The Venetian Affair (49 page)

Bill—what had happened to him? Where was he? Her thoughts kept being forced back to him, as if they were being drawn...

She raised her head. From the silent darkness outside there had come a ship’s warning travelling over water—not the heavy blast from a liner or freighter, but the peremptory little siren she had heard today on a water-bus travelling to the Lido. Could that be a
vaporetto
plying its way up the Grand Canal? She rose, moved quickly to the door, switched off the light, returned to the window. The shutters had swung closed again. She forced the inch of space open. As if to answer her question, she heard music floating toward her, at first faint, louder, very loud; less loud, decreasing, passing.
O sole mio
. So it was the Grand Canal down there, far below her. And there were gondolas, with their people looking up to admire the view on either side. And even if the dark houses far opposite were museums or offices, closed for the night, there were other houses near them where people lived and stepped out on to their balconies to look at the night. People...

She picked up a shoe and wedged its toe into the little opening between the shutters. That would hold them. She ran to the light switch, her exhaustion forgotten.

She flicked the switch on. And waited. She flicked it off. Count a slow five, switch on. Count a slow five, switch off. Count; on. Count; off...

That was all she could do. That, and hope.

Hurrying, but not too alarmed, Robert Wahl had made his quiet return to Ca’ Longhi. A black gondola in a small dark canal, an unlighted door waiting to open for him, and he was safely inside the heavy walls. He was more annoyed than worried. Lenoir’s guarded telephone call only told him that there was trouble with Sandra, that he was needed. He arrived, expecting to stay for ten minutes, blaming Lenoir for any difficulty that had arisen: Sandra Fane had been obedient enough when he had left her.

Then he heard the details. The problem had developed a different dimension. The quiet, understanding, wisely tolerant smile of film producer Wahl was wiped out; the handsome face became Kalganov’s mask, eyes narrowed and calculating, mouth grim and unrelenting. The voice changed, too, from ironical innuendo to savage contempt, goading Lenoir into a flood of self-justification.

The situation was not out of hand, Lenoir insisted at the end of his detailed report. Sandra had realised her situation was hopeless. She had confessed. She was in the library, next door—writing out a statement of her guilt. Martin was guarding her.

Kalganov listened impatiently. “And what have you done about Ballard?”

“Tarns reported he was in the Vittoria bar. I took immediate action, of course.”

“Such as?”

“I had a man pick him up at the hotel.”

“How?”

“He met Ballard coming out of the bar. He persuaded him to walk to the front door.”

“With what?”

“A gun concealed under a raincoat over his arm. It was discreetly done. Ballard made no trouble. He was taken completely by surprise.” Lenoir’s temper was shortening, his voice became more clipped.

“And at the front door?”

“I had a motorboat waiting.” Lenoir paused. “Naturally.”

“And the letter? Did Ballard have the letter?”

“I am waiting for a telephone call about that.”

Kalganov’s silence lasted a long minute. At last, he said, “They will not find it. He will swear he never saw it. That is why he walked out so quietly from the hotel. Nothing could be proved against him, and so he felt safe.”

“He also felt the gun hard at his ribs.” Lenoir eased his voice. “I think he still has the letter. That could be the only reason why he was in the Vittoria bar—to meet Fenner and give him the letter.”

“Fenner,” Kalganov said very softly, and frightened even Lenoir.

Nervously he glanced at the telephone. “We’ll soon know whether Ballard has the letter or not. Meanwhile, we have to deal with Sandra’s written confession. It is important to us.”

“To you, particularly. The first question that Moscow will ask when they hear of her treason will be, ‘How did Comrade Lenoir live with this woman for three years and not notice anything wrong?’ You are in trouble, Comrade, if she does not confess correctly.”

And so are you, Lenoir thought. “I am aware of that,” he said coldly.

“I hope you have instructed her adequately.”

Lenoir almost smiled. “Certainly, I persuaded her to leave out the reason for her defection. She blames you for that, Comrade Wahl.”

“She has put the party in jeopardy, and you make jokes?”

Lenoir’s amusement died away. “It was no joke.” His voice was bitter.

Kalganov stared at him. “I shall see her. I am taking charge here. Your part of the operation is over. Without the letter—” He snapped his fingers.

“There can still be a campaign of rumours and newspaper speculation. It worked last April.”

“And failed, because we had no evidence. This time we had evidence. And we let it slip.”

“Along with the ten-thousand-dollar bills,” Lenoir reminded him. That had been Kalganov’s project. Its failure had not been emphasised, Lenoir couldn’t help remembering.

Kalganov changed the subject, and his manner, abruptly. In a more normal tone, he said, “Fortunately, the main operation
goes through. That is what counts, anyway. The essential action—that is the heart of the matter.”

“Fortunately, too,” Lenoir suggested, “I did not mention De Gaulle’s name in the letter, nor the actual time and date of the assassination.” He paused, waiting for some recognition of his skill in the letter’s wording: it would make clear sense once the event had taken place. Its careful phrases only implicated, meanwhile, the Americans and the British go-betweens in some cynical and devious plot holding an enormous threat against France. “I shall concentrate instead on the co-operation of progressive newspapers. You still need their headlines in order to give some reasonable cause for Trouin’s panic and suicide.” My part in this operation is not over, he thought: Kalganov needs me. He relaxed. “You agree?”

Kalganov was scarcely listening.

“You agree?” Lenoir insisted.

Kalganov said slowly, “Are you sure she did not tell Ballard about the assassination?”

“Martin examined her thoroughly on that point. She insisted she had told Ballard nothing. She had simply given him the letter to pass on to Fenner.”

“Did she tell Fenner about the assassination?”

“How could she? She hasn’t seen him yet. She was to meet him tomorrow night.”

“Who made this arrangement with Fenner?”

“Ballard. She asked Ballard to make contact with Fenner in Paris—and he did, as we know from André Spitzer’s report.”

“She asked Ballard? Why?”

Lenoir hesitated. “She had discovered you were having her recalled.”

“You told her?”

“Not I.” Lenoir returned Kalganov’s cold stare and hoped he was believed. If she learned from me by subterfuge, he thought, that was not a calculated error on my part: it was a personal betrayal on hers. “She was afraid, because she did not know the reason for her recall,” he went on quickly. “She says she was driven into an attempt to escape. She thought Fenner would help her. She used the letter only to bargain for help.”

“You believe her?” Kalganov did not.

“Who can believe a traitor?” Lenoir asked diplomatically.

“We have other ways of learning how much Fenner knows. Where is the woman, this Mrs. James Langley?”

Why should he speak so bitterly of that name? Lenoir wondered. He said, “She is upstairs. A pity—” He paused delicately.

“What is?”

“That you did not have Fenner brought here, too,” he said innocently. And that is one mistake for which I cannot be blamed.

Kalganov moved to the library door. “We are wasting time. I have business of my own tonight,” he reminded Lenoir. Aarvan’s arrest had to be investigated, thoroughly, and this fool had brought him here. “I’ll deal with the confession and with Langley. After that, I go.” This house smelled of stupidity and bungling, of evasions and excuses... Kalganov’s instincts urged him to finish what had to be done and leave. Quickly. Too many unanswered questions, too many imponderables. More might lie behind Aarvan’s arrest than just some mistake Aarvan had made on the Simplon Express. The mistake could have been Fenner, Fenner the seemingly negligible... Kalganov looked at Lenoir
bitterly as he paused at the door. These intellectuals were all the same: elaborate little plans, fussy attention to small perfections, and then, when something went wrong because of their inborn blindness, they screamed frantically for help, for someone else to act. To do. To complete. “We shall see how well you have instructed Fane,” he said bluntly, and entered the library.

Lenoir had been right about one thing, though. Sandra Fane was without any hope at all. It was possible, Kalganov thought as he looked at her, that she would confess everything sooner than he had expected. Despair was the necessary catalyst to produce satisfactory obedience.

She was sitting at the table, staring down at what she had written on a piece of paper. She had cried. Tears were still half-dried on her cheeks. Crying from pain? Or crying because she was defeated? He congratulated Martin on leaving so little evidence of his work. She looked almost normal except for the fear in her cringing body.

He picked up the confession and read it. “Totally inadequate,” he said, letting it drop.

She looked at him, put a hand over her aching mouth. She took a deep breath. “What do you want me to write?” she asked faintly.

“The truth.”

She picked up the pen, waiting for him to dictate. “Yes?” she asked. He eyed her coldly. Was she still capable of insulting him?

“You forgot to mention that your ex-husband, William Fenner, has been an agent of American Intelligence since Korea;
that you kept this secret, deceiving your comrades in New York, Mexico, Prague, even in Moscow itself. Because you knew that this fact would damage your career.”

So, she thought slowly, I not only deceived Kalganov, I deceived everyone. Everyone must share the blame. The more blame shared, the less for him. Cunning, clever Kalganov. So generous in sharing.

“Why,” he was demanding, “didn’t you mention the fact that Fenner made secret contact with you as soon as you came to Paris?”

“Three years ago?” Her eyes, half-closed with the knifelike pain that jabbed inside her left shoulder, opened in wonder.

“Three years ago. He pretended he was still in love with you, didn’t he? Poor Sandra—you believed him. Because you are still in love with him. Aren’t you?”

His voice was gentle, suddenly, like the first touch of a wire noose against her throat. His eyes narrowed, watching her face. The wire noose seemed to tighten.

“Complete the confession,” he said. “Add one more page to what you have written. Give the facts. All the facts. The blame for your treason lies with Fenner. And with you, for your weakness.” His eyes were satisfied now. He laid a fresh sheet of paper in front of her, then turned away. “I shall see you in fifteen minutes. If it is not correct—” He looked across the room at Martin. The wire noose, which had slackened, tightened again. “But if you write the truth, Moscow will take your honest remorse into consideration. You might even stay alive.”

He left, stopping to tell Martin something she couldn’t hear. Martin nodded and looked at her. Her hand fell away from her painful mouth, and the pen began to write. Martin, big and
slow and thorough, studied her with amusement, as if he were admiring the artistry of his persuasive powers.

The door closed behind Kalganov.

He found a frowning Lenoir standing beside the telephone.

“She will confess the truth,” Kalganov said. “The whole truth, this time. I’m going upstairs. You would like to be present, of course, when I question Claire Langley?” His heavy sarcasm ended. “What’s wrong?” he asked testily as Lenoir’s frown deepened.

Lenoir gestured toward the telephone. “Ballard—he hasn’t got the letter.”

“So he has already passed it to Fenner!”

“He would not tell us.”

“He did not talk?” Kalganov was scandalised.

“No,” Lenoir said quietly, “he didn’t talk this time. Odd, isn’t it? He was the biggest talker I ever met.”

Kalganov was outraged. “They did not keep him alive to talk?” he asked unbelievingly.

“There was an emergency. He tried to escape.” Lenoir waited for Kalganov’s outburst, but it didn’t come.

“I know one who will talk,” Kalganov said very quietly, and moved to the door. He waited there for Lenoir.

“I am going to call Zurich, to find out if Trouin has been arrested,” Lenoir said quickly. Kalganov’s methods are his; mine are mine, he thought. I will not go upstairs. I will not go into that library next door.

“I did not forget Trouin. But there is a quicker way of finding out if the assassination plan has been discovered by Fenner. The
answer to that question lies no farther away than your attic room. Are you coming?”

“First,” Lenoir said evasively, “I must send out a general alert for Fenner. He may still have the letter.”

“Scrap that letter! Forget it! It’s lost to us—for good!”

“I want Fenner,” Lenoir said grimly.

“And so do I.” But, thought Kalganov, I do not use that as a subterfuge to evade what has to be done. These intellectuals are always the same: they talk of sending in the tanks to shoot down rebellion, of using firing squads and bulldozers to plough traitors into massed graves, of forcing prisoners into screaming insanity for the sake of information, but they do it from the end of a telephone, from the committee table, from the anonymous distance. There he is, Comrade Lenoir, about to order torture if need be, death eventually, for the American called Fenner. But he will command it from this quiet room, among his books and records. And he is looking at me as if I were the monster. “Are you coming?” Kalganov demanded, opening the door on to the landing.

“Shortly,” Lenoir said. “I have to—”

“Indeed you have,” Kalganov said contemptuously. He walked out. Lenoir was picking up the telephone receiver with a great flourish of urgency.