He carried the box back to the compartment, locked it in and went upstairs with Strauss, who understood him to be an arms merchant who dealt in cash purchases. He walked out past the display cabinets of glittering stones, flagged a taxi in the boulevard St. Germain and returned to Orly in time to make his second flight of the day.
A chill drizzle muffled the purported gaiety of Copenhagen. It had never been a favorite of Kendig’s; beneath the Hans Christian Anderson image of Tivoli and frivolity it was as grimly brooding a city as Hamburg and the phony cheer only made it more depressing. He thawed himself with an aquavit in the hotel bar before he retired.
In the morning he made the call from a telephone kiosk in the cavernous railway station; he kept the door of the booth ajar so that the phone would pick up the sounds of the trains and announcements.
It took a while for the international operator to place the call. When it rang back he picked up quickly.
“Ja bitte?”
“Herr Dortmund, bitte? Ich bin Kendig.”
“Dankeschon, mein herr…”
A scratching silence, then a click when the extension went up. “Mr. Kendig?”
“I wanted Michael.”
“He is not in Berlin at the moment. My name is Brucher, may I help you?”
He didn’t recognize the voice but Herr Brucher was being most solicitous and that meant Herr Brucher knew who Kendig was. “I’ll want to talk with Michael. Will he be at this number at this hour tomorrow?”
“Zis can be arranged, I sink.”
“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 terminaclass="underline" “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 -
The 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.”