1969 - The Whiff of Money Read online

  Drina knew immediately that this man was the likely President of the United States. Unlike Alec Hammer who couldn't believe the evidence of his eyes and hesitated, Drina relied on his photographic memory and immediately moved into action. He followed Sherman, and as Sherman was taking the only taxi on the rank, Drina was close enough to hear him say, 'Hotel Pare, Rue Meslay.'

  Drina had managed to get this close by pretending to take the taxi while Sherman was speaking to the driver.

  Seeing him about to get into the taxi, Sherman said curtly, 'This is mine, monsieur.'

  Drina lifted his shabby hat that looked like a drowned cat and backed away.

  'Excuse me.'

  As soon as the taxi had driven off, Drina walked quickly to the nearest telephone kiosk. Any exertion made him breathless as he lived on a diet of vodka, onion soup and too much bread. Before putting through the call to Kovski, he paused to get back his breath.

  His report electrified Kovski. Knowing Drina's reliable, photographic memory, Kovski didn't waste time querying if Drina just might be mistaken.

  The two men spoke in Russian.

  Kovski said, 'Go to the Hotel Pare immediately. I will send Labrey there. Every move Sherman makes must be reported to me. I will see Labrey has a radio car. Go at once. You have done well.'

  Drina had his own car parked at Orly. Even while Alec Hammer was still talking to O'Halloran, Drina half-ran, half-walked to his car, then scrambling breathlessly into the car, he started the engine.

  You have done well was music to his ears. He couldn't remember when last Kovski had given him any praise. His heart beating fast, his breath wheezing through his fat covered lungs, Drina sent his Renault shooting along the autoroute towards Paris.

  * * *

  The girl in this film is my daughter.

  For a moment Dorey again wondered if his hearing was failing, but one look at Sherman's haggard face and the cold misery in his eyes told him he had heard aright.

  Dorey's mind worked swiftly. Vaguely now, he remembered hearing that Sherman had a daughter. The last time he had heard anything of her was that she was being educated at an expensive school in Switzerland. When was that? Possibly six or seven years ago. Since then he had heard nothing of her. Whenever Sherman and his wife went on vacation, attended premieres or important dinners, the daughter was conspicuous by her absence. Dorey recalled the girl in the film. Now he knew who she was, he realised she took after her mother. She had Mary's beauty, Mary's slimness, long legs and beautiful hands.

  'I'm sorry, sir,' was all he could say.

  'Yes.' Sherman sat on the bed. 'You'd better hear the whole, sordid story, John.' He paused, rubbing his hands across his face. 'Gillian and I have never hit it off.' He looked directly at Dorey.

  'I guess it was half my fault... half hers. Maybe more my fault than hers because I didn't want children. Anyway, from the very beginning when she was a baby, we resented each other and she was a complete little hellion. She deliberately set out to be difficult, making blackmailing scenes, yelling and screaming if she didn't get her own way. When she reached her teens she became insufferable... anyway to me. How the hell can a man work when there is pop music, longhaired creeps, shouting and yelling, Gillian kicking up trouble every hour of the day? I just couldn't stand it any longer. Why the hell should I? It was my house and Gillian turned it into a goddamn zoo. So I packed her off to Switzerland. The school was top class and they promised to discipline her. She remained in Switzerland, not coming home at all, for four years. God! It was a relief to get her out of my hair... you have no idea the peace I had once she had gone! Well, she stayed at the school until she was nineteen. By then Mary and I were used to living without her.'

  Sherman looked down at his massive hands, frowning. 'Both of us were constantly busy. When we found time to take a vacation we went with a group of people who were helping me build my political career...there was no place for a teenage daughter. Anyway, Gillian would have been bored stiff with the people I moved around with, so we arranged for her to stay in Europe. We wrote regularly, of course. She didn't seem to be interested in anything so I suggested she should study architecture. She agreed. I found a woman professor to go around with her, teach her, take her to France, Germany and Italy and generally keep an eye on her. Then eighteen months ago, I heard from her professor that she had packed her things and had gone off into the blue.'

  Sherman paused. I thought maybe this was the best thing that could happen. I was busy... Mary, of course, was worried, but frankly, John, Mary was also busy . . . she wants to become the First Lady as much as I want to become the President.'

  Dorey was only half-listening to this. He couldn't get out of his mind the pictures of the naked girl he had watched with so much disgust. Sherman's daughter! He felt a chill run up his spine. If this film got into the wrong hands, not only would Sherman be politically finished, but his social life would also be ruined.

  Sherman was saying, 'Of course I accept some of the blame. We've behaved selfishly, but Gillian just doesn't fit in with our way of life nor we with hers. I thought it best to let her make her own life. I was ready to give her money, but she never asked for it.' He paused to stare at Dorey who sat motionless, his legs crossed, his hands in his lap. 'We tried to bury her, and this is the result.'

  'Yes,' Dorey said, feeling he was expected to say something. 'I understand.'

  Sherman forced a rueful smile.

  'That's because you are loyal to me, John. Most people would say I deserve what I'm getting. We have been neglectful parents and now we are reaping the whirlwind . . . and my God! . . . what a hell of a whirlwind!' He took from his wallet a piece of paper and handed it to Dorey. 'Take a look at this.'

  Dorey unfolded the paper. The typewritten note ran:

  To the Sucker who imagines he is going to be the President.

  We send you a souvenir from Paris. We have three other similar souvenirs even better (or worse) than this one. If you continue to run for election, these souvenirs will be sent to your Opposition Party who will know what to do with them.

  Dorey studied the uneven typing. He held the letter up to the light, studying the faint watermark. 'You have the envelope, sir?'

  'The film and the letter came in the Diplomatic bag,' Sherman said. He opened a briefcase, lying on the bed and took out a stout manilla envelope. He handed it to Dorey. The envelope was addressed to: Mr. Henry Sherman, 134, Whiteside Crescent. Washington. c/o American Embassy. Paris. Please forward. Personal & Urgent.

  There was a pause, then Sherman said, 'Well, John? You see why I am here. Someone in Paris - and this is your territory - is blackmailing me to give up running for the Presidency. Mary and I have talked it over. She wanted me to give up, but then I thought of you. Jack Cain has always served me well. I went to see him in hospital, told him I had to come to Paris and asked him to lend me his passport. He gave it to me without hesitation even though he knew if this leaked, he'd lose his job. So, here I am. If you can't come up with a solution, I'll have to withdraw from the election. I don't have to tell you that being the President means more to me than anything that has happened in my life so far. Can you come up with a solution?'

  Dorey's agile mind was already busy with the problem. Seeing his expression of concentration, Sherman sat back and lit a cigar with an unsteady hand. He had to wait several minutes before Dorey said, ‘I could find this blackmailer in a few days and I could put him out of business. I have the men and the organisation to do it. That's why I'm in office. But this isn't the solution, I'm afraid.' He looked directly at Sherman. 'You and I are friends. We have things in common. You have done a lot for me, and I would more than welcome the opportunity to do something for you. But you have enemies. Some of my men wouldn't want you as President. They don't agree with your views ... that's their privilege. It would be impossible for me to use my network on this problem without one or maybe more of my agents deliberately leaking the news that your daughter is in a blue film. I'm putting
this bluntly because we haven't much time. As I see it, I can't, use my organisation to help you. You know how my system works. Every assignment I work on has its own file; a copy always goes to Washington. To open a file on this problem is unthinkable. I'm sorry, sir, but that is the position.'

  Sherman rubbed his hand over his face, then lifted his massive shoulders in a resigned shrug.

  'Mary said more or less the same thing. I know you are right, John. I had a faint hope that you might be able to help, but I didn't pin much on that hope.' Again he shrugged. 'So, okay, I'm caught. At least it was a try.'

  'I didn't say I can't help you, sir. I said my organisation can't help you,' Dorey said quietly.

  Sherman looked sharply at him.

  'You can help me?'

  'I think so. It will cost money.'

  Sherman made an impatient movement.

  'What's money to me? I don't give a damn what it costs. How can you help me?'

  'I could offer this assignment to Girland, If anyone can swing it, he can.'

  'Girland? Who is he?'

  Dorey smiled wryly.

  'You may well ask. Girland was once one of my top agents, but I had to get rid of him. He was too much the rebel. He always put himself first. He has no social conscience and he moves so close to dishonesty I marvel he isn't in jail. He has swindled me out of considerable sums of money. He is tough, ruthless, an expert Karate fighter and a first-class shot. He is dangerous, calculating, shrewd and tricky. He has a lot of courage and I am not saying this lightly. He has lived for years in Paris. He knows Paris the way I know the back of my hand. He mixes with every kind of crook, con man, swindler, tart and queer. He has shady contacts everywhere. Those who live in the shadows trust him. He has two obsessions: money and women. If there is anyone who can solve your problem, it is Girland.'

  Sherman looked uneasily at Dorey.

  'Are you sure, John? A character like that could also attempt to blackmail me once he knew the set-up. Surely you're not serious?'

  'Girland would never blackmail anyone. In his odd way, he has his standard of ethics. I know Girland. He is a rebel and he is tricky, but if he accepts an assignment, I have never known him not to deliver the goods. He is your only hope, sir. I wouldn't say this unless was sure.'

  Sherman hesitated, then raised his hands helplessly.

  ‘I have no alternative then, have I? If you really believe we should hire this man and he can fix it, then let's hire him. Will he take the assignment?'

  Dorey smiled sourly.

  'Give Girland a whiff of money and there is no job he won't do. It'll probably cost you twenty thousand dollars. I'll try to get him for less of course. With that kind of money hanging in front of his nose, Girland would undertake to kidnap Charles de Gaulle.'

  Drina found Paul Labrey lounging at a table outside a cafe that faced Hotel Pare. He sat down heavily beside Labrey, took off his hat and wiped his balding, sweating forehead.

  'Anything happened?' he asked.

  'Your man arrived fifteen minutes ago,' Labrey said, not looking at Drina. 'He's in there now.'

  'Nothing else?'

  'No.'

  Drina continued to mop his face. He scowled at Labrey whom he disliked, knowing Labrey regarded him with contempt and looked on him as a joke.

  Paul Labrey was twenty-five years of age. His French mother, now dead, had been a waitress in a lowly bistro. His father, whom he had never known, had been a passing American soldier.

  Labrey was tall, painfully thin with thick flaxen hair that reached to his shoulders. His skin was milky-white, his mouth wide and hard and his hazel eyes shifty. Green tinted sunglasses were never off his face. Some of his friends thought he even slept in them. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and black hipsters that seemed to be painted on him. He was known to be dangerous and vicious in a fight. He was also known to be cunning, quick witted and a Communist.

  One of Kovski's agents had come across him in a cellar club, addressing a group of hippies, explaining to them the theory of Communism. The agent was so impressed by what he heard that he alerted Kovski. Labrey had been interviewed and accepted as an agent, and was now drawing enough money from the Russian Security police to live the life he wanted to live, but he, in turn, gave service.

  Kovski often found Labrey useful since American tourists were only too happy when Labrey introduced himself and offered to show them the more seamy side of Paris nightlife. The Americans talked to him and he listened and reported back. Kovski often marvelled at the amount of loose talk that went on among V.I.P. American tourists when they came to Paris and had too much to drink and were enjoying themselves. Labrey had a good memory. Much of what he reported was of no interest, but every now and then something would crop up of importance and this was relayed to Moscow.

  Kovski considered Labrey an excellent investment at eight hundred francs a month.

  The barman from the cafe came out into the sunshine and stood over Drina.

  'Monsieur?'

  Drina would have liked to have had a vodka, but he was afraid that Labrey would report back that he was drinking spirits while on duty. Sullenly, he ordered a coffee.

  As the barman returned to the cafe, Labrey said, 'Why don't you buy yourself a new hat? That thing looks like a drowned dog.'

  Drina was sensitive about his hat. He couldn't afford to buy a new one, but even if he had had the money, he would not have parted with this hat. It was his one link with his happier days when he lived in Moscow.

  'Why don't you have a haircut?' he snarled. 'You look like a lesbian!'

  Labrey hooted with laughter.

  'You improve with age,' he said when he stopped laughing 'That's not bad! Maybe you aren't such a dummy as you look.'

  'Shut up!' Drina said furiously. 'Back in Moscow, I would have...'

  But Labrey wasn't listening. He was still chuckling.

  'Lesbian! I love that! I must tell Vi.'

  Drina suddenly sat upright as he saw John Dorey walk quickly along the street, pause for a long moment to survey the dingy Hotel Pare, then enter.

  Labrey looked questioningly at Drina, seeing his face stiffen.

  'Don't go theatrical on me, comrade... someone you know?'

  'Shut up!' Drina snapped. He went into the cafe and shut himself into a telephone kiosk. He called Kovski.

  'What is it?' Kovski demanded.

  'John Dorey has arrived at Hotel Pare,' Drina said in Russian.

  'Dorey?'

  'Yes.'

  There was a pause, then Kovski asked, 'Is Labrey with you?'

  'Yes.'

  Kovski thought for a long moment. So Dorey was having a secret meeting with Sherman. This could be of vital importance. He mustn't make a mistake.

  ‘I will send you two more men to you immediately. Sherman and Dorey must not be lost sight of. . . you understand?'

  'Yes.'

  Drina returned to the outside table and sat down. He removed his hat and mopped his forehead.

  'The man who went into the hotel is John Dorey, Director of the CIA,' he told Labrey. 'Comrade Kovski is sending two more men to help us. Sherman and Dorey must not be lost sight of... it is an order.'

  Labrey nodded. His flaxen hair danced on his collar.

  * * *

  Serge Kovski was a short fat man with a chin beard, an enormous bald dome of a head, ferrety eyes and a thick, blunt nose. He was shabbily dressed in a baggy black suit and there were food stains on his coat lapels for he was a gross eater.

  While he was reading through a mass of papers that had come in the Diplomatic bag, his telephone bell rang.

  It was Drina again.

  'Sherman has left in a taxi for Orly,' Drina reported. 'Labrey and Alex are following him. I think Sherman is taking the 15.00hr. flight to New York. Labrey will call you as soon as they arrive at the airport. Max and I followed Dorey. He left Hotel Pare before Sherman did. He was carrying an 8 mm Kodak movie projector. He must have had this from Sherman as he didn't have
it when he arrived. He drove in his car to Rue des Suisses. Leaving his car, he entered an apartment block and walked to the top floor.' Drina was deliberately holding back on the final denouement. 'The top floor of this building, comrade, is occupied by Mark Girland ... the man we have had trouble with before.'

  Kovski's ferrety eyes narrowed as he listened.

  'Very well,' he said, after a pause. 'Max is to follow Dorey when he leaves. You will follow Girland. Be very careful of Girland. He is tricky. Don't let him see you.'

  'I understand,' Drina said and hung up.

  Kovski stared down at his desk while he thought, then with a sneering little smile, he pressed a bell button.

  A fat, shapeless, elderly woman came in, a notebook and pencil in her hand.

  'Send Malik to me,' Kovski said curtly, not looking at her. Now that he had lived in Paris for some eight years, he had become used to seeing the young, slim girls moving on the streets and he secretly lusted for them. Elderly, fat women no longer appealed to him.

  The woman went away. A few minutes later the door opened and Malik came in.

  Before he had disgraced himself and had fallen from favour, Malik was considered to be the most dangerous and the most efficient of all the Soviet agents.

  He was a giant of a man; a splendid looking athlete with silver blond hair cut short. His square-shaped face, with its high cheekbones, its powerful, aggressive jaw, its short, blunt nose revealed his Slav extraction. His flat, green eyes were windows revealing a cold and ferocious ruthlessness that made most people flinch from him.

  He and Kovski were bitter enemies. Until the moment when Malik had fallen into disgrace, he had always treated Kovski with cold contempt. Although Kovski was his senior in rank, Malik never accepted this fact, and Kovski was too cowardly to attempt to exert his authority over this menacing giant. But now, once the news broke that Malik was no longer considered the best agent and had been removed from the active field and given a desk job, Kovski decided at last he could take revenge on this man who had treated him so contemptuously. He had written to his own superior, suggesting that Malik should be transferred to Paris, pointing out that he could use him usefully as he was behind in his paper work and Malik could make a trusted clerk. Kovski's boss also hated Malik and he appreciated Kovski's sense of humour. So Malik was sent to Paris and loaded down with routine and dull paper work. There was nothing he could do about it except continue to hate Kovski and bide his time.