A Woman Involved (23 page)

He turned at the next intersection. As he went round he looked back. He could not see well through the rain, but nobody was following them. He let out a trembly sigh of relief, and trod on the accelerator.

‘Do you mind telling me,’ Carrington muffled from the floor, ‘where we’re going?’

‘To dispose of your odious body!’

It was raining hard and getting dark when Morgan turned into Central Park. He drove through the park for half a mile, then he pulled up. There were no cars coming either way.

‘Okay, throw him out. Loosen the knot on his wrists but don’t undo it.’

Makepeace scrambled out. ‘Come on, sir.’

‘And don’t call him sir!’

Makepeace helped Carrington out. He was still blindfolded. He stood in the teeming rain. Makepeace loosened the knot on his wrists, then got back into the car.

‘Cheerio, Carrington,’ Morgan shouted. ‘And tell Her Majesty to leave Mrs Hapsburg alone!’

He drove off. He looked back in the mirror. He could just make out Carrington wrenching at his bonds.

The road swept through the rainy dusk of Central Park. Morgan’s mouth was dry. He said to Anna: ‘Well? It’s Option Time.’ He glanced at her. ‘Option One: Do you want a lawyer?’

She did not look at him. ‘No, Jack.’

‘Option Two: Do you want to talk to the British embassy people? Or get a lawyer who’ll talk turkey to them on your behalf? This town’s full of good ones.’

She closed her eyes, her nerves tight. She shook her head, then turned to him. ‘And I don’t want you involved in Option Three, either. I’ve got Makepeace and Spider.’

He sighed. He swung out of Central Park. ‘Makepeace, we’re going to drop you soon. Get a taxi to the airport. Anybody who tries to stop you, you smite down. Spider comes with us to Washington, to ride shotgun. You get over to Amsterdam and organize your people to look after us. Then get straight over to Switzerland.’

Makepeace complained: ‘I’ll need some money up front. Quite a lot,’ he added.

Morgan held out his hand to Anna. ‘Give me some diamonds.’

She burrowed into the cloth bag. She pulled out five.

‘Three’s enough.’ He held them over his shoulder to Makepeace. ‘That’s worth a lot of money, Douglas. Amsterdam’s the world’s diamond centre. Sell them to a reputable dealer. I want an official receipt and a full accounting.’

‘Okay …  But
where
in Switzerland am I going?’

‘Anna?’ Morgan said.

She put her hand on his knee. ‘I don’t want you involved.’

‘Where in Switzerland, Anna? Makepeace needs to know, now.’

She took an uptight breath. ‘Zurich.’

‘Zurich?’ Makepeace said attentively. ‘But
where
in Zurich?’

‘Anna, the man needs to know.’

Anna shot him an anguished look. ‘Need I tell them now?’

‘Yes.’

She said carefully: ‘The bank is in Bahnhofstrasse.’

Morgan said, ‘In Bahnhofstrasse, Dougie – Got that?’

‘Bahnhofstrasse,’ Makepeace repeated worriedly. ‘But which bank, there may be half a dozen there.’

Morgan said: ‘No need to know more yet, Dougie. Check out all the banks in Bahnhofstrasse, and work out all the possible escape routes from there to the airfield.’

Anna put her hand on his knee again. ‘Thank you.’

Morgan said to her, ‘So, you go off to jolly Zurich while I lie back in the sun somewhere and wait happily for you to call?’

‘I don’t want you involved in any further
risk
.’

‘I
am
involved. Up to my neck.’

She said: ‘And emotionally. My emotion will still be there when I come back.’

‘If you come back.’

He slumped back in his seat. And for a moment he was almost happy. He had shaken them all off. The whole fucking lot of them, the British and the KGB. The only trick left right now was to drive this car to Washington DC and find a motel, and tomorrow get on that plane without being identified, and oh God, God, just to sit back in that aircraft and know that there was nothing more he could do about it for eight solid hours, nothing but drink beer and sleep, with Spider riding shotgun.

Vladimir Ustinov never carried out surveillance himself. As Cultural Attaché at the Soviet embassy in Paris it would have been ridiculous if he were recognized hanging around street corners; as a colonel in the KGB, in charge of operations in France, surveillance work was beneath him. But when the Soviet embassy in Washington advised that the Lovebirds had been identified at Dulles airport and were on the wing to Paris, he had gone out to Orly airport to take charge personally. He had posted cars along every route leading away from the airport, put his best people inside the air terminal itself. None of which, he reflected, is as easy to do without being noticed as Moscow would think – because the British were onto this one too, and maybe the French and they would be watching for Russians, after yesterday’s débâcle in New York. It wasn’t going to be an easy job to deal with the Lovebirds unobserved. And it was not made any easier by not knowing
why.

All he knew was they were presumed to be lovers, that they were probably in possession of a roll of microfilm: he had to overwhelm them and find it; after the identity of the film had been verified by experts, the Lovebirds were to be disposed of. Very well. But, if the microfilm was not found? Then Vladimir’s orders got more difficult. In that event the Lovebirds were to be let go – and then followed again. To the ends of the earth, until they
did
come into possession of the said microfilm.

This was doing things the hard way. If the film was not found on them the first time it would be much easier to extract the information as to its whereabouts by the usual means. But, no. Well, you didn’t have to reach the rank of colonel before you were smart enough to figure out why not. Obviously the microfilm was with somebody who would only give it to them personally, and who would want to see them alive and well before doing so.

Like a trustee of some kind. Like a bank? Or a lawyer?

Vladimir did not have a photograph of the male Lovebird.
Not even a name for him. Only a description. Presumed to be an American. Height, about six foot. Build, average. Age, from thirty-five to forty-five – he had greying black hair, but that could be dye. Last seen at Dulles airport wearing a navy-blue blazer. And in a wheelchair.

The female Lovebird was better documented. He knew her real name. And he had a photograph of her.

What a beautiful woman. She reminded Vladimir of Sophia Loren, but with blue eyes.

It would be a shame to kill her.

Sergei Suslov also had the photograph of Anna, but he did not think it would be a shame.

Sergei was one of the most promising operatives the KGB had in France, and, unlike most operatives of his intelligence, he enjoyed executing his own ‘wet affairs’. Many operatives will ask for a specialist to do that job. But it gave Sergei a sense of professional and physical fulfilment. And now he was excited at the prospect of being allowed to murder one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. The photograph had been taken in Grenada and she was wearing a slinky evening dress. He looked at it again. Her tawny American good looks, those golden bare shoulders, the line of her breasts and her legs. Sergei could feel already the extraordinary sexual pleasure of her writhing and kicking, the terror of her beautiful eyes, her sensuous mouth contorting into her strangled death-scream – and then the long final joy as her struggles grew weaker and weaker, succumbing to his power. The thought of it gave Sergei an erection.

Whereas all the other KGB operatives at Orly airport that night were stationed in the public part of the building, Sergei Suslov and a female operative called Natasha were stationed within the prohibited area. They were to follow the Lovebirds from the moment of their arrival, through immigration and customs control, into the waiting arms of the KGB beyond. Sergei and Natasha had got into the prohibited area by buying airline tickets, presenting passports, and entering the departure lounge. Upon the announced arrival of the flight from Washington, they had proceeded towards the departure gates, then
diverted to the arrival bays. Now they waited, separately, near the arrivals concourse, like passengers waiting for travelling companions to catch up.

About 200 people off the Air France flight had thronged past Sergei before he spotted the wheelchair.

He watched them coming up the passage. The good-looking woman pushing the wheelchair had black hair, but the man in the chair was wearing a navy-blue blazer. Sergei waited until they were level, then he saw her big, almond-shaped, blue eyes, and he was quite sure. He joined the throng of passengers behind them. He lifted his sleeve to his mouth and muttered into the transmitter to Vladimir:

‘Both Lovebirds have landed, together.’

He had hardly slept, and he hated being in the wheelchair.

He felt vulnerable, like a paraplegic, when every nerve was tight to leap up and fight and run.
And he felt naked without a gun.
It was a considerable comfort knowing Spider was behind them, but Spider didn’t have a gun either – they had had to dump both weapons before going through the security check at Dulles airport. And he bitterly regretted this idea of changing aircraft in Paris to confuse the enemy. Okay, in principle it was a sound idea, but they were tired from days of running and he was by no means sure, having had eight sleepless hours to think about it, that he had fooled anybody with this cumbersome route and disguise. If both the Comrades and Her Majesty were so on-the-ball that they were waiting outside the bank in New York, they were also smart enough to keep nearby airports like Washington’s covered, and they weren’t likely to be fooled by wheelchairs, and you didn’t have to be George Smiley to figure out that maybe Paris was only a decoy point: if he were Georgi Smilovitch he would have Orly airport transit lounge well covered by the simple expedient of buying airline tickets. They would have been better off flying straight from Washington to Amsterdam where they had all Makepeace’s boys – right now they had only Spider. And right now he wanted to get rid of this goddam wheelchair.

Ahead, was the sign, ‘Transit Passengers’. Anna worked her way out of the throng towards it.

Twenty paces behind, Sergei whispered into his transmitter:

‘They’re not going through immigration. They’re going to get another flight …’

Anna Wheeled him down the long corridor. Spider was five paces behind her. Twenty paces behind him came Sergei Suslov and Natasha.

Ahead was a women’s toilet. Then a men’s. Then, beyond, the toilet for paraplegics.

Anna wheeled him to it, pushed the door open, wheeled him inside. She was about to shoot the lock when the door opened again, and Spider came in. Morgan was scrambling out of the wheelchair. ‘
You shouldn’t have followed us in here!
’

‘I thought I must follow you everywhere.’

‘Go out again! Looking confused! Go back to the men’s toilet. Stay five minutes, then meet us in the transit lounge.’

Sergei passed Spider in the corridor. He glanced back. Spider walked back towards the men’s toilet. Sergei turned and followed him. Natasha hurried back into the women’s toilet. It was empty. She held the door ajar a crack, so she could see down the corridor.

Spider was splashing his face, when Sergei walked in. Sergei glanced around, to ensure the toilet was empty. He passed behind Spider, and he hit him.

Anna was feverishly adjusting her auburn wig. Morgan folded the wheelchair and shoved it inside the lavatory booth: ‘Come on.’

He opened the door a crack. There was nobody. They walked out briskly, down the corridor. When they reached the corner of the transit lounge, Morgan glanced back for Spider. He saw only a woman, twenty paces behind them.

There were several dozen people in the lounge. Morgan went to the information desk. Natasha walked up to the desk also. Morgan said: ‘I have to pick up two tickets for Mr and Mrs Armstrong, to Amsterdam, and pay for them.’

Up the corridor, Sergei emerged from the men’s toilet. He hurried to the paraplegic toilet. He went in and locked the door.

There were not many places where somebody could hide a roll of microfilm. He looked under the wash basin. Behind the
lavatory. He felt along all ledges. He examined the wheelchair, turned it upside down. Then, satisfied, he left.

As he walked into the lounge, Natasha was saying in French: ‘But my travel agent assured me on the telephone he had made the reservations.’

‘Well, no harm done there are seats available. Will this be cash or credit card?’

Morgan watched the corner for Spider. There were at least half a dozen solitary males in the room who could be agents. ‘Where’s Spider?’ Anna muttered.

Morgan glanced at his watch angrily. Almost fifteen minutes had passed. They were due to board soon. ‘I’ll go and see. Don’t move.’

He walked out of the lounge. He hurried down the corridor to the men’s toilet. He opened the door.

‘Spider?’

There were two lavatory booths. The door of one was closed. He opened it.

Spider was sitting on the lavatory, slumped sideways against the wall, his head hanging.

Morgan stared, his heart knocking. He lifted Spider’s head. His eyes were closed. There was a large contusion behind his ear. Morgan grabbed his pulse. Then put his hand on Spider’s heart.

He whispered, ‘
Oh God …
’

He strode feverishly out of the toilet. Down the corridor.

He walked into the transit lounge, towards Anna, trying to smile. She stood up. ‘They’ve called our flight,’ she muttered: ‘Where’s Spider?’

He said shakily: ‘He’s coming. He’ll go straight to the plane.’

There were about thirty people joining the flight. Morgan kept in the middle of them. He held Anna’s arm. He shepherded her aboard.

The aircraft was three-quarters full. Anna sat down, and strapped herself in. She whispered: ‘Where’s Spider?’

Morgan sat down beside her.

‘He’s dead.’

She stared at him. Aghast.

‘Oh God …  Poor little Spider.’ She felt sick. ‘So they’re here …  Aboard this aircraft …’