1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal Read online

  Kerman nodded.

  With a wave of his hand, Girland moved silently and swiftly across the rough grass of the lawn. It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn’t see where he was going.

  The gas mask hampered him and he pushed it up to the top of his head. As he rounded the corner of the chateau, he came to an abrupt stop and stood motionless.

  Just ahead of him, he made out the figure of a man, also motionless. Ten yards separated them. Girland didn’t hesitate.

  Crouching, he rushed at the man who let out a half-strangled shout as Girland’s charge swept him off his feet. They went down on the wet grass in a tangled heap of thrashing arms and legs.

  Girland already had his hands on the man’s throat, his thumbs squeezing against the throat arteries. The man heaved and twisted, his fists hammering against Girland’s head. The struggle lasted only a few seconds and Girland felt the man suddenly go limp. He retained his grip for a moment or so, then got quickly to his feet. He listened, heard nothing, then moving cautiously, his eyes searching the darkness, he approached the chateau from the rear.

  French windows faced him. He aimed a violent kick at the framework, just below the lock. The glass cascaded into the room and the doors swung open. He heard a distant shout and more crashing of glass, then the bang of a gun. He was across the room and was opening the door when splinters flew from the woodwork and the gun banged again.

  Dropping on hands and knees, he threw the door wide open.

  The gas mask made his breathing difficult and he couldn’t see clearly. Lifting the gas gun and pointing it out into the dark hall, he squeezed the trigger.

  The gun exploded with a hissing roar and the hall became enveloped in white vapour.

  Kordak, gun in hand, was coming silently down the stairs. He walked right into the gas. He gave a strangled gasp, and fell forward, crashing down the rest of the stairs to land on his face on the moth-eaten carpet.

  Girland moved out into the hall, then stepping over Kordak’s body, he started up the stairs. The gas gun, now empty, was a hindrance and he let it drop. Reaching the head of the stairs, he paused to get his bearings. He wondered how many more men were in the house to guard Erica Olsen. Moving silently, he approached a door to his right, turned the handle and looked cautiously into the room. The gas fumes drifted past him. The white vapour now filled the upper landing. He knew anyone getting a whiff of the gas would be put out of action, but he was still cautious. The room was a bedroom and it was empty.

  “Mark?”

  It was Kerman calling from below.

  “I’m up here.”

  Kerman came running up the stairs and joined him.

  “Seen anyone?” Girland asked.

  “Two guys out of action in the front room. Think there are any more?”

  “Don’t let’s take chances. You look in that room, I’ll go down to the end room.”

  Girland moved on, reaching the last door on the landing and opened it. With a water-soaked handkerchief across her nose and mouth, her muscular body pressed against the wall, a gun in her hand, Merna Dorinska waited for him.

  As the door swung open, the gas vapours moved in ahead of Girland. Even with the handkerchief offering some protection, the gas began to attack Merna. Before she could prevent it, she coughed. At the sound, Girland darted into the room, swung around and closed with her. Her gun went off, but Girland had already gripped her wrist and the bullet ploughed into the ceiling.

  He clawed off the handkerchief as Merna’s fist slammed against his cheekbone, sending him staggering back. The woman took two unsteady steps towards him, trying to lift the gun. Then the gas overpowered her and she dropped to the floor.

  Girland fumbled for the light switch and turned it on as Kerman came to the doorway.

  They both looked at Erica Olsen as she lay in the big bed.

  “Well, here she is again. Let’s get her out of here,” Girland said. He gathered the unconscious woman off the bed, and holding her close to him, he half-walked, half-ran down the stairs and out into the rain.

  Kerman followed him.

  They crossed the road and shoved the sleeping woman into the back seat, then Girland tore off his gas mask.

  “Let’s go,” he said, then as he got into the driving seat, he turned to smile at Ginny who was staring, her eyes large and round. “She’s your patient now, baby. Look after her.”

  As Kerman scrambled in beside him, Girland sent the Jaguar roaring towards the South.

  * * *

  Marcia Davis was taking the cover off her IBM 72 electric typewriter when the door pushed open and Nicolas Wolfert came in. The time was 08.55 hrs. The sight of this short, fat balding man at this early hour made Marcia’s flesh creep.

  “Good morning,” Wolfert said. Under his arm, he clutched a bulging briefcase. “I hope I’m not too early. Is Mr. Dorey free?”

  Marcia knew of Wolfert’s reputation for brilliancy and also of his impressive knowledge of China, but there was something about him which she loathed. To her, he was a soft, slimy slug and she knew instinctively as he stood looking at her, his soft, full lips creased in a smile, sweat beads glistening on his baldhead, he was mentally taking off her clothes and mentally raping her.

  She looked fixedly at him until Wolfert’s eyes shifted, then she picked up the telephone receiver.

  “Mr. Wolfert,” she said, when Dorey’s voice came over the line.

  “Send him in,” Dorey said.

  She flicked a well-manicured finger towards Dorey’s door.

  “Go on ahead.”

  Wolfert ran his eyes over her body once more, then walked across the small office, tapped on the door, opened it and walked into Dorey’s big room.

  Before leaving his penthouse, Wolfert had drunk three large brandies. His nerves were so jumpy that he felt he couldn’t go through his dangerous assignment without the aid of alcohol. Even now he was in a profuse sweat and every now and then, his fat, wet fingers touched the limpet microphone that Pearl Kuo had given him.

  There was no question he wouldn’t do what he had been told to do. His life would fall apart if any of his friends saw these awful photographs of his lust. He had little sympathy for America.

  To his thinking, they had no idea how to handle the Chinese who were, after all, people he had been brought up with and whom he understood. To save himself, he was now prepared to turn traitor.

  Dorey regarded him with mild surprise. He had been at his desk since 08.00 hrs. and he had had a reassuring talk with Girland who was at that moment driving along the Frejus AutoRoute, heading for Eze.

  Dorey was relieved and satisfied that his gamble had come off.

  Although Girland was, of course, impossible, he had proved that when the cards were down, he was a man to be relied on.

  “Hello, Wolfert. You’re early. What is it?”

  Dorey had to contact Washington and he had been about to put the call through when Marcia had announced Wolfert. Dorey was itching to tell of his success.

  Wolfert came to the desk and lowered his fat, sweating body into the lounging chair.

  “I am going down to Amboise so I apologise for this early call,” he said. “As I was passing, I thought you should see some photographs ol’ Kung’s jade I have found in my collection. I thought you would be interested. You will see he has been mad enough to deface these pieces with his initials.”

  He took from his briefcase a batch of glossy prints and passed them across the desk. Dorey took them, scarcely concealing his impatience. His mind was on Washington. He had no interest in Kung’s jade.

  “I didn’t know Kung was a collector.”

  “Indeed, yes. He has one of the finest collections of jade and jewellery in the world.” Wolfert slid the limpet microphone out of his pocket and concealed it in his fat hand. He wished he wasn’t sweating so much. The microphone, no larger than a coat button, was difficult to handle.

  “Very interesting,” Dorey said, flicking through the photographs. �
�Yes, I see his initials. Extraordinary man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Wolfert let the briefcase slip off his fat knees onto the floor. As he bent to pick it up, he quickly pressed the adhesive back of the microphone to the underledge of Dorey’s desk. He picked up the briefcase and sat back, mopping his streaming face with his handkerchief.

  Dorey eyed him with disapproval.

  “You are out of condition, Wolfert,” he said. Then he looked more sharply at the white, strained face. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes . . . yes. I’m working too hard,” Wolfert muttered and got to his feet. “A weekend in the country is what I need . . . a little relaxation.” He gathered up the photographs and put them into his briefcase. “I thought you would be interested. Perhaps I have taken up too much of your time.”

  Dorey glanced at his desk clock.

  “It’s all right, but I am expecting a telephone call. Thanks for coming, Wolfert.” He half rose, offered his hand, shook hands and sat down again. “Have a nice weekend.”

  When Wolfert had gone, Dorey sat for a few moments, staring into space. His shrewd eyes were puzzled. Just why had Wolfert come at this hour like this? he wondered. It wasn’t as if he had anything of importance to show Dorey. Extraordinary. Well, perhaps that wasn’t true. It was interesting to know that Kung was a collector. He wondered if that fact had been registered in Kung’s file. He must ask Marcia, but now he had more important things to do. He picked up the telephone receiver.

  “Give me Washington,” he said when Marcia answered.

  * * *

  The gendarme who patrolled outside the American Embassy stuck his thumbs in his belt and wandered over to a shabby Renault 8 that was double-parked within twenty metres of the Embassy gate.

  The driver, a tall, slim man with Chinese eyes was opening the engine cover as the gendarme arrived. In the car was a Vietnamese girl, wearing a cheongsam. Her pale, lovely face was expressionless. The gendarme who was young and observant noticed with some surprise that the girl was wearing a deaf aid.

  Sadu watched the gendarme approaching. He was slightly flustered as he gave the gendarme a servile smile.

  “I’m afraid I have broken down. I think it is the plugs,” he said in his heavily accented French.

  The gendarme saluted him.

  “You can’t stay here, monsieur.”

  “The plugs have oiled up. In about twenty minutes, they will have dried out,” Sadu said.

  Pearl suddenly looked at the gendarme and her full lips parted in a smile. She managed to convey such a gaze of admiration that the gendarme was dazzled. With a little smirk, he saluted her.

  “Be as quick as you can then, monsieur,” he said, saluted again and moved away.

  Sadu wiped his sweating face and then leaned into the car’s engine.

  Pearl, her deaf aid connected to a small but extremely powerful receiving set was listening to Dorey’s conversation with Washington. The conversation lasted several minutes, then she took out the earplug and called softly to Sadu.

  “We can go.”

  He hurriedly closed the engine hood and got into the car. He drove carefully back around the Concorde.

  “She is at Dorey’s villa at Eze,” Pearl said. “You must tell Yet-Sen. We can leave this afternoon.”

  “We? You must remain here and look after the shop,” Sadu said.

  “We will close the shop,” Pearl said firmly. “We must not make any more mistakes.”

  Sadu began to protest, then thought better of it. Leaving Pearl to park the car, he went into the shop and called Yet-Sen.

  * * *

  “I envy you,” Kerman said as Girland slowed and pulled up outside the Departure Centre of the Nice Airport, “Me back to stuffy Paris, and you with a new wife and sunshine . . . My! my! some people have all the luck.”

  “Call it talent,” Girland said and grinned. “Well, be seeing you, Jack. Thanks for your help. I’ll talk to Dorey as soon as we get to Eze.”

  The two men shook hands, then Kerman nodded to Ginny.

  “Watch him, nurse: he is not to be trusted,” and getting out of the car he walked briskly into the airport.

  Girland leaned over the back of his seat and smiled at Ginny who smiled back.

  “How she is?”

  “As well as can be expected. I would like to get her to bed.”

  “Won’t be long now.” Girland looked with interest at the pale sleeping face. “Quite a beauty, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  Their eyes met and Girland smiled again.

  “I’ll get on.”

  He started the car and began driving towards the Promenade des Anglais.

  He had already got Dorey’s permission to keep Ginny. This Dorey had arranged with Dr. Forrester. Although she was very young, Girland found her attractive. Life ahead seemed full of interest, he thought.

  They arrived at Dorey’s villa a little after ten a.m. The road from the airport had been crammed with holiday traffic and fast speed had been impossible.

  “This must be it,” Girland said as he saw a finger post marked Villa Halios which pointed to a steep, narrow lane, cut into the side of the mountain. He changed down to bottom gear and sent the car slowly up the incline which twisted and climbed through Sea Pines and eventually broadened to a large circular turnaround to the right of which stood massive, iron-studded, wooden gates. The ten-foot high stone and ivy-covered walls completely hid the villa. Girland surveyed the gates from the car, impressed and surprised.

  “Quite a place,” he said as he opened the car door and got out. “Looks like a fort.”

  He approached the gates and seeing a bell chain, he tugged it.

  Almost immediately, a judas window opened and a young, fair-haired man regarded him with searching eyes.

  “This villa belong to John Dorey?” Girland asked, now not quite sure if he had come to the right place.

  “What of it?” The young man spoke French with a strong American accent.

  “The name’s Girland. That mean anything to you, sonny?”

  “Please identify yourself Mr. Girland.”

  Then Girland knew he had come to the right place. So Dorey had called in O’Halloran’s bright young men, he thought as he produced his driving licence. There was a slight delay, then the big gates swung open.

  He was a little startled to see an Army sergeant, an automatic rifle under his arm, come out of a small stone lodge nearby.

  Chained to a hook in the wall was a savage looking police dog who eyed him balefully.

  The sergeant whose name was Pat O’Leary, a massively built man with a red, freckled face and strong, blunt features, nodded to Girland.

  “Drive right in,” he said. “We have been expecting you.”

  Girland grinned at him.

  “So Dorey’s taking no chances.”

  “No. We have six men here. You won’t have any trouble. Trouble will be our business.”

  Girland returned to the car and drove it through the gateway.

  “You’ll find the villa straight ahead,” O’Leary said, looking curiously at the sleeping woman, propped up in the back of the car. His eyes shifted to Ginny and he cocked his head on one side with approval. Ginny stared impersonally at him, sniffed and looked away.

  Girland drove up the drive, turned a sharp corner and then saw the villa which was built on two levels into the face of the mountain with a big upper, overhanging terrace. There were window boxes of cascading flowers at every window and the villa was shaded by Sea Pines. It was compact, modern and very de luxe.

  “Well! Look at this!” he exclaimed, stopping the car.

  A tall, loose-limbed coloured man, Girland guessed would be from Senegal, wearing a white housecoat and white cotton trousers, came running down the steps to open the car door.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said, his black face wreathed in smiles, his splendid white teeth gleaming. “I am Diallo, Mr. Dorey’s man. You are very welcome, sir. Everything has been prepared
for you.”

  And everything had been prepared.

  Two hours later, Girland in shorts and sandals, provided by Diallo, lolling on a chaise lounge, the hot sun relaxing him, was talking on the telephone to Dorey.

  “Quite a place you have here,” he was saying and reached for the glass of Cinzano bitters and soda that stood on the table by his side. “You know, Dorey, you have taste. I’m surprised. I thought you . . .”

  “All right, Girland!” Dorey snapped. “Cut the comedy. How is she?”

  “What do you expect? She was shot full of dope by the Commies and she has had a whiff of your efficient gas. But she’ll survive. Give or take three or four days, she should be as good as new or nearly as good.”

  “Should the doctor see her?”

  “The nurse says no.”

  “I want some action, Girland. Don’t just sit there and imagine you are on vacation. You know what I want you to do.”

  “I know, but I can’t do anything so long as she’s in this coma, can I?” Girland stretched luxuriously. This, he thought, was certainly the life. He looked at the distant blue sea, the blue sky and the distant Cap Ferrat. “All these boys you have here with guns . . . are they part of O’Halloran’s outfit?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you don’t trust me, Dorey. I’m hurt.”

  “Malik beat us to the punch and I’m taking damn good care, now we have got her back, he won’t do it again,” Dorey snapped. “Now, take your job seriously, Girland. You won’t get any more money out of me until you turn in some reliable information. And Girland,” Dorey’s voice became suspicious, “what is this nurse like you have down there?”

  “Like . . . what do you mean?”

  “Is she young?”

  “I get it. You’re worrying that she might seduce me. That’s okay, Dorey, she’s around fifty with three double chins. A nice old thing, but not my style.” As he replaced the receiver, he looked up to see Ginny standing in the doorway. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Ginny said.