Spy hook: a novel (24 page)

“Buddy felt ill,” I said. Car headlights flashed past. A dozen black leather motorcyclists went with suicidal disregard into the white wall of fog, and were swallowed up with such suddenness that even the sound of the bikes was gone.

“Ill!” said Joey. “Drunk, you mean.” The rain was suddenly fiercer. The grey shapes of enormous trucks came looming from the white gloom, adorned with a multitude of little orange fights, like ships lit up for a regatta.

When I didn’t respond Joey said, “Mrs. O’Raffety doesn’t know but she’ll find out.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

“That he’s a lush. That guy puts down a fifth of bourbon like it’s Coca Cola. He’s been doing that ever since his wife dumped him.”

“Poor Buddy,” I said.

“The sonuvabitch deserves all he gets.”

“Is that so?” I said.

In response to my unasked question Joey looked at me and grinned. “I’m leaving next week. I’m going to work for my brother-in-law in San Diego. Buddy can shove his job.”

A few miles short of Malibu we were stopped by a line of flares burning bright in the roadway. Half a dozen big trucks were parked at the roadside. A man in a tan-coloured shirt emerged from the mist. Los Angeles County Sheriff said the badge on his arm. With him there were two Highway Patrol cops in yellow oilskins; a big fellow and a girl. They were all very wet.

“Pull over,” the cop told Joey, pointing to the roadside.

“What’s wrong?” The slap and buzz of the wipers seemed unnaturally loud. “A slide?”

“Behind the white Caddie.’ The man from the Sheriffs Office indicated an open patch of ground where several patient drivers were parked and waiting for the road to be cleared. The cop’s face was running with rainwater that dropped from the peak of his cap, his shirt was black with rain. He wasn’t in the mood for a long discussion.

“We’ve got a plane to catch: international,” said Joey.

The cop looked at him with a blank expression. “Just let the ambulance through.” The cop squeegeed the water from his face, using the edge of his hand.

“What happened?”

The ambulance moved slowly past. The cop spoke like a swimmer too, in brief breathless sentences. “A big truck – artic jack-knifed. No way you’ll get past.”

“Any other route we can take?” Joey asked. “Sure but you’d add an hour to your trip.” The cop squinted into the rain. “LAX, you say? There are a couple of guys in a big old Lincoln limo. They said they were going to turn around and head back downtown. They’d maybe take your passenger.” “Where are they?”

“Other side of the wreck. Maybe they left already but I could try.” He switched on his transceiver. There was a burst of static and the cop said, “That big dark blue limo still there, Pete?” There was a scarcely intelligible affirmative from the radio. The cop said, “Ask them if they’d take someone in a hurry to get to LAX.”

With bag in -hand I picked my way past a line of cars and the monster-sized truck that was askew across the highway and completely blocked the road both ways. I found the limousine waiting for me and by that time - despite my plastic raincoat - I was very wet too.

The man beside the driver got out into the heavy rain and opened the rear door for me, and that’s the kind of thing you do only if you’ve got a job you are determined to keep. Now I could see the man in the back: a short thickset man with a rotund belly. He wore an expensive three-piece dark blue suit - gold pocket watch chain well evidenced - and a shirt with a gold collar pin below the tight knot of a very conservative striped tie. It was too Wall Street for the Pacific Coast Highway, where pants and matching jackets went out of fashion with laced corsets and high hats.

“Bernie jump in,’ said the well dressed man in the back. His voice was low, soft and attractive; like his car.

I hesitated no more than a moment. Wet, stranded and without transport I was in no position to decline and Posh Harry knew that. He smiled a welcome that had an element of smug satisfaction in it, and revealed a lot of teeth and some expensive dentistry. I climbed in beside him. Or as beside him as I had to be on a soft leather seat wide enough for four. “What’s the game?” I said. I was angry at the simple trick. “Take Mr. Samson’s bag,” Posh Harry told the man in the front seat.

“It’s valuable,” I protested.

“Valuable,” scoffed Harry. “What do you think is going to happen to it? You think I’ve got some dwarf hidden in the trunk to ransack your baggage on the way to the airport?” “Maybe,” I said.

“Maybe!” He laughed. “Did you hear that?’ he asked the men in the front. “This guy is a real pro. From this one you could learn a thing or two.” And then, in case they were taking him seriously, he laughed. “So nurse the bag, Bernie, if that’s the way you prefer it. Let’s go, driver! This man has a plane to catch.”

“You didn’t do all this just for me?” I asked cautiously. But how could they have collared me so neatly without positioning the truck as well?

“Not my style, baby,” said Posh Harry. He paused before adding, “But my boss: it sure is her style!”

One of the men in the front laughed softly enough not to interrupt but loud enough to be heard.

“Her?” I said.

“We got a female Station Chief here. You mean you hadn’t heard? Yup. We’ve got a “Chieftess” running things.” He laughed.

“A woman!”

He waved a manicured hand in a dismissive gesture of impatience. “You guys in London know all that stuff. It was in the monthly briefing last September.”

“In London there were bets on which one of your LA men was calling himself Brigette,” I said.

“You bastard!” said Harry. He sniggered.

The driver said, “Right on! Half those young guys in the office have got earrings and permanent waves. Faggots!”

“It was Brigette’s idea,’ insisted Harry. “I told her I knew you. I wanted to phone Bret and keep it all cool but she had her mind all made up. She said we’d have to pay for the truck rental anyway. The ambulance was her idea: a nice touch huh? It was all fixed up by then so she insisted we go ahead. Not like the old days, eh Bernie?”

“Is that her real name: Brigette?”

“She’s a hard-nosed little lady,” said Harry with respect. “She runs that office ... I mean those guys jump. Not like the old days, Bernie. I mean it.”

“So what’s this really about then?” I said, now that the mandatory exchange about the CIA’s first female Station Chief was over and done with.

“It’s about Bret,” said Posh Harry. “It’s about Bret Rensselaer .” Delicately he scratched his cheek with the nail of his little finger so that I saw his starched linen cuffs and the gold cuff-links. His complexion was yellow enough to suggest Japanese blood but his hands were paler. And his nails were carefully manicured. It was in line with his natty appearance. I’d never seen him anything but perfectly haircut and shaved with talc on his chin and a discreet smell of aftershave in the air.

His clothes were always new looking and a perfect fit, so that he was like a carefully assembled plastic toy. Perhaps it says more about me -or about the gangster films of my childhood - that I always saw in his polished appearance a certain hint of menace. “Yeah?” I said.

“The word is that you have some kind of feud - some kind of private vendetta - with Bret.” Very serious now: with the smile gone, hands loosely clasped across his belly like a temple Buddha taking a day off.

And?”

“Private vendettas don’t get the rent paid. Vendettas are turn-offs, Bernie. Bad news for Bret: bad news for you: bad news for London and bad news for us.”

“Who’s us”

“Don’t put me through the mangle, baby; the laundry’s dried and aired. You know who us is. Us is the Company.” “And what in hell has it got to do with you?”

Hand raised in a gesture of pacification. “Did I handle this all wrong? Maybe we could start over? Right?” “I’m not likely to get out and walk,” I said.

“No. Sure.” He sat well back in his seat and watched me from under lowered eyelids as he picked up the pieces of good win and figured how to glue it all back together again. Posh Harry was pretty good at that kind of thing. For years he’d been a Mr. Fixit, working both sides of the street, and he only got paid when everyone was happy.

We drove on in silence. I put my bag between my feet and turned away to watch the rain falling on the millionaire’s shacks that line this part of the beach. Here and there I saw groups of surfers in shiny black rubber wet-suits. Anyone crazy enough to go looking for big waves in the Pacific Ocean was not deterred by bad weather.

I sat back in my seat and stole a glance at Posh Harry. I’d heard that he’d taken a permanent job with the CIA. Some said he’d never been anything but their paid mouthpiece, but I doubted that. I’d known him a long time. I’d watched him scratching a living in that shady world where secret information is bought and sold like gilts and pork bellies. He’d always been something of an enigma, an Hawaiian who’d taken to Europe in a way that few strangers ever do. Posh Harry’s mastery of the German language - grammar, pronunciation and idiom - belied the rather casual, relaxed demeanour he liked to display. Adult foreigners who will devote enough time and energy to acquire German like this have to be dedicated, demented or Dutch. “Why would you care?” I asked him. “What’s Bret to you?”

“They like him,” said Harry.

“Brigette you mean?”

“I mean Washington,” he said.

“Is Bret so important to- the boys in Langley?” I asked very casually.

Like a scalded cat he jumped aside from the implication of that one. “Don’t get me wrong,” said Harry. “Bret is not a CIA employee and he never has been.” There was an old-fashioned formality about that statement and about the way he said it. “Everyone keeps telling me that,” I said. By “everyone” I meant Posh Harry. We’d been all through this years ago.

With ostentatious patience he said, “Everyone keeps telling you that because it’s true.”

“Washington?”

“Will you listen, Bernard. Bret is not - repeat not - an Agency employee. We know nothing about what Bret does for you. I wish the hell. we did.”

“Did you put someone over the fence there last month, Harry? Was that one of your people trying to get a line on Bret?” Harry looked at me for a moment and then said, “Someone got shot up there. An intruder was hurt bad. Yes, I heard about that.”

“A friendly Agency gumshoe dropping in to pass the time of day? Off the record,” I coaxed. “Was that one of yours?” But Harry would not be coaxed into an admission like that. “I’m not talking about the Agency; I’m talking about Capitol Hill, Bret’s got some good friends there. His family deploy a lot of muscle in that town. They won’t stand by while Bret is smeared. “While Bret is smeared? Harry, I wish I knew what YOU re talking about,” I said. “I didn’t know Bret was still alive until I got here.”

“Don’t snow me, Bernie. Dead or alive, you’ve been badmouthing Bret Rensselaer. Don’t deny it.”

I felt a sudden pang of fear. There were three of them. There were -plenty of lonely stretches of coastline nearby and the desert. With more boldness than I felt I said, “Put away the brass knuckles Harry. That’s not your style.’ But rumours from long ago said it was exactly his style.

He smiled. “They said you were becoming paranoid.” “You get that way when jerks shanghai you on the highway and bury you under horse-manure.”

He ignored that and said, “This guy Woosnam for instance.

This guy is a kosher businessman.”

“What?”

“Bret came through to the office last night and asked for an urgent check-up on the passenger you sat next to on the plane. He’s a nothing, Bernard. A two-bit building contractor who made it big in real estate. That’s what I mean’ about you being paranoid.”

“Bret asked? About Woosnam?” I said.

“Sure. Bret came on the phone. The way I heard it, Bret was mad. He wanted to know if we’d put someone on the plane with you but I knew we hadn’t. We didn’t even know you were coming until you’d arrived. Bret persuaded someone to make it a number one priority. Dig out this Woosnam baby, and dig him out fast. So they made the airline go through the manifests. They dug people out of their beds and had them working all night. They weren’t pleased, I can tell you. It being a weekend too.”

“And Woosnam wasn’t working for London Central);

“Jesus Christ. Even now you don’t believe me. I can see it in your face.”

“Who cares,” I said.

“I care. Bret cares. Everyone who likes you cares. We wonder what’s happening to you, Bernard baby.”

I made a noise to indicate that I didn’t want to talk about the wretched Mr. Woosnam. Posh Harry nodded sagely and leaned forward to push a button that made the glass partition slide into position, so the men in front couldn’t hear us. Although if this was the kind of CIA limo I think it was, there would be a hidden tape recorder button built into the upholstery so that Brigitte, and God knows who else, would be able to refer to a transcript of what I said. Or was I becoming paranoid?’ Let’s talk turkey, Bernie. Let’s cut out all the crap, eh?”

“Which crap was that, Harry?”

He ignored my question. He looked out of the car to see how near LA International we were and decided to get to the point. “Listen,’ he said. “Big men in Washington hear you are running around trying to pin some old London screw-up on to Bret ... Well, Washington gets touchy. They talk to your people in London Central. They say, shit or get off the pot. What charges? they ask. Where’s the evidence? They want to know, Bernard. Because they don’t like the way Bret is expected to take all your lousy flak without getting a proper chance to answer. Just for a moment there had been a glimpse of the real Posh Harry: the savage little guy inside this soft smiling cerebral Charlie Chan.