Whiff of Money
James Hadley Chase
Secret Agent Mark Kirkland has been given the task of locating and retrieving three pornographic films. His mission must remain top secret as the films, rather embarrassingly, feature the daughter of the future president of the United States. His quest leads him to the depths of Bavaria where he finds Soviet agent, Malik, and sidekick Lu Silk also rather interested in the whereabouts of the films. Who will find them first? And once found, who’s to say they won’t immediately disappear again?
James Hadley Chase
THE WHIFF OF MONEY
One
On this brilliantly sunny May morning, Paris was looking at its best.
From his large office window, John Dorey, head of the French division of the Central Intelligence Agency, surveyed the trees with their fresh green foliage, the young girls in their new spring outfits and the Place de la Concorde, besieged as usual by traffic. He felt it was good to be alive. He glanced at the few files on his desk and was glad there was nothing for his immediate attention. Relaxing back in his executive chair, he contemplated the view through the window with a benign smile.
With thirty-nine years’ service in Intelligence behind him, Dorey, aged sixty-six had good reason to be pleased with himself. Not only did he hold the exalted rank of Divisional Director (Paris), but he also had been practically begged to remain in office beyond the usual retiring age. This was unassailable proof that his work had been and was still beyond reproach and that he could consider himself indispensable.
Dorey was a small, bird-like man, wearing rimless spectacles. He looked more like a successful banker than what he was: the shrewd, ruthless Director of an extremely efficient organisation whose secret machinations and wealth were so vast that few people realised just how powerful it was.
As Dorey was thinking that the girl, waiting to cross the street and who was wearing a gay micro-mini dress, was the perfect picture of a spring morning, his telephone bell buzzed.
Dorey frowned. The telephone was the bane of his life. One moment he had peace and quiet: the next moment the telephone would shatter the atmosphere as nothing else could.
Lifting the receiver, he said, ‘Yes?’
Mavis Paul, his secretary, announced, ‘Captain O’Halloran on the line, sir. Shall I put him through?’
Captain Tim O’Halloran was in charge of all the CIA agents in Europe. He was not only Dorey’s right hand man, but also a close friend.
Dorey sighed. Whenever O’Halloran telephoned, there was usually trouble.
‘Yes… I’ll talk to him.’ When the line clicked, Dorey went on, ‘Is that you, Tim?
‘Good morning, sir.’ O’Halloran’s gravelly voice was curt. ‘Would you scramble, please?’
Trouble! Dorey thought as he pressed down the scrambler button. ‘Okay, Tim… what is it?’
‘I’ve had a report phoned in by Alec Hammer… he covers Orly airport. He tells me that Henry Sherman has just arrived off the overnight flight from New York. Sherman is wearing a disguise and travelling on a false passport.’
Dorey blinked. He wondered if his hearing was failing. When you reach the age of sixty-six.
‘Who did you say?’
‘Henry Sherman. The Henry Sherman.’
Dorey felt a rush of blood to his head.
‘Is this a joke?’ he demanded, his voice sharp. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Henry Sherman has just left Orly airport, heading for central Paris, wearing a disguise and with a false passport,’ O’Halloran repeated woodenly.
I don’t believe it! There must be a mistake! Sherman is in Washington! I…’
I know where he is supposed to be, sir, but right now he is on his way to the centre of Paris. Hammer is sure of this.
You may remember Hammer was Sherman’s bodyguard for four years before he was transferred to us. Hammer says Sherman’s walk, the way he swings his arms and jerks his head are unmistakable. This man, wearing a moustache and dark glasses travelled tourist class from New York. Hammer says this man is Henry Sherman. Hammer is one of my best men. He doesn’t make mistakes.’
‘But Sherman is guarded night and day by the F.B.I.! He couldn’t possibly have left Washington without them knowing and we would have been alerted. Hammer must be mistaken!’
‘No, sir.’ There was now a note of impatience in O’Halloran’s voice. ‘And another thing: this man is travelling on Jack Cain’s passport. You will remember Cain looks very much like Sherman and was used two or three times last year as a decoy to get the Press away from Sherman. Since then Cain has grown a moustache’
‘Are you sure this man isn’t Cain?’
‘I’m sure. I’ve been checking. Right now, Cain is in hospital with a fractured leg from a car accident. Sherman is supposed to be in bed at his residence with flu. Only his wife sees him. No one else goes into his room. Somehow, Sherman has evaded his guards while his wife is pretending he is still in bed. I am convinced that Hammer is right: Henry Sherman is footloose in Paris.’
‘Do you know where he is staying?’
‘No sir. Hammer lost him when Sherman took the only taxi from Orly airport. Hammer has the number of the taxi. He’s waiting at Orly to see if the taxi returns so he can get a line on Sherman, but it’s a long shot. Do you want me to check all the hotels?’
Dorey hesitated, his mind working swiftly. Finally, he said, ‘No. Did Sherman have any luggage with him?’
‘A small suitcase… that’s all.’
‘Then leave it, Tim. Warn Hammer to say nothing. If he spots the taxi he is to try to find out where Sherman was taken, but he mustn’t make a thing of it. This could be a very tricky one. Stay near a telephone, Tim. I could need you in a hurry,’ and Dorey hung up.
He pushed back his chair and stared sightlessly across the room his mind busy.
If this man was really Henry Sherman, the thought, what in the world was he doing in Paris? He was pretty sure that O’Halloran was right and this man was Sherman. Had Sherman gone out of his mind? Dorey dismissed this thought immediately. The fact that Mary Sherman had obviously helped her husband to make this dangerous and mysterious journey must mean that they were both involved in a very serious, personal matter which had forced Sherman to sneak out of the country and come to Paris.
Dorey wiped his damp hands on his handkerchief. If the Press got hold of this story! Henry Sherman of all people, in a disguise and travelling on a false passport!
Dorey had reason to be alarmed for Henry Sherman was running for the Presidency of the United States and so far he was well ahead of the small field. Apart from being the very possible future President, Sherman was one of the richest and most powerful men in America. He was the President of the American Steel Corporation, Chairman of the United American & European Airways, and he held innumerable directorships on various important boards. His influence was considerable and he was on first-name terms with all the important members of the present Government. He had always led an immaculate private life, and his wife, it had been generally agreed, would make the ideal First Lady.
Dorey had known Sherman for some forty-five years. As freshmen, they had shared a room together at Yale University.
Thinking back, Dorey realised what a dynamo Sherman had been even at the beginning of his spectacular career and how much Sherman had inspired him to work to gain his own position in the world when there had been times when he could have lagged behind. Dorey was very much aware that it was due to Sherman’s influence that he was still at his desk instead of eating his heart out in retirement. He had heard that Sherman had said: ‘Retire Dorey? Why? Because he is sixty-five? Ridiculous! He has years of experience behind him. He has tremendous drive still and he is utter
ly ruthless… we can’t afford to be without him… so keep him!’ Dorey remembered this. Although he had to admit that often Sherman was too tough, too anti-Russia, too anti-China and made enemies easily, Dorey felt an unshakeab le loyalty towards this man who had done so much for him. If there was anything he could do for Sherman, he wanted to do it. But what should he do in this situation? Sherman was no fool. He must know he was risking his chances of becoming President by coming to Paris as he had done. What a scandal would blow up if this reckless move were to be discovered! The Press of the world would make headlines of it!
Dorey thought for some minutes, then he made his decision. The best thing he could do for Sherman was to do nothing.
He knew Sherman was very capable of looking after himself. O’Halloran had been warned to do nothing. Hammer was a good agent and he wouldn’t talk. Dorey decided to let Sherman remain anonymous, to do what he had come to do, then return to his supposed sick bed. If no one interfered, Sherman would do exactly this, but suppose someone did?
Dorey looked out at the sunshine and at the green trees. The view no longer held any charms for him. Suppose the French police picked Sherman up and charged him with travelling on a false passport? Suppose some crackpot who hated him — as many crackpots hated him — recognised him and assassinated him? Suppose…
Dorey flinched. Anything could happen to a man of Sherman’s stature. But what was he to do?
As if in answer to this question, the telephone bell buzzed.
‘What is it?’ Dorey snapped, anxious not to be disturbed from his line of thinking.
I have a caller on the line, sir,’ Mavis Paul said. ‘He won’t give his name. He says you and he were at Yale together.’
Dorey drew in a long breath of relief.
‘Put him through at once.’
There was a brief pause, then a man’s voice said, ‘Is that you, John?’
‘Yes. Don’t identify yourself. I know who you are. I am entirely at your service. Is there anything I can do?’
I want to see you… it’s urgent.’
Dorey cast a quick eye at his engagement diary. He had two appointments set up within the next two hours, but neither of them was important.
‘Where are you?’
‘Hotel Pare, Rue Meslay.’
‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes. Please remain in your room. I take it I ask for Mr Jack Cain?’ Dorey couldn’t resist this and it pleased him to hear a startled catch of breath at the other end of the line.
‘Yes, but…’
‘I’m on my way.’ Dorey hung up, snatched his coat and hat from the rack and walked quickly into the outer office.
Mavis Paul, dark, beautifully built and very assured, paused in her typing. She had been with Dorey now for a little over a year, and both of there had come to respect each other. Mavis was conscientious, serious, in spite of her glamour, ambitious and a ferocious worker: all qualities that Dorey admired, but at this moment, he was not in an admiring mood.
His cold, set expression startled Mavis.
‘ I may not be back before three,’ he said, scarcely pausing.’ Cancel my appointments. Say I am not well,’ and he was gone.
Mavis was too experienced not to put two and two together. O’Halloran had telephoned: a stranger had telephoned, and now her boss had shot off like a rocket. These brief events added up to trouble, but Mavis was used to trouble. She shrugged her pretty shoulders and reached for her address book to cancel the appointments.
Dorey drove his Jaguar to Hotel Pare, a small, dingy hotel near Place de la Republique. As was to be expected in this arrondissement — as in all arrondissements of Paris — he found no parking space. He finally left the Jaguar on a pedestrian crossing within a minute’s walk from the hotel, certain a contravention would be waiting under his windscreen wiper on his return.
Reaching the hotel, he paused to regard the entrance, thinking at least Sherman had been discreet. No one in their right minds would imagine the future President of the United States would stay at such a place.
He pushed open the glass door, smeared with finger prints, and entered the tiny lobby that smelt of garlic and faulty drains. A bald-headed, fat man sat behind the reception desk, aimlessly turning the pages of Le Figaro. Behind him was a rack of keys and by his side, a small, antiquated telephone switchboard.
‘Monsieur Jack Cain?’ Dorey said, coming to rest in front of the desk.
The bald-headed man blinked sleepily. ‘Who, monsieur?’ Dorey repeated the name.
Reluctantly, the bald-headed man took a tattered register from a drawer and examined it. Then he nodded his head as he said, ‘Room 66, monsieur. Third floor.’ He then returned to his aimless reading.
As he climbed the three flights of stairs, covered by green, threadbare carpet, the smells seemed to grow stronger and Dorey wrinkled his nose. He reached the third-floor landing, walked along a dimly-lit corridor until he found Room 66.
He paused, aware that his heart was beating a little too fast. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the climb or because he was about to face the future President of the United States.
He rapped gently on the door. After a brief pause, the door opened.
‘Come in, John.’
Dorey moved into a small, shabbily furnished bedroom and Henry Sherman closed and locked the door. The two men regarded each other.
Sherman was an imposing, massive figure of a man in his late fifties. Some six feet three inches tall, he had broad shoulders, a fleshy, deeply tanned face, piercing, steel-blue eyes and a thin hard mouth. He was not only handsome, but he exuded that authoritative air and personality that put him in the top echelon of V.I.Ps.
Dorey hadn’t seen him now for some five years. He could see the change in him. Something pretty bad must have happened, Dorey decided, for Sherman to look so haggard and to have these black smudges of worry under his steel-blue eyes.
‘It’s good to see you again, John,’ Sherman said. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’ He paused, looking at Dorey, then went on, ‘How did you get onto Jack Cain?
Dorey slid out of his coat. As Sherman sat on the bed, Dorey took the only upright chair.
‘You were spotted leaving Orly, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘Your embarkation card was checked. O ‘Halloran called me. I told him to lay off.’ Sherman passed his hand over his face. His massive shoulders sagged a little. ‘But how could I have been spotted?’ he asked without looking up.
‘Alec Hammer covers Orly. You remember him? He recognized your walk.’
Sherman looked up. His tired face split into a rueful grin.
‘You have good men working for you, John.’
‘Yes. When do you plan to leave here, sir?’
‘I’m booked out on the next flight in three hours’ time. Can you guess why I am here?’
Dorey shook his head.
‘No, sir. Something pretty urgent, of course. You’re taking one hell of a risk… but I don’t have to tell you that.’
Again Sherman smiled wearily.
‘I know it, but Mary and Cain co-operated. Otherwise, I would never have got here.’ He leaned forward, his massive hands on his knees and stared directly at Dorey. I am here because you are the only man I can rely on to keep me in the Presidential race… and I mean that.’
Dorey shifted uneasily, but his deadpan expression didn’t change.
‘It will be my pleasure, sir, to do the best I can. What am I to do?’
Sherman continued to stare at him.
‘You mean that?’
‘Yes… I mean it’
I knew I could rely on you, John. Goddamn it! You and I are old friends. When this mess blew up, I told Mary you were the only one I could trust to help. Mary fixed it. Without her, I’d never have got here.’ There was a pause, then Sherman went on, T haven’t much time. I want you to see something, then we’ll talk. Sit where you are.’
He got to his feet, crossing the room to where his suitcase stood against the wall. From t
he suitcase he took an 8 mm film projector, neatly stowed away in its blue carrying case. Quickly, he assembled the machine, threaded on a spool of film, then set the projector on the shabby dressing-table. He plugged into the lamp socket, pulled the thick, dusty curtains, shutting out the late morning sunlight.
Dorey watched all this uneasily.
Neither man said anything until Sherman had switched on the projector, quickly focusing the picture on the grubby white wall in front of Dorey, then he said, ‘I’ve seen this. I don’t want to see it again.’ He crossed the room, his body cutting off the picture on the wall for a brief moment, then he sat on the bed, his face in his hands, his eyes staring bleakly at the threadbare carpet by the bed.
Dorey watched the film. It was one of those blue films so popular at American stag parties: obscene, crude, sexually brash and to Dorey utterly disgusting. The male participant had a black hood over his head, disguising his features. The girl was around twenty-two years of age, dark, sun-tanned and sensually and sensationally built. The film lasted some five minutes and Dorey was relieved when the spool ran out. He had often heard of these blue films, but he had never seen one before. He was shocked to see living proof on this film that a man and a woman could behave in a way no animal would behave. He felt a sense of outrage. What was Sherman thinking of, showing him this filth?
As the end of the film began to flick around in its spool, Sherman got up, switched off the projector, then walked across the room and drew back the curtains. He turned and looked at Dorey who had taken off his spectacles and was looking anywhere but at Sherman.
Sherman said quietly, his voice unsteady, ‘The girl in that film, John, is my daughter.’
* * *
As Captain O’Halloran was pleased that his agent, Alec Hammer, had been alert enough to identify Henry Sherman so too was Serge Kovski, head of the Paris division of Soviet Security, pleased that his agent, Boris Drina, had also identified Sherman.
Drina, a fat, suety-faced, nondescript-looking man in his late forties, spent much of his time hanging around Orly airport. Kovski had placed him there because he knew Drina lacked courage and brains and was idle. The only reason why Drina was retained as an agent was because he possessed an extraordinary photographic memory. Once he had had a glimpse of someone, he could identify him, even after a long period of time. Imprinted on his mind were this man’s characteristics, his features and even the sound of his voice.
Whiff of Money Page 1