Hopscotch (18 page)

“Then I'll call back tomorrow.”

“Perhaps Michael can reach you,
Herr
Kendig?”

“No, I think not.”

“Very well. Senk you for calling,
Herr
Kendig.”

He took the boat-train to Stockholm and put up in a small hotel he'd never visited before; it was on one of the outer islands and had a good view of the
botanical gardens and the shipping beyond. He wrote a postcard to Joe Cutter and addressed it in care of the Paris office, chuckled aloud when he dropped it in a street-corner postbox and then took the ferry across to the main island in search of a night's entertainment.

He made the morning call to Berlin from a phone in the airport. It was the same ritual as before—the request to speak with
Herr
Dortmund, the click of the extension, the voice of
Herr
Brucher; then Mikhail Yaskov came on the line. “Miles, old friend. How good to hear your voice.” Yaskov contrived to sound both surprised and artless.

“I've been writing a book,” Kendig said.

“Yes, I've been following it with great interest.”

“I thought you might have done.”

“You're calling perhaps because the remainder of the book is for sale?”

“No, it's already been sold. I just wanted to let you know I've taken your advice—I've brought myself back to life. I've got back into the game. Those were your words, I think.”

“I'm so happy,” Yaskov said drily, “to know that you value my sage counsel so highly, old friend. Now what may I do for you?”

A disembodied announcement resonated through the terminal: “Mr. William Scott, Mr. William Scott, please come to the SAS passenger service counter.”

Kendig said into the phone, “I just thought you might like to know that I'm visiting your territory at the moment. Just sightseeing, of course—you know how it is.”

“Are you enjoying the trip?”

“Keenly.”

“I'm so glad,” Yaskov said. “Perhaps we shall cross paths, since as you say you are traveling in my area.”

“That depends on whether you're still as good at your job as you used to be.”

“You're giving me an opportunity to find that out, are you?”

“Yes. I thought you'd appreciate that, Mikhail.”

“As a matter of fact I do—very much. Does that surprise you?”

“No,” Kendig said. “I haven't forgotten what you said about the hunting way of life.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I'll be forwarding chapters of my book to the publishers at odd intervals. I thought you might like to know.”

“So I understood from the samples you have delivered. Miles, I rather doubt your book will be published in its entirety by the Leningrad press you chose to submit it to. Of course they may see fit to publish certain selected passages from it, perhaps in
Isvestia
or some such suitable organ.”

“Naturally. Tell them not to forget to pay me for it. You've joined the International Copyright Convention now, remember.”

“To whom should such payment be made?”

“My literary agent is John Ives in New York. He has my power of attorney.”

“I'm sure your estate will receive the money in due course, my capitalist friend.”

Kendig let him have the last word; he rang off and went to the counter to check his bag through on the Finnair flight to Helsinki.

– 19 –

T
HE OFFICE WAS
less than two blocks from the Champs Elysees; autumn leaves rattled against the high old windows. Ross was sorting the signals from Washington—the courier still waited beyond the desk with the briefcase chained to his wrist—when Cutter came in. Obviously he had left his emotions in his hotel room. “Anything we can use?”

“A stringer for the SDECE spotted him in Madrid. Recognized him but didn't tail him—didn't know he was on the wanted list until he mentioned he'd seen Kendig, back in the office.”

Cutter said, “That's hardly newsworthy, Ross. We already know he was in Madrid. Anything else?”

“No. Did Desrosiers—”

Cutter waved him off; his eyes went beyond Ross to the courier. “We don't need to keep you. I'm sure you've got important things to do.”

The courier took the hint and left. Cutter asked, “Where's Follett?”

“I don't know.”

“He was supposed to be here.”

“Was he? He didn't tell me that. He went out about an hour ago.”

Cutter picked up the phone. “Is Follett in the building?”

Ross heard the reply—the caustic voice of the dried-up woman at the front desk. “Do you think this is a hotel? I don't keep a register.”

“This is Joseph Cutter.”

“Oh—I'm very sorry, sir.”

“When he shows up tell him to get his ass in here. And find out where he is and call me back.” He cradled the receiver very gently and said to Ross, “It occurs to me that this office is making a deliberate effort to corner the market on stupid blunderers.” He snapped a look at his watch and shot his cuff and sat down. Cutter was a little rattled; it was unusual and Ross marked it. Cutter was always so coolly controlled. But he didn't seem to have lost his uncanny talent for being punctual without hurry, for carrying a thousand things in his head without ever losing the balance of them, for always knowing the exact time—it was nearly the first time Ross had ever seen him look at his watch.

Then the phone rang. It was the wasp-faced woman; Cutter had dubbed her The Lemon Taster two days ago. Ross picked it up. “Mr. Follett is on his way up, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't mention it.” Was everything she said sarcastic or did it just sound that way?

Ross hung up. Cutter said, “Trying to work with this guy is like trying to mate a chimpanzee with a porcupine. I wonder where he finds the five coats of whitewash he must be using on this operation.”

“You shouldn't underestimate him just because you don't like him.” Ross was surprised by his own temerity; but it only elicited a brief smile from Cutter,
cool with insincerity. Nevertheless Ross felt he had been reproved. He kept shifting the letter opener and pencils on the blotter, lining them up along various parallels.

Follett came in, hearty and beaming; Cutter deflated him before he'd had a chance to speak: “I'd better hang a bell on you so I'll know where you are.”

Follett reared back. “You sound like you're a little peeved, Joe.”

“Uh-huh. You can put that in the bank.”

Conciliatory but not really giving an inch, Follett said slowly, “Joe, you won't have any trouble with me.”

“You bet your ass I won't.” The smile, again, was a forced sliver. “Seat thyself, Glenn, and let's program this thing.”

Follett threw off his topcoat and lunged into a chair. His freckled face was ruddy from the October wind. “I had a vague conversation with my opposite number in French security just now. That's why I'm a little late. He's willing to—”

The phone rang again. Ross was at the desk; he answered it.

“Mr. Cutter? There's a—”

“This is Ross. Can it wait?”

“The caller says it's urgent, sir.”

“Who is he?”

“He claims to be Mikhail Yaskov.”

Cutter took the call and held it flat against his ear so that Ross couldn't overhear anything; Cutter's end of the conversation was monosyllabic and after less than two minutes he said, “Agreed,” and
hung it up and went back to his chair but didn't seat himself; he stood with one hand on the back of the chair and scowled.

Follett said, “Well?”

“He wants a meet.”

“About Kendig?”

“Apparently.”

Ross said, “Maybe they want to make a deal.”

Follett said, “What kind of deal? Do you mean they've got Kendig?”

Cutter said, “No.”

Follett began to bluster but Cutter, maddeningly, had lost interest and turned away. Follett flapped his arms. “Are you sure that was really Yaskov?”

“It's my business to be sure.”

Follett began shaking his head back and forth. “I just don't understand any of this, I'll be the first to admit it. I don't understand Kendig most of all.”

“Of course you don't. You couldn't in a hundred years understand a man like Kendig.”

Ross said, “I don't see where any of us does. So far he hasn't made any mistakes at all.”

“He's made one,” Cutter said. “He's made me mad at him.”

Follett tugged his earlobe. “You may be making a rash assumption, Joe. You're not brighter than he is—you're just younger.”

Ross considered that in surprise; it had come out of the blue. But Follett was grinning slyly, knowing he'd scored a point; he'd been waiting for the chance. He got to his feet. “I presume you'll want to handle Yaskov without me.”

“Correct.”

“Then we'd better hold off the strategy conference
until you've had your meet with him. How soon's it to be?”

“This afternoon.”

“He's in Paris? He must think it's damned important.”

“Of course he does,” Cutter said in disgust. “All right, be back here at six tonight—we'll go over it then.”

“Six? I was planning to—”

“I really don't much care what you were planning, Glenn.”

Ross was happy to see Follett's back. He didn't dislike the man with Cutter's intensity but Follett's departure lowered the room temperature to something bearable.

Cutter had straight hair that wouldn't stick down; another man would have been continuously raking it back from his forehead. Cutter never paid it any attention. He said, “We're meeting him in the Louvre gardens in forty-five minutes.”

“We?”

“I'll want a witness. So will he. Neither of us wants some third party accusing us of double-agenting.”

“Cozy,” Ross observed.

“The question is, what's the best way to approach it?”

“What do you think he wants?”

“I expect he wants a pooling of resources. Kendig's a threat to all of us—it makes a kind of sense. But it's more attractive to him than it is to me. I know Kendig better than he does—that gives us the edge. So what's he going to bargain with? We'll be
better armed if we can figure that out before he springs it on us.”

Ross ran it through his mind and shook his head. “Beats hell out of me what it might be.”

“You're a big help, you are.”

“Well I haven't been much of a help anywhere along the line that I can see. I let him make an ass of me down in Georgia—that phony gun stunt. I was convinced you'd tie a can to my tail after that. Why didn't you?”

“He made asses of all of us, Ross. I don't go in for scapegoating.”

“That's mighty kind of you but it still doesn't explain why you've kept me on.”

“I've been running a string of agents out of Beirut and Ankara.”

“So?”

“You get used to having somebody to yell at,” Cutter said.

“Sure—sure.”

“You're green, Ross, You make mistakes—but you haven't made excuses. I like that. You're also flexible, you've got a good brain, you're a good learner and you've got something that seems to pass for a conscience, which is all but unique around here. I like that too.”

“And?”

“I guess what it boils down to,” Cutter said, “maybe I've been seeing intimations of my own mortality. A man wants a protégé.”

Ross nodded slowly but he couldn't resist the riposte: “Like Kendig had you.”

“Yes.” Cutter was neither surprised nor angered. “Like that.”

“Well I guess I ought to be flattered.”

“But you aren't.”

“Maybe I am. I can't tell yet. I'm not sure I like this business much.”

“That's what makes you so valuable in it,” Cutter said. “Come on, we might as well walk—it's a nice day for it.”

Ross had worked for the Agency for quite a few years but it was the first time he'd seen an enemy agent in the flesh.

Yaskov had got there first and was standing in the path studying a linden tree as if he had a genuine interest in it. He appeared to be alone; Cutter pointed him out to Ross when they were still a hundred feet away. Ross said, “I must say he doesn't look the part. He looks more like he should have been a czarist spy.”

“He would have been.”

Yaskov was elegant, no other word for him.

They were fifty feet short of touching Yaskov when a little man bumped into Ross. It could have been an accident but the little man's feminine mouth smiled coyly and he fell in step with them. “My name is Ivanovitch.”

“I'm Cutter. This is Mr. Smith.”

Ivanovitch, whatever his name was, had the air of a man perpetually in a hurry. His manner was peremptory, his mannerisms impatient. The jostling he'd given Ross had been designed to find out whether Ross had a gun under his coat; he realized that now. Ivanovitch had cruel black little eyes—a glance intended to be silken, calculated to inspire fear. He was too ferrety to bring it off.

Ivanovitch walked along with choppy little strides but Cutter wasn't going to be hurried and Ivanovitch reached Yaskov ten paces ahead of them and turned. Cutter happened to be reaching into his shirt pocket at the moment and Ivanovitch moved abruptly, changing stance and bearing, and it was evident he knew the responses of unarmed combat. How expert he was was open to question in Ross's mind but it was not the time for adolescent contest with the Russian; Ross only shook his head and refrained from ambiguous motion and after a moment Yaskov laughed and Ivanovitch straightened up.

It was a toothpick Cutter produced. Now Ross saw what its purpose had been. If Ivanovitch had gone inside his coat it would have indicated he was armed.

Cutter stopped six feet distant and said immediately, “Either let's move out of sight of those windows or let's meet somewhere else.”