The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage (2 page)

We helped him off the train at Hendaye. When we started again, I checked my briefcase. I saw at once that it was not mine, though the resemblance was uncanny. Karinovsky must have switched briefcases while I had gone off for the conductor. The one he had given me contained newspapers. The one he had taken from me had held a military progress report bearing a “Restricted” classification. The briefcase had also contained one thousand dollars in travelers’ checks. So far, everything was going according to plan.

I rode the train one stop farther, to Massat. There I got off, went into a cafe called the Blue Moose, and waited for a telephone call. I waited three hours, and no call came for me. I caught the next train back to Paris and bought myself a very good dinner.

The next day I reported to Colonel Baker’s office. The Colonel and George were positively overflowing with good spirits. Baker opened a bottle of champagne and told me what had happened.

He and George and one or two others had been waiting at the Hendaye station when Karinovsky got off. Politely but firmly they had wedged Karinovsky into a quiet cafe and spelled out the facts of life for him. To wit:

Karinovsky had stolen a briefcase containing an important military document, plus the sum of one thousand American dollars. The briefcase was easily identifiable; witnesses were available; and the owner of the briefcase was waiting in Massat, prepared to swear out a complaint and to pursue it to the fullest extent of French law. It should mean at least ten years in a French prison.

Karinovsky knew a bear-trap when he saw one. He had been tricked and trapped. He was ready to talk business.

Terms were discussed over the next half hour. Baker didn’t tell me what they were, but apparently he had found them satisfactory. The case was closed.

Then George said, “But of course, you haven’t heard the best of it.”

“I wonder if we should tell him,” Baker mused.

“Why not, sir?” George asked. “After all, he was involved in this.”

“I suppose so,” Baker said. He leaned back in his armchair. A reminiscent twinkle came into his kindly gimlet eyes. “Well, it happened in the cafe, just after Karinovsky realized how much trouble he was in. He was thinking furiously, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, and why, and how, and who had trapped him so neatly. He thought for quite a while, and then he looked up with an expression of growing horror on his face. He said, ‘Christ! That stupid military fellow on the train was in on it, wasn’t he?’ ”

Baker had smiled and said, “Are you referring to our Mr. Nye?”

Karinovsky’s shoulders had slumped. He said, “I should have guessed. Obviously, that idiot is in your employment.”

“Not exactly,” Baker said, in a sudden flash of inspiration. “You might more correctly say that
we
are in the employment of that idiot.”

Karinovsky had gaped. “I do not believe you,” he said. But it was obvious that he did.

Then Baker knew that he had created an interesting illusion in Karinovsky’s mind. He had conjured up the image of a paragon of agents, of awesome intellectual powers and highly developed skills.

Always a pragmatist, Baker had accepted this unexpected windfall. He dealt in illusions, after all; it seemed to him that this one might prove useful if Karinovsky ever balked. Individuation, in the final analysis, was everything; accordingly, it was much more impressive to have the specter of Secret Agent Nye peering over Karinovsky’s shoulder rather than some faceless organization. And, beyond this purely practical consideration, other possibilities glimmered like marsh fire: a shadow agent can undertake much more dangerous assignments than his fleshy counterparts. A specter is not susceptible to capture by normal methods.

Yes, there was work for Agent X—as Baker had already begun to think of him. Agent X utilized that law of human nature which makes con men the easiest victims of a con game. The law of autopredation, Baker decided to call it; the iron rule by which an inevitably merciful Nature turns the specialized strength of the predator into a fatal weakness, and thus betrays a vested interest in long-range averages.

So it seemed to Baker, flushed with the intoxication of success and believing, for the moment, that nothing was beyond his grasp. One word from him and phantom armies marched, and men of blood shuddered at their advance.

In a kindly voice he had said to Karinovsky, “Our Mr. Nye took you in, did he?”

“I used to consider myself a judge of men,” Karinovsky said. “And I could have sworn that this man was a nothing—a nonentity—a thoroughly negligible person, and surely not a professional.”

“Nye’s always been good at giving that impression,” Baker said. “It’s one of his little specialties.”

“If what you tell me is true,” Karinovsky said, “then the man is a formidable operative. But of course, you planned out the details of this operation yourself?”

Baker thought about the long months of dull routine, the superb coordination of his team of agents, and his own brilliance in producing a scheme tailored for Karinovsky and none other. He wanted to tell Karinovsky about it. But he didn’t. He sacrificed a moment of petty gloating in the interests of his new illusion.

“I wish I
had
planned it,” Baker said. “But the truth is, I disapproved of the plan from the start. I didn’t think it would work. But Nye overruled me. And, as usual, he was right.”

Baker had smiled bitterly. “One cannot argue with success, can one?”

“No,” Karinovsky had agreed, “one cannot.” He sighed deeply.

And that was that. We opened a second bottle of champagne and drank a toast to success. George asked me how it felt to be an ultra-special agent, and I told him it felt fine, which it did. Colonel Baker, musing pleasurably on his invention, said that he had always wanted to create his very own operative. The real ones were barely able to find their way home in the dark. He told me several amusing stories to illustrate the point.

We parted soon after that. I had a plain white envelope in my pocket. It contained five hundred dollars, which I considered a very adequate reward for a day’s work.

It had been a pleasant affair. Of course, I assumed at the time that that was the end of it.

2

The next few weeks were an inconclusive sort of time for me. I tended bar (illegally) for several weekends in a
boîte
near the Place des Vosges. I loafed and invited my soul on the banks of the Seine, also on the Île Saint-Louis, also in the gloomy little garden behind Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I discovered a cache of Air-War pulps in a bookstore on the Rue de la Huchette, read voraciously, and considered doing an essay on the Age of Aerial Innocence. But I didn’t. Instead I applied for a job as consulting editor of a new French science-fiction magazine, was accepted, and then saw the whole thing fall through when the prospective publisher ran out of money.

Thus, my position was essentially unchanged when I received a call from George about six weeks after
l’affaire
Karinovsky. It seemed that Colonel Baker wanted to see me. I went at once. Our last transaction had been more than satisfactory. I don’t know what secret agents normally earn; but, at Baker’s rates, I was definitely interested in continuing my new career.

The Colonel came to the point at once. “It’s about that fellow you brought in last month,” he said.

I thought it very decent of the Colonel to phrase it that way.

“What about him?” I asked.

“He wants to come over.”

“That’s a surprising development,” I said.

“Not particularly. Karinovsky is a professional. As such, he is likely to change sides when offered the proper inducement.”

“I see,” I said.

“You probably understood,” Baker told me, “that I came to an arrangement with Karinovsky last month. I wanted certain information, which he supplied. This, of course, gave me a further hold over him. After that, I wanted more information. And more, and more. I was insatiable.” He smiled a nasty little smile. “It put Karinovsky into the position of a double agent; potentially, a very dangerous situation. It was only a matter of time before his people found out. Now he wants to come over, which is something of a coup for us.”

I said, “Well, sir, that’s very good news.”

“But of course, it isn’t quite as simple as that. The thing must be arranged with care, and an agent must be assigned to control the operation and render physical assistance if necessary. In this case, Karinovsky has requested the aid of a specific agent. You.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. Specifically and exclusively you. It is, I suppose, a predictable consequence of our little deception. Karinovsky is in Venice at present, and he needs to get out rather urgently. He wants help from our best man—the redoubtable Agent X. He not only wants it, he expects it. Under the circumstances, I would dislike having to tell him that Agent X is a figment of our imagination.”

“There’s no reason to tell him,” I said. “I am quite prepared to render whatever assistance is necessary.”

“That’s very good of you,” Baker said. “I was hoping you would say that. But I think I should mention that there is a certain irreducible element of danger in this assignment. Not too much, I believe; but it cannot be discounted.”

“That doesn’t alarm me, sir.”

The Colonel looked considerably cheered. “Actually, it’s simple enough. Karinovsky is in Venice. He has already been in contact with our resident agent, Marcantonio Guesci. All you’ll have to do, really, is fly down to Venice and get in touch with Guesci. He’ll arrange everything, and spirit both you and Karinovsky out of Italy. The entire operation should take no more than a day or two. You would merely have to follow Guesci’s instructions.”

I was a little disappointed at hearing this. The Colonel evidently planned to use me as nothing more than a figurehead, a sort of imitation of a secret agent. Of course, I hadn’t expected to be in charge of the case this early in my career; but still, I had hoped for a little more responsibility.

“It’s all right with me,” I said.

“Excellent,” Colonel Baker said. “I would prefer, by the way, to keep your true identity a secret. Not even Guesci need know the truth about Agent X. I mean, I have full confidence in your abilities, but Guesci might not.”

“What if Guesci wants to talk shop?” I asked.

“He won’t. But in case he does, our story is that you’ve just been transferred from Far East Command. No one around here knows what those fellows do. I doubt if they know themselves.”

“All right,” I said.

“It’s really quite simple,” Baker said, for the second time. “The only complicating factor is Karinovsky’s former employers. They won’t want to let Karinovsky slip away; that sort of thing lowers morale and looks very bad on the records.”

“What will they do?”

“Try to kill him, I suppose. We want to prevent that.”

“Yes, sir. How many of them are there?”

“Six or eight, I suppose. You’ll study the dossiers before you go. They’re a ham-handed bunch for the most part. Except for Forster.”

“Sir?”

“Forster is head of Soviet Intelligence Operations, Northeast Italian sector. He’s a formidable fellow, a big, powerful chap, skilled with small arms and quite ingenious at planning. Definitely a man on his way up. But I suspect that he’s overconfident.”

“How am I supposed to handle him?”

The Colonel thought about that for a while. At last he said, “I think the best plan would be to avoid him entirely.”

That didn’t sound too promising. Forster seemed to have a fearsome reputation. But then, I had a fearsome reputation, too. His deeds might well be as insubstantial as mine; anything was possible in this line of work. And frankly, the element of danger was intriguing rather than dismaying. It was difficult to become frightened in a snug office on the Boulevard Haussmann; but it was easy to dream of Venice, of the pigeons wheeling over the Piazza San Marco, and the motorboats racing down the Grand Canal, and myself walking into Doney’s with money in my pocket. …

Colonel Baker and I had a short, interesting discussion on the subject of money. I finally accepted the sum of fifteen hundred dollars for what should be no more than two days’ work. I thought that I was doing very well. I even felt a little embarrassed at taking such a large sum for such an easy assignment.

I was very busy for the next forty-eight hours, studying dossiers, poring over maps of Venice, and soaking up the necessary background. Then Baker got word from Guesci. Karinovsky had gone into hiding, and the escape route was ready. The next morning I was on an airplane to Venice.

3

My airplane touched down at Venice’s Aeroporto Marco Polo at 11:30 in the morning. I cleared customs and passport control without difficulty, and walked out of the airport building.

It was a warm and lucid day. Directly ahead of me was the pier, crowded with boatmen offering their assorted craft for the short journey across the lagoon to the Piazza San Marco. Across the gleaming water I could see Venice itself, presenting its incredible skyline of sagging spires and tilted rectangular towers, pinnacles and chimneys, humpbacked buildings and crenellated walls.