Marco Polo, If You Can Read online

  Amanda joked with Blackford about popular misconceptions of the Agency, but kept her voice down. She had put on the record player, and Ella Fitzgerald was singing Cole Porter. Blackford responded amiably to her spirited dominion over the steaks, mint juleps, music and conversation, and again he remembered her, over a year ago, head tilted back, laughing, salvaging a tight social situation with voluptuarian delight. “You are an extraordinarily beautiful woman,” he said impulsively as he stirred the charcoal. She replied, affecting the accent of Greta Garbo, “You should see the rest of me.” He turned to her, her smiling face reflecting the torchlight, and knew that she had issued an invitation. “When,” his voice was steady as he resumed his work with the coals, which he now found himself stroking, “is the rest of you visible?”

  Amanda laughed softly. “I’ll have to consult my astrologer. Besides,” her head made the faintest motion in the direction of Michael and Sally, “just how much should a single man be permitted to see?”

  “That depends on his reach.”

  She looked at him, this time allowing her eyes to descend slowly along his body. Blackford found it expedient to swivel to one side.

  Amanda’s laugh was now intended to reach her other guests: “Let’s have another drink. Hey, Sally, Michael, time for one more julep before the steak is ready.” Without waiting for an answer, she moved back and poured Michael a drink. Sally declined a third. “I’ll do the corn,” she said, walking over toward the grill. Blackford said nothing.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Oh shit, Sally.”

  He was angry at her tedious disparagements of the whole of the anti-Communist enterprise. And for her part, she would jolly well let him simmer. She took no further initiative, so that while he tended the meat and she the corn, inches from each other, not a word passed between them, a cold war that went unnoticed in the blare and jollity of the music.

  An hour later Sally said she had to get home—term papers to read. Blackford made no attempt to detain her. Michael, to whom the rupture had become apparent, said the usual chattery kind of thing and started to clear the dishes, but Amanda said to leave everything, as Violet would be in first thing in the morning to clean up. Michael gave Amanda the opportunity to suggest he stay on, but the invitation wasn’t proffered, a totally inoffensive demurral as between two people who knew each other as sister and brother. Blackford asked Sally if she had brought her car? She hadn’t. “I’ll drop you off.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t have to.”

  Michael and Amanda affected not to hear, slightly increasing the pitch of their own goodbyes. Blackford extended his hand to say good night. She took it and lightly stroked the palm with her thumb. Michael was voluble in expressing his delight with the evening; the others thanked Amanda. Sally consoled her on the loss of Silver Spoon, and they walked into the pretty little house to the front door that opened on P Street.

  Blackford nodded in the direction of his parked Chevrolet, and pointedly opened the passenger-door side for Sally before going around to let himself in. He found his anger swelling, though he recognized that the booze probably enhanced it; but Sally had been, for several weeks now, quite simply bloody. He was determined to take no conciliatory initiative. So was she. So that when he reached her apartment house on Wisconsin Avenue she simply opened the door, said “Good night,” and walked, without even a ritual peck on his cheek, to the front door, opened it, and let herself in. Blackford was still standing by his car.

  He was hot now with anger, resentment, and—he had known it was coming—lust. He drove down the street to the bar at the corner, ordered a bourbon and soda at the counter, and went to the telephone book. Gaither … Nothing under Amanda. A “Gaither” on P Street? No. Her number was unlisted. He returned to the bar and sipped his drink.

  Blackford had the capacity not always to control his movements, but always to observe them with detachment. One thing he knew as surely as that the sun would in due course rise: namely, that he would succeed in getting the unlisted number of Amanda Gaither. He would not, of course, call Michael to get it. His mind raced for names of suitable friends in common. Why not call the old number? Oscar was still doing night duty, as far as he knew, and Oscar would give him the home number, for old times’ sake. One possibility—No, he wouldn’t call Roland Gaither. No, he wouldn’t call.… He could, of course, just drive back to P Street. But there was an arrhythmic factor there he wouldn’t stop now to analyze—it would disturb the cadence. No, he must telephone her. What the hell.

  He went to the telephone. He knew his luck would now turn to his account, knew it as a certitude. But he mustn’t wrench the thing.

  The voice answered—always the same routine, giving the last three numbers dialed.

  “Seven-three-four.”

  “Oscar? It’s Black.”

  “How are ya, boy! Been a while. The missus was asking about you the other day. She always took a shine to you.”

  “Give Marge my love. Say, Oscar, I had dinner with Amanda Gaither—my boss’s daughter, she lives at 1125 P Street. I left my damned briefcase there and I can’t find her number. Unlisted. Do you mind?”

  “Well, I don’t guess anybody’s going to fire me for giving you the number of your boss’s daughter, so why don’t you call your boss and ask him, ho ho ho. Hang on a minute, Black.”

  Blackford’s pen was poised. He scratched down the number.

  “Thanks, Oscar; good man, I’ll give you a buzz at home real soon.”

  He hung up—but went back, then, to the bar. Times like this, Black old boy, you got to stop and think, if only so you can tell yourself that at times like this you stopped and thought, right? Right. Well, have you stopped and thought? Yes, he had certainly stopped and thought, so he went back to the telephone.

  “This is me.”

  “Well, hello.”

  “I decided I would have that extra mint julep.”

  “So you want me to give you the recipe?”

  “That’s one possibility.” Blackford had no remaining doubts.

  She laughed. “Come on over.”

  They went quickly into the bedroom on the first floor, where the only light was from the embers in the grill outside. He could not see her, not yet, but would soon, as his eyes adjusted. He took her voraciously, and she responded with unfeigned intensity. He tried to slake his appetite, and she hers, in silent and passionate exuberance, and as his eyes and hands discerned the contours he had up until a moment ago only imagined, he very nearly shivered. She, little by little, lost that trace of a smile as she turned up her head pleadingly, biting her lower lip, grasping him with both hands, kneading him now with the insulation of the gesture earlier in the evening gone, the circuit complete. She gasped, and now, finally, he closed his eyes, the moment frozen like a stilled motion picture; and then he collapsed. She raised her arms, and, tenderly, played with the hair on the back of his head, as if bent on braiding it. It was a half hour before she spoke.

  “Is it me, or are you just taking it out on Sally?”

  He paused. He enjoyed hyperbole—but not flattery. As a schoolboy he had had an aversion to any form of unction; he thought it servile. He came in on the question from a different angle.

  “Why would somebody like you ever feel that anything other than you would be necessary?”

  Amanda raised herself on one elbow, resting her head on one hand. She laughed. “Blacky, you’re silly, but you’re nice. I see your little analytical mind—I mean your big analytical mind—working working working. Forget it. It was super, and there isn’t any reason—you’re right—to dissect it. After all, I suppose I could have said, ‘Was that you, or the mint julep?’”

  “I’d have said, in Kentucky, this is how well-bred gentlemen are trained to thank the ladies when the juleps are especially good.”

  She laughed again; and, with her free hand, began again to fondle him, traveling down the length of his body slowly, amiably, h
er fingers, closing casually on their prey, idling, teasing; no hurry.

  “Dad says you’re bored.”

  Blackford, his own hands now engaged, said, rather distractedly, “Oh? When did he say that?”

  “The other day.”

  “What was he talking about?”

  “You.”

  “Obviously. I mean, why was he talking about …” he lost, temporarily, control of his speech rhythm. Easier to start again. “Why was he talking about me?”

  “He thinks you miss your old work.”

  “In a way I do.”

  “But he says if you stayed on, he’d make you a partner in a year or so.”

  “Maybe that was as of before toni … iiiyyyit.”

  Her laugh tapered off quickly. Blackford said, “I think you were commissioned to seduce me into coming up … with some monument nice … to … FDR.”

  The telephone rang. Startled, Amanda groped for it.

  “Yes?” she said quietly.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. This is Oscar, at the Agency. Blackford Oakes called, asked for your number, and I gave it to him. Against the rules. Just wanted to check. Was that all right?”

  “Oh, er—yes, yes of course. We’re … preparing a little surprise for my father. Thanks for checking. Good night.”

  “I trust,” said Blackford, “we’re not preparing a little surprise for anybody. Let alone your father.”

  She laughed good-naturedly, content, and got out of the bed. Putting on a bathrobe, she said, “Let’s go down and get that julep. But before that, stand up and move over, in front of the window. I want a good look.”

  Blackford obeyed. “Okay?”

  “Not really. I could look all night. But—” she sighed exaggeratedly “—my mother taught me to be a good hostess. So put on your pants, and I’ll go grind the damn mint.”

  “Knead the damned mint.”

  “Knead the damned mint.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It was hardly unusual to find Benni still at his desk even after the most junior draftsman had left the office. Ernie Johnson switched off the light in his own quarters and, passing by Benni’s (the door, as always, open), said, “You are a grind, Benni. It’s six-thirty.”

  Benni looked up from under the heap of accountants’ pads on his desk and smiled. “It won’t be so long now, Ernie. Good night.”

  Johnson waved, and went down the hall.

  Benni waited ten minutes. He went then to the entrance door, locked and also bolted it. This was standard operating procedure at A&G, and on those infrequent intervals when only one architect, or one secretary, was in the office (it occasionally happened during the lunch hour), the remaining employee was encouraged to bolt the door to guard against the acquisitive who are not deterred by mere keylocks.

  Benni then went back to his office and reached into a file drawer marked, “RECEIPTS, JAN–APRIL 1957.” He took out the manila folder for February, opened it, and withdrew eight Xeroxed sheets of paper with closely, but neatly, typewritten material, single-spaced.

  These he took to the blueprint room together with eight sheets of letter paper on which, during the preceding days, he had recorded miscellaneous figures, summaries of expenses, invoices—the accountant’s equivalent of the lawyer’s omnipresent legal pad. The paper in question, though not chalk-white like the stationery used by the firm, was not unusually dull. Benni was known to be thrifty in his own habits, and niggardly with the firm’s money. He used dull stock for his work, less expensive than regular writing paper. It was, in fact, blueprint paper, taken from the roll of sensitized paper in the blueprint machine and trimmed to the standard 8 x 10. Benni’s own typing and notes were carefully done on the desensitized side.

  Now he placed on the belt one piece of his notepaper, sensitized side up, and from the other pile drew a single sheet, the typed matter face down. He flipped a switch and the conveyor belt moved the papers up under the glass plate and past the light source. Benni then retrieved both papers, aborting the passage of the sensitized paper which would otherwise have been guided by rollers into the water wash spray, then up and around the four heated drying drums. He repeated the operation seven times and turned off the machine. He now had exposed, but undeveloped, blueprints of the typed papers.

  Then he went to the washroom and soaked the original eight typewritten documents in hot water until they were pulpy. He disposed of them in the toilet.

  Back in the office, he inserted his eight sheets in a manila folder between other similar sheets of paper—more blank accountants’ work sheets.

  He looked at his watch. It was five minutes after seven. He waited five minutes and then at 7:10 he dialed a number in Brooklyn. He permitted the telephone to ring three times, then hung up.

  That night he told Maria he would be traveling the next day to New York, to which he frequently went on Saturdays—to visit friends, and perhaps call on Salvatore’s widow, who had helped to engineer Maria and Michael’s escape. He usually took the train at eight.

  A few minutes after two, he was in Brooklyn, at Prospect Park. He had with him a small brown bag, and sat on the bench eating his ham and cheese sandwich and reading that morning’s edition of the New York Daily News. At the other end of the bench another man, wearing a light overcoat and a cap, also sat, reloading a camera. After putting in fresh film, he discarded the carton, leaving it in the space between him and Benni. His sandwich finished, Benni folded the newspaper and put it down, enveloping in his palm the film carton, which he eased into his pocket.

  On the train back to Washington, Benni poked his finger into the carton in his pocket, drawing out a scrap of paper. Written in pencil was: “Popcorn Loew’s 87th 4:05.” Benni committed the data to memory, went to the men’s room, and disposed of the film carton. When next he had materials to pass along, he would dial the telephone at the usual time on a Friday, and the next day at 4:05 he would be at the popcorn stand, establish eye contact, walk into the theater and select an uncrowded row. He would be followed by the man with the popcorn, who would sit two seats away. In due course Benni would leave an envelope with his work sheets in the seat between them. That envelope would be retrieved, and the half empty popcorn box discarded under the empty seat. Benni would pick up the scrap of paper lying on the uneaten popcorn, which would specify the site and hour of day for the next meeting. Both men would sit through the movie, but one would delay leaving until the first had gone, even though it meant seeing again a minute or two of film already seen.

  After Hans Steiner picked up the papers in the park he returned to his studio. There he would work in his darkroom. First he developed the blueprint paper—this merely required washing it in clean water, thus producing the clear negative on a background of prussian blue. He then read over the material and made a judgment as to which of various means of transmitting it was appropriate. In recent months Benni had given him one or two items that needed to be transmitted with the greatest possible speed consistent with security—for instance the order, which Hans saw on July 2, dispatching a U-2 to overfly the Polish border on July 4. Steiner had to weigh conflicting priorities on that one. Steiner had thirteen effective agents, and had devised contingent means by which he could sacrifice one without endangering others, let alone himself. If a certain man in Ottawa received a telephone call at the beginning of which the caller identified himself as Max Schmeling, the obliging Canadian would write down exactly the text of the message to be transmitted to Moscow by cable. The Canadian, who worked in a travel agency, would go to the Soviet consul to ask for blank visa application forms; the assistant consul would be consulted about a hypothetical problem involving a client of the tourist agency. The troublesome Canadian birth certificate would be produced and a Xerox copy made for examination by the consul-general. The relevant information, taken from the birth certificate, would reach the Lubyanka by code within three minutes.

  But Benni’s package today could go by one of the usual means, which meant delivery in Mos
cow in four to six days. So Steiner took the special camera, locked it into place, and filmed the eight pages, then made the tiny negatives. The whole of the information on the negatives would fit comfortably under two postage stamps. He clipped out of the morning Times, after quickly perusing it for material of plausible interest to an East German, the notice of a statement by Dr. Nikolai A. Kozyrev of the Pulkovo Observatory near Leningrad who had reported that spectral photographs had proved the lunar crater Alphonse to be an active volcano. The story went on to say that Izvestia had reported the same day that the Lebedev Physics Institute had completed the most sensitive radiotelescope in the world and was building “the world’s largest,” with a “crosslike” shape one kilometer long and 131 feet high.

  He inserted the clipping into the envelope, which he had touched only with gloved hands. He carefully applied the postage stamps. Steiner was a perfectionist, and had fretted over the matter of how to write the name and address. Certainly he would never do so in his own hand. He had two typewriters, one of them in his large workroom, a second, a portable, in the hanging closet of his bedroom, a perfectly reasonable place in which to store a spare. He had once or twice permitted himself to use this typewriter, long enough ago that he was satisfied that whatever risk he’d run had lapsed. Should he use it again? The alternative was cumbersome, namely to go into Manhattan to one of those pawnshops where there were always typewriters for quick sale, and go through the routine of trying one out, sneaking in one or two envelopes. He decided against it, brought down his portable, and typed out:

  Frau Ilse Müller

  48 Mittelstrasse

  East Berlin

  German Democratic Republic

  It wasn’t as though he didn’t have to go to Manhattan anyway. He went out the door, walked two blocks to the subway at Borough Hall, went up the Lexington Avenue line to Fourteenth Street, mailed the letter at the corner, and treated himself to a late dinner at Luchow’s during which he read the latest issue of Time magazine, which carried a story on Chairman John McCone of the Atomic Energy Commission advising the Washington press that his tour of Soviet nuclear facilities had impressed him with the “remarkable” speed with which the Soviet scientists could organize and carry out new atomic projects. However, McCone reassured them, in every relevant field the United States was significantly ahead of the Soviet Union. “Maybe today, maybe not tomorrow,” Hans Steiner said to himself elated, finishing his half-bottle of hock.