The Company of Saints (28 page)

Tim Johnson decided that he had been patient long enough. He looked at the girl sitting opposite him, smoking the cigarettes provided, asking for special food, stalling his questions with a supposed migraine. He decided the time had come to attack. ‘You've got a headache?'

‘Yes,' she said sulkily. ‘I can't answer you with a pain like this.'

‘Same sort of headache as the night the Duvalier family were murdered?'

She hadn't expected that. Her anger showed. ‘That was worse. I was blind with the pain.'

‘You get headaches at the most convenient moments, don't you? Did you get the headache before, or after?'

‘Before or after what? I don't understand you.'

‘Before your friends killed them,' Johnson sprang it on her. ‘You let them in, didn't you? You opened the door for them and then you slipped upstairs and drugged yourself. Did you know they were going to shoot them all? Even the girl who was your friend? No wonder you get headaches.'

He didn't get the reaction he expected – there was something like contempt in her eyes when she looked at him.

‘I didn't let anybody in,' she said. ‘I was upstairs with a migraine and I took sleeping pills.'

‘If you didn't have any part in it,' he persisted, ‘why are your friends trying to kill you? They killed the man who murdered the American Secretary of State – you know that, don't you?'

‘I know what you've told me,' she said. ‘Maybe they didn't try to kill me. Maybe the car was an accident.'

He turned away from her. ‘I think you're wasting my time,' he said. ‘I'm going back to London. Somebody else can talk to you. But I am going to put in a report about you, Hélène. I shall say that you're being deliberately obstructive and that we should send you back to France.'

The threat didn't shake her. She made a grimace. ‘Maybe I will cooperate with the new person.' Her eyes lowered and then examined him, still with the gleam of contempt lurking in them. ‘Will it be that woman?'

‘No,' Johnson snapped. ‘You're not important enough to interest her.'

The mockery was suddenly gone. A red flush burned in her cheeks. ‘I'm more important than you think!'

‘I don't agree.' Johnson was in the ascendant. He pressed the advantage. ‘I think you're a pathetic nobody, giving yourself airs. My boss has better things to do than waste her time with you. I'll make sure she knows it.'

‘I won't speak to this other person,' Hélène shouted. ‘Tell them that! Tell them not to come!'

He didn't answer. He left the room and walked away down the passage. The cameras would be watching her reaction when she was alone. Before he drove back to London, he had a screening of the film. What he saw made him and the brigadier exchange looks.

‘Meditating?' the brigadier queried.

‘Autohypnosis,' Johnson explained. ‘She put herself out. Otherwise I think she'd have smashed up the room. I'd better get back. I think we'll let her cool off tomorrow. Perhaps for a few days. I'll let you know.'

‘What nags at me is this so-called meditation institute. Ma-Nang sounds authentic but actually means nothing at all.' Davina turned to Tim Johnson. ‘Why pick a phoney oriental name?'

‘And why not use it here in England? Unless, of course, they sent in a foreign operative to kill poor old Marnie.'

‘You're right. Of course you're right. We couldn't get anything on Ma-Nang on our computers because they didn't set up a place over here. And the question is, why not? Why France and Italy and Russia, for God's sake, and not here! Whoever murdered Nikolaev was a Russian, we know that. So this brain-washing business has a base in Russia too. Tim, listen, it's probably a crackpot idea, but why don't we bring Poliakov in on this?'

‘I don't see that it's crackpot,' he answered. ‘As we're leaving Blond to stew for a bit, it can't do any harm. Poliakov might have an idea. He's forgotten more about the way the Russians think than we'll ever know.' He grinned, ‘Sorry, I'm talking about myself.'

‘Don't undersell yourself,' she said. ‘You're as bright as any of us. See if you can find Poliakov. He may be at home – the pubs are shut!'

But Poliakov had taken his vodka with him. He was belligerent and muddled when Tim spoke to him. ‘I'll have to go to his flat,' he told Davina. ‘Sober the old bugger up. There's no use having him round here as he is.'

It was nearly five before Johnson reappeared. The old man was very pale, watery-eyed and distinctly unsteady. But it was sobriety that made his hands shake. He said to Davina, ‘Miss Graham – this bully has been making my life a misery since three this afternoon. I was sitting at home perfectly peaceful, reading, when in he comes …'

Johnson interrupted. ‘You were pissed as a newt. And the only thing you'd been reading, old chap, was the label on the bottle. However, black coffee did the trick in the end.'

‘I was sick,' Poliakov announced with dignity. ‘What are you paying for this? I expect a bonus, otherwise I refuse to help you. Did you take my advice and send someone over to Paris, Miss Graham?'

‘I did,' Davina answered. ‘And you were quite right. She's a guest at Welton this very moment.'

‘Ah,' the Russian managed a painful smile. ‘Good. I remember what a comfortable hotel that was. Some of our best traitors stayed there, didn't they? Now, if I could have a small drink, just to steady myself after what I've been through.' He paused. He was sober, and his eyes were knowing.

Davina decided not to argue. He was notoriously temperamental. Tim must have exceeded his brief to get him to Anne's Yard in lucid condition. ‘I can get you some brandy from personnel,' she said. ‘Will that do?'

‘Medicinal.' He laughed. ‘Thank you.' He flashed a look of triumph at Johnson. A few minutes later, with the drink cuddled in his hands, he said to Davina, ‘What do you want me to tell you?'

And when she did, he laughed again. ‘Oh, I see. You tried the computer. And your friend wasted his time on Chinese reference books. He could have been there till now, you realize that? Ma-Nang. No, my dear Miss Graham, you won't find that listed anywhere.'

She leaned forward, hiding her impatience. She could see that he had an answer and was holding back, teasing them both. ‘Poliakov,' she said, ‘what does it mean?'

‘It means the Company of Saints. In Mongolian dialect.' He leaned back and chuckled. ‘Your therapists aren't
Chinese
– they're Mongolian. Ma-Nang. Didn't you learn about the Last Judgement, either of you? How the damned are dragged to hell by demons, and the Company of Saints surround the throne of God?'

‘Good God!' Johnson exclaimed.

‘Not in this case,' Poliakov retorted. ‘A god surrounded by assassins. The wicked triumphant. Not the Christian concept at all.' He sipped his brandy and looked smug.

Davina said, ‘Who would think up a thing like this? It is Soviet-directed, isn't it?'

‘Of course it is.' He showed impatience at the question. ‘It has a smell of the old anti-religious campaign of the twenties. Old Bolshevik stuff. Jewish-inspired in the beginning. They had little reason to love the Christian Church with its persecutions. And there's nothing as savage as atheists with a deep religious consciousness behind them. Ma-Nang. Yes, Miss Graham, Russian-inspired and controlled. But by a curious kind of Russian.' He finished his brandy.

‘Borisov?' Davina asked.

He shook his head. ‘I don't think so. He's a modern tyrant. This harks back to the old days. I don't think the Company of Saints is run by the KGB.'

‘Then you mean there's someone powerful enough to get an organization like this together and set it working independently of Borisov?'

He nodded at Davina. ‘I would think so. But I'll need to think more. In my own time. At your expense.'

‘You can write your own bill. How long will it take?'

‘To do what? Tell you who I think is the most likely man in the hierarchy?' He shrugged, and put down the empty glass. ‘I'll need access to your files. I'll make up a plan, like a family tree – going back before the war. I don't know how long I'll need to reach a definite conclusion. I can put up ideas quickly enough, but they won't be backed by research. And that's what you must have. What will you do if I find an answer for you?'

‘I'll decide about that when the time comes,' Davina said. ‘You'll have every facility you need, and I hope you'll start here tomorrow.'

‘I shall be here,' he announced. ‘And sober.'

When he had gone, Davina phoned through to Humphrey. He came to the office and listened with his usual lack of excitement. ‘I think it's the break we needed,' Davina said. ‘Picking up that girl and tying this in will give us the facts – and, I hope, the means to smash this organization.'

‘He is a drunk,' he reminded her. ‘Do you believe he'll spend days on end here without throwing the whole thing up and slipping round to the nearest pub? I'm afraid I don't. Poliakov can cope with an odd problem. He hasn't the stamina for anything as deep as this.'

Davina mastered her irritation. Quite soon it would turn into real anger at his negative approach. ‘Then what else do you suggest, Humphrey?'

‘Step up the interrogation of Hélène Blond. Put heavy pressure on her and don't give her any let-up at all. With respect to you, Tim,' he glanced morosely at Johnson, ‘I don't think your tactics are the right ones. I should like to go down tomorrow and set about her.'

Davina hesitated. Then she said. ‘Right, Humphrey, you do that. You give her hell and you can use any threats you like – I'll back you up. And Poliakov can at least make a start. You know, I think he needs somebody to help him, somebody to keep an eye on him in case he starts slipping. I'll ask Colin if he'll do it?'

Humphrey pursed his lips. ‘You talk as if he'd come back on a regular basis.'

‘I hope he will,' Davina answered. ‘But it's on a favour basis at the moment.'

It had been a long day, but she felt satisfied. There was always a crucial moment when a solution was near, and only the experience of years could identify it. That had been Sir James White's special gift. He had the capacity to sit through disappointments, frustrations and blind leads without losing his confidence. When the moment came, he recognized it and acted.

Poliakov was the catalyst in this business, and Davina knew it. She had deflected Humphrey's pessimism and relied on her own instinct. Perhaps Colin was right: perhaps she was becoming like the Chief. But not heartless or ready to sacrifice anything or anybody as he had done with her husband, Ivan Sasanov. She sat in a traffic jam in Sloane Square, and thought about Ivan and James White's responsibility for his murder in Australia. She had blamed him and hated him for it for years.

The traffic began to move. It was raining and congestion increased. There was nothing James White could have done to prevent Sasanov from being killed. She had never imagined she could admit that to herself.

She drove up Sloane Street and branched left, heading towards her flat. The wipers whirred across the windscreen, and the rain spattered like tears outside.

She had accused James White of using her husband and then neglecting to protect him when he had nothing more to give. It wasn't true. Nobody could have shielded Sasanov against the assassins of the KGB when her own brother-in-law was pointing him out to them.

She had done her old boss a great injustice. She had accused him and blamed him to his face, sweeping aside his explanations. She parked her car, locked it and went to her front door. It was a strange feeling, this acknowledgement that she was in the wrong. Almost as if a weight had been lifted. But it was already moving away. Subconsciously she had recognized that James White had done his best in the circumstances. Taking on his responsibilities had changed her view. That was why she had gone to him for advice about Tony Walden.

It was different, as everyone knew, when the Opposition became the Government. Now she was the Government. She went upstairs, had a bath and thought about Hélène Blond and Poliakov. Humphrey could be very daunting. But he wouldn't find it easy to frighten that girl. Davina was not seeing Colin that night. He had work to catch up on, and she accepted his commitment. He hadn't been pleased that she was so understanding about it, she could tell that, and it made her smile. He would never change. He would always be the macho man, expecting her to be the weaker partner. So long as they stayed as they were, it wouldn't really come between them. He'd accept her commitments as she accepted his, but not without a fight. And this time, she was going to let him think he'd won. She'd learned that much from past mistakes. And perhaps, seeing and recognizing the truth about Sasanov's death had liberated her, made her more mature as a person. Hatred and blame were stunting factors. They crippled the personality. Now at last she was free of them. The bell rang. She thought, ‘He's finished early and come round … I'm glad.'

She said into the ansaphone, ‘Come up, love.' And pushed the button. When she opened her own front door she saw Tony Walden standing there.

‘I thought you weren't going to let me in,' he said.

‘I was just surprised,' Davina answered. ‘Why didn't you telephone?'

‘You wouldn't have seen me, would you?'

‘No,' she said quietly, ‘I don't think I would.'

He looked around the room, and said, ‘I've missed you so much. I never thought I could miss someone as much as I miss you.'

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I don't want you to be unhappy, Tony. Can't you try to get it in perspective?'

He looked searchingly at her. She remembered how sad his eyes were at times. The sadness of the most persecuted race in human history.