Whiteside spoke more rapidly now, as if to cover a great expanse of time as quickly as possible. Mr. Grover, he explained, had entered the war in Europe as a man of many principles. But the foremost principle was that of flexibility.
Through an underground route of partisans, Grover, after assassinating a German counterspy in Calabria, was whisked by boat and railroad to Gibralter. There he contacted a man named Lester Gregory. Gregory was a captain in the British Army, stationed 'on the rock " as they called it, since Hitler was still trying to entice Franco into entering the war by attacking the British at Gibralter.
Captain Gregory also had another function. He was one of the top M.I. 6 agents on the rock.
Through joint Anglo-American intelligence reports, Gregory knew both the function and the assignment of the man whose real name was De Septio. Gregory, however, acting on orders from London, sought to raise Grover's self-awareness to a higher level.
Grover, accepting cash as compensation, agreed thus to become a British operative within the United States, unknown to his American superiors.
"Spy was too strong a word, of course," said Whiteside.
"An 'eye and ear' man would be more like it. Nothing treasonous, since it concerned Allied nations. He'd just report on anything interesting he'd seen or heard."
Thomas eyed Grover during Whiteside's explanation. The logical conclusion for wartime capitalism, he thought; allegiances bought and sold. He looked back to Whiteside.
"So?" he asked.
"Sol" retorted Whiteside quickly, 'there are two aspects of this for you to remember. One, Mr. Grover-niDe Septio-was a trash collector for the Americans while he was a lower-echelon informant for us. Two " he continued, 'you should have noticed a parallel between this man and his erstwhile associate, Sandler."
"They were both recruited as spies," said Thomas.
Whiteside fought back a smirk.
"Yes," he said.
"Now, in reference to whom have you used the word 'recruit' recently?"
It took Thomas a long second and then he blanched. Recruitment. His father's involvement. The recruiting sergeant. Of course!
So painfully obvious all along. In retrospect so clear.
' "Recruiting sergeant' was a term used for a certain type of man"
Whiteside began forcefully.
"A man like your father. Whatever his reasons, he sought to avoid the military, to not partake in any of the actual fighting. Know how he avoided it?", "Go ahead," said Thomas, defensiveness in his voice.
"By recruiting. As a barrister or attorney, particularly his kind, he had ties to criminal society." Such as Mr. Grover. Or the slightly more respectable criminal society, such as Arthur Sandler. He also knew an important Federal prosecutor namedMcFedrics. He used one to please the other, saving his own tail in the process. Ingenious, really. He'd take on as clients men like De Septio and Sandler who were facing extremely stiff Federal prison terms. Then he offered them up as bait. He would recruit them as U.S. spies, taking advantage of their own special skills. He would tell them it was prison or a few years in intelligence work. Wasn't much of a choice, I should think.
The criminals got out of their jail terms, your father got out of the military, and your government got its spies."
Thomas, almost nonplussed by Whiteside's discourse, let it sink in for a few moments.
"Did Zenger know?" he asked finally.
Whiteside laughed.
"That conniving little twerp? God, yes! He was doing the same thing.
Only not as well ' The four men sat there in rude silence, three men on one side, one on the other. None was inclined to speak. Thomas tried to measure the other three men, seeking somewhere to find a reason not to have to believe them. The trouble was that their whole story fit together so well.
Or did it? A thought came upon him.
"Let me ask you something totally unrelated," Thomas said.
"Ask," said Whiteside generously.
"What would you say if I wondered who you really were? What if I questioned whether the real Peter Whiteside were actually dead The man before him smiled.
"I would say," said Whiteside, "that some unknown person has been filling your head with lies. Probably told you some rubbish about a plane crash leaving Caracas."
Thomas felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, a sense of having been made very neatly into an imbecile, though he wasn't at that moment certain by whom.
Whiteside knew he'd hit the mark.
"Yes, of course;' he continued.
"That impostor girl told you that, didn't she?" When Thomas gave no answer, Whiteside knew he was correct. 'I'll explain," he continued.
"George McAdam was a'sandho@ which means he-" "I know about that part," said Thomas.
"I know what he did "All right," said Whiteside, "old George and I were in Caracas on a little expedition. We were scheduled to leave for Miami on an Avianca flight. At the last moment we changed our plans.
Fortuitously for us, don't you think? Well" he smiled, 'there was no reason to disappoint the folks who thought they'd blown us into the next dimension. We simply had the nice people at Avianca, after a little arm-twisting, add our names to the list of passengers. Simple, really. George and I were legally dead. Confused the living hell out of the KGB people in Venezuela" Whiteside's smile was enormous.
"So if a little bird whispers in your ear that I'm dead," he said in conclusion, 'don't believe her."
Grover interjected.
"That's also why she wouldn't come into my house the other day," he said.
"Afraid I'd call her a liar right there' "Why should I believe that?
Maybe she wasn't in the mood to look at a petty criminal who'd been her father's partner." Thomas furrowed his brow and added anxiously,
"Yes, how about that? When did you stop being De Septio and start being Grover?"
"November 12, 1954," said Grover with a grin.
"After the Sandler stand-in was taken down on Eighty-ninth Street," said Whiteside.
"Thanks for reminding us. That's important ' important both now and twenty-two years earlier, Whiteside explained. Sandler's unorthodox actions after the war -fleeing east instead of west, staying east and then slowly coming home-had long baffled his superiors in American intelligence. But gradually the suspicions around the man grew. His revivified fortune after the war and his steady re accumulation of wealth were every bit as bizarre and perplexing as, say, his sister's doting on dogs named Andy and one-dollar bills.
"Gradually, the conclusion became irrefutable" said Whiteside.
"Somewhere along the line Sandler had been recruited as a Soviet agent.
Nobody knew when or where or by whom, but the case against him was even stronger than the one against Rudolph Abel."
"So why wasn't he arrested?" asked Thomas.
"Because things aren't that easy. Hard evidence, the sort admissible in an American court, was at a minimum. What we had were the account of agents, men and women whose identities could not be compromised in a trial. And," he added boldly, 'we had a perfect set of crosscurrents."
"Crosscurrents?"
"Yes. The British wanted him for his counterfeiting of pounds.
The Americans wanted him for espionage. Both would be a lot happier with him dead than on trial. Add to that the situation of Mr. Grover, here," he said with a nod.
"Grover had been arrested again.
"Your father then began to guide the direction of the case. William Ward Daniels reminded all concerned that Grover had been a trash collector during the war. He'd made three assigned collections, but had never been assigned a fourth. Another deal was proposed.
Sandler would be the fourth, in exchange for a new identity and immunity from all charges past and present" "I agreed quite readily," said Grover.
"And I told them I'd do it my way, with my own assistants."
"There were three assassins," said Thomas.
"I learned that much myself."
"Well," said Whiteside slowly,
"I gave British approval from London" He paused, then said softly,
"And I partook in it personally. I wanted to see it done."
Thomas stared at Whiteside for several seconds.
"Of course,"
Thomas mumbled.
"You would have."
"And even then " said Whiteside,
"I worked with my current associate." He nodded toward Hunter, who smiled broadly through his beard.
"We put more than a dozen bullet holes in him," Hunter grunted softly.
"You killed the wrong man'" said Thomas slowly.
"And whose fault is that.
"Your own."
"Wrong!" interjected Whiteside.
"Whose idea was it originally?
Who did I say nurtured the plan and sold it to two intelligence services? Need I remind you?"
Thomas was again silent, almost struck dumb by. the implication.
"Never really had a heart-to-heart talk with your dad, did you?" chided Grover.
"He got the wrong man killed intentionally," said Whiteside casually, though Thomas had already gotten the message.
"He was protecting his friend and client, protecting him so well that for twenty-one years everyone was convinced that Sandler was dead "Then a Treasury agent came to my door one morning," said Grover.
"He'd tracked me down. A man named Hammond. He showed me a stack of money which was indistinguishable from real U.S. currency." He shook his head.
"Only one man who could make counterfeits like that. Only one man ' "So Mr. Grover reported back to me," said Whiteside.
"Our old eyes-and-ears network back at work after twenty-some years. He convinced us that Sandler had to still be alive. Or at least the man last known as Sandler. In one form or another, in one identity or another."
"Somebody, must have known where Sandler went," said Thomas.
"Of course" said Whiteside.
"There were four possibilities. But as the U.S. counterfeits began, the four possibilities closed. Victoria Sandler, crazy as she was, may have had an inkling. She died. Your father must have known. He died.
His files -your files might have held certain clues. They burned ' "Forget any smokescreen about a will being destroyed" offered Grover.
"Sandler's identity today. That's why your files burned."
"What's the fourth? Zenger?" asked Thomas.
"No," said Whiteside.
"His involvement with Sandler didn't run to the level of your father's.
The fourth possibility -and it was only that, a possibility-was the other person who would have been reviewing those files after your father's death. That person could have happened upon something."
"Me," said Thomas softly.
"And you were marked for death, too," said Grover.
"Trouble is, a mistake was made. Some poor bloke named Mark Ryder happened to look like you at the precise time and date when you were supposed to be leaving your building. They bought him instead Thomas sat reflectively in silence for several moments. It was all so neat and uncomplicated once the pieces fit together. Thomas had the sense of having watched his father wear a mask for his entire lifetime, Thomas knowing the man yet not really knowing him. If these three people, confessed killers, could be believed.
Hunter was at the window, Glover fidgeted with his fingers, and Whiteside stared relentlessly at Thomas.
"Who'd want to kill me?" Thomas Daniels finally asked almost rhetorically. He could see Hunter smirk.
"I knew nothing about any of this " "You're blind" said Whiteside.
"Who'd want to kill you? You've been stalked for weeks now." Whiteside's features twisted into a scowl.
"You mean you really don't see it?"
"Leslie," Thomas said, half as a question, half knowing the answer.
"They'll have you under a microscope;' snorted Whiteside.
"They'll examine you from every angle. Find out what you know or whom you might have told. Then when you least expect it, wham!"
Whiteside slapped his palms together for emphasis. A resounding clap filled the room.
"Wham," he said, 'you'll be at your own funeral! I don't believe that you can't see it for yourself."
Thomas's ashen appearance indicated the answer to Whiteside.
No, Thomas didn't see it for himself.
"Women are lethal in games like this" said Whiteside hatefully.
"I suppose she's arranging for a nice hot bed for you at night. Keep you on her side," he said.
"Keep you tired and busy at nights so you can't start thinking. As long as she's got you locked in between her legs, your brains will be on vacation" Thomas looked at the three men who surrounded him. He wanted to stand and attack them, rise up and strike out at them, just as they had struck out at his father and Leslie. But how could he disbelieve them?
"Cute little bird, too" grunted Grover.
"Probably a nice warm one on the mattress, all right. Seems a shame.
But we're going to have to wring that little bird's neck."
Hunter plainly relished the thought.
"There's one other thing" said Thomas, directing his attention back to his tormentor, Whiteside.
"Do tell us."
"The last time I saw you' said Thomas, 'in the churchyard in London, you left me with a suggestion."
Remembering, Whiteside allowed a coy grin to cross his face.
"I told you to give some thought to-" "- to whoever was running Arthur Sandler. If Sandler was a spy, you said, he had to have had a superior."
"That's right' said Whiteside. He let a moment pass as he gathered the proper words.
"I've always known who the superior was.
The question was," he intoned slowly, "whether you knew. Or whether you could find out."
"My father," said Thomas coldly Those two words hung in the air for what, to Thomas Daniels, seemed like an eternity. He felt the six other eyes on him, almost Xraying him. And he recognized now their attitude toward him all along. In their own way, they'd been as perplexed with him as he'd been with them. They'd had his father pegged as a spy, of which sort Thomas still didn't know. But what the men in this room had wondered all along-and probably still wondered, Thomas concluded -was how much the spy father had passed on to the attorney son.
Whiteside finally chipped the silence.
"What you lack in speed, Mr. Daniels' he said, 'you regain in diligence. Of course, the question we now' must ask is the question."
"Sorry?"
"We know," said Whiteside with feline smugness, 'that your father was a spy. A specialist in recruitment, at that. What we must know is, for whom?"
"For whom?" Thomas repeated in perplexed tones. And for whom?"
"Do you speak any Russian, Mr. Daniels?" asked Hunter flatly.
"What?"
"How about the Cyrillic alphabet?" asked Grover.
"Know it?"
"Where would I have learned it?" asked Thomas angrily.
All three men shrugged. Whiteside, his eyes fixed on Daniels, spoke bluntly.
"At your father's knee, perhaps?"
Daniels was shaking his head, failing to comprehend.
"What are you angling at?" he demanded.
"What the hell are you people after?"
Whiteside sighed.
"The extent to which we've been compromised he intoned.
"That's what we want to know. That's what you have to tell us."
"You're not making sense "Oh, no?" Whiteside shot back, the white eyebrows rising quickly.
"Here, then!"
He explained.
Many of the most enterprising intelligence networks of the Second World War, said Whiteside, had been joint Anglo-American endeavors. That was thirty years past, of course, and such past history would hardly have mattered were it not for one simple fact: "A proven network is a proven network' Whiteside pontificated, and good, sound alliances aren't tossed away for the fun of it.
They're kept intact. Sometimes for twenty or thirty years. Even longer."
Thomas listened, uncomfortable under the gaze of Hunter and Grover.
"Do you see the' problem inquired Whiteside.
"Your father was a recruiter. He headed a network. The network functioned through the war, into the postwar period, and was intact at the time of his death " "Intact?" asked Thomas, almost incredulous.
"Yes, intact," said Whiteside intensely, his voice low and serious.
"Intact, but very, very rotten from within. Sandler was no friend of Great Britain, you know that by now. Ergo, he was no friend of the Anglo-American alliance",I follow."
"He was a double, damn it!" Whiteside erupted.
"And we want to know who else was running him. Maybe the Huns themselves recruited him after the war. Maybe our friends the Bolsheviks to the East, or maybe he was a double cross by some moralistic cowboys in Washington. In any event, he wasn't on our side in any way. Yet he was in a network we took part in." Whiteside nodded toward Grover, his own free-lancer. Whiteside drew a breath and concluded.
"We find out who Sandler's ultimate allegiance was to, and we find out how much our postwar networks have been compromised."
"That simple?" asked Daniels, knowing it wasn't.
"Almost," responded Whiteside with equal cynicism.
"Aren't you missing something?"
"What?"
"You're more concerned with finding Sandler's control than with finding Sandler. Why?"
"Last time we spoke," Whiteside reminded him,
"I said there were things I couldn't tell you. Not yet. That answer is one of those things. At the proper time, you'll be informed."
Daniels grimaced.
"And yet Sandler, if you found him, could answer your questions for you."
Whiteside shrugged noncommittally. Thomas frowned.
"Perhaps " Whiteside offered, his gaze squarely upon the younger man before him.
"But someone else, someone in this room, might also be able to answer a key question, something which might tuck it all in place' ' Thomas felt the gaze of the three other men upon him.
"What are you implying? I don't know a damned thing."
Whiteside sighed.
"No," he said,
"I don't think you do. But if you take the question with you from here and examine it, maybe the solution will appear." He paused.
"This is why you're caught up in this, naturally. It's the whole match, for our part. Your father might have said something, anything at one point or another."
"Like what?"
"Like what side he was really on. Like whom he was really controlling Sandler for. And why." Whiteside rubbed his chin in reflection, then hissed his final words with restrained anger.
"Your father headed a network" he declared, 'a damned good network. But whose was it? The Huns'? The Bolsheviks'? The Cowboys'?" Another uneasy pause, then,
"Take your pick, Mr. Daniels.
Because it had to be one of the three!"
Thomas stared at Whiteside for several seconds, weighing the question.
"How could I ever know any more than I know now?" he asked.
"Very simple" scoffed Whiteside.
"Ask the girl. Before she manages to kill you'"