entirety by the Leningrad press you chose to submit it to. Of course they may see fit to publish certain selected passages from it, perhaps in Isvestia or some such suitable organ.”
“Naturally. Tell them not to forget to pay me for it. You’ve joined the International Copyright Convention now, remember.”
“To whom should such payment be made?”
“My literary agent is John Ives in New York. He has my power of attorney.”
“I’m sure your estate will receive the money in due course, my capitalist friend.”
Kendig let him have the last word; he rang off and went to the counter to check his bag through on the Finnair flight to Helsinki.
— 19 -
The office was less than two blocks from the Champs Elysees; autumn leaves rattled against the high old windows. Ross was sorting the signals from Washington-the courier still waited beyond the desk with the briefcase chained to his wrist-when Cutter came in. Obviously he had left his emotions in his hotel room. “Anything we can use?”
“A stringer for the SDECE spotted him in Madrid. Recognized him but didn’t tail him-didn’t know he was on the wanted list until he mentioned he’d seen Kendig, back in the office.”
Cutter said, “That’s hardly newsworthy, Ross. We already know he was in Madrid. Anything else?”
“No. Did Desrosiers-”
Cutter waved him off; his eyes went beyond Ross to the courier. “We don’t need to keep you. I’m sure you’ve got important things to do.”
The courier took the hint and left. Cutter asked, “Where’s Follett?”
“I don’t know.”
“He was supposed to be here.”
“Was he? He didn’t tell me that. He went out about an hour ago.”
Cutter picked up the phone. “Is Follett in the building?”
Ross heard the reply-the caustic voice of the dried-up woman at the front desk. “Do you think this is a hotel? I don’t keep a register.”
“This is Joseph Cutter.”
“Oh-I’m very sorry, sir.”
“When he shows up tell him to get his ass in here. And find out where he is and call me back.” He cradled the receiver very gently and said to Ross, “It occurs to me that this office is making a deliberate effort to corner the market on stupid blunderers.” He snapped a look at his watch and shot his cuff and sat down. Cutter was a little rattled; it was unusual and Ross marked it. Cutter was always so coolly controlled. But he didn’t seem to have lost his uncanny talent for being punctual without hurry, for carrying a thousand things in his head without ever losing the balance of them, for always knowing the exact time-it was nearly the first time Ross had ever seen him look at his watch.
Then the phone rang. It was the wasp-faced woman; Cutter had dubbed her The Lemon Taster two days ago. Ross picked it up. “Mr. Follett is on his way up, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Was everything she said sarcastic or did it just sound that way?
Ross hung up. Cutter said, “Trying to work with this guy is like trying to mate a chimpanzee with a porcupine. I wonder where he finds the five coats of whitewash he must be using on this operation.”
“You shouldn’t underestimate him just because you don’t like him.” Ross was surprised by his own temerity; but it only elicited a brief smile from Cutter, cool with insincerity. Nevertheless Ross felt he had been reproved. He kept shifting the letter opener and pencils on the blotter, lining them up along various parallels.
Follett came in, hearty and beaming; Cutter deflated him before he’d had a chance to speak: “I’d better hang a bell on you so I’ll know where you are.”
Follett reared back. “You sound like you’re a little peeved, Joe.”
“Uh-huh. You can put that in the bank.”
Conciliatory but not really giving an inch, Follett said slowly, “Joe, you won’t have any trouble with me.”
“You bet your ass I won’t.” The smile, again, was a forced sliver. “Seat thyself, Glenn, and let’s program this thing.”
Follett threw off his topcoat and lunged into a chair. His freckled face was ruddy from the October wind. “I had a vague conversation with my opposite number in French security just now. That’s why I’m a little late. He’s willing to-”
The phone rang again. Ross was at the desk; he answered it.
“Mr. Cutter? There’s a-”
“This is Ross. Can it wait?”
“The caller says it’s urgent, sir.”
“Who is he?”
“He claims to be Mikhail Yaskov.”
Cutter took the call and held it flat against his ear so that Ross couldn’t overhear anything; Cutter’s end of the conversation was monosyllabic and after less than two minutes he said, “Agreed,” and hung it up and went back to his chair but didn’t seat himself; he stood with one hand on the back of the chair and scowled.
Follett said, “Well?”
“He wants a meet.”
“About Kendig?”
“Apparently.”
Ross said, “Maybe they want to make a deal.”
Follett said, “What kind of deal? Do you mean they’ve got Kendig?”
Cutter said, “No.”
Follett began to bluster but Cutter, maddeningly, had lost interest and turned away. Follett flapped his arms. “Are you sure that was really Yaskov?”
“It’s my business to be sure.”
Follett began shaking his head back and forth. “I just don’t understand any of this, I’ll be the first to admit it. I don’t understand Kendig most of all.”
“Of course you don’t. You couldn’t in a hundred years understand a man like Kendig.”
Ross said, “I don’t see where any of us does. So far he hasn’t made any mistakes at all.”
“He’s made one,” Cutter said. “He’s made me mad at him.”
Follett tugged his earlobe. “You may be making a rash assumption, Joe. You’re not brighter than he is-you’re just younger.”
Ross considered that in surprise; it had come out of the blue. But Follett was grinning slyly, knowing he’d scored a point; he’d been waiting for the chance. He got to his feet. “I presume you’ll want to handle Yaskov without me.”
“Correct.”
“Then we’d better hold off the strategy conference until you’ve had your meet with him. How soon’s it to be?”
“This afternoon.”
“He’s in Paris? He must think it’s damned important.”
“Of course he does,” Cutter said in disgust. “All right, be back here at six tonight-we’ll go over it then.”
“Six? I was planning to-”
“I really don’t much care what you were planning, Glenn.”
Ross was happy to see Follett’s back. He didn’t dislike the man with Cutter’s intensity but Follett’s departure lowered the room temperature to something bearable.
Cutter had straight hair that wouldn’t stick down; another man would have been continuously raking it back
