Agent in Place (7 page)

“Is Brad long-suffering, again?” Tony Lawton asked, as he stepped into the room and closed the door firmly. His voice and smile were amiable, and they all responded with a laugh, even a small one from Brad, who knew his own weaknesses better than most men. “Don’t you believe him. He’s addicted to work. Take that away, and he’d really be miserable.”

“Overwork was never your complaint, Tony,” Brad reminded him. But the indirect compliment pleased him.

“Wouldn’t dream of allowing it to interfere with my pleasures. Yes, I’ll have bourbon, Tom. And how are you, old boy? Mrs. Kelso—” Tony turned all his easy charm on her, and it was considerable—“how very nice it is to see you again. Or don’t you remember me?”

He wasn’t a particularly memorable man: nondescript features; brownish hair; grey eyes level with hers; no more than five foot seven. Age? Late thirties, early forties? His voice was attractive. He was dressed in grey, the suit well cut; his tie was subdued, his shoes gleaming. Clothes definitely made the man in this case, Dorothea decided: without that cut of suit and those polished shoes, she never would have identified him so quickly. Unless, of course, he retained that warm smile and gentle humour in his talk. “I remember,” she said. “The wine-merchant who likes to drink bourbon and branch-water.”

“Split personality,” Tony agreed, and didn’t even flinch at “wine-merchant.” He rather liked that description of his wine-shipping firm, headquarters in London, branches all around the world.

“It’s safer drinking bourbon than Bordeaux nowadays,” Brad suggested, and that launched Tony into a hilarious version of the “Winegate” scandal in France. He had just come from there, seemingly. He does get around, thought Dorothea, and sat quietly watching the three men absorbed in one another. The talk was veering from French wine to French politics, then over to Algiers (wine as the lead-in to politics again) and next to Italy (Chianti troubles and—yes, there it was once more—political problems). It wasn’t that the men had forgotten about her: there were smiles in her direction to keep her in touch, as it were. And she was fascinated. Free-flowing conversation like this seemed to bring out each man’s character. Tom was the journalist, pouncing on a statement, questioning. Brad still retained much of his reserved and thoughtful State Department manner—everything weighed, and often found wanting. And Tony, eyes now alert and interested, tongue quick and explicit, must be a most capable business-man. In some ways, a strange trio; but friends, most definitely. She had a sudden vision of getting all three of them on to the Bud Wells talk show—they’d take it over. That would really freeze Bud’s platitudes into astonished silence. She laughed. They stopped discussing Yugoslavia after Tito’s death, and looked at her in surprise.

The telephone rang. Saved by the bell, she thought as Tom went to answer the call and attention switched away from her. Gentlemen don’t listen to other gentlemen’s phone-calls, she reminded herself, amused now by the low-voiced conversation that Brad and Tony had begun. But I’m no gentleman. It was Chuck on the ’phone. She could tell from Tom’s face as he listened. Her heart sank.

Tom stopped beside her chair. “He forgot all about this evening,” he said quietly, and managed a smile.

“Did he actually say—” she began, indignation showing in spite of all her resolutions.

“No, no. Pressure of work. He’s dropping in here for a quick drink. Needs to borrow my typewriter.”

“I’ll get it ready for him.” The portable’s travelling-case was in the bedroom closet with Tom’s bags. She left Tom explaining his brother’s visit, and when she came back they were on the topic of Shandon House—old Simon’s brainchild, Tony called it. Simon Shandon would have been astonished to see how big it had become.

“Not in numbers,” said Brad. “They’ve held that down. But in impact—yes. Your brother must be a whiz-kid, Tom, to get in there.”

“He’s got most of the family brains.”

Not true, not true, Dorothea thought in quick defence; but she let Tom have his moment of modesty. Damn it all, why did he always downgrade himself with Chuck? A long-standing habit, meant to encourage the young and bolster their confidence?

“What is Shandon going to do with its new property?” Tony asked. “Expand into Europe?”

I’m at sea again, thought Dorothea: what new property?

Brad noted her expression, began to explain. Simon Shandon’s widow had never liked New Jersey, never even liked living in America. She preferred their villa on the Riviera. So, under the terms of old Simon’s will, that was what she had been left—the villa, and a yearly allowance for the extent of her lifetime. When she died—no children, no near relatives to complicate Simon’s wishes—the Riviera estate would become the property of Shandon House. She had obliged them by dying three weeks ago at the age of ninety-two, still fuming against her husband’s will and all the wealth he had invested in New Jersey.

“Probably that’s why she stayed alive so long—out of sheer pique,” Tony said. “So now Shandon has a place near Menton. How very snazzy! Will it be a Rest and Recreation centre for tired intellects?”

“They could treat it in the way Harvard dealt with the Berenson villa near Florence,” said Brad.

“A sort of Shandon-By-The-Sea?”

“Without computers. Just a gathering of brains, American and European, setting themselves problems to solve. A series of evening seminars after a day of solitary meditation.” Brad’s smile widened.

Tony said, “Each man with a private office and his feet up on his desk, thinking great thoughts as he stares out at the blue Mediterranean? It’s a marvellous racket, this Institute business. Cosy little set-up, and tax-free.”

“They do justify their existence,” Tom reminded him.

“Every now and again. But—” Tony sighed—“it can be a dangerous situation, too. Get it under political control, and where will we all be? Listening to advice that will leave us more bewildered than ever.” He smiled for Dorothea. “I bewilder very easily,” he told her. She wondered about that.

The telephone rang—the desk in the lobby announcing Chuck’s arrival. Dorothea packed the portable typewriter into its case. Tom had already opened the door and was waiting in the corridor, no doubt to tip Chuck off about the guests inside.

Chuck entered, his arm round Tom’s shoulder. “Really sorry,” he was explaining, “but I’ve got a rush job to finish. You know what deadlines are like, Tom.” He relaxed as he saw that everyone—even Thea, or rather Dorothea: Thea was Tom’s privilege, she insisted on that—accepted his explanation. He looked tired enough, God knew. And it was a relief to find others here: he could beg off staying for a twenty-minute chat. With this group there would be no chance for a
tête-à-tête
with Tom. He gave Dorothea a brief kiss on her cheek and one of his best smiles. A polite nod to the Englishman, a small word or two to Brad Gillon whom he remembered from Washington days, and he had the typewriter in his hand and an apology on his lips. “No, I won’t sit down—I might not get up again for another hour. Besides, I have a feeling that I’m interrupting a good party. When do you get back from Paris, Tom?” He was already moving to the door.

“Sunday. A week from tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you then. Come and stay at my place—I’ve a couch that makes into a fairly good bed.”

“I may do that.”

“Wonderful!”

Dorothea said, “By the way, Chuck, you’d better clean the type. Some letters are a little blurred with ink and gunk. I meant to do that yesterday, but—”

“It works, doesn’t it? Which is more than can be said for my machine. Thanks, Tom. Thanks a million. And I’ll have it back tomorrow morning. Okay? I’ll drop it off on my way to Shandon.”

“Sunday on the job?” Tom asked. “You really are in a bind.”

“It happens, every now and again.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Brad agreed. “Bye, Chuck.” Goodbyes from Tom and Dorothea, too. Tony Lawton smiled and nodded. The door closed and Chuck was on his way.

Throughout the brief visit, Tony had said nothing at all. His interest in Chuck had been politely disguised. “Now,” he said, as he stopped examining his drink, “So that is one of Shandon’s bright young men.”

“Never met anyone from there before?” Brad asked. “If you like, I’ll introduce you to Paul Krantz, the director. He’s an old friend of—”

“A waste of his time. And of mine: Shandon isn’t laying down a cellar of French wines, is it?”

“Hardly,” said Tom. “At lunch, I hear, they are more apt to grab a ham on rye with a gallon of coffee.”

“Then I’ll stick to our customers in Washington. That,” he said to Dorothea, “is where I am bound now. You’d be surprised how many embassy cellars need replenishing.”

“I’ll take the hint and replenish
you
.” Tom reached for their glasses. And there’s a gentle hint for Tony, he thought. “And then Thea and I are leaving for dinner. That mention of ham and rye made me remember my own lunch today.”

“Go right ahead,” Tony said easily. “I’d like to stay for a few moments with Brad, and dig into that memory of his. Nice to have a friend who goes back a long way.”

Tom stared at him, said briskly, “Come on, Thea, we’ll leave them to it. Get your wrap. We’ll eat downstairs, make it an early evening.” He looked pointedly at Tony, as Dorothea left for the bedroom to collect scarf and bag.

“We’ll be away from here long before that,” Tony promised. “Where are you staying in Brussels? The old hangout? I’ll look you up if I’m around.”

As he would be. “Do that,” Tom said. “And don’t make all your nice little news items off the record. Give me something I can write up. Here’s the key to this room. Lock up tightly, will you?”

“That’s Brad’s department.”

“Oh, I forgot, he’s the one who will be dropping it at the desk. Exits must match entrances.”

“Always kidding,” Tony smiled blandly.

Brad laid the key well in view beside his drink. “We’ll talk about the book when next we meet,” he said apologetically. “How is it coming?” His rule with authors was never to press them, never harry or hurry.

“Needs some spare time, but I think I may get that.”

“Oh?” Brad probed gently.

“I’ll stop in to see you at the office, on my way to Brussels. I’ll explain then. Okay?”

“Very much so.”

Dorothea returned, her bewilderment growing as she was led in Tom’s firm grip out of the room, her little goodbye speeches cut down to a bright smile. At a safe distance along the empty corridor, she let her feelings explode. “And what on earth is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He calmed her with a kiss on her cheek. “They needed a place to meet. Why not in our room?”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What are they plotting?”

“It’s no conspiracy against the United States, if that’s what is worrying you,” he said with a grin. “It’s just some information that Tony wants from Brad.”

There was no one in the elevator. Dorothea said, “But Brad isn’t with Intelligence, is he?”

“Definitely not.” No more. Brad had resigned from that kind of work almost twelve years ago.

“But Tony is, isn’t he?”

“Now, what gave you that idea?”

“Just a feeling, somehow. You know, I only remembered him tonight by his clothes. And I thought, what if Tony was dressed as a stevedore and I bumped into him on the docks—”

“
That’s
a wild notion!” It amused Tom.

“Or, if he was dressed as a pilot and I saw him on board a flight to Detroit—”

“If my aunt had whiskers, she’d be my uncle.”

“Some women do have whiskers,” Dorothea reminded him coldly. “All I’m trying to say is that Tony’s the kind of man I’d hardly remember unless I could place him by his clothes.”

“Not very flattering to Tony, are you? I don’t think he’d be too amused to hear all that. In fact—” Tom was suddenly serious—“I think we should drop the whole subject right now and enjoy our dinner.”

He steered her through the lobby into the dining-room. He wasn’t too worried. In five years of living together Thea had never repeated a confidence he had given her. Discreet. No gossiper. That was Thea. But he didn’t like the little frown shading her bright blue eyes. “We’ll talk later,” he promised.

“It’s just that I’m so sick of the word Intelligence,” she began.

“Later,” he said firmly. “Now, smile for the
maître d’
, and get us a good table.”

“And you’ll really answer all my questions?”

“Do my best. I’m no oracle, darling, just a newspaperman who is very very hungry.”

She smiled then, for him entirely. They got a good table in any case.

* * *

In the sitting-room Brad Gillon had been listening intently to Tony. No more jokes, no more flights of fancy.

“Come on, Brad, dig into that memory bank. You must have heard of Konov in your OSS days. That time you raced into the ruins of Hitler’s Chancellery neck and neck with Soviet Intelligence. Konov was with their team.”

“The one that went through a mess of Hitler’s private papers, trying to find some evidence that Churchill had been conspiring with him to attack Russia?”

“They wanted to believe it too,” Tony said, shaking his head.

“A Soviet Intelligence officer’s dream of glory?
Alone I found it
.”

“But there was nothing to find. If only Konov had been in Disinformation at that time, he would have invented a document then and there. Thank God he wasn’t. He is now.” Tony paused. “During the fifties and sixties, Konov worked in their Department for Illegals. Does that catch your memory? A lot of intelligence reports must have passed over your desk in that period.”

“I left State by 1962,” Brad reminded him. “But just around then—yes, I begin to remember Konov.” His voice quickened. “There was that episode in Ottawa—left in a hurry just before the Canadians could arrest him. He was in the US too, I recall. A busy little beaver.”

“North America was his field. Still is.”

“Then why is NATO worrying about him—or don’t you think our intelligence agencies can cope?” Brad asked with a wry smile.

“
If
they’d start co-operating with each other again—” Tony suggested but refrained from a sharp criticism of Hoover in the late sixties—“or with us. But that happy state got cut off abruptly. It’s the root reason for all their present troubles, isn’t it?”