The Berlin Conspiracy Part 9

He gave me a look over the rim of his gla.s.s. "Johnson's naval intelligence. Nothing to do with me."

"Chase belongs back in the jungle, cutting somebody's throat," I said and Sam shrugged. He didn't say anything for a minute, so I jumped on the lull. "What's Iceberg?"

He looked at me and grinned. "You know, I think I'll take this room after you leave." He held his empty gla.s.s out and I took it over to the bar for a refill.

"You really sending me home?" I asked.

"I thought you wanted to go. Catch some more fish or whatever it is you do to pa.s.s the time. You know, I take my hat off to you, Jack. I could never sit around waiting for a fish to make my day. It takes a special kind of patience, I guess."

"Go to h.e.l.l," I said.

"Booked in a long time ago, my son." He took hold of the second scotch.

"What if the Colonel's right?"

"You've been out of it a while, Jack. You don't have the whole picture."

"Wanna put me in it?"

"Love to," he smiled, sipping the whiskey this time. "But it's top-secret stuff. You know-"

"Like Iceberg?"

He shrugged.

"Come on, Sam," I prodded. "You owe me some kind of explanation."

"Do I? ... Okay, then," he conceded. "Iceberg's the code name for a KGB cell that's been operating in Berlin for the last couple of months. Highly trained and very secret. At least that's what they're saying in Langley."

"What's new about a KGB cell in Berlin?"

"It's part of a political a.s.sa.s.sination unit." He looked for a response but I didn't give him one. "Iceberg's specialty is damage control," he added.

"What kind of damage control?" I asked.

"Hitting a target's easy," he began.

"Like Castro?"

"Well, relatively easy," he corrected himself. "The hard part is damage control. Public perception. Come on, you haven't been out of it that long. You know what I'm talking about."

"Are you saying the president might be a target?"

"Washington doesn't think so."

"What do you think?"

He stood up and wandered over to the window before answering. "If he is, he's the Russkies' target, not ours."

"Why would the Soviet Union want to a.s.sa.s.sinate Kennedy?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Maybe they're p.i.s.sed off because the missile thing made them look bad. Maybe they don't like his haircut."

I gave him a look. "It doesn't make sense, Sam. If they wanted to start World War Three they'd just fire off a few thousand warheads."

"Maybe they don't want to start a war. Maybe the idea is to make it look like our side was responsible. Or at least cause enough confusion so n.o.body's sure."

"Why do it in Berlin, then, where suspicion is going to immediately fall on them? They'd do it in New Orleans or Alabama if they wanted to make it look like us."

"Maybe they want it to look like we were setting them up."

I had to laugh. It was the perfect Company answer. If it looks like a "6" it must be a "9" because the whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned world is upside down.

"Know what I think, Sam? I think you guys have your heads so far up your intelligence a.s.s that you can't find your own tail."

He looked a little insulted. "If they were gonna pull something, this is exactly how they'd operate. Your Colonel plants the idea that there's an element within the U.S. intelligence community that's plotting to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president. Afterward, the information gets out, along with a few other well-placed 'clues,' and there's enough of a question mark that no one knows for sure."

"Or," I suggested, "the Colonel's telling the truth and someone in the Company-"

"I wouldn't talk like that, Jack. It could get you into real trouble. Real Real trouble. Anyway"-he changed gears-"chances are the East Germans are just running a chaos operation. Trying to get us to keep Kennedy in a low profile." trouble. Anyway"-he changed gears-"chances are the East Germans are just running a chaos operation. Trying to get us to keep Kennedy in a low profile."

"I thought about that," I said. "There's only one problem. Why would they insist on getting me all the way over here so they could run the story through me?"

Sam gave me a good long look before he hit me with it: "I was hoping you could shed some light on that, Jack."

I didn't like the implication, especially coming from Sam. It was natural that they'd think in those terms, but I didn't expect it from Sam. It threw me.

"What does Powell think?" I asked coolly.

"He thinks you're part of it."

"Is that why I've got the babysitter?"

"Yes," he said, to the point. "Powell insisted on it. You know, you didn't exactly impress him with your team spirit."

"Did you send me here to impress Powell?"

Sam shrugged, conceding the point.

"If you really thought I was involved you wouldn't be sending me home," I pointed out.

"I never said I thought you were involved." He polished off his drink, set the empty gla.s.s on the table. "I'm sending you home because I don't need you anymore."

"Maybe I'll stick around on my own for a while," I said, just to test him.

"Not an option," he said, leaving no room for negotiation. We stood there without saying anything for a few seconds-long enough for it to feel awkward.

"Well," he finally said. "Thanks for the drink."

"Anytime," I answered. He smiled and headed for the door, picking up his hat on the way. He stopped at the entrance and turned back, casually dropping the question that was the real reason for his visit: "By the way ... How are you supposed to get in touch with Becher? Do you have a signal or have you got a meeting set up already?"

"I thought you said you didn't need me anymore."

"Did I say that? What a tactless son of a b.i.t.c.h I am."

"He said he'd contact me," I said.

"I see," he nodded, then exited with a shrug.

I stepped into the shower, pulled the curtain, and leaned into the tiled wall, letting the hot water clear my head. I was surprised and disappointed with Sam. Surprised that he was cutting me off, disappointed that he had doubts. I would have expected it from the likes of Powell, but Sam and I had history.

It didn't even make sense that I was working the other side. What if they had managed to turn me? They'd want to get me reactivated, sure, but not by dropping a line to the agency that practically said "please send our new double agent, Jack Teller." It was too stupid for words. Sam had to see that. Even Powell had to see it. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't thick, at least not that thick. On the other hand, maybe he was well aware of it and he was just blowing smoke. Maybe Powell had something to hide.

A chilling thought. What if there was a plot and the Berlin chief of station was mixed up in it? It made a kind of uneasy sense. He had dismissed the whole idea before I even got it out of my mouth-no questions, no concerns, no allowance for the possibility that there might be some truth in it. And if he was somehow involved, his next move would be to discredit me. Sam had said that Powell thought I was "part of it" and he made a point of saying the house arrest was Powell's idea. Maybe Sam was trying to tell me something. Maybe he had the same idea but, for obvious reasons, couldn't say anything.

If what I was thinking was true, then it wouldn't be enough for Powell to ship me back to Florida. I'd never make it that far, or if I did, I'd wash up on the beach one morning in the near future and it'd be "poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, what the h.e.l.l was he doing out there in the middle of the night anyway?" I turned the shower off and laughed at myself. Powell was a topflight a.s.shole, but I was getting carried away.

The phone started ringing in the bedroom. I stepped out of the tub, threw on one of the hotel bathrobes, and picked up.

"Yeah?"

"Mr. Teller?"

"That's right."

"This is room service."

"Room service? I didn't-"

"Do you remember me?" the voice said. "I served you yesterday evening." I recognized the Colonel's smoky voice.

"Yes ..." I answered. "I do remember you."

"May I confirm your dinner order for tonight?"

"Go ahead," I said.

"The same as yesterday and at the same time?"

I glanced at the clock at the side of the bed. It was twelve forty-five, giving me eight hours, more than enough to figure out how to lose my nursemaid.

"Yes," I said. "That'll be fine. Same as last night."

"For one person, is that correct?"

"Yes, I'll be alone," I confirmed.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Teller," he said, then hung up.

I waited before putting the receiver down, and sure enough, I heard the secondary click of the third party hanging up. I wondered if Sam knew about the tap or if it was off Powell's bat. Either way, it was unlikely they'd tumble-the Colonel had played it well and I hadn't blown it.

Now all I had to do was figure out how to get past the junior James Bond sitting by my door. I could either go through him-not likely since he had at least one gun-or I could go around him. The window was out of the question. It was six stories up and my Spider-Man days were long gone. Anyway, it was broad daylight. My best chance was to finesse him. I thought if I could get him inside I'd figure something out. Maybe I could even lock him in the bathroom.

I went through the living room and opened the door leading into the foyer. My sentry was slumped over a chair by the door reading an old copy of the Sat.u.r.day Evening Post. Sat.u.r.day Evening Post. One of the nameless foot soldiers who were kept around for this kind of duty, he was right off the production line-early thirties, short hair combed back with a dab of grease, and a c.o.c.ky "don't mess with me" expression on his face. The .38 that was tucked away in his shoulder harness peeped out from under his navy blue jacket. One of the nameless foot soldiers who were kept around for this kind of duty, he was right off the production line-early thirties, short hair combed back with a dab of grease, and a c.o.c.ky "don't mess with me" expression on his face. The .38 that was tucked away in his shoulder harness peeped out from under his navy blue jacket.

"How you doing?" I greeted him.

"Just fine," he answered coolly.

"I'm Jack," I said. "Jack Teller."

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "I know."

"You?"

"Smith," he deadpanned.

"Right. Well, Smith"-I smiled, quickly losing confidence in my plan-"I'm ordering room service, so what can I get you? They do a mean sirloin."

He stared blankly at me. "Thanks, anyway."

"Okay," I said. "How about a drink?"

Still nothing.

"Look," I persisted. "There's no point in you sitting out here when I've got a whole suite in there. It's a h.e.l.l of a lot more comfortable."

"I'm fine right here," he said.

Jerk. He was told to stay and he was gonna stay no matter what I tried. "Suit yourself." I shrugged and went back inside.

I considered a diversionary fire, with lots of smoke and chaos. It had worked for me one time in Caracas when I was in a similar jam, but Smith was the type who'd die of smoke inhalation before he left me. I wandered into the bathroom to take a leak and shave, running various scenarios in my head. I was thinking about the time that I lost an unwanted companion in Mexico City by donning an evening gown and tiara when I saw the answer, right there in the ceiling above me-an access panel.

I threw some clothes on (making sure I had my wallet this time), grabbed one of the Louis XIV chairs from the living room, placed it on top of the toilet, and climbed on. It was a high ceiling, but when I balanced myself on the chair's carved wooden arms, I was able to reach high enough to push the panel aside. I grabbed the inside frame and, with some effort, managed to pull myself up. The chair went flying as I left it, making a h.e.l.l of a sound as it bounced off the bidet. I waited, ready to pounce on Smith if he came running, but he stayed put.

There was a s.p.a.ce between the false ceiling and the insulation above, but it was filled with electrical wires and pipes. Just enough room for me to squeeze through if I lay flat on my belly and pulled myself along the thin support beams that held the ceiling up. I figured I could follow the water pipes, which would feed every room along the length of the hotel, until I came across another access panel.

It was slow progress-dark, hot, and dusty. The insulation was getting up my nose and I was having trouble breathing. I was starting to think I should've stuck with the fire idea when I felt a panel in front of me. It sounded like it was raining below and I realized that someone was in the room taking a shower. There was no way I was going any farther and I didn't like the idea of waiting there until the room was clear, so I did what I always did in a tight spot-go for it and hope for the best.

I pried the panel open with my room key and was met with a blast of hot steam. When it cleared I lowered my head and looked around. I spotted a woman's robe hanging on the back of the door and then, rotating halfway around the room, a woman's soapy body pressed against a clear plastic shower curtain. She was humming something while she lathered up, maybe "Bali Hai" from South Pacific. South Pacific. She had a nice voice. I don't know exactly how long I lingered there, but the blood started rushing to my head, so I pulled myself back into the crawl s.p.a.ce in order to plan my drop. She had a nice voice. I don't know exactly how long I lingered there, but the blood started rushing to my head, so I pulled myself back into the crawl s.p.a.ce in order to plan my drop.

Better a she than a he, I thought-hysterical screams are easier to deal with than physical violence. I untied my shoes, put one in each jacket pocket, then lowered myself down, feetfirst, as far as I could. Then I closed my eyes and let go. It was a soft landing and I thought I'd be okay until she abruptly stopped singing.

"Harold? ... Is that you?"

I threw myself against a wall and said something along the lines of "Ugh."

"Why don't you come in with me, darling? It feels absolutely divine!" I considered my options and decided a quick exit was the only sane one. I reached across the room, flushed the toilet, and grunted again.