Gideon hung up and waited there for the telephone to ring again. He knew that he was being more cocksure than was good for him, but slamming down the receiver was an impulse not to be denied. Just as he began to worry that Marks might not call him back, the telephone rang again. He let it ring five times before picking it up.
Marks’s voice came from the earpiece. “Who is speaking, please?”
“This is Tom Marks, calling to speak to Gideon Oliver,” said Gideon.
There was silence at the other end. After a few seconds, Marks spoke, suppressed anger obvious in the soft, distinct words: “Oliver, we’re not sure whether you’re in any danger or not, but we don’t want to take any chances. If they don’t know where you are, you’ll be safer. Stay away from your room.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Who’s ‘they’? The KGB.”
“Do you think the KGB is after me, then? Why?” Despite the grisly events of the day, Gideon was beginning to feel a certain jauntiness. Being pursued by the KGB was not without its elan.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” said Marks predictably. “Now listen, please. We’ve arranged for you to spend the night in on-base housing. We’ve gotten a two-bedroom house for you. You’re to go to the Security Office and ask for the keys that are being held for Colonel Wellman.”
“What if they ask for identification? Besides, some of the Security people know me.”
“Don’t worry about it; it’s arranged. Stay in the house and wait for us to call. We’ll get back to you tonight or early in the morning. Don’t go out. Just wait for our call.”
“I’m scheduled to leave for Heidelberg tomorrow, you know.”
“We know; tomorrow afternoon. You’ll hear from us long before that.”
“All right,” said Gideon. He hung up, and finished his bourbon sitting in the telephone booth.
The call came at 7:00 A.M. Gideon had just awakened and was lying quietly in the first supraliminal moment, aware that something unpleasant had happened, but not remembering what it was. He waited with some anxiety for full consciousness to return and was somewhat relieved when he remembered the previous day. Of his entire life, the worst moments had been during the three or four months after Nora had died, when he’d awakened to the heart-constricting knowledge that she wasn’t there anymore. Since then, nothing had seemed too bad.
He had forgotten to note the telephone’s location before he went to bed, and it took him a few seconds to find it in the living room.
“Ah, Dr. Oliver, this is Hilaire Delvaux. Do you remember me?”
“Of course. Good morning.”
“Can you meet me in the Officers’ Club for breakfast?”
Gideon’s sleepy mind processed the question slowly. “You’re here in Torrejon?”
“Most certainly.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He was there in ten. With his shaving equipment and toothbrush still at the BOQ, his toilet was a five-minute affair. Monsieur Delvaux was seated at a small table near the glass wall that looked out on the club’s green central patio. If he noted Gideon’s unkempt appearance, he gave no sign. But then, Monsieur Delvaux did not appear to be a keen observer of fashion. He was dressed exactly as he had been when Gideon had seen him last: rumpled white shirt with wrinkled collar, and pants belted so absurdly high that Gideon could see the buckle as he looked at him across the tabletop. He was eating toast and drinking coffee. As soon as he saw Gideon, he wiped his mouth and jumped up, still chewing.
“Ah, Dr. Oliver,” he said, his French accent very pronounced: Docteur Oh-le-vair. “Will you have something to eat?”
“No, I don’t think I could eat anything. But you go ahead, please.”
“Yes,” said Delvaux, “you must be very disturbed. Not precisely a quiet professor’s life you’re leading. I assure you, I sympathize.” He sounded rather gay. “You were surprised to find me here, yes?” he said, biting into the bread with his stumpy teeth, his blue eyes sparkling.
“Yes, I was,” admitted Gideon. “I assumed you were in Heidelberg.”
“In
Gideon was impressed. Delvaux had a distinctly disheveled look, but no more than at their previous meeting. For a man in his late sixties—maybe his seventies—who had spent most of the night in jets and airports, he was very chipper.
“And all because of you,” Delvaux continued pleasantly. “Ah, and I have found out many things, many things. I think you will be interested.” He chewed his toast and smiled at Gideon, waiting for a response.
“I’m interested,” Gideon said.
“First of all, I believe you are familiar with this gentleman.” He wiped his fingers carefully, using the napkin as if it were a washcloth, and reached into the wrinkled seersucker jacket that hung on the back of his chair. From a wallet he took a scowling, full-face photograph of Ferret-face. “Do you know who he is?”
“No,” Gideon said. “Only that he’s been following me. And, of course, that he’s dead now.”
“Ah, indeed, extremely dead. I viewed the body an hour ago. And the other one as well.”
The experience had not affected Delvaux’s appetite. Throwing his head back, he drained his coffee with a delicate sound and wiped his lips. Then, looking Gideon directly in the eye, he went on:
“He’s one of our agents.”
