musing. “That’s an interesting theory. Tell me more.”

Pierce drank her rapidly cooling tea and looked directly at him. “It didn’t occur to me until just now: but I can’t remember how he decided that there might be a connection to the group in Paris. I didn’t start to work for him until after the Baxter business began, remember. Nothing he said to me seemed to support it. I make full allowance for secretive plans, but there are secrets and then there are secrets. And the care that Baxter went to to hide himself made me think he might be an agent of some kind, himself—maybe FBI, maybe someone foreign—because everything Broadstreet reported about Baxter suggested a professional.”

“That’s interesting,” said Channing, softening his approach to Pierce.

“I can’t figure out what Baxter is up to. If he were MI6, we could approach the Limeys, but he’s not English—I can tell by the spelling and the grammar. He’s American.”

“You’re certain of that.” Channing waited for her to explain herself.

She paused. “He could be a Canadian, but they’re still very British.”

“Could he be working for a foreign power?” Channing asked.

“So you can keep the Agency out of the spotlight?” she countered. “I don’t know enough about Baxter to make a guess.” She wondered if she dared to light up a cigarette.

“Don’t make up what you don’t know, but is it possible that Baxter is selling what he has to the highest bidder?”

“Yes, it’s possible, I suppose.” To gain herself a little time, she reached for the teapot once more, offering him a fill-up, which he declined, before pouring more into her cup. “I thought it might be an FBI operation—trying to set us up for Hoover, so he can take us over.”

“Truman won’t let that happen,” said Channing, his confidence apparent in every line of his body. “Truman knows why we need a foreign intelligence agency that is not part of domestic intelligence.”

“He doesn’t trust Hoover.” Pierce looked toward the window, doing her best to ignore Channing’s scrutiny.

“Who does?” Channing asked. “Besides Walter Winchell.”

It was almost as feeble a joke as Broadstreet’s about mother’s maiden name had been, but Pierce laughed dutifully, feeling that she had avoided something dreadful. She reached for her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes, selecting one and removing it. She was about to pull out her book of matches but saw that Channing had his lighter out. “Oh. Thanks, Fred.” She leaned over the table so he could apply the little flame to her Lucky Strike.

“Always a pleasure to be of service to a lady,” he said as he snapped the lid closed and returned it to his pocket. “Tell me more about your reason for—”

To her dismay, Pierce suddenly sneezed. Mortified, she put her cigarette in the ashtray at the end of the coffee-table, then she set her cup down and reached for her purse again for her handkerchief. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s this hay fever. Smoking’s supposed to calm it down, but…” She turned away to blow her nose.

“Have some more tea,” Channing recommended.

In order to turn attention away from her hay fever, she said, “I thought you had a waiter. Didn’t you have one the last time I came in to discuss Broadstreet?”

“Yes. He left two months ago. I’ll have to find a new one.” He drank a little tea.

“What happened to him?” It was an innocent inquiry, not intended to require an extended answer.

“He’s gone back to J. Edgar, a little the worse for wear now, I trust.” There was malice in his smile.

She was folding her handkerchief, but looked up at him. “Good Lord. There’s going to be a scandal.”

Channing chuckled. “No, there isn’t.”

“Why not?” Pierce asked.

“Because neither we nor the FBI want to be too closely scrutinized by anyone, including our own leaders. The more closely we’re monitored, the less effective we can be. Too many people will know what we’re doing, and that can’t be allowed.” Channing sighed. “It’s an awkward situation. They and we have taken advantage of the fear of Communist infiltrators, and have extended our activities beyond the limits of the law, and neither they nor we can afford to have these … lapses exposed. We’re in the more marginal position, because we aren’t supposed to deal inside the US, and to find out what we’ve been doing in some cases would really be a scandal. So, like the FBI, we’ll handle our internal peccadillos internally.”

“How?” Pierce asked, then stifled another sneeze.

“The way we have avoided scandal before: Hoover’s man will be given a technical promotion and then be posted to some place like Fargo or, if he’s really screwed up, Guam, and his career will stagnate. We do the same thing here, and we have more out-of-the-way places to send our embarrassments. There’s an opening in Singapore, and another in Bratislava. And one coming up in Jakarta.”

For a chaotic moment, Pierce thought this warning was for her—that she might be posted to Papua in New Guinea, or Vladivostok in the Soviet Union. “Oh,” she said, to let him know she understood. She picked up her cigarette, tapped off the ash, and took a drag on it.

Channing shook his head. “Don’t worry, Opal; I need you here to help me keep an eye on our people. I was referring—a bit too obliquely—to Broadstreet. As much as this business can be secure, your position is. You can buy a town house in Alexandria, if you like, and know you’ll still live there when it’s paid for.” He picked up a small bowl holding three babas-au-rhum, took a spoon from the goblet full of flatware, and cut off a bite-sized bit.

Or until you’re gone from the Agency, she thought as she fought down a third sneeze. “Job security?” she suggested, wishing she had a plausible reason to leave.

“You know more about the Agency than most of the people working for it. You have a reputation for not listening to gossip, and you’re loyal—to me.”

She could think of nothing to say, so she bowed her head, trying to decide as she did if she should warn Broadstreet of what might be facing him by summer.

“Penny,” he said, cutting short her reverie.

“What? For my thoughts?” she asked, hoping she had made a good recovery.

“What else?” He maneuvered his chair a little nearer the table, picked up the teapot and refilled her cup. “I’ll call up for more, if you’d like.”

“Not for me, thanks,” she said, already anticipating a dash to the ladies’ room even as she drank half the cup.

“About your thoughts,” he prompted, his face once again in neutral lines.

“I think Broadstreet may be in over his head. The Baxter case has got away from him, and he’s floundering.” This was as direct as she was prepared to be; the whole mess might still blow up in Baxter’s face, and Pierce wanted to catch no shrapnel from the blast.

“Would you think that having an assistant would help? I could assign another agent to the case, to work with him.” His ingenuous smile might have fooled someone who did not know Channing, but Pierce was not fooled.

“You mean you want to put another spy on him?”

“In a sense,” said Channing at his most bland.

“I think it wouldn’t be wise. I think that could lead to public attention and more publicity than would be good for us.” She picked up her purse and stood up suddenly. “Excuse me. I’ll be back shortly.” With that, she bolted for the door, hoping she could make it to the rest room in time. When she returned to Channing’s office less than ten minutes later, the profusion of pastries had been whisked away and in its place was a bottle of whisky.

“I don’t want to ruin your appetite for dinner,” Channing said by way of explanation.

Pierce shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not hungry.”

TEXT OF AN AIR LETTER FROM JIMMY RIGGS O’HANRAGHAN IN JESUALBO, SONORA, MEXICO, TO LYDELL G. BROADSTREET IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, USA, SENT RAPID DELIVERY AND IN BROADSTREET’S HANDS TWO DAYS AFTER IT WAS MAILED.

19 May, 1951

Lydell G. Broadstreet

139 Roanoke Way

Baltimore, Maryland, USA

Dear Broadstreet,

Let me be among the first to congratulate you on your promotion. I’m sure that being attached to the US Embassy’s trade ministry in Jakarta will be filled with opportunities for you.

Let me remind you that you owe me $50,000. Next month, the sum will be $60,000. In your new post you should be able to purloin that amount by the end of the year.

Be careful where you park.

Riggs

6

H
EAVY SHUTTERS
on the tall windows blocked the view of the Black Sea now shining darkly in the coppery August sunlight beyond this building that housed the Istanbul office of the Eclipse Trading Company. Sounds in the street announced increasing activity as the day slipped toward the delights of evening; it had cooled a little in the last hour, though where the sun struck, the heat of the day still lingered, and with it the spicy, salty odor of the city itself.

Germyn Rakoczy sat alone in the pleasant gloom of his office; his skin was still intensely sensitive to sunlight, and had the same stretched appearance as the scars on his torso—but unlike the tokens of his execution, the burn-scars would fade. To protect his skin, he only opened the shutters after sunset, when the lights of the city shone like fireflies in the night. In the last week, he had started coming to his office during the day, and occasionally had good reason to regret it, for he had not fully regrown his skin, and exposure to sunlight at mid-day was particularly enervating. His brief sojourn in the Carpathians had sped up his recovery, but he had not remained there long; there was too much political foment in Transylvania for him to feel safe. Constantinople had seemed a reasonable choice—near to Romania, but not too near; Eclipse Trading and Eclipse Publishing both had offices in the city, and his presence was beginning to attract attention. He set himself up at his desk and prepared for his visitor, the third one he had had since his arrival in Istanbul a month ago. During that time since Hrogre had wheeled him off the train from Bucharesti, he had claimed and occupied the house in Bistrita of his supposedly late cousin, and with Hrogre’s help had ventured deep into the mountains to fill several chests with his native earth, some of which he added to the crawl-space above the concrete foundation of his elegant house here in Constantinople. He was now into the last stage of his healing from the burns the explosion had ravaged upon him, and settling into his latest identity.

There was a noise from the intercom that connected the front office with Rakoczy’s own. “He’s here again, sir; the same request for an hour of your time,” said Hrogre in Imperial Latin, the intercom’s speaker adding an electronic squeal to this announcement. “That makes four days in a row. You had better see him.”

“No doubt you’re right, old friend. But I am nervous; I don’t want him to start asking questions about me.” Rakoczy sighed; it was apparent that Hrogre had assessed the situation, and it would be prudent for Rakoczy to receive this fellow from the American Embassy; yes, it would be better off seeing his caller than refusing him admittance yet again. “You might as well send him in,” he went on in Turkish. “He’ll only be more persistent until we meet.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Hrogre. His disguise was more comprehensive: he wore Turkish garments; he had dyed his hair a walnut-brown and had let it grow so that it brushed his shoulders; to complete his transformation, he had fashioned a wen with undertaker’s putty and placed it high on his cheek, making his face look lopsided.

“Then let us be done with it.” Rakoczy adjusted the open collar of his black silk shirt so that it looked a bit more formal; his visitor from the American Embassy was used to a certain level of decorum in his work. The rest of his clothing—the black Italian-silk suit he wore, and the Florentine shoes on his small feet—were not only fashionable, they were obviously expensive.

“Right you are,” said Hrogre, and clicked off the intercom. A few seconds later, the door opened and Edward Merryman stepped into the half-light of Rakoczy’s office. “Mister Merryman, sir,” said Hrogre in English.

“Good afternoon, Mister Merryman,” said Rakoczy in the same language, rising and extending his hand. “Forgive me for not seeing you sooner; I’m just becoming acquainted with my cousin’s business. How can I be of help to you?”

Merryman, very natty in a summer-weight linen suit of pale blue with a handsome straw hat, and carrying a chestnut leather briefcase, took Rakoczy’s hand. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with me, Mister—is it Mister, or is it Grof?—Rakoczy. One never knows how these things work within the Soviet hegemony.” He had not changed much in the months that had passed since Ragoczy left Paris, but Rakoczy would not mention that, for it was Ferenz Ragoczy, not Germyn Rakoczy, who had seen Merryman there.

“It is whichever you prefer,” said Rakoczy. “I am more familiar with Mister.”

“Then let us stick with Mister for now; I can’t make sense of the systems of nobility in this part of the world. My failing, I know, but better to admit it than become more confused than I am already,” Merryman remarked with the same slightly fusty ease he had shown in Paris, which Rakoczy knew was a mendacity: Merryman was keenly observing everything he saw and heard, starting with Rakoczy himself. Seemingly relaxed, Merryman was doing his best not to stare too closely at Rakoczy, but still ended up peering at him as much as the low light would allow. “There’s a remarkable resemblance.”

“So I have been told; I don’t see it, myself,” he said with complete honesty, taking care to speak English with a Romanian accent.

“Well, that’s often the way, isn’t it?” Merryman offered a genial smile. “You’re a bit younger than your cousin, I would guess. And perhaps a little taller?” He pursed his lips to show he was mentally comparing the two men.

“So you met him?” Rakoczy asked, to see how Merryman would respond to the question.

Merryman ignored this conversational feint, and offered his own. “There was a lot of talk when his Jaguar was blown up, with Professor Treat in it.”