The Chessboard Spies Read online

  Fletcher took off his raincoat and joined the two men. They looked up at him eagerly as he sat and faced them. Spencer, however, was less impatient than Maxwell. He passed a bottle and a glass over to him, and said gruffly, ‘Help yourself.’

  Maxwell said: ‘What kept you?’

  Fletcher came straight to the point.

  ‘Timovsky is dead,’ he said pouring himself a drink.

  Spencer froze in the act of raising his glass and scowled.

  ‘My God!’ Maxwell cried. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was murdered,’ Fletcher explained. ‘With this.’

  He threw the stiletto on to the table. He had examined it earlier. There was nothing special about it. It was like many which could be purchased locally.

  Maxwell picked up the weapon and stuck it forcibly into the table top.

  ‘Blast!’ he fumed. ‘Of all the damnable bad luck.’

  Fletcher appreciated his disappointment; the C.I.A. had suffered a number of setbacks.

  Spencer slowly sank his drink.

  ‘Let’s have the details,’ he growled.

  Fletcher gave him the facts as they had taken place.

  ‘The assassin?’ Spencer asked when he had finished. ‘Was he one of their own men?’

  ‘No,’ Fletcher replied. ‘He didn’t look Turkish, neither. More Arabic.’

  ‘Arabic!’ Spencer frowned. ‘Odd.’

  ‘Did you get anything out of him before he died?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘Yes. He mentioned a name — Breznov.’

  ‘Breznov!’ Spencer said and looked impressed.

  Maxwell gave an appreciative whistle. ‘One of the K.G.B. hierarchy,’ he drawled.

  ‘We got a report of his movements,’ Spencer said, but didn’t say where it had come from. ‘He is due in Cairo tomorrow.’

  ‘Cairo!’ Maxwell exchanged sharp glances with Spencer.

  ‘Anything else?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘He muttered another name. It began with K, but he was so incoherent that it could have been anything.’

  The three men sat silently trying to solve the riddle the Russian had left them with, but without success.

  ‘I also found this in his pocket.’ Fletcher handed over the newspaper cutting to Spencer, who examined it and passed it to Maxwell.

  ‘Interesting,’ Maxwell said more cheerfully. ‘The State Department will be pleased to get a list of these firms.’

  ‘So will several others,’ Spencer added.

  Maxwell handed the cutting back to Spencer.

  ‘You’ll let me have a copy?’ he asked.

  Spencer nodded his head.

  ‘And a bunch of keys,’ Fletcher sighed. ‘That’s the lot.’

  The two men examined the keys, but made no comment.

  ‘What’s the next move?’ Maxwell asked sternly.

  Spencer wiped the perspiration from his brow. It was an action he did to give himself time to think. He then charged his glass and passed the bottle to Maxwell who filled the two remaining glasses.

  ‘The Soviets are up to something,’ he said barely above a whisper. ‘Everything points to it. They lost face during the Israeli-Arab war so they will have to redeem themselves. Their intelligence has the edge at the moment, so if they don’t act soon they might lose their advantage. Any day now they are going to drop a bombshell into the laps of our diplomats.’ He paused to have a drink. Fletcher waited patiently, but Maxwell lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Fletcher sensed a feeling of anxiety about the man. The State Department were cutting up rough, he thought.

  ‘Timovsky informs us of this directive from the Kremlin,’ Spencer continued. ‘According to the message we got from him, it is something big — very big. So big in fact that they make damn sure he didn’t live to tell anyone about it. But in his last breaths he mentioned a name — Breznov. Now we all know Breznov’s duties. Besides being a member of their Foreign Office, he is also the link man with the K.G.B. We also know he is due in Cairo tomorrow for talks with the Egyptian F.O.’ He clenched his fist. ‘He is our key man. We must find out what he is up to and then we might see daylight.’ He wiped his forehead again.

  Maxwell pressed his cigarette into the ashtray.

  ‘How are you placed in Cairo?’ he asked.

  ‘Fair,’ Spencer growled. ‘We have to watch our step, but we can get by.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘We can’t make a move without the Security Police closing in.’

  ‘When are you due there?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ Maxwell replied, ‘but I can bring it forward. I could fly in tomorrow.’

  ‘You do,’ Spencer said.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I have to return to Athens,’ Spencer said, ‘but I’ll notify our Cairo office.’ He paused and looked at Fletcher. ‘There is one other person who might be able to help us,’ he said.

  ‘Ali?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘That’s him,’ Spencer said.

  ‘I was wondering about Ali,’ Fletcher said thoughtfully, ‘but he hasn’t been able to supply anything of merit for a long time.’

  ‘But he keeps himself well informed,’ Spencer growled. ‘You say the man who knifed Timovsky looked like an Arab. If the Russians are recruiting the scum from the bazaars to do their dirty work Ali might know about it. He might even be able to help you with Breznov. He’s always interested in a proposition.’

  In a country where every beggar was a potential cutthroat, murderer, procurer, or smuggler, the man Spencer was referring to was a king. If money could buy it, Ali could get it. But whether his contacts reached into the corners of the Foreign Office was something of which Fletcher was sceptical. But he agreed it was worth a try. They were going to have to pull out all the stops.

  ‘What about this K business?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘Means nothing to me,’ Spencer confessed.

  ‘Nor me,’ Fletcher added.

  Maxwell gave a long, deep sigh.

  ‘How will we keep in touch?’ he said.

  ‘Normal channels,’ Spencer said. ‘Through the Embassies.’

  They sat playing with their glasses, but nothing more was said. It all depended on Cairo.

  Maxwell was the first to leave. He polished off his drink and slipped quietly into the deserted lane of the bazaar.

  After he had gone, Spencer recharged Fletcher’s glass.

  ‘Good man, Maxwell,’ he said, ‘but they don’t like setbacks. Take badly to it.’

  So he had sensed the anxiety as well, Fletcher thought.

  ‘They have good reason,’ Fletcher said. ‘They’ve suffered more than us.’

  ‘We’ve been here longer,’ Spencer said irritably. ‘We should be able to protect our agents better.’

  ‘What about Timovsky?’ Fletcher asked pointedly.

  Spencer looked up at him and saw the hard look on his face.

  ‘What about him?’ he growled.

  ‘Where was his protection?’

  ‘We can’t fight their internal security machine, damn it,’ Spencer snapped and turned his attention back to his glass.

  ‘So you think their internal security caught up with him?’ Fletcher asked evenly.

  ‘Yes I do,’ Spencer retorted. ‘Timovsky was sent home because he was suspect. He had only a limited life for us. We knew that.’

  ‘I’m surprised he ever came back,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘Probably to use him.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ Fletcher said meaningly. ‘Otherwise …’

  ‘Don’t start a witch hunt,’ Spencer warned. ‘It can prove dangerous. We have work to do.’ He placed his handkerchief in his pocket. It was an indication that their meeting was drawing to a close.

  Fletcher shrugged. He didn’t share Spencer’s optimism. The dead Russian worried him, and it would keep on worrying him until he found out how the K.G.B. caught up with their man.

  ‘You can’t stay in Istanbul,’ Spencer said. ‘They’ll make a lot of noise, even if it is with empty cans.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Cairo,’ Spencer said casually. ‘And Ali.’

  Good, Fletcher thought. He wasn’t in the mood for a monastic rest until the hue and cry died down. He wanted action. Cairo could give him that and more.

  ‘What about Hamilton?’ he asked. ‘Do I work with him?’

  Hamilton was Spencer’s man on the ground in Cairo.

  ‘No,’ Spencer said. ‘I have plans for Hamilton. He will have his hands full. You take care of Ali. If it leads anywhere you can always contact Hamilton.’

  ‘Any limit?’ Fletcher asked.

  Spencer mentally wrestled with the problem. He was torn between his natural desire to curb expenditure and wanting to get the information. Ali could be expensive, that was why they didn’t make more use of him. He finally gave judgement in favour of the cause.

  ‘We’ll pay anything within reason,’ he grumbled. ‘Ali has an account with a Swiss Bank. We’ll pay direct on verification of the information.’

  There was nothing else to be said. It all depended now upon what the next few days would bring from Cairo.

  The ball had bounced to yet another corner.

  Chapter Two

  Two days later Fletcher arrived in Port Said. In a crowded, sun-drenched, customs shed, he lost himself amongst the cosmopolitan gathering of passengers who had disembarked from a Greek passenger ship. A ship Fletcher had joined the previous day in Beirut, as a third class passenger. He travelled on a Greek passport, as an agent for a Greek trading company. His appearance, in a soiled, white linen suit, and carrying a green canvas suitcase, resembled many of the other third class passengers who bustled and harassed the officials. br />
  This was not Fletcher’s normal method of entry into the country, nor the safest, but it was more expedient than the back door route, and attracted less attention than the more sophisticated air flight.

  He passed through the customs without any difficulty and quickly rid himself of his newly made acquaintances.

  It was late in the afternoon when he arrived in Cairo. The city was hot, congested, noisy and oppressive. He mingled with the dark faces which filled the pavements until he felt satisfied that he was not being followed, and then took a bus into one of the modern suburbs of the city. He registered at a respectable, quiet hotel, in a secluded avenue overlooking the Nile, and waited patiently for nightfall.

  As soon as it turned dark he slipped out of the hotel, and went in search of the man he hoped would help him — Ali. This was not the Egyptian’s true name, but it was the one used by British Intelligence. Ali was a man with a background as complex as his real name, a mixture of Syrian and Egyptian. He was not a regular informer. He was more concerned with the less delicate issues of smuggling and gun-running, but as Spencer had indicated, he was a man of many connections and a love of money. He operated with only a limited amount of caution from a night club called the El-Giza, on the fringe of the bazaars. A club which was popular with tourists because it gave them what they expected in Cairo — the decor of old Egypt and a bevy of belly dancers.

  When Fletcher arrived at the club it had already acquired a modest group of tourists who sat in the scented cabaret room, eating kebabs and kafta. He made his request to see Ali to one of the many white coated attendants who kept a watchful eye on the affairs of the club, and was ushered into the cocktail bar whilst his message was relayed to Ali’s office. Like the cabaret room, the bar had its quota of visitors. Fletcher ordered a drink and sat in one of the darkened corners, and surveyed the occupants of the room. His eyes fell upon a girl in her early twenties, sitting at one of the tables, and he was immediately struck by her beauty. She had long, dark brown hair, and the type of face which could have graced the cover of any magazine — dark eyes, high cheek bones, and a full mouth. She was wearing a plain white dress which accentuated her golden brown tan. She was not alone, but she could have been for all the attention she was giving her companion — a dark, sullen faced man, who sat staring into the room. Fletcher toyed with his glass, mildly curious as to their relationship. He saw the girl look up sharply, and followed her eyes to the curtained opening which led to Ali’s office, where a smartly dressed, middle aged man had suddenly appeared. He was a tall, erect man, with a long, thin face, and deep set, unfriendly eyes. Fletcher watched him look around the room until he caught sight of the girl, when he smiled and crossed over to her table. The girl stood up to greet him. For a few seconds they held a conversation and then the man led the girl out of the room. The girl’s other escort followed dutifully behind like a servant. Fletcher watched them leave and wondered what their business with Ali had been about.

  Soon after, the bar attendant gave him the all clear. He finished his drink and slipped through the curtained opening and entered Ali’s office.

  Ali stood up from behind his desk to greet him. He was not a big man, and in appearance looked like many other Egyptians — dark, with sleek black hair and a sharp face. He was immaculately dressed, however, in an expensive dinner suit.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ he said in a businesslike tone, not unfriendly, but at the same time not patronizing.

  Fletcher sat facing the Egyptian.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Ali asked, forgoing the customary pleasantries and platitudes.

  ‘Information,’ Fletcher said.

  Ali shrugged, non-committally.

  ‘About what?’ he asked.

  ‘It is whispered that the Russians have recruited the Arab fellahin to do their dirty work, so that the Russians will not get their hands fouled.’

  ‘The Russians are not the only ones who take advantage of the surplus labour market here in Cairo,’ Ali replied.

  ‘True,’ Fletcher agreed, ‘but it is also said that the Russians are using them abroad. Istanbul for instance. Two days ago.’

  ‘I have not heard of this,’ Ali said seriously.

  ‘They are not broadcasting it,’ Fletcher pointed out.

  Ali pushed a silver cigarette box across the table. Fletcher politely refused.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Ali asked, lighting a cigarette and allowing the smoke to come out of his nostrils.

  ‘You can ask your many friends if they know anything about this. I am very interested.’

  Ali didn’t appear enthusiastic. ‘I will ask,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we may hear of something. I do not know.’

  He wasn’t being so helpful as he had been in the past, Fletcher thought. His other interests must be proving more profitable. There was also the question of Breznov’s visit. Fletcher didn’t hold out much hope, but he decided to try.

  ‘A Russian called Breznov is visiting Cairo,’ Fletcher said quietly, ‘I would like to know who he is seeing and what is being discussed.’

  Ali raised his eyebrows.

  ‘A tall order,’ he muttered.

  ‘In which case it will be well rewarded,’ Fletcher added.

  But Ali didn’t bite.

  ‘Times have changed since you were last here, my friend,’ he said in a sad tone. ‘We have had a war which we lost.’ He threw up his hands. ‘The Security Police are everywhere. One false move and …’ He ran his fingers across his throat and again threw up his arms in despair.

  ‘But you manage to remain in business,’ Fletcher pointed out.

  ‘Ah yes, but the profits are less. I have heavy expenses now, and besides, it is not a matter of state security.’

  So they accept smuggling, gun running, and dope peddling, so long as they get their cut, Fletcher thought, but not espionage. They had their own code of honour.

  ‘It would pay very well,’ Fletcher persisted, knowing Ali’s weakness.

  ‘How well?’ Ali asked, but added, ‘I am only curious.’

  ‘Name your price,’ Fletcher said.

  This time Ali did look impressed. He leant back in his chair and sat solemnly studying Fletcher as if trying to read his mind.

  ‘You want this information that badly?’ he asked.

  Fletcher grunted, but didn’t commit himself. He knew Ali was taking the bait.

  Ali suddenly gave a half laugh of despair.

  ‘It is impossible,’ he said. ‘Impossible.’

  Fletcher didn’t give up. ‘I’ll leave it with you,’ he said, ‘and call back.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Ali said eagerly. ‘Come back tomorrow evening. Who can tell?’

  Fletcher didn’t waste any further time. He knew Ali was interested. If he could get hold of anything he would be in the market. If he couldn’t, Fletcher would have to try elsewhere.

  He returned to the now crowded cocktail bar, took in the brown and pink faces and decided to leave them to it. As he entered the foyer, a burst of applause came from the cabaret room and its darkened atmosphere suddenly became an orange glow. Fletcher hesitated, glanced into the room, and saw the groups of tourists squatting around short-legged tables under a haze of cigarette smoke. He was attracted to a nearby group by the sound of their American accents. They were a party of five, four men and a woman, and he noticed the dark, laughing face of the woman, held the full attention of her companions. Sitting next to her was a tall, lean, young looking man, who was finding his sitting position not suitable to his build. Next to him was another man, a more elderly man — a man Fletcher immediately recognized. It was Maxwell. He was also giving the woman his full attention. Fletcher turned his attention to the two other men in the party, but as the room drifted again into darkness, he saw Maxwell look up in his direction. Fletcher gave no sign of recognition and turned and left the foyer.

  From the brightly lit entrance to the club he quickly walked over to where the cars were parked, and kept himself hidden in the shadows. A few minutes later he saw Maxwell leave the club and cross over to the park. Fletcher joined him.

  ‘If I’d known he was on your shopping list, I would have kept clear,’ Maxwell smiled.