The Chessboard Spies, page 6
part #3 of Stephen Fletcher Series
But it was only his counterpart, the tall American, who accepted the invitation. Together they left the room leaving the three agents with their problem.
It was Maxwell who spoke first.
‘You know, John,’ he drawled, ‘I must be getting old. The thoughts of that pension becomes more attractive every day.’
Fletcher glanced across at the man. His face looked tired and furrowed. He had spoken from his heart, Fletcher thought, he was looking forward to retirement. He felt a moment of sympathy for the man. He wasn’t young, and the Middle East was not his home like Spencer and Fletcher. He was an imported agent. A man who had been sent to the Middle East when the first American base in Turkey had been constructed, and since that day had been responsible for their intelligence. Fletcher had worked with him before. He was a good agent, not imaginative like Spencer, but then Spencer was unique. Suddenly Fletcher realized how little he knew about the man. Was he married? Did he have any family? They were questions you never asked a man in their line of business, but Fletcher began to wonder.
‘Don’t worry, David,’ Spencer said in his gruff manner. ‘They have never checkmated us yet, and they won’t this time. We’ll beat this one.’
‘Sure,’ Maxwell replied. ‘The trouble is each move becomes more difficult to follow.’ He lit a cigarette and studied the picture of the camel on the packet, thoughtfully.
‘How do you want to work it?’ he asked abruptly.
Fletcher looked at Spencer and caught his eyes. There were things they had to discuss. Matters which could best be said in private. He didn’t want to give Maxwell any suspicions until he got Spencer’s approval.
Spencer got the message.
‘I think we’ll sleep on it, David,’ he said. ‘I want to check through some old reports.’
‘Good idea,’ Maxwell agreed. ‘We have quite a file on that region. There may be something I have overlooked.’
He slid his chair away from the table. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘it looks as if I will be hotfooting it back East.’
‘Not before we have a talk,’ Spencer warned. ‘I’ll contact you in the usual way.’
‘Sure,’ Maxwell drawled. ‘Now how about that drink?’
‘Not for us,’ Spencer growled. ‘We have to be getting back.’
They left the table and rejoined the other two men, but for Spencer and Fletcher it was only for a short while. The man from London saw them out of the building like a managing director seeing some of his executive staff off his premises after a working visit. But there was a difference. The following morning the man would be gone — back to London. The villa would be handed back to the prominent Greek shipping magnate who befriended the two Western powers. The meeting had never taken place.
Spencer drove swiftly away from the villa. Again Fletcher sat in the dark corner of the rear seat.
‘Well,’ Spencer said. ‘You’ve got the whole picture now.’
‘Is that why you wanted me to be present?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Yes,’ Spencer growled. ‘The way things are going, three heads are better than one.’ He was including Maxwell. ‘I hope you have something for me.’
‘Yes, I have,’ Fletcher replied and added thoughtfully, ‘I only hope it is relevant.’
‘Leave it until we get to the bungalow. I could do with a drink.’
At the bungalow they parked the car and retired to Spencer’s study. Behind locked doors, they studied a large wall map of the Middle East from two comfortable chairs, and toyed with cut-glass tumblers of iced whisky.
Fletcher related the events which had taken place in Cairo, omitting only his suspicions about the visiting party of Americans.
‘So you think Timovsky was trying to say Kaddir?’ Spencer asked when he had finished.
‘I am not sure,’ Fletcher replied truthfully, ‘but it was rather similar. Certainly Kad.’
‘Kaddir,’ Spencer muttered thoughtfully. ‘It means nothing to me. You say he is from the East?’
‘From the Kandahar region,’ Fletcher said. ‘That is according to Ali, but he could be lying.’
‘More than likely,’ Spencer agreed.
‘We could always lean on Ali,’ Fletcher pointed out.
Spencer looked pensive.
‘I think we’ll have to, Stephen,’ he said. ‘I don’t damn well like it. The general situation is too delicate. I’ll contact Hamilton to take care of Ali. I presume you’ve got your contacts working here in Athens.’
‘Yes, I’ve put out a wide net. Something will come our way.’
‘Take care,’ Spencer warned. ‘We could get our fingers burned. They play rough.’
Fletcher didn’t need any warning. He had brushed with the syndicate before. There was big money involved in their business — very big — and they were out to protect it.
‘How do you feel about the suggestion that the opposition have a plant?’ he asked.
‘Of course they damned well have,’ Spencer fumed. ‘But that’s the job for Security. They’ll be arriving tomorrow, poking their noses into everybody’s business. Blasted nuisance, but damn it, man, we can’t wait until they give the green light. We have to carry on.’
‘It could be on the American side,’ Fletcher pointed out.
‘Yes, they are equally vulnerable.’ Spencer looked at him. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘It’s only a long shot,’ Fletcher said slowly, ‘but remember that cutting we found on Timovsky?’
‘Yes, what of it?’
‘We automatically assumed that he was referring to the firms that the Russians were placing orders with. Correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘But we all know that Timovsky was employed by the K.G.B. He wasn’t really interested in trade.’
‘So?’
‘On the reverse side of the newspaper cutting we found on him was a news item. It referred to the visit to Baghdad of members of the American Peace Corps.’
‘The same people who gave the talk at Cairo University?’ Spencer asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘They arrived the same day as Breznov.’
‘And left the same day,’ Spencer added. ‘They are here in Athens, staying at the Grand.’
‘Speaking of hotels,’ Fletcher said. ‘They were also staying at the Carlton in Cairo.’ Spencer frowned, poured himself another drink, and frowned again.
Fletcher knew he wasn’t enthusiastic.
‘Purely a coincidence,’ Spencer growled.
‘Do you have any other suggestions about who might be helping them?’ Fletcher asked, slightly irritated that Spencer should cold-shoulder his suspicions.
‘No, I haven’t, and I’m not even trying to guess. The field is too wide open. You know how many people could be suspect?’
Fletcher didn’t answer. He was well aware that the combined staffs of the British and American Embassies in the Middle East mounted to well over a hundred. It would be a long list.
‘I’m more interested in finding out what the Soviets are up to,’ Spencer added. ‘Once we know that, we’ll be able to foil them. Leave the other thing to Security.’
But Fletcher’s tenacity wouldn’t let him give up. He had a bee in his bonnet about the touring party of Americans, and he wasn’t going to be shunted to one side. He got hold of Spencer’s pointer and let it rest on the wall chart against the eastern end of Turkey.
‘That’s where they do most of their work,’ he said. ‘There.’ He touched the map at Lake Van on the edge of the Hakkari Mountains. ‘And in Iraq and Persia amongst the tribes people.’ He paused and added forcibly. ‘In the East!’
‘And do you think the C.I.A. aren’t watching them?’ Spencer asked testily.
‘Were we watching the men we lost to the Soviets?’ Fletcher retorted. ‘Oh! I know it’s a long shot, but it’s worth following up.’ He paused, and added, ‘I booked in at the Grand also, to keep an eye on them.’
Spencer looked up sharply and frowned, but he saw the stubbornness in Fletcher’s eyes and turned and sat pensively looking at the wall chart. Then, as if on an impulse, he stood up and furrowed through some papers on his desk, until he found what he was looking for. It was a gilt-edged invitation card.
‘I think you are on the wrong track,’ he growled, ‘but since you are so determined to pursue it — this might help.’
He handed Fletcher the card. It was an invitation to a reception to be held the following evening, at the American Club, to meet Dr Bradshaw and his colleagues.
Fletcher smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘it will make a nice change. What line would you suggest?’
‘I’ll phone Peekas first thing in the morning,’ Spencer replied.
Fletcher nodded his head, approvingly. Peekas was the editor of a weekly magazine and they had used his services before with success. He was an old colleague of Spencer’s from the war days, when they had worked together on Middle East Intelligence. Their friendship had often been instrumental in providing a cover for some of Spencer’s activities. Tomorrow would be no different. Peekas would again agree to Fletcher becoming one of his staff.
Fletcher felt much better. He knew Spencer wasn’t keen, but at least he wasn’t trying to hinder him.
They sat talking for a while longer, exhausting various possible lines of thought, but without reaching any definite conclusions. Finally, they made arrangements to meet in Peekas’ office, during the morning following the reception, and Fletcher returned to Piraeus.
He called in at Nico’s bar, but there was nothing to report. The fish was still at large.
Chapter Four
‘Certainly, old boy, we can get the stuff.’ The pseudo, polished accent, carried across the room and attracted Fletcher’s attention by its contrast with the American accents which monopolised the hub of conversations. Fletcher glanced at the owner of the voice. It was the pompous, red-faced Englishman he had seen in the hotel with the American party. He was talking to Lipman, and his stance and manner gave the impression that he was well accustomed to attending such functions.
A waiter with a tray of drinks interrupted Fletcher’s study of the man. Fletcher accepted a drink and looked around the brightly-lit, crowded reception. He recognized some of the British and American Embassy staff and the party of Peace Corps members he had seen at Cairo University. He also saw Maxwell in the far corner deep in conversation with one of their Military Attaches.
Fletcher had just arrived at the reception. He had been introduced to Dr Bradshaw by one of the staff from the Embassy and had spent a few minutes in the Doctor’s company. No mention had been made by either Fletcher or the Doctor, to the fact that they had flown from Cairo, the previous day, on the same flight, but Fletcher was quick to detect a look of uncertainty on the Doctor’s face during their introduction. A look which had suggested to Fletcher that the Doctor was trying to put a place and name tag on him! When the Doctor had been called away to meet another guest, Fletcher had crossed over to a photographic display showing the work carried out by the Peace Corps. It was there that the Englishman’s voice had attracted his attention.
He noticed that Carol Marsh, who was also at the display, had finished explaining certain aspects of their work to a group of Greek officials and he moved towards her. Intentionally he allowed himself to bump into her, spilling his drink.
‘Sorry,’ he said, quickly bringing out his handkerchief.
‘It’s quite all right,’ she smiled. ‘It missed me.’
‘That’s a relief,’ he smiled back at her. ‘I should hate to ruin such a charming dress.’
She accepted the compliment with a faint look of amusement.
‘Have we met before?’ she asked. ‘Your face is familiar.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Fletcher replied, ‘although I understand we are both staying at the same hotel. I am Stefan Fettos.’ He hoped she didn’t remember him from anywhere else.
‘Dr Carol Marsh,’ she explained.
They shook hands. She was much older than he had originally thought. Her face was beginning to show the signs that women tried so hard to camouflage. But she was nevertheless attractive. She had a very dark skin and jet-black hair which made her look more Eastern than American. Her figure wasn’t too bad either, he thought.
‘You speak very good English,’ she said. Her accent was less pronounced that most Americans he had met. ‘What line of business are you in?’
‘Journalism,’ Fletcher explained, and handed her his specially printed card which he used on such occasions. She examined it and handed it back to him.
‘My editor is very interested in your work,’ he said. ‘He is considering doing an article about it.’
‘Is he?’ she asked. ‘Then let me explain these photographs to you.’
She turned to the display.
‘This one shows a new school which we built in Eastern Turkey,’ she said pointing to one of the photographs. ‘And this is an irrigation scheme we installed in a small town near Lake Van.’
She went from photograph to photograph proudly pointing out their achievements. Fletcher was genuinely impressed.
A lot of the photographs had been taken in the remote parts of Turkey and Iraq — a region of rugged geography and primitive conditions.
‘How do you overcome the language difficulties?’ he asked.
‘Ah! they are difficulties, I agree,’ she said seriously. ‘However, some of us can speak Kermanji.’
Kermanji! Fletcher’s pulse quickened. My God! he thought, that was it! That was the tongue the Arab had cried out in, when he had threatened him with the knife! Kermanji, the language of the Kurdish tribes who lived in the mountainous region which bordered Turkey, Iraq and Persia! A flood of thought raced through his brain. The Kurds were a tall, narrow-faced race, with Arabic features. Many of them from the North were fair skinned and blue eyed, whilst those from the South were much darker. The man who had knifed Timovsky was fair haired! He could have been one of them! But many others could pass unnoticed in any Middle East capital. Was this the common denominator?
Carol Marsh continued to describe the various photographs, but Fletcher had other thoughts. The Kurds had long since been a thorn in the flesh to the three countries which bordered the Soviet Union. An independent Kurdistan had first been proposed after the First World War, but it had not come to fruition, and the Kurdish rebellion of 1925 had resulted in a blood-bath. The rebellion had been put down, but a seething resentment still lingered. And hadn’t the Russians again proposed an independent Kurdistan in 1945?
‘If your editor wants a story you should come and visit us in the field,’ Carol Marsh said.
‘Where is that?’ Fletcher asked, putting his thoughts temporarily to the back of his mind.
‘Oh, near Lake Van in Eastern Turkey.’
‘Amongst the Kurds?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘It sounds a good idea,’ he said and meant it.
‘Let me introduce you to some of our other workers.’
She led him over to Carl Lipman, who was talking to a Greek Army officer. After she had introduced Fletcher, she and the Greek moved on, leaving Fletcher alone with Lipman.
‘Have you been out here very long?’ Fletcher asked.
Lipman’s poker face looked straight at Fletcher, but he didn’t reply straight away. Fletcher wondered why.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I came out last fall.’
‘This is your first round trip?’ Fletcher persisted.
‘No, I have done three tours,’ Lipman replied, but didn’t enlarge upon his statement. ‘And you, Mr Fettos. Do you travel far?’
‘Round and about,’ Fletcher said.
‘How long have you worked for your magazine?’
Fletcher gave him the set answer which he knew Peekas would confirm.
‘You will know our P.R.O.?’ Lipman asked.
Fletcher knew, well enough, that he referred to Greg Young, the tall, fresh-faced American, he had seen in Ali’s Club in Cairo, but he decided to act dumb.
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ he lied. ‘Is he here?’
‘That’s him across there talking to Vince Marlow our agricultural expert. Come, I’ll introduce you.’
Lipman was being very helpful, Fletcher thought, as he followed him to where the two men were standing.
Lipman made the introductions. Young responded to the handshake with a firm grip, but Marlow just held out a limp, podgy hand. Young was from one of the Southern States, and he spoke in a slow, drawling accent, which gave a misleading impression of the man’s ability. His speech may have been slow and soft but his questions and flashing eyes indicated a sharp brain. He showed a great deal of interest in Fletcher’s supposed role of a journalist, and even more in the political situation at present existing in Greece, and the series of confrontations which were taking place between Greece and Turkey. Marlow was less talkative. He was a northerner from Detroit, brought up against an industrial background and had spent most of his years in the Far East giving advice on agricultural methods. His beady eyes, enlarged behind thick-lensed spectacles, seemed trained on Fletcher, as if trying to penetrate his innermost thoughts.
Lipman soon left them, but Fletcher noticed he often glanced in their direction.
‘So your editor is interested in running a series on us, is he?’Young asked.
‘Yes,’ Fletcher agreed, ‘but I would like to get hold of some fresh material.’
‘Come into the field,’ Marlow said. ‘That’s the only place you’ll get that.’
‘Sure,’Young drawled. ‘We are going into the field ourselves, for a spell, after we get back to Ankara. Why don’t you join us?’
‘Eastern Turkey?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Yes, we work from a central base at Kiran near Lake Van,’ Marlow explained.
In the heart of Kurdish territory, Fletcher thought. If anything was being planned for the Kurds that’s where it would take place.
‘I’m sure you would find it interesting,’ Young added in his lazy accent.
Very, Fletcher thought, and wondered whether the smile on Young’s face hid any deeper thoughts.
