Hopscotch (25 page)

Ready to cringe at the slightest hint of reproof he sized up the stakeouts. He wouldn't get a crack at anyone nearly as ideal as Dwight Liddell had been but whoever he picked had to be in the right physical ball park. They'd be checking the passport descriptions closely these days. He'd already drawn blanks at Waterloo and Euston Stations; both of them were crawling with hunters but none had been suitable. One trouble was that most of them were far too young.

Outside, night had come right down. He'd spent forty minutes in the reserved car park a block away until a stewardess had driven her own car into the lot, locked it up and walked to the terminal. He'd come in five minutes behind her. Now he saw her come out of the ladies' loo dropping a crumpled lipstick-smeared tissue into the open maw of her handbag. She carried a smart shoulder bag as well, not an airline job but a chic leather affair; but the handbag was not shoulder-strapped and that was why he'd picked her.

He had his awed attention on a big-breasted tourist in an outrageous skintight outfit; he wasn't looking where he was going and that was why he banged into the stewardess. Her open handbag fell tumbling, spewing its contents.

Kendig gushed profusely with Italian-accented apologies; he dropped in anguished sorrow to his knees to help her pick up wallet and hairpins and tissues and lipstick and a dozen other possessions. He flooded her with obsequious self-laceration and the girl impatiently checked to make sure he hadn't
pilfered money out of her wallet; she stuffed everything irritably into the handbag, brushed off his axious flow of apologies with a quick, “It's quite all right, there's no harm done,” and strode away clicking, hips undulating because she knew people were watching.

Kendig shuffled away, dropping the car keys into his pocket. She wouldn't miss them right away. If she did she wouldn't worry about it until she returned to London.

He moved around the place like a park pigeon, still searching for his nephew. One of the stakeouts was tipped on one shoulder against the wall, bored, sipping a Coke out of a paper cup. Kendig logged the man point by point: five-eleven, 170 pounds, dark hair, rectangular face.

He wasn't going to do much better than this one.

The American gave him a brief uninterested glance. Kendig spoke softly through an agonized smile.

“You'll save a lot of lives if you stand still and listen. I've put a bomb in this building. Don't show your surprise. Take a sip of your Coke.”

The American's eyes went bright like an animal at night pinioned by headlight beams. “You're Kendig.” He drank; and held Kendig's stare over the rim of the cup.

“The bomb goes off if I don't disarm it. And I don't disarm it unless you obey my instructions to the letter.”

“You bloodless bastard.”

Kendig shrugged nervously, sorry the man hadn't seen his nephew. “The timer's set close. You could blow the whistle on me but you'd never have time to screw the information out of me before it
blows. You wouldn't even have time to evacuate the building. You understand me?”

“You're bluffing.”

“No.” Kendig dipped his head obeisantly but held his glance. “I'm not bluffing, friend. I've got too much to lose—you know that as well as I do.”

The man deflated slowly. “What do you want?”

“What's your name?”

“… Oakley.”

“All right Oakley. I'm going to walk out to the street. I want you right behind me all the way. Don't flash any signals to anybody at all. Just stay with me. Have you got it?”

Reluctant and bleak: “I've got it.”

“Come on then.”

He went ahead of Oakley because he didn't want anybody to suspect he had a gun in his pocket covering Oakley. Oakley was just one of those friendly Americans and he'd agreed to help the Italian look for his nephew—that was the way it would look and Oakley's expression could be taken for the impatient disgust of a kindhearted fellow who'd let himself get roped into a boring act of mercy.

In plain sight of at least five men whose express purpose was to cut him down, Kendig shuffled across the terminal and went through the door, stopping politely to hold it open for Oakley. “Now we go this way.”

“Where the hell are we going?”

“Just around the corner. Take it easy.”

“Take it easy? Kendig I'd like you to know something. This isn't official, this is purely personal. In my book extortion by bomb threat is the lowest and vilest crime there is. Any man who uses innocent
people for hostages is a filthy monster who deserves—”

“Shut up, Oakley.”

The car park was deserted and there wasn't much light. Kendig took the crumpled coat hanger from his pocket and stretched the wire out; it was an implement he'd learned long ago was amazingly useful.

“What's this?”

“I'm going to tie your hands behind you. Don't make a fuss.”

He saw it when Oakley thought about making a fight of it but it was only a passing wistfulness; it had been decided back there in the terminal when Oakley hadn't raised the alarm. Kendig made the wire fast and unlocked the stewardess's Volkswagen. “Get in.”

“What the hell is this? What about the bomb for God's sake?”

“There's plenty of time for everything, Oakley, Let me worry about it, all right? Try not to strain your mind, that's a good boy.” He slammed the door on Oakley and went around to the driver's seat; and reached across Oakley to push down the door-lock button. With his hands bound behind him Oakley wasn't going to be able to get the door open to jump out.

He switched on the sidelights and had a look at the gauge. There was half a tank; it was enough. He didn't turn the key yet. “You look like a man who's got kids in college.”

“In the Air Force Academy. What's it to you?”

“Both of them dedicated to making a world where people like you and me won't be necessary.”

“Yes, by God. For Christ's sake, Kendig, the bomb—”

“You raised your kids upright, I imagine. Men to whom truth and honor are important?”

“What the hell are you—”

“Some people think keeping your word depends on who you gave it to. Some others think your word of honor is your word of honor regardless. Which are you, Oakley?”

“You belong in a Goddamned rubber room, you know that?”

“I could put a gag in your mouth. But then I'd have to hide you down in the back seat so nobody'd see it. It wouldn't be comfortable for you. Or you could give me your word of honor not to yell to anybody.”

“Where are you taking me, Kendig?”

“Do I have your oath?”

“All right. I won't try to attract anybody's attention. My word on it.” Oakley said it reluctantly but without hesitation. Kendig decided to buy it.

He ran a piece of wire from Oakley's left ankle to the metal frame under the passenger seat. Then he started the car. “There isn't any bomb. It was a bluff.”

Oakley stared at him momentarily and then nodded his head. “Okay. No, no indignation. I'd rather be fooled that way than go on worrying about innocent people getting blown sky-high. It was a neat trick—you handled it beautifully, I really believed it.”

The engine kicked over with its characteristic washing-machine sound. He drove out of the lot and turned into the Cromwell Road.

“You're a ballsy bastard,” Oakley said. “What happens now?”

“Settle back. It's a bit of a ride.”

“You haven't got a chance you know. I suppose I'm obliged to say something like that.”

“All right. You've said it.”

“What did you steal that they're so anxious to get back?”

Kendig didn't answer. Oakley had decided to play it friendly; he was trying to make himself look like the truistic rape victim—if it's inevitable you may as well lie back and enjoy it—but in fact he was trying to draw Kendig out and Kendig didn't want to be drawn. He wanted to keep Oakley occupied, all the same; it would keep Oakley's mind off other things. “You're a little long in the tooth to be pulling routine stakeout shifts, aren't you?”

“Fortunes of war,” Oakley said without rancor. “I stuck my neck out on a couple of predictions and the wind shifted on me. But it's not that much of a punishment right now—they've pulled a hell of a lot of stringers off good jobs to look for you. You're about the hottest item since the Lindbergh baby.”

“You one of Follett's people?”

“No comment, I guess.”

“Tell me about your family then.”

Like many of them the color photo in Oakley's passport had been taken with flat lighting that washed out the planes of the features. The exposure had been a little too small and the result was a burned print with dazzling reflections off cheeks and forehead. Kendig laid out his makeup kit, stripped off the mustache and pulled out the cheek pads and went to work with theatrical putty on his
jaw line and nose and the shape of his eyes. He took his time. When he compared himself with Oakley in the pocket mirror there wasn't much resemblance but he looked enough like the poor photograph to fool anybody who didn't know the real Oakley.

Oakley lay on the bed on his left side, hands wired behind him, ankles wired together, a length of wire fixed between wrists and ankles to prevent him from kicking; two more lengths of wire trussed him to the bed frame, passing around the edges of the mattress. He could bounce up and down a little but not enough to make much noise. Nobody would get those wires off him without a pair of pliers; Kendig had used one to twist the wire ends tight and he left the pliers on the writing desk across the room. He said, “I'm not hanging out the do-not-disturb sign. The chambermaid will be in sometime in the morning. I'm going to have to stuff a gag in your mouth. A word of advice—don't strain on the wire and don't panic for breath. You could choke to death on your own vomit, you could get a hell of a painful cramp in your legs and arms. Just lie easy and try to sleep—it'll be the best way to get through the night.”

“Much obliged,” Oakley said, very dry.

“Tell them they can save some money by taking surveillance off the post offices. I've mailed my packages from the hotel desk.”

Oakley's face changed; in a different voice he said, “Thanks.” It was genuine; Kendig had given him a piece of information his superiors would find useful and it meant they might not come down so hard on him for letting Kendig make a fool of him.

Kendig said, “You size up pretty well. I'm sorry
I've made things hard for you. I'd like you to get a message to Joe Cutter for me. He probably won't believe a word of it but tell him anyway. Tell him he may as well call it off because I'm going to ground.”

He reached Dover at five in the morning and racked the Volks into a curb space on a quiet street. He walked down to the waterfront and went into an all-night sailors' eatery where he had a cup of too-strong coffee and brought out the handcuffs. He'd bought them in a magic shop—they were trick manacles for escape acts. He didn't have any leger-dermain in mind but it had been the handiest place to buy handcuffs that looked real. He locked one cuff to the handle of the heavy briefcase and chained it to his left wrist.

At six-forty he was in the dawn queue at the hovercraft landing. He bought his ticket and walked toward the customs-and-immigration door. It was close cover by three stakeouts he could discern; he picked the American one and walked right up to him and flashed Oakley's ID. It wasn't that much of a risk; the Agency had nearly 200,000 employees and the likelihood this man knew Oakley was remote.

The man was young, blond, brisk. Kendig said drily, “It's official business and I'd kind of like a countersign, fellow.”

The youth flushed to his hairline and showed Kendig his card. Kendig said, “The Comrade over there giving you any hassle?”

“No sir.”

“We're setting up a CP in Calais, we'll be posting men along the Channel ports. If you're at all uneasy
about anybody you let pass through here, give us a ring across the Channel and we'll double-check them as they come off. Make a note of the number.”

The youth got out a pocket note-pad and pulled the attached pencil out of its tube in the pad's hinge. Kendig rattled off a number and glanced around. “It's a lousy patchwork arrangement but it's the best we can do for now. Pass that number on to your relief, all right?”

“Yes sir. But he won't get through here.”

The fact that the Agency stringer accepted him meant that the Russian and Chartermain's man wouldn't detain him. He walked past both of them, cold-shouldering the Russian and nodding briefly to the Englishman; he cleared customs with his official-business passport and went on board ten minutes before departure time.

At the French end they were stuffy. He wasn't State; he didn't have diplomatic immunity; they insisted on opening the briefcase. He put the key in the flimsy lock and showed the manuscript. He'd spent an hour in the British Museum at the public typewriter yesterday, typing a phony cover-page and a few introductory pages.
Report on United States Immigration Policy Western Europe, Updated 7/17/74
. And a covering half-page:
Copy 14. To: United States Consulate, Paris, France. Not classified. Hand-deliver. Priority Five
.

There was no surveillance at the French end; they thought they had him bottled up in England. He discarded Oakley's face in the ferry pier's men's room and walked off the pier ready to begin the final phase of the game.

– 25 –

R
OSS COULD SENSE
the tension in Glenn Follett, who crouched like a beast ready to spring. Myerson watched Cutter, his eyes distended with rage. Myerson lowered himself cautiously between the arms of the chair as though he feared there was a bomb under it—or inside himself.

Nerves near snapping point, Ross jumped when Cutter walked past the back of his chair and sat down in the next one. Cutter's suit looked slept in; his shoes were scuffed. He rotated the fingertips of both hands against his temples and dropped his hands onto the chair arms. His shoulders seemed to droop or perhaps it was only Ross's imagination; for the first time Cutter looked as if he could be beaten. He looked drab and uneasy, almost listless. To Ross it made him a little more real, more human.