Aaron Elkins - Fellowship Of Fear

Monsieur Delvaux laughed with real amusement. "I have been in intelligence for thirty-three years, and I have never-neh- vaire -encountered an affair like this. And you, you lucky devil, walk right into it the first time!" He laughed again. "Do you know, several weeks ago we began intercepting Russian messages referring to an NSD agent who was hot upon their trail-that is the correct phrase? We racked our brains many hours trying to determine who in the world they were talking about. It was only after the terrible attack on you in Sicily that we began to think it might be you. That, of course, is the reason we terminated our relationship, or tried to, when you were last in Heidelberg- concern for your life."

"I wish Marks had told me that. I wouldn’t have insisted on coming here, believe me."

"Unfortunately, dealing with others is not Mr. Marks’s forte. He did what he was told. But I am surprised that Dr. Rufus consented to send you here."

"Did he know the Russians were after me, too? Did everybody know it but me?"

"You and Monkes. No, Dr. Rufus didn’t know. But he did know we didn’t want you sent here, and that has been enough for him in the past."

Delvaux’s severely pursed lips indicated more than a little displeasure with Dr. Rufus. Gideon was tempted to inquire further into the arrangement between NSD and USOC. Instead, he defended Dr. Rufus.

"He wasn’t very keen on my coming. I leaned on him pretty heavily. And I made a point of asking him not to inform you." He wasn’t altogether sure about that, but he didn’t like the idea of Dr. Rufus, who had been so reluctant about it, having difficulties on his account.

"So," Delvaux said. "Well." He placed both hands on his plump thighs. He was ready to go. The interview was over.

"Before you go," Gideon said, "there is a small matter that worries me just a little. The KGB thinks I’m some kind of super-duper agent who’s going to foil their plan to blow up the world or whatever it is. They’ve tried to kill me twice-at least, two times that we know of. It seems rather probable that those efforts will continue, doesn’t it?"

"No, you can stop worrying. They are no longer interested in you. I guarantee it."

"I value your guarantee highly, but it would certainly ease my mind if you could share with me the reason for your confidence."

Delvaux smiled. "I enjoy you, do you know? Not all Americans have so nice a way with words, even in their own language. Here is what we’ve done. In the past twelve hours, we have sent four secret messages to our agents which make it extremely clear that you are no longer involved with us in any way, and that they are neither to communicate with you nor to accept any communication from you."

"But it’s the KGB I have to worry about, isn’t it? What good does-" He stopped when Delvaux raised his hand.

"You see, the KGB works very hard at intercepting our messages, just as we do theirs. And we are well aware of certain of our own secret channels that are not quite as secret as they are supposed to be. The new directives concerning you have been routed through several of those rather leaky channels."

"But how can you be positive they’ll be picked up by the Russians? It hardly seems certain." He was beginning to understand the way John felt in their anthropological discussions. Every question he asked received an answer that left him maddeningly incredulous and thoroughly convinced at the same time.

"Oh no. We know. You see, we are rather good at intercepting their messages too. And twenty minutes before I called you this morning, I received word that the KGB has already sent out word that the… what was it? the super-duper agent?…is no longer a threat and is to be left in peace. They did not name you, of course, but there is no question that it is you. You are in no danger. Period."

Gideon’s mind was beginning to turn soggy. It seemed as if NSD had a more reliable communication interchange with the KGB than it did with its own Bureau Four. "But look," he said. "If you can send out false messages for the sole purpose of being intercepted by them, what makes you think they can’t do the same thing? How do you know that this morning’s message about me is reliable?"

"Ah, we can be sure about that. When a message is encoded-"

This time it was Gideon who held up his hand. "Stop. I don’t want to know. I can’t process any more data. I believe you, I believe you."

Delvaux laughed softly. "That’s fine." He looked at his watch. "And now I must go. Is there anything else I can tell you?"

"Yes. Why were my socks stolen?"

"Ah, that is a funny one. We don’t have any idea. We know that Mr. Monkes was in your room several times looking for information he thought you’d stolen. But the socks, they make no sense whatever. As for as we can tell, the incident has no significance."

"Could it have been the KGB?"

"That stole your socks? Hardly. Now, if they’d been American blue jeans…"

They said good-bye at the terminal. Gideon shook hands with affection, and felt the grip returned.

"Where are you off to now?" Gideon asked.

"Now I go back to Holland, to Brunssum, to confer with Herr Embacher, the director general."

"The head of NSD? This is as important as all that?"

Delvaux shrugged expressively but did not reply.

Gideon’s mood was one of reasonable satisfaction as he watched the bus leave. Delvaux had assured him that his personal safety was no longer at risk. The fact that he had received similar assurances two weeks before was of minor concern. More importantly, his scientist’s soul was content-or nearly so; Delvaux had fitted almost all of the missing pieces into place. Only a few annoying questions remained: Who was the spy on the USOC staff? What were the Russians really up to?

And somehow most perplexing and bothersome of all in its own niggling way: Why had someone stolen three pairs of his socks?

As soon as he saw the figure at the top of the stairs, Gideon knew there was something odd about him. A slight, dark young man of twenty with flashing black eyes, he looked distinctly out of place in the BOQ. He was certainly no air force officer. He would have seemed more at home on the stage of a flamenco cabaret or with a sword and muleta in his hands at the Plaza Monumental. He was an American, though; Gideon’s anthropological intuition told him that. He had the graceful slouch of a New Yorker or perhaps an Angeleno; a big-city boy returned as an indifferent GI to the land of his fathers.

What caught Gideon’s attention, however, was the boy’s hesitant stealth, a furtiveness that was almost appealing in its naivete: an abrupt, startled stop when he first saw Gideon at the foot of the stairs, then a quick intake of breath for courage, and a patently feigned nonchalance as he descended. He was even whistling tunelessly as he passed Gideon at the middle of the stairway.

He was nearly past when Gideon saw what he was carrying in his hand. Gideon reached behind him and grasped the boy by the upper arm. The biceps was stringy and tough.

"I think that’s my radio you have there, isn’t it?"

"What?" said the boy. His eyes darted quickly to the side, and Gideon tightened his grip. "Hey, let go of me, man. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You don’t let go of me, I kill you!" The words were accompanied by a snarl, but the heart-pounding fear behind them was obvious: He tried to shake off Gideon’s hand, and they both bumped roughly into the wall and staggered down a couple of steps.

The orderly stationed at the reception desk, a large, powerful man with huge forearms, came to the foot of the stairs. "Hey, what’s going on?" he said.

"This kid was just walking out with my radio," Gideon said.