Fellowship of Fear (21 page)

So it was with the maimed thing by which he kneeled. At first he knew only that it wasn’t John. Now he knew who it was. He opened his eyes and looked.

Ferret-face. With pity and revulsion, but also with the sense of a great load lifting from his shoulders, he studied the dead man. There was little remaining of the right side of his face. Through shreds of red muscle and gleaming ligament, Gideon could see the round yellow condyle of the shattered mandible. One eye was half-open, one was closed, and the lower part of the face was queerly askew because of the broken jaw. Even so, and even with the drying blood that covered the features, it was unmistakably Ferret-face.

The hunter had himself been hunted down. But by whom? Almost indifferently, Gideon turned the question over in his mind, but he couldn’t concentrate. He was more absorbed by a glow of triumph—vicious, but undeniably satisfying. I am still here, alive, his thoughts ran, and you are dead. I’ve won; you’ve lost. With an effort, he put aside the ugly thoughts and looked up at the students clustered around the door.

"Well, he’s certainly dead," Gideon said, his voice echoing in the cool concrete structure. His words jogged a young, crew-cut student out of his stupefaction.

"You better not touch anything, Professor." When Gideon looked up at him, he blushed and added self-consciously, "I’m in the military police. We’ll have to inform the
Guardia Civil
." Again, a self-important, embarrassed pause. "This looks like homicide."

Gideon resisted a strange urge to laugh.
Looks
like homicide. What did he think—that a heart attack had blown away half the man’s head? He rose to a standing position, conscious of the bloody stains on the knees of his beige trousers.

"You’re right, of course," he said. "Maybe there’s a telephone in the village."

The MP came forward and offered Gideon his hand to assist him in stepping over the corpse and the blood-soaked ground. As Gideon took it and came back through the door, the boy stiffened and froze, eyes wide with dismay.

"Jesus Christ, there’s another one!"

Gideon spun and looked within. At the far end of the narrow twenty-foot-long aisle that bisected the building lay what could have been a discarded, life-sized puppet. It was on its back in the gloom, its arms akimbo, its legs outflung, and its head and shoulders propped against the base of the concrete wall.

It was the man from the Prado: the man with the umbrella.

   GIDEON took another long swallow, and the warmth and relaxation finally began to spread outwards from his stomach. It was his second bourbon, and he was drinking it in the dim cocktail-lounge atmosphere of the Officers’ Club bar on the base. A dull ache at the back of his neck reminded him that he had been sitting rigidly erect since he came in, and he let himself sink back with a sigh against the booth’s black plastic upholstery.

Since he had found the second dead man, his mind had been working in a kind of otherworldly fervor, agitated and darting, turning in upon itself, questioning, testing, doubting—yet it had produced nothing of consequence, and little in the way of logical thinking. Gideon had given up trying to direct his racing thoughts hours ago and now sat there like an observer, watching his own mind go where it would. The bourbon seemed to be helping, however. He signaled the waitress for another.

The first thing he’d done when he’d gotten back from Torralba had been to telephone John in Heidelberg from the lobby of the BOQ, but John had been out of the office.

Rather than trying to get another line to call him at home, he had asked to talk to Marks. He had been connected at once and had briefly described what had happened. Marks had instructed him not to return to his room but to go to the Officers’ Club and wait there for the telephone to ring in the booth just outside the bar.

Gideon had been reassured by Marks’s brisk efficiency and by the fact that he was familiar with details such as the location of a telephone booth at Torrejon. He had, however, defied orders and returned to his room to shower and change his bloody clothes.

When the telephone rang, Gideon took his drink with him to the booth.

"Hello?" Gideon said.

"Who is this?" It was Marks.

"For Christ’s sake, it’s me. Gideon Oliver."

"Are you alone?"

"No, I have eleven pals from the KGB in the booth with me. Look, Marks—"

"All right. Hold your horses. Now listen. You’re not to go back to your room under any circumstance. We have a place for you—"

"Why not?" Gideon asked.

"Don’t get excited. You’re to go—"

"I’m not excited. You just told me not to go back to my room. I want to know why not."

"Don’t give me a hard time, Oliver. You’ve already caused a lot more trouble than you’re worth."

Gideon very nearly hung up on him. Instead, he took a long, slow sip of his drink and mentally drew a dotted-line balloon. But he couldn’t think of anything to write in it.

Marks apparently heard the tinkling of the ice in the glass. "You’re not drinking, are you? That won’t do. I’m not going to have you—"

"Let me remind you," said Gideon, steadied by the alcohol and by Marks’s familiar offensiveness, "that I don’t work for you. I was fired, remember?" Marks began to interrupt, but Gideon talked over him. "I’ll give you thirty seconds to say what you want to say, and then I’m hanging up. Go."

"You stupid—"

Gideon hung up and waited there for the telephone to ring again. He knew that he was being more cocksure than was good for him, but slamming down the receiver was an impulse not to be denied. Just as he began to worry that Marks might not call him back, the telephone rang again. He let it ring five times before picking it up.

Marks’s voice came from the earpiece. "Who is speaking, please?"

"This is Tom Marks, calling to speak to Gideon Oliver," said Gideon.

There was silence at the other end. After a few seconds, Marks spoke, suppressed anger obvious in the soft, distinct words: "Oliver, we’re not sure whether you’re in any danger or not, but we don’t want to take any chances. If they don’t know where you are, you’ll be safer. Stay away from your room."

"Who’s ‘they’?"

"Who’s ‘they’? The KGB."

"Do you think the KGB is after me, then? Why?" Despite the grisly events of the day, Gideon was beginning to feel a certain jauntiness. Being pursued by the KGB was not without its elan.

"I’m not at liberty to discuss that," said Marks predictably. "Now listen, please. We’ve arranged for you to spend the night in on-base housing. We’ve gotten a two-bedroom house for you. You’re to go to the Security Office and ask for the keys that are being held for Colonel Wellman."

"What if they ask for identification? Besides, some of the Security people know me."

"Don’t worry about it; it’s arranged. Stay in the house and wait for us to call. We’ll get back to you tonight or early in the morning. Don’t go out. Just wait for our call."

"I’m scheduled to leave for Heidelberg tomorrow, you know."

"We know; tomorrow afternoon. You’ll hear from us long before that."

"All right," said Gideon. He hung up, and finished his bourbon sitting in the telephone booth.

   THE call came at 7:00 a.m. Gideon had just awakened and was lying quietly in the first supraliminal moment, aware that something unpleasant had happened, but not remembering what it was. He waited with some anxiety for full consciousness to return and was somewhat relieved when he remembered the previous day. Of his entire life, the worst moments had been during the three or four months after Nora had died, when he’d awakened to the heart-constricting knowledge that she wasn’t there anymore. Since then, nothing had seemed too bad.

He had forgotten to note the telephone’s location before he went to bed, and it took him a few seconds to find it in the living room.

"Ah, Dr. Oliver, this is Hilaire Delvaux. Do you remember me?"

"Of course. Good morning."

"Can you meet me in the Officers’ Club for breakfast?"

Gideon’s sleepy mind processed the question slowly. "You’re here in Torrejon?"

"Most certainly."

"I’ll be there in twenty minutes."

He was there in ten. With his shaving equipment and toothbrush still at the BOQ, his toilet was a five-minute affair. Monsieur Delvaux was seated at a small table near the glass wall that looked out on the club’s green central patio. If he noted Gideon’s unkempt appearance, he gave no sign.

But then, Monsieur Delvaux did not appear to be a keen observer of fashion. He was dressed exactly as he had been when Gideon had seen him last: rumpled white shirt with wrinkled collar, and pants belted so absurdly high that Gideon could see the buckle as he looked at him across the tabletop. He was eating toast and drinking coffee. As soon as he saw Gideon, he wiped his mouth and jumped up, still chewing.

"Ah, Dr. Oliver," he said, his French accent very pronounced: Doc
teur
Oh-le-
vair
. "Will you have something to eat?"

"No, I don’t think I could eat anything. But you go ahead, please."

"Yes," said Delvaux, "you must be very disturbed. Not precisely a quiet professor’s life you’re leading. I assure you, I sympathize." He sounded rather gay. "You were surprised to find me here, yes?" he said, biting into the bread with his stumpy teeth, his blue eyes sparkling.

"Yes, I was," admitted Gideon. "I assumed you were in Heidelberg."

"In
Heidelberg?
" he cried with delight. "At eight o’clock last night I was in Heidelberg. At nine-thirty I was in Belgium. At midnight in Holland. And I have been in Spain since five. A good night’s work for an old man, no?"

Gideon was impressed. Delvaux had a distinctly disheveled look, but no more than at their previous meeting. For a man in his late sixties—maybe his seventies—who had spent most of the night in jets and airports, he was very chipper.

"And all because of you," Delvaux continued pleasantly. "Ah, and I have found out many things, many things. I think you will be interested." He chewed his toast and smiled at Gideon, waiting for a response.

"I’m interested," Gideon said.

"First of all, I believe you are familiar with this gentleman." He wiped his fingers carefully, using the napkin as if it were a washcloth, and reached into the wrinkled seersucker jacket that hung on the back of his chair. From a wallet he took a scowling, full-face photograph of Ferret-face. "Do you know who he is?"

"No," Gideon said. "Only that he’s been following me. And, of course, that he’s dead now."

"Ah, indeed, extremely dead. I viewed the body an hour ago. And the other one as well."

The experience had not affected Delvaux’s appetite. Throwing his head back, he drained his coffee with a delicate sound and wiped his lips. Then, looking Gideon directly in the eye, he went on:

"He’s one of our agents."

"One of
your
agents…!"

"Ho-ho, I thought you would be surprised." Delvaux chuckled expansively, as if he’d just given Gideon a surprise present. "Well, not one of mine, personally, but yes, an NSD agent. He was with Bureau Four. Do you know what that is?"

"I’m afraid I can’t keep the bureaus straight. Is that counterespionage?"

"No, no," said Delvaux. "That’s the Second Bureau. Bureau Four…Do you mind if I get some more coffee?" Without waiting for Gideon’s answer, he beamed at him and went waddling cheerfully to the cafeteria line, cup in hand.

Gideon’s mind was back in a confused whirl. Ferret-face was on
their
side…
his
side, rather …yet he had been stalking Gideon, had glared at him with crushing hatred, had nearly killed him. Now he was dead, murdered, and Delvaux didn’t seem disturbed in the least. Quite the opposite.

Delvaux returned to the table with a brimming cup, sat down, and hunched forward. "Now. Bureau Four. Bureau Four is the part of NSD we don’t talk about. They are our internal watchdogs, our secret police. They ferret out— I understand you referred to him as Ferret-face; very perceptive—they ferret out security risks within NSD. They also sometimes… entrap nationals of NATO countries whom they believe to be collaborating with the Communists."

"Monsieur Delvaux, I get the impression that you don’t hold Bureau Four in high regard."

"I hate them. They are like the SS. They go where they want; they do what they want. They are responsible only to their own director. Wherever they go, their wishes outrank the orders of the highest field officer." The sparkle had left his eyes. He sipped his coffee quietly.

"Can you tell me why he was… What was his name? I can’t keep calling him Ferret-face."

"Joseph Monkes."

"And was I correct in assuming he was an American who had spent a lot of time in Germany?" It hardly mattered, but Gideon couldn’t resist asking.

"Yes, he had been in Europe since 1959. And yes, he had lived in Germany almost all that time. One of your linguistic deductions, I believe? Very clever." At Gideon’s surprised expression, he smiled and added, "I spent an hour talking with John Lau last night."

"Joe Monkes," Gideon said. The name fit, somehow. "Can you tell me why he was following me?"

"I can indeed." Delvaux dropped his chin and looked up at Gideon from under bushy, tousled white eyebrows. "Now, you must look at this with a sense of humor, a certain detachment." Gideon, who had been trying to think of who it was that Delvaux looked like, suddenly remembered: Grumpy of the Seven Dwarfs—but a sly, jolly Grumpy.

"I’ll try," he said with a smile. "I’m about ready for a laugh."

"
Bien.
He was following you because he thought you were working for the KGB." He held up his hand when Gideon opened his mouth. "And why, you will ask, would he think you were a spy? Because, I will reply"—here his eyes literally twinkled—"because he knew that the KGB’s source was someone from USOC, and he very cleverly determined that you were the only one who had been, or would be, at the critical bases—Rhein-Main, Sigonella, and Torrejon—all at approximately the critical times."