Believed Violent Page 2

  Douzenski regarded him, the brim of his shabby hat hiding the hate in his eyes, then he got out and slammed the door shut. Radnitz lowered the glass partition between himself and Ko-Yu.

  “The frontier at once!”

  They arrived at Checkpoint Charlie in five minutes, but that was time enough for Douzenski to have telephoned. Two fur capped guards were waiting.

  The barrier was raised and the Rolls moved into the no-man’s land. There was considerable delay in checking Radnitz’s passport. The official seemed to be in no hurry. Radnitz waited with a number of Americans who had crossed from the West to the East to attend the opening night of the Komische Oper. He watched the Americans leave; still he waited. Finally, after a further twenty minute wait, the official stamped his papers and returned his passport. The man had a smirking grin on his fat face as he waved Radnitz away.

  Radnitz, his eyes glittering with rage, returned to the Rolls. The two fur capped guards were waiting. They began to search the car while Radnitz walked up and down, trying to keep warm.

  Ko-Yu came up to him, his small yellow face expressionless.

  “Excuse, sir. They ask about the heater,” he said.

  Radnitz walked over to the car.

  “What is it?” he asked in German.

  One of the guards threw the beam of his flashlight on to the big heater under the car’s dashboard.

  “What is this?”

  “A heater.”

  “We wish to see it. Have it taken down.”

  “Taken down?” Radnitz’s hooded eyes turned bleak. “What do you mean? It is a heater. There is nothing concealed in it.”

  “Have it taken down,” the guard repeated woodenly. “We wish to examine it.”

  Radnitz looked at Ko-Yu.

  “Can you take it down?”

  “Yes, sir, but it will take time.”

  “Then do it,” Radnitz said and got into the car. He lit a cigar, controlling his fury, knowing he was in no-man’s land and these stupid animals in their fur caps had more power than he had. Turning on the pilot light, he began to read the papers he took from his brief-case.

  The two guards stood over Ko-Yu as he began to strip out the heater. Twenty minutes later, as Ko-Yu pulled off the cover of the heater, a car came through the barrier and Douzenski jumped out and came quickly to the Rolls. He waved his hand at the guards, then opening the door of the Rolls, he slid into the seat beside Radnitz.

  The guards told Ko-Yu to replace the heater cover and then walked away.

  “I am sorry,” Douzenski said. The smell of his sweat made Radnitz draw more deeply on his cigar. “This was too important. I had to delay you. We agree. We will pay three and a half million dollars for the decoded formula on the terms you have suggested.”

  Radnitz continued to make notes, continued to consult the papers in his hand. For some two minutes, he worked, then he put down the papers and stared at Douzenski, his slate grey eyes burning with rage.

  “I have been kept waiting in the cold for an hour,” he said. “My time is valuable. I will not be treated in this fashion by a Communist Government. My price is now four million dollars. Telephone them! Explain that my price has risen because a stupid member of their party has dared to keep me waiting! Do you hear? Four million dollars!”

  Appalled by the glittering fury in Radnitz’s eyes, Douzenski backed out of the car. He ran into one of the wooden huts. Radnitz went back to reading his papers. Ko-Yu finally fixed the heater. There was a delay of fifteen minutes, then Douzenski returned. He leaned into the car. His face was the colour of tallow and sweat beads glistened on his skin.

  “Yes . . . it is agreed,” he said in a flat, hopeless voice. “Four million dollars.”

  Radnitz pressed the button that raised the electrically controlled window, shutting Douzenski out. Then he said to KoYu, The Bristol.”

  There was no delay when the Rolls stopped at the second barrier. The heavy, steel pole was immediately lifted and the car swept through, back into West Berlin.

  Reaching the Bristol Hotel, Radnitz walked to the Telephone and Telex Bureau. He asked for a telegram form, then writing in his thin, neat script, he composed the following:

  Jonathan Lindsey.

  George V Hotel. Paris 8.

  Arrange meeting with C for Charlie. 13.00 hrs. Hotel 16th.Radnitz.

  He handed the telegram to the girl operator with a DM.10 bill, then he walked across the hotel lobby to the elevator.

  As the automatic doors closed and as the elevator took him swiftly to the third floor, he allowed his fat grim face to relax into a smile of triumph.

  After so much thinking and planning, the prize seemed to be within his grasp.

  Alan Craig cautiously opened the door of his apartment, looked down the long corridor, listened, then stepped back. “On your way, Jerry,” he said. “Hurry!”

  The slim, blond youth, wearing skin-tight jeans and a black wind cheater slid around Craig, gave him a sneering little grin and started down the corridor.

  Craig shut the front door and walked back to the sitting-room. That had been a mistake, he told himself. He shrugged uneasily. Well, you can’t always be right. This time tomorrow he would be on the Pan-Am flight to New York. Paris would be behind him. It was time. The two months he had spent in Paris had been a little too hectic. He stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his jaw while he thought of Jerry Smith whom he had picked up in the Drug Store’s arcade. During the week they had seen a lot of each other. Jerry had been amusing, willing and―Craig paused to consider it and then admitted it―exciting. But this night something had gone wrong. That sneering little grin that kept coming. Every so often Craig had caught Jerry looking at him. Could it have been contempt in those close set eyes?

  Well, he was gone. He wouldn’t see him again. He didn’t want to see him again. Still frowning, Craig walked into the bedroom. He had better begin packing. He glanced at his gold Omega. The time was a little after eleven. He took a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and put it on the bed.

  Alan Craig was thirty-three years of age. Tall, dark with a sensitive, handsome face, good eyes and an obvious Etonian background, he had been Personal Assistant to Mervin Warren, Head of Rocket Research for the past five years. Since leaving England, and settling in the United States, Craig had had a successful career. He had gone to Washington as a junior official attached to a Rocket Research group sent over by the British Government on a fact-finding exchange of views. He had been spotted by Mervin Warren who was always on the look-out for keen, young talent. Warren had decided this brilliant young man could be more useful to him than to the London group. An offer was made and accepted, and Warren had had no regrets. He quickly satisfied himself that he had found the best and most intelligent Personal Assistant he could wish to find.

  Warren had been in Paris now for two months conferring with French scientists in yet another exchange of views and ideas. Their final meeting had taken place the previous day. Tomorrow, he and Craig would be returning to Washington.

  As Craig opened the suitcase, the telephone bell rang. He walked into the sitting-room and picked up the receiver, “Yes?”

  “Is that you, Alan?”

  He recognized the soft voice with its strong American accent and he became alert.

  “Hello there, Jon. I’m just packing. How are you?”

  “Fine . . . fine. Look, Alan, could you come down to my hotel? Say in a couple of hours? I’ve something that will interest you. It’s important.”

  “Why, yes, of course. At one o’clock? What is it?”

  “See you at one then,” and the line went dead.

  Craig was puzzled. Something that will interest you. Was Jonathan Lindsey going to make him an offer? he wondered. Craig was ambitious. He had no intention of remaining much longer as Warren’s general factotum. He had met Lindsey at an Embassy cocktail party and had immediately liked him; a man around sixty years of age, tall, white haired, ruddy complexion with steady pale blue eye
s who said he was in oil. Craig knew power and money when he met the combination. He knew instinctively that Lindsey was important, and Craig was always drawn to and interested in people of importance. They had met again. Lindsey usually dined at La Tour d’Argent, and Craig was more than willing to eat at such a luxury restaurant at Lindsey’s expense. They were quickly on first name terms. Now suddenly . . . something that will interest you.

  He packed the suitcase, then changed into a grey lounge suit and slid into black, highly polished casual shoes. He surveyed himself in the full mirror, deciding he looked pale and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He grimaced. That Jerry, he thought. Paris had been too hectic . . . too many temptations. He would be glad to get back to Washington. He slapped his cheeks sharply, bringing slight colour to them. That was better, he thought. He went into the sitting-room. Should he have a drink? He felt pretty low. A shot of Vodka might set him up. He mixed a Vodka and lime juice, then sat down, nursing the drink, his mind on Lindsey.

  Suppose Lindsey offered him a job? That meant Texas. Would he want to bury himself in Texas? It would depend on the money. He would play hard to get. He knew Lindsey was impressed by his record. He had seen him talking to Mervin Warren, and later. Lindsey had said they had discussed him. Lindsey had looked thoughtfully at him, those pale blue eyes probing. “Warren tells me you are the best P.A. he has ever had,” he had said finally “Coming from Warren that means something.”

  Craig had laughed, pleased, but had waved a deprecating hand.

  “Oh, I get by,” he said. “The truth is the job really doesn’t extend me. I’m looking for something I can really get my teeth into.” It was a hint . . . a seed dropped. Now, it looked as if the seed was germinating.

  At exactly one o’clock, Craig got out of the taxi outside the George V Hotel. He paid off the driver, then walked into the vestibule. Not seeing Lindsey, he walked over to the concierge.

  “Is Mr. Lindsey around?” he asked.

  “Is it Mr. Craig?” The concierge regarded him, his head slightly on one side.

  “That’s right.”

  “Mr. Lindsey is expecting you. Would you please go up to Suite 457 on the fourth floor, monsieur.”

  A little surprised, Craig nodded and walked over to the elevator. At the fourth floor, he walked along the side corridor until he came to a door numbered 457. He pressed the buzzer and waited.

  The door was opened by a slightly built Japanese servant, wearing a white coat and black silk trousers. He bowed to Craig and stood aside.

  Impressed, Craig moved into the small lobby, taking off his camel hair coat which the Japanese put on a hanger with respectful care.

  “This way, monsieur,” he said and opened a door, bowing Craig into a large saloon, tastefully furnished. Over the fireplace hung a 1959 Picasso. On the overmantel stood exquisitely carved figures in green and yellow jade. On the occasional tables were gold cigarette boxes, gold lighters and onyx ashtrays. On the opposite wall, facing Craig was a Matisse. Nearby was a glass cabinet containing a collection of Ming ware, and Craig who in his spare time was a museum addict immediately recognized their enormous value. He was moving toward the cabinet when another door opened and Herman Radnitz came in, closing the door behind him.

  Craig looked at the squat, fat man, startled and surprised. He felt a tremor of uneasiness as Radnitz regarded him, the slate grey eyes under their hooded lids surveying him with a bleak, searching stare.

  “You are Alan Craig?” Radnitz asked in his hard guttural voice.

  “Yes.”

  “You may want to look at these disgusting things,” Radnitz said and handed Craig a large envelope.

  Craig took the envelope, but continued to stare at Radnitz.

  “I don’t understand,” he said uneasily. “I was expecting Mr. Lindsey.”

  “Look at them!” Radnitz snapped. “I have no time to waste!” He walked over to one of the occasional tables, selected a cigar, cut it carefully, then lit it. He walked over to the window and looked down at the passing traffic.

  Craig looked at the envelope, lifted the flap and drew out six glossy photographic prints. One glance stopped his heartbeat for a split second, then his heart began to race and he felt icy sweat break out on his face. He shuffled through the prints, then returned them to the envelope and put the envelope down on one of the tables. His first thought was that his life had ended. He would leave the hotel, return to his apartment and kill himself. Just how he would do it, he had no idea, but he would do it.

  Radnitz turned and regarded him.

  “On the back of the envelope is a list of people who will be sent these photographs,” he said. “Read it.”

  Craig remained motionless, not looking at Radnitz, his face ashen, sick to his soul.

  “Read it!” Radnitz said again.

  Slowly, Craig picked up the envelope. Neatly typed were the names of those people who loved and respected him. His mother . . . his sister . . . his grandmother . . . Harry Matthews who had partnered him in winning the Rackets Championship at Eton . . . Father Brian Selby who had given him his first Communion John Brassey, his Oxford coach who had predicted a brilliant career for him . . . and, of course, Mervin Warren.

  “I want a photograph of Formula ZCX,” Radnitz said.

  That should not be difficult. I have made your task fairly simple.” He crossed the room, opened a drawer and took from It a small camera in a soft leather zip case. “This camera is entirely automatic, Lay the formula on a flat surface, stand immediately above it and take ten photographs. You will bring the camera containing the film to the Hilton Hotel, Washington and give it to Mr. Lindsey. When he is satisfied the photographs are in order, he will give you the negatives of these disgusting things and all the copies. Is that understood? If you fail, copies of this filth will be mailed to the people listed on the envelope.”

  “How―how did you get these―photos?” Craig asked in a husky whisper.

  Radnitz shrugged.

  “Your friend, Jerry Smith is one of the many creatures I have to employ. Take the camera and leave me.”

  “The formula is useless,” Craig said desperately. “Everyone knows that. You are forcing me to . . .”

  “You will be at the Hilton Hotel a week from today . . . the 26th,” Radnitz said. “If you don’t have the photographs of the formula . . .” He shrugged and left the room.

  Craig stood still, clutching the camera. He remained like that until Ko-Yu came into the room with his coat. Then he picked up the envelope, snatched his coat from the Japanese servant and hurriedly left the hotel.

  Jonathan Lindsey had been Radnitz’s Chief of Operations for the past ten years. He drew a salary of $ 100,000 a year, and earned every dollar of it. Although he was sixty years of age he kept himself in first class trim. He was tall and lean, a nondrinker and a non-smoker, and he had a nimble, shrewd brain and a soulless mind. Suave, smooth, with perfect manners, he frequented the Embassies of the world, and was on friendly and even familiar terms with several of the crowned heads of Europe. As a front man, he was invaluable to Radnitz who preferred to keep in the background. Whenever there was an important operation, Radnitz gave his instructions, and Lindsey carried them out with unfailing success.

  It was fortunate for Lindsey that he liked luxury hotels for he spent his entire life moving from one hotel to another, crossing the Atlantic sometimes as often as three times a week, visiting European cities to fix up a deal here and a merger there, staying at the best hotels where he was known to be a big spender and always received immediate and excellent service.

  On the afternoon of October 26th, Lindsey was sitting in the foyer of the Washington Hilton Hotel, watching the busy scene, relaxed, his well shaped hands folded in his lap, his pale blue eyes regarding the men and women who came and went, speculating on who they were and what they did for a living. Lindsey was always interested in people, no matter how rich or poor they might be.

  A few minutes to three o’clock, he saw A
lan Craig enter the hotel and look around, hesitating. He got slowly to his feet and crossed the foyer, his charming smile lighting up his face, thinking how bad Craig looked. The stupid fellow couldn’t have been sleeping well, Lindsey thought. Well, that was not surprising. If you led the life Craig led, sooner or later, there had to be a blow-back.

  “Hello, Alan,” he said in his soft cultured voice. He made no offer to shake hands. “Punctual as always. Let us go upstairs.”

  Craig looked at him, his face drawn and set. Wordlessly, he followed Lindsey to the elevator, rode up with him to the third floor and followed him along the corridor to Lindsey’s suite.

  “I hope you were successful,” Lindsey said as he closed the door.

  Still saying nothing, Craig took the camera in its leather case from his pocket and handed it to Lindsey.

  “Sit down. I won’t be long. Do you want a drink?”

  Craig shook his head and sat down.

  “Excuse me. I will be as quick as I can,” and Lindsey left the room. He entered the bathroom. Here, he had a developing tank, the chemicals mixed and a red safe light installed. Working with quick efficiency, he developed the film, fixed it, washed it, then turning on the overhead light, he examined the negatives with a powerful magnifying glass.

  These Japanese cameras are really remarkable, he thought as he studied the needle sharp negatives. Satisfied, he hung the strip of film up to dry and returned to the sitting-room.

  Craig looked at him, his face white and haggard.

  “Perfectly satisfactory,” Lindsey said, then unlocking a drawer in his desk, he took out a thick envelope and handed it to Craig. “The bargain is completed, I think.”

  Craig peered into the envelope. He saw the negatives and the prints.

  “How do I know you haven’t copies?” he demanded, his eyes desperately searching Lindsey’s calm face.

  “My dear boy, you should know me better than that,” Lindsey said quietly. “A bargain is a bargain. I don’t cheat.”

  Craig hesitated, then nodded wretchedly.

  “Yes . . . I’m sorry.” He paused, then went on, “The formula is useless. I — I wouldn’t have given it to you if I thought the code could be broken. It can’t! Do you hear? It is useless! It can’t be broken!”