George Bartram - Under the Freeze

Laforet drew lightly on the cigarette. “I suppose, to a modern Russian, an old Stalinist seems rather quaint.” He tapped ash with a practiced movement. “How bad is this business?”

“Bad.” He told about the attacks in Cuba and Argentina, the crash of the Soviet aircraft. “And now this. It’s a bloodbath.”

“Buenos Aires,” Laforet said musingly. “Why Buenos Aires?”

“I can’t say yet.”

“Yes you can.”

“Jules—”

“My friend, you are in no position to bargain. You are in France on an illegal passport; you have an illegal weapon; you were meeting a Cuban agent at the time of a terrorist attack! If we chose to put you on trial, we could send you to prison for life.”

“That would be embarrassing for you.” Tarp knew a lot about French intelligence.

“Of course it would. But your position is a weak one.”

“Let’s make a deal.”

“What?”

“Information for a protected base.”

“What information?” Laforet put the cigarette out carefully in a brass ashtray.

“A full report when it’s over. An outline now.”

“What sort of protected base did you have in mind?”

“A safe house where the woman can recuperate and where I can come and go. Some basic communications.”

“Sanctuary?”

“Yes.”

“That would implicate my government.”

“Not if you keep your distance.”

“Now, would you tell me, could a sub-minister of my experience and reliability ‘keep his distance,’ might I ask?”

“A cover story.” They held each other’s eyes for some seconds. “You are like a stone,” Laforet said. “Unmovable.” He laughed softly, like a man who has spent his life in places where loud laughter was improper. “And outrageous, as well. What is France getting in return?”

Tarp rubbed his eyes. He was worried about Juana now, and his thoughts kept snapping back to her. He had to focus to talk to Laforet, shutting her out. “I think that Soviet plutonium is getting to Argentina,” he said. “I don’t think your government will want it to show up as the atomic warhead on a French-made missile.”

Laforet grew even quieter. “Are you sure?”

“No.”

“This is part of the Dzerzhinsky Square business?”

“Yes.”

Laforet smoothed his trouser leg some more. “What would be the cover story if we give you a base and protection?”

“I’m working on something in England.”

“Aha.” Laforet raised one slender finger in the gesture of a medieval saint. “We pretend that the Moscow business is the cover!” He shook his head. “It is so outrageous I am tempted to do it simply for the amusement.”

“It’s workable.”

Laforet looked out the window. A barge was coming up the river, and, behind it, one of the glass-topped tourist boats was overtaking it. The sun was breaking through, making the water dance with light. “Anything is workable if it is made to work,” Laforet said. “What is it you would be doing in England?”

“Plugging a leak.”

“Do they have one?”

“Don’t they always?”

Laforet looked at his wrist watch and then stood. The watch was gold and matched his gold cuff links; Tarp remembered that Laforet had married the daughter of a millionaire. “I have to leave in four minutes,” Laforet said. “What you have told me about the plutonium is very disturbing. Very disturbing. I think… I believe we will want to support you. For now, you are free to go, and we will keep the woman under guard. What sort of safe house did you want?”

“Something handy to the Channel ports. Normandy, Brittany. With a car. I’d expect you to keep trackers and watchers; I’d want a trustworthy caretaker. Plus whatever medical help the woman will need.”

“I shall have some paperwork drawn up.”

There were footsteps in the corridor as somebody approached to tell Laforet he was due for his next appointment. Tarp stood up and touched Laforet’s arm. “This is a bad business, Jules. I can’t seem to catch up with it. Whoever it is who’s on the other side — he doesn’t care about blood. He doesn’t care about anything.”

There was a knock at the door. “One minute!” Laforet called. He tried to make a joke of it. “From what you have told me, it sounds like not one man but a dozen. A dozen very bloody men.” He adjusted his cuffs with long fingers. “I must go.” He put out his hand. “Where will you be?”

“London.”

“Ever the fast mover.”

“I’m on the run. The trouble is, I don’t where my hiding place is.”

“My assistant will give you a communications route. I should like to talk again within forty-eight hours. In the meantime, we shall do everything we can for the woman.”

“Of course.”

Laforet went out. The sun broke through again to sparkle on the polished floor and on Tarp’s steel lighter, which Laforet had left for him.

He rented a car at Heathrow and drove slowly toward London. Something that Laforet had said had stuck with him. It sounds not like one man but a dozen . The idea was mixed up with the dream of the night before, that anger and that sense of helplessness. Not one man but a dozen . Not a dozen men in Moscow, but perhaps several men in several places. Even, perhaps, several unconnected men. Except that that made no sense, for they were connected at least by their bloodiness and their desire to stop what he and Repin were doing.

A few minutes later he remembered that Juana had never delivered her message to him. He found that he was angry with her.

It was almost time for him to meet with Johnnie Carrington at his club, but he pulled the car over in Kensington and found a telephone. First he called the number that Jenny Barnwell had given him and said, “Tell Jenny to call the Chinaman at seven,” meaning that Barnwell was to call the phone booth near Russell Square at ten. Then he readied another coin and dialed Mrs. Bentham’s number, which he had by this time memorized.

“Yes?” her imperious, high-pitched voice shouted.

“Mrs. Bentham, it’s Mr. Rider.”

“Yes?”

“I asked you to do some research for me.”

“Oh, yes?”

He did not seem to be getting anywhere. “I wondered if you’d had any success as yet.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Ah, I wonder if you could tell me something about it.”

“I shall put my report in the mail, Mr. Rider. Actually, you gave me no address. I must say, I thought it a little odd, your not giving me an address. I don’t work on speculation, you know, Mr. Rider.”

“Of course not.”

“And I don’t undertake anything of a questionable nature.”

“This isn’t of a questionable nature, Mrs. Bentham.”

“You have no address.”

“Of course I have. I simply didn’t give it to you.”

She sniffed. “The effect is the same.”

Tarp was trying to think it through. She lived in Croyden, he remembered. “Mrs. Bentham, would it be better for you if I paid you personally and picked up what you’ve done so far?”

“Visit my home ?” she said icily.

“Ah, no, I can see that that wouldn’t do. What if you were to bring your materials up to town, and of course I’d pay for your getting here and back. And your time, of course.”

“Tomorrow?” She seemed a little softened.

“Tonight, actually.”

“I never go out at night.” She sniffed. “Except when I am fortunate enough to go the theater, which is pitifully seldom these days. It has become so very expensive!”

Tarp smiled into the mouthpiece. “Mrs. Bentham, it would be my pleasure to let you be my guest at any theater you care to name. Then, let’s say, I could meet you in the interval. In the bar, how would that be?” A theater bar would be good for both of them, crowded, public, utterly without intimacy. “I couldn’t stay, of course, but we’d have time to talk briefly and you could show me what you’ve got so far.”