1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal (13 page)

Girland looked searchingly at her.

“What is? What do you mean?” he asked, sensing that what she had just said was important. “What is beautiful and black like a grape?”

“Did I say that?” She opened her eyes. “I don’t know why I said it. Who did you say you were?”

“Your husband . . . Mark.”

“You can’t imagine how it feels to remember nothing. I didn’t know I was married. I don’t remember ever seeing you before.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. The doctor says your memory will come back in time. Just don’t worry. You are home now and I am here to look after you.”

“You are very kind.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I feel so tired. I - I thought at one time I was in hospital.”

“So you were, but I have brought you home.”

“It’s a nice room.” Her eyes opened and she looked fixedly at him. “Mark? Is that your name?”

“That’s right. You try to sleep. Tomorrow, you’ll feel better. I’ll be right here, Erica. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Erica? Is that my name?”

“Of course, darling.”

“I didn’t know.” Again the dark blue eyes regarded him. “And you really are my husband?”

“Yes.”

She seemed to relax and she closed her eyes.

“Oh, it’s good to be home.”

When he was sure she was sleeping, he gently disengaged his hand from hers and stood up.

Ginny and he moved away from the bed.

“What was all that about a black grape?” Girland asked. “What did she mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to stay with her.” Ginny was now the efficient nurse. “She’ll probably sleep all night.” She looked at him unhappily. “You were very convincing. If I hadn’t known, I would really have thought you were her husband.”

Girland made a movement of irritation. He didn’t feel very proud of himself. “You don’t imagine I like this, do you? This is a job. I get paid for it.”

He left the room and went down to the terrace.

* * *

Kovski came into the small office where Malik was sitting behind a desk, digging holes in the desk blotter with a paper knife.

Kovski was the head of the Paris division of Soviet Security.

He was a short fat man with a chin beard, an enormous bald dome of a head, ferrety eyes and a thick nose. He was shabbily dressed, and there were food stains on his coat lapels. He was one of the most dangerous and cunning members of the Secret Police and Malik’s boss.

Malik looked up and regarded him with his green snake’s eyes.

He didn’t bother to move. Malik was very sure of himself. Kovski could be replaced tomorrow, but Malik knew his own position was unassailable unless he made a mistake, and Malik never made mistakes.

“What is happening?” Kovski demanded, coming to rest before the desk.

“I am waiting,” Malik said and began digging the paper knife into the blotter again.

“We can no longer wait,” Kovski snapped and threw a cable onto the blotter.

Malik read the cable, then pushed it back across the desk. He got to his feet, towering over Kovski.

“Why didn’t they say so before?”

“Information has just been received that Kung has invented a new weapon,” Kovski said. “It is now vital that we should know about it. It is possible this woman knows something. We need the information immediately. Where is this woman?”

“We have one small lead that could mean something.” Malik went on to tell Kovski about Kerman. “We are checking. We have four men in Nice, but this could take time. Why wasn’t I told this was immediately?”

Kovski drew in a sharp breath. When dealing with Malik, he found no one but Malik could ever be in the right.

“You know now! This woman must be found! After all, you lost her.”

Malik regarded him.

“I didn’t lose her. Your mistress, Merna Dorinska, lost her.”

Kovski flinched and blood rushed into his face.

“Don’t call that woman my mistress!”

“I am sorry. I mean your whore,” Malik said.

The two men stared at each other. Kovski’s eyes were the first to shift.

“What are we going to do?” he asked in a milder tone.

Malik returned to his chair and sat down.

“Dorey has a secretary. Her name is Marcia Davis,” he said, picking up the paper knife. “She will know where this woman is. I would have done this before had I known it was so urgent. You can leave it to me.”

“Done what?” Kovski asked, staring uneasily at Malik.

“It would be better if you left this to me,” Malik said. “I am in charge of the operation. I suggest the less you know about it until I have definite information, the better for both of us.”

Kovski hesitated. “What are you going to do with this woman, Marcia Davis?”

“Do you want to know?” The glittering green eyes made Kovski very uneasy.

“I hope you know what you are doing, Malik.”

“Oh, yes, I know what I am doing. We are wasting time. You either allow me to handle this my way or I must withdraw.”

Kovski shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“We must not fail.”

“Who said anything about failing?”

Kovski nodded, then turning, he went out of the office.

Malik reached for the telephone.

“Send Smernoff to me at once,” he told the inquiring voice.

He replaced the receiver and picked up the paper knife. Slowly and viciously, he again began to dig holes in the blotter.

* * *

Slightly out of breath, and sweating, Sadu paused.

“Wait!” he said curtly to Jo-Jo who was moving down the steep path, gun in hand, his eyes probing the star lit darkness.

Jo-Jo paused and looked over his shoulder.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“You are moving too fast,” Sadu said, his voice low. “This is dangerous. We could start a landslide.”

The path that Ruby had told Pearl about did exist. It was overgrown with clumps of dried grass, weeds and roots of trees. No one appeared to have used it for years. They were halfway down and from where he stood, Sadu could already see, outlined against the mountain, the roof of the villa.

The two men began a more cautious descent.

Sadu was careful to let Jo-Jo go on well ahead. He had no wish to encounter a police dog. Jo-Jo was paid for this kind of work: he wasn’t.

They covered a few more metres of rough ground, then Jo-Jo came to a stop. After making sure there was no immediate danger, Sadu joined him.

The two men could now look down on the terrace of the villa, some thirty metres below them. They could see Girland lying on the chaise lounge, sharply outlined under the lights of the terrace against the white paving stones.

Jo-Jo surveyed the scene with an expert eye.

“If she comes out on the terrace, she will be a sitting duck,” he said. “I will have to have a rifle with a telescopic sight. I’ll have only one shot to do the job with. If I am to get away, I’ll also want a silencer. A .22 rifle will do. With a telescopic sight, a head shot will do the trick.”

Sadu grimaced.

“I’ll arrange it,” he said. “There is plenty of cover here. As soon as I get the rifle, you will come here and wait.”

Jo-Jo picked at a sore on the back of his hand.

“Just so long as she comes out on the terrace,” he said.

* * *

Flanked on either side by Harry Whitelaw and the owner of the restaurant, Claude Terrail, Marcia Davis walked out of the elegant room with its superb view of Notre Dame.

Dining at
La Tour d’Argent
was always an experience, she thought. The meal had been more than excellent.
The filet de sole
cardinal
and the
Soufflé
Valtesse
had been beyond reproach.

Harry Whitelaw of the
New York Post
had been amusing, and his attentions, as always, flattering. She had known Whitelaw off and on for a number of years. He was a tall, humorous man with no complications. Marcia was always able to relax in his company.

She had never had any trouble with him. He came to Paris three times a year, and each time he took her to
La Tour d’Argent
which he claimed to be the best restaurant in Paris.

Claude Terrail, tall and aristocratic-looking, shook hands at the tiny elevator, then Marcia and Whitelaw descended to the street level.

“That was a perfect meal, Harry,” Marcia said as she collected her mink stole from the woman attendant. “Thanks a million. When will you be in Paris again?”

Whitelaw pushed three francs into the woman’s hand. He was never quite sure, even after innumerable visits to the French capital, just how much he should tip.

“I’ll be over for Christmas.” He regarded her as the doorman went in search of a taxi. “How’s Dorey?”

“He’s fine.”

“You know, we have wondered about him. We thought he was through.”

Marcia laughed.

“Who didn’t? No one should ever underestimate Dorey.”

Whitelaw said as casually as he could, “Anything exciting happening?”

“Oh, Harry!” Marcia gave him an old-fashioned look. “Just when I was thinking this lovely dinner had no strings.”

Whitelaw grinned.

“No harm in trying. Okay, forget it.” He moved a step away from her and regarded her affectionately. “You know, Marcia, you are a very attractive woman. Tell me something: just why haven’t you married?”

Marcia stroked the fur of her stole. Her smile was a little rueful.

“Here’s your taxi, Harry. Thanks, and I’ll be waiting for a call from you . . . Christmas.”

“You’ll get it. You know something? I’ve begun to ask myself why the hell I haven’t married.”

When he had driven away in the taxi, Marcia walked to where she had parked her Mini-Cooper on the Ponte de la Tournelle.

She unlocked the car door and slid into the driving seat. For a moment or so, she stared through the dusty windshield. Did Harry mean anything by that last remark? she wondered. She was now thirty-five. She was getting bored being Dorey’s slave. Although she loved Paris, how much nicer it would be to have her own home in New York.

Don’t jump to conclusions, girl, she said, shrugging, then thumbing the starter, she drove rapidly to her three-roomed apartment on the Rue de la Tour.

Humming under her breath, she parked her little car, walked briskly through the dark courtyard, pressed the door release, then entered the lobby. She rode up in the elevator to the third floor.

Leaving the elevator, she took from her bag her front door key and inserted it into the lock. She had some trouble opening the door, and this puzzled her. Up to this moment, the lock had worked efficiently. But by pulling the door towards her and putting pressure on the key, she managed to get the door open.

This was something she must look at tomorrow morning, she thought, but right now, she wanted her bed. There was nothing nicer than to have a first-class meal and good company, then come back, throw off your clothes and get into bed with a good book. She would read for twenty minutes, then turn out the light.

She snapped on the lights and walked into her living room.

Then she stopped short, her blood turning cold, her mouth opening to scream.

The chill of cold steel touched her throat as Smernoff snarled, “One sound out of you, you bitch, and I will cut your throat.”

Malik lounged in her favourite armchair. A Russian cigarette burned between his thick fingers and his silver-coloured hair made a sharp contrast against the wine-coloured chair back.

“Don’t be foolish,” he said in his bad French. “All right, Boris, let her alone.”

Marcia recognised Malik. She had seen his photograph often enough in the various files she handled daily. She knew him to be the most dangerous of the Russian agents. Her heart quailed as Smernoff gave her a hard shove towards Malik.

“Sit down, Miss Davis,” Malik said politely. “We have no time to waste. I must know where Erica Olsen is. Please tell me.”

It said much for Marcia’s courage and self-control that by the time she had sat down and was facing Malik, she had recovered from the shock of finding these two men in her apartment, and she had also recovered her composure. She knew she was in deadly danger. She knew these two men would get the information they wanted from her unless she outwitted them. Her mind worked swiftly. She remembered Girland had already told Malik that Erica Olsen was to go to the American Embassy. This, she decided, must be her story. It would be hard to disprove, and she must be careful to convey to these two that she was giving the information reluctantly.

“You are Malik, aren’t you?” she said, looking steadily at the silver-haired giant.

“Never mind who I am. Where is Erica Olsen?”

“Where you can’t possibly get at her.”

“Miss Davis, I dislike being disagreeable to women,” Malik said, flicking ash on the carpet. “My companion has no such compunctions. You are wasting my time which is valuable. I am going to ask you again, and then if I don’t get a satisfactory answer, I will allow my companion to take over the interrogation. Where is Erica Olsen?”

Marcia appeared to hesitate. She shrank back in the chair. Her hands moved to her throat and her eyes became wide.

“I told you . . . where you can’t possibly get at her. She’s in the Embassy.”

“I was expecting you to say that,” Malik said. “My information is that she is on the Cote d’Azur. Where is Erica Olsen, please?”

Marcia stared into the expressionless eyes and she knew she had lost her gamble.

“Go to hell!” she said quietly, then starting up, she groped for the glass ashtray on a nearby occasional table with the intention of throwing it through the closed window.

She felt a blinding pain on the side of her neck, then she felt herself falling.

Smernoff who had chopped her with the side of his hand, caught hold of her and pulled her back into the chair.

Malik stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

“Go ahead,” he said, and began to look around the room. He thought how comfortable it was and how he would like to own it.

Everything was in good taste. There were several good etchings on the walls. One by Springer, a movement of birds, particularly pleased him. These Americans certainly knew how to live well.