Checkpoint Charlie

  Checkpoint Charlie

  Brian Garfield

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media ebook

  For Alyce Martha

  With love

  Contents

  Charlie’s Story: An Introduction by the Author

  Charlie’s Game

  Charlie’s Shell Game

  Checkpoint Charlie

  Trust Charlie

  Charlie’s Vigorish

  Challenge for Charlie

  Charlie in Moscow

  Charlie in the Tundra

  Charlie’s Dodge

  Passport for Charlie

  Charlie’s Chase

  Charlie’s Last Caper

  Charlie’s

  Story

  An Introduction by the Author

  CHARLIE, who waddles and struts and gloats his way through the stories in this collection, is a character who delights me because of his contradictions. Charlie inhabits a violent world — the CIA — yet he is nonviolent; indeed, he’s inept with weapons and scorns them. (“Any fool can shoot people.”) He is old and fat, in a genre that conventionally calls for sleek young heroes. He is thunderingly conceited, an amiable know-it-all, in a world that normally allows no room for arrogant prima donnas. He is clever and ratiocinative in a world best known for its blundering screw-ups. He is an iconoclast in an organization that demands conformity. He insists upon working alone, even though the “company” that employs him is one that prizes team spirit and effort. He is intuitive and resourceful in the midst of an organization peopled by dogged data-gathering computer types. He is rumpled in the world of the neat; he is humorous in the world of the witless; he has nerve but not nerves; and his relationship with his boss, whom he refuses to call his “superior,” is characterized by mutual hatred and contemptuous loathing, even though the two characters exist in symbiosis: neither can survive without the other.

  He is also rather desperate. He really enjoys only two things: eating, and practicing his trade — the trade of international trouble-shooter and extinguisher of brush-fires; a trade at which he is — and knows he is — the best in the world. Charlie’s greatest fear is that he will be fired: forced into ignominious retirement. In order to avoid that inevitable fate, Charlie goes to ever-increasing lengths to prove his inimitable excellence and therefore his indispensability. As he grows ever older and fatter, Charlie must continuously extend the outrageousness of his stunning feats of accomplishment. He is a man under constant desperate challenge; beneath the corpulent surface of self-confidence I believe there is a man very near utter panic.

  * * *

  IN THESE STORIES I have made very little effort to conform to the realities of life in the CIA. The Company is a purely fictional setting here; it is no more real than the police force of Inspector Lestrade or the army of the Sad Sack. It simply provides the furniture and props against which Charlie acts out his performances.

  But the physical surroundings of most of the stories are quite real. Writing this series of stories has allowed me to make use of places I have visited in my disorganized ramblings about the world. One rarely, for example, has reason to use the island of Attu (at the western tip of the Aleutian Island chain in the Bering Sea) as a setting for fiction but I was there once and, as Charlie’s experience in “Charlie in the Tundra” suggests, once is enough. Some of the locales are more commonplace, of course, especially the book’s eponymous one in Berlin —it has become a cliché setting for spy stories — but I felt obliged to set a story there simply because of the nice pun on the hero’s name.

  Several of the stories were written while I was visiting the locales depicted in them; I wrote them on the spot, in longhand. (For some reason I prefer to write short stories in longhand, novels on the typewriter.) Others were written in retrospect. The first real Charlie story was the one set in Caracas, Venezuela; it was written four or five years after our visit to that city. And in a few stories Charlie finds his way to places I have not yet visited at all (Australia, for instance), but this probably happens because those places are on my agenda for the future.

  * * *

  IN KEEPING WITH HIS BULK, Charlie — like the elephant — was conceived quite a long time before he was born. His father, so to speak, was Miles Kendig, the hero of my novel Hopscotch (1975). Kendig has some of Charlie’s characteristics: expertise, intuitive intelligence, iconoclasm, conceit, so forth. But Kendig has already been retired from the CIA before we meet him in Hopscotch; the game he plays is against the Agency, rather than within it; and of course Kendig is neither fat nor physically inept. Walter Matthau, who portrays Kendig in the film version of Hopscotch, ideally fits my own picture of the character; and I can hardly visualize Walter Matthau as Charlie Dark. Still, in many respects Charlie is a chip off the Kendig block, and indeed some of the subsidiary characters who surround Charlie have been adopted intact from Hopscotch: Myerson, Cutter and Ross all played important roles in the original novel, as did Mikhail Yaskov, the Russian superspy.

  The bridge between Hopscotch and the Charlie stories was a short story of 1976 called “Joe Cutter’s Game” in which I brought back Cutter, Ross and Myerson to solve a sticky problem in Dar-es-Salaam. Kendig had dropped out of the picture by then, mainly because I had said everything I wanted to say about him in the original novel, and also because at the end of Hopscotch Kendig and the Agency had parted company permanently; there seemed no point trying to drag him back from wherever he may have disappeared to. In any case “Joe Cutter’s Game” was, in format and characters, the prototype for the Charlie stories; therefore, in order to make this collection complete, I have rewritten that story — replacing Cutter with Charlie — and it has become “Charlie’s Game,” the opening story of this collection. But in the interests of purism I must admit that the first actual Charlie Dark story was the one that appears in second position in this book: “Charlie’s Shell Game.”

  For vague reasons having to do with film copyrights and the like, the names of the subsidiary characters were changed in some of the stories when they appeared originally in magazines (EQMM and AHMM): Myerson, who is Charlie’s irascible boss, became “Rice” in some of the magazine stories, and Leonard Ross became “Leonard Myers” in a curious reversal. In this present collection I have changed all the names back to the originals because those are the names by which I know the characters.

  The stories appear in this book in the order in which they were written. All but the last story appeared originally in magazines. The last story —“Charlie’s Last Caper”— is a new story written expressly for the book; it puts a sort of cap on the collection. That story will not appear in magazines, because in a way it does conclude Charlie’s story and I’m not quite sure I’m ready to end the series so abruptly. I think of a collection in book form as a sort of alternative universe; what happens here in the book need not necessarily have happened in the magazines; therefore I feel free to write Charlie’s further adventures in the future. I do believe he will return sometime, although at the moment I have no specific plans for further stories about him. Perhaps he and I need to get a bit older together and see how the world looks then.

  * * *

  THIS IS A BOOK of fiction about one character but it is not a novel; it is not at all the sort of thing it might have been if I’d chosen to write a novel in twelve or fourteen chapters about Charlie Dark. One brings different muscles to the two tasks. Each of these stories was written independently of the others and each is essentially a self-contained exercise — a puzzle or game, rather than the sort of inquiry into human affairs that one is more likely to find in a novel.

  Charlie is a con man. He indulges in capers in which he can outwit his opponents by guile and wit. These storie
s are conceits — they hinge on their plots and maguffins — and they were written for fun and I make no apology for their lack of profundity.

  Normally I have no patience with continuing series of yarns about the same characters. Many writers are happy to devote their lives to the production of lengthy series of novels and stories all of which put the same characters into repetitively similar situations: the detective genre is particularly crowded with such series. As a reader I enjoy some of them but as a writer I sometimes suspect that the authors of those series are taking the easy way out: they’ve opted for security and some of them appear to intend to keep doing it until they get it right. For myself, on the few occasions when I’ve written sequels I’ve found that it was sheer tedium to try to write an entire new novel about a character about whom I’d already said whatever important things I’d wanted to say; such sequels, for me, have invariably proven lackluster.

  I would not perpetuate Charlie if my only interest in the stories were Charlie’s character; and I could not do it if Charlie were a character in a novel. What keeps the stories alive in my imagination is the challenge of coming up with new worlds for Charlie to conquer. Charlie is a game-player. Each of these stories deals him a new hand of cards to play — as if he were a poker player. A poker game lasts but a few hours, of course; and a short story can be written in a few hours. One would not care to play poker without interruption for six months at a time; similarly, one would not care to spend six months writing a novel about a game one has played before. After a while the hands must all begin to look the same; the game only remains exciting when it is played at infrequent intervals, and briefly.

  * * *

  IN A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT FORM, “Charlie’s Game” — the opening yarn of this book — was the first story I ever wrote for a magazine. I’d written dozens of short stories in my teens but the magazine publishers of the time did not realize what they were missing by turning me down; all I ever had to show for any of those stories was rejection slips. My first publication was a novel, in 1960, and thereafter I made my living as a writer of books (and, later, films) without ever selling a short story to a magazine until, in 1976, Eleanor Sullivan — managing editor of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and editor of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine — insisted that I try my hand at the short form. Had it not been for Eleanor’s amiable badgering, and that of Fred (“Ellery Queen”) Dannay, it never would have occurred to me to begin writing these stories. In a way, therefore, Fred and Eleanor are Charlie’s godparents.

  I hope the book justifies their faith in Charlie.

  * * *

  Charlie’s

  Game

  WHEN I TURNED THE CORNER I saw Leonard Ross going into Myerson’s office ahead of me. By the time I reached the door I heard Ross say, “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Late. As usual. Shut the door.”

  Late. As usual. As far as I could remember — and I have phenomenal recall — there had been only one time when I had been late arriving in Myerson’s office and that had been the result of a bomb scare that had grounded everything for three hours at Tempelhof. His acidulous remark had been a cheap shot. But then that was Myerson.

  Ross was shutting the door in my face when I pushed in past him and kicked it closed. Ross said, “Hello, Mr. Dark.”

  Myerson only glanced up from the desk. Then he went on pretending to read something in a manila file folder. I said, “Welcome back, Charlie,” in an effort to prompt him but he ignored it and I decided to play his silly game so I dropped my raincoat across a chair and squeezed into one of the tubular steel armchairs and perused the photos on the wall, waiting him out.

  The room was stale with Myerson’s illegal Havana smoke; it was a room that obviously was unnerving to youngsters like Leonard Ross because among Myerson’s varied and indeterminate functions was that of hatchet man. Any audience with him might turn out to be one’s last: fall into disfavor with him and one could have a can tied to one’s tail at any time, Civil Service or no Civil Service; and as junior staff, Ross had no illusions about his right to tenure. I had none myself: I was there solely at Myerson’s sufferance, but that was something else — he could fire me any time he chose to but he was never going to choose to because he needed me too much and he knew it.

  His rudeness meant nothing; that was what passed for amiability with Myerson. I gave Ross a glance and switched it meaningfully toward a chair and finally Ross sat down, perching uneasily on the edge of it.

  The view from Myerson’s window isn’t terribly impressive. An enormous parking lot and, beyond it, a hedgerow of half-wilted trees. Here and there you can see the tops of the high-rises around Langley.

  Finally he closed the file and looked at me. “You’re late.”

  “Would you care for a note from my mother explaining my tardiness?”

  “Your sarcasms seldom amuse me.”

  “Then don’t provoke them.” pattern over Dulles.”

  “You are,” he said, “preposterously fat.”

  “And you are a master of the non sequitur.”

  “You disgust me, do you know that?” He turned to young Ross. “He disgusts me. Doesn’t he disgust you?”

  Ross made embarrassed gestures and I said, “Don’t put the kid on the spot. What’s on?”

  Myerson wasn’t in a particularly savage mood, obviously, because he gave up trying to goad me with no more prompting than that. He tapped the manila folder with a fingertip. “We’ve got a signal from Arbuckle.”

  “Where’s Arbuckle?”

  “East Africa. You really ought to try to keep up on the postings in your own department.”

  Ross explained to me, “Arbuckle’s in Dar-es-Salaam.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ross’s impatience burst its confines and he turned to Myerson: “What’s the flap, then?”

  Myerson made a face. “It distresses me, Ross, that you’re the only drone in this department who doesn’t realize that words like ‘flap’ became obsolete sometime before you were born.”

  I said, “If you’re through amusing yourself maybe you could answer the young man’s question.”

  Myerson squinted at me; after a moment he decided not to be affronted. “As you may know, affairs in Tanzania remain sensitive. Especially since the Uganda affair. The balance is precarious — a sort of three-sided teeter-totter: ourselves, the Soviets and the Chinese. It would require only a slight upheaval to tip the bal —”

  “Can’t you spare us the tiresome diplomatic summaries and get down to it?”

  Myerson coolly opened the file, selected a photograph and held it up on display. “Recognize the woman?”

  To Ross I suppose it was only a badly focused black-and-white of a thin woman with attractive and vaguely Oriental features, age indeterminate. But I knew her well enough. “Marie Lapautre.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ross leaned forward for a closer look. I imagine it may have been the first time he’d ever seen a likeness of the dragon lady, whose reputation in our world was something like that of John Wesley Hardin in the days of the gunslingers.

  “Arbuckle reports she’s been seen in the lobby of the Kilimanjaro in Dar. Buying a picture post card,” Myerson added drily.

  I said, “Maybe she’s on vacation. Spending some of the blood money on travel like any well-heeled tourist. She’s never worked that part of the world, you know.”

  “Which is precisely why someone might hire her if there were a sensitive job to be done there.”

  “That’s all we’ve got? Just the one sighting? No evidence of a caper in progress?”

  “If we wait for evidence it could arrive in a pine box. I’d prefer not to have that sort of confirmation.” He scowled toward Ross. “Fidel Castro, of course, has been trying to persuade Tanzania to join him in leading the Third World toward the Moscow sphere of influence, but up to now the Nyerere regime has maintained strict neutrality. We have every reason to wish that it continue to do so. We want the statu
s to remain quo. That’s both the official line and the under-the-counter reality.”

  Ross was perfectly aware of all that, I’m sure, but Myerson enjoys exposition. “The Chinese aren’t as charitable as we are toward neutralists,” Myerson went on, “particularly since the Russian meddlings in Angola and Ethiopia. The Chinese want to increase their influence in Africa — that’s confirmed in recent signals from the Far East. Add to this background the presence of Marie Lapautre in Dar-es-Salaam and I believe we must face the likelihood of an explosive event. Possibly you can forecast the nature of it as well as I can?”

  The last question was addressed to me, not Ross. I rose to meet it without much effort. “Assuming you’re right, I’d buy a scenario in which Lapautre’s been hired to assassinate one of the top Tanzanian officials. Not Nyerere — that would provoke chaos. But one of the others. Probably one who leans toward the Russian or Chinese line.”

  Ross said, “What?”

  I told him, “They’d want to make the assassination look like an American plot.”

  Myerson said, “It wouldn’t take any more than that to tilt the balance over toward the East.”

  “Deal and double deal,” Ross said under his breath in disgust.

  “It’s the way the game is played,” Myerson told him. “If you find it repugnant I’d suggest you look for another line of work.” He turned to me: “I’ve booked you two on the afternoon flight by way of Zurich. The assignment is to prevent Lapautre from embarrassing us.”

  “All right.” That was the sum of my response; I didn’t ask any questions. I pried myself out of the chair and reached for my coat.

  Ross said, “Wait a minute. Why not just warn the Tanzanians? Tell them what we suspect. Wouldn’t that get us off the hook if anything did happen?”

  “Hardly,” Myerson said. “It would make things worse. Don’t explain it to him, Charlie — let him reason it out for himself. It should be a useful exercise for him. On your way now — you’ve barely got time to make your plane.”