1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal Read online

  The two men talked of this and that for half an hour, then Girland got to his feet.

  “Maybe I’d better have a gun up there,” he said. “If we do have trouble, I’d be happier with a gun.”

  O’Leary grinned.

  “I have just the job for you.” He went into the lodge and returned with a .38 automatic and three clips of ammunition.

  Back in the villa, Girland put the gun on the undershelf of the terrace table, then stretched out on the chaise lounge.

  Diallo came onto the terrace.

  “Dinner will be ready in half an hour, sir,” he said. “Another drink?”

  Girland grinned at him. He was thoroughly enjoying this feeling of luxury.

  “Why not? A Cinzano Bitters. What are we eating, Diallo?”

  “Well, sir, I thought an avocado with crab, then a gigot with a touch of garlic. I have a very fine Pont-l'Évêque and a beautiful Brie. Perhaps a citron sorbet to follow.”

  Girland closed his eyes.

  “Hmmmm . . . don’t tell me, give me.”

  With now a feeling of complete security, he relaxed. After all, O’Leary had told him that trouble was his business. O’Leary was one of O’Halloran’s bright, Irish fighters. Girland told himself he now had nothing to worry about until Erica Olsen recovered consciousness, and that would be some hours ahead. He dozed.

  “Hey!”

  The blonde girl, wearing a flame-red sleeveless dress, who stood before him brought him upright.

  He stared, then grinned.

  “Well! For a moment you had me fooled.”

  Ginny looked anxiously at him.

  “Do you like it? It took a whole bottle of peroxide.”

  Girland regarded her small, immature figure, her bright, expectant eyes, her young alert face and he smiled.

  “Ginny . . . you look gorgeous. Yes, of course, I think you look more beautiful blonde. Come and sit down. Tell me the story of your life.”

  She regarded him, an exasperated expression in her eyes.

  “I don’t want to tell you the story of my life . . . it is far too dull. Tell me the story of your life.” She came and sat by his side, self-consciously touching her hair. “Are you sure you like me better this way?”

  Girland crossed his long legs and lit a cigarette.

  “How old are you, Ginny?”

  She stiffened.

  “What’s that to you?”

  “Eighteen?”

  “Of course not! I’m nineteen!”

  Girland put his hand over hers.

  “I’m nearly twice your age.” He shook his head. “I envy you, Ginny. It’s wonderful to be as young as you are.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about! Do you like me blonde?”

  “I like you anyway. How is the patient?”

  Ginny moved impatiently.

  “She’s all right. You are far more interested in her than you are in me!”

  “Ginny dear,” Girland said, keeping his face straight, “she is my wife.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that! I know all about it. She is no more your wife than I am!”

  Girland flicked ash off his cigarette.

  “Can you guess what we are having for dinner?”

  She stared at him, then stood up and walked slowly over to the balustrade. He watched her, then grimaced. Complications, he thought. She is a sweet kid, but . . .

  He remained where he was, smoking and staring up at the stars as they began to appear in the darkening sky.

  He was relieved when Diallo announced that dinner was served.

  * * *

  Sadu Mitchell was always being startled by Pearl’s unexpected knowledge and her odd contacts. When they left Nice Airport in the 404 that Hertz Rental had ready for them, she directed him through Nice, along the Corniche to Villefranche Pass and to a tiny hotel, set back against the mountain where a small, elderly woman came out to greet them. This woman, in a white sweater and black slacks, was Vietnamese.

  Slightly bewildered, Sadu watched the two women greet each other while Jo-Jo sat in the back of the car, sneering to himself.

  The woman, Ruby Kuo, turned out to be Pearl’s aunt. She also owned the hotel. There was a little delay before the three were given rooms as Pearl and Ruby had much to say to each other. Eventually, Sadu got Pearl to himself. Jo-Jo joined them.

  It was decided that Jo-Jo should go immediately to Dorey’s villa and explore the ground. It was Pearl who gave him the Beaverbrook excuse.

  A couple of hours later, Jo-Jo returned. He found Sadu and Pearl waiting for him in the snail garden that Ruby kept for her own use.

  “The Army’s there,” Jo-Jo said, shrugging. “I haven’t a hope in hell of getting at her.” He sat down and began to pick his nose.

  “You are supposed to be the brains of this outfit . . . you fix it.”

  Pearl and Sadu looked at each other. Then Pearl said, “I will talk to Ruby,” and she went into the hotel.

  Sadu questioned Jo-Jo about the position of the villa.

  “It’s built against the mountain,” Jo-Jo said. “There are high walls around it and the Army’s there. There’s a police dog too. You can’t even see the villa from the gate. If she stays holed up there, we’ll never get at her.”

  Sadu got to his feet and walked to the end of the garden. He thought of what Yet-Sen had said: if there is another mistake, an example will be made. What did that mean? His hands turned clammy. He was now regretting getting mixed up with Yet-Sen.

  It was Pearl’s fault. She had nagged at him, and at that time, it had seemed not only safe and simple, but the right thing to do.

  Twenty minutes later, Pearl returned. The two men looked expectantly at her.

  “It can be done,” she said. “My aunt knows the villa. She has lived here for many years. There is a little known footpath from the Grande Corniche that leads down to the back of the villa. The path is never used now. We could get near the villa by this path.”

  “Suppose they know about it?” Sadu said uneasily. “Suppose there is a man and a dog there, waiting for us?”

  Pearl shrugged indifferently.

  “A man and a dog does not make an impossibility,” she said. “Jo-Jo has a gun and a silencer.”

  Sadu regarded her flower-like, expressionless face. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. This woman, he thought, was too dedicated. He began to hate her.

  Jo-Jo got to his feet.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Time’s getting on.”

  “I will drive the car,” Pearl said. “You must go with him.” This to Sadu. “I will leave you at the footpath and then go on to La Turbie. I will wait there half an hour, then come back. By then you should have been able to see what can be done.”

  “When you two have finished making plans,” Sadu said angrily, “let me remind you I am in charge of this operation. We will not go now. At this hour the Corniche will be crammed with cars. We will wait until the traffic thins out.” He looked at his gold Omega. The time was 14.15 hrs. “We will not leave here until midnight.”

  Pearl and Jo-Jo exchanged glances, then Jo-Jo shrugged.

  “Don’t we get any food here?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”

  * * *

  “She’s awake,” Ginny said as she came out onto the terrace.

  Girland was lying on the chaise lounge. The time was 9.30 p.m. He had had an excellent dinner and was now watching a satellite jinking across the star-laden sky.

  He raised his head, then swung his legs off the chaise lounge.

  “Do you want me to do anything?”

  “She wants to know where she is. I think you had better . . .”

  Girland hurriedly pulled on a sweatshirt and followed Ginny into the villa. There was a table lamp in the woman’s bedroom which cast shadows. He crossed to the bed.

  Erica Olsen looked up at him and Girland drew in a long, slow breath. He had thought her beautiful in sleep, but now the big, violet coloured eyes were open, bri
nging life to her face, she was even more beautiful.

  “Where am I?” she asked, looking up at him. “Who are you?”

  “I am Mark, your husband, darling,” he said gently. “You are home. It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Home?” Her long cool fingers moved over the back of his hand. “I can’t remember anything. You are my husband?”

  “Yes, darling. Don’t you remember me?”

  She closed her eyes. For a brief moment, she remained still, then she said, “It is beautiful and black like a grape.”

  Girland looked searchingly at her.

  “What is? What do you mean?” he asked, sensing that what she had just said was important. “What is beautiful and black like a grape?”

  “Did I say that?” She opened her eyes. “I don’t know why I said it. Who did you say you were?”

  “Your husband . . . Mark.”

  “You can’t imagine how it feels to remember nothing. I didn’t know I was married. I don’t remember ever seeing you before.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. The doctor says your memory will come back in time. Just don’t worry. You are home now and I am here to look after you.”

  “You are very kind.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I feel so tired. I - I thought at one time I was in hospital.”

  “So you were, but I have brought you home.”

  “It’s a nice room.” Her eyes opened and she looked fixedly at him. “Mark? Is that your name?”

  “That’s right. You try to sleep. Tomorrow, you’ll feel better. I’ll be right here, Erica. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Erica? Is that my name?”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “I didn’t know.” Again the dark blue eyes regarded him. “And you really are my husband?”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed to relax and she closed her eyes.

  “Oh, it’s good to be home.”

  When he was sure she was sleeping, he gently disengaged his hand from hers and stood up.

  Ginny and he moved away from the bed.

  “What was all that about a black grape?” Girland asked. “What did she mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to stay with her.” Ginny was now the efficient nurse. “She’ll probably sleep all night.” She looked at him unhappily. “You were very convincing. If I hadn’t known, I would really have thought you were her husband.”

  Girland made a movement of irritation. He didn’t feel very proud of himself. “You don’t imagine I like this, do you? This is a job. I get paid for it.”

  He left the room and went down to the terrace.

  * * *

  Kovski came into the small office where Malik was sitting behind a desk, digging holes in the desk blotter with a paper knife.

  Kovski was the head of the Paris division of Soviet Security.

  He was a short fat man with a chin beard, an enormous bald dome of a head, ferrety eyes and a thick nose. He was shabbily dressed, and there were food stains on his coat lapels. He was one of the most dangerous and cunning members of the Secret Police and Malik’s boss.

  Malik looked up and regarded him with his green snake’s eyes.

  He didn’t bother to move. Malik was very sure of himself. Kovski could be replaced tomorrow, but Malik knew his own position was unassailable unless he made a mistake, and Malik never made mistakes.

  “What is happening?” Kovski demanded, coming to rest before the desk.

  “I am waiting,” Malik said and began digging the paper knife into the blotter again.

  “We can no longer wait,” Kovski snapped and threw a cable onto the blotter.

  Malik read the cable, then pushed it back across the desk. He got to his feet, towering over Kovski.

  “Why didn’t they say so before?”

  “Information has just been received that Kung has invented a new weapon,” Kovski said. “It is now vital that we should know about it. It is possible this woman knows something. We need the information immediately. Where is this woman?”

  “We have one small lead that could mean something.” Malik went on to tell Kovski about Kerman. “We are checking. We have four men in Nice, but this could take time. Why wasn’t I told this was immediately?”

  Kovski drew in a sharp breath. When dealing with Malik, he found no one but Malik could ever be in the right.

  “You know now! This woman must be found! After all, you lost her.”

  Malik regarded him.

  “I didn’t lose her. Your mistress, Merna Dorinska, lost her.”

  Kovski flinched and blood rushed into his face.

  “Don’t call that woman my mistress!”

  “I am sorry. I mean your whore,” Malik said.

  The two men stared at each other. Kovski’s eyes were the first to shift.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked in a milder tone.

  Malik returned to his chair and sat down.

  “Dorey has a secretary. Her name is Marcia Davis,” he said, picking up the paper knife. “She will know where this woman is. I would have done this before had I known it was so urgent. You can leave it to me.”

  “Done what?” Kovski asked, staring uneasily at Malik.

  “It would be better if you left this to me,” Malik said. “I am in charge of the operation. I suggest the less you know about it until I have definite information, the better for both of us.”

  Kovski hesitated. “What are you going to do with this woman, Marcia Davis?”

  “Do you want to know?” The glittering green eyes made Kovski very uneasy.

  “I hope you know what you are doing, Malik.”

  “Oh, yes, I know what I am doing. We are wasting time. You either allow me to handle this my way or I must withdraw.”

  Kovski shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “We must not fail.”

  “Who said anything about failing?”

  Kovski nodded, then turning, he went out of the office.

  Malik reached for the telephone.

  “Send Smernoff to me at once,” he told the inquiring voice.

  He replaced the receiver and picked up the paper knife. Slowly and viciously, he again began to dig holes in the blotter.

  * * *

  Slightly out of breath, and sweating, Sadu paused.

  “Wait!” he said curtly to Jo-Jo who was moving down the steep path, gun in hand, his eyes probing the star lit darkness.

  Jo-Jo paused and looked over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “You are moving too fast,” Sadu said, his voice low. “This is dangerous. We could start a landslide.”

  The path that Ruby had told Pearl about did exist. It was overgrown with clumps of dried grass, weeds and roots of trees. No one appeared to have used it for years. They were halfway down and from where he stood, Sadu could already see, outlined against the mountain, the roof of the villa.

  The two men began a more cautious descent.

  Sadu was careful to let Jo-Jo go on well ahead. He had no wish to encounter a police dog. Jo-Jo was paid for this kind of work: he wasn’t.

  They covered a few more metres of rough ground, then Jo-Jo came to a stop. After making sure there was no immediate danger, Sadu joined him.

  The two men could now look down on the terrace of the villa, some thirty metres below them. They could see Girland lying on the chaise lounge, sharply outlined under the lights of the terrace against the white paving stones.

  Jo-Jo surveyed the scene with an expert eye.

  “If she comes out on the terrace, she will be a sitting duck,” he said. “I will have to have a rifle with a telescopic sight. I’ll have only one shot to do the job with. If I am to get away, I’ll also want a silencer. A .22 rifle will do. With a telescopic sight, a head shot will do the trick.”

  Sadu grimaced.

  “I’ll arrange it,” he said. “There is plenty of cover here. As soon as I get the
rifle, you will come here and wait.”

  Jo-Jo picked at a sore on the back of his hand.

  “Just so long as she comes out on the terrace,” he said.

  * * *

  Flanked on either side by Harry Whitelaw and the owner of the restaurant, Claude Terrail, Marcia Davis walked out of the elegant room with its superb view of Notre Dame.

  Dining at La Tour d’Argent was always an experience, she thought. The meal had been more than excellent. The filet de sole cardinal and the Soufflé Valtesse had been beyond reproach.

  Harry Whitelaw of the New York Post had been amusing, and his attentions, as always, flattering. She had known Whitelaw off and on for a number of years. He was a tall, humorous man with no complications. Marcia was always able to relax in his company.

  She had never had any trouble with him. He came to Paris three times a year, and each time he took her to La Tour d’Argent which he claimed to be the best restaurant in Paris.

  Claude Terrail, tall and aristocratic-looking, shook hands at the tiny elevator, then Marcia and Whitelaw descended to the street level.

  “That was a perfect meal, Harry,” Marcia said as she collected her mink stole from the woman attendant. “Thanks a million. When will you be in Paris again?”

  Whitelaw pushed three francs into the woman’s hand. He was never quite sure, even after innumerable visits to the French capital, just how much he should tip.

  “I’ll be over for Christmas.” He regarded her as the doorman went in search of a taxi. “How’s Dorey?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “You know, we have wondered about him. We thought he was through.”

  Marcia laughed.

  “Who didn’t? No one should ever underestimate Dorey.”

  Whitelaw said as casually as he could, “Anything exciting happening?”

  “Oh, Harry!” Marcia gave him an old-fashioned look. “Just when I was thinking this lovely dinner had no strings.”

  Whitelaw grinned.