Read Online Agent in Place by Helen MacInnes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen MacInnes
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on?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He calmed her with a kiss on her cheek. “They needed a place to meet. Why not in our room?”
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What are they plotting?”
“It’s no conspiracy against the United States, if that’s what is worrying you,” he said with a grin. “It’s just some information that Tony wants from Brad.”
There was no one in the elevator. Dorothea said, “But Brad isn’t with Intelligence, is he?”
“Definitely not.” No more. Brad had resigned from that kind of work almost twelve years ago.
“But Tony is, isn’t he?”
“Now, what gave you that idea?”
“Just a feeling, somehow. You know, I only remembered him tonight by his clothes. And I thought, what if Tony was dressed as a stevedore and I bumped into him on the docks—”
“ That’s a wild notion!” It amused Tom.
“Or, if he was dressed as a pilot and I saw him on board a flight to Detroit—”
“If my aunt had whiskers, she’d be my uncle.”
“Some women do have whiskers,” Dorothea reminded him coldly. “All I’m trying to say is that Tony’s the kind of man I’d hardly remember unless I could place him by his clothes.”
“Not very flattering to Tony, are you? I don’t think he’d be too amused to hear all that. In fact—” Tom was suddenly serious—“I think we should drop the whole subject right now and enjoy our dinner.”
He steered her through the lobby into the dining-room. He wasn’t too worried. In five years of living together Thea had never repeated a confidence he had given her. Discreet. No gossiper. That was Thea. But he didn’t like the little frown shading her bright blue eyes. “We’ll talk later,” he promised.
“It’s just that I’m so sick of the word Intelligence,” she began.
“Later,” he said firmly. “Now, smile for the maître d’ , and get us a good table.”
“And you’ll really answer all my questions?”
“Do my best. I’m no oracle, darling, just a newspaperman who is very very hungry.”
She smiled then, for him entirely. They got a good table in any case.
* * *
In the sitting-room Brad Gillon had been listening intently to Tony. No more jokes, no more flights of fancy.
“Come on, Brad, dig into that memory bank. You must have heard of Konov in your OSS days. That time you raced into the ruins of Hitler’s Chancellery neck and neck with Soviet Intelligence. Konov was with their team.”
“The one that went through a mess of Hitler’s private papers, trying to find some evidence that Churchill had been conspiring with him to attack Russia?”
“They wanted to believe it too,” Tony said, shaking his head.
“A Soviet Intelligence officer’s dream of glory? Alone I found it .”
“But there was nothing to find. If only Konov had been in Disinformation at that time, he would have invented a document then and there. Thank God he wasn’t. He is now.” Tony paused. “During the fifties and sixties, Konov worked in their Department for Illegals. Does that catch your memory? A lot of intelligence reports must have passed over your desk in that period.”
“I left State by 1962,” Brad reminded him. “But just around then—yes, I begin to remember Konov.” His voice quickened. “There was that episode in Ottawa—left in a hurry just before the Canadians could arrest him. He was in the US too, I recall. A busy little beaver.”
“North America was his field. Still is.”
“Then why is NATO worrying about him—or don’t you think our intelligence agencies can cope?” Brad asked with a wry smile.
“ If they’d start co-operating with each other again—” Tony suggested but refrained from a sharp criticism of Hoover in the late sixties—“or with us. But that happy state got cut off abruptly. It’s the root reason for all their present troubles, isn’t it?”
“Could be.” Thank God, I’m out of all that, thought Brad; but he couldn’t bury his memories, or the latest
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He calmed her with a kiss on her cheek. “They needed a place to meet. Why not in our room?”
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What are they plotting?”
“It’s no conspiracy against the United States, if that’s what is worrying you,” he said with a grin. “It’s just some information that Tony wants from Brad.”
There was no one in the elevator. Dorothea said, “But Brad isn’t with Intelligence, is he?”
“Definitely not.” No more. Brad had resigned from that kind of work almost twelve years ago.
“But Tony is, isn’t he?”
“Now, what gave you that idea?”
“Just a feeling, somehow. You know, I only remembered him tonight by his clothes. And I thought, what if Tony was dressed as a stevedore and I bumped into him on the docks—”
“ That’s a wild notion!” It amused Tom.
“Or, if he was dressed as a pilot and I saw him on board a flight to Detroit—”
“If my aunt had whiskers, she’d be my uncle.”
“Some women do have whiskers,” Dorothea reminded him coldly. “All I’m trying to say is that Tony’s the kind of man I’d hardly remember unless I could place him by his clothes.”
“Not very flattering to Tony, are you? I don’t think he’d be too amused to hear all that. In fact—” Tom was suddenly serious—“I think we should drop the whole subject right now and enjoy our dinner.”
He steered her through the lobby into the dining-room. He wasn’t too worried. In five years of living together Thea had never repeated a confidence he had given her. Discreet. No gossiper. That was Thea. But he didn’t like the little frown shading her bright blue eyes. “We’ll talk later,” he promised.
“It’s just that I’m so sick of the word Intelligence,” she began.
“Later,” he said firmly. “Now, smile for the maître d’ , and get us a good table.”
“And you’ll really answer all my questions?”
“Do my best. I’m no oracle, darling, just a newspaperman who is very very hungry.”
She smiled then, for him entirely. They got a good table in any case.
* * *
In the sitting-room Brad Gillon had been listening intently to Tony. No more jokes, no more flights of fancy.
“Come on, Brad, dig into that memory bank. You must have heard of Konov in your OSS days. That time you raced into the ruins of Hitler’s Chancellery neck and neck with Soviet Intelligence. Konov was with their team.”
“The one that went through a mess of Hitler’s private papers, trying to find some evidence that Churchill had been conspiring with him to attack Russia?”
“They wanted to believe it too,” Tony said, shaking his head.
“A Soviet Intelligence officer’s dream of glory? Alone I found it .”
“But there was nothing to find. If only Konov had been in Disinformation at that time, he would have invented a document then and there. Thank God he wasn’t. He is now.” Tony paused. “During the fifties and sixties, Konov worked in their Department for Illegals. Does that catch your memory? A lot of intelligence reports must have passed over your desk in that period.”
“I left State by 1962,” Brad reminded him. “But just around then—yes, I begin to remember Konov.” His voice quickened. “There was that episode in Ottawa—left in a hurry just before the Canadians could arrest him. He was in the US too, I recall. A busy little beaver.”
“North America was his field. Still is.”
“Then why is NATO worrying about him—or don’t you think our intelligence agencies can cope?” Brad asked with a wry smile.
“ If they’d start co-operating with each other again—” Tony suggested but refrained from a sharp criticism of Hoover in the late sixties—“or with us. But that happy state got cut off abruptly. It’s the root reason for all their present troubles, isn’t it?”
“Could be.” Thank God, I’m out of all that, thought Brad; but he couldn’t bury his memories, or the latest
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