The Persian Price (10 page)

She asked to speak to Bridget. Terror cleared her mind. She thought quickly and with desperate cunning. Ireland. The safety of Meath House.

‘Biddy? Listen, I've got to be away for a few days. Yes, it's that business I told you about. Don't worry, I'll get it sorted out. Lucy's locked herself into the nursery. No, no – don't panic, it's quite all right. She slammed the door and the lock jammed. Just get a locksmith right away. Of course, I'm sure. Everything's fine. But I want you to take her to Meath. The tickets are being sent over this afternoon. Let my father know you're coming and I'll be following in a day or so when I've cleared all this up. Yes, Biddy dear, it is about Mr Field. I'll explain it all when I come over. Tell Mario I've gone out of London for a few days and I'll be going direct to Ireland. There's nothing to worry about and I'll see you both soon. Look after Lucy for me.'

She hung up and began to sob helplessly. Peters gave her a moment to recover.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘You did okay. Come on.'

People were passing in the street outside. He put his arm around the weeping woman and guided her back to the car. Resnais watched them. He noticed that their prisoner had beautiful legs. He hadn't had time to examine her properly.

‘Right,' Peters said to him. ‘Drive for the field. And go steady. We don't want to be stopped for speeding.'

He lit himself a cigarette. Eileen was leaning back beside him, with her eyes closed. Looking at her, he remembered the woman who had been on the aeroplane from Tehran. From the moment he walked into the nursery that morning, he had a sense that he had seen her before. And not just in the photographs he had studied for the kidnapping of her child.

Janet Armstrong was booked into a suite at the Hilton. Logan had met her at the airport and driven her to the hotel. He thought she looked sleek and elegant, wearing a white suit, with her silvered hair glinting in the late sun. He had ordered flowers for her and she noticed them with pleasure.

‘This looks like a florist's – Logan, you are wonderful.'

She came and kissed him on the mouth. He held her greedily. Even a touch and desire exploded between them. She pulled back from him and laughed.

‘Who's been suffering from night starvation? Give me a moment, darling. I'd like a drink first.'

There was no fuss about her; she was as direct as a man. It was an attitude that profoundly excited him.

‘I've ordered champagne,' he said. ‘After all we've got something to celebrate.'

She sat down while he opened the bottle; she slipped off her shoes and pulled her legs under her. Logan gave her a glass and she raised it to him.

‘To you,' she said.

‘To us.' He sat beside her, one hand resting on her ankle. She knew that he wasn't going to waste too much time on talking. He wanted sex and this was not the moment to say she was tired. She realized with surprise that this was the first time she hadn't been completely natural.

She had refused him on other occasions if she didn't feel like going to bed, but not now. He was determined to force the issue for both of them. She understood him so well that she sensed the self-defiance in his attitude. He wanted her to celebrate with him, to show that she was as untouched by conscience as he insisted that he was himself.

She wriggled her foot and he gripped her ankle and began to massage it.

‘You look tired,' Janet said. He did. There were deep lines either side of his mouth and his eyes were tired. ‘What's happened with Khorvan?'

Logan put his glass down.

‘I don't want to talk business now. I want to talk about you and me. I'm going to get a divorce.'

She sipped her champagne.

‘Are you sure, Logan? I love you, but I don't want you to do anything you'll regret.'

‘It couldn't go on,' he said. ‘Eileen faced me with it and I told her. Things have been going from bad to bloody worse for months. I'd had enough of it anyway.' He poured into his glass and it frothed over.

‘That's lucky,' Janet said.

‘I want you to marry me,' Logan said.

Janet looked at him calmly. It was the most important moment of her life and she felt the frozen calm of the great gambler as the ball drops into the numbered slot that means a fortune.

‘Only if you're sure you love me,' she said.

‘For Christ's sake,' he said angrily, ‘you know bloody well I do. Come here.'

An hour later, Logan woke. She was already up, dressed in a long jersey dress that showed her figure. She stood by the bedside and smiled down at him.

‘You're a marvellous man, Logan. The most marvellous lover a woman ever had. I'll marry you, darling. Just don't try and get away from me!'

‘It's after seven,' he said. ‘I've asked Kelly to have dinner with us and bring Paterson. I told them to come here.'

‘That'll be a gay little gathering,' Janet said. She sat on the edge of the bed and held his hand. ‘Kelly can't stand me; he doesn't like women with minds of their own, and Paterson bores me. He never stops talking finance.' She brought his hand up and kissed it. ‘They'll sit there looking stuffy and disapproving. I thought we'd spend the evening alone.'

‘They're good men,' Logan said. He wasn't offended. If Eileen had criticized any member of the company, he would have been irritated. As far as Janet was concerned, they were all part of the family.

‘Kelly's done a fantastic job out here. And I need Paterson more than anyone else in Imp at this moment. Go and run a bath for me, darling. Then I'll tell you all about it.'

He got out of bed and stood naked, stretching. Janet watched him openly admiring. He had a good body, well-muscled and without surplus fat. He looked a middle-aged man at the peak of fitness and virility. Only his face showed that something fundamental had happened to him since he had left England. He looked every year of his age. Janet saw this too. She came and embraced him from behind, leaning against his shoulder. It was a moment of rare tenderness between them.

‘I'm going to have a lot of children with you,' she said. ‘I'll go and run your bath now.'

Apsley Field was normally used by racegoers. It was a small, privately owned airstrip within five miles of Newmarket and during the morning a dozen light aircraft had taken off with passengers for York, where a major race meeting was being held that afternoon. The pilot of the chartered Piper Aztec was not one of the charter firm's own men; he had motored down at nine o'clock, checked in with the office and satisfied them of his flying credentials. He was waiting in the small outer office, drinking coffee and chatting to the girl typist who sat outside. The director of the charter firm hadn't been pleased to see him. He objected to an outside pilot being brought in, but the fee for hiring the plane had been increased by a third on condition that it was flown by a pilot known to the passengers. Times were getting tighter in the charter business; the number of owners and trainers rich enough to fly themselves round England to the races was decreasing.

The pilot explained that he always flew his clients. The wife was shit-scared of flying, as he put it, and she wouldn't go up with anyone else. They were rich enough to pay him whatever he asked and he flew them and their friends to racecourses all over England and France.

‘Why don't they have their own bloody plane, then?' the director said.

The young man shrugged.

‘They have but it's in the middle of its bloody C of A. I'll just check the ship and see if she's ready, then I'll hang around. They didn't give me an exact time. Just told me to be ready. Typical.'

He settled into the outer office with the typist and passed the time smoking and making a series of easy-going passes at her. He seemed a nice, relaxed type; couldn't care less about anything. She was beginning to fancy him, when one of the ground staff came up and called him.

‘Your load has turned up.'

‘Right. 'Bye sweetheart. Next time I'm round this way I'll buy you dinner. Okay?'

‘You've missed most of this afternoon's meeting,' she said.

‘They're staying overnight. Their nag's running there tomorrow. 'Bye!'

‘Take these,' Peters said to Eileen. ‘Just walk alongside me and don't do anything to attract attention. We're going on a trip. So watch yourself.'

He hung a pair of binoculars on her shoulder. She stared at him, holding on to the leather straps with hands that shook.

‘Where are you taking me – what are these for?'

‘Never mind.' He had hold of her arm and he was walking her briskly across the airfield. A small Cessna took off a hundred yards away from them and buzzed into the sky like a red bee. He saw their pilot coming towards them; the man waved.

‘Mr Harris? She's over here, sir. We're all ready.'

Resnais was behind them; she heard him whistling. During the journey from London she hadn't heard him speak once. Peters knew the pilot. He was a freelance and the organization had used him several times to ferry people and guns. He didn't belong to any political party. His only concern was money, and provided he was paid enough he would undertake anything. The original passenger schedule was for two men, one woman and a child. Now the child was missing. He looked briefly at the woman. She looked grey with fear. The reason didn't concern him. He spoke quietly to Peters.

‘You're one less.'

Peters didn't answer and the pilot shrugged. He led them to the small six-seater plane; an airport mechanic was waiting for them. Eileen saw him watching her. For a second she was tempted to tear herself free of Peters and scream for help. As if he read her thoughts, he hurried her to the steps. The mechanic had moved away. The few seconds' hesitation had cost her the chance. She climbed up ahead of Peters and went inside the plane. He pushed her into a seat and sat beside her.

‘Fasten your belt,' he said. She didn't move; it was too late now. Too late to save herself. He leaned over and pulled the webbing safety belt round her, buckling it tightly. The Frenchman sat behind them. Eileen held tightly to the seat arms as the engines revved and caught and the plane began to taxi to the runway. As they took off she hid her face in her hands. Peters watched her, anticipating hysteria or collapse. He had seen that look exchanged with the mechanic and guessed that she was a hair-line away from calling for help. But shock had slowed her reactions, paralysing the will to resist. It wouldn't have lasted at their original destination, the airport at Nice, with Customs and Immigration and people surrounding them. She would never have gone through without raising the alarm, whatever he threatened. His organization had been geared to carrying a child of three who had been added to Madeleine's false passport. Now the details had been changed. Ostensibly the plane was bound for York, where it would stay overnight and return the following day. There was no radio at Apsley Field, so that once airborne the plane's movements would be unnoticed. Twenty-five miles behind Nice, in a small valley at Orval, there was a field where the British had landed agents and supplies in the latter stages of the war. Peters had simply changed instructions to the pilot and Madeleine would have phoned through to alter the arrangements for meeting them on landing. The car which should have taken him, Madeleine, Resnais and Lucy Field away from Nice airport would now be diverted to the secret landing field and a supply of petrol brought to fuel the plane for its return journey. He turned to Resnais.

‘Come and sit here for a minute.'

They exchanged places. Resnais eased himself into the seat beside Eileen. He buckled the safety belt and turning round deliberately looked at her. She seemed sick and frightened, but she was attractive in spite of it. It amused him to frighten her still more. Eileen saw the appraising look and the slight smile on his mouth. She edged against the wall of the plane to avoid touching him.

‘I am Resnais,' he said. ‘I shall be looking after you.'

Peters came back; for a moment Eileen thought he would leave the Frenchman where he was and take the seat behind them. She didn't realize it, but she gave the American a look of agonized appeal.

‘Thanks,' he said. He stood over Resnais and the Frenchman got up and resumed his former seat. Peters didn't look at Eileen Field. Resnais had been upsetting her and he was irritated. It wouldn't help to have an hysterical outburst during the flight. He spoke over his shoulder to Resnais.

‘Did you bring that flask with you?'

‘Yes. It's here.'

‘Give it to me.'

He unscrewed the top and passed it to Eileen.

‘It's brandy; drink some.'

‘I don't want it.' She shook her head and turned away.

‘It isn't drugged,' Peters said. ‘It'll steady you. Do as you're told. Drink it.'

She sipped and then swallowed. He took the flask and put it to his mouth.

‘Where are we going?' she asked him.

‘France,' Peters said. ‘That's all you're going to know, so don't ask any more questions. And the pilot's working for us, so you needn't try anything there. You can just relax, Mrs Field. Make the best of it. So long as you're sensible, nobody will hurt you.'

He spoke with calmness. The brandy had helped her; she wasn't so sickly white. He didn't know whether she believed him and he didn't care. In a way he admired her quickness in saving the child. It was just unfortunate for her that she had been so brave.

5

Colonel Ardalan read through the report a second time. It was brief; it informed him that the telephone number found in the murdered Ebrahimi's trouser pocket had been traced to an apartment block on Torshab Road. The apartment had been rented by an American archaeologist called Peters. He had been living there with a woman and had left the previous week, paying his rent up to date. So far as the landlord was concerned the American had been an ideal tenant. The neighbours told the investigator that he had entertained few visitors; most of them seemed to be Iranians, but one woman remembered seeing a car with diplomatic plates. There were no noisy parties, nothing during his tenancy which had aroused suspicion. It was all very neat and tidy. Too neat and tidy. It looked as if this unknown American had gone out of his way to avoid attention. Ardalan blew smoke rings and played with the sheets of typed paper. His only visitors were Iranians. Except for the car with diplomatic plates. He rang down for his assistant and ordered his car to be brought round. Half an hour later they were sitting in the flat of the neighbour who had seen the diplomat's car.