4
It was Rick. “Sorry I couldn’t ’phone. Spent the last hour getting here from La Guardia. Traffic was all fouled up. He was at ease as he always was, a handsome man of thirty-three, blond and grey-eyed (he had that colouring from his German mother); but at this moment his face looked drawn.
It’s the harsh light in this hall: I’ll have to change the bulb, thought Kelso. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and he looked worse than Rick—everything intensified. His dark hair and brown eyes were too black, his skin too pale, the cheekbones and nose and chin had become prominent, his face haggard. “What we both need is a drink,” he said, dropped Rick’s coat on a chair and led the way into the room.
“Nothing, thanks.” Rick’s glance roved around, settling briefly on the desk and the open briefcase. He restrained himself in time, didn’t make one move towards it. Instead, he watched Chuck pour himself a drink. “You look wrung-out. A bad day?”
“Hard on the nerves.”
“What happened?”
“I took the damned thing.” Chuck lowered the volume of Daphnis and Chloe.
“You’ve got it?”
“Yes. It’s in the briefcase.”
“All of it?”
Chuck nodded. There was no other way.
“You aren’t thinking of typing out the whole thing?”
“Not bloody likely. Part I is all we need. What about a reporter? You said several would jump at the chance to use it. Have you contacted any?”
“Yes. There’s one on the Times who is interested.”
“How much did you tell him?”
“Only that there might be something important for him to report in a week or two. Top-secret material, but no breach of national security if it were published. He sensed something big. Investigative reporting—that’s got the appeal, all right.”
“But why the Times?” Chuck objected. “That’s Tom’s paper.”
“What does it matter? He’s stationed in Washington—has never been near Shandon House. Besides, you aren’t using your name, are you?”
“I don’t want it used.” Chuck insisted on that.
“Too bad, in a way. Think of all the lectures you’d be invited to give.” Rick’s smile widened. “The college circuit would really—”
“I want no publicity whatsoever. None. This is not an ego trip.”
“I know, I know. Just joking.”
“Does your reporter know that he can’t use my name?”
“I didn’t even mention it to him. I just spoke of Shandon House.”
Chuck frowned. “Did you have to bring that in?”
“Yes. He knows who I am and what I do; in fact, he knows me quite well. But that wouldn’t be enough to take to his editor and get the go-ahead to use the material. Shandon House carries real clout. Not to worry, Chuck. He isn’t talking to anyone until I hand him a copy of the NATO Memorandum, Part I. Do you think he wants this story filched away from him?”
“Name?”
“Holzheimer. Martin Holzheimer. You’ve seen his byline, haven’t you?”
Chuck tried to remember, then shrugged his shoulders. If Holzheimer had a byline, he was good. And Rick was an experienced judge: he met a lot of young journalists in his job as communications director for publicity-hound Pickering. Communications director. What titles these Congressmen could dream up for their swollen staffs! “How old is he?”
“Old enough. Twenty-nine. On his way up. Besides, the useful thing is that he lives in Manhattan, so I can get hold of him easily.”
“When?”
“Why not tonight?” Rick crossed over to the windows and pulled down the shades. “By the way, once you finish the typing, would you pick up Katie at Bo Browning’s party? She’s expecting me, but I have to meet Holzheimer.” He adjusted one shade to his liking. All I need is some time to myself, he was thinking as he moved over to the desk. “Now, let’s see how much work we have to do. How many pages?”
“Just a moment—I’d better call Tom first.”
Rick stared. “Are you crazy, Chuck?”
“He’s in New York, wants to see me for dinner.”
“Oh.” There was a brief pause. “Why not go? I can start the typing, and you finish it when you get back.”
“No.”
Rick tried a smile. “Then may I at least read the memorandum? Just to get an idea of what we are into?”
“Sure. I didn’t want you typing anything—you’ve been dragged into this business far enough.”
“No worry about that. Holzheimer won’t use my name or mention it to anyone. You and I are confidential sources. Privileged information.”
“So is Shandon House,” said Chuck firmly. “That name is strictly for his eyes alone. And for his editor’s.”
“Oh, come on, Chuck—”
“No. Its name does not get into print.”
“I wonder if he’ll agree to—”
“He’d better. Or else, no Memorandum. Besides, he will be reporting that it came from NATO. That’s enough.”
Rick nodded. “I suppose he will do some digging, check around, and find any possible leak in Washington—from State or the Pentagon—that would link Shandon House with the NATO Memorandum. That should convince him he is dealing with authentic material.”
“I hope to God no one starts leaking too much.”
“Beyond admitting that the Memorandum is now at Shandon? That’s about all anyone does know. Except the top brass.” If none of Mischa’s agents in Washington—he must have one or two planted in both the Pentagon and State—had been able to get close to the NATO material, then no Washington informant was able to leak anything of value. “It’s a well-kept secret. That will whet Holzheimer’s appetite.”
“Didn’t he want to know why I was passing on this information to him?” I’d be curious about that myself, thought Chuck.
“Yes. And I told him the bare truth. You’re a man who believes in détente and wants to see it work. The NATO Memorandum shows very clearly that détente is under attack. You thought the American public ought to know. And be warned.” Rick studied Chuck’s face. “Right?”
Chuck nodded. He was over at the desk now, taking out the Memorandum from the covering newspaper. Then he began removing Parts II and III, loosening them carefully from the close staples that bound the pages together. It would be a slow job.
“Have you read all the material?” Rick asked.
“Just glanced at the second and third sections. I wasn’t working on them.”
“What’s so important about them? Part I—you told me last week—is a statement about the threats against détente. But what follows?”
“Part II gives facts and figures about NATO’s defence capability and dispositions, along with facts and figures about the Warsaw Treaty Organisation’s accretion in strength. Part III gives the sources of all information presented in the preceding sections, to back up their credibility.”
“Sources?” That could mean intelligence agents as well as reports from military attachés. Intelligence agents—wasn’t that what Mischa was interested in? “Don’t tell me they were named?” Rick looked shocked.
“Of course not. Kept anonymous. Just identified by location.”
By location. But possibly identifiable by the quality of their reports. Any good KGB analyst could place them by their area of interest and their selected targets. Mischa’s department would know just where to look for them, might be able to confirm a suspicion and make identification. No wonder Mischa had been so eager to get his hands on the NATO Memorandum. “I suppose,” Rick said, “that that much had to be disclosed, to make their reports acceptable on this side of the Atlantic. I’ve often wondered how any intelligence agent ever gets believed if he stays completely unidentified. A weird kind of life. Did you ever regret refusing it when you had that chance with Military Intelligence in Germany?”
“Not my line. Codes and cyphers weren’t either. I soon backed out of them: remember?” Chuck had rem
oved all the staples without breaking one. He put them carefully into an ashtray for later use in re-assembly. He gathered Parts II and III together, slipped them into the desk drawer, and locked it.
Rick lifted Part I. “Yes, you backed out of codes all right—into a job at the Pentagon.” He laughed and began to flip over the loose pages.
“Go on, say it. I backed out of the Pentagon, too.”
“No, you didn’t. You jumped up the ladder and caught the Shandon rung.” Rick was taking the pages more slowly, frowning in concentration.
“And there I am. Stuck.” The chief of his department was only three years older than Chuck’s thirty-two.
“Not you.” Rick waved him into silence, seemed intent on reading. But he did not have to go beyond the first four pages to realise this was dynamite, and not the kind he had expected. He had assumed—and he cursed his stupidity—that this NATO statement on détente would aim some sharp criticism against the West. And it did. Danger lay in blind acceptance of détente as the magic word. Danger also lay in its complete rejection by prejudiced cold-warriors. NATO’s advice lay between these extremes: détente was good—as far as it went; it merited support—but only with a clear understanding of its limitations. Without that, public opinion in the West could be exploited and splintered, weakening NATO’s defence capabilities at a time when the Warsaw Pact countries’ armed strength had increased to a point of superiority in many areas. (This sharp reminder was a natural lead-in to a plea for continuing American military strength in Europe. Depleted numbers of tanks and planes, as a result of Mid-East requirements, must be replaced. Any decrease in Western defence would only lessen the West’s bargaining power.)
But that was not all of NATO’s unpleasant warning. To bolster its thesis, it included a careful study of the Soviet interpretation of détente: military and economic agreements could be signed, but that in no way precluded Soviet interest in exploring the weaknesses of the West and pouring acid into open wounds. The old methods of cold war—open or threatened confrontation, brutal tactics such as the Berlin blockade—were now out of date. The new strategy of détente was “the conquest of the system,” a phrase much used by German Communists. By this was meant the destruction of political democracy in the West, by covert attacks on its constitutional foundations and by the discrediting of fundamental political and social ideals. For this purpose, Disinformation (Dept. A of the First Chief Directorate, Committee for State Security) had become increasingly important in Soviet planning.
Disinformation. Mischa’s department. What would he have to say about these details on the recent successful take-over of the Free University in West Berlin, for instance? His agents and their methods clearly described? Rick drew a deep breath to steady himself, then went on with what he had been discussing. “You’ll be at the top of the ladder in ten years—Director of the Institute by Tom’s age. How does that grab you? Better than being a foreign correspondent.” He placed some of the pages on the desk, squared them off neatly. He pursed his lips.
“What’s the verdict so far?” Chuck was eager to know.
“Packs a hefty punch. But—don’t you think?—it might be considered a low blow against Kissinger and Ford?”
Chuck stared at him. “I told you what it was about, didn’t I? What made you change around?”
“I haven’t. I still think it ought to be published. Perhaps a little later. Not at this moment. Ford is in Vladivostok right now.”
“All the more reason—”
“Why don’t we wait until after Kissinger attends the NATO meeting on December twelfth in Brussels? That’s not too far off.” And, Rick thought, that would give me time to squelch Holzheimer’s interest.
“And that is exactly why we are going ahead as planned. We’ll make sure that the Brussels meeting is going to listen to NATO’s assessment of détente, and talk about it openly. It isn’t just the American public that needs a jolt. There’s far too much secrecy about things that should be out in the open. How can people decide, if they get no choice? They’ve got to know the alternatives...”
“Okay, okay. It was just a suggestion. You’ve convinced me that it wasn’t a good one.”
“You know your trouble, Rick? You’re too damned conservative.”
“You know both our troubles? We need some food. I’ve had nothing to speak of since breakfast. And you? I bet you didn’t eat much lunch. What’s in the refrigerator?”
“You can fix us a sandwich while I’m typing.”
“Right. But first let me finish reading. I could use that drink now. A dry Martini?”
“Coming up.” Chuck left for the pantry.
Rick moved quickly. He dropped the sheets of paper on the desk, turned towards the typewriter, and lifted off its cover. Then he selected the A key, raised its type-bar, and bent it. He did the same with the S key next to it. That should be enough, he decided as he pushed the type-bars back in place as far as they would go. He slipped the cover over the machine and wiped his fingers clean of ink before picking up the memorandum again. By the time Chuck returned, he was sitting at the desk, a study in complete concentration. He finished the last page and placed it with the others.
“Well?” Chuck asked.
“It’s good. Someone worked hard over all that. NATO Intelligence, I suppose?”
“It’s something like our own work at Shandon. A matter of analysing facts, and evaluating, and wrapping it all up with judicial opinion. Prognosis is always the hardest part, and yet it’s the most necessary. Here’s your Martini—dry enough? I’m out of onions and olives. Like some lemon-peel?”
“No, this is fine. Just fine.”
Chuck looked at the clock on the desk, checked his watch. “I’d better give Tom a call before I set to work.” He was suddenly worried. “Hope I have enough carbon paper. I’ll need a copy for myself—just to make sure that the Times prints all I give them.” He went to the typing table and pulled out its drawer. “Enough,” he said as he checked the box of carbons. “But there’s no extra ribbon.”
“Now you’re starting to fuss over details.” Any old excuse, thought Rick, to postpone the call to Tom. Has there been some brotherly quarrel?
But Chuck was pulling off the typewriter cover and inserting a sheet of paper into the roller. “Just testing the ribbon. If it’s weak, you’ll have to borrow a spare from Katie. No type-writer-supply shop is open at this hour on a Saturday night.”
“Tom will be waiting—”
“Time enough yet.” Chuck began typing, and stopped. He tried again. “Damnation.”
“Something wrong?”
“Two keys stuck. They’re out of kilter.” He tried to straighten their type-bars, and then looked up at Rick in complete dismay. “No go,” he said. “What the hell do I do now? And who—”
“Mattie? She has a strong dusting arm.”
“She wouldn’t touch the type-bars.”
“She could have dropped something on them by accident.”
“A load of bricks?” Chuck asked bitterly.
“Or she backed her two hundred pounds into the table and sent the machine flying.”
“What the hell do I do?” Chuck said again. “Try Katie, will you? She’ll lend us her typewriter.” Katie had an old and hefty machine, a period piece that amused her, along with her stand-up telephones and big-horn phonograph.
“It’s on the blink. It would chew up every ribbon you had.”
Chuck stood very still. Then his face cleared, and he reached for the telephone book. “Algonquin, Algonquin...” His finger ran down the A section. “Here we are.” He put through the call. “Tom? I just got in and found Dorothea’s message. Look—I’m sorry: I have a load of work to do here. Can’t manage dinner. But could I drop down to the Algonquin right now? Have a quick drink with you?... And say, could I borrow your portable?... I’ll return it tomorrow without fail... Yes, I know you need it. I’ll have it back long before you take off for Paris. Okay? See you in twenty minutes or so.”
Chuck dropped the receiver, and was off to the bedroom for jacket and tie. He made a whirlwind exit, calling over his shoulder, “Back in an hour.”
So I lost that round, Rick thought: he will have his typewriter, and a completed script by ten or eleven tonight. But I’ve been given the time and opportunity I need. Better than I planned. So take it. He began clearing the desk, moving the section of the memorandum he had been reading out of his way. One hour, probably more. He would aim at forty minutes, and be on the safe side.
He produced a small bunch of keys and selected the skeleton one—that was all he needed for this simple lock. Deftly he manipulated it, pulled the desk drawer open, and lifted out the two top-security parts of the NATO Memorandum. He only glanced at the number of pages, wasted no time in reading them, although he had a strong temptation to examine Part III. He adjusted the strong desk-lamp to the correct angle. Then he took out a small matchbox-size camera from his inside pocket, and placed the first page in position under the circle of light. He began photographing.
The whole job was completed—the sheets all back in order and replaced in the drawer exactly as he had found them—within thirty-five minutes. The precious film was left in the camera: he would extract it when there was less chance of any mishap—his hands felt tired, his eyes strained. The inside pocket of his jacket, fastened with a small zipper, would be safe enough.
Now he could put the desk back in shape again. The pages of Part I were neatly placed, ready for Chuck’s use. He would make some sandwiches, get coffee percolating, and show some signs of a well-spent hour.
Lose one round, win another, he told himself, as he searched for his glass—he had laid it quietly aside on one of the small tables, unwilling to risk Chuck’s potent mix while he still had problems to work out. The Martini wasn’t worth drinking now. He carried it into the kitchen, emptied it down the sink, and poured himself a double vodka. He had earned it.
5
Tom Kelso got back to the hotel at ten past six, after a day divided between meetings—one with an editorial staff-member at the Times, to discuss the shape of his visit to France; another with a television reporter who had just ended a three-year assignment there; a third with an attaché on leave from the Embassy in Paris—and found Dorothea, clad in a black chiffon negligee and a white felt hat. She was seated before her dressing-table mirror, studying a profile view of the upturn-and-dip of the hat’s wide brim. She turned to welcome him, as he came through the sitting-room and halted at the bedroom door, and gave him a smile that would lift any tired man’s heart. “What do you think?” she asked him.