by Bob Cook
The captain half-closed his eyes in thought, then shook his head.
“No. He just ask to see the buono di consegna—how you say, the delivering…”
“The delivery note?”
“Ecco, the delivery note, from the truck driver.”
“So it’s possible that Mr Carter didn’t know where the goods were going?”
This suggestion took the captain aback.
“But he knew,” he said. “He must know…”
“Did you tell him?”
“Yes of course. On the telephone.”
“You dealt with him by phone before?”
“Always. He phone from Paris, tell me what he want sent where. When he come here, nothing else to talk about.”
“You mean, when he came to oversee the loading?”
“Yes. Mr Carter, he just come one afternoon, ask if these thing arrive. I say yes, and show him the delivery note. A very quiet man, Mr Carter—he say almost nothing. Just watch us put them on ship, and he gone.”
“And that’s all?”
“Sure.”
“Did he say anything else? Anything at all? Please think hard.”
The captain thought hard, and then he snapped his fingers. “Yes,” he said excitedly. “He say one other thing. Very strange, now I think. He say, ‘I wait to meet you at the other end.’”
“Why was that strange?”
The captain shrugged.
“No point. The shipping agent in Turkey, he handle everything there. Why should Mr Carter go there?”
“You assumed that Mr Carter meant that he would be waiting for you in Turkey?”
“Of course. Where else?”
“I think he meant Southampton,” the Laird said.
“Southampton? You crazy. I never go to Southampton. Only work in Mediterranean.”
“Yes, but did Mr Carter know that?”
The captain laughed.
“Sure. He tell me to send these things to Turkey, remember. On the phone. He must know.”
“Of course,” the Laird said, but he was far from convinced. “Can you describe Mr Carter to me?”
“Fifty, fifty-five year old. Tall like you, but not so big. Brown hair, short. Occhiali—how you say?—glasses.”
The Laird nodded. Blake had shown him a photograph of Carter and the description tallied.
“Like I say, he was a very quiet man. No big conversation. Furtivo…”
“Secretive?”
“Si.”
“I think I can explain that,” the Laird smiled.
“He think we take guns?”
“Exactly.”
The captain, laughed heartily, as if the Laird had just recounted a vintage anecdote.
“Very good,” he said appreciatively. “I tell my brother this story. Very, very good.”
The Laird grinned sheepishly.
“Yes,” he admitted, “I suppose it is rather a classic. But tell me, do you know where the goods went after the shipping agent took charge of them at Mersin?”
“One moment,” the captain replied, and he took another look through the documentation. “Here: from the agent.”
He pointed to a carbon copy of the agent’s bill of receipt. Most of the goods were destined for a Turkish company called Egridir Fertilisers; the rest were for the State Organisation for Chemical Industries in Baghdad. The Laird wrote this information down, but he knew he was probably wasting his time.
“Thank you for helping me,” he said to the captain. “We still have a mystery on our hands, but I think you’ve done all you can to solve it.”
“Pleasure,” the captain smiled. “If you want more information, come to my hotel.”
“Where’s that?”
“The Hotel San Marino, on the Borgo dei Cappuccini. Is very close to here. But remember, we leave early tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” the Laird said. “Thanks again.”
“Arrivederci.”
The Laird left the Flavio and returned to the Via San Giovanni, which led him back into the town centre. He felt deeply confused, and wondered what the others would say when he reported back to them. Clearly, the guns had never been loaded onto the Flavio, but had been taken elsewhere. That assumed, of course, that there really had been a consignment of arms. It was quite possible that they never existed. But if so, how could an experienced dealer like Carter have been duped so badly? It didn’t make sense.
The Laird sighed ruefully, and decided to put the matter to one side. Since his inquiries had proved fruitless, he would console himself with a few days’ gentle sightseeing. He found a newspaper kiosk in the main square, and picked up a copy of the Daily Telegraph. Then he sought out a quiet café with an outdoor seat, refilled his pipe bowl, and ordered himself a coffee. If the Laird required any further consolation, he found it on page two of his newspaper, with a headline that said, “Soviet Spy Speaks on TV.”
The Laird sat bolt upright in his seat, and coughed out a mouthful of espresso.
“What?” he spluttered. “‘Yevgeny Akhmatov interviewed on Russian television’…that’s bloody incredible!”
Chapter Twenty-three
“BLOODY INCREDIBLE,” Stringer said. “Why the fuck have they done it?”
“Why do they do anything?” the D-G replied. “To make trouble, for us, of course.”
They were gazing at the newspaper item which had caused the Laird such great mirth. Beneath a blurred photograph of a white-haired old man, the article explained that Yevgeny Akhmatov, the notorious Soviet spy, had been interviewed by Gostelradio, the Russian TV network.
Akhmatov claimed that, after a long and action-packed career, he had retired in 1973 and settled down in an apartment in Semipalatinsk. He confirmed that for many years his arch-enemy had been the British agent Clive Ogden, and that the dramatic events recounted in Ogden’s memoirs really had occurred.
Of course, Akhmatov disputed Ogden’s version of many episodes, and insisted that he had acquitted himself with distinction. But he was prepared to acknowledge that Ogden was a brilliant agent, and a truly worthy opponent: “If only he’d been working for us,” Akhmatov said wistfully.
When asked about the beautiful double-agent, Sylvia von Hubschen, the old man’s eyes filled with tears. He said that their love affair had been a beautiful, tempestuous thing, and that the eternal triangle involving himself, Sylvia and Ogden epitomised the complex relationship between East, West and Central Europe.
Finally, Akhmatov was asked if he too was contemplating whether to write his memoirs. He said that originally he had sworn himself to secrecy, and had never intended to trumpet his exploits: those who needed the information already had it, he said. But he admitted that Ogden’s memoirs had caused him to think again. After all, he was a good Marxist, and he understood the importance of history. If it became likely that Ogden’s version of events would be accepted as historical truth, then Akhmatov would be obliged to set the record straight.
“Cheeky bastards,” Stringer said. “I bet they’re pissing themselves laughing over this.”
“I’m sure they are,” the D-G agreed. “But it’s no laughing matter. Now everybody believes Ogden’s telling the truth.”
“Of course they bloody do,” Stringer said. He jabbed his finger at the article. “This is all crap, of course, but has anyone checked it? There might be some small scrap of truth here—just enough to let us prosecute Ogden.”
“That’s what I thought,” the D-G said. “I asked Beeching in ‘S’ Directorate. Apparently there was an Akhmatov at the Soviet Embassy here—”
“Excellent,” Stringer said.
“—but he was nobody in particular. A translator, or something. Wasn’t even working for the KGB.”
“How can Beeching be sure?”
“Some French agent tried to seduce Akhmatov. The Russians found out and sent him home. That’s the whole point: Akhmatov was a silly little nobody, and Ogden’s made him into an operatic villain. Another example
of Ogden’s sense of humour.”
“I don’t know about you,” Stringer said through clenched teeth, “but I’ve had it up to here with Ogden’s sense of humour. It’s really getting me down.”
“You’re not the only one,” said the D-G. “In forty-five minutes I have an appointment with the PM. I’m not looking forward to it.”
“About this?”
“What else? Apparently some MP has tabled a series of questions in the House of Commons, demanding to know if any of it’s true. How would you reply?”
“Christ knows. Refuse to comment, I suppose.”
“Exactly. It won’t look very good, will it? Tantamount to a confirmation.”
“But can’t the PM drop a hint? Some crack like ‘the Russians are deliberately taking advantage of a delicate situation’, or something like that?”
The D-G shook his head sadly.
“You’d make a rotten politician, Geoff. If the PM admits that there’s a ‘delicate situation’, half the Commons will want to know why Ogden hasn’t been prosecuted for creating the ‘delicate situation’ in the first place.”
“I see,” Stringer muttered. “Can of worms, isn’t it?”
“And the PM will want to know how we’re handling it. What do you suggest I say?”
Stringer spread his hands defensively.
“I’m doing everything I can. We’ve dug out every file, tapped every phone, grilled every contact. Believe me, the minute I get anything that could put Ogden behind bars, you’ll be told.”
The D-G looked sceptical.
“How likely is that?”
Stringer looked down at his shoes.
“Not very. Ogden’s abroad at the moment, and we’ve taken the opportunity to look over his home. Nothing there, I’m afraid. A few classified papers, but Ogden’s entitled to have them, and none of it’s been used in the memoirs.”
“Of course it hasn’t,” the D-G said. “Ogden isn’t that stupid. What’s he doing abroad?”
“He’s in the States, fixing a deal with his publisher. The bastard must be rolling in money by now. According to the CIA, he’s been put up in luxury hotels, wined, dined—”
“Is that all he’s doing?” the D-G asked sharply. “No more inquiries about Colonel Kyle?”
“None that we know of. He did fly to Denver—”
“Did he indeed?”
“And found nothing. The offices are empty, and nobody there knows anything.”
“Let’s hope he gives in,” the D-G said. “For all our sakes. Now, let’s be quite clear about what I’m telling the PM…”
Chapter Twenty-four
CAPTAIN RICARDO SALVUCCI returned to his hotel at about nine p.m. Tomorrow would be a busy day, and the captain always took an early night before setting sail.
He lay down on his bed and picked up a paperback novel left behind by the room’s previous occupant. It wasn’t well-written, and the captain grew bored with it after several pages. He tossed it to one side and lit a cigarette.
The captain couldn’t stop thinking about the funny, red-faced old Englishman with the pipe who had visited him this morning. Hilarious. And the expression on his face when told that his consignment of arms was nothing more than a few drums of weed-killer.
There was a tap on the door, and the captain glanced up in surprise. His men knew better than to disturb him at this hour, and the same went for the hotel owner, who knew him well. Of course, he had given the hotel’s address to the Englishman.
“Si?” he called out.
The door opened, but it was not the Englishman who came inside. Captain Salvucci had never seen this man before: he would have remembered the crew-cut hair and those peculiar eyes. He peered inquiringly at the man, who whispered in English: “Why hast thou deceived me thus?”
“What?”
“Why hast thou deceived me thus?” the man repeated.
“Who are you?” asked the captain.
The man smiled unpleasantly.
“Ask now of the days that were past, which were before thee.” The captain’s command of English was reasonably good, but this form of language was entirely new to him.
“I don’ understand,” he said, shaking his head. “You in wrong room, maybe?”
The other man shook his head emphatically.
“I think so,” the captain insisted. “Some kind of mistake, eh? You want someone else.”
The man’s lip curled contemptuously.
“Thy tongue is like a sharp razor, O worker of treachery,” he declared. “Thou lovest evil over good, and lying over truthfulness.”
“You crazy,” the captain laughed. “I no’ lie to you. What you want? Give me a message, maybe?”
The man smiled and nodded.
“A message,” he repeated.
“Okay,” the captain shrugged. “What is it?”
“The Lord shall smite thee with consumption and with fever, inflammation, and fiery heat, and with drought, and with blasting and with mildew.”
The captain was not entirely sure what some of these things were, but he grasped the general idea.
“You definitely crazy,” he frowned. “I think we speak to Signor Bianchi downstair. Why he let you in here?”
He stubbed out his cigarette and began to get up from the bed, but the man stepped forward and brought his hand down onto the captain’s chest.
“Pazzo,” the captain breathed.
He tried to get up, but the other man was alarmingly strong. The captain was no weakling himself, and he threw a fierce punch at the man’s jaw. It seemed to have no effect, and the other man replied with a blow to the head that nearly rendered the captain unconscious. Several further punches landed on various parts of the captain’s anatomy, and left him sagging helplessly on the mattress.
“Behold,” the man whispered, “like the clay in the potter’s hand, so art thou in my hand.”
The captain nodded weakly. There was nothing else to say.
Chapter Twenty-five
“MRS LEMIERS? I’m Jeremy Beauchamp. So glad you could find the time to see me. I do hope I’m not… disturbing you.”
“Not in the least,” Mrs Lemiers said calmly.
Beauchamp judged her to be in her middle-to-late forties. She was an attractive woman, with an elegant, cultivated bearing. Her face was grey and lined, and had not been made-up for some time. Her clothes were expensive, but badly crumpled and carelessly thrown on. She looked infinitely weary and indifferent: Beauchamp knew something about grief, and he could tell that this woman was suffering it in its blackest and most soul-rending form.
“When you phoned, you said it was about Pieter,” she said, as she showed Beauchamp into her sitting-room, “but you weren’t sure. What did you mean by that?”
“Quite simply, I’m not sure if your husband’s the man I’m looking for. He probably isn’t. I only have the surname Lemiers, and my inquiry concerns something very different from his normal line of work.”
“What’s that?”
Beauchamp hesitated. He had dreaded this moment ever since he boarded the flight from London. For the entire journey, he had struggled to find a delicate form of words, a decent euphemism for something that would sound terrible, however it was put.
“The man I’m looking for sold military goods to a friend of mine in England.”
To Beauchamp’s intense relief, Mrs Lemiers showed no reaction.
“You mean he was an arms dealer,” she said.
“That’s right,” Beauchamp nodded. “At least, he did deal in arms on one occasion that I know of.”
“To your friend?”
“Yes.”
Mrs Lemiers shook her head.
“My husband was not an arms dealer,” she said simply.
“He never—?”
“Not to my knowledge. Pieter traded in industrial chemicals.” There was no hostility in her voice; she was simply stating a fact.
“You’re quite sure that’s all? There was no sideline, or…
”
Mrs Lemiers smiled sadly.
“If there was, he never told me.”
Beauchamp took a deep breath. He was enjoying this even less than Mrs Lemiers.
“Is it at all possible that he could have done something of the kind without your knowledge?”
She shrugged laconically.
“Anything’s possible, I suppose. But as I say, he never told me.”
“Did he travel abroad?”
“Yes. All over Europe.”
“Including Paris?”
“France, certainly. He was also in West Germany, Italy, Switzerland—everywhere. So he might have gone to Paris as well—I just don’t know.”
And you don’t care either, Beauchamp thought. How the hell do I get through to you?
“I’m sorry,” she added. “I suppose I’m not being very helpful.”
“That’s all right,” Beauchamp said hastily.
He twiddled his thumbs and glanced around the room. For the first time, he noticed that it contained some very expensive items. There must be a lot of money to be made in the chemicals business, Beauchamp reflected.
“That’s a lovely vase,” he observed. “Han Dynasty, isn’t it?”
Mrs Lemiers’ eyes widened slightly.
“You know about these things?”
“Only a little,” Beauchamp admitted. “That porcelain dish goes back to the fourteenth century, the Yuan dynasty. It’s worth a great deal of money. The glazed figurines—let me see—they’re T’ang dynasty, aren’t they?”
“That’s right,” Mrs Lemiers said. “We collected antiques, mainly for investment. But my husband was very fond of Chinese pottery.”
“He had excellent taste,” Beauchamp said. “I do like that glazed bottle vase—the deep copper-red colour’s absolutely marvellous, isn’t it? Now that has to be Ch’ien Lung.”
“It is,” Mrs Lemiers smiled. “You know more than a little about the subject, I think.”
“I used to deal in antiques,” Beauchamp said. “I wasn’t an expert, but I could recognise beautiful things. And these are very beautiful.”
Mrs Lemiers looked hesitantly at Beauchamp, and said, “Do you know anything about clocks?”