The Chinese smiled back engagingly. He had little French but some things were universal, like little fat Annie’s smile of welcome. He used such French as he knew. “Jig-a-jig?” he said.
Well, why not? Money didn’t grow on trees. “Yes,” little fat Annie said.
“You have place to go?”
“No …”
“Then come.” Montmartre hotels were broad-minded, more so than those in Peking. Little fat Annie went, and emerged a hundred francs richer. But it wasn’t just that: she could scarcely believe her luck. Leaving the bedroom and going down the sleazy stairs she saw a man coming up and the man was Mikhail. It was astonishing. She fell upon him lovingly. He lived right there, he said. He took her to his room.
The trail, so far as the French police were concerned, had gone dead. It was equally dead so far as Shard was concerned; nil reports kept reaching the Embassy after he and Eve Brett had arrived in response to Hedge’s urgent summons.
“You’ll have to do something, Shard.”
“It’s an impasse right now. We haven’t a single lead.”
“It’s not good enough, just to say that.”
Shard turned to WDC Brett. “That matey talk with little fat Annie. Did nothing emerge?”
“Only what I’ve reported, sir. Which really came to nothing, yes.”
Shard said grimly, “Let’s go through it all again, shall we?”
They did, while Hedge suppressed his impatience angrily. It was still a nil result. Little fat Annie had just prattled on and on about the hippie commune and Tex’s divinity. WDC Brett’s opinion was that strictly the girl wasn’t all there. She had tried to fix her mind on Mikhail, and there had been some prattle about him as a result, but nothing useful and no references as to where he might be. Maybe she wasn’t so daft after all and was keeping certain relevant details to herself. WDC Brett had asked the question direct: where in Paris had she met Mikhail? But little fat Annie hadn’t known Paris very well and she hadn’t been able to be specific. WDC Brett had got no more out of her than had Shard. She had plenty of simple cunning.
Hedge asked, “What about that man?”
“Tex?”
“No, the other one — Tom Tit.”
Shard nodded. “For what it’s worth — seeing he’s all we have — I’ll try him again. But don’t expect too much.”
“I was thinking about the way he laughed when you spoke of a threat to the PM and Foreign Secretary. In my opinion you should have pressed him on that, Shard.”
“For divers reasons,” Shard said heavily, “it wasn’t the most propitious moment. I intended making some capital out of little fat Annie first, then going back to him.”
“I’d say you’ve missed your chance of that now.”
“Not necessarily so. Tom Tit won’t know the girl’s been turned loose. But I say again, don’t expect too much, then you won’t be disappointed.”
Shard left the Embassy with WDC Brett. He was hopeful, but not very, that the general call put out for little fat Annie might produce results. Someone just might have seen her around and widespread police questioning might dig that someone out. On the other hand, even though little fat Annie’s physical construction stood out to some extent, she wasn’t the only one of her build by a long chalk. Finding her now could be a hard slog.
Tom Tit produced nothing at first. Shard tried the old ploy of telling the man that little fat Annie had talked; Tom Tit didn’t believe it. The girl didn’t know anything.
“So there’s something to know,” Shard said.
Tom Tit lifted his eyebrows. “What makes you think that?” he asked, all innocence. “I just meant she didn’t know anything. She’s doolally, that’s what I meant.”
“Nicely covered,” Shard said ironically. “I suppose you realise that if anything happens during the Prime Minister’s visit, you’re in the hot seat, right where we want you?”
“If anything happens while I’m inside,” Tom Tit said, “I’ll be in the bloody clear, duckie, and you know it.”
“Conspiracy’s a wide net,” Shard said. “Don’t doubt that we’re going to nail you. Like I said before, talking could help to get you out from under. Just tell me what you know about Mikhail Asipov.”
That brought a reaction from Tom Tit. His mouth twitched a little and his eyes narrowed. There was a wary look about him now. Shard was about to press and press hard when the cell door opened and a police officer came in. There was, he said, a telephone call for M’sieur Shard from the British Embassy. Shard caught Tom Tit’s expression, which was quickly wiped away. He said, “I’ll be back.”
The call was from Hedge. Hedge sounded excited. He said, “There’s been word from the Yard. That man’s prints — Tom Tit’s. He’s got form, Shard, plenty of it. Just listen to this. It looks to me as though it’s very relevant.”
8
Shard had taken notes of what Hedge had reported. It was detailed, crimes and dates, the lot. Back in the cell Tom Tit stared at the piece of paper in Shard’s hand. He didn’t seem to like it.
Shard said, “You might have saved us the trouble. We were bound to find out as soon as your prints went in. Playing for time, were you?”
Tom Tit didn’t answer.
Shard glanced down at his notes. “We never met but I’ve heard of you under your baptismal name — you weren’t known as Tom Tit way back, right? That’s recent, and I’d guess was given you by Tex. GBH — five years on the Moor. Robbery with violence, manslaughter, drunken driving, you did the lot right down to importuning for immoral purposes. Spent most of the last twenty years inside, released three months ago from the Scrubs. Check?”
“If you say so.”
“Which was when you became a member of a mob called Communist Alliance Transatlantic — CAT.”
Tom Tit’s face had gone very still, totally expressionless. Shard said, “We know about CAT. We know what it stands for, what its aims are. Destruction of the Establishment, in brief. In America and the UK. Insidious … CAT’s been behind ninety per cent of the strikes, trying to wreck the economy. You’re in cahoots with the IRA, have links with the PLO — you don’t, in fact, just stick to the transatlantic label. You’ve had other links — Baader Meinhof for one. Red Brigades. Spain, Italy, wherever there’s communism to be encouraged.” He paused, staring into Tom Tit’s face. “I don’t need to go on, do I? There’s just one point: Tex’s involvement. He’s part of CAT, right?”
There was no response.
Shard said, “I put it to you again. Last time I did so, you laughed. I believe you and Tex are over here on a killing mission. The Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary. Are you still laughing?”
Tom Tit said, “Like a drain.” But he didn’t laugh; there was fear in his eyes now. He said, “You got it wrong, dead wrong.”
“Then you’d better put me right.”
“I’m saying nothing.”
Shard said steadily, “Once again I’ll repeat myself. Being inside isn’t going to help you if anything happens to the British delegation. You’ll go down on a lifer for treason — remember what I said about conspiracy. And remember Tex is still on the loose. That’s where the danger lies for you. Any help you can give will stand in your favour afterwards. All to lose, Tom Tit, and nothing to gain by withholding information now. I have to say that time’s running out, but as for me, I’m a patient man and I’ll wait.”
*
Mikhail had been on the point of checking out from the hotel in Montmartre. Little fat Annie had made it just in time; in the bedroom as the young Russian pushed his gear into a canvas bag hanging from a shoulder strap, she looked at him with love. He was so thin, so hungry-looking, his face so gaunt and strained, he aroused a kind of mother instinct in the fat girl. He had aged since the days in Russia — she had noticed that the last time they had met here in Paris, so short a time ago. She reached out and stroked his cheek; irritably he threw off the hand.
“There is no time. I must go.”
; He spoke in Russian: the girl was pleased to hear the mother tongue again. Whatever life in Russia might be like, there was comfort in the familiarity of the language. She said, “I will come with you, Mikhail. We shall go together, wherever it is you go.”
He turned and looked into her eyes. “No. There will be danger. I have so much to do.”
“What is it you have to do, Mikhail?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he said. “You must leave me and go back to your commune.”
“No,” she said. She told him what had happened, that the hippies were all dispersed and that Tex had gone, she didn’t know where, that she herself had been detained by the police. She could see he was shaken by the news about Tex.
He said, “Perhaps there is danger for you in that, Annie.”
“From Tex? Oh, no.”
“I say there might be. You know so little of Tex.”
“And you, Mikhail, what do you know?”
“Enough,” he said briefly. He wouldn’t elaborate. Frowning, he paced the room, his mouth twitching with some nervous tic, dark hair falling over the long, narrow face. His mind was busy: little fat Annie could be his Achilles’ heel if she was to be left on the loose in Paris. She knew too much about him, and she could be contacted by Tex. She wanted to go with him: he could read the love in her eyes. There might also be danger from the police. Mikhail made up his mind quickly.
“You shall come,” he said.
She smiled with happy relief. “Where do we go, Mikhail?”
“Out of Paris.” He told her no more; she didn’t press. They left the bedroom hand in hand. Mikhail paid his bill and they went out into the sunlight and the Montmartre crowds, still hand in hand but walking fast. Down past the café where they had last met, past the eminence of Sacré Coeur, down a narrow street to turn left past cheap, tawdry shops to République Metro station. They emerged again into sunlight at Saint-Placide, not far from Hedge’s hotel in the Rue de Vaugirard and, still walking fast, Mikhail led the way down a shadowed alley with a derelict warehouse at its end.
*
“He began to sweat,” Shard said in the Embassy, “and then I had him.”
Hedge was all agog. “You mean he cracked, Shard?”
“Right. He’d had enough of prison life. He wasn’t far off grovelling for favours —”
“I trust you promised nothing?”
“No promises,” Shard said. “But I’ll expect co-operation to get him a hefty cut in his sentence. He’s earned it.”
“Your recommendation will be put forward,” Hedge said pompously, “if I think his information’s worth it.”
“You will,” Shard said. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke across the room. Hedge pointedly agitated the air with a pudgy hand. Shard repeated, “You will. And it’s straightforward enough — up to a point, that is. We were right in one thing: it does concern the VIPs. They’re at risk —”
“I always said so, Shard, did I not?”
“Yes, Hedge. But it’s not quite that simple —”
“You just said —”
“Yes, I know, Hedge. But just listen. I know, now, why Tom Tit went into a peal of laughter when I suggested that first time that Tex was here on a killing mission against the international brass. He’s here on a killing mission, that’s true enough, but not the brass —”
“You said the VIPs were concerned, Shard.”
Shard sighed. “Yes. Do listen, please. Tex is after Mikhail Asipov —”
“Goodness gracious!”
“— and Mikhail, according to Tom Tit, is after the Russian delegation.”
Hedge had a mottled aspect. “The Russians? Oh, my God, Shard.” He dabbed at his cheeks with a linen handkerchief. “Worse and worse … why the Russians? Did a reason emerge?”
“Only by way of conjecture. Tom Tit’s not privy to what goes on in Mikhail’s mind. But Tex fancied Mikhail and his mates want to hit back at the Soviet in revenge for the Soviet having made them into non-persons.” Shard gave a shrug. “There may be more behind it than that, but we’ve yet to find out.”
Like Tom Tit earlier, Hedge was sweating now. Never mind that he’d suspected assassinations all along, it was still a shattering thing to have confirmed … all those VIPs, Prime Minister, Foreign Secretaries from East and West, the brass from NATO and the EEC; hit the Russians and you were bound to hit some of them as well. Hoarsely he asked, “How did Tom Tit find this out, Shard?”
“Tex has his informers.”
“That girl?”
“Little fat Annie? I don’t think so. Unless perhaps by just being stupid and talking out of turn — if Mikhail confided in her, which is highly doubtful.”
Hedge had found something to pounce on. “I thought you said Tex didn’t seem to know who Mikhail was, in that commune?”
Again Shard shrugged. “He was just covering, that’s all, trying to prise information out of the girl. I’d say that’s obvious enough, wouldn’t you?”
Hedge flushed angrily, but didn’t otherwise react, there was too much worry around now. It was horrifying. Blame would speed in his direction if anything went wrong and he would be pilloried. His voice high he asked, “Have you no details of how the attempt’s to be made?”
“None. In both cases, Tex against Mikhail, Mikhail against the brass. Tom Tit hadn’t been confided in to that extent.”
“The timing?”
“Ditto.”
Hedge got to his feet and walked across to the window. Over his shoulder he said, “Asipov — the father, in London. Do you see any connexion, Shard?”
“No more than before.”
“Oh dear, oh dear.” Hedge used his handkerchief again and mopped at his face. His eyes, when he turned round, looked haunted. “This — this Tex business. What’s his reason for wishing to kill Mikhail, do you know that?”
“Yes. The basic answer’s CAT. Tex is acting to stop Mikhail getting at the Russians —”
“As simple as that?”
Shard said, “Tom Tit said so, but, again, like in Mikhail’s case, there could be more behind it.”
“And if there is, you don’t know?”
Shard nodded. “Right, Hedge.”
“I don’t think,” Hedge said heavily, “that this Tom Tit really helped very much. Oh, I agree he’s positively alerted us and I’ll be able to insist on a massive tightening of security, but —” He broke off; the internal telephone had burred. He went to the desk and answered; it was Roberts-White. Hedge nodded, looked tremendously excited and hopeful, said ‘yes’ a few times, then cut the call and turned to Shard.
“The girl,” he said. “Likely sighting. The police have a report from a member of the public … they issued descriptions to café proprietors and so on. Possibly seen outside a café near Saint-Placide —”
“Not definite, then.”
“Not definite, but helpful potentially. You’d better get along to police HQ, Shard, and stand by.”
“I’ll do that,” Shard said. “I’d like to sort out one thing first, though. You and I are here for the security of the British delegation. The others aren’t part of our brief. Once Tom Tit’s information is passed on, Hedge, it becomes mainly a French show. It’s their country and they’ll take over. I —”
“What are you getting at, Shard?” Hedge was impatient. He was very conscious of passing time.
“This,” Shard answered. “I’m going out on my own — if I establish contact with little fat Annie. I’m going back underground with WDC Brett once that happens. I’ll hope not to cross any wires with the French security people, but there’s always a chance I may. I’m asking for your backing in anything I decide to do.”
Hedge dithered; this was the kind of decision he detested making. Shard’s ideas could lead to trouble and difficulty; the French were such a curious lot, so unpredictable, so emotional, so unstable really. There would be so much Gallic froth and pandemonium as it was, once they knew of the threat on their precious soil. All sorts of people
would vie with each other to take charge — for one, there was the National Gendarmerie Intervention Group, known for short as the GIGN. The French were very proud of the GIGN and the GIGN was very proud of itself and would insist that its men were the ones to cope — after all, this was an anti-terrorist project. Oh, dear. Hedge sighed; the British were better at this kind of thing … and that, in a sense, was of course just what Shard was suggesting. And if he, Hedge, could bring this off successfully in spite of the French then it would be a tremendous feather in his cap …
Even so, Hedge temporised pompously. He said in a distant tone, “My dear Shard, I think I’ve always said I give my backing to all my officers when they’re right — without fear or favour.”
Shard, who had correctly observed the obvious mental processes and knew his man well, realised he had got all he was going to get and that he had got his point through.
*
At police HQ Shard was told that the sighting had been a brief one, made in passing. The café proprietor was, however, pretty certain the girl he had seen was little fat Annie. She was reasonably unmistakable; and she had been with a young man, a cadaverous-looking young man who had seemed in a hurry. They had gone along the Rue de Rennes in the direction of the Tour Montparnasse and after that the café proprietor had lost sight of them — profit was profit as the police must understand, and he had been busy with customers.
The Executioners Page 9