Angel of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  He turned right. ‘Do you always think this quickly and clearly?’

  ‘I’m alive.’ She directed him, as they followed the road round the deserted American base at Windsor Field. ‘So what does happen now?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you, we go home to bed. I’m sorry if you feel cheated, but frankly . . .’ she looked down between his naked legs. ‘I don’t think you’re in the right mood any more. We’ll see what we can do, tomorrow.’

  ‘You mean you’ll still be here?’

  ‘I told you that I wasn’t going home till Thursday.’

  ‘And then you will just disappear?’

  He was becoming distinctly tiresome. ‘I have to go back to the cay,’ she explained. ‘But it so happens that I will be travelling again in a week’s time, so I shall be back in Nassau briefly. I’ll be overnighting at the Vic, so we can have a last drink together then.’

  ‘Last drink?’

  ‘This time I may be away for several weeks. So, unless you’re planning on spending the rest of your life here . . .’

  ‘Actually, I was planning to go home next week anyway. That is always supposing we aren’t both under arrest by then.’

  ‘Oh, Mark, there is absolutely no possibility of that, even if you get drunk and start shouting. No one would believe you, any more than they’d believe those thugs. Do I look the sort of woman who goes around killing people? Stop here.’

  ‘Eh?’ He braked to the side of the road. To their right the ground rose sharply into a low escarpment, to their left the moonlight glimmered from the still waters of Lake Carmichael.

  ‘Time to get dressed,’ she explained, reaching across to remove the keys from the ignition.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I do apologize, Mark, but I would hate you to suffer a sudden panic and drive off leaving me standing here.’ She gave a wicked chuckle. ‘I could well be assaulted.’ She handed him his clothes. ‘Out you get.’

  He obeyed and she also got out. Her body was still damp, but not sufficiently wet to soak her dress, at least obviously. Her hair was very wet, but she wasn’t going to deny that she had been swimming, if not on Love Beach. It was still not yet eleven o’clock and the hotel would no doubt be thriving, but the only people they were likely to encounter sober were the hotel staff, who all valued her custom too much to ask questions. ‘There,’ she said, getting back in. ‘Now we’re all decent.’

  He started the engine. ‘Anna . . . I think there is an awful lot you need to tell me.’

  ‘It’s very late, and I am very tired. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’

  *

  Because she had also not elicited anything about him, she thought, as she stood beneath a hot shower to wash the salt from her body, and rinsed her hair again and again. Save that on the evidence of this evening she found it very difficult to believe that he could be a field agent for any covert operation; she could not even be sure that he had ever seen a dead body before. But there was also a great deal of evidence that he knew a lot about her past. It could be entirely innocent, or . . .

  Whereas, she thought, as she wrapped her hair in a towel, turned off the light, and slipped beneath the sheet with a sigh, she . . . A hundred and thirty-four . . . and one king cobra . . . And for the first time her victim had not been in the line of duty. As for survival . . . she could not be certain that the first man had intended to kill her, or even the second; to many people, especially women, the presentation of a knife would ensure complete and total surrender

  But they had certainly intended to rob her and rape her in the most unpleasant fashion; and again, if not to her, in view of her experiences, but to most ordinary women, to be forced to surrender to brutal and perverted rape was not a lot better than to be murdered.

  So, no regrets, whatever the inevitable reaction to a spoiled evening. There were more important things to think about – such as the next month or so, and what that might involve. But as she made it a golden rule never to think about what might lie ahead when getting ready to sleep, and as she was still, despite her siesta, very tired, she put it out of her mind and was asleep in seconds.

  *

  And awoke fully refreshed. She breakfasted in bed, then showered again, dressed in slacks, a shirt and sandals, brushed her still damp hair, put on her jewellery, sent her dress to the laundry yet again, telephoned Nassau’s leading photographic studio for an appointment that afternoon, and then went downstairs, prepared to cope with Hamilton’s fears. But he was not to be seen.

  ‘Has Mr Hamilton come down yet?’ she asked Peter on the desk.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. He was down just now and went for a walk.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ She picked up a copy of the Nassau Guardian, and went on to the terrace to sit in a canvas armchair and read the news. Not that there was anything of importance; it was in any event far too soon for any mention of dead bodies on remote beaches to have reached the news desk.

  And now she had both the time and the mood to consider her situation. It was actually six years since she had last set foot in England, or, to be pedantic, seven. When Clive had extricated her from Switzerland in 1945, he had taken her, and her parents, to England, but she had almost immediately been whisked off to a so-called safe house in the north of Scotland, and it was from there that she had fled with Joe Andrews after the house had turned out not to be safe at all.

  So, as Joe had said, it was very unlikely that she could possibly meet anyone who knew her and would remember her. Note, she thought: when doing the nightclubs she had to be absolutely sure that no ambitious newshawk snapped her picture, to be studied at leisure by his readers.

  So the risks were really minimal, of being identified. And Fahri? If he was stupid enough, and lecherous enough, to invite her into his house, he would be signing his own death warrant. Hubris? But she had been in the business for so long she was confident she could cope with almost every situation, always aided by her looks and the element of surprise. No one but a chronic paranoid would expect a beautiful blonde picked up at random in a nightclub to be an assassin sent specifically to target him.

  As to what she might have to endure, or even perhaps suffer at the hands of an apparent satyr, in order to complete the operation . . . well, it would not be the first time, which was no doubt the reason why, in her private life, to have unwanted sex forced on her could turn her into an angel from hell, as someone had once described her.

  And afterwards? The only place she had ever found herself in from which she had been unable to escape on her own had been the Lubianka. There was no private house in the world that could compare with that monolithic establishment. So . . .

  A shadow fell across her chair. ‘Good morning.’

  She looked up. ‘Well, hi. I was just thinking of a drink. Join me?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He pulled up a chair and she signalled the hovering waiter. ‘Two frozen daiquiris, please, Lawrence.’

  ‘Two daiquiris coming up, Mrs Bartley.’

  ‘Do you know all the staff here by name?’ Hamilton asked.

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘But how do you remember which is which? I mean . . .’

  ‘They all look alike to you? They are people, Mark. I like people. Unless I am forced to dislike them.’

  ‘And then you actively hate them.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘May I look at your paper?’

  ‘Certainly. But you won’t find anything in it to interest you.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘I doubt that anyone has visited Love Beach, as it’s a working day. Thank you, Lawrence. And would you care to lunch with me, Mr Hamilton?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Splendid. Will you tell Charles that Mr Hamilton and I will be eating together, please, Lawrence?’

  ‘Will do, ma’am.’

  ‘So tell me how you feel today,’ Hamilton suggested.

  ‘I feel thoroughly rested, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘You know it isn�
�t.’

  ‘Well, then, I would have to say that how I feel in myself is my business, and nobody else’s.’

  ‘Because last night is not the first time you have killed someone.’

  Anna gazed at him, her eyes suddenly glacial. ‘Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to eat on your own, after all.’

  ‘Anna, please forgive me. It’s just that every woman I have ever known, or even heard of, would be reduced to a traumatic state after what happened last night. And the way you handled those men . . .’

  ‘Do you seriously suppose I bear any resemblance to any woman you have ever known, or even heard of? Save, of course, that you seem to have already heard of me.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘So you know that I spied for Germany during the War. I had to be trained to do so, and I had to be trained to protect myself, and to do whatever needed to be done to protect myself. As I told you, that is all history now; and believe me, I want it to be history. But I suppose old habits, old instincts, die hard. When those men attacked me, well, I reacted as I had been taught to do.’

  He put down his glass and held her hand. ‘Anna! Forgive me, please. And forgive me for not coming to your support. I suppose the fact is that I was the one who was traumatized by what was happening. And no man likes to admit that he has played the coward.’

  Anna squeezed his fingers. ‘I understand. And you’re forgiven.’

  ‘So . . . you said that we might do something today. Sort of . . .’

  ‘Resume relations? Could you?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I think we had better put it on hold. Anyway, I have an appointment this afternoon.’

  ‘And tomorrow you are leaving. Anna! Can I come with you? I would love to see your cay, meet your parents, get some idea of how you live.’

  She considered him. He was almost desperate. To get to know her better? To get between her legs? To get out of Nassau for a few days while the body on the beach was discovered and the police inquiries died down? Or simply to discover where she lived? But in any event, taking him to the cay was out of the question.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t do that. My husband is due back any day now. He likes his privacy as much as I do; and as I told you, he is a very aggressive and jealous man. And far more capable of creating mayhem than I am. If he were to find a strange man on the cay, well . . .’

  ‘Does he know, about your past?’

  ‘You asked me that already, and I told you, yes he does. Which I suppose is why he is so possessive. However, as I told you, too, I find that I have to travel again very soon . . . So I will see you next week. If you’re still here, of course.’

  ‘And your jealous husband let’s you travel on your own?’

  ‘We’re in the same line of business. And besides, he trusts me.’ She finished her drink and got up. ‘Let’s eat.’

  *

  ‘Well?’ the voice said. ‘Give me the address.’

  ‘I do not have it,’ Hamilton confessed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yet. Listen, it is possible that I might be able to complete the job myself. Then you would not have to send a squad. Your squads have not been very successful in the past.’

  ‘Do you know what you are saying? What you would be risking?’

  ‘I have seen her at work. She is everything they say of her.’

  ‘And you think you can do it, alone?’

  ‘I think she is beginning to trust me.’

  ‘That may be. But the boss wants her alive, not in a ditch with a knife in her ribs. Even supposing you could do it, which I doubt. Listen, just get me the address.’

  *

  Next morning, having had her bath, Anna was having breakfast, sitting at the table wearing a dressing gown, when the phone rang. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Bartley,’ said Peter, the reception clerk, ‘but there is a gentleman here to see you.’

  ‘Has he a name?’

  ‘Spence, ma’am.’

  She looked at her watch. It was just nine. ‘Oh. Right. Send him up.’

  She poured herself another cup of coffee, got up, unlocked the door, and then took the Walther from her shoulder bag and laid it on the table, behind the coffee pot. A few minutes later there was a tap on the door. ‘It’s open,’ she called.

  The door swung in cautiously, and Anna rested her hand on the pistol. But the man was certainly short and squat and balding, and carried a briefcase. ‘Mrs Bartley?’ He was also definitely an American, and equally definitely taken aback at the sight of her, obviously wearing only a dressing gown, with her feet bare and her hair loose.

  ‘Mr Spence? You’re very early.’

  ‘I took the first flight. Joe said you were in a hurry.’ Anna waited, and he closed the door. ‘This has got to be the hottest place I’ve known since Owattamie.’

  ‘Thank you, Horace. Come and sit down. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cup of coffee; there’s only one cup.’

  Spence advanced, still cautiously, and sat down. ‘You don’t keep your door locked? I could’ve been anybody.’

  Anna used her left hand to move the coffee pot, and he gulped. ‘Holy shit!’

  ‘If you’d been anybody, Horace, at least anyone I didn’t like the look of, you’d be dead.’

  ‘Jesus! They told me you were the best.’

  ‘And now you know they were telling the truth. Now, shall we finish the religious recitation and get to business?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. May I?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Carefully he moved various plates and pots and placed the briefcase on the table, while Anna sipped her coffee. He opened the case and delved into it. ‘One passport. You were to have a photo for me.’

  Anna got up and took the photo, which she had had taken the previous afternoon, from her shoulder bag, and handed it to him. With the glasses and her hair pulled right back, and pinned into a tight bun, it made her features look rather severe, but he didn’t comment, produced a small tube of glue and carefully positioned the little photograph in the right square, then took out an ink pad and a stamp, which he placed across the bottom half of the photo. The stamp was the official American seal. ‘There you go.’ He held out the little booklet.

  Anna opened it. She was an American citizen named Anna Kelly. Joe believed in sticking to her own Christian name where possible, as he had a theory that the quickest way to detect someone using a false identity was to address them by their true Christian name and watch their response. ‘Well,’ she commented, ‘Kelly is at least an improvement on some of the names I’ve been stuck with in the past.’

  Spence produced a BOAC ticket in the name of Anna Bartley. ‘Return to London, leaving on Thursday.’ He raised his head. ‘That’s a week today.’

  ‘I know that, Horace.’

  ‘The return is open. Smitten will see to that, as he is seeing to all your arrangements in England.’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said, somewhat doubtfully. But she remembered that Jerry, despite his failings as a back-up, was quite good at organizing things.

  ‘Well, then . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Ah!’ He produced a slip of paper. ‘One certified cheque for a hundred thousand dollars.’

  Anna took it, glanced at the date. ‘The third of March. A month today.’

  ‘Joe said you’d be back by then.’

  ‘I see. Next?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Joe said to give you this.’

  He handed over the sealed envelope. Anna slit it and scanned the brief note on official State Department paper:

  This is to certify that Mrs Anna Bartley is a retired employee of the State Department and is not to be prosecuted for any crime she may be considered to have committed within the continental United States without reference to this department.

  Of course she had known that they would have to cover themselves with the right to revoke her immunity if she were to go overboard, in any direction. She simply had to trust them. And it w
as signed by both the Secretary of State and the Director of the CIA. She folded the letter. ‘Thank you, Horace. Now, there’s one more thing you should have for me.’

  ‘Yeah. You were inquiring about a guy named Mark Hamilton.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Well. we don’t have any name like that in our recent files, but Joe said you wanted us to go back a bit.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yeah. We had to tap the FBI, because you wanted us to check the period before we existed. But they go back a long way and their lists include known agitators, on both sides of the Atlantic from before the War. That’s to make sure they can’t get a visa to sneak into the country.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Some guy with that name is listed as being a member of the Communist Party when he was at Cambridge University in 1939. Seems quite a few of those kids had leftist leanings.’

  In 1939, the year Hamilton claimed to have met her. But, as she recalled, Spence was quite correct in suggesting that there had been a large number of young British pseudo-intellectuals who dabbled in Communism in the thirties, and that was no reason for him not to have been invited to a party at Lady Pennworthy’s. In fact, it has been regarded as something of a cachet to have one or two of these people floating about, if only to prove one’s political broad-mindedness. ‘Again, thank you, Horace. Are you going to have lunch with me?’

  ‘No. Much as I’d like to. I’m taking the next flight out.’

  ‘Well, then.’ She got up. ‘Nice meeting you.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll meet again, sometime.’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Anna closed the door behind him, locked it, and placed the cheque, the letter and the passport in her shoulder bag, along with the pistol. Then she got dressed in slacks and a shirt, thrust her toes into sandals, added make-up and her jewellery, picked up her straw hat, slung the bag, closed her valise, looked around the room, and went downstairs. ‘Good morning, Charles. Tommy come in yet?’

  ‘He ain’t been here, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, it’s still early. Give me a shout when he turns up. And prepare my bill, will you?’