“You can show me in the car,” Christopher said.
Sitting in the front seat beside Christopher, Klimenko drew a sketch of the roads leading to Frankie Pigeon’s house in the hills above Catanzaro. on the toe of the Italian boot. He handed it to Christopher.
“He takes two men with him,” he said. “I don’t know what their security arrangements are. He likes to hunt rabbits in the early morning and talk with the farmers in the evening. He goes for walks before dinner.”
“I thought you said you didn’t keep in touch.”
“I kept myself informed.”
“Is there anything else about this man Pigeon-as a person, I mean?”
“The weakness?” Klimenko said. “He’s a snob-he’s been bilked of thousands by genealogists attempting to prove that his mother’s family, the Cerruti, are bourgeoisie from the north of Italy; but all the Cerruti are Sicilian from way back, shepherds and shoemakers. That’s of no use to you.”
“Then tell me something that is useful.”
“Frankie Pigeon is a hypochondriac. He’s morbid about germs-washes his hands all the time. He has a servant who spreads sterilized towels over the floor for him to walk on in hotels. He boils his coins before he touches them, won’t handle paper money at all because of the danger of disease. You recognize the pathology-it’s common enough in murderers.”
The bleak shape of Monte Testaccio loomed above the car, with a cross mounted at its summit. “What’s the name of that hill?” Klimenko asked.
Christopher told him. “It’s made entirely of pottery-the jugs the ancient Romans used to transport wheat and honey from the eastern Mediterranean. It will appeal to your Leninist sense of irony that the Monte Testaccio, a dump, is the only remaining trace of the common people of the Roman Empire.”
Klimenko laughed, coughed, and covered his mouth. “What are the arrangements?” he asked.
Christopher gave him an address and a key. “Be ready at five o’clock, precisely on the hour. The man who comes will say his name is Edward Trelawny. You’ll reply, ‘Do you still have Shelley’s heart?’”
“Almost twelve hours. Can’t it be sooner?”
“No. One last thing, Gherman-don’t talk to anyone else about Frankie Pigeon for fourteen days. Then you can spill it.”
Klimenko was swiveling his head, watching the approaches to the car.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes. I’ll tell your friends on January 6. There’ll be no trouble filling the time with other things, Paul.”
5
Christopher began to talk while Molly was still in the room. Tom Webster gave her a cold stare and held up his palm.
Molly smiled and said, “Tell me the etiquette, Mr. Webster.”
“Tom would feel more comfortable if you went into the bedroom and read a book,” Christopher said.
When the door had closed behind Molly, Webster said, “What does she know?”
“That I’m a retired agent. She had to know what she was involved in, so I told her. She took the call from Klimenko, but she doesn’t know his name or what he is.”
“Klimenko?”
“That’s what I have for you, Tom-Gherman Klimenko. He wants to defect.”
“He’s in Rome?”
“Yes, I met him twice, last night and this morning. You can pick him up at five o’clock.”
“Why does he want to come across?”
Christopher shrugged. “He’s pleading ideological disillusionment. I think he’s just tired of the life, the way they usually are. Even Klimenko feels his motives are a little peculiar. He doesn’t want to be offered money.”
Webster stood up and looked at his watch. The phonograph was playing Molly’s new love songs at full volume and Christopher had to strain to hear Webster’s voice.
“Where is Klimenko?”
“In a minute, Tom. There are some things I need.”
“You’re bargaining with me?”
“No,” Christopher said. “I’m going to ask a favor. You can have Klimenko whether you help me or not. What would I do with him?”
Webster sat down again and peeled the cellophane from a cigar. He watched Christopher through the flame of the match. “Wolkowicz sent a cable on your doings in Saigon,” he said. “He sent somebody out to that church you visited-the cellar is full of opium.”
“Is it? Well, that’s a dividend for Wolkowicz.”
“Like Klimenko is my dividend? For a retiree you’re pretty active.”
“I’m like a reformed tart,” Christopher said. “People just won’t believe I don’t enjoy it anymore.”
“You still won’t tell me what you’re up to? Wolkowicz is in a tizzy out there, and it’s going to communicate.”
“I’ll be finished soon. Tom, I’ve gone as far as I can go alone on this. I need some support.”
“Tell me what you’re after, and you’ve got all the support you can use.”
“No.”
“Then no support.”
“Okay, Tom,” Christopher said, with no inflection in his voice. “Klimenko’s at 6 piazza Oratorio, second floor. The name on the door is Busotti.”
“What’s that place?”
“It’s a pied à terre Cathy had for herself. She gave me the keys when she left-there was a paid-up three-year lease.”
“What does Klimenko expect?”
“All I gave him was a recognition code. Tell him your name is Edward Trelawny when you pick him up. He’ll reply, ‘Do you still have Shelley’s heart?’ He expects you at five.” Christopher handed Webster a key. “You’d better knock before entering,” he said. “He’s nervous.”
Webster stabbed the ashtray with his cigar, breaking it in half. “Let me ask you this-does this operation of yours have anything to do with the United States of America?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me about it when it’s all over? Have you told Patchen, or anybody, so that the file will be tidy if you get your brains blown out?”
“After it’s over, I’ll tell you if I can, Tom. Patchen knows. If I can’t tell you, try him.”
“Then you are working?”
“Not for the outfit, Tom. If you help me, you put your ass in hazard.”
Webster breathed loudly through his nose, attempting to keep his patience. “What do you need?”
“I want you to take Molly back to Paris with you and keep her off the streets until New Year’s Eve. She can stay with Sybille or you can put her in a safe house, but I want her covered twenty-four hours a day.”
“Why is that necessary?”
“They’ve threatened her. I can’t leave her alone-she has no idea how to protect herself.”
“All right. Sybille and I are going to Zermatt for the holidays. We can take your girl along.”
“Second,” Christopher said, “I want you to fix it up with the Rome station so that I can use their villa on the via Flaminia for a week, beginning day after tomorrow. It has to be the villa- I don’t want any other safe house. Third, I need the stuff on this list by tomorrow night. It can be left in the villa.”
Webster read the list and frowned. “You want weapons?” he said.
“Yes.”
“All that stuff in Saigon must have shaken you up,” Webster said.
“Parts of it did. Can you do all that?”
Webster ran his finger down the list. He said, “I think so. Rome will get credit for Klimenko-they won’t be in a mood to deny you anything.”
“You don’t have to say the villa and the weapons are for me. Find out how to turn off the microphones.”
Webster put on his coat. He opened his attaché case and held up a nine-millimeter Walther pistol. “Do you want this until I get back?”
“No. I’m going to stay inside.”
Webster balanced the flat automatic on his palm, then put it in his pocket. “Look for me about ten,” he said. “I may want to sleep here-Molly and I can get an early start in the morning.”