isn’t that important. I never was happy about countries that ordered writers out the moment they had opinions differing from the government’s. We seldom do it in America. A Spanish columnist could move to Washington and sit there beefing about our president’s policies until hell froze over, and nobody’d give a damn.”
“You’ll be sorry about this…” Garcia began.
“Goodbye, Buster,” Quint said wearily.
It was the second caller who had a hard time getting in. He had even evidently had a hard time getting past Francisco, the portero, since that worthy had escorted him all the way to Quint’s door.
Quint held the door only partly open. He said,
The other was ever suave. He clicked heels and bowed. “Valadimir Nuriyev. I would appreciate the opportunity to talk with you, Quentin Jones.”
Quint thought about it. Finally, he said, “Just a moment,” and closed the door. When he returned, he opened it more widely, so the other could enter. He tipped Francisco fifty pesetas and let him go.
Quint said to the former Russian hachetman, as he led him back into the living room, “Just for luck, I phoned Mike Woolman of World Wide Press. I told him you were here, and that I’d phone back every five minutes as long as you remained.”
The Russian’s eyebrows went up and his lips quirked in amusement. “Excellent security precautions, Mr. Jones.” His eyes took Quint in. “However, it would seem to me that since I am alone, I am quite as much in danger as you are.”
Quint stepped up to him quickly and ran his hands over the other’s clothes. Here, there, where a man carries a gun or other weapon. The Russian suffered the invasion of privacy without protest. “Once again, excellent security precautions, Mr. Jones. May I take a seat?”
“Drink?” Quint said, motioning to a chair.
“Not to be ah, corny, but do you have vodka?”
“Corny, yet,” Quint winced. “We have another would-be American slang user with us. I’ve got some Polish Vodka.” He went over to the bar.
Vladimir Nuriyev said mildly, “You must be referring to our mutual friend, Joe Garcia.”
The American was pouring a stiff shot of the colorless liquor. “What do you want to mix with this liquid dynamite?”
“There is an old Russian saying that nothing mixes with vodka, except vodka,” Nuriyev said.
Quint poured a very short Fundador for himself and returned to the other with the drinks.
’To peace!” the Russian said and bolted his back.
“Yeah?” Quint said, following him, “And that seems to be about as close as our countries get to real peace— toasting it at international conferences.”
“A deplorable situation,” Nuriyev nodded. He still reminded Quint Jones of one of Hollywood’s ultra-sleek villains. The man was a stereotype.
The Russian crossed his legs, adjusting his trousers neatly. He said, “I have read a considerable number of your columns, Mr. Jones. Believe me, I have been impressed.”
Quint nodded his thanks.
“It is obvious that you do not subscribe to the warmongering philosophy of some of your colleagues.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed, over the years I have noted that you are invariably in the ranks of the progressives. You have been opposed to making an armed camp of the world. Opposed to racism, both in your own country and such nations as South Africa…”
“And even Russia when there are signs of it there,” Quint said dryly.
Nuriyev went on, although his eyes had shifted slightly at that. “You have opposed your country’s support of such despots as King Faisal, and such dictators as Salazar…” he cleared his throat gently here “… and the Chief of State of this land in which we both now find ourselves. You have written against some of the overt actions of your C.I.A. in the smaller countries…”
“And the overt actions of the Russian KGB in the same circumstances,” Quint said. “Let’s get to the point, Nuriyev.” He picked up the phone, dialed, and said into it, “We’re still talking, Mike. So far the conversation involves what a great columnist Quentin Jones is.” He hung up again.
The Russian’s mouth tightened only for a moment. He said, “My point is that you are obviously opposed to many of the positions held by the West.”
Quint nodded. “I sure am. Praise Allah, I’m a citizen of a country where you’re still allowed to disagree with some of the positions the government takes.”
This time Nuriyev hesitated before going on. He found words, at last, and said carefully, “I trust you are opposed to the reintroduction into the government of West Germany of former Nazis?”
“I’m opposed to Nazis, period, anywhere,” Quint said in acid.
“And you must, then, be distressed to see judges, army heads, officers, even men of cabinet rank who are former Nazi party members.” He twisted his mouth. “Let us even say they might
“Seems unlikely,” Quint said wearily. “But yes, I’m not particularly happy about the boys getting back into power. Drop the other shoe, Nuriyev.”
“Very well. We have evidence that Martin Bormann still lives and that there is a conspiracy to bring not only this foul beast but many of his close collaborators back into power.”
“Who’s we?”
“Democratic elements opposed to the revival of Hitlerism.”
“I doubt it,” Quint said. He leaned forward and pointed a finger. “Look here, Nuriyev. It’s no use wasting each other’s time. You’ve misread what you found in my columns. You communists like to present yourselves as the only advocates of peace. The only ones against race discrimination, the protectors of small nations, and the foes of colonialism. Great, it makes wonderful propaganda for you. However, you make a mistake in thinking that everyone else who is for peace, minority rights and such, are sympathetic to Russia. Count me out. Even though I’m opposed to former Nazis in government. Just as much, by the way, in East Germany, as West Germany.”
“There are no former Nazis in the government of East Germany,” the Russian said flatly.
“It says here,” Quint chuckled. “Listen, the fact that I hate the guts of such as Martin Bormann—if he’s still alive—doesn’t make me a supporter of you commies…”
“I am no longer a communist.” Nuriyev said easily. “I support democratic elements.”
“Yeah, yeah. Frankly, I don’t know how you managed it. I’ve got to give you credit. The Spanish police seem to think you defected to the Americans. The C.I.A. seems to think you defected to the French. For all I know, the French think you defected to the British MI6. Whatever you managed to do, you got yourself here into Spain. However, it’s on the obvious side, just where you really still stand, and what a lousy job the different Western intelligence agencies do in the way of coordinating their activities.”
The Russian’s eyes had gone flat empty. Quint reached out and dialed again. He said into the phone. “This is still Quint, Mike. He doesn’t love me quite as much as he did a few minutes ago, but he’s still here.” He hung up.
Vladimir Nuriyev stood, visibly wrestling with his composure. He wasn’t quite as suave as Quint had thought him. “I see I’ll get no cooperation here,’ he said.
“That you won’t, Buster,” Quint told him. “Could I see you to the door?”
When the other was gone, Quint locked the door and returned to the living room. He eyed the bottle of Fundador and then shrugged angrily. He was getting to be a full time bottle baby. Why?
In the past he’d alway drunk. He’d even hang one on from time to time. He liked to drink, and had ever since his late teens. But before he’d never hit it in the morning, nor even in the afternoon. Nor had it been an everyday thing. He grunted sourly. Next thing you know, he’d be taking periodic cures like Marty Dempsey.
The bell rang again, and he turned back to the door. Through the peephole he could see it was Francisco and opened up. It was the mail. He’d made a deal with the portero to bring it up from his box in the lobby. He tipped the man again, locked the door and returned to the living room. Maybe he was making a jerk of himself with all this hiding out, locked doors and such. But at least he was still alive. Digby and Brett-Home weren’t.
He read a letter from Steve Black first, an attempt to wring some columns out of him. A fan letter from some
