The Venetian Affair (36 page)

“Or Military Intelligence. Carlson was seen at his hotel.”

“With him?” she asked in alarm.

“They both left the Crillon on Friday evening about the same time.”

“Together?” Sandra’s heart missed a second beat. Stupid, stupid fools.

Wahl did not answer that.

“Not exactly,” Lenoir said. “We can’t be sure though. That is the trouble with Fenner. We can’t be sure of anything about him. Did he intercept the money? Or was the exchanged coat a completely innocent mistake? I’m inclined to think it wasn’t—”

“Perhaps you are inclined to read too much into his actions,” Wahl said coldly. “There is no room in our work for emotions.” He looked angrily at Sandra Fane. Had she thought she would safeguard herself by making Lenoir fall in love with her? Yes, it was time for her to be disciplined. Did she guess what he was thinking? For she had turned pale. She was sitting too still.

Sandra recovered herself. “What’s this—about the coat and the money?” She asked Lenoir. “Do you mean Fenner was there when the money disappeared at Orly?”

“It was his coat that was exchanged with Goldsmith’s.”

She stared at him. And I had to choose Fenner as my contact in Venice, she thought: I had to suggest his name to Rosenfeld. This time, she couldn’t control her laughter. This time, it was real. It pealed on, and on, uncontrolled, uncontrollable.

Wahl raised his voice. “Stop that! Stop it!” Was the idea of Fenner as an Intelligence agent so absurd? “This is no time for hysteria,” he said acidly, well aware that Lenoir was as startled by her outburst as he had been. She was not a woman who behaved like this normally. Yet the laughter was normal in the sense that it was natural, unpretended. She had not been acting; of that, he was sure. He rose and crossed quickly to where she sat. She got control of herself. She opened her handbag and searched for her handkerchief to wipe the tears of laughter
from her eyes. Her fingers touched the map, and the thought of its contents—of her careful plans and calculated risk, of Rosenfeld seeking out Fenner at her suggestion, Fenner the natural suspect for the master of suspicion now standing over her—set her laughing once more. Wahl struck a smart blow at her cheek. There was a sudden silence, ended by the snap of her handbag as she closed it.

Lenoir was saying indignantly, “I see nothing comic in my remark, Sandra.”

“But you do not know Fenner as she does,” Wahl said thoughtfully. “Have today’s reports come in yet?”

“There was nothing in them.”

“Let me see them.”

Lenoir left the room. Wahl sat down again, pulling his cuff back into place.

Sandra Fane was rubbing her cheek. “What has gone wrong, Comrade Wahl?”

He stared at her. “Nothing. All is in order.”

“But why are you worrying so much about Fenner and Claire Langley? I thought Venice was to be a place where we could wait safely until the Big Bang went off.”

“We do not need flippancy.”

“Just a circumlocution. In case,” she was smiling, “Bill Fenner has installed a microphone in this room.”

“You take this too lightly, I think.”

One could never tell, she thought, how this man would react. She had been wrong, there, to joke about Fenner. “No,” she said quickly, seriously, “I am worried.”

“Why?”

“Because you are.”

“Very sympathetic of you.” From sardonic irony, he passed to outright challenge. “But perhaps
your
mistakes are really the cause of your worry?”

“Mistakes?”

“Such as sending the gondola that belongs to the Ca’ Longhi to pick up Sir Felix Tarns today. Was that necessary?”

“He—he expected it,” she said weakly. “Last spring we sent the gondola for him. He assumed—” Her eyes turned thankfully to the door, to watch Lenoir’s return.

“He assumes too much. Pamper his vanity, yes—but not when it could endanger this house. That was a very foolish, a very stupid mistake. We pay for his hotel. Let him pay for his own transportation.” He took the two sheets of paper that Lenoir held out to him. “Is this all?”

“My condensed notes,” Lenoir explained.

Wahl glanced down the page. He pursed his lips. “Sir Felix thinks they are two simple-minded Americans. That almost makes me believe they are as clever as I thought they might be.” He read on. “Nothing much here,” he conceded. “No contact with anyone except the gondolier—who is this Zorzi?”

“Just a gondolier who knew the girl from a previous visit. He offered them a ride, but they were going to the Lido—”

“I can read. So”—he turned the page—“they are planning to hire his gondola tonight? At ten.”

“That was too openly discussed to be significant.”

Wahl said nothing, read on. “No contacts at all. Completely absorbed in each other,” he observed. “Then he saw something that really impressed him. “Aarvan says that Fenner showed no sign whatsoever of recognition.” But he didn’t like the way they had run for a bus and refused his taxi. Or the way they had
left the Lido by motorboat before they could be followed. He read those items aloud, interspersed with his own opinions on stupidity. “And what’s so funny about that?” he asked Sandra Fane sharply, catching her off guard.

She rallied quickly. “It’s all so normal. If a bus is leaving, you have to run for it. And why take a taxi for the few blocks to the Excelsior?” She couldn’t tell whether this suggestion was accepted. A bigger furrow was gathering on his brow as he read the last item on Lenoir’s report sheet.

“So they changed their rooms, did they? Too expensive.” He rose abruptly, and swore.

“That sounds like the truth,” Sandra said. “Fenner isn’t a rich man. And his expense account from the
Chronicle
wouldn’t keep Fernand in shirts. It’s just as I told you: he is—” She flinched as Wahl turned on her, stood looking down at her. And so she changed her tactics. “Oh, why don’t you get rid of him and save all this argument? You are wasting time, Comrade Wahl.”

Lenoir agreed. “One call to Aarvan, and this problem would be solved.”

“And create a bigger problem for ourselves? Perhaps needlessly? For the next twenty-four hours, we do not want any more violence. Nothing to stir up the Venetian police—so far, we have broken no Italian law. And as for our other opponents—they have no idea that I am in Venice. Or that Aarvan is here.”

“They know I am here,” Lenoir said worriedly. “That is no secret.”

“They don’t know this address. And what could they possibly have against you? Nothing. You had no connection
with the bombing of the Café Racine. Or with the American’s death on the Simplon Express.”

“Why did Aarvan have to—?” Lenoir began.

“Carlson was an Intelligence agent much too interested in Robert Wahl. He was also much too interested in Aarvan. He had to be eliminated for our safety. Just as Vaugiroud and Roussin had to be eliminated for your safety, my friend.” He looked pointedly at Lenoir, reminding him of an assignment in 1944 that had not been properly finished. “You are needed in France. We have spent too many years in establishing you there to let anything destroy you now.”

Lenoir nodded. He had no more criticisms.

“And so, Fenner’s death would certainly cause us more trouble than it’s worth. Unless he threatened our safety, of course. I don’t think he can. Not for the next twenty-four hours, at least. And that is all that matters.”

Twenty-four hours? Sandra’s mind groped for an explanation.

“One more day is all we need,” Wahl said quietly.

“You mean—” she began, and couldn’t finish.

“We are ready, aren’t we? The longer we wait, the greater the danger. So I have moved our timetable forward.”

Lenoir’s eyes were brilliant with excitement. He couldn’t resist saying to Sandra, “You see why we worked so hard today?”

Wahl silenced him with a sharp gesture. He made the announcement himself. “The assassination will take place tomorrow evening as De Gaulle leaves Paris for his country house. I saw Trouin in Zurich last night. I had him make the telephone call to Montpellier to give the signal to his friends, who have been waiting there for the last two days. They are, at this very minute, en route to Paris. Separately.”

Sandra Fane’s mind went completely blank. And then it raced madly along on its own train of thought, while she sat calmly smiling. Tomorrow was Monday, the day she had chosen to meet Fenner in the Piazza San Marco. Tomorrow evening. Tomorrow. Dimly, in the background of her crumbling hopes, she was aware of Lenoir’s anxious questions about Trouin, the go-between, the man who knew them. Vaguely, she heard Wahl’s impatient reassurances: Trouin’s bank account was swollen by a hundred-thousand-dollar cheque; Trouin’s suicide would be staged at the time of the publication of the letter, with Major Holland’s supposed reply; and Trouin’s friend the industrialist would not return from his vacation in Spain. But there was one thing that worried Wahl, and that was Lenoir’s story about the interception of Trouin’s letter to Holland. He wanted it altered.

That brought Sandra out of her half-attention. “Altered?” So he was finding some excuse to look at the original letter.

“It is inadequate.”

“What?” asked Lenoir indignantly. “It’s excellent.”

“Your present story, Fernand, is that you were much perturbed by the American backing of the Generals’ Revolt last April in Algeria; that you had heard rumours of Trouin’s connections with American and British agents which aroused your suspicions; that you arranged to meet him casually at a small restaurant; that you came away from that meeting with your suspicions increased; that you hired a detective to watch him and make contacts in his office; that one of those contacts, a secretary, intercepted a letter on Friday just before it was mailed—the address made her suspicious; that your detective sent this letter to you in Venice; that you decided it ought to
be turned over to the Sûreté but, just as you were telephoning Paris, the news of the assassination came through.”

“And what’s wrong with that story? Within a week, I don’t think any questions will be asked at all. That is the great advantage of victory: those who win can write the history books.”

Were they so sure of victory? Sandra wondered. They must be strong to speak so confidently. How many years had Wahl planned for such a complete take-over? Dismay attacked her; she felt new doubts, a sense of stupidity. I’ve chosen the losing side, she thought bitterly. I threw everything away in one small mistake. I thought that Wahl had overstepped his authority, that his ambition would be disciplined, that, as a Stalinist and Leftist opportunist, his days were shortening. They will be, if he fails: he will be disowned, denounced, recalled, sent to Mongolia or the Arctic in some minor job. But if he produces a
fait accompli
? It will be called the inevitability of history. It will be accepted; his methods will be ignored. And he will be a hero of the revolution.

Wahl was repeating, “It is inadequate. It would seem that either your detective delayed in sending the letter to you or that you delayed in calling the Sûreté.”

“I can explain the delay—a matter of embarrassment that a hired detective went far beyond my instructions and actually intercepted—”

Wahl was deeply amused. “Always the gentleman, Fernand. In that case, you will like my suggestion: your detective photographed the letter in Trouin’s office, and sent you the negative of the film. You needed time to have it developed. And in this way, no explanation will be needed.”

“And the letter itself?” Lenoir asked.

Sandra Fane kept her face calm, but interested. As she should be. Wahl was watching her. Stay out of this discussion, her instinct warned her.

“I shall send it to Paris tonight, and have it placed in Major Holland’s hotel room. The Sûreté will discover it there.”

“But Holland?” Lenoir objected.

“He is away for the week-end. The English habits are ingrained.”

“Leaving the letter behind him?”

“Leaving it very safely concealed. You wouldn’t expect him to travel with it?”

“It’s a good idea,” Lenoir admitted slowly, “but it’s a big job. If I were in Paris, I would have reliable help to photograph the letter, develop the film. Here? We’d have to do it ourselves.” His resentment grew. Everything had been perfect. Why had this change to be made? “And all Sandra’s typed copies will be useless. We’ll need prints to distribute, won’t we? And we can’t let the letter leave for Paris until we are sure the prints are clear.”

Sandra said nothing at all. Clever, clever Wahl, she was thinking: he wants to see the original letter. He wants it out of the safe, and into his own hands. For a moment, she almost abdicated: everything was lost, not only escape, but life itself. She almost opened her handbag and drew out the map; almost said, “Here is what you want, Comrade Kalganov.”

“Any objections, Sandra?” Wahl asked.

I won’t give up my life so easily, she thought. “None. It will be a lot of extra trouble, but we can do it—if we work all evening.”

“Sandra!” Lenoir said. “You know I can’t—”

“We’ve been trained for this kind of job,” she told him. “It’s
only a matter of time. We have the equipment and the supplies.”

“You know that I—”

“You could manage it if you started work on it right away.”

“I have two appointments,” Lenoir said in rising anger.

“You can cancel them.” Her voice sharpened, too.

“Impossible!” he exploded. “I must see these men tonight, and you know that!”

She stormed back, “I can’t do this job alone. I’m willing to work all night, if necessary, if Comrade Wahl wants the letter treated his way—”

“Not,” said Wahl, breaking into the argument, “to the point of having you two quarrel about it.” He looked at Lenoir. “That was scarcely your diplomatic best.”

Lenoir’s thin face flushed. “Sandra,” he said severely, regaining control of the situation, “there was no need to scream at me.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was still on edge. “I’m tired. You know that. I’ve been chained to that damned desk all day.”

“
All
day?”

“Most of it,” she snapped back. Lenoir was completely silenced this time: his eyes were childlike in their astonishment. She waited, thinking, I have given Wahl his clue: will he use it, will he tell me that I obviously need a vacation, a sea voyage? Or a nice trip by plane? Let him tell me, she willed: I have to know what time I have left, what I can plan. I’m fighting for my life. At least, I made a point there, and Wahl has taken it: I do not seem to be afraid of having the safe opened, the envelope taken out, the exchange noticed; and he has dropped his suggestion, his bright little idea to interfere and check and probe. He has his instincts, this man: he feels something is wrong. And he is searching. Attack and retreat, that was his
technique to confuse and frighten. He has retreated about the letter. Now he is going to attack again. But even if my nerves are at snapping point, I still have enough control left to seize a small advantage, to avoid a definite danger: my instincts are as good as his. We are well matched. Beside us, Fernand—who is the most brilliant man I have ever met, more intelligent than this clever animal opposite me—is stupid and slow thinking. He hasn’t sensed yet that I have made him look as if he were the one who did not want the envelope opened. For a split second, she had the vision of getting rid of the letter in her bag by slipping it into one of Fernand’s suitcases: the fleeting idea amused her. Generously, she smiled at Lenoir. “I am sorry, Fernand. I was not complaining. Can’t I be tired—just a little?”