Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

Edward D. Hoch The Spy and the Cats of Rome

Rand felt vaguely uneasy sitting in the familiar chair in Hastings’ office at British Intelligence. He’d sat there on a thousand prior occasions over the years, but this time was different. He’d retired from the Department of Concealed Communications the previous autumn, and though he’d been involved in one or two cases since then, this was his first visit back to the old building.

“Good to see you again, Rand,” Hastings said. “Hows your wife?”

“Leila’s fine. Teaching archeology at Reading University.”

“You live out that way now, don’t you?”

“That’s right. We have a house west of London, about halfway to Reading. It’s an easy drive for her.”

“And yourself?”

Rand shrugged. “Writing a book. What everyone does when they retire from here, I suppose.”

“I wanted you to know how much I appreciated your help on that Chessman toy business a few months back.”

“You told me so at the time,” Rand reminded him. “What is it now?”

“Does it always have to be something?”

“You’re too busy a man to invite me down for a mere chat. What is it?”

At that instant Hastings seemed old and bleak. “The sins of our youth catching up with us, Rand. It’s Colonel Nelson.”

Rand stiffened. That had been — how many years ago? — ten at the very least.

Colonel Nelson had been in charge of certain international operations for British Intelligence. He’d lied to Rand about the nature of a Swiss assignment, and some good people had died. Shortly afterward Colonel Nelson suffered a nervous breakdown and was retired from the service. Even after ten years Rand had never forgotten the man and what he did. He’d thrown it up to Hastings in moments of anger, and had cited the affair to younger members of Double-C as a glaring example of what could go wrong if an overseas agent was not in possession of all the facts.

“What about him?” Rand asked.

“We have reports from Rome that he’s stirring things up, recruiting white mercenaries to fight in Africa.”

“Not on behalf of British Intelligence, surely!”

“No, no, of course not. And I doubt if he’s working for the Americans, either. Frankly, we don’t know what his game is. But it’s most embarrassing at this time.”

“Where do I come in?”

“Could you fly down to Rome for a day or two? Just see what mischief he’s up to?”

“Oh, come on now, Hastings! I’m out of the service. I helped you on that toy business because—”

“I know, I know. But I don’t want to send anyone officially. You know Colonel Nelson. You’d recognize him, even after ten years.”

“And he’d recognize me.”

“That might be enough to scare him off what he’s doing, or at least make him assume a lower profile. You’d be strictly unofficial, but he’d get the message.”

“I don’t want to be away—” Rand began, still resisting.

“Two nights at most. Certainly your bride could spare you that long.”

Perhaps it was the enforced bleakness of the winter months, or the simple need for activity. Perhaps it was a gnawing sense of unfinished business with Colonel Nelson. Ten years earlier Rand had wanted to kill him. Now, perhaps if he saw the man, he could write a finish to it, finally forget it.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll go.”

Hastings smiled. “I thought you would. I have your plane ticket here...”

Rand phoned Leila at the university and explained, as best he could, that he’d been summoned to Rome for two days. “Back at it, aren’t you?” she asked accusingly.

“Not really. It’s some unfinished business. A fellow I used to work with.”

“Be careful, Jeffery.”

“Don’t worry. I’m through taking chances.”

He gathered up some things into an overnight bag and flew to Rome that evening. It was a city he’d visited only briefly in the past, and perhaps his impressions of it were different from most. To him it was not so much a city of churches as a city of fountains and cats.

This night, having settled into a hotel room not far from the Spanish Steps, he took a taxi to a restaurant near the Forum, where the cobblestoned street was cluttered with cats of all sizes waiting to be fed the scraps from the kitchen. Some said the cats had been there since the Fifth Century B.C., when they were imported from cat-worshipping Egypt. They ran wild in many parts of the city, often simply sitting and watching a passerby with a regal indifference that made one believe they might well have inhabited the city for 2500 years.

The restaurant itself was unspectacular. It was called Sabato — Saturday — and perhaps that was the only night it did any business.

Certainly on this Thursday night there were plenty of empty tables. Rand saw a few men at the bar — young Italian toughs of the sort that might make good mercenary material. If Colonel Nelson did his recruiting here, business might be good.

A young woman wearing a tight satin skirt and scoop-necked blouse appeared from somewhere to show him to a table. She asked him something in Italian and he answered in English, “I’m sorry. My Italian is a bit rusty.”

“Do you wish a menu?” she asked, speaking English almost as good as his.

“Thank you, no. My name is Rand. I’ve come in search of a friend. I understood I could find him here.”

“What is his name?”

“Colonel Nelson.”

“Ah! The man with the cats!”

“Cats?”

“He feeds them. They trail him down the street when he leaves.”

“Does he come here every night?”

“Usually, but you have missed him. He’s been and gone.”

“I see. You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives, would you?”

She shrugged. “Ah, no.”

Rand glanced at the line of men standing by the bar. “Any of his friends around?”

“Colonel Nelson’s friends are the cats.”

“But if he comes in here he must drink with somebody.”

“Ask them,” she answered, indicating the men at the bar.

“Thank you, Miss—”

“Anna.”

“Thank you, Anna.”

The first man Rand approached spoke only Italian, but his companion had a knowledge of English. He also had a knowledge of Colonel Nelson. “I take you to him if you want. He lives not far from here.”

“Fine. Does he work around here?”

“No, no, he’s an old man. He feeds the cats, that is all.”

Rand figured Colonel Nelson to be in his early sixties, but the effects of the nervous breakdown might have aged him. Still, it seemed odd that a neighborhood character who fed the stray cats of Rome would be seriously recruiting mercenaries to fight in Africa.

“All right, take me to him.”

The man gestured with his hands. “I must pay for the drinks I have.”

Rand took the hint and put down a couple of Italian bills. The man smiled, pocketed one of them, and left the other for the bartender. Then he led the way outside, heading down a dim alley lit only by the curtained glow from the restaurant windows.

“How far is it?” Rand asked.

“Not far from here,” the man said, repeating his earlier words, and Rand wondered if he was being set up for a trap. But presently they reached a seedy stone building that obviously contained small apartments, and the man motioned him inside. “I leave you. Sometimes he does not like visitors.”

Rand checked the mailboxes — some standing open with their hinges broken — and found one for Col. A. X. Nelson. Ambrose Xavier Nelson. Rand hadn’t thought of the full name in a decade. He glanced around to thank the man who’d brought him, but the man had already vanished into the night.

The apartment was on the third floor and Rand went up the dim steps with care. The place smelled of decay. Not all that quiet, either, he decided, hearing the noise of a family quarrel from one of the second-floor apartments as he passed it. There was a man’s body sprawled on the third-floor landing, and he thought for an instant it was Colonel Nelson, cut down by enemy agents. But it was only a drunk, wine bottle empty at his side, who opened his mouth and snored when Rand turned him over.

He knocked at the door of Colonel Nelson’s apartment and waited.

Nothing happened. After a moment he knocked again, harder.

Finally a voice reached him from inside. “Who is it?”

“An old friend, Colonel Nelson. I’m in Rome and thought I’d look you up.”

The door did not open. “Who is it?” the question was repeated.

“Jeffery Rand, from London.”

“Rand. Rand?”

“That’s right. Open the door.”

He heard latches being undone and bolts pulled back. The heavy oak door opened a crack and a white kitten squeezed out. Then it opened farther, revealing a wrinkled face and balding head. Tired eyes peered at Rand through thick glasses. “I’m Colonel Nelson,” the man said. “Why did you come here?”

“To see you. May I come in?”

“All right. The place is a mess.”

Two more cats came into view, running across the floor in Rand’s path. He lifted a pile of newspapers from a chair and sat down. The place was indeed a mess. “Do you remember me?” Rand asked.

The man opposite him waved his hand. “The memory comes and goes. The old days are clouded sometimes. But I think I remember you, yes.”

“That surprises me,” Rand said, almost casually, “because I’ve never laid eyes on you before. You’re not Colonel Nelson.”

The old man smiled then, showing a missing tooth. “Didn’t think I could fool you, but I had to give it a try, right?”

“Who are you, anyway? Where’s Nelson?”

“He’s away. Hired me to take care of his cats and things. My name’s Sam Shawburn.”

“You’re English.”

“Sure am! There’s a great many of us in Rome, you know. I was with the British Embassy in my younger days. That’s how I met old Nelson.”

“But this place—!”

“Isn’t very tidy, is it? He’s fallen on bad times, Colonel Nelson has. Gets a small pension, you know, but not enough to live on.”

“Yet he can afford to pay you to stay here while he goes off traveling. That doesn’t make sense.”

“He was called away on business. He expects to make scads of money and then he says he’s going to move to a better place. Maybe take me with him, too.”

“I see. Are the cats his?”

“Sure are! They’re not mine, I can tell you that. He feeds them in alleys and sometimes they follow him home. He’s got close to a dozen around here, maybe more.”

“I really would like to see him while I’m in Rome. When’s he due back?”

“Who knows? He’s been gone a week now.”

“I understand he has business connections in Africa.”

Sam Shawburn’s eyes narrowed.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“The word gets around. I heard he was recruiting mercenaries to fight in Africa.”

“Old Nelson’s a sly one. I wouldn’t want to say what he’s up to. But I never heard anything about Africa.”

“All right,” Rand said. “Good talking to you, anyhow. And be sure to tell him I was asking for him.”

“Sure will!” the old man said.

Rand left the apartment and went back downstairs. The drunk was gone from the landing now, and he wondered what that meant. Was Colonel Nelson’s apartment being watched, and if so by whom? Rand hadn’t noticed a telephone in the shabby quarters and once he reached the street he decided to wait a few minutes and see what happened. If anything.

Luck was with him. Within five minutes Sam Shawburn left the building and headed down the street, followed by a couple of cats. He might have been taking them for a walk, but Rand was willing to bet he was headed for a telephone.

The streets in that section of the city were all but deserted at night, and it was difficult for Rand to follow too closely. Once or twice he thought he’d lost the trail, but finally he saw Shawburn enter a little tobacco store and make for a telephone in the rear. The cats waited outside, scanning the street for some unseen prey.

He waited until the old man emerged from the shop and started back down the street. Then Rand crossed quickly to intercept him. “Hello again, Mr. Shawburn.”

“What?”

“It’s Rand. I wonder if you’ve been in touch with Colonel Nelson.”

The old man took a step backward, as if frightened by the sudden encounter. “No, no, I haven’t talked to him.”

“Who’d you call just now?”

“When?”

“Just now, in the tobacco store.”

“My daughter. I called my daughter.”

“Here in Rome?”

“Yes. No — I mean, near here.”

“You phoned Colonel Nelson, didn’t you?”

The old man’s head sagged. “I sent him a telegraph message. I thought he’d want to know.”

“Where did you send it?”

“Moscow.”

“Colonel Nelson is in Moscow?”

“Yes.”

Rand cursed silently. What in hell had he got himself into? The brief favor for Hastings was opening before him like an uncharted swamp. “What’s he doing there?”

“I don’t know. Business, I guess.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“You had to send the telegram somewhere.”

Shawburn seemed to sag a bit. “The Ukraine,” he replied at last. “He’s staying at the Ukraine Hotel in Moscow.”

There was never any doubt in Rand’s mind that he’d be going to Moscow. He phoned Hastings in London to tell him the news and then made arrangements to catch a flight the following morning. As Hastings had quickly pointed out, the possibility of establishing a link between the Russians and the recruiting of African mercenaries was too good an opportunity to be passed over.

Rand had been in Moscow before, in 1970, and he was surprised to see the fresh coats of paint on buildings that had long been neglected. The city was spruced up; it was more modern and lively than he remembered it, and riding down Kalinin Prospekt in the taxi from the airport he might have been in any large city of western Europe. He could see the Gothic spires of the Ukraine Hotel in the distance, looking like some sort of medieval anachronism, contrasting sharply with the modern offices and apartment buildings that lined the thoroughfare. And he couldn’t help wondering if his chances of finding Colonel Nelson were any better in a grand Moscow hotel than in the cat-filled alleys of Rome.

The desk clerk at the Ukraine spoke some English, and he knew of Colonel Nelson. “I think he is in the dining room,” he told Rand.

The difference in time between Rome and Moscow had made it the dinner hour without Rand’s realizing it. He thanked the room clerk and entered the dining room. It was long and fairly wide, with a raised bandstand at the far end and balconies running the length of either side. A huge chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, adding a surprisingly ornate touch. Most of the side tables were set for large parties, but at one of the small center tables he found Colonel Nelson dining alone. This time there could be no mistake, even after a decade. “Hello, Colonel.”

The old smile greeted him, though the face around it had aged and the eyes above it had taken on a slightly wild look. “Well, Rand good to see you! I trust your flight from Rome was a pleasant one.”

“So Shawburn sent a second telegram.”

“Of course! Did you think he wouldn’t? The old man is quite faithful.”

“Mind if I join you?” Rand asked, already pulling out a chair.

“Not at all!”

“How’s the food here?”

“Predictable. And the service is slow, as in all Moscow restaurants. But I can recommend the soup. It’s so thick your fork will stand in it unsupported.”

“I’ll try some.” Rand smiled. “What brings you to Moscow, Colonel?”

“Business prospects. Nothing of interest to Concealed Communications, I shouldn’t think.”

“Oh, I’m retired from there,” Rand said casually.

“Are you now? Then why are you tracking me across Europe?”

“I was in Rome and thought I’d look you up, see how you’re doing. I’ll admit when I heard you were in Moscow my curiosity got the better of me. Not changing sides after all these years, are you?”

Colonel Nelson glanced around nervously, as if fearing they’d be overheard. “I have no side in London anymore. Surely you remember how I was booted out of the service.”

“I remember how you lied to me about that Swiss assignment and caused the deaths of several people.”

“We are in the business of lying, Rand. You know that. Didn’t Hastings ever lie to you?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Ah, the good gray Hastings! A knight in shining armor! But he’s the only one of the old crowd left, isn’t he? You and I are out of it — and I hear that even some of the Russians like Taz are gone.”

“Taz was blown up in a ear shortly before I retired. He made the mistake of coming out of retirement.”

Colonel Nelson smiled. “I hope you don’t make the same mistake.”

Rand leaned forward. “What are you doing here, Colonel?”

“A business matter.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game. Your apartment in Rome is being watched.”

“No doubt by British Intelligence.”

Rand decided to lay his cards on the table. “They know you’re recruiting mercenaries,” he said quietly. A small combo was tuning up on the bandstand, and he doubted if even a directional microphone could have picked up his words.

Colonel Nelson merely shrugged. “There is very little for an aging man to do in my line of work. One must make a living.”

“Are the Russians paying you?”

Nelson thought about the question for a moment, then said, “Look here, Rand, come with me tomorrow morning and see for yourself. It will save you the trouble of following me all day.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“At ten, in the lobby. We’re going to Gorky Park. It’s the first warm weekend of spring and there’s certain to be a crowd there.”

He’d been right in his weather prediction, at least. The temperature had climbed to 22 degrees on the Celsius scale, and the park was crowded with strollers. Gorky Amusement Park was located on the Moscow River, a few miles south of the central city. Rand had never been there before, and somehow the sight of the giant Ferris wheel startled him.

“They come here in the winter to ride the ice slide,” Colonel Nelson said, “and in the summer to sunbathe on the hillside. It is a park for all seasons.”

“A good place for a meeting,” Rand agreed. “Especially on a mild spring weekend.”

“The man I’m to meet is named Gregor. Make a note of it if you wish, for Hastings.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

They strolled deeper into the park, past the amusement area to the bank of the river. There were people resting on its grassy shore, and Colonel Nelson said, “It’s too cold for swimming except in midsummer, but they like to wade.”

“You know a great deal about Moscow.”

“After so many trips it’s like London or Rome to me. But come, there’s Gregor now.”

Gregor was a heavy-set Russian wearing a dull gray suit that seemed too heavy for the weather. Rand’s unexpected presence made him nervous, and after a few words in Russian the two of them moved off out of earshot. “You understand, old chap,” Colonel Nelson said.

Rand found a bench and sat down, watching some children at play with a fat yellow cat. He couldn’t help thinking that the cats of Moscow seemed better fed than those of the Rome alleys. Presently he saw the two men part and Colonel Nelson joined him on the bench. He bent to pet the cat, then sneezed suddenly and sent the creature scurrying into the bushes. “That was simple,” he said. “My business in Moscow is finished.”

“You handed him an envelope.”

“Down payment. In three weeks’ time he will deliver five hundred Russian and East German weapons, mainly automatic rifles.”

“You’re buying arms here?”

“Of course! What else would bring me to Moscow?”

“For your African mercenaries?”

“Yes,” Colonel Nelson answered smugly. “Then if the arms are captured it appears the Russians supplied them.”

“Who really supplies them?”

“You know as well as I do, Rand. The British are footing the bill, perhaps with the C.I.A.’s help. I’m still with British Intelligence, you see. I never really left.”

“I can’t believe—”

“Can’t believe what? That Hastings didn’t tell you? Good clean Hastings who’s always so aboveboard? Hastings knows what I’m doing, all right. He sent you on a fool’s errand, going through the motions in the event anyone asked questions later on. I’m working for the British, supplying guns and men to various African factions. You might as well accept it, Rand, because it’s true.”

Rand was stunned by the words. He didn’t want to believe them, didn’t want to believe that Hastings had lied to him just as Colonel Nelson had done a decade earlier.

But before he could speak, a man wearing a black raincoat detached himself from the nearby strollers and headed toward them. Rand’s first thought was that the man looked vaguely familiar. Then he saw the gun come into view and he thought they were under arrest.

But the gun was a 9mm German Luger, and it was pointed at Nelson’s chest.

“Volta, Colonel Nelson!” the man shouted, and fired three quick shots.

Rand saw it all as if in slow motion. He saw Nelson topple backward as the bullets tore into his chest, saw the assassin drop the weapon at Rand’s feet and disappear into the bushes.

Then Rand was running — knocking screaming women and frightened men from his path, running after the gunman who’d already melted into the crowd on the next footpath. It was impossible to find him, and to most witnesses Rand must have looked like the killer himself. He saw a policeman coming his way, guided by the pointing fingers of the crowd.

He ducked behind a signboard as the officer approached, and quickly bought a ticket on the Ferris wheel. As soon as he began his ascent, he spotted the policeman still searching the crowd for him. And higher up, with a view of the entire park, he could see the crowd gathered around the spot where Colonel Nelson’s body lay.

It was hard for him to believe that the tiny figure at the center of that crowd was Nelson, who’d survived a dozen intrigues to die like this in a Moscow amusement park.

He thought about that, and about Hastings back in London.

Had Hastings really lied to him? Was Colonel Nelson working for British Intelligence all this time, financing his African venture with money from England and possibly from America?

And had the killing of Colonel Nelson been part of the ultimate double-cross?

Rand left the Ferris wheel after three more trips around. The view hadn’t answered any of the questions for him, but at least he’d seen Colonel Nelson’s body being carried off and he knew the police had stopped searching the immediate area. He took a taxi back to his hotel and was just entering the lobby when he noticed the two men in belted black raincoats talking with the room clerk. This time there could be no mistake. These really were Russian police.

He went back out the revolving door without pausing.

They were looking for him and they knew where to find him.

He was being nicely framed for the murder of Colonel Nelson.

As Rand saw it, there were only two courses of action open to him. He could attempt to leave the country by the first available airliner — and no doubt be stopped and arrested at the gate. Or he could go to the British Embassy and try to get help there. The embassy seemed the better bet. Once inside a Russian prison, he knew he’d be a long time getting out.

He was only a few blocks from the embassy building, and he went on foot. The entrance seemed clear as he approached, but almost immediately two Russian detectives emerged from a parked car to intercept him. “Could you state your business, please?” one of them asked in good English.

“My business is with the British Embassy.”

“Could we see your passport?”

“I’ve lost it. That’s why I’ve come to the Embassy.”

“You must understand we are looking for a British citizen wanted in connection with a murder. We must ask for identification.”

“Are you denying me entrance to my own Embassy?”

The Russian shrugged sadly. “Only until you produce identification. You are still on Russian soil here.” He pointed to the ground at his feet, as if daring Rand to step past him.

“All right. I have some identification in my car. I’ll go get it.” He held his breath as he turned, wondering if the Russians would follow. But their instructions had been to remain at the Embassy entrance, and they only followed him with their eyes. He walked down to the next cross street, where a small Moskvich automobile sat at the curb, its front end hidden from the Russians by a projecting building. Rand bent and pretended to try unlocking the door, then straightened up, shrugged, and made as if to walk around the front of the vehicle to the other side.

As soon as he was out of sight of the Russians he started running, heading down a narrow alley between buildings. He didn’t think they’d desert their post to follow him too far, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Finally, panting for breath and fearful of attracting attention, he slowed to a walk as he emerged onto a busy avenue. No one stopped him. For the moment he was safe.

But what should he do now?

Hunted in a strange country for a murder he didn’t commit, unable to leave the city or reach the British Embassy, knowing very little of the language, it seemed only a matter of time before he was taken into custody.

He descended into one of the ornate Moscow subways with its gilded chandeliers and sculptured archways and rode to a point not far from the American Embassy. But as he approached he saw a familiar-looking car with two men inside. He kept on walking, wondering how many embassies in Moscow had teams of police watching their doors.

Next he entered a small shop and asked for a public telephone. When he finally made his message clear, the woman behind the counter led him to a telephone — but there was no phone book. He remembered reading somewhere that telephone numbers were hard to come by in Moscow. With some difficulty he might reach the British or American Embassy by phone, but then what? They would hardly risk an international incident by coming into the street to rescue an accused killer. The best they’d offer would be a visit to his prison cell after he was arrested.

And what if he was arrested? Even his friends back in London might half believe the charge against him. He’d hated Colonel Nelson for ten years, and that hate might have boiled over into a murderous attack. And though several strollers must have seen the real killer in Gorky Park, Rand was not deceiving himself into believing that any of them would dare come forward to testify. If the government said he was guilty, he was guilty.

He wondered about the man who had really shot Colonel Nelson. Was he in the pay of the Russian, Gregor, who’d accepted his down payment for the weapons and promptly ordered Nelson killed? Or was it a more complex plot than that?

Someone had told the Russians his name, and only Hastings in London had known he was going on to Moscow. Was it possible that Hastings was in on it after all, as Colonel Nelson had insisted?

No. Rand refused to believe that.

The British hadn’t been financing Nelson for all these years. He’d bet his life on it.

In fact, he’d bet his life on Hastings.

He took a trolleybus to the Central Telegraph Building and addressed a message to a cover address Hastings maintained in London: Negotiating early landing shipment of new diesel engines at desirable seaport. Eastern nations don’t pose any serious supply problem or route trouble. He signed it L. Gaad and indicated a reply should be sent to him at the Central Telegraph Building.

Rand was certain Hastings would recognize Mrs. Rand’s maiden name signed to the wire. And he was betting Hastings could read the very simple steganographic message hidden in it.

But he knew it would be morning before he could expect a reply.

A hotel would ask to see his passport and might even want to keep it. He couldn’t sleep in the subway because they closed for maintenance from one to six in the morning. And he knew from his last visit to Moscow that the streets would be empty by ten o’clock. After that there’d be no crowds in which to hide.

Finally, as night was falling, he took the subway out to the end of the line, beyond Gorky Park, and went to sleep on a park bench.

In the morning, hoping his overnight beard wasn’t too noticeable, he returned to the Central Telegraph Building. Yes, the woman clerk informed him, there was a reply for Mister L. Gaad. She handed over the form and Rand read, with rising spirits: News of our negotiations received. Every dealer should quote under amount received elsewhere. It was signed with Hastings’ code name.

Rand almost shouted. Hastings had come through. The passport was on its way. He would meet the man and—

Unless it was a trap.

Unless Hastings was setting him up for the Russian police, or for the man who had shot Colonel Nelson.

It was a chance he’d have to take.

The message from Hastings had instructed him to be in Red Square at noon, so he assumed the agent bringing him the fake passport would know him by sight. Red Square at noon, with its lines of tourists waiting to visit Lenin’s tomb, could be a very busy place.

There would have been time for an overnight flight from London, Rand knew — or the agent meeting him could be someone from the British Embassy. In any event, they would have to find each other in the crowd.

He reached Red Square a little before noon, wandering aimlessly along the fringes of the crowd waiting at Lenin’s tomb. Though he kept his head down, his eyes were alert, scanning the faces he passed, looking for someone familiar.

At ten minutes after twelve he was still looking.

Perhaps Hastings had meant noon of the following day. Perhaps—

“Jeffery,” a soft voice said at his shoulder.

He spun around, trying not to appear too startled, and looked into the face of his wife, Leila. “What are you—?”

“Hastings sent me. He knew it had to be someone you trusted. I have a passport in the name of Lawrence Gaad for you. And tickets on an evening flight to London.”

“My God, he thought of everything!”

She smiled up at him, and at that moment they might have been the only people in the center of Red Square. “He said to tell you he expected something better from the former head of Double-C than a steganograph with the first letters of each word spelling out the message.”

“Sometimes the simple things are the easiest to sneak by. And I had to have something that could be read almost at once. But I don’t like the idea of his sending you here.”

“Jeffery, I once swam the Nile to a boatload of Russian spies! A midnight flight to Moscow is really nothing.”

He rubbed the stubble on his face. “Come on. If you don’t mind dining with someone who needs a shave, I’ll buy you lunch.”

They arrived at Sheremetyevo International Airport in the late afternoon to find the usual scene of confusion and delayed flights. Rand asked Leila to check the departure time while he went off to do some checking of his own. He was remembering the words of Colonel Nelson’s assassin: “Volta, Colonel Nelson!” It had sounded half Russian then, but he now realized it could have been Italian. Time, Colonel Nelson! A time to die.

And if the assassin was Italian — someone who had followed Nelson here from Rome — might not he be returning to Rome?

He confirmed at the information booth that the flight to Rome was six hours late in departing. There was just a chance that—

And then he saw the man.

There was no mistaking him, leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. He even wore the same black raincoat.

Rand slipped a retractable ballpoint pen from his inner pocket and walked up to the man. Quickly, before he was noticed, he pressed the pen against the skin of the man’s neck. “Don’t move! Do you understand English? There’s a needle in here that could poison you in an instant. You could he dead within a minute. Understand?”

The man was frozen in terror. “Yes. I understand.”

“Why did you shoot Colonel Nelson?”

“I—”

Rand pressed harder. “Why?”

“I was paid to.”

“By whom? The British?”

Suddenly Rand felt something hard jab him in the ribs, and he realized his mistake. There’d been two of them booked on the flight to Rome. “Let him go, Rand, or you’re a dead man,” a familiar voice said. “Turn around slowly and drop that pen.”

He turned and stared into the deadly eyes of old Sam Shawburn.

It was then Rand remembered where he’d seen the gunman before. “He was the drunk on the landing outside your apartment!”

Sam Shawburn smiled. “Tony here? Yes, that’s right. He was just leaving when he heard you climbing the stairs, so he went into his act. We work well together.”

“And you had Colonel Nelson killed.”

“A matter of necessity. The African business was becoming too complex — and too profitable to share with a partner. One of us had to go, and I simply acted first, before he got the notion of killing me. I thought murdering him in Moscow was a stroke of genius. It presented so many more possible suspects, including yourself, than did Rome.”

“I should have known. Someone tipped off the Russian police and I thought of Hastings. But you knew I’d come to Moscow too — you’d even warned Colonel Nelson of my arrival. You followed me here, had Tony shoot Nelson, and gave the Russians my name. It was easy for them to locate my hotel and to place guards at the embassies.”

“Very good!”

“And that wasn’t Colonel Nelson’s apartment. Those weren’t his cats,” Rand said, remembering the sneezing in Gorky Park. “Colonel Nelson was allergic to cats.”

“True.”

“You fed the cats and you recruited the mercenaries for Africa, using Nelson’s name.”

“His business was buying the guns in Moscow, but I found it safer to use his name for the entire operation.”

“How will you get the guns now?”

“Gregor will still deliver. He has contacts and he likes money.”

Rand had to know one more thing. “The British? Are they financing the operation?”

“The British?” Shawburn laughed. “Not a chance! Did Nelson tell you that? It was his daydream that he still worked for British Intelligence. He couldn’t face that he was living a grubby existence in the back streets of Rome. We were in it on our own.”

“What now? Will you try shooting me within earshot of five hundred people?”

“Outside,” Shawburn decided. “Walk between Tony and me. No tricks now!”

They were almost to the outer doors, walking fast, when Leila was suddenly upon them. There were two burly Russian policemen with her and she was yelling, “Stop those men! They’re kidnaping my husband!”

Shawburn tried to pull the pistol from his pocket but he was old and slow. The Russians were on them, and it was over.

Rand and Leila didn’t catch the London plane that evening.

It took two days and several telephone calls to London, plus a visit by the British ambassador, to free them from the endless rounds of questioning. By that time the Russians had found Gregor’s address in Sam Shawburn’s wallet and learned all about the illegal arms deal. They seemed more interested in that aspect of the case than in the murder of Colonel Nelson, but it was enough to insure that Shawburn and Tony would be spending a long time in Russian prisons.

Finally, flying back to London, Rand said, “You saved me twice in one day. I’m beginning to think I should have had you around all my life.”

Leila smiled and leaned her head back on the seat. “If you’re going to keep on doing little favors for Hastings, you’ll need me around.”