Agent in Place

  “A lot of breakfast,” said Tony and went on brooding about the loading of the Monique. At least eight cartons (extra valuable; contents delicate?), four suitcases, three baskets of hastily-packed food supplies. Two men at work on the project: one of them, slow-moving and deliberate, using a makeshift gangplank, was now doing the heavy work, lifting and carrying; the other, still guarding his precious cartons on the dock, stood close beside them and gave out instructions. He had paused to rake Tony’s little group with a very sharp look. Just the usual nuisance, he seemed to decide—curious locals without work of their own to do. His glare was enough to sour all their interest, and they moved on. Impatiently he had turned back to the job of loading, without even a second glance at Tony. But Tony had recognised him. The gaunt face, fair hair, prominent eyes now popping with annoyance, belonged to the electrician who had come hurrying up through Shandon Villa’s gardens along with Gorsky. “Where’s that explosive you found?” Tony asked suddenly.

  Emil lowered the heat under the bacon. “I did as you said. Stowed it in a coil of rope. Want to see it?” He left the cabin, returned in a few seconds with a small waterproof bag. “Plastic and detonator inside. What do we do with it? Give it the deep six once we’re out of harbour? The sooner we get rid of this surprise package, the happier I’ll be. Who made us a present of it, anyway?”

  Tony took the lethal little bag, no bigger than the palm of his hand, studying it thoughtfully as he twisted the wire that tied its neck into a tighter knot. Time was passing: he might be too late. He rose, saying, “Won’t be long.”

  Emil stared after him. He was already outside, stepping on to the dock.

  He passed the three intervening boats—a sailing craft, a motor launch, a fishing vessel with Emil’s friends communicating in hoarse yells—but kept his eyes on the Monique’s loading area. The tall thin man was now boarding her along with the last suitcase. Only the three baskets were left, large and bulging with food, obviously of less importance. They could wait until the two men had got their cartons safely stowed away.

  Tony halted, lit a Gauloise, let it droop from one corner of his mouth. The two men, each carrying one of those fascinating cartons (electronic equipment?), made their way aft, heading for the rear door of the cabin. They entered. And Tony moved.

  He ignored the two baskets that contained perishable items—bread, vegetables, fruit, cheeses. He went for the one that held a clutter of cans and jars, food that wouldn’t need immediate unpacking. He tripped heavily against it, giving it a hard shove with his knee. The basket toppled on its side, and at least half of its contents spilled out. He made a grab for it, dropping the small waterproof bag among the lower layers of cans as he set it upright once more.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed a woman behind him. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  A man told him, “They shouldn’t leave their stuff lying all over the place. Could have broken your neck.”

  Three small boys laughed, began picking up cans and jars, tossing them back into the basket. Fine fun. Several other people had gathered near Tony, attracted by the bang and clatter of his little accident. And on the Monique the thin fair-haired man, his eyes popping out of his head, had raced forward. He checked his cartons; relaxed a little; shouted at the boys.

  It seemed a propitious time to retreat. Tony walked back to the Sea Breeze, leaving the makings of an argument behind him. The could-have-broken-your-neck fellow was taking no snash from any luxury cabin cruiser. Popeye retreated to his cartons—a scene was the last thing he wanted—and it was left to his slow-moving comrade to disembark his considerable bulk and pick up the remaining cans and jars.

  “Hurt yourself?” Emil asked as Tony entered the cabin, noticing the slight limp. He turned back to the frying-pan, concentrated on breaking a couple of eggs beside the curling bacon.

  “Only temporary.” Tony rubbed his knee, restored the blood-flow, and was thankful that—so far—he wasn’t a candidate for gout.

  “What was all the racket about?” Emil glanced around. Tony was pulling off his knitted cap, smoothing his fringe of hair back in proper place, removing jacket and eyeglasses. Then he sat down, looked blandly innocent. There was no sign of the small waterproof bag. “Where’s that surprise package?”

  “I thought we’d better return it to its rightful owner.”

  “Sure you got the right man?”

  “Yes. He’ll be on the Monique before she sails.” As Emil gave him a hard but worried look, he added, “He has to be. Who else could decide whether or not to press the button and blow the poor old Sea Breeze sky-high? He’ll be aboard, that’s certain. His chief assistant is there now—that lean pop-eyed blond fellow. The two of them left a dead man floating in Shandon’s pool yesterday.”

  “One of ours?”

  “No, he wasn’t one of anything. Just a danger to their security. So they silenced him.”

  “Drastic.”

  “That’s what they are, drastic; the special-action boys of Department V.”

  “The hell they are,” Emil said. That changed the picture considerably. He served up the eggs and bacon, filled two mugs with coffee, produced half a loaf of crusty bread.

  “Fresh,” Tony remarked, cutting off a thick slice. “Been doing some baking?”

  “I didn’t leave the boat,” Emil assured him with an answering grin. “My fishing friends brought it along—their contribution to breakfast. They brought some bits of news, too. Harbour gossip, of course. But they don’t like their new neighbour. That fat crew-member who helped with the loading—he’s the only one visible—told them to cut out the hammering: people were trying to sleep.”

  “People?”

  “Three in the crew. And a man who came down to have a look at the Monique. Then he walked past here, had a good look at the Sea Breeze too. Didn’t stop, just walked past, then turned and went back to the Monique. He boarded her. He’s probably still there. Haven’t seen him since. Or two of the crew.”

  “The underwater experts?” Tony suggested. “Well, they had a busy night. Now they are resting from their labours and preparing for the day to come.” He noted Emil’s expression. “No more qualms about returning unwanted gifts?”

  “No,” Emil said most definitely.

  “After all,” said Tony, “it is really up to the button-pusher, isn’t it?” A case of holding your fate in your own hands, he thought. “What was this joker like—the one who pretended he wasn’t interested in the Sea Breeze?”

  “About my height, dark hair, handsome. Husky, too. Good shoulders. Carried them straight.”

  “Wearing what?”

  “A dark suit, a black turtle-neck.”

  “So he didn’t have time to change his clothes, just ditched his coat and hat. Yes, I guess we all had a busy night.”

  Emil’s blue eyes questioned him.

  “I know,” Tony agreed. “I have a lot to fill in for you. And I will. But let’s finish with the Monique first. Any more particulars on her?”

  “Nine-metre class, but deceptive. Her power is high for her size: thirty knots. She sailed from Monte Carlo early this morning. Not her usual crew, but owner’s permission granted. All in order. The owner is an oil heiress who jets around.”

  “One of the liberal chic? Excessively liberal this time.”

  “Not too much. The Monique is only her second-best boat.”

  “And where did you pick up all that information? Is it pure gossip, or part-way reliable?”

  “Well, I took a bet with Paul—one of my fishing friends—that the Monique couldn’t do more than twenty knots. He said at least twenty-five. So he went along to the harbour-master’s office, where his cousin works. And checked. And I paid up.”

  Tony’s eyes gleamed. “Do you think you can interest him in another bet? How long does it take him to hoist the sails? That would block the Monique’s view of us nicely. Around ten thirty, I’d say. Or if you can think of something better—anything to distract attention.”

  “Di
stract attention from what?”

  My God, Tony thought, he knows practically nothing; he’s been hugging this boat for the last twenty-four hours, while Georges and I have been chasing around. All he got from us was a cryptic warning, and a very unpleasant swim. “Let’s get the facts out,” he said. “Turn on the radio, Emil, and we can talk.”

  Emil smiled. “There are no bugs here, Tony. I’ve checked. I was only once off the boat last night—to ask my friends over here for a glass of beer.”

  “Twice,” Tony said gently. “You had that underwater trip around the old Sea Breeze. But you did a fine job,” he added quickly. Emil was twenty-six, and his feelings bruised easily. “Just fine.”

  “At least there was some action.” Emil set down his coffee-mug, and rose. He began a quick but methodical search of the cabin. It was small: could sleep three, seat six, or stand eight. Yes, Tony thought, Gerard wouldn’t have enjoyed his conference with Parracini here: much more comfortable for all of them on the Aurora. He glanced at his watch. Five past nine. He had about fifty minutes to brief Emil, tell him the important details: Parracini; the original plans for the Sea Breeze; the switch to the Aurora; the Sea Breeze deception beginning at ten o’clock; their own time-schedule. Fifty minutes would be more than ample. Tony relaxed, poured himself another slug of coffee.

  “Nothing,” Emil said with relief, finishing his self-appointed task. “Completely clean.”

  “Sorry to have troubled you, but I’ve been seeing some dicey examples of electronic magic. Bill’s house is a complete trap. As Shandon Villa will be. You know, the opposition even wired Bill for sound—with a watch, no less, that he only takes off to go swimming. Cute?” And then Tony’s amusement ended. “Christ—” He stared at Emil. “Does Parracini own a watch like that one?”

  For a long moment, Tony sat completely still, completely silent. “I think I’ve messed things up,” he said softly. His voice sharpened. “There was a gap, God damn it, and I didn’t see it.” His face was white and tense. He could hear Bill’s patient voice, explaining to Parracini, in the car, about the necessary change from Sea Breeze to Aurora, perhaps even giving the advanced time of sailing. And every single word would be sent out by Parracini’s watch, to be picked up near at hand, and relayed to Gorsky down in the harbour. “God,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  Whatever this is, it’s bad, thought Emil. “What do we do?”

  Can’t reach Bill to warn him. Can’t risk those blasted bugs near every telephone. Can’t leave here either, got to brief Emil at once, let him know what to expect. “Do?” Tony asked heavily. “We don’t give up. That’s certain.” And, he told himself, if I see the Monique suddenly preparing to leave at ten thirty, I’ll ram her right in the harbour, damned if I don’t. “All right. Let’s talk.”

  Emil nodded. He decided to turn on the radio anyway, and sat down to listen.

  26

  At ten o’clock, prompt to the minute, two men came walking down the dock. They kept a steady unhurried pace, making their way politely but firmly through clusters of people, paying little attention to anything except their own grave conversation. They wore navy-blue raincoats. Their shoes were polished, their heads neat and well-brushed, their collars and ties restrained and impeccable. And one of them carried an attaché case.

  Lounging at the bow of the Sea Breeze, Emil was the first to catch sight of them. He took out his cigarette-case and turned his back on the Monique as he spoke two words into it. “Looks good,” he told Tony, who was still keeping out of sight in the cabin. He lit a cigarette, took a couple of drags, and only then did he seem to become aware of the two visitors. His nonchalance left him. He flicked the cigarette over the side and went to meet them, jumping on to the dock with—apparently—a smile of welcome. Actually, it was the Mutt and Jeff identification, delivered in a quick murmur, that was amusing Emil. He gave them a small salute, brought his voice back to normal. “Hope you had a pleasant trip. This way, gentlemen.” He even steadied them by the elbow as they stepped on deck.

  “You’re overplaying it, buddy,” the taller of the two said. “We aren’t as decrepit as all that.” He looked about sixty or a little less, grey-haired, slightly stooped, with a white indoor complexion.

  “Just the VIP treatment,” Emil assured him. “We’re being watched.”

  The other one said nothing, just pursed his pale lips. He was of medium height, putting on weight like his friend, his reddish hair fading with age. He too looked as though he spent most of his time at a desk.

  What a pair of elderly ducks, thought Emil; where did Bill find them? And these are the men who patrolled up and down the mole last night, making sure no one boarded the Sea Breeze! If that had happened, they might have needed more help than I did. Emil was smiling broadly as he ushered them into the cabin.

  “Hi there,” said the grey-haired man. “I’m Saul.”

  “Walt,” said the other. “Tony? Emil?”

  They shook hands, looked round the small cabin, noted its tightly-drawn curtains. “Who’s doing the watching?” Saul asked.

  “That cabin cruiser you passed. The Monique.”

  “We saw her arriving just as we were knocking off duty last night. Neat looking piece. So that’s our target.”

  “Rather,” said Tony, “we are their target.” His study of the two men ended. “Excellent,” he told them, “an excellent job. But you can start stepping out of character.”

  “What?” asked Walt. “No more VIP treatment? And just as I was beginning to like it.” But without wasting a second they shed the raincoats, pulled off the ties, stripped themselves of shirts and neatly-creased trousers. They were now in tight-fitting jeans, coarsely-knitted sweaters (Saul’s was navy; Walt’s, a dirty white). The wigs were next to go, revealing Saul’s hair to be light brown, longish, sun-bleached at the edges, with a loose wave falling over his brow. Walt had black hair, thick and heavy, curling close to his head. From the attaché case, out came one pair of faded espadrilles, one pair of old sneakers, a small jar of cold cream, tissues, a mirror. With lightning speed they went to work on greasing and wiping their faces. The white indoor look vanished, was replaced by their permanent tans. And once the polished shoes were changed for espadrilles and sneakers, the transformation was complete: two young men, not much older than Emil and equally lithe and lean.

  Emil’s admiring stare was cut short by Tony. “Time to jolly your fishing friends into making a bet,” he was told. He left immediately.

  Tony studied the two quick-change artists. “Congratulations,” he said. Three minutes it had taken them, no more.

  “What now?” Saul asked.

  “As soon as some diversion starts on board the fishing-boat, you can slip out and stroll back down the dock.”

  “That all?” Saul didn’t hide his disappointment.

  “It’s plenty. Did you know you were photographed?” Just wish, Tony thought, there had been three of them; still. Gorsky might possibly deduce, when he saw two men, that Gerard had substituted for one of the officers who were originally coming to meet Parracini. Did I mention “three” to Bill when he was wearing that bloody watch? or did I have enough sense to keep my big mouth shut, only talk of Gerard? No time now to start recalling that garden scene—and stop worrying, there’s nothing you can do about it, anyway. “You’ll drive some guys crazy, back in Moscow, trying to fit names to your faces.”

  “Who’s running their show here?”

  “Gorsky.”

  “Who’s Gorsky?” asked Walt.

  “A tough customer. He had his underwater experts attach an explosive to the Sea Breeze last night. Emil found it.” They seemed to know what that must have entailed, for they looked impressed and were no doubt reassessing Emil. Tony continued, “There is something else you could do. Risky, of course; you’ll possibly be on camera again. What I’ve got in mind—”

  But Emil had returned. “No need to place a wager,” he told Tony. “They’ve been working on the mainsail, got it h
oisted half-way, and it’s stuck. Quick,” he urged Saul and Walt, “now’s your moment.”

  Walt didn’t budge. “What did you have in mind?” he asked Tony.

  “At ten thirty, wait at the head of the dock. You’ll see me, wearing this checked tweed—” Tony picked up his denim jacket, showed its lining—“accompanying a man, dark hair and moustache, dark suit. Run some interference for us when we pass the Monique. Will do?”

  They were on their way. “Ten thirty,” Saul said as he and Walt stepped on deck. Quickly, they passed Emil, leaning against a rail, watching the fishing-boat with amusement. So far, its sail hadn’t come slithering down, exposing the bow of the Sea Breeze to curious eyes on board the Monique. Emil drew a breath of genuine relief: the two men were now on the dock, with no connection observed between them and the Sea Breeze.

  Behind him Tony’s voice said, “I’ve got three minutes to catch a cab. See you.” And Tony left, too, almost on the heels of Saul and Walt. He was once more wearing his denim jacket, knitted cap, eyeglasses; his walk—when Emil risked another glance at the dock—was a brisk sea-going roll. He caught up with Saul and Walt, passed them, was lost in the thickening crowd.

  Definitely thickening, Emil noted. The harbour had come to life. Now there was constant movement on the dock and on the long mole above it. In the anchorage itself, some boats had already left for a cruise, weather permitting; some were being sluiced down and polished; others, with less optimistic owners, were being secured against any afternoon storm. It was the usual Saturday crowd of week-end sailors, wandering around when they weren’t on board, interested in anything new and different. There were tourists, too, taking the air, feeding the seagulls while they had their photographs snapped. And the old salts, gathered in two and threes, watching this waste of good bread on birds who knew how to scavenge for themselves, were more convinced than ever that foreigners were crazy.