Fellowship Of Fear

SIXTEEN

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."

Delvaux waited happily for this to sink in and continued, "But, you will say, it was not the Russians who arranged for me to go there; it was NSD itself, in the person of the estimable Mr. Marks. So why, you will say, did Mr. Monkes not know of this? And I, I will answer-"

"-the need-to-know principle."

"Exactly! Bravo! Will you not admit the adventure has its humorous side?"

Gideon smiled crookedly. "I can see a certain element of farce in it, yes." Then he shook his head and laughed. "That’s really incredible, you know."

"I agree." Delvaux laughed too. "We used you as bait- forgive me, an unfortunate expression-as an enticement to draw out our quarry. But the Russians would not be drawn out, and neither would the USOC source-who still remains a mystery, by the way. The only ones who-’bit,’ I believe you say?…were our own people in Bureau Four." He shook his head. "One for the books, one for the books." He sighed with great contentment. "And now I have some more to share with you."

Gideon was suddenly famished, and excused himself to get some breakfast. He came back with a huge plateful of overcooked but nonetheless appetizing scrambled eggs, with bacon, sausages, fried potatoes, biscuits, juice, and coffee, and sat down opposite Delvaux, who had refilled his own cup.

Delvaux looked at the heaped tray with a mixture of admiration and disgust. " Formidable. We Europeans cannot eat a breakfast like that. Except the English, of course." His grimace summed up his opinion of English cuisine. "Now, where was I?"

"Before you go on, I have a question. I wasn’t the only USOC’r at Sigonella and Torrejon-"

Delvaux nodded. "Eric Bozzini. John Lau told me."

"So why did Monkes think it had to be me? Why not Eric?"

"I don’t think he knew about him. Your schedule was arranged in advance. On paper. Eric Bozzini’s was not." He smiled. "Incidently, I myself suspect Mr. Bozzini no more than I do you. You, he, and others may have been at the same bases. It is very easy to travel around Europe today. But let us return to the, ah, misunderstanding between you and Mr. Monkes."

While Gideon addressed his meal, Delvaux carried the conversation single-handedly for several minutes. As the chief of a major regional office, he explained, he was in charge of all NSD functions in Germany, except for those of Bureau Four. That bureau’s activities were kept secret from his through strict application of need-to-know logic, of which he approved… in principle.

Naturally, the possibility of such a mix-up as had occurred had always been considered, and had in fact happened before on a smaller scale-agents of one bureau beginning to compile dossiers on agents of another, for example. For this reason, certain safeguards were built into the system at the highest levels to make sure no irremediable mistake was made. And none had ever been made, until yesterday.

After Gideon’s call to Marks the evening before, Delvaux had become suspicious and had immediately called the director of NSD at SHAPE-Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers in Europe-in Mons, Belgium. A series of conference calls to the far-flung outposts of the NSD empire, and face-to-face meetings in Mons and Brunssum, Holland, had brought out the facts.

The dead man was certainly Joe Monkes, and he had definitely been on Gideon’s trail since somehow learning about Gideon’s schedule at the crucial bases. Even though he had turned up nothing in his search at the Hotel Ballman, he had convinced himself that Gideon was the traitorous USOC source who was turning over vital military secrets to the Soviet Union. Since then, he had been hounding Gideon through three countries.

"Was he behind the attack in Sicily?" Gideon asked.

"No. He was a vicious man, but that he did not do. That I will come to later."

Gideon shook his head slowly as he poured cream into his coffee. "I thought you said there were safeguards against this sort of thing."

"There are, and they are strictly enforced. But Bureau Four agents are different-I told you, like the SS. They are individualists, free thinkers. They do things their own way, and there are not many who dare quarrel with them, including sometimes their own supervisors."

Monsieur Delvaux had finished with his coffee. He gazed thoughtfully at the grass and trees of the patio, then looked directly at Gideon. "His superior believes Monkes was emotionally unstable, that perhaps your resistance to him and his colleague in Heidelberg created a personal hatred toward you that became an obsession."

Gideon could believe it. Again he slowly shook his head. "I’d say your need-to-know principle needs looking at."

Delvaux laughed; he seemed delighted with the phrase. "Yes, needs looking at! It certainly does. And already certain changes are being made so that this can never happen again. In the present case, the principle is being superseded entirely. I have been placed in charge of all aspects of this matter. All." He sat back with a childish pride that Gideon found charming, and waited for Gideon to say something.

"Congratulations, Monsieur Delvaux."

"Thank you, my good friend." He smiled merrily at

Gideon. "Have you finished your breakfast? Shall we walk outside? The day seems pleasant."

The day was not pleasant. The unsubstantial clouds of the day before had thickened, so that an unusual gray sultriness enveloped the base. There was, however, a welcome normalcy in the simple white buildings; the neat, wide lawns; and the sounds of plain, homely American speech around them. Delvaux seemed content to walk in companionable silence, his hands clasped behind him. After a while, Gideon spoke.

"What you’ve been telling me is extremely interesting, of course…"

Delvaux peeked sideways at Gideon from under his wild eyebrows. "I should think so."

"But I don’t understand why you’ve taken the trouble to come here to give me the information. Why are you telling me all this?" Gideon stopped walking, to focus the conversation, but Delvaux continued abstractedly. Gideon took a long step to catch up with the smaller man.

"We have caused you a great deal of trouble," Delvaux said. "I felt we owed it to you to explain it. As I had to come to Spain in any case-to examine the bodies, to secure certain effects of Mr. Monkes, and so forth-it was little trouble to take an hour or two with you. Besides," he said, smiling up at Gideon, "obviously, you already know a great deal more about this than you pretend."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your excellent friend John Lau was very free last night in telling me about the information he has been passing on to you."

Frowning, Gideon halted again. This time Delvaux stopped with him. "Monsieur Delvaux, is John in trouble over this? I can assure you, he didn’t give me any… sensitive information-"

"-which you would not, in any case, recognize should it bite you on the nose, eh?" Delvaux laughed. "Don’t worry. John has been a little indiscreet, but it is to his credit that he realized before the rest of us that you were in danger. It would have been better if he had gone through formal channels…but who knows? We probably would not have listened. In any case, I am satisfied that he neither passed on nor obtained-nor tried to obtain-highly sensitive information."

They began to walk again. "In one thing Mr. Monkes was very meticulous, which is to our good fortune," Delvaux said. "Apparently he was taking punctilious care in documenting a case against you."

"Yes, good fortune has always smiled on me."

Delvaux laughed. "He kept a very careful diary. We deciphered enough of it this morning to answer many of our questions."

They had walked several blocks. At Delvaux’s suggestion, they seated themselves in the bleachers of a softball field on which six or seven youngsters were playing a desultory game. Delvaux’s facetiousness had disappeared. He spoke seriously.

"Monkes watched you or had you watched from the minute you arrived in Torrejon, but he never saw you do anything suspicious. Nevertheless, he was convinced you had somehow obtained the information you were after."

"Whatever it was."

"Whatever it was. He followed you to the Prado. He was convinced that you were going to meet your case officer- your contact-there. He hoped to catch you in the act of turning over the information."

"But John was with me. He must have known John’s with NSD…?"

"Well…" Delvaux gave one of his Gallic shrugs. "Perhaps he thought John was also a turncoat. In any case, the moment he saw Sholokov in the museum, he was certain he was correct."

"Spotted whom?"

Delvaux tapped his thigh. "Ah, I forgot. You wouldn’t know Victor Sholokov, a senior KGB agent… with Department V."

From Delvaux’s tone and meaningful look, Gideon knew he should be impressed. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Delvaux spoke with mild surprise at Gideon’s ignorance. "Department V-that is their assassination and murder unit. And a very effective one."

"Are you suggesting that this Sholokov was there to murder me? "

"Certainly. But of course Monkes didn’t know that. He thought Sholokov was your contact. And when he saw him attack John with the umbrella-"

" That was Sholokov? Was I right then? Was he Balkan?"

Delvaux smiled. "The scientist verifying his theory. Yes, he was a Rumanian. Most impressive, professor."

"Ha!" Gideon said jubilantly. He’d collect that dinner from John yet. Then he frowned. "But wait a minute; this Department V assassinates its victims with umbrellas? "

"You’re not very far wrong, but I’ll come to that in a few moments. In any event, Monkes assumed that Sholokov had spotted him and that the umbrella attack was simply a way to warn you not to carry out the rendezvous with him. Sholokov," he added, seeing Gideon’s confused frown. "So Monkes-"

"Wait, please. I’m starting to lose my way. Why did this Sholokov attack John? Was he trying to kill him?"

"No, no," Delvaux said. "Don’t you remember? You and John walked directly up to him to talk to him. Isn’t that correct? It’s what John told me."

"Yes, it’s correct, but I still don’t understand."

"It seems quite clear to me," Delvaux said with a touch of impatience. "Sholokov assumed that you and John had somehow found him out and were approaching him to detain or perhaps kill him. Probably he thought the Prado was full of NSD agents. And so he panicked, then ran. At least, that is what we think."

To shake his head perplexedly was not a habitual gesture for Gideon, but he did it for the third time in an hour. The answers he was getting were as complex and paradoxical as the questions. "So I was being hunted by an assassin who thought I was hunting him, and who Monkes thought was my accomplice?"

Delvaux guffawed as if he had heard a joke. "Exactly, exactly!" He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. "After the incident in the Prado, Monkes decided to remain with Sholokov rather than with you. After all, he knew where you were staying and could put his hands on you at any time. He followed him to a hotel near Alcala de Henares and monitored his telephone calls."

Gideon didn’t bother to ask how one goes about monitoring telephone calls. He assumed there was a quick, logical, improbable answer.

"As soon as Sholokov got to his room, he called the Education Office here at the base and learned your schedule for the next day; that you were taking your class to Torralba-"

"They told him that?"

"Why not? A person calls, identifies himself as a Luxembourgian military officer who needs to speak with you-"

"But didn’t he have a Russian accent?"

"Ah, but not everyone has your facility with linguistics. And of those who do, how many know what a Luxembourgian sounds like? Eh?"

Gideon almost shook his head again. Instead he sighed. The boys had stopped playing and had gone, leaving them alone. Gideon suggested that they walk some more and headed them in the general direction of the base shopping center. He wanted people around, Americans engaged in everyday, routine activities.

"So," said Delvaux, walking with his hands again clasped behind his back and his head thrust forward on its short neck, "Monkes drove to Torralba several hours before you were due to be there, with tape recorder and camera, in order to surprise you in flagrante delicto with Sholokov-"

"…who was actually going to Torralba for another try at killing me?"

"So we assume. What happened then is-"

"Let me guess. When Monkes got to Torralba, he found that the only place he could observe me without being seen was in the museum, so he paid the custodian to let him in and keep anyone else out. Then Sholokov also came early, and he found that the museum was the only place with any cover, and… what? I suppose they surprised one another, fought, and killed each other?" Gideon spoke matter-offactly. The continuing talk of spies and murder had worn down the sharp edge of implausibility.

"It’s impossible to tell. Monkes’s diary does not include the encounter, of course. But we think that is what happened. And so the book is closed."

They had reached the shopping center. Even at nine-thirty there was a cheerful, gratifying bustle. The hot-dog stand was already open, and Gideon found the aroma irresistible. He wasn’t sure if he was still hungry because of missing dinner last night or if he simply needed to bite into a chunk of down-home America. Delvaux merely shuddered when Gideon asked him if he would like a hot dog, so Gideon bought one for himself and painted it with a heavy coat of mustard. They found a nearby bench and sat down. Gideon bit in, savoring the American mustard’s clean tang.

Bright blue patches were appearing in the clouds after all, and the sounds and movement in the shopping center were wonderfully humdrum. He began to understand the virtues of military bases that looked like pieces of Oklahoma, no matter in what exotic locale they sat.

"Do you know," said Delvaux brightly, "that smells very nice. I believe I will have one."

He marched off to the stand on his stumpy legs, like a soldier going off to battle, and returned with a hot dog gingerly daubed with mustard.

"My fairs’ ‘uht dohg," he proclaimed in his most atrocious accent. Then he laughed, and Gideon laughed too.

After a few quiet minutes of congenial munching, Delvaux spoke again.

"Ah! I nearly forgot! Do you recognize this?" He placed a battered black umbrella on his lap.

Gideon had vaguely noticed him carrying it on their walk.

"No, should I?"

Monsieur Delvaux popped the last fragment of hot dog into his mouth. "Look here," he said, pointing to one of several dents in the umbrella. "You are an anthropologist. Would you not say that this indentation matches the cranial conformation of Monsieur Lau?"

"This is Sholokov’s umbrella?" Gideon said.

Delvaux energetically licked some crumbs from his fingertips, then rubbed his hands together. They made a dry, rustling sound. He unscrewed the metal ferrule at the end of the umbrella, slipped off the black fabric with its underlying struts, and set them aside on the bench. What was left was a conventional handle of artificial bamboo attached to a very unconventional length of aluminum pipe a little over a foot long and an inch in diameter. Two inches down from the handle, something that looked very much like a trigger protruded from the pipe.

"Pull it," said Delvaux.

Gideon did; there was a click and a powerful concussion inside the pipe. Delvaux took the instrument back from him.

"To pull the trigger releases a spring inside," he said. "The spring drives a piston hammer-you know what a piston hammer is?"

"Sort of," Gideon said.

"…drives a piston hammer two inches forward. Inside the tube is, or was, a small cylinder of gas that is attached to a hollow needle. Do you follow me so far?"

"More or less. Go ahead."

"The piston drives the needle two millimeters into the victim’s skin-your skin, let us say-at the same instant as the gas impels a miniscule pellet, less than a millimeter in diameter, into the tiny skin puncture. The needle retracts at once, leaving you with nothing more than a passing pinprick sensation…and an invisible poison pellet lodged under your skin. Ingenious, no?"

Amid the shopping center sounds of normal living, Gideon found it hard to give credence to the device, in fact to the whole conversation. Nearby an eight-year-old and his mother were talking at the mustard dispenser.

"Mom, could Jesus Christ beat up King Kong?"

"Yes," the mother said, not listening.

"If King Kong was after me, I would punch him in the stomach with a karate chop."

"That’s right, hon," the mother said.

Gideon picked up the weapon and looked at it. The soldered joints were surprisingly sloppy. "You know, it’s hard for me to believe this sort of thing really exists."

Delvaux smiled. "It was used quite successfully in Munich in 1963, in Vienna a few years after that…and who knows how many more times? The poison is unknown and nearly undetectable."

"Why didn’t he use it this time?"

"I think we can assume he was working his way up to a ‘casual’ brush against you when-so he thought-you spotted him."

"But why didn’t he use it then instead of hitting John over the head with it?"

"The poison is slow-acting. In four hours the victim notices some difficulty in breathing. In twenty-four hours, by which time he has forgotten all about the brief, stinging sensation of the day before, he is dead. Excellent for leisurely assassinations, but not much use for quick getaways, you see."

"I killed him, didn’t I?" said Gideon quietly. "In the scuffle. I heard the click."

"It’s hard to say," said Delvaux. "He was stabbed several times in the fight with Monkes. But yes, he also had a pellet in his foot. The autopsy has not yet been performed. Probably the pellet would have killed him soon enough."

Delvaux looked into Gideon’s face, his eyes suddenly concerned. "My dear friend, you cannot allow yourself to suffer for this. It was not your fault. He was an assassin, a professional killer. It was his own weapon, meant for you. He brought it upon himself."

Gideon wondered what Delvaux was seeing in his face. What he was feeling, if anything, was a detached, mild interest; it was difficult to convince himself that any of it was real, let alone that it involved him. "You’ve explained why Monkes was after me," he said slowly, "but why Sholokov? Why would the KGB want to kill me?"

"We believe that also is because of a misunderstanding-"

"I’m certainly happy to hear that."

Delvaux smiled, not without friendliness. "Let me go back a little. As you know, we have been aware for some time that a member of your university has been supplying extraordinarily crucial information to the Russians in connection with a mysterious undertaking we know only as Operation Philidor. Our hope in assigning you to Sigonella and Torrejon, the two remaining bases, was to draw this person out. We hoped that he, or perhaps she, feeling hounded and personally endangered, might turn to you, a naive, ignorant newcomer-you understand the sense in which I speak-for help in getting the needed information. We did not think he-or she-would ask you outright, of course, but we thought he might try to use you in some way. And so we sent you to Sigonella, and we watched you very carefully-"

"Yes, I understand all that. But why would they want to kill me? If he thought I was being used to trap him, all he had to do was ignore me-"

"Correct, and that is apparently what he did. But we-" here he paused to give his grandest Gallic shrug-"we, in our brilliance, not only fooled completely our own Mr. Monkes, but also the entire, mighty KGB. They have been under the impression that Dr. Gideon Oliver is in reality one of NSD’s most formidable and dangerous agents of counterespionage." He began to reassemble the umbrella.

"By association, you mean? They found out that I had been in contact with you?"

"That’s the idea, yes. They made, it would seem, the same mistake that Mr. Monkes did. They discovered that you were assigned to go to Sigonella and Torrejon, and that you had already been at Rhein-Main-all at the critical times. They assumed-correctly, in the latter two cases- that these assignments were no mere coincidences. Their deduction?… That you must be an NSD agent sent to these bases in an effort to thwart them. I think we may also surmise that they found out you had been to our headquarters in Heidelberg-the building is watched, of course- and so such a conclusion on their part was really quite reasonable."

After a moment Gideon said, "Monsieur Delvaux, does this sort of thing happen every day in your field? Or am I simply fortunate in having been involved in an extraordinarily… interesting adventure?"

Monsieur Delvaux laughed with real amusement. "I have been in intelligence for thirty-three years, and I have never-neh- vaire -encountered an affair like this. And you, you lucky devil, walk right into it the first time!" He laughed again. "Do you know, several weeks ago we began intercepting Russian messages referring to an NSD agent who was hot upon their trail-that is the correct phrase? We racked our brains many hours trying to determine who in the world they were talking about. It was only after the terrible attack on you in Sicily that we began to think it might be you. That, of course, is the reason we terminated our relationship, or tried to, when you were last in Heidelberg- concern for your life."

"I wish Marks had told me that. I wouldn’t have insisted on coming here, believe me."

"Unfortunately, dealing with others is not Mr. Marks’s forte. He did what he was told. But I am surprised that Dr. Rufus consented to send you here."

"Did he know the Russians were after me, too? Did everybody know it but me?"

"You and Monkes. No, Dr. Rufus didn’t know. But he did know we didn’t want you sent here, and that has been enough for him in the past."

Delvaux’s severely pursed lips indicated more than a little displeasure with Dr. Rufus. Gideon was tempted to inquire further into the arrangement between NSD and USOC. Instead, he defended Dr. Rufus.

"He wasn’t very keen on my coming. I leaned on him pretty heavily. And I made a point of asking him not to inform you." He wasn’t altogether sure about that, but he didn’t like the idea of Dr. Rufus, who had been so reluctant about it, having difficulties on his account.

"So," Delvaux said. "Well." He placed both hands on his plump thighs. He was ready to go. The interview was over.

"Before you go," Gideon said, "there is a small matter that worries me just a little. The KGB thinks I’m some kind of super-duper agent who’s going to foil their plan to blow up the world or whatever it is. They’ve tried to kill me twice-at least, two times that we know of. It seems rather probable that those efforts will continue, doesn’t it?"

"No, you can stop worrying. They are no longer interested in you. I guarantee it."

"I value your guarantee highly, but it would certainly ease my mind if you could share with me the reason for your confidence."

Delvaux smiled. "I enjoy you, do you know? Not all Americans have so nice a way with words, even in their own language. Here is what we’ve done. In the past twelve hours, we have sent four secret messages to our agents which make it extremely clear that you are no longer involved with us in any way, and that they are neither to communicate with you nor to accept any communication from you."

"But it’s the KGB I have to worry about, isn’t it? What good does-" He stopped when Delvaux raised his hand.

"You see, the KGB works very hard at intercepting our messages, just as we do theirs. And we are well aware of certain of our own secret channels that are not quite as secret as they are supposed to be. The new directives concerning you have been routed through several of those rather leaky channels."

"But how can you be positive they’ll be picked up by the Russians? It hardly seems certain." He was beginning to understand the way John felt in their anthropological discussions. Every question he asked received an answer that left him maddeningly incredulous and thoroughly convinced at the same time.

"Oh no. We know. You see, we are rather good at intercepting their messages too. And twenty minutes before I called you this morning, I received word that the KGB has already sent out word that the… what was it? the super-duper agent?…is no longer a threat and is to be left in peace. They did not name you, of course, but there is no question that it is you. You are in no danger. Period."

Gideon’s mind was beginning to turn soggy. It seemed as if NSD had a more reliable communication interchange with the KGB than it did with its own Bureau Four. "But look," he said. "If you can send out false messages for the sole purpose of being intercepted by them, what makes you think they can’t do the same thing? How do you know that this morning’s message about me is reliable?"

"Ah, we can be sure about that. When a message is encoded-"

This time it was Gideon who held up his hand. "Stop. I don’t want to know. I can’t process any more data. I believe you, I believe you."

Delvaux laughed softly. "That’s fine." He looked at his watch. "And now I must go. Is there anything else I can tell you?"

"Yes. Why were my socks stolen?"

"Ah, that is a funny one. We don’t have any idea. We know that Mr. Monkes was in your room several times looking for information he thought you’d stolen. But the socks, they make no sense whatever. As for as we can tell, the incident has no significance."

"Could it have been the KGB?"

"That stole your socks? Hardly. Now, if they’d been American blue jeans…"

They said good-bye at the terminal. Gideon shook hands with affection, and felt the grip returned.

"Where are you off to now?" Gideon asked.

"Now I go back to Holland, to Brunssum, to confer with Herr Embacher, the director general."

"The head of NSD? This is as important as all that?"

Delvaux shrugged expressively but did not reply.

Gideon’s mood was one of reasonable satisfaction as he watched the bus leave. Delvaux had assured him that his personal safety was no longer at risk. The fact that he had received similar assurances two weeks before was of minor concern. More importantly, his scientist’s soul was content-or nearly so; Delvaux had fitted almost all of the missing pieces into place. Only a few annoying questions remained: Who was the spy on the USOC staff? What were the Russians really up to?

And somehow most perplexing and bothersome of all in its own niggling way: Why had someone stolen three pairs of his socks?