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  He had begun the morning in a blind fury. The bomb hadn’t worked; the people in London had fouled it up miserably. It had been all he could do to control his face as he sat in the airport. But later, upon reflection, it seemed a blessing in disguise. They would follow Mr. Morgan, and pick him up. Then they would discover just how much the American knew about the plot. Torture would be necessary, of course. Liseau smiled slightly.

  Brauer nudged him.

  “What do you think?” he asked, in French.

  “I must admit …” Liseau hesitated. “I am not sure.”

  They watched the American pass through the doors.

  “It might be he,” Liseau said thoughtfully.

  The American hailed a cab, and got in quickly.

  “I think he is not our man,” Brauer said. “He does not look it.”

  “Do you really expect him to look it? To show it on his face, or in his manner?”

  The blond man flushed. “I meant, he does not appear tough. He is too much the dandy.”

  Liseau frowned. Brauer waited in silence for an opinion, but none was offered. He lit a cigarette, holding it cupped in his hand, like a soldier.

  “I am actually surprised,” Liseau said, as if it were a rare occurrence. “I expected to recognize him instantly.” He frowned: it would not do to pick up an innocent man—that was a waste of time, and a dangerous complication. “We will observe him. There is a certain question in my mind.”

  He got up, and Brauer followed him out of the airport, into the warm midafternoon sun of the Riviera. Bright flowers were planted around the taxi ranks, scenting the air. It was a colorful, holiday atmosphere, but Liseau was depressed, and Brauer could sense it.

  A third man had watched the American leave the airport. This man was short and stocky, with a Mediterranean build and coarse, bristling hair cropped close to his round head. There had been no question in his mind about the American, but to be absolutely safe he followed the taxi to the Negresco Hotel, where he saw the American get out and go inside. That settled it. The American was the one he was after; the American would be of great use, and great value.

  A fourth man was at the airport, conservatively dressed in a dark suit cut in the American style. He watched Carr leave, consulted his watch, and stepped into a phone booth. It was rather strange—most Americans, when in France, regarded the French telephone as their ultimate enemy. But this man did it so calmly, he might have been in Chicago or Washington.

  “A great tragedy,” the concierge agreed, as Carr signed in. “You are lucky to escape alive, monsieur. I have just heard on the radio that two people were killed, and three are badly injured. It is a terrible business, all these bombs. For the insurance, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I suppose,” Carr said. He pushed the register back across the desk. “I would like two very dry vodka gimlets sent up to my room immediately. Then I need your advice on where to buy some clothes.”

  The concierge bowed slightly. “Of course, monsieur. At your service, I assure you.”

  Carr went up to his room. He realized that he was finally beginning to react to his experience; his knees were wobbly as he turned the key in the lock, and flopped down on the bed. He wished to hell they’d hurry up with those drinks.

  In the American consulate in Nice, Ralph Gorman replaced the scrambler telephone and looked across at his assistant, a fresh-faced kid with a crew-cut and a beaming, innocent smile. Gorman himself looked compactly grim as he filled his pipe and struck a match.

  “I don’t understand,” the kid said. He had listened in on the conversation from an extension.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s a hell of a complicated game. We know what’s going on, and we know that they know we know, but there’s no leverage, man, no leverage. We need a wedge, something to get our fingers on.” He drummed his fingers on the table and looked at the kid. There was hardly any point in telling the truth to a new recruit; he wouldn’t grasp it at all, and even if he did, it might be a nasty shock. They were all so idealistic, right out of college.

  “This goddamned thing is tricky,” Gorman went on, “and it calls for diplomacy. Tact. Velvet-covered iron, that kind of thing.”

  “Isn’t that your specialty?” the kid asked.

  Gorman smiled sadly. “Get me the CORTEX file,” he said.

  The kid left the room.

  Gorman turned to his doodle pad. He always used it in times of stress, scribbling nonsensical figures which somehow made him feel better. Then he saved all the doodles and took them twice weekly to his psychiatrist, a tremendous fellow in Cannes. The vice-consul had recommended him, after he had done such wonders for the vice-consul’s wife. He was Viennese, trained at Western Reserve in Cleveland. But the accent was so authentic, so reassuring. His pen scratched away on the pad. He frowned. The call had come from Amory, the chief of section in Paris, a message delivered in the chief’s inimitable style—wandering, pompous, quietly needling. The chief wanted Gorman to know that Morgan’s cover had been blown, and that he was staying in London for a day or so. Gorman would just have to get on without him. The chief didn’t understand the problems of the Nice office, and didn’t care to understand them. He just wanted the job done.

  Good-bye.

  Well, somehow Gorman would straighten things out, though he badly wished Morgan were here. That was one thing about Morgan: he was a killer. You could just pop him into a car, give him Liseau’s address, and in a day or so, presto! No more Liseau. No more plots, no more problems.

  As it was, the chief seemed to expect Gorman to do the shooting. Now, that was ridiculous. Gorman had never fired a gun in his life. He had hardly even seen a gun.

  Still, somebody had to do it. There was no choice. Legitimate police action was out—no evidence. Sly diplomatic maneuvers such as deporting Liseau were out—he had too much prestige as a surgeon. There was only one thing left to do, and that was shoot him. Shoot the whole bunch.

  The kid returned with the file, a slim gray packet with CORTEX stenciled on the cover. He handed it to Gorman, who broke the seal and signed the slip, which the kid took back to the file room.

  He sighed as he thumbed through the pages detailing the entire history of the Norway-Israel arms shipment, which had been designated CORTEX. It was all there; Liseau and his group had been implicated for weeks as U.A.R. agents, but there was nothing you could do about it. Nothing but shoot them—or sit around and watch them shoot everybody else involved in the shipment. The telephone rang. “Gorman here.”

  “Harry.” It was a statement, flat and colorless. That would be their man at the airport. Gorman was about to tell him to stop worrying, that Morgan wasn’t on the flight, when Harry said, “Our man’s here.”

  Gorman gripped the phone tightly, as if it were his salvation. “Are you sure?”

  “Fits pretty well. He went through the doors a few minutes ago.”

  “Did you contact him?”

  “No… I’m afraid some of the opposition is here, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Two dogs, one skinny dark, one blond.” Gorman swore to himself: Liseau and one of his trained apes. “Any action?”

  “They just watched him go by.”

  “Recognition?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Hell,” Gorman said, and hung up. Some days, nothing went right, nothing at all. Morgan’s life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel if Liseau was on to him. Obviously everything was fouled up—the chief was wrong, there had been a massive leak somewhere, and now poor Morgan was going to get his head shot off. Gorman swore: always one step ahead of me, those people. Always one step. He picked up his pen and doodled furiously.

  CHAPTER V

  ROGER CARR AWOKE SHORTLY before nine p.m. He had slept soundly for several hours, after spending time buying more clothes and picking up a rental car. Carr rarely slept in the afternoon, and he knew that this exception was his way of reacting to his experience that morning. It still disturbed him, and he decide
d he ought to plunge himself into activity and forget all about it. Specifically, he decided he needed a girl.

  He shaved slowly, examining himself in the mirror. He didn’t look bad—just a scrape on his cheekbone where he had fallen on the runway. Christ, it was just his luck, getting a booby-trapped plane. The world was full of maniacs, he thought cheerfully. With his face covered with lather, he tried to grin.

  “Face it, Carr: you are an amusing bastard.”

  The phone rang, and he went out to the bedroom to answer it.

  “Roger Carr speaking.”

  “Mr. Carr.” The voice had a heavy French accent, and there was a peculiar background noise, a whirring mechanical sound.

  “Yes?”

  “I would like to meet with you.”

  “Yes?” Carr’s voice was tentative.

  “I believe I can be of great use to you.”

  “In what way?”

  “I can help you. In your business.”

  Carr frowned. “What do you know about my business?”

  There was a tense laugh from the voice at the other end. “I know all about your business, I’m afraid.”

  “I see. You have a villa to sell?”

  Another laugh. “Exactement. Shall we meet?”

  “All right.” What harm could there be? “Who is this I am talking to?”

  Still another laugh. Everything seemed hilarious to this man. Carr didn’t understand.

  “Your room, tomorrow at noon. Okay?”

  “Of course.”

  The phone was dead in his hand.

  Carr looked at it, feeling silly. He replaced it in the cradle, and it immediately began ringing once more.

  “Hello?”

  “Christ Almighty, why didn’t you register as Morgan?” This was a new voice, which sounded greatly annoyed.

  “Well, quite honestly, it never occurred to me.” Who was this idiot, anyway?

  “I see. Little games. Diversions. No wonder I’m paying half my salary to a psychiatrist. I have to worry about people like you all the time. Now why haven’t you called? I suppose you have a good answer for that, too.” The voice sounded gloomy, now.

  “Sorry about that,” Carr said, smiling. “I just haven’t had a chance.”

  “You haven’t had a chance. Sure. Why not? You haven’t had a chance. I understand that. I also understand that you’ve been recognized. If I were you, I’d get over here right away.”

  “But I’m going out to dinner.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said you’ve been recognized.”

  “So what?”

  The voice at the other end swore lavishly. “What do you think this is, Morgan, a vacation? You must be out of your mind. So what. Idiot, get over here right away!”

  Growing bored with the game, Roger said, “Cheery-bye,” and hung up. Then he left the room. On the way out, he would check with the concierge and make sure he wasn’t getting somebody else’s calls. That kind of thing happened so easily in these big hotels.

  Holding the scalpel gently but firmly, Liseau made a long incision down the side of the face, just in front of the ear. Blood welled up; he dabbed it with a sponge and continued the cut around under the lobe of the ear, and back.

  The only sound in the room was the hum of the air-conditioner, and the rhythmic whish-aaah from the anesthetic equipment as the patient breathed. The patient lay on his side, and was completely covered by green cloth except for a small square around his ear and the side of his cheek.

  “Don’t be afraid to take your incision back as far as convenient,” Liseau said to the resident. This was the resident’s first parotid excision. “It never shows on the patient, anyway.”

  He began to dissect away the underlying tissue with careful, deft strokes. Soon he was able to pass a suture through the lobe of the ear and lift it up until the lobe touched the crown. This gave him clear access to the parotid gland, the major salivary gland of the mouth, lying in front of the ear where the jaw joined the head. Clinical tests had shown a large mass in this region, which upon biopsy had proved to be benign. The patient was a local banker of some influence.

  Liseau continued to work until he had exposed the gland and cleared away the surrounding fatty tissue. To an untrained eye, it didn’t look like much—just a bloody mass in the middle of other bloody tissue.

  “From this point,” he said, “you must proceed carefully. It cannot be rushed.” With the incision held open by hemostats, he proceeded to dissect free the branches of the facial nerve, which ran through the substance of the gland. This was crucial: if these nerves were cut, the patient would lose control of his facial muscles, and one side of his face would droop.

  The resident watched, tense and fascinated. But he didn’t ask any questions, and Liseau was grateful. He did this slow work mechanically, without thinking much about it. His mind was on the American—the American who seemed not quite right, not quite the man they were after.

  Liseau did not relish the prospect of involving an innocent man, particularly if he was American. These people always turned out to be friends or relatives of important politicians. Their disappearance or death would focus undesirable attention on the area, and too many of his group would be brought under surveillance. No, it was out of the question to risk it. They must be quite sure before they made their move.

  He probed carefully through the tissues, clearing away the filamentous branches of the nerves, pushing them aside so he would be sure not to cut them.

  The patient stirred. Liseau spoke sharply to the anesthetist before continuing his work.

  Dinner, to Roger Carr’s disappointment, was rather ordinary and overpriced, and he had gone from the restaurant to the casino, which he knew from past experience always revived his spirits. Carr was not a gambler, but he liked to watch others who were, and he enjoyed the clean green elegance of the gaming room. He also knew from experience that it was a good place to pick up girls. But the casino tonight was deserted—it was a Monday night, too early in the season—except for two couples from the Midwest, who were playing the roulette wheel for ridiculously low stakes, and laughing loudly with each spin of the wheel. The men were wearing old dinner jackets with crooked clip-on bow ties; the women lounged, with careful boredom, in frumpy black dresses which were cut too low for their sagging bosoms.

  Carr left almost immediately, feeling unaccountably annoyed, almost cheated. He caught a cab, and told the driver to take him to a nightclub. The driver, cigarette dangling from his lip, ash drooping perilously, looked back, trying to discern exactly what Carr had in mind. Carr gave him no satisfaction; he merely stipulated a good nightclub, quelque chose amusante, and sat back in silence, looking out the window.

  He was taken to the Choo-Choo Club, a small place set down at the end of a dark alley, a block from the Place Massena. This was the red-light district of Nice, he knew, but he decided what the hell. He paid the taxi and got out.

  The doorman was dressed in a heavy coat with brass buttons despite the mild evening; he resembled a solemn bear, and Carr thought he probably doubled as a bouncer.

  He went through to the lobby, which was small, done in gilt and red velvet, with a large, leather-padded door leading to the inside of the club. The hatcheck girl, a sour-faced bitch with deep circles under her eyes, looked annoyed that Carr wasn’t wearing a hat. He went inside.

  He was surprised to find the club was large and comfortably appointed. There were round white tables scattered about the room, and the chairs were upholstered in the same red velvet as the lobby. The subdued lighting came from spherical ceiling fixtures. Taken as a whole, the room seemed rather like a French version of a Gay Nineties cathouse, but it was somehow soothing.

  Carr took a corner table, ordered a Scotch and soda, and lit a cigarette. A half-dozen couples occupied—and filled—the tiny dance floor; they drifted hypnotically in each other’s arms in time to the music. Carr watched for a while, then looked around. At other corner tables like his, men were leanin
g over to whisper into the ears of girls who gazed out at the room, bored, blowing cigarette smoke. A few blond effeminate men occupied tables by themselves in the center of the room, and gave Carr expectant looks. He ignored them.

  The music stopped, and the dancers wandered back to their seats. Lights went on over the stage, and a fat man in a lumpy tuxedo appeared, spoke into a microphone that didn’t work, rapped it irritably, and stomped off. He was replaced by a roll of drums and a woman wrapped in a floor-length fur coat. Music started up, and the woman strutted back and forth across the stage; her movements had a graceless, jerky quality. Carr knew she would be a lousy stripper. He was suddenly impatient for his drink.

  It came, with a coaster and a paper napkin. The waiter set them on the table and left, and Carr looked at it hesitantly. A coaster and a napkin? Perhaps it was a hint to order food.

  He sipped the drink, and found it as weak as he had predicted. Then he noticed a bit of paper sticking out from the edge of the napkin, drew it out, and saw writing. Squinting in the dim light, he was able to make out the words:

  KV-7Ez YOU MUST BE AN IDIOT. G. WANTS TO SEE YOU IMMEDIATELY RAY CORTEX KV-2Et

  The words were scrawled in pencil on a thin slip of paper, torn from the margin of a newspaper. They meant nothing to him. He read it again, to be sure, and looked around the room. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but his first impulse was to check and see who was watching him.

  At least six gay little blond lads were peering intently in his direction. Some were winking. Carr curled his lip, and all but the most blatant looked away. It was funny about fags—some, you would never guess. One of those blond guys was damned powerfully built, and was to all appearances extremely masculine and virile. Of course, he was ugly as sin. That might have something to do with it.