“With the same objective as the punctured contraceptives,” I mused.
“Yes. But with one diabolical difference. Each of the empty bottles, before being filled with the pills, was rinsed in a large vat of goats’ milk.”
“Malta Fever!” I snapped my fingers, making the connection.
“That’s our guess, too,” Lagula agreed. “As a matter of fact, according to Domino, the contraceptives were to be rinsed in goats’ milk too before being distributed.”
“Did she happen to mention how they recognized me so quickly?” I asked.
“The faulty identification they made,” Lagula told me pointedly, “stemmed from the fact that you were recognized by a S.M.U.T. agent when you left London. They’ve had a tail on you ever since you arrived in Malta. Of course they were surprised at how quickly you found your way straight to their headquarters.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “But then so was I,” he added, “until I realized that as a Russian agent you’d been tipped off by another Russian agent who’d infiltrated S.M.U.T.”
“You mean Tanya? But I—-”
“Save it, Comrade. Domino told us all about Tanya before she died. S.M.U.T. was onto her. Once I learned that, it wasn’t hard to figure just how you fitted in.”
“But you’ve got it all wrong. Look, if you won't take my word for it, then check with Charles Putnam.”
“Charles Putnam? There is no Charles Putnam,” Lagula said levelly.
“Okay! Whatever he’s calling himself this week, then. He can identify me.”
“A gentleman from London is on his way here to make an identification,” Lagula informed me. “He should be here in about two hours. While we’re waiting for him, why don’t you be a good fellow and tell us just how much the Russians have learned about S.M.U.T.? You must realize that they’ve branded you a traitor by now. If you try to go back to them, they’ll kill you. Why not cooperate with us?” my little friend wheedled.
“Because I’m not a Russian. I’m Steve Victor. I just said that to . . .”
And so it went for the next two hours. Lagula kept digging for information I didn’t have, and I kept trying to convince him that I really was who I really am. We were still stalemated when the Commissioner finally led Charles Putnam into the room.
“Will you please tell these idiots who I am,” I demanded. “Tell them I’m Steve Victor!”
“Certainly I’ll identify you,” Putnam agreed. “Gentlemen, it has been established that Steve Victor is in Manila,” he told them. “This man is an impostor, a Russian agent named Boris Karenkov! ”
chapter five
“YOU ARE going to take a long sea voyage,” the Gypsy fortune-teller promised me.
“For my health?” I asked.
“No.” She looked deeper into the crystal ball. “No, I would not say that it will improve your health. On the contrary, it may involve grave hazards to your well-being .”
“Then why should I go?”
“You have no choice. The Fates have decreed it.”
She had me there. The Fates—or the powers-that-be, if you prefer -- had me by the short and groiny follicles. I had no choice but to follow their grip; it was just as tight a hold now as it had been back in the office of the Valetta Commissioner of Police when Putnam had pulled the rug out from under me.
“This man is not Steve Victor; he is an impostor, a Russian agent,” friend Putnam had announced in that potato-grater voice of his.
“Putnam! What are you saying?” I’d squealed. “This is no time to play games. You know I’m Steve Victor.”
“A very convincing impersonator,” Putnam observed.
“Stop being ridiculous! I can prove to you that I’m Steve Victor. London, Putnam. Our little playmate Gladys. The way you contacted me by leaving a note sticking out of her derriere. There, doesn't that prove it?”
“And very imaginative, as you can see,” Putnam told Lagula and the Commissioner.
“We first met in Damascus,” I reminded him desperately. “Our next meeting was in Tokyo. Then twice in London.”
“And very well briefed,” Putnam added. “He fooled us thoroughly in London. It's a good thing you uncovered the deception when you did,” he complimented Lagula. “I don’t think he’s had a chance to get any information to the Russians yet.” Putnam turned to the Commissioner. “I’ve arranged for the British to take charge of the prisoner,” he told him. “I trust that meets with your approval.”
The Commissioner shrugged. “It is no concern of mine. I am always happy to cooperate with the British. Will they also have custody of Madam Renado?”
“Yes.” Lagula answered him.
“Then she will not be free to resume her — ahh-business activities?”
“I’m afraid not,” Lagula said.
“A pity.” The Commissioner sighed. “It will deplete my income sadly.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to make other financial arrangements with some other enterprising lady,” Putnam assured him.
“I suppose so.” From the look on the Commissioner's face, his mind was already going over the possibilities. Well, a policeman’s lot is not an easy one. The salary is very small and must be augmented, I suppose.
I didn’t waste much time worrying about his problem. My own predicament was more pressing. It weighed heavily on me—-to say the least -- as two husky British soldiers followed Putnam’s instructions and hustled me off for an inside tour of the famous Valetta fortifications. The tour ended in a dungeon lapped by the sea water which surrounds three sides of Fort St. Elmo.
It sure looked like I was down for the count a la Monte Cristo. This dungeon was at the base of the fort, and when I chinned myself up to the one window, I saw that the level of the ocean was only about a foot below the barred aperture. It was pretty dank as it stood, but I couldn’t help wondering what happened when the morning tide came in. Luckily, I never had to find out.
About two hours after the dungeon door had clanged shut behind me, I was pulled out of a semi-sleep by the noise of something being drawn across the window bars. Looking up, I was able to make out an oar hitting against them in the moonlight. I pulled myself up to the window bars and found myself looking into a rowboat moored alongside the window.
Two men in the rowboat were very busy setting up a hacksaw blade on the end of one of the oars, evidently intending to saw away the window bars. The third man was sitting there with the attitude of a paying passenger above such menial labor. The third man was Charles Putnam.
“Haven’t we met someplace before?” I greeted him.
“I do seem to recollect that we have.”
“Now you recollect? Your memory’s improved. How come?”
“Everything will be explained to you in due time, Mr. Victor.”
“The name is familiar,” I told him. “But are you sure it's mine?”
“I never forget a name-—-or a face,” he assured me.
“Never?”
“No, never.”
“Never?”
“Well, hardly ever.”
I figured that was enough Gilbert and Sullivan under the circumstances, and so I lapsed into silence. The two men with Putnam knew their business. It took them less than an hour to saw off the bars of my prison. I climbed into the rowboat alongside Putnam, and they rowed us silently away from the fortifications.
I took my cue from Putnam and kept quiet. Rags had been wrapped around the oars to muffle the sounds of rowing. We glided silently past both Maltese and British guard-ships. Finally, we were out of the harbor itself. We anchored next to a pretty spiffy-looking private yacht. A ladder was dropped to us, and we climbed aboard. I followed Putnam down to a luxurious cabin.
When we were alone, I finally allowed myself to explode. “Now what’s the big idea?” I asked indignantly. “Why did you deny I was Steve Victor? Why did you have the British throw me into a dungeon if you meant to rescue me? What the hell is going on?”