Angel of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  Jerry made a face, but called for the check and escorted her into the lobby to collect her coat. She was, in fact, beginning to feel a little desperate. She had been in England for ten days, and been to a nightclub on each night save the two Sundays, always wearing one of her sheath evening gowns, either in pale blue or deep green or black, colours that showed off her complexion and figure to perfection, and each with a plunging décolletage that could leave no doubt that the various curves were genuine. She had certainly attracted a lot of attention. But she had been in the business long enough to know the difference between the ‘Boy, that’s worth looking at’ look and the ‘Boy, that’s something I’d like to get my hands on’ look, and, most important of all, the ‘Boy, that’s something I just have to get my hands on’ look.

  On the eight nights there had only been one of those and, as she had told Jerry, that had been from an olive-skinned gentleman at the Coca Club. He had been distinctly handsome, his tuxedo impeccable, and the waiters deferential. He had also been seated between two extremely attractive young women. But he had been unable to keep his eyes off her, and she had felt that he was mentally stripping her naked. So it was worth giving it a whirl . . .

  It was getting on for midnight when they arrived. Consequently, the only table they could have was towards the back of the crowded room – but from her point of view it was ideally located, as, fortuitously, an aisle between the tables enabled her to look directly at the one occupied by her admirer and his two current companions. She had virtually to brush against him as she passed; and on seating herself, turned towards him, smiled, and inclined her head. He did the same, and then pointedly looked at Jerry before again looking at her.

  Jerry was oblivious to this, as he was busy reading the wine and cocktail menu, no doubt trying to find something that might be acceptable to her. ‘Jerry,’ she said. ‘I think you should go to the toilet.’

  He looked up. ‘Eh? I went . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you need to go again. Don’t hurry back. And when you do come out, go to the bar and wait there for my signal before returning to the table.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Just do it. Now!’

  A last hesitation, then he got up and went towards the back of the room. A waiter was hovering, and now he placed a glass in front of her. ‘I think I should wait to order until my escort returns,’ she said.

  ‘But this has been sent to you, madam, by Mr Khouri.’

  Anna looked at Khouri, heartbeat quickening at the name, and raised the glass. ‘Then thank him for me.’

  She felt a pleasant glow of excitement as she recalled Joe’s briefing and the adrenalin began to flow, enhanced as she tasted her drink and realized that it was real champagne. A moment later Khouri stood beside her. ‘May I join you until your husband returns, Mrs . . .?’

  ‘By all means,’ she said ‘And he is not my husband.’

  Khouri sat down ‘The last time you came to this club he was also with you. Is he your lover?’

  ‘You mean you remember that?’

  ‘No man, seeing you, could ever forget you, Mrs . . .?’

  ‘You say the sweetest things. My name is Anna Kelly. And he is not my lover, just a friend.’

  ‘And you are Irish. The accent is unmistakable.’

  ‘You are perceptive. And it is miss.’ When on business, she did not wear her wedding ring.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘It is difficult to believe that you can never have married.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been married. Twice.’

  ‘Ah. I like the word been. I am Alois Khouri.’

  ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘An ardent admirer of beauty.’

  It was Anna’s turn to say. ‘Ah. And you have sufficient wealth to indulge your hobby, I would say.’

  He eyed her ruby solitaire. ‘As have you – or are you receiving enormous amounts of alimony?’

  ‘Sadly, Mr Khouri, I wish it were so. I have never been very wise when it came to organizing money. The ring is a gift from an admirer. But I’m afraid I am going to have to sell it.’ She was travelling too fast; but time was running out, and she had to get him while she could.

  ‘That is very tragic,’ Khouri said. ‘A beautiful woman should never be out of funds. I would very much like to help you.’

  Anna regarded him for several seconds. ‘I think you need to explain just what you mean by that.’

  ‘Well . . .’ He toyed with the stem of his glass. ‘Like you, I am not as wealthy as I appear. But I work for a very wealthy man, who provides me with funds, so that I may circulate in London and search for . . . talent.’

  Anna drained her glass. ‘I think, Mr Khouri, that it is time for you to rejoin your party. But thanks for the drink.’

  ‘Oh, please, do not misunderstand me.’ His hand crept across the table so that his fingers touched hers. ‘Mr Fahri is an impresario. His business is finding and recruiting talent for the entertainment industry, where, as I am sure you know, new faces are in constant demand. So we seek, and find, budding actors and actresses, singers and dancers, musicians and magicians.’

  Anna allowed her fingers to lie in his, even closing them a little. ‘And this is a charitable organization?’

  ‘Well, of course not. Mr Fahri is a businessman. He will retain ten per cent of your earnings. But I would say that you would soon be earning so much that ten per cent would be – how do you say? – water off a duck’s back.’

  ‘You paint a very exciting picture, Mr Khouri. Sadly, there is a caveat. I have no talents whatsoever.’ Except for destroying slugs like you, she thought.

  ‘My dear lady, you cannot have looked in the mirror recently. A face as strikingly beautiful as yours is all the talent most women need to get right to the top. Other talents can be built around it.’

  She regarded him for some seconds, looked around the room, and felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. ‘Holy shit!’

  ‘What?’ He was completely taken aback.

  Anna abruptly released his hand, grabbed her evening bag and gloves, and stood up. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘But . . .’ He stood also. ‘If it is something I have said . . .’

  ‘I find what you said intensely interesting. I would like to hear more. Listen, I am at the Royal George Hotel. Call me tomorrow.’

  She left the room, hurried into the lobby, and gave the check-in girl the ticket for her coat. A moment later Jerry appeared. ‘What happened? I got the impression you were making progress.’

  ‘I was, God damn it,’ Anna said. ‘And then my husband turned up.’

  Jerry goggled at her. ‘You mean Bartley is here?’

  ‘No, Clive is not here. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, unless, like me, he was working. This was my first husband, Ballantine Bordman.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Look,’ Anna said. ‘Let’s get out of here. Take me back to the hotel.’

  He hailed a taxi, and she prevented him, with difficulty, from asking questions until they reached the hotel. Then she invited him up to her room. He closed the door and leaned against it while she threw her coat and purse on a chair, stripped off her gloves, and poured herself a brandy from the bottle on the table against the wall. ‘You?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He came towards her, took the glass. ‘You look sort of shook up.’

  ‘I don’t like unpleasant surprises, if that’s what you mean.’ She drank deeply.

  ‘Let me get this straight. Some guy walked into the club who you think may have been your husband . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jerry. I know my husband. I lived with him for two years. He looked a bit of a wreck, but it was definitely him.’

  ‘OK, so it was your husband. You told me he didn’t like nightclubs.’

  ‘He didn’t, when he was married to me. I suppose people can change their habits in thirteen years.’

  ‘And you think he may have seen you?’

  ‘He looked straight at me
and did a double take, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘What do you reckon he’ll do next? Can he do anything?’

  ‘Jerry, his father is dead. So he has inherited the title. He used to have a lot of clout in the government. OK, so I understand that he had a nervous breakdown when he learned the truth about me. In fact, I believe he had to be locked up for a while. But if he’s out and enjoying himself, he’s obviously considered sane again. And he has friends in high places.’

  ‘And you think he may tell them about seeing you?’

  Anna poured herself a second brandy and sat in an armchair. ‘I would say he may do more than that. He used to hate my guts, and there is no reason for him to have revised that opinion.’

  ‘Shit!’ He poured himself a second drink. ‘I can get you on a plane out of here tomorrow.’

  Anna’s nerves had settled. She was such a meticulous planner, her success rate being based upon information and careful reconnaissance, that she was normally able to eliminate almost all unpleasant surprises – even that beastly, and unfortunate, cobra. True its hissing preamble had been a shock, but it had occurred in the middle of an action and, since she had a gun in her hand, she had been able to blow its head off without stopping to think. Encountering Bally after all these years, and in totally unlikely circumstances, had briefly knocked her off balance. But only briefly. Now she was again capable of evaluating the situation, and all the possible dangers that could arise from it, she was able to weigh them against the overall picture and, more important, her ultimate objective. ‘Jerry,’ she said, ‘I came here to do a job of work.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Whatever wheels he manages to start turning aren’t going to get moving in ten minutes. Bally only knows that I’m in the country. He doesn’t know what name I’m using or where I’m staying. I reckon even if he puts the whole of Scotland Yard on my trail we still have forty-eight hours before they can get close. Now, I’m on the verge of hitting the target. Khouri, that chap I was talking to, works for Fahri; Joe told me so. Khouri confirmed it tonight, and he wants to introduce me to his boss. Would you believe it, he says they can turn me into a film star. That again is in line with what Joe told me of their approach. So I was there! Then I had to leave in a hurry, but I told him where I’m staying and suggested he call me tomorrow morning. Correction, this morning.’

  ‘You told him where you’re staying?’ Jerry was aghast.

  ‘I need to get the job done, Jerry. And where’s the risk? He wants to get me into Fahri’s mansion, and I want to get into Fahri’s mansion. Two minds with a single thought. If all goes well, the job can be completed tomorrow night.’

  Jerry shook his head, slowly. ‘I have a gut feeling that this is going to turn out badly.’

  ‘Let me do the worrying. Now, can you get me out of here on Thursday morning?’

  ‘There’s a flight to the Caribbean every morning at eleven – via Hamilton to Nassau.’

  She got up, delved in her shoulder bag, and gave him her ticket. ‘Book me on it. If, as I hope, Khouri calls me this morning, I’ll contact you and give you a final briefing. OK?’

  ‘Anna . . .’

  She kissed him. ‘Stop worrying. I’m doing what I do best.’

  She closed the door behind him, undressed, took off her jewellery and make-up, drank a glass of water, and got into bed. She’d be home on Thursday afternoon, she thought as she closed her eyes. Exactly a fortnight. She wondered if Hamilton would still be at the Royal Vic . . .

  *

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Baxter,’ said Amy Barstow, hesitantly. Amy had worked for MI6 for fourteen years. She was now past forty and, with her short blonde haircut, somewhat blunt features and dumpy overweight figure, was the epitome of the devoted secretary. For most of those fourteen years she had worked for a boss she worshipped – even if she knew it could only be from afar, in view of his long-standing affair with, and now marriage to, that long-legged, long-haired blonde monster. It was only in the last three years, since Clive had partly retired and the senior secretary in the section had done so entirely, that she had been moved upstairs to work for the boss himself; and she remained terrified of him.

  However, Billy Baxter was not, in appearance, a terrifying man. He was small, sharp-featured, had a thinning head of grey hair, and was habitually untidy. His only visible vice was his pipe, which he smoked constantly and filled with careless inefficiency. As a result, he was invariably surrounded by a smoky haze, his desk was always covered in tobacco strands, and the sweater that he always wore in the office was a mass of embedded shreds. But he was the most senior member of the MI6 staff and had been in the hot seat for twenty years, though he was in fact due to retire on his next birthday. For most of that time, he had, as Amy knew, controlled field operations, moving agents around the world like pieces on a chess board, genuinely grieving when one of them was lost, but nonetheless immediately replacing them with whichever man or woman he felt was best suited for the job. The great days of the War might be over, and Britain’s power to influence events largely overtaken by the Russians and the Americans, but the aura of power remained.

  Now he looked up from the newspaper he was reading. ‘Yes, Miss Barstow?’

  ‘There’s a Lord Bordman here to see you.’

  ‘Lord . . . Good God!’

  ‘He says you know him,’ Amy ventured.

  ‘I thought he was locked up.’

  ‘Well, he’s in the waiting room.’

  ‘Then you’d better show him in.’

  He stood up to greet Bordman as he entered. ‘Lord Bordman! This is an unexpected pleasure. You’re looking well.’ Being able to lie convincingly was a part of his job, but actually Ballantine Bordman, although his hair was quite white and his always jowly face seemed to have collapsed, was looking better than the last time he had seen him, in 1940, in this office – almost literally foaming at the mouth, as he had just discovered that his wife was a Nazi spy and that the British Government did not intend to prosecute her, but required him to continue acting the husband until she could safely be returned to Germany. The effort of playing that role had brought on a nervous breakdown that had put him out of circulation for several years.

  He had been released from his institution just in time to inherit his father’s peerage; but, as Baxter had told Amy, MI6 had had nothing to do with him during all those years. As they had parted on the worst possible terms, he could not imagine what the bugger might want now.

  ‘I was feeling perfectly well,’ Bordman announced, ‘until last night, when I encountered my wife.’

  ‘Your wife?’ Baxter inquired, buying time by appearing to be dense, while he thought, oh Christ, he’s been hallucinating. ‘I had no idea you were married.’

  ‘I was once,’ Bordman said, ‘as you well know. It is not a mistake, Baxter, I ever intend to repeat. And last night I encountered that woman. Here in England. I had been told she was dead.’

  ‘Do sit down,’ Baxter suggested, as an afterthought. He sat down himself and considered the situation. It could not be true. ‘May I ask where this, ah, meeting took place?’

  Bordman looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Some friends of mine and I were nightclubbing. And there she was.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Sitting at a table, with her tits virtually hanging out, covered in expensive jewellery, and holding hands with some foreign-looking chap. Holding hands!’

  Baxter got the impression that this was more unacceptable than that she had been there at all.

  ‘I meant,’ he said, ‘at which establishment did this take place? Annabelle’s?’ Where he knew the management.

  Bordman looked even more embarrassed. ‘The Coca Club.’

  Baxter raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Of course,’ Bordman hastily added, ‘it was the first time I’d been there. Naturally, we had been to Annabelle’s first, but my friends wanted to experiment and someone suggested the Coca might be fun.’

  ‘
And was it?’

  ‘Not for me. When I saw Anna . . .’

  ‘I quite understand. But your friends saw her too, I assume?’

  ‘Well, they saw a very good-looking long-haired blonde, yes. But they didn’t know who she was.’

  ‘And you did not tell them?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Quite. May I ask what the countess did when she saw you? At least, I assume she did?’

  ‘Yes, she certainly saw me. And she got up and left, immediately.’

  ‘With her foreign friend?’

  ‘No. She left him sitting at the table.’

  ‘I see. May I ask what time this was?’

  ‘God knows. Around midnight.’

  ‘I would like to get the facts exactly straight, my lord. Your evening began at Annabelle’s. I assume you had dinner there?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘And what time did you leave?’

  ‘I don’t know. I know it was early. It must have been about half-past nine.’

  ‘And you arrived at the Coca Club around midnight? I believe the two establishments are about a quarter of a mile apart. Were you walking? Very slowly?’

  ‘Well, we may have gone somewhere else first. Look here, are you trying to suggest that I was drunk?’

  ‘It would be helpful to know exactly what you had had to drink, yes.’

  ‘I may have had a few glasses of champagne . . . But that did not affect my ability to recognize my own wife.’

  ‘Ex-wife. The countess has married again.’

  ‘Good God! What idiot was prepared to take on a creature like her? But you knew that? I was told she was dead.’

  ‘She survived the War.’

  ‘And you did not arrest her? Have you forgotten that she once nearly killed me?’

  ‘As I recall the incident, my lord, you were about to beat her on finding out certain facts about her.’ And, he thought, you obviously did not realize that she was being very forbearing: Anna could have easily killed him, if she’d wanted to.

  ‘I had just found out,’ Bordman said, ‘that in addition to all her other vices she was an adulterous bitch. So what’s her name now?’