A Woman Involved (48 page)

The rifles gleamed in avenues, rack upon rack, like a supermarket.

‘There’s a complete firing range in the basement. Upstairs we keep our heavier stuff, bombs, explosives, and so forth. The really heavy gear we can only show in our catalogue – tanks, fighter planes, battleships. We usually only act as brokers for such big stuff of course, but I can get you anything, provided you can produce your end-user certificate.’

‘Where do you get your Kalashnikovs? They’re made in Russia, aren’t they?’

‘Sure. But they got the factories, they gotta sell. All above-board, I assure you. For example I’ve made an offer to the Iraqi government, for stuff they’ve captured off the Iranians recently. And most of us in this game have made offers to the
British government for stuff captured in the Falklands War, some excellent Westinghouse radar, and some top-notch German surface-to-air missiles.’

‘And you sell to anyone?’

‘Sure, if the French government approves the end-user certificate and issues an export licence. It’s the government’s decision. And the government may
not
approve … Like they didn’t approve of Idi Amin in Uganda. Machine Gun Sam told him the British government would turn him down so Idi sent his plane to fetch me to Uganda to discuss an army shopping list. I went, and I told him what he needed, but I said, “Idi, I’ll sure try but I don’t think the French government is likely to issue an export licence in your case.” And I was right. Most African countries are non-starters nowadays. Same with Fidel.’

‘You’ve met Fidel Castro?’

‘Sure. Nice guy. But same problem. So Fidel gets his gear direct from Russia. Nuts, isn’t it? He still gets his guns anyway, so why can’t we have the business?’

‘Nuts,’ Morgan agreed. ‘How is business generally?’

‘Booming,’ Hank said. ‘If you’ll pardon the pun. We have a saying in this business: I’m not sure what weapons will be used in World War Three, but I know what will be used in the Fourth World War – stones and clubs! Aha-ha-ha! Einstein said that.’ Morgan laughed too. ‘But you’ve got to be quick in this game. The moment a war starts, the hardware merchants are there, flogging everything from Band-Aids to A-bombs, to both sides.’ He slapped his hands together. ‘And on that note, what can I do for you, sir?’

‘Exocet missiles,’ Morgan said quietly. He raised his eyebrows: ‘Lunch at my hotel?’

He locked his bedroom door. He slipped his hand into his pocket and switched on the tape-recorder. He waved Hank Wilcox to the armchair. Hank said:

‘Exocets, huh? They’re tricky. Who’re you buying for?’

Morgan paced across the room. ‘I’m both buying and selling, Hank. I don’t want them for my private collection, do I? Call me the middle-man.’

Hank watched him. ‘What about your end-user certificate?’

‘That’s where you come in, Hank.’ He turned to him. ‘I’m
offering you a cut on the deal. A very respectable cut on the mark-up. On twenty missiles, that’s a lot of money. For jam.’

Hank slowly got up. He began to pace too.

‘What makes you think I do that kind of business, Mr Blackstone?’

Morgan said, ‘Our mutual friend, Roberto Calvi. God’s Banker.’

Hank’s eyes widened. ‘But Robbie’s dead.’

‘Very. The players change but the game goes on. But I worked with Roberto on the last transaction.’

Hank frowned at him. ‘And who’re you working with now?’

‘Bellatrix,’ Morgan said. ‘Still Bellatrix, Panama.’

‘But I thought it was defunct now!’

‘Oh, it exists, Hank, it exists.’

Hank thought. ‘And the destination is?’

Morgan took a break. ‘The same destination as last time.’

Hank stared at him.

‘Now wait a minute, sir. That deal is already done! Have you been muscling in on Sanchez?’

Morgan’s heart missed a beat. He turned, with a frown. ‘Sanchez?’

Hank stared; then a malicious smile crossed his face.

‘You’re fulla shit, Mr Blackstone! Whoever you are! I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t do your kind of business, I play it by the book! Good day! I’m going!’

He turned to the door. Morgan pulled out the Meteor Air waybill and thrust it at the man. ‘You did that bit of business!’

Hank stared at it. ‘My name’s not on that document! Goodbye!’

Morgan grabbed his collar, and slung him. Hank reeled across the room and sprawled on the bed. He lay there an instant, shocked. He whispered:

‘I’m calling the police …’

Morgan stood over him. ‘I don’t think so, Hank. They’ll be very interested to learn that you conspired to export exocet missiles illegally to Argentina during the Falklands War!’

‘I deny it! You can’t prove a thing!’ He started to scramble up and Morgan shoved his hand on his chest and the man collapsed again.

‘You’ll lose your licence, Hank! That nice warehouse of yours can be closed down by Mr Mitterrand!’

‘You’re fulla shit!’ Hank started to get up again and Morgan shoved him down again.

‘
Who’s Sanchez?
’

Hank blinked. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about!’

‘You said you’ve concluded a new deal for exocets with Sanchez! Who’s Sanchez?’

‘Go to hell! –’ He scrambled up.

Morgan swiped him across the face and the man collapsed again. Morgan bounded at him and grabbed his arm. He wrenched it up behind his back. Hank gasped, his face pressed to the bed. Morgan whispered:

‘All I want to know is who Sanchez is, Hank, and you’ll live happily ever after as a happy little Death Merchant.’

Hank’s face was contorted with pain. ‘I’ll scream …’ he warned.

Morgan jerked the arm once, then said, ‘Get up, Hank.’

Hank gasped and clambered up, his arm still twisted behind his back. He crouched, Morgan behind him. ‘One scream and your arm goes. Now, into the bathroom, please.’

Hank staggered round the bed, gasping. Morgan walked behind him, gripping his arm. He walked him into the bathroom. ‘Put the plug in the wash basin, Hank.’

‘What? –’

‘Do it!’ He jerked the arm.

Hank gasped in agony, and fumbled the plug into the basin.

‘Now turn on the tap.’ Morgan jerked the arm. Hank gasped and fumbled the tap open.

The water swirled in. It crept up to the top.

‘Turn it off.’

Hank turned it off, whimpering.

Morgan put his other hand tight on Hank’s neck.

‘Now this can be very unpleasant, Hank. I’m going to stick your head in the water, over and over, until you tell me.’ And he jerked Hank’s arm up and he thrust his head down, into the water.

Hank twisted and gurgled and writhed, and Morgan held him furiously. Hank tried to punch with his free arm, and Morgan held him, tooth-clenched. He held him under for thirty seconds, then he wrenched his head up. ‘Okay, Hank?’

Hank crouched over the basin, his face contorted, his head dripping, eyes screwed up. He gasped:

‘
Captain … Juan … Sanchez … de Bourbon.
’

Morgan rasped: ‘From Argentina?’

Hank gasped, ‘Yes …’

Jesus, Morgan thought. ‘Army or Navy, Hank?’

‘
Navy
…’ Hank gasped.

‘Where is he now?’

‘
I don’t … know …
’

Morgan shoved his head back in the water. Hank writhed and struggled. Morgan held him under for twenty seconds, then wrenched him up. ‘Where is he, Hank?’

Hank’s contorted face was terrified.

‘
Argentina … Naval Aviation … Sub-commission … in Paris … 
’

‘Attached to the Argentinian embassy?’

‘Yes …’ Hank spluttered.

Jesus! ‘So it’s official business, is it?’

‘
Yes … All official …
’

‘Except under-the-table? Black-market exocets?’

Hank gasped, ‘
All official …
’

‘Bullshit, Hank! The French government refused to give an official export licence for exocets for Argentina during the Falklands War, so why would they do so now? Who’re you getting the missiles from?’

‘
Aerospatiele … the legal manufacturers … 
’

Morgan jerked him. ‘Who have you bribed to give you a false end-user certificate?’

‘
Nobody … 
’

Morgan rasped, ‘I’il give you a minute to think about that, Hank,’ and he rammed his head back under the water. He held him there for thirty seconds, then wrenched him up.

‘That was only half a minute, Hank! Want more time to think?’

Hank spluttered: ‘
Please … The Sudan … Ministry of Defence … 
’

Morgan snorted. ‘Sudan, huh? The same guy who gave the false end-user certificate last time?’

‘
Yes … 
’

‘And the exocets were going to leave France by air, ostensibly
bound for the Sudan? But in Malta the plane has a little breakdown, so the cargo changes planes to Meteor Air, which heads for Panama? Then the pilot has a rush of blood to the head and turns for Argentina?’

Hank gasped, ‘
Yes
.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Morgan said. ‘And tell me, Hank: since that little deal fell through for want of quick funds, because God’s Banker had that nasty accident on Blackfriars Bridge, and now that the Falklands War is over, why does Captain Sanchez want more exocet missiles?’

‘
I truly wouldn’t know … Not my business … 
’

‘I’ll give you another minute to think about that, Hank! …’ Morgan rammed his head under again.

He counted to forty this time. He wrenched Hank up. ‘Well?’

He was buckling, his spluttering head hanging, his contorted face panic-stricken. He gasped:

‘
To invade … the Falklands … again …’

Morgan was amazed. Jesus Christ, again!

‘
When?
’ He wrenched the arm.

‘
As soon as … they get them … 
’

‘
And that will be?
’

Hank gasped: ‘
When the money … arrives …
’

‘
And who’s supplying the money? Argentina is still broker!
’

‘
I don’t … know
…’ Hank cried.

‘
Think about it, Hank!
’ Morgan shoved his head under again.

He counted to twenty, and yanked him up. ‘Well?’

Hank’s gasping head hung. ‘
Russia
…’ he gasped. ‘
Indirectly
…’

Through his fury Morgan was amazed. He had not thought of this one.

‘Why Russia, Hank?’

Hank’s head hung, his chest heaving. He was finished. He went into a shuddering cough. Then he gasped:

‘
To make … Margaret Thatcher … go back to war. And she’ll lose this time … And that’ll force … an election in Britain … And the Labour Party … will get in … And they’ll dismantle … the Pershing missile bases … 
’

Morgan stared at the wall, amazed at the simplicity of it. Jesus Christ!

He let go of Hank, and shoved him. Hank staggered across
the bathroom, and collapsed onto the lavatory seat. He flung his head back, his eyes screwed up, mouth open, rasping.

Morgan stopped at the door. He said shakily:

‘Surprising how soft you hardware merchants are, Hank. So you’d better have a little rest here, for three hours. If you try to leave earlier, one of my boys will stop you outside the door. And stick you back in the wash basin. You don’t want that, do you, Hank?’

‘No …’ Hank whispered, eyes closed.

‘And don’t mention this to anybody, Hank. Because I’ve got it all down on tape. And if you blow any whistles, Worldarms Limited will be looking for new premises, in the Congo. Just let the Sanchez deal die a natural death, Hank. If you’ll pardon the pun.’

Morgan turned out of the bathroom. He picked up his bag and walked out of the room.

He went down to the reception desk and asked about a good messenger service to Paris.

‘
Exprès Aujourd’hui
, Daylight Express, sir.’

Morgan went out to his car. He played the tape-recording of Hank Wilcox into his other tape-recorder, making a copy. Then he flagged a taxi and told it to take him to the premises of Daylight Express. Morgan handed over the copy of the tape. The clerk sealed it in a stout envelope and gave Morgan an invoice.

‘This will go to Paris today?’

‘Tonight, sir, with our regular express delivery. It will be hand-delivered first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Thank you.’ Morgan paid the fee. He went outside to the nearest public telephone. He telephoned the British embassy in Paris. He asked to speak to the Military Attaché. He said:

‘Make a note of this. The Argentinians are trying to buy exocet missiles from Aerospatiele, with a fake end-user certificate from the Sudan, in order to mount another invasion of the Falklands. I’m sending you today a tape-recording which proves it. Put a stop to it, will you? And warn Mrs Thatcher, please.’

‘
Who’s this speaking?
’ the man demanded.

‘Never mind.’ Morgan hung up.

He got a taxi back to his car. He drove out of Lyons onto the road for Italy.

He spent the night in a truck-drivers’ hostel outside Florence, but he hardly slept. The decision he had been avoiding in the last four weeks was now staring him in the face. It was 8.00 am when he parked outside the Holiday Inn, in the suburbs of Rome.

He had prayed for good golfing weather, and his prayer seemed to have been answered, and he felt sick in his guts. It would have been a tremendous relief if it had been pissing with rain, if his mission had been made impossible. It was a cold, fine day. His nerves were stretched tight.

He was wearing the wig and moustache. He checked into the hotel. He ordered coffee to be sent up to his room, and waited feverishly for Rome to get to work. At nine o’clock he telephoned the Tourist Bureau. He asked about a good motorist guide to the beauty spots in the environs of Rome. They recommended a publication. He went down to the hotel foyer, to the newsstand. They had the guide book. He bought it, plus a good road map.

He unfolded the map on his bed, and began to read the guide feverishly, referring to his map. He circled places which sounded appropriate. At ten o’clock he telephoned the golf club again.

Yes, the club was still expecting Cardinal Gunter to play in the tournament this afternoon. About four o’clock they expected him to come off the links. Yes, that would be a good time to call for the book. Goodbye.