The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage, Page 2

  Thus, my position was essentially unchanged when I received a call from George about six weeks after l’affaire Karinovsky. It seemed that Colonel Baker wanted to see me. I went at once. Our last transaction had been more than satisfactory. I don’t know what secret agents normally earn; but, at Baker’s rates, I was definitely interested in continuing my new career.

  The Colonel came to the point at once. “It’s about that fellow you brought in last month,” he said.

  I thought it very decent of the Colonel to phrase it that way.

  “What about him?” I asked.

  “He wants to come over.”

  “That’s a surprising development,” I said.

  “Not particularly. Karinovsky is a professional. As such, he is likely to change sides when offered the proper inducement.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “You probably understood,” Baker told me, “that I came to an arrangement with Karinovsky last month. I wanted certain information, which he supplied. This, of course, gave me a further hold over him. After that, I wanted more information. And more, and more. I was insatiable.” He smiled a nasty little smile. “It put Karinovsky into the position of a double agent; potentially, a very dangerous situation. It was only a matter of time before his people found out. Now he wants to come over, which is something of a coup for us.”

  I said, “Well, sir, that’s very good news.”

  “But of course, it isn’t quite as simple as that. The thing must be arranged with care, and an agent must be assigned to control the operation and render physical assistance if necessary. In this case, Karinovsky has requested the aid of a specific agent. You.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes, you. Specifically and exclusively you. It is, I suppose, a predictable consequence of our little deception. Karinovsky is in Venice at present, and he needs to get out rather urgently. He wants help from our best man—the redoubtable Agent X. He not only wants it, he expects it. Under the circumstances, I would dislike having to tell him that Agent X is a figment of our imagination.”

  “There’s no reason to tell him,” I said. “I am quite prepared to render whatever assistance is necessary.”

  “That’s very good of you,” Baker said. “I was hoping you would say that. But I think I should mention that there is a certain irreducible element of danger in this assignment. Not too much, I believe; but it cannot be discounted.”

  “That doesn’t alarm me, sir.”

  The Colonel looked considerably cheered. “Actually, it’s simple enough. Karinovsky is in Venice. He has already been in contact with our resident agent, Marcantonio Guesci. All you’ll have to do, really, is fly down to Venice and get in touch with Guesci. He’ll arrange everything, and spirit both you and Karinovsky out of Italy. The entire operation should take no more than a day or two. You would merely have to follow Guesci’s instructions.”

  I was a little disappointed at hearing this. The Colonel evidently planned to use me as nothing more than a figurehead, a sort of imitation of a secret agent. Of course, I hadn’t expected to be in charge of the case this early in my career; but still, I had hoped for a little more responsibility.

  “It’s all right with me,” I said.

  “Excellent,” Colonel Baker said. “I would prefer, by the way, to keep your true identity a secret. Not even Guesci need know the truth about Agent X. I mean, I have full confidence in your abilities, but Guesci might not.”

  “What if Guesci wants to talk shop?” I asked.

  “He won’t. But in case he does, our story is that you’ve just been transferred from Far East Command. No one around here knows what those fellows do. I doubt if they know themselves.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “It’s really quite simple,” Baker said, for the second time. “The only complicating factor is Karinovsky’s former employers. They won’t want to let Karinovsky slip away; that sort of thing lowers morale and looks very bad on the records.”

  “What will they do?”

  “Try to kill him, I suppose. We want to prevent that.”

  “Yes, sir. How many of them are there?”

  “Six or eight, I suppose. You’ll study the dossiers before you go. They’re a ham-handed bunch for the most part. Except for Forster.”

  “Sir?”

  “Forster is head of Soviet Intelligence Operations, Northeast Italian sector. He’s a formidable fellow, a big, powerful chap, skilled with small arms and quite ingenious at planning. Definitely a man on his way up. But I suspect that he’s overconfident.”

  “How am I supposed to handle him?”

  The Colonel thought about that for a while. At last he said, “I think the best plan would be to avoid him entirely.”

  That didn’t sound too promising. Forster seemed to have a fearsome reputation. But then, I had a fearsome reputation, too. His deeds might well be as insubstantial as mine; anything was possible in this line of work. And frankly, the element of danger was intriguing rather than dismaying. It was difficult to become frightened in a snug office on the Boulevard Haussmann; but it was easy to dream of Venice, of the pigeons wheeling over the Piazza San Marco, and the motorboats racing down the Grand Canal, and myself walking into Doney’s with money in my pocket. …

  Colonel Baker and I had a short, interesting discussion on the subject of money. I finally accepted the sum of fifteen hundred dollars for what should be no more than two days’ work. I thought that I was doing very well. I even felt a little embarrassed at taking such a large sum for such an easy assignment.

  I was very busy for the next forty-eight hours, studying dossiers, poring over maps of Venice, and soaking up the necessary background. Then Baker got word from Guesci. Karinovsky had gone into hiding, and the escape route was ready. The next morning I was on an airplane to Venice.

  3

  My airplane touched down at Venice’s Aeroporto Marco Polo at 11:30 in the morning. I cleared customs and passport control without difficulty, and walked out of the airport building.

  It was a warm and lucid day. Directly ahead of me was the pier, crowded with boatmen offering their assorted craft for the short journey across the lagoon to the Piazza San Marco. Across the gleaming water I could see Venice itself, presenting its incredible skyline of sagging spires and tilted rectangular towers, pinnacles and chimneys, humpbacked buildings and crenellated walls.

  My first reaction was literary and spurious; I thought of Atlantis, Port-Royal, and Ys of Armorica. Then I took notice of the huge grain elevator, and I saw how the fairy silhouettes were bound together by a tracery of power lines and television aerials. The city now seemed a fraud, a clumsy and willful anachronism. But that wasn’t the truth, either.

  This double effect was uniquely Venetian. The city has always been too stunning and too meretricious, and much too demanding of raw appreciation. When you see the Serenissima admiring herself in her mirror of dirty water, you are inevitably annoyed. But, however much you may deplore the lady’s conceits, honesty forces you to admit her charms.

  I wanted to go to her at once; but my instructions were to proceed first to the mainland city of Mestre, there to meet Guesci and discuss strategy. I turned regretfully to the west, where a great oily pall of smoke marked my immediate destination.

  A green and black Fiat pulled up, driven by a smiling, glossy-haired young man wearing amber shades.

  “How much to the Excelsior in Mestre?” I asked him.

  “Sir, I will make you a very good price–”

  Then I was shouldered aside. A fat man with a fat camera, wearing a blond business suit and a hand-painted necktie, with a porter behind him carrying two leather bags of expensive appearance, pushed past me.

  “Take me to Mestre,” he said, “and make it snappy.” His strident tones and flat vowels identified him as a countryman of mine.

  “This taxi is already occupied,” the driver said.

  “Like hell it is,” the fat man said, easing himself through the doorway
like a maggot entering a wound.

  “It is occupied,” the driver said again.

  The fat man noticed me for the first time. He decided to be charming. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m really in one hell of a hurry.”

  I did mind, but not very much. “Help yourself,” I said, and started to pull my B-4 bag away.

  But my glossy young driver shook his head firmly and put a restraining hand on my wrist. “No,” he said, “you have hired me.”

  “Look, he said it was OK,” the fat man said.

  “But I have not said it was OK,” the driver told him. He was not smiling now. He was a nervous little fellow, and his sensibilities had been outraged. I hadn’t received any instructions about taxis, but at this point I wouldn’t have ridden across the street with him without an armed escort. Call it a premonition.

  The fat man had made himself comfortable on the back seat. He wiped his forehead and said to the driver, “Look, stop being ridiculous, let’s roll.”

  “We shall not roll,” the driver said. It looked as if the one big moment of his day had been the thought of driving me into Mestre. And now the fat man had robbed him of the pleasure.

  “Get going,” the fat man said, “or I’ll call a cop.”

  “On the contrary,” the driver said, “it is I who will call a policeman if you do not exit yourself on the instant.”

  “So call,” the fat man said complacently. He winked at me: damned uppity, these natives.

  Another taxi came up, and I started toward it. For a moment the glossy young man tightened his hand on my wrist; but at the last moment he must have recognized the inevitability of losing my company. He let go and gave me a what-friends-we-might-have-been look. Then he folded his arms and leaned back against his fender.

  I got into the second cab. As we moved into the main road, I looked back and saw that the fat man was shouting angrily at the driver, who was still slouched against the fender. No other taxi was in sight.

  My new driver was a middle-aged man with an engaging monkey face. He drove his little Fiat with considerable dash, and he kept up a ceaseless conversation. It gave me a chance to air my cover story.

  “First time in Venice?”

  “No, I was here once before.”

  “Ah! You are tourist?”

  “Sales representative.”

  “Ah, that is why you go to Mestre?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you sell?”

  “Business machines.”

  “Business machines? Like typewriters? Ah, you are a salesman of typewriters. And this brings you all the way from America?”

  “That’s about it,” I told him. My cover story was getting an unexpected workout.

  “You must sell many typewriters,” the driver said.

  “Enough.”

  “Do you sell more than Olivetti?”

  “No. But we’re trying.”

  “The Olivetti is a superb machine,” the driver stated dogmatically. “My niece, who works for a lawyer, has told me so.”

  “Mmmm,” I said.

  “What is the name of your machine?”

  “Adams-Finetti.”

  “I have never heard of it.”

  “We’re really better known for our adding machines,” I told him.

  The driver stopped asking questions and concentrated on racing a trolley across an intersection. He beat it, and opened up for a straightaway. A 2 CV came up on his left, and a promising unknown in an Alfa-Romeo took position on his right. Just behind us, a supercharged Bentley with triple stacks and lowered suspension was waiting to make its bid.

  My driver jammed the accelerator to the floor and swerved superbly around fixed obstacles such as old ladies, baby carriages, and pushcarts. I leaned back with ersatz calm.

  We held our lead through a tunnel. The 2 CV, obviously outclassed, fell back. The Bentley, its great pipes bellowing, made its bid. But my driver swung into the center of the road, matching his skill against his opponent’s greater horsepower. He began to sing, just as the late great Pastafazu had been known to sing during the stickier moments at Le Mans.

  Now a motorcycle pulled up beside us. It rode parallel to my window, and for a moment the driver and I were staring at each other. He was clad in Early Brando; black leather pants and jacket, glass-studded kidney belt, gauntlets, Wellington boots and crash helmet. No face; just fur-rimmed goggles and a mouth. He was driving a big, high-powered Indian.

  We looked at each other for a while. Then he twisted the throttle and shot ahead of us, disappearing into the stream of traffic.

  A lot of people seemed to be interested in me. I tried to tell myself that nobody could be on to me this soon.

  We came into the outskirts of Mestre and the driver turned abruptly into a narrow, tenement-lined street. I frowned and sat up. The driver grinned at me and increased speed.

  We shot past garages and stores. Everything seemed to be closed; even the sidewalks were deserted. I imagined the people hidden behind their heavy wooden shutters, waiting for a seasonal violence to erupt in their sun-blasted streets. A faint preliminary edge of panic touched me: the accelerating car, the empty noontime streets, the fat man, the taxi driver, the cyclist.

  My driver abruptly slammed on his brakes and wrestled the taxi to a stop in the middle of the street Two men ran out of doorways on either side and got into the cab beside me. The driver stamped his foot on the accelerator, and we started moving fast again.

  4

  The man on my left was sportily clad in chocolate slacks, beige sports shirt, raw silk jacket, alligator shoes, and walnut-handled .38 revolver. He nudged me in the side with the gun, like a kid playing stick-’em-up. He had a narrow, nasty little face and a pointy moustache.

  “Take care,” he said. “No sudden moves, no shoutings. Right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Observe,” he said, flipping out the cylinder of his revolver. “Fully loaded.” He closed the cylinder. “Safety is off, gun set to fire on double-action. Right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Beppo,” he said to his pal on my right, “show him your gun.”

  “Never mind,” I said, “I believe you.”

  “Why should you believe me?” the man asked. “Maybe I’m lying. Beppo, show him.”

  Beppo was a sour-faced man of imposing build. He took his gun out of my kidneys, opened it, waited until I nodded, then closed it again.

  “That’s a great routine you boys have,” I said.

  “We are glad you like it, Mr. Nye,” said the dude on my left. “You may call me Carlo.”

  “Because it’s not your name?” I asked, feeling lightheaded.

  “Correct,” Carlo said, beaming.

  “Is he also part of your act?” I asked, pointing at the driver.

  “He’s a humorist, too,” Carlo said. “Aren’t you, Giovanni?”

  “I know some very funny stories,” the driver said. “Listen, have you ever heard about the two priests and the well-digger’s daughter?”

  “I’ve heard it,” Beppo growled. “When will you learn some new stories?”

  Carlo laughed, and I joined in. I was feeling slightly hysterical. I had recognized their faces from Colonel Baker’s dossiers. Which meant that I was in trouble.

  “Well, well,” Carlo said, wiping his eyes, still chuckling. “Here we are.”

  The taxi turned into an alley, twisted into a courtyard, went around a dry concrete fountain, and then squeezed into another courtyard. Giovanni stopped the car and we all got out.

  On three sides there were crumbling brick walls and boarded-up windows. On the fourth side there was a bicycle repair shop on the ground floor. The upper two stories had French windows and narrow balconies.

  “We are home,” Carlo said. He clicked on the safety and put his revolver away in a chamois holster under his left arm. Beppo kept his revolver in his fist.

  “This way,” Beppo said. He took me by the arm.

  The mo
ment he touched me, I yanked my arm free and started to run.

  Carlo had already moved between me and the exit. He had his gun out He said, “Stop, or I will shoot out your right kneecap.”

  That was a pretty sobering thought I stopped.

  “Put your hands behind your head,” Carlo said. I did so. Carlo stepped up, snarled something, and raked me across the forehead with the front gun-sight.

  I heard the sound of someone clapping. We all looked up.

  One of the French windows was open. A man stood on the little balcony. He clapped three times; the contemptuous applause echoed against the brick walls.

  “Strange,” he said in a conversational voice, “how, for some men, the possession of a gun acts as a powerful intoxicant. It destroys the reasoning faculties, eh, Carlo?”

  “He was trying to escape,” Carlo said.

  “But I specifically told you not to damage the merchandise,” the man said gently. “Men with guns must learn not to shoot their livelihood.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Forster,” Carlo said.

  The man on the balcony nodded. He said, “Do come inside, Mr. Nye. We can discuss our business at leisure.”

  Forster turned and left the balcony. Carlo and Beppo closed on either side of me. They led me into the bicycle shop. The driver had taken a rag out of his pocket and was polishing the hood of his cab.

  5

  “Welcome to sunny Italy,” Forster said.

  “Awfully nice to be here,” I replied. But I was not feeling so jaunty as I tried to sound.