Charles Mccarry - The Tears Of Autumn

“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.”

Webster started to close the briefcase, then snapped his fingers and reached inside it for a copy of France-Soir, folded to the crime page. He handed Christopher the newspaper, tapping a small item with his forefinger. “I almost forgot to show you this,” he said.

Christopher read the item:

DEATH OF A CRIMINAL

About eleven o’clock last night, police were summoned to the public lavatories near the place Clemenceau to provide assistance to a man who had been found unconscious inside.

The attendant, Mile. R. Calamier, told the guardians of the peace that the man entered a compartment about 10:15. Shortly thereafter, Mile. Calamier, who was cleaning the women’s portion of the public facility, heard sounds of a struggle through the partition.

It was a few moments later that Mile. Calamier found the unconscious man, or the man she believed to be unconscious, in the compartment and summoned policemen on duty nearby.

The investigating officers found that the man was, in fact, dead. He had been struck a hard blow on the nape, judo-style. Police suspected at first that it was an affair of perverts.

However, medical examination revealed that the victim had died from a massive overdose of heroin. A portion of the hypodermic needle used to administer the fatal dosage was found in his arm, perhaps broken in the struggle that preceded his death. The police physician was not of the opinion that the deceased was a heroin addict: his body bore none of the usual signs of that habit, apart from the single fresh puncture in the forearm.

The victim was said to be Jean-Claude Gaboni, a Corsican born in Algeria. Gaboni was known to the police as a criminal type involved in the traffic in drugs. An investigation is in progress.

“You see?” Webster said. “Sometimes poetic justice triumphs.”

Christopher handed back the newspaper. It had been six days since he had told the Truong toe about Gaboni, three days since the Truong toe had given him Molly’s photograph. They were moving no more quickly than he’d thought they could.

“Do you still have Kim’s place bugged?” Christopher asked.

“Yes.”

“You may hear something about Gaboni on those tapes. If you hear anything about me, or about Molly, I hope you’ll let me know.”

“We’re always a week behind on the logs because of the translation problem. They talk Vietnamese all the time.”

“That’s terrific,” Christopher said.

“Wait a minute,” Webster said. “How would Kim know about Gaboni?”

“I told them in Saigon about that mistake with young Khoi in Divonne-les-Bains.”

“You told them? Why, for Christ’s sake?”

“You have to give something to get something,” Christopher said. “I wondered if they’d kill on foreign soil and how quickly. Now I know.”

Molly packed her suitcases without speaking. She laid Christopher’s ski clothes on top of her own in an extra bag. “I suppose there’s some remote chance we’ll both be alive on New Year’s Eve,” she said. “If you come to the mountains you’ll be properly dressed.”