Agent in Place (14 page)

“No, he did not,” Tony said shortly. There had been some disturbing developments that he couldn’t explain at this moment. Konov had not arrived with the agrarian experts in Washington last week. Instead, there had been a coded message for Tony, relayed via Brussels from NATO’s man in the KGB. Warning: Konov has left the Soviet Union four days early, departure secret, destination New York. Possibly accompanied by Boris Gorsky, colonel, KGB, Executive Operations (Department V, Disinformation). “He was already in New York nine days ago.”

“And when did the
Times
reporter hand in his material for publication?” Brad asked.

“A week ago, we were told.”

Brad was now both worried and angry. “And you think the man who filched the NATO material might have handed it over to Konov?”

“Indirectly—yes. But directly? No, I don’t think so. He’s responsible for taking it out of deep security and making it accessible to others. That’s all. Bloody fool. He’s a thief, but he isn’t the traitor.”

“Why not?”

“If he had been one of Konov’s agents, the first part of the memorandum would never have been supplied to any reporter. It contains some hard facts about Konov’s department of Disinformation and its use of détente.
The conquest of the system
, remember?”

“That was only a small part of the published document. Most readers will concentrate on NATO’s unwanted advice. I’m willing to bet that Konov’s propaganda boys are going to play up that aspect: see how NATO is trying to influence the United States—another Vietnam being prepared—NATO still pushing the cold war.”

“Et cetera, et cetera,” Tony agreed. He lapsed into silence, kept staring out at the shapes of disguised water-towers on the roofs of the high-risers opposite. Blue sky, unclouded. Everything in sharp focus. He wished his thoughts were as clear as the picture through the window. He went back to the essential problem, arguing it aloud. “There
must
be one other man involved—one man, at least, who played traitor without any compunction. And the only way we can uncover him is to find the idiot who took the memorandum in the first place. Then we might learn a few leading facts—how did he protect it, did he let anyone else know about it? If so, who? And that’s the fellow I’d really like to know about.”

“But how do we discover your idiot? We can’t get a definite name, that’s for sure. Holzheimer will go to jail rather than tell. There was a case, last year—”

“I know. I read about it. We don’t
ask
for a name, Brad. We find it out for ourselves.” Tony was recovering from his depression. There was a sudden sparkle in his eyes at some amusing prospect.

“How?”

“You could have a short conversation with Holzheimer. He might be just enough shaken by all the fuss he has created to tell you the place where he met his informant.

“No, that wouldn’t work—”

“Not even if his bosses wanted to know? They might, once they have a close look at the typescript of the memorandum—at your suggestion, of course. I’d like you to examine it. Carefully.”

Brad frowned, puzzling out the reason for that. Yes, several details about that typed copy of the memorandum could be useful. “You want me to examine the brand of paper, the spacing, the margins—”

“Exactly.”

“—and the type itself.”

“That’s hardly necessary.”

“But to trace all those things will take time. It’s the long way round to uncovering—Hey, what was that you said about the type?”

“It has already been identified. There’s a whisper starting up—one of my Washington friends heard it this morning—that Tom Kelso must be the man responsible. He got the memorandum from one of his high-placed informants, possibly in Paris.”

“Tom? I don’t believe it.” Brad was shocked.

“His typewriter did the copying.”

“Impossible!”

“If it did, then someone borrowed it. That’s the simple explanation. The gossips prefer a more cynical interpretation.”

“Ridiculous,” Brad exploded. “If Tom wanted that memorandum published, he’d have done it under his own by-line.”

“And lose future confidences from his Paris informant? Tom was safeguarding himself. So the rumour goes.”

Brad rose abruptly, began pacing the room. For a few moments, there was only the sound of three sharp curses.

“I agree entirely.” Tony waited for the storm to subside. “Why else did I ask you to look at the typescript?” He paused for emphasis. Then he said, “We all have our own way of arranging a typed page, don’t we?”

Brad nodded. There could be small but definite differences, a matter of personal preference, of habit or training. “And so we get closer to finding Holzheimer’s source,” he said slowly. It was a start; small, but perhaps a lead.

“You clear Tom—and that would please the
Times
, wouldn’t it? They might be more amenable to letting you talk with Holzheimer.”

Brad almost smiled. Tony’s old practice of the honest
quid pro quo
always amused him. Tony never expected to get something for nothing.

“So,” Tony summed it up, “no name is requested or divulged. Holzheimer is kept happy and virtuous. Tom is exonerated. And I get a chance to start tracing the second man.”

“You are really hipped on that second-man bit.”

“I can smell him. There has to be someone on the sidelines—the direct connection with dear Comrade Konov.”

“If,” Brad said with heavy emphasis, “Konov did receive the memorandum.”

“If,” Tony echoed, offering no argument. Then he added, “But I’d prefer to start action on the problem now, and not wait until I heard some disastrous news from Moscow.”

Your agent there? Brad wondered. He moved back to his desk and reached for the ’phone. “I’ll get on to this, right away.”

Tony picked up his briefcase and the newspaper. For a moment, he seemed about to leave. Then he changed his mind and walked over to the window. So far below him that he couldn’t even see it, was Fifth Avenue. And in that direction to the north, lay Central Park. That’s where it had happened, according to this newspaper, which he had folded back to the page with the police report, brief and simple but headlined in bold print.

Brad ended his call. “Okay. The first hurdle is taken. I’m now heading for the
Times
itself. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes.” Tony made up his mind and decided to risk his hunch. “Can you spare me two of them?”

“Something more for me to tell my—”

“No, no. Just your opinion on this.” He handed his copy of the
News
over to Brad, and tapped the small paragraph with his finger. “What do you make of it?”

Brad began reading. “The
News
has a corner on crime stories in New York. This is just another case of a mugging in Central Park, the body still awaiting identification in the morgue.” And then he looked up in surprise. “Carrying a sword-stick, and a lighter that could be used as a flashlight?”

“I wonder,” Tony said thoughtfully. “I saw a couple of jokers keep a secret rendezvous in West Berlin last month. They used that kind of lighter for identification. They met casually at a dark street-corner. One needed a light for his cigarette. All he got was a brief flash. So he said he would use his own lighter, and flashed right back. It’s a new gadget. Simple-minded, but quick and sure.”

Brad glanced back at the newspaper. “This fellow was mugged over a week ago.”

“On the Saturday when we met at the Algonquin. Interesting date, don’t you think.”

“There is only a bare description of him—about fifty years old, five foot six.” Brad looked up sharply. “No mention of eye-colour. Or hair. Or build.”

“Naturally. Do you expect the police to make it easy for anyone who’ll try to make an identification?”

“No, it can’t be,” said Brad, staring at the newspaper.

“Probably not.”

“A coincidence, that’s all.”

“I suppose so. I’d still like to see the police file on this case, though.”

“Now look here, Tony—I don’t know anyone in the Police Department,” Brad said in alarm.

“All right, all right.” Tony put the
News
back into his briefcase. He would just have to find a less easy solution to that problem. But he’d find it.

“It’s a long shot.”

“They are the interesting ones.”

Brad said slowly, half persuaded in spite of good common sense, “I wouldn’t mind seeing that police file myself.”

“At this moment, you’ve got another job to do.”

“That I have. But the hell of it is—even if you and I and my friends over at the
Times
know that piece of gossip is ridiculous—is Tom really cleared? Rumours in Washington have a way of seeping through all the cracks.”

“It would take some publicity to kill this one dead. Perhaps an open admission from the man who started all this damage?”

“Publicity... No, I don’t think that would be too popular with my friends.” Brad paused, then added, “Have you any notion who that man might be?”

“Perhaps. And you?”

Brad said nothing at all, but his lips tightened.

Tony said, “I hope we are both wrong.” They shook hands. “I’ll call you. When and where?” He zipped up the briefcase and tucked the hat under his arm.

“I should be back here by half-past four. I’ll be working late this evening. Until eight, possibly.” Brad glanced at his watch. “Good God!” Quickly he reached for his jacket and adjusted the knot of his tie.

Tony left. The huge office was now a humming hive of machines and voices. Outside, at the reception desk, the girl interrupted a call at the switchboard to give him a bright smile and a parting wish. “Have a good day,” she told him, and sped him happily on his way to the police morgue.

* * *

Entry to the morgue was not too complicated. Identification of the mystery corpse had obviously been given top priority. It was Konov. Definitely.

Tony stood looking down at Konov’s waxen face.

“You know this man?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Another kook, the attendant thought, as he stared at the visitor: he appeared normal enough, English voice, quiet manner, but definitely a kook.

“I’d like to see the detective in charge of this case.”

That’s a new line, the attendant thought, and ignored it.

“Do I have to go to the FBI?” Tony asked. That got a quick reaction from a couple of men in plain clothes who had drifted in to keep an ear open for any possible identification. “The detective in charge,” Tony insisted as they accompanied him out. “And possibly an interesting exchange of vital information.”

“You don’t say!”

“I do indeed.”

The two men eyed each other, then studied the Englishman. Their well-developed instincts gave them a final prod. “Follow us, sir,” the senior man told him. “What did you say your name was?”

“Let’s make this more private, shall we? Take me to your leader.” His grin was infectious, and his accent slew them. They were glad to have an excuse to enjoy the small laugh that each had been repressing for the last full minute. Suddenly their smiles vanished, as Tony flipped open his Pentagon identification and held it briefly in clear view. “And if we must argue about this, first get me to your top brass. Let him check me out with Washington,” he added very softly.

They were watching closely, still hesitant but no longer so doubtful. Exchanging a glance, they made a silent decision. “This way, sir,” the senior detective said. Any bit of information about that stiff on the slab back there was worth a risk.

* * *

At five minutes to eight, Tony called Brad’s office on its direct line. “Like to buy me some lunch?”

“Haven’t you eaten—”

“Thought I’d visit the morgue on an empty stomach.”

“You actually—”

“Yes, actually. Where do we meet?”

“Can’t you talk now?”

“Too much to tell. What about your news?”

“Good, I think. Yes, on the whole, good. Are you near this office?”

“Around the corner.”

“Then meet me at Nino’s on West Forty-ninth Street. Italian food. Two stars. It’s crowded, of course.”

“How are the tables? Close-packed?” Tony asked doubtfully.

“That won’t matter. The noise level is intense.”

“Well—as long as we can get our heads close together—see you at the bar in ten minutes?”

* * *

It may have been the recession that was affecting people’s willingness to spend, but Nino’s had four tables empty. They chose a back-corner one, insulated from the service door by a thin row of plastic plants. “Fine,” said Tony with approval.

He had a plate of minestrone, a little Bel Paese with Italian brown bread, a glass of white wine, and that was all. Brad, deep into his
calamares
, didn’t question the choice. Tony wasn’t living on food today.

“Yes, it was Konov all right, laid out like a mackerel on ice. And you know what? I felt sorry for him,” Tony admitted. “Can you imagine that? I felt sorry.” He studied the wall panel, across the room, of Vesuvius about to spew its ashes over Pompeii. “And then I kept wondering—why was the body left unclaimed? You’ve seen how the KGB takes care of its own. It always does.”

Brad skewered a piece of white bread on his fork and mopped up the excellent sauce. “Yes. Like inventing a wife and daughter and touching family letters for Colonel Abel. They even had the woman—he had never seen her in his life—meet him, all tears and embraces, at the exchange point in Berlin.”

“Yes, I remember those letters. They seemed to be in every newspaper I picked up.”

Brad nodded. “Wide coverage. Everyone loves a hard-boiled spy with a much-loved wife. It must have turned Abel’s stomach, though. He was a cool professional.” Abel had slipped into this country just after the war via Canada, and set himself up in the New York area at two separate addresses, with two different names and identities as Control for a communist spy ring.

“Abel was GRU, wasn’t he? Still, the KGB usually looks after its men too. Why not in Konov’s case?”

“Interesting question.”

“I’m thinking about it.” Tony poured himself a second glass of Valpolicella. “This is better,” he said with slight surprise, “than the Montrachet I had in Washington last night.” He studied the bottle with a touch of indignation.