The Girl From Peking

by George B Mair

  Her only problem was ‘They’. Who might they be?

  She ruled Grant out almost automatically. He would operate in the centre of things and she already knew his exact seat at the banquet. And one part of her mind relaxed as she realised that for him, at least, there would be no quick exit. And then she heard his voice again, that deeply reassuring voice which knew exactly what to say in order to set a woman’s heart quivering with satisfaction. She remembered the contrast of his walnut brown forearms and wrists against the creamy purity of her flesh, and she felt, mysteriously, the warmth of kisses which tingled her very soul.

  She lit another Romeo y Julietta and lay back on her chair, remembering every last second of their parting in the Sahara. She had intended to kill him. She had even hated him and deliberately kept him waiting for death.

  But why?

  And she remembered that only a thin line divides love from hate.

  Until then she had accepted simply that every woman must have a man. But since the day when he had shown that he was as ruthless as herself she had experienced some bizarre emotional orgasm. She still hated. But now she didn’t want to kill. She wanted only to make him her slave. To humiliate his pride and make him serve her as an ancient Empress had been served by her stable boy or a passing courtier. She wanted to subject him to her every whim, to remove all his privacies and have him sit at her feet while she fed him with crumbs. She wanted to go to bed with him and raise his passion until he was crazy with frustration. She wanted to feel the power of his muscles, or torment him by giving herself to him yet showing that she felt nothing.

  She smiled contentedly. That, for a man like Grant, would be worse than death. And much more satisfying. To know that he had lost the power to satisfy a mistress! That would be real revenge.

  And he was her own property!

  Everything she had suffered had been due to him!

  During every hour that she had been in plaster she had concentrated on the time which must lie ahead. It would be a pleasant introduction to kill one of his staff as a prelude to the evening.

  She ordered a Rom Bacardi laced with fresh grapefruit juice and angostura bitters, a portion of cheese fingers and some root ginger. It was a dish she had come to enjoy during a visit to a shore-side restaurant in Port of Spain in the old days, and it suited her present mood. She was tipping the waiter when the explosion came. An hour earlier than she had expected! And as she followed the waiter from her room she saw an elderly woman stagger out of the cupboard, her head bleeding from a gash across the eyebrows and her legs punctured by tiny holes.

  She remembered Miss Sidders from the old days and knew her to be one of the back-room powers-that-be in ADSAD. So she guessed that there would be a swift comeback before morning and cursed Maksud’s technicians in four languages for their inefficiency. The bomb had failed to kill!

  Her bathroom mirror was smashed to smithereens and the management was frantic—or seemed to be. But they organised her into another suite and as a parade of bellboys carried her wardrobe to a floor higher up, she guessed that, for the moment at least, she was quit of both bugs and two-way mirrors.

  But she also knew that Grant would accept it as a personal challenge and the situation amused her. There was nothing like doing the unexpected, and for the moment, at least, she was safe. Especially since Maksud obviously had a man planted right inside the Ritz itself.

  When she strolled towards the lift an hour later and dropped to the foyer she looked more ravishing than she had ever done in her life. Her brocade was cut on classical lines which would never date. Her low heeled, golden shoes were collector’s pieces, while her black pearls hung dramatically against the sheer silk of her gown. Her wrist watch was no larger than an English sixpenny piece and the strap mounted with diamond dust which shimmered like a thousand brilliants against the light. But even that seemed nothing when compared with the shimmering tiara which set off her hair.

  She was also at ease, because she had broadcast another signal and contacted the new cover agent who had now appeared as a Salvation Army officer collecting money outside the hotel. She knew that the tiny flag which he gave her held a micro dot. But the face mirror plus lens within her handbag was powerful enough to cope, and she sensed again that security which comes from expert team work.

  She bowed as police saluted outside the Palace and swayed when the Mercedes swung left into the courtyard. It was already thronged with cars. She could hear music from some open window and it seemed that every chandelier was ablaze.

  There was a volley of flash pictures as she gathered her gown and swept up the stairs.

  A major-domo announced her, and seconds later she was making her curtsey to the President with his wife. They were were very gracious, but she saw a glint of speculation in the old man’s eyes and guessed that he had been fully briefed. Cadet officers were on parade behind His Excellency and she amused herself trying to mark the plain clothes men whom, she knew, would also be mixing everywhere.

  And it was in still another toilet that she studied the flag given by the Salvation officer. It was her final briefing for the evening.

  ‘You were not authorised to bomb that cupboard.

  ‘By doing so you have put our opposition more than ever on the alert.

  ‘In future you will not take voluntary action except when it is not possible to contact us for advice.

  ‘You will now find David Grant and will not leave him until you are claimed for dinner by your partner, Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Mark. You will then behave normally but excuse yourself while the men remain behind for a last drink.

  ‘During that time you will hide inside the room which has been shown to you on the plan of the Palace, and you will come out only after the President has entered.

  ‘We expect him to loosen his uniform, and try to cool off. You will wait until it is certain that he will disarrange himself no further, and preferably until he is dozing with light sleep. You will then use your time piece to send the usual signal and come out of your hiding place exactly one minute later. You will also try not to be seen until you are standing behind his chair, but you will then be prepared for anything.

  ‘Your gown will have been opened so you will, if the President is asleep, pose in various angles around him. But if he is awake you will put your hands across his eyes from behind, as though teasing him. And you will smile when he turns round to see what is happening.

  ‘It is possible that he may sound some alarm, or that there is a manned peep-hole. In that case you must make a scene, attracting as many people as possible to the room before either of you can dress properly. If anyone draws a gun you will distract attention by allowing your gown to slip completely from your shoulders, and since you will be wearing almost nothing underneath the man will be taken off guard for long enough to enable you to cope. If there is risk of arrest use the pearls to destroy yourself.

  ‘Once again you must understand that under these circumstances many photographs will be taken, mostly with fast black and white film or using an infra red camera . . . or possibly both. Press men would also be everywhere and it is certain that the scandal would be so great that your mission would cease to have any value from our own point of view.

  ‘So you must make every effort to avoid drama. We only wish to take compromising photographs of a beautiful woman and an indiscreet President, both dressed in a way which will suggest misconduct, because only then can the mission be regarded as successful. And we rely on your wits to persuade the President that it was sheer coincidence you should both go to the same room for a brief rest.

  ‘Our knowledge of the President’s habits is good and we expect him to be alone. Your chief problems will be to enter his private room without being seen and to persuade him that because he is old and tired he missed seeing you when he entered. We suggest that you may have to cause a diversion in order to distract a guard. For example one of your small smoke bombs disguised as a lipstick might be dropped. This would force him t
o leave his post and give you a few seconds to enter and conceal yourself.

  ‘Finally we must repeat an order. This exercise must be completed without public scandal. But if things do go wrong then use your wits and make it a full blown scandal which will be certain to bring down the government, because we already have sufficient evidence against the most probable future President to be able to blackmail him almost at will. Though, of course, he is not yet aware of that fact. Nor, for that part, can we be absolutely certain that he will be elected. Or our policy would be different and less complicated.

  ‘And one last word. Smoke is only a suggestion and probably a bad one. Even if a guard has been posted near the President’s private room you may possibly be able to outwit him without causing any disturbance. You must try to avoid publicity. But if it is forced upon you then use it to the limit even if it means your own death.’

  Tania could hear the sound of music. A string orchestra was playing themes from Die Fledermaus and it clashed with a beat group laid on in another small hall for younger people who wished to be ‘switched on’—even at the Élysée. Women were laughing outside her cubicle and she could hear someone moving in the next. There was a glint of something above her head, and as she allowed her eyes slowly to flicker upwards she marked a tiny patch of glass move at the top of the dividing wall. A periscope! Someone was watching. Had been watching! She hesitated and returned to the carpeted dressing room. The floor covering was rose pink and extended from wall to wall. There was a five limb chandelier in the centre and a row of wash basins in coloured porcelain. She killed time in applying a fresh layer of eyebrow shadow with a slash of lipstick, adjusted the set of her hair and manicured the nail of her left thumb.

  But the other cubicle door remained closed, and she guessed that the periscope was still marking her from just outside her own line of vision.

  She waited until no one was left excepting the old woman in black who handed out face towels, dropped a few francs into a crystal bowl and walked out of the room. She then cautiously withdrew a slender stiletto which had been sheathed inside the rim of her tiara. The blade was too pliable for her own taste, but she had acquired a technique which had proven safe in six cases out of ten.

  She allowed it to lie alongside her forearm, and stood motionless beside the door studying a baroque hand painted ceiling. The place remained deserted, but as the door opened she braced herself for action.

  She could move like a wild cat, and as a haughty looking matron stepped into the light Tania gripped her in a vice-like crook of the left arm which almost throttled her. She felt the woman’s head jerk backwards and the wild movements of her throat as she fought for breath. But she knew that the position was now right and deliberately lifted the stiletto until she saw the tip of its long blade slip vertically down into the woman’s chest from behind her clavicle. She inserted it with methodical deliberation, and when only a centimetre of blade remained exposed she used the flat seal of her signet ring to drive it completely home until nothing could be seen except a tiny puncture and a minute drop of blood. The woman was breathing heavily and Tania hoped only that she had not damaged the lung. If so there would be a spurt of blood which would end the evening before it had even begun. But if the blade had been driven through the critical spot it would have rammed into veins and arteries connecting with the heart. Its tip would be in the heart itself and the woman would die from an internal haemorrhage.

  Her ears were pricked for the slightest sound, but luck was in. She allowed the body to sag to the floor, drew it into a darker corner and covered it with a square of tapestry hanging on the wall.

  She then opened the dead woman’s handbag and saw how it had been done. The periscope was collapsible and folded into something no more than six inches long. Tania dropped it into a flower pot beside a cluster of drooping palms. And then studied her own white gloves. There was a stain over her signet and it was certain that careful examination would show a hair, a drop of saliva or even a fleck of blood. She slipped one glove into each half of her bra and wandered into the garden. She had lost time. But it was now essential to get rid of the gloves. And finally!

  A few couples were flirting, one or two men were strolling alone, and in the distance she could see lights where drinks were being served outside.

  She chose a canvas deck seat beside a cluster of bushes and lit a cigarette. Her gloves burst into flame before the match went out and she thanked the foresight which had inspired Maksud’s staff to use flammable material for as many of her clothes as possible. They had made gloves a top priority, knowing as everyone now did that combinations of sweat, fabric and finger prints properly assessed by top lab techniques could produce damning evidence.

  The burst of light seemed to pass unnoticed and she ground the ashes into pebbly gravel before strolling back to a side entrance which led, beyond a small vestibule, to a reception room.

  She had begun to feel naked. A woman, alone in such a place, was conspicuous. And Tania hated the obvious. She liked to fit into her backgronud, and only strict normality could save her face once they had found that body! But her eyes missed nothing as she stood, still alone in a corner, and sipped a Kentucky straight Bourbon. The scene was standard, and Embassy parties bored her to tears. Blasé top people with professionals still in the lower ranks trying to look top! Podgy middle aged men hiding their overloaded paunches behind well cut suits and trusting to a splash of decorations to suggest sex appeal! Youngsters keeping one wary eye on their own boss-man and the other on any approachable female within reach. Crew cuts, mod stylings, bald scalps or artistic locks drooping over necks riddled with tiny pimples! She knew them all. It was an old story. With the same women doing the same things, be it in Washington or London, France or Italy. The aged matron, masked behind a porcelain make up: uncertain teenagers showing their insecurities by giggles and shrill laughter: withdrawn women whose wary eyes studied every man and every rival with clinical coolness and then dived for the kill: genuine housewives or mothers forced to play their part and help out over-tired husband’s by turning up just for an hour or two wearing off-the-hook clothes in the hope that they could be taken for models when covered by stoles or mantillas. And then, of course, the few who mattered: the wife of the ambassador: the wife of the President: the mistress of a Chief of Staff: the daughter of an American millionaire! They too always looked the same: cool, tolerant, relaxed and amusing, armed with an expensive wardrobe, the best of accessories and long experience in the game.

  With background music always in the distance. Usually Strauss or Lehar during the early stages and folk or beat to round off the night after everyone had begun to lose their inhibitions.

  With, of course, a non-stop flow of quality liquor.

  Vodka in Moscow.

  Bourbon, champagne or cocktails in Washington.

  Sherry, whisky or gin in London.

  And champagne or whisky in France.

  Peking? She smiled. Her people always offered the most suitable drinks for every occasion, so there was no pattern. But for their own people it was either rice wine or thin tea and no compromise.

  She liked ‘no compromise’. And she remembered staring into the eyes of the woman she had killed only half an hour earlier, though now it seemed a century. They had felt the same way. The woman’s eyes had asked for no mercy and had shown only acceptance of defeat. Not even fear. So she must have been very professional.

  And then she saw him. Grant was wearing a white dinner jacket and his black suède evening shoes seemed to glow like velvet as light reflected against the marble of a short flight of steps. He had paused to light a cigarette, and as he stepped forward she allowed herself to move slightly in his direction. It was an invitation. But she knew that he had marked her.

  He was all smiles. ‘Tania!’ He kissed her hand. ‘You look terrific! Absolutely wonderful. But tell me . . .’ and there was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Where . . . are . . . your . . . gloves?’

  She shrugged her s
houlders. ‘Somewhere. I forget. I hate holding a glass with gloves. They get dirty.’

  ‘Is that why you burned them?’ He forced his advantage. ‘I was with a red-head in the garden and couldn’t help seeing. But I’m very glad,’ he added. ‘Because it is so much nicer to kiss skin like yours than even the most costly gloves made in Paris . . . or Peking for that part. Incidentally, Jacqueline,’ he whispered softly. ‘I never saw anything go up in smoke so fast. Were they specially prepared?’

  ‘My name is Tania,’ she said coldly. ‘Why do you say Jacqueline?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry. I just never seem to forget her. She was my secretary, remember?’

  Tania’s voice became very soft. ‘The one you loved so much. Tell me,’ she added. ‘I’m interested. You could have almost any woman for the asking. What was so special about this secretary? Why did you love her?’

  Grant changed the subject. ‘Not any other woman. You are in purdah.’ He offered his arm. ‘But let’s get nearer to some fresh air. A follow up at the garden bar. Bourbon or champagne. Which?’

  They sat down beside a rose bed. The flowers looked artificial under electric light and Grant fired his first broadside. ‘Tania, who was once Jacqueline, have you ever heard of Samos?’

  The girl stiffened. ‘This Jacqueline joke has gone far enough. I’m not interested in your love life.’

  ‘But you will be interested in Samos?’

  She eyed him with formal interest. ‘I had a holiday there once. That island on the edge of Turkey?’

  ‘Wrong,’ snapped Grant. And his parade ground voice edged every word. ‘Samos is a satellite. American. And known to some as the eyes and ears of space. It can monitor almost any radio transmission from ground or air, can tune into almost any wavelength and managed this afternoon to pick up your own briefing from Maksud Wang’s department in China.’