Disorderly Elements (19 page)

Rawls nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, I'll be seeing you.”

He put the light out and left the room.

Rawls walked down the stairs and into the main entrance hall. It was still empty. He went over to the door and opened it. He stepped outside and doubled up in pain as a rifle-butt hit him in the stomach. He fell to the ground and saw a guard swing the rifle-butt upwards.

It all happened in a second and it saved Rawls' life. His left leg hooked around the guard's ankle while his right foot drove straight into the guard's kneecap and smashed it. As the guard fell backwards, Rawls dived onto him and shoved a flattened palm into his windpipe, shattering the larynx.

Whether the guard would die of internal bleeding or suffocation Rawls did not particularly care. He leapt over him and ran outside. People were shouting on all sides. There were whistles, and he thought he could make out the bark of a dog. He rushed towards the parked cars. As he got to the nearest one he groped in his pocket for the lock-pick. Just as the boot came open, Rawls' world exploded into a kaleidoscope of red, gold, brown and finally black.

A
BRIGHTLY LIT CELL came gradually into focus, and Rawls felt a herd of distressed elephants stampede across his cranium. From the corner of his eye he could see a bucket on the floor. He leaned over and threw up into it. This did not make him feel better, but at least it was something to do.

He sat up and blinked at the man opposite. “I did warn you,” Bulgakov said.

“You were very kind,” Rawls said weakly. “I'll remember you at Christmas.”

Bulgakov grinned and offered Rawls a cigarette. Rawls shook his head.

“So now you know,” Bulgakov said.

“Yeah.”

“Was it worth the trouble? Was it really worth it?”

Rawls shrugged.

“We had to know.”

“You could have spared yourself all this discomfort simply by believing what I said.”

“Listen, Bulgakov, I'm not self-employed. Even if I believed you, my boss wouldn't. I'd still have had to come here.”

“Perhaps.”

There was a short silence, and then Rawls said:

“What have you got lined up for me?”

“I could kill you,” Bulgakov said thoughtfully. “After all, you killed that guard.”

“You don't look too bothered about that.”

“I'm not. I regard your life as slightly more important than that of some German fool. Besides, killing you would be silly.”

“I'm glad you think so,” Rawls said.

“If you died, more people would follow you. Your people would think that you had discovered something important.”

“So?”

“So I shall send you home. You can tell your masters—and the British—about what you have seen. That, I hope, will be the end of the matter.”

Rawls nodded. There was very little to say.

N
AGEL SAT IN HIS OFFICE and ate a pizza which Miss Langer had sent up. As usual, just as much food went onto Nagel's clothes and carpet as went into his mouth. A large pile of reports sat on Nagel's desk, but Nagel was not disposed to go through it. Instead, he watched a video of the last World Series. It was so much more entertaining.

The intercom buzzed and Nagel answered it.

“Yeah?” he grunted elegantly.

“Mr Nagel? A couple of photographs have just arrived from Geneva, and we've got the Geneva people on the line. Will you take the call?”

“Yeah, all right. Send the photos up.”

There was a click on the intercom, and a distant voice came through.

“Hello, Mr Nagel?”

“Yeah, that's me.”

“This is Dwight Davidson in Geneva. We got the photos of Wyman at the Banque Descartes.”

“Well?”

“I thought I ought to explain. Apparently, Wyman was expecting them there.”

“Expecting them? What do you mean?”

“Our people were rigged up as workmen, and the camera was a phony theodolite. Wyman saw them, and just walked up and said hello.”

Nagel stared incredulously at the intercom.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“No sir, it's the truth. He just walked up, said he knew who they were and invited them to take a close-up shot.”

“It's impossible,” Nagel said. “How the fuck could—?”

“I don't know, sir. We were as amazed as you are, and you can guess how the guys felt about it.”

“You sure it's Wyman?”

“Positive, sir. Look at the photographs.”

“Hold on,” Nagel said. In a voice that could be heard across most of Virginia, he bawled:

“Miss Langer! Where are those fucking photographs?”

“Coming sir,” said a voice in the corridor.

The world-weary Miss Langer trotted into the office and put the photographs on Nagel's desk. Nagel gave a snort of thanks, and stared at the pictures.

“Jesus H. Christ!” he exclaimed.

Both prints clearly displayed Wyman's grinning cherubic features.

“You're right, Davidson,” Nagel said. “It is Wyman.”

“Good. I thought you'd want to know.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Nagel rang off and examined the prints. How Wyman could have known that the CIA were looking out for him was a mystery to Nagel. Matters were not helped by the look of impudent glee plastered across Wyman's face in the photographs.

“What the fuck is that bastard up to?” Nagel muttered.

He wrote a message on his notepad for Rawls: TO RAWLS 0236C. PLATO JUST WON THE SWEEPSTAKES. WYMAN IN GENEVA ON 30/5. NAGEL.

He then pushed the intercom button and spoke to Miss Langer.

“Listen,” he said, “I've got a message for Rawls. Send it to the Company offices at US embassies in Bonn, Paris, London, Berne, Rome, Berlin, Copenhagen and Madrid. I don't know where he is, but if he doesn't get the message it's his own fuckin' fault.”

He read the message out and switched off the intercom. It occurred to Nagel that if Plato had now been paid, Wyman might well know the identity of the infiltrator in MI6. Either that, or Plato was being paid in advance. If that was the case, it would not be long before the ferret would be rooted out.

Nagel fervently hoped that Rawls had accomplished his mission in Europe. If he had not, the consequences could involve a major public embarrassment for MI6 at a time when both the British and the Americans least required it.

He looked once more at the photographs of Wyman. The pictures indicated the genial nincompoop that everyone assumed Wyman to be. It began to dawn upon Nagel that Wyman had been playing on that assumption. But to what end?

I
T WAS 11.30
P.M.
The best that the Minister's Club could manage at this late hour was a snack of smoked salmon and a chilled bottle of Meursault 1959.

“Any word from Wyman?” asked the Minister.

“None yet,” Owen said.

“When do you expect to hear from him?”

“Soon. The minute he gets what he needs from Plato, he'll return to London. With a bit of luck we'll have the ferret behind bars without delay.”

“We'd better,” the Minister said. “I've had a great deal of trouble justifying the expense to the PM. If Wyman doesn't produce, we're all in trouble.”

“I know,” Owen said. “Wyman's a good man. I'm sure he'll manage it.”

“Bloody dons,” said the Minister. “I never liked 'em. Too damned clever for everybody's good. And they expect everyone else to be the same.”

The Minister had just managed a third in Land Economy at Cambridge. His memories of those who had taught him were not fond ones.

“Wyman is a typical example,” he continued. “Spends other people's money as if there's no tomorrow. Dons are like that. They live too damned well, that's what it's all about. They sit in the lap of collegiate luxury like medieval barons, and when you pull them out into the real world they expect to carry on as usual. They're out of date, Owen, completely out of date.”

He nibbled vehemently at his smoked salmon.

“It's Plato who wants the two million, not Wyman,” Owen said.

“That's not the point. It's typical of Wyman to find contacts who are as extravagant as he is. Typical. Anyone else would have found a nice fat commissar who would settle for a couple of thousand and an easy defection. Not Wyman: he has to find some prima donna with gold fever.”

Owen nodded sympathetically.

“It's unfortunate, I agree.”

“Unfortunate? It's bloody outrageous. All I can say is, I'm damned glad we're not giving Wyman a pension. Who does he think he is, the last of the big-time spenders?”

“I'm sure the results will justify the cost.”

“Nothing will justify the cost. Nothing. I keep saying it, but nobody will listen: there's an economic recession on.”

M
ARGARET RAMSEY WOKE UP and got out of bed. She gazed sleepily out of the window at a pleasant spring morning. She put on her dressing gown, went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. While the water boiled, she examined the letter-box.

There were two letters and a post-card. The first letter turned out to be a final demand on her electricity bill. The other letter was a glossy communication which told her that she had been chosen from thousands as the lucky person who could win a fortune in “Hegel's Lucky Draw Competition”.

The electricity bill went into a drawer, and “Hegel's Lucky Draw Competition” was consigned to the dustbin. She then read the postcard. On the front was a picturesque view of the Italian Alps. On the back was a small note printed in block capitals.

TURIN AIRPORT

JUNE
2
P.M.

DEAR MARGARET
,

ALL'S WELL. THE WEATHER HERE IS LOVELY. I THINK

YOU'D REALLY ENJOY THE SCENERY. SEE YOU SOON.

LOVE
,

BETTY
.

She smiled and looked at the postmark. The card had been sent on May 30. In that case, she wondered, why had it been dated June 2? It then occurred to her that June 2 was today's date.

“Of course!” she exclaimed.

Wyman meant her to fly out that day to Turin.

She telephoned British Airways and booked a seat on the 2.30 flight to Turin. The “
P.M.
” on the postcard indicated that Wyman would be waiting for her that afternoon.

She looked at her watch and estimated that she had four hours to pack her things.

“Four hours!” she groaned. “Oh Michael, you are impossible sometimes.”

She lit a cigarette and made herself a coffee.

R
AWLS ARRIVED IN GENEVA on the morning of June 3. Like Wyman, he had little interest in the Swiss or their cities, so he went directly to his destination, the Banque Internationale Descartes.

He introduced himself to M. Piaget as Thompson Clarke of the US Internal Revenue Service, and he showed him the false identity papers that the Company had provided. Piaget studied them with suspicion.

“What can I do for you, Mr Clarke?”

“I am investigating the case of an American citizen who is clearly guilty of tax evasion. He is also known to be involved in other forms of organized crime in the United States, but for various reasons the authorities are concentrating on his tax evasion.”

“I understand,” Piaget said. “Is this person a client of our bank?”

“No,” Rawls said. “However, a substantial sum of money illegally held by this man is being kept by one of your account holders. The person concerned isn't a US national, and our man thinks that by using his account the money will be safe. Nevertheless, your client is in illegal possession of the money.”

“I see,” Piaget said. “How do you know the money is being held here?”

“We don't know who the account holder is, but we do know the number of the account. G2H-17-493: I believe that is one of yours?”

“Yes. What would you like us to do?”

“The sum held here isn't of much interest to us,” Rawls said. “The man we want has a number of such arrangements in other banks here, and some of the accounts are much larger. All we want is the name of the account holder and the address you send correspondence to. We understand this account was opened by an agent of your client, and we'd like that agent's particulars as well.”

“In other words,” Piaget said, “you are asking us to lift banking secrecy with regard to this account. That is a very serious request.”

“I know,” Rawls said.

“I do not think we can grant your request. You have said yourself that the account holder is not an American citizen. He therefore does not fall under your jurisdiction.”

“No, but the money does if it was illegally obtained.”