Finders Keepers, page 13
"Okay, but no rough stuff with Williams. If he doesn't go for it, well, we'll worry about that when we come to it. I want Grant with you when you make the pitch to Williams. I've told him if there's anything that bothers him, I mean anything, we scrub the whole project and start from scratch. Understood?"
"Sure, no problem. I agree."
"I'll be back in Washington Friday. I'll see if I can turn up more on Williams. The file is pretty light." He paused, remembering something. "Oh, and one more thing."
Curtis looked up. "What's that?"
"For God's sake keep Williams in the dark as much as possible. We want whatever Blaha is running, but we don't want some Goddamn jazz musician skulking around Prague thinking he's James Bond."
Curtis smiled at Mead. He spread his hands. "Sure, you know me."
"Yeah," Mead said. "I know you."
"By the way. What are we calling this operation?" Curtis stood up and shrugged into his raincoat.
"Czechmate."
Two
Gene Williams woke up in Prague--or was it London.
He suddenly couldn't remember. Both cities figured prominently in his future, but nothing surfaced except the dull ache at the base of his skull and a parched dryness in his mouth. He lay quietly for a moment, listening for sounds, slightly disoriented, puzzling over the refusal of his mind to perform such a simple task.
He sat up with a groan as the dull ache became a sharp pain, a throbbing that moved up around his temple. Licking his lips, he opened his eyes to focus on his surroundings, but that too failed to strike any familiar chords.
It was a hotel room like so many others he had occupied in scores of cities and typical of those itinerant musicians can afford when they're paying their own tab.
A pale, threadbare carpet ran across the room and disappeared under a huge monstrosity of a wardrobe that took up almost an entire wall. A small table and chair stood next to the bed and held last night's clothes, carelessly strewn over both. In the corner was a sink. Gene gazed at it longingly. There was thirst-quenching water and aspirins above, but it was a long way across the room and the throbbing in his head was becoming more intense.
He continued looking around the room. The bathroom was…right, down the hall. There's a clue. He thought he had it now, but just to make sure, he got out of bed and carefully walked over to the window and pulled back the flimsy curtains.
Blinking at the light pouring in, he gazed down at the heavy stream of traffic crawling by several floors below. As far as he was concerned, its slow steady movement was right down the wrong side of the street. For an American badly hung over and not at all sure about being in England, it was a reassuring sight. The big red double-decker bus just turning the corner dispelled all doubt and restored faith in his memory. London it was.
He turned away from the window and managed to make it to the sink only a couple of steps ahead of dizziness that nearly made him stagger to the floor. He turned on the tap and leaned over the sink. There was a loud gurgling noise followed by what appeared to be brown water. He let it run for a minute until it cleared enough to fill a glass and wash down four extra strength aspirins.
He splashed water on his face, then drying with a thin hand towel, glanced in the mirror over the sink. He'd often been told how boyish he looked, but not this morning. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face was pale and pasty. Only the shock of dark curly hair falling over his forehead retained anything like its normal appearance. Turning away, he wobbled back to the bed, sat down and waited for the aspirin to work and cursed his own stupidity.
Everyone likes to think his hangovers are unique, a personal agony only he can understand. Gene's was. And he had proof, real medical evidence to support his claim. Irregular chemical imbalance, the doctor had told him when he was discharged from the army. A notation had been made on his medical certificate, but Gene was relieved to have some official name to put to it, some explanation for the dizziness and occasional blackouts whenever he had anything more than a couple of drinks.
In practical terms, it meant alcohol, even in small doses, affected him dramatically and made the mornings after an indescribable hell, so he generally steered clear of anything more than the occasional beer. He'd tried marijuana, but that was worse. Two quick hits and he was away, sometimes out of control, a sensation he neither liked nor could afford in his work.
In clubs, he sipped wine or drank mineral water in rock glasses and let everyone think it was vodka. That was less embarrassing than trying to explain his intolerance for one of the occupational hazards of the music business. It made him something of an oddity among his peers. He'd known plenty of musicians who could drink or get high and still manage to sound good. Gene couldn't. The sticks became rubbery on the cymbals and up tempos became an uphill battle.
Except for an intense love of the music that brought him mind-blowing exhilaration every time he sat down to play, Gene Williams only claim to kinship with the public's image of a jazz drummer was Krupa's first name. But, Gene mused now, Gene Krupa was something of a non-drinker, he'd heard and his much publicized brush with drugs like most of the media's treatment of musicians was greatly exaggerated.
Gene accepted his condition and learned how to handle it, but sometimes, when the occasion warranted, he slipped, disregarded the consequences and plunged into a bottle of Scotch with almost reckless abandon. The dues were heavy and he paid dearly, like he was doing now. If the pounding in his head was any indication, last night must have been more of a headlong sprawl than a slip, good reason or not.
It suddenly got worse as he discovered the room had a telephone. The shrill insistent double ring shattered the quiet and sounded to Gene like a fire alarm. He found it under his shirt and managed to silence it by the third ring. He took another sip of water and croaked a hoarse hello.
"Mr. Williams? Eugene Williams?" The voice was a woman's, sharp, clear and very business-like.
"Yeah."
"This is the American Embassy calling, Mr. Williams," the woman announced. "We have a message for you here. Would it be convenient to pick it up this morning?"
"A message?" His mind still wasn't functioning properly. He fumbled for a cigarette and tried to get it going with one hand. "Can't you just read it to me?"
No she couldn't read it to him, no she couldn't tell him who it was from and yes, he would have to come to the embassy in person to get it. All he wanted to do was lie down again.
There was a brief pause that sounded like she had put her hand over the receiver. Then she said, "Can we expect you sometime this morning?"
Gene sighed into the phone and surrendered. "Yeah, okay. I'll be there in about an hour or so." That would give him time to get under a long hot shower or soak in a tub, depending on what was down the hall, get some coffee and feel human again. "Wait, where is the embassy?"
"I suggest you take a taxi," the woman said, almost as if she'd been waiting for the question. "The embassy is in Grosvenor Square."
"Right. Taxi, Grosvenor Square," he repeated before he realized the woman had already hung up. He looked at the phone for a moment and then put it down.
He sat for another minute, smoking, thinking, intrigued and began to wonder. Except for a few musicians and possibly his younger sister Kate, no one even knew he was in London, much less where he was staying. As far as he knew, Kate was winding up a college graduation jaunt around Europe with some friends. She and Gene had promised to get together if their paths crossed, but he hadn't known he'd be laying over in London till he'd checked in for his flight from New York.
He was expected in Prague--everything was cool with his visa--so it couldn't be that. What then? Some administrative mix-up? Fully awake now and grateful for the slight relief as the aspirins kicked in, he realized the call had shaken him. Unexpected calls like this were like telegrams in the middle of the night. They usually meant bad news and Gene didn't want any bad news. Not now with things rolling so well. He lay back on the bed and tried to come up with an answer.
The London stopover was a no-extra-charge bonus package thrown in by the airline. He'd almost declined, but in the end, he decided to take advantage of the two day break in London to look up an old friend, a fitting celebration of his good fortune at being in the right place at the right time. The cardinal rule of the free-lance musicians.
The travel arrangements were courtesy of Pragoconcert, his next employer and the booking agency for the Prague Jazz Festival. He was due to check in that evening for a five-day guest appearance with a band known only to him as the Prague Jazz Ensemble. But anxious as he was to get to Prague, the chance to see Graham Lewis again and play even one night at Ronnie Scott's had been too tempting.
He hadn't seen Graham for nearly three years. They had met in New York when Graham was attending master classes in the mornings and haunting jazz clubs at night with Gene. London was all right, he decided. Compared to the frenzy of New York, it felt relaxed and perfectly matched his mood. His reunion with Graham was all he'd imagined and Ronnie Scott's club was definitely cool. When he'd been invited to play, the evening was complete.
There was talk of meeting some girls, but that had never materialized and then it was all a haze of going back to Graham's place for what must have been a lot of drinking and celebrating. But now this damn phone call. Short of ignoring it altogether--he couldn't do that, it might be Kate--there was only one way to settle it. He gave up finally, still puzzled and resentful of the intrusion and went off to explore the bathroom--down the hall.
***
The shower had turned out to be a trickle of lukewarm water, but it revived him enough to get dressed and go looking for coffee. The hotel, he remembered now, was near Paddington Station. He found it easily enough and got coffee at one of the many snack bars with stand up tables. He sipped his coffee, smoked, still nagged by the call.
In the station, the newsstands displayed the various London papers with the headlines about troop movements on the Czech border, but so what. It had nothing to do with him and the jazz festival. He simply didn't connect the two. He finished his coffee and found a taxi in front of the station.
"Where to Guv?" the driver asked.
"Ah, Grosvenor Square, American Embassy."
"Right you are, Yank. The driver slapped down the meter lever and Gene got in the spacious black taxi, wondering how far Prague was from the Czech border. For someone headed for Prague in a few hours, his knowledge of the country was virtually nonexistent. Jazz and politics simply didn't mix.
He was worried only about what kind of band he'd be playing with, would they dig him and what the drums they'd promised to provide would be like. All he'd brought were his own cymbals.
He leaned back against the seat and took in the sights as the driver negotiated the heavy West End traffic. Turning off Oxford street, the taxi finally pulled to a halt in from of a gray, stone monolith that took up one side of the square. Gene got out, paid the driver and jogged up the steps. At the top, he turned and looked back. The center of the square was a park, with stone benches and asphalt paths crisscrossing to the other side. At one end stood a statue of Franklin D. Roosevelt.
At the entrance, a Marine guard checked his passport and directed him to an information desk inside of the lobby. A young girl checked his passport again, wrote out a floor and room number on a slip of paper and directed him to the elevators.
On the third floor, he got out and found the office, knocked lightly before entering. Inside, he saw a man seated at a table reading from a file folder. He looked up at Gene with clear eyes and a quick smile. "Mr. Williams. Come in, please." The man stood and extended his hand. "I'm Alan Curtis."
Curtis was dressed well, his hair was cut fairly short and he wore stylish glasses. He sat down and motioned Gene to sit opposite him. Gene noticed then, another man standing near the window, watching him. "This is my colleague, Donald Grant," Curtis said. Grant only nodded.
"Am I in the right place?" Gene asked. "I got a call that there was a message for me. Gene's eyes flicked back to Curtis, took in the smooth even features, the glasses glinting in the harsh strip lighting. For some reason, car salesman drifted into his mind. A guy who might draw up papers on Jaguars or Mercedes in L.A. or Newport Beach.
He also saw what he thought was his own photo in the file in front of Curtis. He felt the first twinge of alarm then. The whole thing smacked of a suspect being called in for questioning, a witness asked to make a statement. Gene suddenly wished he'd simply ignored the call.
Curtis smiled. "Well, Mr. Williams, may I call you Gene?"
"Sure, whatever," Gene said, a little nervous now, glancing again over at Grant. "What about this message?"
Curtis briefly glanced at Grant. "Well, we wanted to make sure you'd come in. We needed to see you. You see we have a little problem and you're in a position, or will be very soon, to help us out." Curtis spoke with just the right amount of friendliness and solemn gravity to get Gene's attention.
"Oh, sorry," Curtis said. He reached inside his coat pocket and took out a small leather case, opened it and pushed it across the table.
It was a photo I.D. with Central Intelligence Agency across the top.
Gene glanced at it, tensed, sat up straighter and looked at Curtis. "Hey, what's this all about?"
Curtis put the case back in his coat. "I'm sure after I've explained, you'll understand why we got you down here under, well, rather false pretenses." Curtis smiled again in a disarming way. Nothing to fear from me he seemed to convey. He closed the file folder, but not before Gene confirmed the photo was indeed of himself.
"Bear with me for a minute, okay," Curtis said. "This is just routine. You see we monitor all U.S. citizens traveling to Eastern Europe."
Gene felt himself relax a little. So it was his visa and not bad news from home or anything about Kate. But why the file, his photo? The whole setup was weird. Surely the CIA didn't personally interview everyone going to an Eastern bloc country. Or did they? Gene had never been to Europe, let alone a Communist country, so what did he know.
"Is there some problem with my visa because I was--"
"No, nothing like that," Curtis said quickly. "In fact, your visa is better than a regular tourist visa, at least as far as we're concerned. Can we get you some coffee?"
"No, I'm fine," Gene said. He spotted a large clean ashtray at the end of the table. "Okay if I smoke?"
"Sure," Curtis said, sliding the ashtray toward him.
Gene lit up and listened impassively as Curtis went on.
"Let's see, the purpose of your visit is to appear at the Prague Jazz Festival, right?"
Gene didn't answer. If they knew where he was staying in London, they certainly knew why he was going to Prague and probably a lot more was in that file in front of Curtis. This was all just dressing, but Gene couldn't imagine where it was going.
"Okay," Curtis said, "I'm going to level with you, Gene. We've got a little problem and you're in a position to help us out. I don't know how much you know about us, Gene, but the Company doesn't always get good press these days."
Gene shifted in his seat. In fact, he knew a great deal about the CIA. His short stint with U.S. Army Communications often overlapped with the Embassy Center, and given the numbers employed there, some contact with agency personnel was unavoidable. Curtis knows all this, Gene thought.
"Much of our work," Curtis continued, "is pretty routine, dull even. Occasionally though, we call on one of our citizens. Someone like yourself who, for perfectly legitimate reasons, happens to be traveling to a country we have an interest in." Curtis paused and smiled again. "Your appearance at the jazz festival, for example, is what we call perfect cover to help us out with our little problem."
Gene looked away and locked eyes with Grant still watching everything from the window. He dragged deeply on his cigarette. Panic raced inside him. How to handle this? Shock? Outrage that he was being approached? Polite refusal? More than anything, Gene wanted to make the Prague festival. A major international jazz festival. He had a number of impressive credits, but that was not one and he wanted it badly. One phone call, he realized, and his visa could be revoked. That was all it would take to put him on a plane back to New York, the dream shattered if that's how Curtis wanted to play it.
"No offense, Mr. Curtis, but I'm just a musician. I don't see how I--"
Curtis pounced quickly. "I assure you, it won't interfere with your appearance at the festival in any way. I know it must be important to you and of course, there would be some form of compensation for your trouble. As I said, it's a small problem, no more than an errand really, but it would help us, help your country, if that doesn't sound too corny."
Gene briefly closed his eyes then stubbed out his cigarette. "I don't think so," he said cautiously. "I did my service already."
Curtis opened the file again. "Yes, Gene we know. Your record is excellent. Spec Four, communications, even a top secret clearance, which makes you an even more desirable candidate."
A desirable candidate? Gene could only stare hypnotically at the file. Curtis made it sound like an accusation. He guessed his entire life was in that file, but he was just as certain that there was nothing there remotely useful if Curtis wanted to get nasty. Damn! Why me, he thought as despair crept into his mind.
But Curtis didn't give up. He asked Gene questions about what he knew of the political situation in Czechoslovakia, Alexander Dubcek, the troop movements, even hinting at the possibility of a Soviet invasion. Gene couldn't answer any of them. With characteristic single mindedness, he had completely separated the two, but, of course, they were intertwined.
"There's the real possibility there might not even be a jazz festival," Curtis said. "Did you know that?"
It had never occurred to Gene.
"I don't know how your are on history, but we don't want what happened in Hungary in 1956 to happen now in Czechoslovakia. I'm sure you don't either, and with your help, we might be able to do something about it."
