Assignment Madeleine Read online

  Chapter One

  A cold, August rain fell over Paris on the morning Durell arrived. He had flown from Washington to London, changing to an Air France plane at the London airport. He didn’t think anyone had spotted him. McFee had arranged for a man to move promptly into Durell’s apartment near Rock Creek Park in ‘Washington, and the man looked enough like Durell to fool anyone who might he keeping him under surveillance back home. He was not sure about this, so he was careful as always. It was growing more difficult to develop and maintain a cover identity with each succeeding trip abroad.

  From the airport in Orly he took a rattly taxi into Paris and checked in at the King George V Hotel, where a reservation had been made for him by Fred Hanson, out of the Embassy on the Place de la Concorde. The cold rain was quite a change after the humidity of Washington, but Durell did not mind it. Being in Paris, and having a chance to see Deirdre, was enough for the moment.

  He telephoned her at once, before he shaved and bathed. She’d had no idea he was coming to Paris.

  “Sam, darling, are you really here? You’re not joking?”

  “Here, in the flesh,” he assured her. “Yearning, of course.

  He listened to the soft throatiness of her laughter and reacted warmly to her delight. “No more than I, darling. Where are you?”

  “Where I usually stay,” he said.

  “But I’m not sure—”

  “I don't know about your telephone, Dee. Do you understand?”

  Her voice fell. “Oh, Sam. You didn't come over to see me. For a crazy minute, I thought you’d taken some time off just to fly back with me. Can you do that?”

  “No, I’m working. I’m sorry.”

  “Will it be for long?”

  “I think so. Please, Dee. Not on the phone.”

  “But nobody is watching me! I’m just covering the fashion news, that’s all! Who'd he interested in me, Sam?”

  “You’re my girl,” he said. “That might be enough to do it.”

  Some of the joy went out of her voice. He heard her sigh, and he listened to the faint humming in the receiver at his ear. He was watchful for any telltale clicks that might indicate her line was bugged. He told himself he was probably being overly cautious, but there was no harm in that. Better to be too cautious than too dead. In Durell’s business, the price of survival was constant suspicion and care, awake or asleep.

  “Deirdre?”

  “Yes, Sam. I’m so disappointed. I’m flying back to Washington tonight, didn’t you know? I’ve been dreaming about you and me back home—making the most marvelous plans. But now you’re here, and you’ll be sleeping here in Paris, and I’ll be over the Atlantic, with my dreams as empty as the sky and the sea. Sam, I can’t stand it."

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “You know how it is.”

  “Can I come to your room? Right now?”

  “It isn’t that I wouldn’t want you. You know that, Dee.

  But make it Jacques’ place. Know where it is?”

  “Near the Salon Sofie.”

  “Right.”

  “If you say so. At one?”

  “One,” he said.

  “Sam?”

  “I love you,” Durell said, and he hung up.

  He bathed and shaved in the big, tessellated bathroom and changed into a dark blue suit, a. white shirt with a soft button-down collar, and a solid maroon necktie. Durell was tall and long-legged, well-muscled, in his thirties. He had thick dark hair, a small black moustache, and blue eyes that often turned dark when he was thoughtful or angry. He had deft, gambler’s hands and the quick temperament of his Cajun parents combined with the instincts of a gambler, instilled in him by his grandfather, who had worked the last of the old Mississippi side-wheelers.

  He had started in the business with G-2 and later transferred to the old OSS training at Pemberley in England with the Jed teams during World War II. Afterward, he had known there could never be any other work for him, and he had been accepted by the Central Intelligence Agency of the State Department when it was first formed. Now he was sub-chief of K Section, under General Dickinson McFee. It was lonely, dangerous, mean and dirty work, and the risks went unheralded by bugles. Death walked with the man who yielded to a moments carelessness, or who was unlucky, and death came in mean, small ways—in a Hung Kong alley, a train in Poland, a traffic accident on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. It came with a knife, a garrote, or a push under crushing. spinning wheels. Durell knew that with the MVD at No. 2 Dzerzhinsky Square in Moscow there was a full dossier on him. He did not underestimate the enemy. He had already anticipated their knowledge of his presence here in Paris.

  He lit a cigarette and looked down from the hotel window at the rain falling on the Avenue George V. Deirdre moved in him like a deep pang of loneliness. He watched a man and woman and two children hurrying along in the rain toward the hotel entrance, all laughter and love, and he knew he could never be a part of such a picture. Not for him the ordinary, everyday wonders of simple existence. In his business, the man who walked alone walked in safety. He had told Deirdre this often, but she had not yet accepted it.

  He hadn't been in Paris since he had helped Orrie Boston get set up. Orrie was in Algeria now, moving in perilous waters to gather information on the Nationalist rebellion. His data would be sifted and collated and synthesized back in K Section, in Washington, and arranged for McFee’s weekly conferences with Joint Chiefs, the Pentagon, State, and White House for future evaluations.

  Orrin Boston had been father and mother to Durell during his training at the Maryland farm where Orrin was one of the chief instructors for the candidates aspiring to work for the CIA. Those hadn't been easy weeks, Durell recalled. You were tested for leadership and ingenuity in dozens of grueling ways. There were no rules of fair play at The Farm. Every dirty trick in the book was sprung on you. You trusted no one—not your fellow candidates, who would cajole you into friendship, nor the instructors, who could use a paternal attitude to suddenly trip you up and slide a knife across your throat. Durell enjoyed those weeks. Orrin Boston had been the oldest man at The Farm, pushing fifty, but he went through the obstacle courses with the toughest of them. A calm man with a lined face, carefully groomed gray hair, large and sensitive eyes, Orrin had a wife and three children in Chevy Chase, and he looked the suburban part. You would never suspect he was a spy and a skilled killer, a master of seven languages, with an intimate knowledge of the alleys and byways of dozens of the world’s major cities.

  Durell was in Paris now because of Orrie Boston. McFee had explained it simply.

  “You know Orrie better than any of us, Sam. He belongs behind a desk in analytical work, but you know how short-handed we are and our troubles with the budget made us send him to Africa. He gets on very well with Paris Intelligence and the Deuxieme Bureau—they know we have men in Algeria and they don’t mind, as long as our services cooperate with their intelligence people. Orrie lived in Algiers as an export house manager, before the war, and he was one of our experts dining the North African campaign. You knew him then, didn’t you.

  Durell nodded. “We watched the 9th Infantry hit the beach at Ferruch. We were in a villa overlooking the shore. The place had been vacated by some members of the German Armistice Commission, and they left a lot of champagne, and Orrie and I were mighty thirsty after two months in the desert. We tied on a good one that night.”

  McFee permitted himself a brief smile. “Orrie speaks some of the Berber Kabyle dialects like a native. The Moslems trust him and the French trust him, so we had to use him over there. We’ve had some informative reports from Orrie, especially of those dealing with schisms among the Nationalist guerrillas. It’s been useful in formulating State policy, though I some
times wish they’d listen a little more to what Boston has had to say. But Orrie hasn't said much lately.”

  “Is he in trouble?” Durell asked.

  “We don’t know. We haven’t heard from him.”

  Durell’s face went blank. “F or how long?

  “Two weeks." ”

  “How much is he overdue? “

  “Ten days,” McFee sighed. Georges Brumont suggests we send someone to look for him. Brumont is our liaison with the Deuxieme Bureau. His own people have failed to get at the root of the trouble—I don’t have any details—but there will be more for you in Pans when you get there. I don’t like sending you abroad so soon, though, Sam. Our jokers will be on the lookout for you. I’d hate to lose you.”

  “I’ll manage. When do you want me to go over?”

  “As soon as you can pack. You know how I feel about Orrie. And I know how close you’ve been to him. If he’s in trouble, help him out of it. If he’s disappeared, find out where and why, and bring him back. If he s dead. . . . McFee shuffled papers on his desk. He looked tired, a small man with the tremendous weight of life and death on his military shoulders. “You’ll contact Brumont. Hell fill you in. Be careful—and tactful. You know how touchy the French are about Algeria.”

  Remembering McFee’s words, Durell turned away from the rainy window of his Paris hotel room. He wished he could get rid of his nagging worry about Orrin Boston, but it wasn’t easy. Your friends in the business were men you respected and admired. Clever, capable, brilliant men. But now and then somebody slipped, made a small error—and it was enough. The enemy was equally brilliant, deadly, and competent. And you lost. a friend.

  He hoped it wouldn’t be that way with Orrie Boston.

  The telephone rang in his room. He had been expecting Georges Brumont to call momentarily. He said, “Yes?” and Brumont’s voice, in French, said, “We are happy you made a safe and swift voyage, m’sieu. We are anxious to confer on the business at hand. You were told in London of our meeting place?”

  “Yes, I was,” Durell said.

  “Can you be there in half an hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bon. I shall be waiting.”

  Durell hung up and shrugged into his raincoat. Then he went back to the window again, but he saw nothing of importance on the wide avenue in front of the hotel. He went out, locking the door automatically, but not concerned, because nothing in his luggage would be of interest to anyone who cared to look into it.

  The Salon Sofie was on the Left Bank beyond the Pont-Neuf. A series of terraces overlooked the Seine and the bridges and parks, but in today’s rain the chairs and tables were empty, and the manikins were working indoors. Durell paid oil his taxi two blocks from the salon and walked along the river bank before climbing the stone steps to the street. Gray ribbons of rain wavered across the dimpled surface of the water. The trees wept in gray melancholia, and he could not see the Eiffel Tower because of the fog. Nobody followed him.

  He looked at his watch as he passed Jacques’ café, but he was an hour early to meet Deirdre, and the people under the striped awning, seated in the wrought-iron chairs at the round iron tables, all looked unfamiliar. He

  went on and pushed open the ornate glass and gold doors of the Salon Sofie.

  Chapter Two

  A woman with green hair dusted with silver greeted him, smiling politely, and ushered him through a carpeted, mirrored foyer into the main room. Two men, obviously American tourists, sat on a banquette in the foyer; they looked alternately worried about their wives’ extravagances and then, when a model swayed by, forgot their worries while the girl was in view. Durell followed the woman with the green hair into the main salon. Neither American was interested in him.

  “I am Madame Sofie,” the woman said. “You are expected. Over there, please.”

  Durell saw Georges Brumont and Fred Hanson, from the Embassy, seated in gilt Louis XIV chairs in front of a tall mirror. One end of the room was curtained off as a stage, with a low ramp reaching down to a wide circle of oyster white carpeting. The manikins moved in stilted, stylized postures, displaying clothing and figures to half-a-dozen whispering women. Durell paused to watch a willowy blonde with unprecedented breasts posture in a negligee. The blonde looked at him and smiled.

  “Madeleine will be out shortly,” Madame Sofie said. “She has been upset, naturally, but your friends have been very patient.”

  “Madeleine?”

  “Mademoiselle Sardelle. Tell the gentlemen that I will try again to hurry her along. The enamel moved in a smile again. “You will excuse me now, m’sieu.

  “With reluctance,” Durell said.

  She looked surprised at his gallantry and her smile widened; then she moved oil, the silver dust glistening in her green hair. Durell crossed die deep carpeting to join Brumont and Hanson.

  Fred Hanson’s handshake was strong and firm. He was a career man in the Foreign Service, with pale half

  groomed in a brush cut that gave him an American collegiate stamp. His family was upper Westchester, his clothing was Brooks Brothers, and his Phi Beta Kappa key came from Yale.

  “Hi, Sam, right on the dot. You know Georges?”

  “We met last year,” Durell said, shaking hands with Brumont.

  “Quite a spot for a rendezvous, eh?” Hansen said. “Soft music, gorgeous girls, perfumed air—“

  “Please be seated, M. Durell,” Brumont said bluntly.

  “You know that we have bad news for you?’

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “You were not advised in London?”

  “I saw no one of importance in London. Is this place safe?”

  “Madame Sofie works for us on occasion. An unusual woman, because she keeps a closed mouth. That is one reason we meet here. There is) also the manikin, Mlle. Sardelle. You will see her soon.’

  “What's the bad news ?” Durell asked.

  “Orrin Boston is dead,” Hanson said. He was watching the models on the ramp. “One of our own men killed him.

  Durell's face did not change. None of the sick dismay welling up in him showed through his gamblers impassive expression. But it was difficult to imagine Orrie Boston as dead. He had told himself to expect it, to be ready for it and accept it, as he had accepted such news before. But this was harder to take. It was almost impossible. He didn’t believe it yet.

  Brumont said quietly, “He was a friend of yours, m’sieu?”

  “A very good friend.”

  “It is the war we fight, of course. I am sorry.”

  “Was he careless?” Durell asked.

  “He was betrayed, as Hanson suggests. By your own man.”

  “Who?”

  “The Happy One,” Brumont said.

  Durell looked at the Deuxieme Bureau expert. Brumont was short, dark, and stout, with a thick moustache and heavy jowls. His hands were small and pale, the nails neatly manicured. He wore the Continental dark herringbone suit with wide, pointed lapels, the usual crushed black felt hat, a striped silk shirt, and a loosely knotted dark tie. His eyes were like small dark stones, examining Durell.

  “The murderers name is Charles L’Heureux,” Brumont said. “An American of Canadian extraction, I believe. Do you know him?"

  “No. Where is he now?”

  “In military custody in the town of Marbruk, where the FLN, the Algerian rebels, staged their massacre some time ago. You know of the crime?”

  “I read about it,” Durell said. He looked at Hanson.

  ‘When and why did Orrin accept Charley L’Heureux to work with him?”

  Hanson still watched one of the models moving on the ramp. He looked like a college boy in a burlesque house.

  L’Heureux worked in Algeria for the past month. I don’t know if you ever heard of him. He wasn’t assigned to your section.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Durell said.

  ‘Well, anyway, he was one of our ex-G.I.’s—he’s a French Canadian from Maine, by the way-who stayed over
here after the war. No youngster now, of course. We have a file on him over at the Embassy—not a very shining record, you see, but a useful man in your sort of business. ‘There was a curl of condescension in Hanson’s voice. L’Heureux is smart, lots of guts, supposed to have been in the old black-market rackets working the Mediterranean area after the war. But he was never caught or convicted at anything. Knows North Africa like the palm of my hand-which I’d like to use on that babe over there: The brunette, I mean.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Durell said. His voice was thin.

  “You just said Boston is dead and—”

  Hanson’s eyes moved in shock and surprise. “He is.”

  “Then get your thoughts out from between your legs and let’s hear more about it.”

  “Now, wait, you needn’t get sore because I don’t weep tears about Orrin Boston—”

  “Please, gentlemen,” Brumont said.

  “All right.” Durell sat back, the anger in him sinking to a controllable level. “Let’s hear about L’Heureux and Orrin.”

  “You people hire characters like Charley L’Heureux, but he’d never be accepted for the Foreign Service, I assure you,” Hanson said stiffly. “A black-marketeer, an adventurer, a man suspected by Brumont’s people of more than one murder, a man with an Arab wife—maybe several of them—what do you expect, using him in a sensitive spot like Algeria?”

  “How long was he on the payroll?”

  Hanson shrugged. “A year or more, so far as we know. He was located here in Paris until recently, and then Orrin sent word up, asking specifically for L’Heureux. Boston said he was working as an intermediary, contacting the Moslems and dissident groups within the FLN, and he needed L'Heureux' help. He also implied there was something sour about L’Heureux and he wanted to keep an eye on him, and the best way to do that was to have L’Heureux assigned to him. So it was done, and who’s to blame for what happened?”

  “What did happen, exactly?’

  “Apparently L’Heureux never got over his old habits. He was running guns to various Nationalist factions as a sideline to his work for you people. A rotten apple in the barrel, all right. Orrin must have gotten a line on the activities L'Heureux was directing from up here and had him sent down to pin the mark on him once and for all. But L’Heureux was smarter and quicker. All we’ve got is the wire from Marbruk, from the French commandant there. L’Heureux and Orrin had a fight and Orrin was killed. L’Heureux was captured trying to get through to rebel guerrilla lines and he's in solitary confinement at this moment.”