Elizabeth came back at the end of the last reel, just as all the upside down numbers were flashing past. She had the doctor with her in case I got over-excited. "Funny," I said as she opened the shutter, "there wasn't a pale-grey suit in the lot of them."
1500 Friday
"You're out of your mind," Reilly said flatly. "Spring Steve Cassidy? From the Holy Cross Jail? It's the maximum security prison for all Ireland, you know that, don't you?"
"So much the better," Abou said quietly. "They'll never expect it."
"You're mad. I'll have nothing to do with it. It wasn't part of the deal we made and—"
"Nobody's asking for your help," Abou said coldly. "Except in the planning stage."
"Planning to get yourself killed," Reilly said hotly. "Leave Cassidy be. It's next to nothing he knows and—"
"No!" Abou shook his head. "It's not our way."
"And what'll you do if you get him out? There'll be a manhunt the length and breadth of Ireland."
"Cassidy won't be in Ireland," Abou said, coolly playing his trump card.
"So where will he be then?"
The three of them were in the cottage at Conlaragh and Suzy sat on the bed listening to the two men argue.
"In the States," Abou said and waited for a reaction.
Reilly was astonished. "You'll still send him? Even though he's not done the job?"
"We look after our own," Abou said softly.
Grudging admiration showed in Reilly's face, and it was a moment or two before he said anything. "It'll need more money. We used all we had for Mick this morning."
Abou smiled, "I'll find more money."
Impressed despite himself, Reilly fell silent and thought about it. Whatever he said wouldn't change the man's mind, that much was obvious. But the Holy Cross Jail? The place was built like a fortress. Mary Mother of Christ, didn't it used to be a fortress? But even after thinking about it for five minutes Reilly was still skeptical. "I still say it's impossible," he said darkly.
"Prisons the world over have one thing in common," Abou said quietly. "They're built to stop people getting out, not to stop people getting in."
Suzy spoke for the first time. "Ulrike Meinhof got Baader out of jail in Germany. And Baader was a big fish. Whoever heard of Cassidy?"
"Things are different here," Reilly sighed and then he shrugged. "Anyway, so what are you wanting from me?"
Abou replied in a reasonable voice, "A floor plan of the prison. Showing where they're holding Cassidy."
"Is that all?" Reilly asked sarcastically.
"He's your man," Abou's voice hardened. "And we're getting him out. The least you can do is provide some information. Find someone who's served time there and knows the place well enough to draw a diagram. That should be easy enough - you've got the contacts and we haven't."
Reilly nodded slowly. He could do that without even leaving Conlaragh. But the other part was more difficult, finding out exactly where Cassidy was being held. He said as much, but Abou shook his head.
"Think about it. Cassidy's not been charged yet, so he won't be in the main part of the prison. He'll be in some sort of interrogation centre, I imagine. Isn't that right?"
Reilly's face brightened. Of course it was right! And the interrogation block was just inside the main gates. Why the devil didn't he think of that himself? "That's right," he said with rising excitement. "And the cells are above ground there. It's a single-story block with about ten or twelve cells and a few offices for the CID and what have you." He pictured the place and his voice fell to an awed whisper. "You know something, Mister, it might just be possible at that."
"It is possible," Abou said grimly. "How quickly can you get the information together?"
"I'll get the plan of the place today." Reilly's enthusiasm grew as the prospect of success loomed in his mind. "And I'll be on to Dublin. There's a man out yesterday who's as like as not to know where Cassidy is."
Abou's interest sharpened. "Can you reach him today?"
"I'll try. Tonight more like it though."
Abou nodded. "So we'll have everything we need by tomorrow when we go to Pallas Glean?"
Reilly nodded. "When are you planning the raid?"
"Tomorrow night."
"As soon as that?" Reilly grinned. "I'll need to make myself scarce then - or find myself a good alibi."
"Tomorrow night might be a good time to go traveling," Abou said softly. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if you went for a trip on that new fishing boat of yours."
Reilly looked astonished. A trip on the Aileen Maloney was the last thing on his mind. But when he said so Abou just grinned. "I think you'll change your mind," he said mysteriously, "after tomorrow."
2320 Friday
We chewed Tubby Hayes to death all afternoon, Elizabeth and I, with the doctor adding his two cents' worth. Everything from when Tubby and I first met to what I knew about his early deals in Taiwan, and how the money had never stopped rolling in for him once he had started. Not that I liked doing it, after all Tubby had never done me any harm that I knew of, but Elizabeth kept on about how little time was left and if I really wanted to help Suzy. So we sat around in Ross's office and boozed a bit and jawed the hind leg off a donkey. Neither of them took notes, so I guessed Ross's place was wired for sound too - hell, maybe the whole building was. I swore blind I had never attended an orgy at "The Willows" which was the truth, but I doubt they believed me - especially Elizabeth who fixed me with her cold-eyed look for most of the afternoon. Then we had more of the picture shows - people I had met at Tubby's place, people I might have met, people who should have been there on the same dates as me. At one point I said it was a pity that we were not back at my flat in London, because some old diaries might help jog my memory. Whereupon Elizabeth used the internal phone to summon dog-faced Smithers from his mailroom, complete with a pile of my personal papers thoughtfully forwarded by Special Branch. There wasn't even any point in getting mad about it - it had happened and damn all I said would change it. By five o'clock I had told them everything I could about Tubby and they still seemed a million miles away from the man in the pale-grey suit. I felt drained and edgy - and refused to believe it had anything to do with finding Suzy.
"That's enough for now," Elizabeth announced with surprising suddenness. "Why don't you relax and unwind a bit? Go for a swim or take a steam bath?"
I wondered what prompted the sudden concern, but like the obedient boy I was turning into I went on cue. I skulked in the steam room for an hour, my mind full of Suzy and Tubby Hayes and that little French girl, Monique Debray, until the thought of an atomic explosion made me shiver enough to turn the heat up. When Elizabeth joined me I was on the slab and Max was beating a military tattoo down the middle of my back. She had on the same play suit as she had worn for Nikki Orlov's visit, and as she placed my scotch and water within arm's length I got the strong impression that I was supposed to react as he had. She stood very close, her black bikini briefs six inches from my eye level as she massaged my back while Max made a meal of my leg.
"Hey, big spender," she purred. "You're taking me out tonight."
"Out? You mean out of here? Out of Sing-Sing? What did you do - sleep with the guards?"
"Silly!" The bikini moved an inch closer and gyrated in time with her hands. "You know you're our guest. There's nothing we wouldn't do for you."
"Except let me go." I shut my eyes and cursed as my body hardened under me. The bitch must have been brought up in a shower - hot and cold moods at the push of a button. I began to remind her about Nikki Orlov, but the words drowned as the nicely upholstered black silk brushed across my mouth.
"You're taking me out to dinner," she repeated, "and then we're going gambling at the casino." Her fingers did some very sensuous things to my spine before she backed off and made for the door. "Better wear a dinner jacket," she called over her shoulder. "I'll meet you in an hour's time. Don't be late."
I sighed aloud and rolled over. "My, my,
my!" Max looked bug-eyed at my body. "Go anywhere like that and you'll fell over and break your neck. Better take a cold shower man - or think of cricket or whatever you limeys do at a time like this."
I was on time. Seven-thirty in the hall, dressed up like a dog's breakfast in the dinner-jacket which had been delivered to my room. Elizabeth made her entrance ten minutes later, sweeping down the marble staircase flanked by old Smithers and a younger version who might have been his son. The men wore penguin suits and Elizabeth was wrapped in an off-the-shoulder length of yellow silk under a lace shawl. Her hair shone, her smile dimpled and she smelled delicious. We sat close together in the back of the two-year-old Mercedes and Smithers bumped us down to Marsaxlokk and then along the coast road. Outside an orange sun sank low in a deep-blue sky, while on the road ahead Son of Smithers drove a tatty Triumph Herald which clashed with his dinner-jacket.
Dinner at the Barracuda turned out to be a family affair. As soon as I set foot in the place I saw Max dining with the man who had carried my bag into the Health Farm. Max sat opposite the kitchen and stared at the kitchen door all through his meal. Maybe he was in love with the chef. Elizabeth and I took a table overlooking the bay and as I turned from tucking a chair beneath her bottom, I saw Smithers and Son accept a table just inside the entrance. I don't know who else was expected, but nobody could enter that restaurant without the boys from the Health Farm looking them over.
"Very cozy," I said. "And I suppose our waitress is the doctor in drag?"
Despite everything, however, we passed the next hour or so pleasantly enough. Dinner with a pretty woman has never been my idea of hard work, and the lobster was delicious and the wine cold enough to take the fur off my tongue. Years spent searching for stories has made me a pretty good listener, and usually I can find out what I want to know from people when I apply myself. And I applied myself with Elizabeth as if my life depended on it. But some Mata Hari spook school had taught her that the only thing to keep buttoned was her lip, so it was hard work - until we made a game of it, a battle of wits which amused both of us right through to the coffee and brandy. Then I paid the bill and dog-face Smithers was kind enough to drive us to Sliema Strand.
"The casino is the other way," I said ungratefully when he stopped. "At Dragonora Point."
He ignored me and spoke to Elizabeth. "You're to take a karrozin from here. Don't worry, Max will be in the one in front and I'll follow by car."
Karrozins are the horse-drawn Victorias that the Maltese still run to please the tourists and enrich themselves. One jingled its way up from the Libyan Embassy, and I helped Elizabeth up and then climbed in beside her. The pony responded to the driver's whip and we moved off at a brisk trot.
"What next?" I grumbled. "Charades at the catacombs."
She squeezed my arm. "It's Orlov playing games with us," she said calmly. "He'll contact us when he's ready. Meanwhile enjoy yourself. It's not difficult." Her smile dazzled me. "Just lie back and think of England."
I wondered if that's what she did, but mainly I thought we made a hell of a good target, stuck five feet up in the air in an open carriage and moving along at eight miles an hour. It was feast day in one of the villages and fireworks crackled in the distance like gunfire, plucking my nerves to shreds in the process. We drove past the Exiles, around Balluta Bay and on up Grenfell Street. It was dark by now, but I could see the floodlit Corinthian pillars of the casino beyond Spinola Point. Through Paceville, full of Libyans, most in European dress but some in djellabas. Not long now - even by pony and trap.
Around the corner and then up the long sweep of driveway to the casino itself. We made it. I steered Elizabeth to the bar and watched the other drinkers get tennis neck as they followed her progress.
The casino was crowded. We table-hopped for a while, though for the life of me I couldn't see why. Pink-skinned English tourists with North Country accents played blackjack, while at the next table some prosperous Germans lost heavily at baccarat. Two Frenchmen hoarded their chips and gambled like misers, whilst a queer pouted prettily at a croupier. Elizabeth took the scene in at a glance, but kept moving purposely forward and it was ten minutes before I realised that she was looking for somebody.
"By the way," I patted my pocket to make sure that the two hundred pounds worth of gambling chips were still there, "thanks for the stake. Compliments of Joe Spitari?"
"Compliments of H. M. Treasury." She nestled into my side as we squeezed past a table. "And the Chancellor would like it back at the end of the evening." Which seemed unreasonable until she added, "But you're allowed to keep the winnings."
Orlov was at the roulette table, the big one, minimum bets five pounds Maltese. Elizabeth nuzzled his left cheek and I just beat an elderly Japanese into the chair on the other side. "You are playing?" the Japanese demanded, polite as ever but a bit cross for all that. I smiled and fished the gold and black plastic discs out of my pocket.
Elizabeth said, "Hello, Nikki," in her golden brown voice and up the table Max watched me with unsmiling eyes above a ruffled shirt. "Numero quatre, Noir," said the croupier and raked in just about everything on the table.
Orlov scowled and made a mark with a gold pencil in a little black book. Funny how card-carrying commies never tire of capitalist games. He pushed some chips forward from the pile in front of him, placing bets on two blocks of six and taking a flier on the fifteen. The gold pencil recorded the move in the little black book. "Ross is away?" his question was barely audible above the murmur of voices around the table. In the ballroom next door the band knocked out a version of "Brown Girl in the Ring" bad enough to offend even the most insensitive ears.
"Yes," Elizabeth passed a single one hundred pound chip up the table for the croupier to change into tens, "but Harry's with me."
That seemed like telling Big Ben the time, but Orlov acknowledged my presence by turning his head and blowing cigar smoke into my eyes. "So," he said, "while the hunter seeks the tigress, the trainer gets into the cage."
I spread some chips around while I thought about that one. Finally I guessed: "Old Russian proverb?" His smile was straight from Siberia. "No, Mr. Brand, but there's one I would commend to you. 'He who digs a hole for another may fall in himself.'"
I nodded wisely and watched the croupier rake in fifty pounds of H. M. Treasury's money. Orlov added a hundred to the winnings in front of him and we all tried again.
Elizabeth murmured, "Have you any news of the tigress - of where we might find her?"
Orlov updated his book. "Only of where you won't find her," he said, covering another six numbers and doubling up on the fifteen. "Which is in the Middle East. But I'll tell you something else - she's not being run by any friends of ours."
I concentrated on winning the fifty pounds back and behind me the Japanese gentleman calculated the square root of the winning number on a pocket calculator. Meanwhile, the band struck up "Rasputin" to make Orlov feel at home.
"But there is something of interest," Orlov leaned backward, so that both Elizabeth and I could hear him, "which is that the senders of that parcel expected it to be interfered with. Didn't they, Mr. Brand?"
Elizabeth's eyes froze into green pebbles as she looked at me. I was too confused to answer. What the hell did Orlov mean? And what was he trying to do with a remark like that? At the other end of the table the ball bearing weaved around the wheel until it exhausted itself and fell into a receptive bay. "Numero quinze," shouted the croupier. "Rouge. "An excited buzz hummed around the table as Orlov recovered his money plus another thirty-five hundred pounds.
"We call it the Big Game, Mr. Brand." He left a hundred pounds worth of gratuities. "And if you're going to play it properly, I'll give you a tip." He stood up, smiling broadly. "Always back the reds - they invariably win, in the end." He bowed to Elizabeth and then turned to go.
I tapped his chest. "Mind the hole Nikki - it's been freshly dug." Still smiling he nodded and then stepped past me to make his way to the door. Behind me the Japan
ese had taken Orlov's place and Elizabeth was rising to go. Max and Smithers appeared on my shoulders like process-servers.
"I've lost fifty pounds," I said.
Max smiled. "It's the diet at the Health Farm, Mr. Brand. Some of our guests have been known to fade right away."
Midnight Friday
Elizabeth lived under the roof at Spitari's place - two rooms with a bathroom and a view of the sea. The connecting door from the sitting room was open just wide enough to see an Olympic size bed beneath a ceiling fan big enough to lift a helicopter. Landing pad took on a whole new meaning.
I asked, "Is this where I mix the drinks while you slip into something comfortable?"
"If you like." She kicked gold sandals from her feet and tucked her legs under her on the sofa. "Fixing a drink sounds a good starting point."
Driving back from the casino had been as nerve-racking as the ride out. Max must have lip read Orlov's implications about me, because he was distinctly hostile. And dog-face Smithers was hardly a barrel of fun. Whereas Elizabeth had gone all broody, as if decoding Orlov's meaning while deciding on her next move. Which - to my surprise - turned out to be to squeeze my hand and invite me to join her for a nightcap. What the hell - I had nothing else to do.
"Harry, just who do you work for?" She accepted a drink and patted the place next to her.
"Crusader Press. I thought you knew that?"
"Minmm," those green eyes were watching me again. "But I mean as well. Who do you really work for?"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 17