Agent in Place (3 page)

“I tried several visits on my own after Chuck left Washington. Polite reception. No more. I was just another friend of his brother—Chuck is ten years younger than Tom, and that makes a big difference in America.”

“Ridiculous. They are brothers. They were very close. That is why we instructed you to renew your friendship with Charles Kelso when you and he met again in Washington. Five years ago, wasn’t that?”

“Almost five.”

“And two years ago, when it was reported that Thomas Kelso needed a research assistant, you were instructed to suggest—in a friendly meeting—that you would be interested in that position. Your reaction to that order was negative. Why?”

“It was an impossible suggestion. Too dangerous. At present I am making $22,000 a year. Did you want me to drop $14,000 and rouse suspicions?”

“Was $8,000 a year all he could afford?” Mischa was disbelieving. “But he must make—”

“Not all Americans are millionaires,” said Alexis. “Isn’t that what you used to impress on me? Sure, Kelso is one of the best—and best-paid—reporters on international politics. He picks up some extra money from articles and lectures, plus travel expenses when he has an assignment abroad. But he lives on the income he earns. That is what keeps him a busy man, I suppose.”

“An influential man,” Mischa said softly. “What about that book he has been writing for the last two years?”

“Geopolitics. Deals with the conflict between the Soviet Union and China.”

“That much, we also know,” Mischa said in sharp annoyance. “Is that all you have learned about it?”

“It is all anyone has learned in Washington. Do you think he wants his ideas stolen?”

“You had better try again with Mr. Thomas Kelso, and keep on trying.”

“But what has this to do with your work in Directorate S?” That was the section of the First Chief Directorate that dealt in Illegals—agents with assumed identities sent to live abroad.

There was a moment of silence. It was impossible to see Mischa’s expression clearly now. Night had come, black and bleak. Alexis could feel the angry stare that was directed at him through the darkness, and regretted his temerity. He repressed a shiver, turned up his coat-collar. Then Mischa said, “The brash American,” and even laughed. He added, “It has to do with my present work, very much so.” He relented still further, and a touch of humour entered his voice. “Let us say that I am interested in influencing people who influence people.”

So Mischa had moved over to the First Chief Directorate’s Department A: Disinformation. Alexis was appropriately impressed, but he kept silent. He had already said too much. If Mischa wasn’t his friend, he might have been yanked out of Washington and sent to the Canal Zone or Alaska.

“So,” said Mischa, “you will persevere with Tom Kelso. He is important because of his job and the friends he makes through it—in Paris, Rome, London—and, of course, in the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation. They trust him there in NATO. He hears a great deal.”

Alexis nodded.

“About NATO...” Mischa was too casual, almost forgetful about what he had intended to say. “Oh yes,” he remembered; “you sent us a piece of information a few days ago about that top-security memorandum they passed to the Pentagon. You said it was now being studied at Shandon House.” He was being routinely curious, it seemed, his voice conversational.

“It is being analysed and evaluated. A double check on the Pentagon’s own evaluation.”

“What is the real function of this Shandon House? Oh, we know it is a collection of brains working with computers; but—super-secret? Capable of being trusted with such a memorandum?”

“It is trusted. Everyone has top clearance. Security is tight.”

“Ah, patriots all. Yet you said that it might be possible to breach that security. How? When?” The tone was still conversational.

“Soon. Perhaps even—” Alexis restrained himself. Better not be too confident. Better not be too precise. Then if the project turned sour, he wouldn’t be blamed for promising too much and achieving too little. “I have no guarantee. But there is a possibility,” he said more guardedly.

“When will you know more than that?”

“Perhaps later tonight.”

“Tonight!” Mischa exploded. “I
knew
you had something. I knew it by the way you worded your message!”

So it was his information on the NATO Memorandum that had brought Mischa chasing over to New York. He had read Alexis’s message last Tuesday or Wednesday. By Saturday he was here. In person. Was the memorandum so important as that?

“You are set to act?” Mischa demanded. “What is your plan?”

“I have three possible variants. It depends. But I’ll deliver.”

“You are using microfilm, of course? The memorandum is in three parts—over forty pages, I hear. You will need time.”

Another hazard, thought Alexis. “I’ll make time.”

“And when you deliver, do
not
employ your usual method.”

“No?” Alexis was puzzled. It was a set procedure. Any photographs he had taken, like his own reports in code, were passed to his weekly contact in Washington. The contact delivered them to Control, who in turn handed them over to the Residency. From there they were speeded to the Centre in Moscow. There had never been any slip-up. His contact had a gift for choosing casual encounters, all very natural.

“No! You will make the delivery to Oleg. He will alert you by telephone, and contact you some place of his own choosing. On Monday.”

“But I may not have the microfilm by Monday. It may be the following week-end before—”

“Then you deliver it to Oleg on the following week-end,” Mischa said impatiently. “You won’t have any chance to get the NATO Memorandum after that. It returns to the Pentagon, we hear, for finalised recommendations to the National Security Council. Before then, we want the particulars of that document. So press your advantage with Shandon House. You do your job, and Oleg will do his.”

“Oleg—how will I be able to identify him?” Surely not by a lot of mumbo-jumbo, Alexis thought in dismay: recognition signals wasted time, added to the tension. He had always felt safer in knowing his contact by sight, although there his interest stopped and he neither knew nor cared who the man was. The contact followed the same rules. To him, Alexis was a telephone number and a face.

Mischa raised his cane, pointed to their watchdog, who had stationed himself at a discreet distance.

“He isn’t near any lamp-post,” Alexis objected.

“You will see his face quite clearly as we pass him. Shall we go?” Mischa tilted his hat back in place. “We separate before we approach the flagpole area. I shall leave by way of the zoo. You head for the Seventy-second Street exit. Oleg takes Sixty-ninth Street—his car is parked there. He will drive down Fifth Avenue, and pick me up at the zoo. Simple and safe. It will raise no eyebrows. You agree?” Mischa moved away from the trees.

Alexis, with a quick glance over his shoulder—he had thought he saw two lurking shadows in the rough background—stepped on to the path. Mischa noticed. “Scared of the dark?” he asked with a laugh. “At half-past five in the evening? Alexis, Alexis...” He shook his head. They walked in silence towards the waiting man.

As they passed close to him, he was lighting a cigarette. The lighter didn’t flare. It glowed, with enough power to let Oleg’s face be clearly seen. The glow ended abruptly. The cigarette remained unlit.

“You’ll remember him?” Mischa asked.

“Yes. But could he see me clearly enough?”

“He has examined close-up photographs of your face. No trouble in quick identification. That’s what you like, isn’t it? I agree. No doubt, no uncertainties.” Behind them Oleg followed discreetly.

Some fifty yards away from the flagpole, Mischa said, “Now we leave each other. Take a warm handshake for granted.” This time the smile was genuine. “I shall hear from you soon?” It was more of a command than a question.

“Soon.” No other answer was possible. He had forgotten how inexorable and demanding Mischa could be.

Mischa nodded and left. Soon he had drawn well ahead. Alexis slowed his pace slightly, letting the distance between them increase. Oleg passed him, intent on reaching the car he had parked near by, possibly on Sixty-ninth Street itself. It was west-bound, of course: just the added touch to Mischa’s careful arrangements.

Alexis watched Mischa as he took the southward path at the flagpole. For a few moments a near-by lamp-post welcomed him into its wide circle of white light, showed clearly his solid figure and brisk stride against the background of massive rocks that filled this corner of the park. Then he was gone, swinging down towards the zoo.

Oleg was now well beyond the flagpole and heading for Fifth Avenue. Alexis noted for future reference the way he moved, the set of his shoulders, his height and breadth; the way he turned his head to look at the drunk, now sitting with his head between his knees. A dog-walker, enmeshed in a tangle of leashes, merited only a brief glance. One of the prostitutes still loitering under a lamp-post received no attention at all: virtuous fellow, this Oleg.

So now, thought Alexis with a smile when he reached the flagpole, it’s my turn to branch off. Two steps, and he stopped abruptly as he heard a shout. One shout. He looked round at the path to the zoo.

Someone rushed past him—the prostitute, fumbling in her handbag, kicking off her high-heeled shoes with a curse, running swiftly, gun drawn. It’s a man, Alexis realised: a policeman. Almost simultaneously, the drunk had moved, racing around the crags, pulling a revolver out from his brown-paper bag as he cut a quick corner to the zoo path. Alexis stood still. His brain seemed frozen, his legs paralysed. He looked helplessly at the dog-walker, but that young man was already yanking his charges towards the safety of Fifth Avenue.

Keep clear of the police, Alexis warned himself, don’t get involved. But that had been Mischa’s voice. Of that he was almost certain.

He began to follow the direction the two undercover men had taken. Again he stopped. From here he could see a man left lying on the ground, and three or four thin shadows scattering away from him as the policemen closed in. The one dressed as a woman knelt beside the inert figure—was he dead, or dying, or able to get up with some help? The other was giving chase to the nearest boy—the rest were vanishing into the darkness in all directions. Then he noticed the hat and the cane—pathetic little personal objects dropped near the body.

The policeman beside Mischa looked towards Alexis. “Hey, you there—give us a hand!”

Alexis turned, and ran.

He came on to Fifth Avenue, collected his wits while he stood listening to the hiss of wheels as the cars and taxis sped past. The traffic signal changed, and he snapped back into life. He crossed quickly, and entered Sixty-ninth Street. Kerbs were lined with cars, the sidewalks quiet, with only a few people hurrying along. Where was Oleg? He couldn’t have gone far: there hadn’t been time enough for that. Alexis’s desperation grew, he was almost into a second attack of panic. Then, just ahead of him, not far along the block, he saw broad shoulders and a dark head moving out into the street to walk round the front of a car and unlock it. He broke into a run. Oleg looked up, alert and tense: a look of total amazement spread over his face. He entered his side of the car, and opened the other door for Alexis.

“And what is this?” Oleg began angrily.

“Mischa was attacked. In the Park. Not far down the path. Police are with him—undercover police. They’ll send for more police, an ambulance. Get over there! Quick! See what’s happening, see where they will take him. Find out the hospital. Quick!”

“Why didn’t
you
—”

“Because they’ve seen me with him. The undercover man who was in woman’s clothes saw us both together when we met.”

“But—”

“There’s the first police car.” The siren was sounding some distance to the east, but it was drawing nearer. “Quick!” Alexis said for the third time, still more urgently. And left the car. He walked over to Madison. He did not look round.

Now it was up to Oleg. And Oleg (thought Alexis) is aware of that. He must know a good deal more than either Mischa or he pretended: being shown photographs of me, for instance, and given other particulars too—which proves he had access to my files? If he did, he’s aware that I am just an agent in place, a mole that stays underground and works out of sight. My God, I was nearly surfaced tonight. So let Oleg attend to the problem of Mischa. He would have contacts in New York. He would know how to handle this. And above all, Alexis told himself, I have my own job to do. With Mischa or without Mischa, I still have an assignment to complete. I’ll send the microfilm by the usual route, if Oleg does not contact me in Washington. This is no time to delay. If I get the information I’m after, I’m damned if I’m going to sit on it. You win no promotions that way.

He hailed a taxi to take him a short distance up Madison. From there he walked the block to Park Avenue and took a second cab. This carried him down to Fifty-third Street. There, among the tall office buildings and the Saturday-evening strollers, he walked another block to find a taxi to take him over to Second Avenue and up to Sixty-sixth Street. A circular tour, but a safety measure. He had heard of agents who had travelled for two hours on various subways, just to make sure.

It was a quarter past six when he reached the entrance of Katie’s building. He did not get off the elevator at her floor, but at the one above. For a moment he stood in the small hallway thinking—as he always did—what a stroke of genius it had been to find an apartment for Chuck Kelso right in this apartment-house.

Then he pressed the bell. He was no longer Alexis. Now he was Nealey, Heinrich Nealey—Rick to his friends—an odd mixture of a name, but genuine enough, a real live American with legitimate papers to back that up.

The journey from Shandon House in New Jersey to Charles Kelso’s apartment in New York took about an hour and ten minutes. It was easy—first a country road to lead through rolling meadows and apple-orchards on to the fast Jersey Turnpike lined with factories, and then under the Hudson, in a stream of speeding cars, straight into Manhattan. So Kelso had chosen to make the trip twice daily, preferring to live in the city rather than become a part of the Shandon enclave in the Jersey hill-and-tree country. Like the younger members on the Institute’s staff, he preferred a change in friends: he saw enough of his colleagues by day, he didn’t need them as social companions at night or on week-ends. As for the long-time inhabitants of the various estates that spread around Shandon’s own two thousand acres, they kept to themselves as they had been doing for the last forty years. If they ever did mention the collection of experts who had invaded their retreat, it was simply to call them “The Brains.”