Levinson’s office, unlike the man, was understated. Barely comfortable but with all the necessary furniture and its walls placarded with maps. The desk was near the single window, allowing Levinson to have a clear view of the entrance from the street. He had probably seen Bristow being ushered through by Giovanni.
Bristow looked out at the garden, said, “Don’t tell me a bell sounds here when that door is opened.”
“Why not? Here and downstairs, too. Lots of surprises if you had been trying an unauthorised entry.”
“There was a blonde outside, attached to a poodle, who paid me too much damned attention.”
“La Contessa?” Levinson laughed. “She wanted to put a face to a name. You’ll find her around with Giovanni—her present escort. A good team.”
“Italian?”
“She was Maggie O’Brian from Milwaukee, with a fortune made by her father in beer. She married an Italian. She had the cash, he had the title, but they were happy. Until he got killed in a racing-car smash-up. That was five years ago. Since then—” Levinson hesitated briefly—”he has dedicated herself to good deeds. As for Giovanni, he’s a Brooklyn boy, studying music now and again at the American Academy. On his off-duty days, you’ll find him in blue jeans and tee shirt over in Trastevere, where he has a pad and a wild collection of young friends. Okay?”
“Untrained agents? How do you get away with it. Mike?” Bristow shook his head.
“Giovanni is well trained, believe me. One of us. As for la Contessa—well, it seems to me most women don’t need much training—just comes naturally. All the world’s a stage.”
“Okay,” Bristow agreed reluctantly. “And they’ll be our watchdogs?”
“None better.” Levinson had turned abrupt.
“Okay,” Bristow said again and soothed some of Levinson’s annoyance. He was a man in his early fifties, solidly built and adding extra weight from good Italian dinners; outwardly full of self-confidence, inwardly watchful for any criticism of his team, which meant—in his judgment—a reflection on himself. But he was first-rate at his job, and Bristow only hoped a countess and her escort in his silk shirt and carefully tailored suit were as adequate watchdogs as Levinson believed. “Sorry to press the matter, but there’s a sticky situation that could develop. Miss Cornell seems to be a target.”
“Oh?” Levinson was fishing. “Anything to do with that meeting of journalists with terrorists on Monday? I heard she was invited—”
“Is it still on schedule? Where, when? Can she find out? She needs your help on that one.”
“I’ll make an effort. What’s going down, Pete?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. I’d better call Menlo. Where do I ’phone?”
“Feel free.” Levinson rose from his desk, pointing to a telephone on a small corner table, and lifted his sand-coloured jacket from a peg on the wall. It matched his sand-coloured hair now receding from a bold brow and his sand-coloured complexion in process of losing its holiday tan. “Just pick up, identify, and you’ll be through.”
“Efficiency.”
Levinson ignored the compliment. “How long will it take?”
“Ten minutes or so.” And you’ll know damned well when the call ends, Bristow told him silently.
“I’ll see you then.” Tactfully, Levinson left, his amber eyes—completing his natural colour scheme—without the smile that appeared briefly on his lips.
I know, thought Bristow as he picked up the receiver and identified himself, I’m just another pain in the butt that Menlo has added to his aching back. Levinson never had much use for—how did he use to put it?—for “the boys who sit in offices, poring over documents and blue-pencilling newspapers like a bunch of college professors.”
Menlo’s voice was at Bristow’s ear. “Well?” he demanded. So Bristow told of Farrago’s appearance, his contacts with Karen, and the messages he had sent.
Menlo cursed, paused briefly, recovered himself. “So he means to go it alone,” he said with resignation. “Hell, doesn’t he trust us?”
“He doesn’t trust the man who has stepped in as a substitute for a chauffeur or as replacement for the fourth gardener who has suddenly been taken ill or for a mechanic at the airstrip.”
“Got you, got you,” said Menlo impatiently. “I’ll figure out the details for myself.” He relented. “How’s Junior?”
“Shaken, but she has got a lot of grit. There have been other things to alarm her, too.” Then followed bare details about Aliotto, the room with a broken lock, the basket of flowers.
“Not good. Get help from Levinson, I think.”
“I agree. What else do I tell him?”
“Difficult. If you mention Senior, Levinson will wonder why he knew Junior, and how, and what. Too many revelations at the moment. Tell him I’ll call at five thirty, Roman time.”
“Talking about revelations—remember my objections to the quick solution of our letter problem?”
A slight hesitation. “You said it was too easy.”
“Could there have been a piece of information delivered by a KGB agent that added weight to our threat to publish? Such as Senior’s statements in a hotel garden?”
“Delivered by someone who had heard those cassettes?”
“If so, they’d know we weren’t bluffing.”
“One of us at that Monday meeting? KGB, you think?”
“Or who was in contact with one of their agents, or who just talked too much.”
Menlo reflected. “If a report was sent to the KGB, it happened damn quick. They weren’t too surprised in Moscow when the President made a ’phone call on Tuesday and said a delegation was on its way.” There was another pause. “Which one of us? Our devil’s advocate?”
Coulton—yes, at present he seemed to be the likeliest suspect. “All we have to do is prove it.” And finding proof wouldn’t be easy: giving dinner at his club to a doubtful acquaintance didn’t make Coulton a traitor. “Perhaps Waterman should be more closely examined,” Bristow suggested tactfully.
“I’ve already started along these lines.” Menlo’s voice was sombre. Coulton and Sam Waterman—the combination had haunted him too much to let him neglect it. “Keep me posted. Take care of Junior.”
“I’ll do that. And thank God we didn’t play the Vienna cassettes.”
“They are both locked away in the cabinet that contains the Farrago folder in your file room. And they are marked. If anyone tries to remove them, they’ll be traced.”
In alarm, Bristow said, “Someone got into that file before.”
“But not with guards stationed around the clock in the corridor. Anyone entering or leaving the file room will be noted.”
“Anyone could slip the cassettes into his pocket.”
“And will be stopped by the guard. He has a device that can detect any cassettes. They’ve been treated as well as marked—they’ll be discovered.”
Bait, thought Bristow. Damn his eyes, he is hoping someone does try to remove the cassettes. “You’ve got what you needed from those tapes.” And identified Waterman’s Vienna friends: the man, a Czech agent; the girl Rita, a courier. “Why the hell don’t you destroy them?”
“We never mention the word ‘destroy,’” Menlo said with mock severity. “How could you think of such a thing?” And with that, he ended the call and left Bristow in a strange mixture of anger and concern.
He controlled the anger. Professionally, Menlo was right. Bait could produce a definite lead, and it was much needed. But Bristow’s concern remained. If real danger developed for Karen, he thought, I put her there. I asked her to make the Vienna cassettes, give every detail however small. If they ever got into the wrong hands... Then he thought, They won’t. Menlo’s precautions were good. He didn’t agree with them, but he had to admit they were more than adequate. Some would say they were excessive. Even so, his concern grew.
The door was flung open, and Levinson burst in, filled with energy and enthusiasm. “What’s the news?”
br />
“Menlo will call you at five thirty.”
“Fine.” A quick glance at his watch told him he could have fifteen minutes with Bristow. “All right, Pete. Solved one problem for you. If you have any doubts about the two terrorists appearing in public, discard them. The meeting is definitely on. Haven’t heard where or when yet. That’s being kept secret until an hour before—the reporters participating will then be told. Just a matter of preventing a mob scene of other journalists and photographers outside the meeting place. It won’t be at police headquarters for the same reason—too conspicuous; could draw the wrong element. It will be well guarded, everyone authenticated, probably searched. Now, have I answered your questions?”
“Almost. How many people will be there? Apart from police, detectives, and other precautions.”
“About ten journalists and—”
“Ten? That’s risen.”
“It always does. The PR fellow who’s responsible for the whole idea had his arm twisted by some publishers and their pet politicians.”
“Some secrecy! Who else will be allowed to enter?”
“Two relatives of each prisoner—the explanation being that they can see for themselves that neither terrorist has suffered at the hands of the police. Another PR idea, of course, but it’s a good one. Too easy for Avanti to publish later that the victims showed signs of inflicted brutality.”
“One last question,” Bristow said as Levinson glanced again at his watch. “How do I get in?”
That jolted Levinson. “You mean to attend?”
“I mean it. Someone accompanying Karen. Could you vouch for me with your friends at police headquarters?”
“Accompanying her as what? A secretary—an assistant—what?”
“As an interpreter,” suggested Bristow. “She may need one. There could be a rush of talk—you know how Italians can pour out their words.”
“Sure you could follow it all yourself? How’s your Italian? Oh, I forgot, you’re one of those linguists we keep in Washington.”
“Just a bunch of college professors poring over foreign newspapers and documents,” Bristow said blandly.
Levinson looked at him. “You’ve a long memory, Pete.”
“Can you manage to get me inside as an interpreter?” And as Levinson brooded over ways and means, he added, “I knew you could do it. Thanks, Mike.”
“I can try. That’s all I can promise.”
“Good enough for me.” Bristow prepared to leave. “Menlo will be calling you in six minutes. Tell him about our chat. He’ll approve.” That could have been the clinching argument.
“Damned if I don’t get myself invited, too. Why not as an official observer?”
“Why not? After all, one of those terrorists was involved in kidnapping an American colonel.”
“Yes, she was, wasn’t she?” Levinson said. “Good to see you, Pete. Any time. But remember, if I do turn up on Monday—and it’s doubtful; I’ve got a meeting at noon with a Swiss business-man who runs a front corporation in Rome for the reselling of American machinery to Russia. And that’s a must, can’t miss it, took months to run him to earth.”
“If you do turn up?” Bristow reminded him.
“We’ve never met.”
Bristow nodded, made his goodbye. Levinson really must take me for a bloody fool, he was thinking.
“If I don’t show,” Levinson added, “I depend on you to give me a complete rundown. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” So that was his chief role: stand-in for Levinson. He had been neatly jockeyed into it. Bristow had to smile.
“It’s only a public-relations brainwave. You know that, Pete. Why even bother with it?”
For my own peace of mind, Bristow thought. “Menlo put me in charge of Karen Cornell.”
“A target, you said. For what?”
The telephone rang. Menlo’s call was early. Thankfully, Bristow closed the door behind him.
He chose a convoluted route back to the hotel. A direct walk from Levinson’s office would have barely taken five minutes, but he had re-entered a world where nothing was direct.
He wasn’t altogether a stranger to it. At the outset of his career, he had soon learned that self-preservation depended on caution. And on wits. The broadening of that education had, at first, been a concentration on the basics for his future field of interest (primarily Western Europe, although it led naturally, and unavoidably, to Eastern Europe, too): a year all told of concentration on contemporary history as he had never learned it at Harvard, and on languages. French he knew—it had served him well in Vietnam. German, half-known, was mastered; Italian and Spanish learned. Then came the more interesting basics—a year in Western Europe to observe the scene, make friends and recognise the unfriendlies among writers and politicians. Good God, the newspapers he had read, wading through them often with the help of a dictionary! Part of his job, now as before, was to keep his ear and eye open to the trends—people’s behaviour and beliefs—innocent usually, but always lethal when political violence was their gospel. People... Without seeing them behave and listening to what they had to say, a study of language and history was academic. Admirable and enjoyable, of course. But what about language as it was used, what about history as it was being made? What about distortions that could end as apparent facts, be accepted as established truth? There had always been that danger: the victors wrote the history books. But today—with the far reach of television and radio, of instant news—future victors wouldn’t even need to win a war before they wrote the history books. They’d manipulate minds and emotions, outsmart an unwitting world.
He reached his room by ten minutes to six. As he changed his shirt, he ’phoned Karen. It took four rings before she answered.
“Are you all right?” he asked quickly.
“Yes. I was just telling the maid to take away those poor sad flowers.”
He relaxed. “Ready to leave?”
“Almost. By the way, Aliotto called again and suggested we go out to Doney’s.”
“That’s original.” A sarcastic comment, but he didn’t like the idea. There might be the problem of finding a vacant table with a view of Karen and Aliotto. “I’ll be around, even if I have to sit inside. By the way, Karen, don’t you think it would be useful to have an interpreter beside you on Monday morning?”
“I’ve thought of that,” she admitted. “There have been some bursts of Italian when I caught only one word out of three.” The Capuchin friar and his racing sentences had been difficult to cope with. “But are interpreters allowed?”
“This one, possibly.”
“You?” She was incredulous. “Sitting beside me? Can we really pull that off?”
“Just passing on the idea so you can prepare Aliotto.”
“And what is this interpreter’s name?”
“Why not—simply—Peter? Give me five minutes, and I can be in the lobby when you arrive. Take care, honey.”
Honey. Was that real or part of the act? In any case, it sounded good. She checked her appearance in the long mirror, found her lace wool scarf to cover bare shoulders when she went dining with Peter—an open-air restaurant meant falling dew, she remembered, and a cough in the morning; indoors, there was always throat-cutting air conditioning. She added a touch of perfume for Peter’s benefit and was ready to meet Aliotto.
14
Bristow stepped out of the elevator and headed for the porter’s desk—his best bet for a few minutes of unobtrusive waiting until Karen came downstairs. And there, also putting in time as he studied a poster of opera performances at the Baths of Caracalla, was the elegant figure of Giovanni. Without his Contessa, though. Pure accident, wondered Bristow, or has he been tailing me? Bloody hell—it proves that I’d better keep my mind on business instead of brooding over the course of history. Either Levinson thinks I need a nursemaid or he’s just damned curious about my movements.
He picked up a folder detailing the delights of Sardinia, but glanced around the lobby. It had
its usual six o’clock flow: people returning from a day’s outing, others leaving for an evening on the town, and some just standing and waiting. And Aliotto? There were two likely candidates, both in their early fifties. Which one looked as if he could charm the ladies? The blond, smooth-featured Italian probably from the north, or the grey-haired, overdressed Lothario with the wandering eye?
Karen appeared, and the fair-haired man hurried to greet her with a warm smile and a kiss on her hand. Bristow replaced Sardinia, picked up Capri. “Miss Cornell,” Aliotto was saying, “can you forgive me? I was desolated I was unable to meet you on your arrival.”
Giovanni, at the sound of Karen’s name, looked in brief astonishment at Bristow. Bristow caught the glance, nodded. Relax, Brooklyn. All is under control; there are some things that even Levinson doesn’t know about.
Karen, closely followed by Aliotto, was coming over to the porter’s busy desk, her voice now audible. “That sounds delightful, but I must leave a message for my friend. He expected to meet me at Doney’s. Where did you say we were going? Armando’s on Via Ludovisi?” She halted in dismay, suddenly realising a small problem. How did you leave a message for someone the porter knew who was barely eight feet away? “Too long to wait,” she said, and the group in front of the desk with their endless questions made her excuse seem credible. “We’d have the shortest visit on record to Armando’s. Why don’t we keep to the original idea—go to Doney’s?”
Aliotto said quickly, dropping all his formality, “Armando’s is only a minute’s walk from here—just across Veneto. I’ll have you back at Doney’s in time to meet your friend.” His English was perfect, his accent attractive...
“In time?” Karen asked. “Definitely?” She began walking towards the hotel’s doorway.
“No more than five minutes late,” he promised with a laugh. “And I’m sure your friend will gladly wait ten, twenty, forty minutes to have your company.”