“My love, you only think that it could sound like that because you’re an artist. You notice what other people never see, you hear what other people never hear.”
“But you played that Charles Trenet song, and I thought maybe I had made you sad.”
“No. Just me and Proust ‘A la recherche du temps perdu.’ ”
“Are you sure?”
“It was ten years ago, my love. Kindness, happiness, some loving and a lot of talking are not a permanent credit card for bed. You are the only person I could ask these questions.”
“Will you walk me back?”
“I’d love to.”
He had used his SIS identity card to make contact with CIA at the embassy, and the tall Texan had made him welcome in one of the reception rooms.
“What can I do for you, Mr. MacKay?”
“I’m checking on a Russian girl who was here about ten years ago. She was an art student, and was put in prison during the student demonstrations. I’ve heard that an American student who was also jailed tried to help her, and asked for help from the embassy. I wondered if you have any record of that.”
“What were the names?”
“Halenka Tcharkova was the girl, and I believe the boy’s name was Dempsey. Andrew Dempsey.”
“I can check the records. Would you care to wait or shall I contact you later?”
“I’ll wait if that’s OK.”
“Sure. There’s magazines on the table.”
A secretary brought him coffee and cream, and he browsed through a small pile of New Yorkers. It was fifteen minutes before the CIA man came back. He was holding a thin file.
He sat down, looking speculatively at MacKay.
“Are you working with Langley?”
“What makes you think that?”
“I didn’t say that I think it. I’m just asking.”
“Let’s say I’m not.”
“Then let’s say I can’t help you. There’s nothing on the records.”
“You wouldn’t say that in Building 13.”
The Texan laughed. “OK, but there’s not very much.”
Building 13 was where CIA employees took their lie-detector tests.
He opened the file and turned back a couple of pages. He looked up.
“This guy Dempsey wrote a letter to the embassy asking the ambassador to get him and the Tcharkova girl out of jail. Seems he was in for conspiring with others, etcetera, etcetera. There’s a minute from our guy saying no, and there’s a reference to our local index. Dempsey was a member of the Communist Party. The branch that caters for students in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The girl was a member too, and she was on a Party grant as a student.”
“Is that enough to warrant no assistance?”
The Texan shrugged. “I guess it was, in those days.”
“Anything else?”
“Are you working with Nolan?”
“He’s a friend of mine.”
“Is that so. He queried this record a couple of days ago.”
“About the girl?”
“No, about the guy. I did some cross-checking with the French. It seems they were got out of jail by an American named Kleppe. The Soviet embassy came into it. Seems like they leaned on the French for both of them to be released into Kleppe’s custody. The girl to go straight back to Moscow. No restrictions on Dempsey, but Kleppe had to bail him for about a thousand bucks. The French have put a permanent visa block on Kleppe. I asked them why, but I didn’t get a satisfactory answer. Referred me to the Quai d’Orsay. They referred me to SDECE. And they gave me a vague story about suspect diamond deals. Kleppe’s a diamond dealer.”
“Nothing more about the girl?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Any known associates on the index for Dempsey?”
He opened the file again and turned over a buff card with a green diagonal stripe. He turned his head on one side to read the text.
“Two. D’you want to note them?”
“Thanks.”
“Pierre Benoit, 15 bis rue Jean de Beauvais and Jean-Paul Prouvost, 14 rue Lagrange. Both of them Party members in 1968.”
He ordered a meal in his hotel bedroom, and when he had finished eating he read again through his notes. He wondered what Morton Harper and Nolan were discovering, and he wondered, too, what their attitude was to him. There had been no congratulations on his revelation, and no hint of thanks. They must find it embarrassing and annoying that an outsider had spotted the flaw. On the other hand there had been no attempt to whitewash, no haste to send him packing, and none of the bland disclaimers they would have got in London if the positions had been reversed. By the time he got back to Washington they would probably have decided to close ranks and send him back to London, so that they could deal with the problem in their own sweet way, and without the inhibitions that came from being observed by an outsider. But Americans were an odd kind of people. If a similar problem had come up in London, Magnusson would have had a discreet word with the Foreign Secretary and all the efforts would have gone into sweeping it all under the carpet. But Americans never reacted that way. They ferreted away until they got at the truth and to hell with who got exposed. And they generally did it in public with the TV cameras letting you watch it happening. There would never be a Watergate in Britain. The axes would grind and there would be nods and winks among the knowing, a couple of D-notices and much waving of the Official Secrets Act. It would be interesting to see how the Americans dealt with this little can of worms.
MacKay took a taxi to the Place Maubert and then walked slowly down to find 14 rue Lagrange. It was a narrow building above an archway that led to a row of garages. There were six names against the bell-pushes and Prouvost was number 4. The front door was ajar and he walked inside. There was
