"Going away?" Molly repeated, wide-eyed as she watched Dorfman listening on the extension.
"Now everything's going to be fine," Mick said quickly. "Molly, there's more money on the way to you and—"
But Molly was no longer listening. She had borne the shocks of the morning as best she could, but this was one shock too many. Mick going away? The money from the bank? The Gardai? The man with the bruised face? Suddenly the flood gates opened and she burst into tears. Mick was saying something - an operation - the best doctors in the world - keep quiet about the money. But it was no good, she could restrain herself no longer.
"Mick, listen," she cried, ignoring the warning in Dorfman's eyes. "Mick, we're with the Gardai. They came to the house - searched it - Mick, Big Reilly's been killed - and they say the same men are after you! Mick - for pity's sake - I'm worried sick about you - Mick, can you hear me?"
Mick was looking through the glass door of the booth into the hotel lobby. Half a dozen men had just burst through the front doors and were fanning out in all directions. A man with a black glove on one hand had started to run toward the telephone booths. Molly's words exploded like a bomb. BIG REILLY KILLED. The man with the glove was only twelve yards away. THE SAME MEN ARE AFTER YOU!
"Molly, I've got to go - there's more money on its way - I love you and the boy - Moll, I've got to go!" The man with the black glove was running directly toward him. Mick left the receiver hanging, opened the door and ran for his life.
"Stop!" Ross roared as Mick came out of the booth and started to run diagonally across the lobby. He tried to cut him off, but furniture blocked his path. Then he collided with a man with a suitcase and lost his balance.
"Halt!" shouted one of the GX9 squad, already dropping to one knee, his revolver clear of its holster, his left hand coming up to steady his right as he took aim. "Halt!"
But Mick ran on, running for his life, easily avoiding the hall porter's outstretched arms as he made for the door.
The crack of a bullet whined over his left shoulder, but then he was at the door and through it.
Molly screamed into the telephone: "Mick, for God's sake, what's happening?"
Dorfman had already reached for the blue phone, but the red one was still cupped to his ear. He heard Ross shout and a split second later heard the flat crack of revolver fire. He heard it, and they all heard it.
"Dad!" the boy screamed. "Are you alright?"
But Mick never heard him. He was ten yards from the hotel entrance and running hard for the ambulance. His back laid pain across his body like a cloak and he was gasping for breath. Twice he collided with people and the second time he fell to his knees. Only thought of Molly and the boy drove him on. If anything happened to him, what would happen to them? Had Reilly sent the policies to the bank? Had the bank sent Molly her money? Dammit, it was her money, her money!
He ran across the road, bent double with pain, his hand searching his jacket pocket for his keys.
"Stop that man!" someone shouted, and over his shoulder he saw the man with the black glove less than thirty yards behind.
He flung himself at the ambulance door, fumbling with the lock, opening it, swinging the door wide. And then the first bullet hit him, smashing him sideways, turning him away from the ambulance and spinning him around to face his pursuers. A second bullet blew half his head away and a third broke his rib cage. Mick Malone was dead, before he even reached the ground.
Monday evening - Bonn
We were back in the suite in the Steigenberger-Hof. Elizabeth was pouring drinks at the sideboard as Ross gazed moodily out of the window. Max sat near the door, playing patience with a pack of cards provided with the compliments of the management, and LeClerc filed his nails at the other end of my sofa.
"It would have gone off, you know," Ross said over his shoulder. "All Malone had to do was to set the trigger device."
"Ten megatons?" LeClerc asked.
"Ten megatons," Ross nodded and turned back to the room. He walked across to an armchair and flopped into it gratefully. He looked dog-tired, but then all of us were coming apart at the seams.
I had pieced together most of the story by now. Suzy's role in the affair was more easily understood. How she had been used, how she had been made to believe that she could restore to the Palestinians that land which they believed had been stolen by the Jews. How she had believed that the bomb would have been used only as a threat. It made me feel better somehow, until I wondered what might have happened if her threats had not been acceded to.
A television set flickered in the corner of the room with news of the summit. Apparently most of the first day had been devoted to a discussion of economic affairs: There was a lot of talk about the weakness of the dollar and the strength of the Deutschmark. And outside the three hundred thousand Germans who lived in Greater Bonn went about their business as if nothing had happened.
A buzzer sounded faintly, and Max picked up a walkie-talkie from the chair next to him. "We have a visitor," he said after listening for a moment. He looked at Ross. "You want me to stop him?"
But someone knocked on the door before Ross could answer, and when Max opened it Orlov stood there. He beamed a greeting across at Elizabeth and presented her with a dozen roses.
"Elizabeth, darling!" He cupped her bottom in his hands in traditional greeting and when he sat down he even had a smile for me. "So Harry Brand, still playing the Big Game?"
"Still digging holes for other people, Nikki?"
"It gets harder every day," he chuckled. "Sometimes there's not even time to bury them."
Ross eyed him keenly. “Like a man who died in a car in Belgium?"
Orlov seemed surprised. "You heard about that? A shocking incident. Someone was telling me about it—"
"Monique Debray was one of your girls, wasn't she?" Ross asked.
It was the only time I ever saw Orlov look sad. Then he said, "But not the man in the pale grey suit."
"I never thought he was," Ross said wearily. "But it might have helped to have had a word with him before his unfortunate accident."
Orlov nodded soberly. "His real name was Wu Teh. He was Chinese. His father was a distinguished soldier against the Japanese. By the end of the last war he was one of Chiang Kai-shek's generals and afterward his family was one of the most important in Formosa." He smiled. "Or Taiwan as you Americans prefer to call it."
Ross nodded and rubbed his jaw with his tin hand. But he never said anything, so I was left in the dark as to whether Orlov's information was news to him or not.
Elizabeth set light to a glass of zambuca and sat on the arm of Orlov's chair, while the Russian watched me with speculative eyes. Then he nodded at the television, still faintly audible in the corner as the commentator wound up on the summit.
"The show must go on, eh? Men never tire of playing it. I suppose it's because it's the most fascinating game in the world, don't you think so Harry?"
I shook my head. "Also the most dangerous one."
He pulled a face. "Only for the pawns."
January 1st, 1979
At today's historic Press Conference devoted to the new diplomatic relationship between the United States and China, President Carter announced that the US/Taiwan defence treaty would be terminated by the end of this year.
Source - Reuter's Service - Washington
March 31st, 1979
The United Kingdom withdrew the last of her troops from Malta today after maintaining a military presence on the Island for the last one hundred and eight years.
Source - Reuter's Service - Valletta
April 26th, 1979
The US Defence Command headed by Rear Admiral James Under lowered the US flag yesterday afternoon, signifying the end of twenty-eight years of military presence.
Source - Reuter's Service - Taipei, Taiwan
END
Winner Harris
Ian St James
Sixty Forty Publishing Ltd
www.sixtyfortybooks.com
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 1982 Ian St. James
Copyright Digital Edition © 2012 Ian St. James
The right of Ian St. James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Print Edition first published in 1982 by William Heinemann Ltd
Digital Edition first published in 2012 by Sixty Forty Publishing Ltd
ISBN Mobi 978-0-9571437-4-6
www.sixtyfortybooks.com
DEDICATION
For my Mother
Chapter One
It was still raining when the cab turned into Holborn. Water streaked the windows soaking up dust as it ran down the glass, so that peering out was like looking through bars. Last time the bars had been real. My last glimpse of the Old Bailey had been through the rear window of a Black Maria, handcuffed to a policeman, with the words of the judge ringing in my ears. But that was two years ago.
I left the cab at the top of Chancery Lane and walked down towards the Strand, bending into the rain and side-stepping splashes thrown up by passing traffic. It had turned noon. The expense account trade - solicitors and their clients - gathered in Mario's entrance like fat cats sniffing a bowl of cream, while at the pub next door pasty-faced clerks washed their sandwiches down with half pints of bitter. A new wine bar had opened opposite Bream's Buildings - trendy decor and Chablis at eighty pence a glass - but apart from that the street looked much as I remembered it. Even the newspaper placards were vaguely familiar. Inflation was down to nineteen per cent, whereas it had been up to the same figure two years ago - and I was still working out if that was good or bad when I reached my solicitor's office on the corner.
The receptionist was new. Old Gladys would have given a yelp of welcome and rushed to hug me, whereas this girl finished painting a fingernail before she even deigned look up.
"I'd like to see Mr Collins."
She focused on my unbuttoned raincoat, the creased suit and nondescript tie. I saw my face reflected in her spectacles - fair hair cut too short by the prison barber, watchful blue eyes, skin the colour of putty after two years' confinement. Her eyes blinked like the shutter of a camera while she catalogued my voice - London, not Cockney, but certainly London - and definitely not public school. She frowned at the desk diary in front of her. "You have an appointment... Mr-?"
"Harris. Sam Harris. He'll see me."
"There's nothing in the diary-" she began reproachfully, then faltered as she caught the look in my eye. Her unpainted hand reached for the telephone and I turned away to drop into a chair. Looking around I saw the other changes. The whole front office had been refurnished. Horsehair armchairs had given way to Mies Van der Rohe modernity. The carpet was new and a collection of sporting prints replaced the fly-blown calendars which had decorated the walls. Even the smell of the place was different. Once as musty as a museum, now as crisply scented as a new bank note.
"I have a Mr Harris asking for Mr Collins," the girl said cautiously. She dried her fingernails on a nonexistent breeze, waving her hand limply from the wrist. Her eyes rounded and I smiled inwardly while imagining the reaction at the other end. Then she nodded once, said, "Yes, Mr Collins," twice, and a moment later ushered me along the carpeted corridor to the big back office.
"Sam!" Collins came out from behind an eight foot desk faster than a greyhound. "You're looking great, Sam! Just great! D'you know that!" It was a statement, not a question. Goodwill radiated from his plump little body like steam from a grating. For a moment I felt almost warmed by it, but only for a moment. He advanced across the room like a bridegroom on a wedding night, a fat anticipatory smile spreading across his face, eyes shining, arms outstretched in welcome. I avoided the bear hug at the last moment by shrugging clear of my raincoat and tossing it for him to catch.
He clucked approval like a contented hen. "I can't get over it. You look so fit! So goddamned fit!" He carried my coat to the wardrobe, throwing me admiring glances as he went. "You've lost some weight though, Sam. A few pounds lighter maybe?" He peered at me like a doctor, then gave me a beaming smile, "But you're looking as fit as a racehorse."
"Clean living does wonders for the complexion." I slumped into the chair opposite the desk. "Or maybe it was the diet."
He crossed to the sideboard and began to throw lumps of ice into cut-glass tumblers. "Food was bad, eh?"
"Oh, I dunno - there was always a choice."
"A choice?" He sounded pleasantly surprised, like someone from the Howard League.
"Take it or leave it."
His interest evaporated. Gin was splashed over ice and he snapped the top off a bottle of tonic. "Same old Sam - still a quick tongue." He stirred the drinks with an ice-pick, and added lemon slices with enough dexterity to make me wonder if lemons came pre-sliced and cellophane-wrapped these days. "Still, it's over now," he said with a little sigh of satisfaction. "It's behind you. Best to forget it. What happened to you could happen to half the men in London."
"Especially the lawyers." I sniffed the glass. Gin wasn't really my drink and alcohol was something I needed to work on after two years on the wagon.
He carried his own glass back to his side of the desk. "Tell you what we're going to do. Have a snort or two here, then off to the White Towers for lunch. Table's booked and the champagne's already on ice. My treat Sam - what d'you say?"
"Cancel it."
"Cancel it? Are you kidding? It's a celebration for Christ's sake! It's not every day-"
"Sam Harris comes out of the nick." I shook my head. "What's to celebrate? Besides the White Towers is for impressing people. I'm impressed already." I waved at the new furnishings. "Business looks good these days."
His shrug faked a look of disappointment. "It's okay. Times change, that's all. The Law Society says to look more up-to-date improve the image, all that crap." He smiled self-consciously. "Besides, we've got half a dozen American clients now — they don't go for quill pens and sealing wax. Know what I mean?"
I helped myself to a cigarette from a silver box. "I know what that means. You've found a new gravy train. It didn't take long. You always did play a part well - you even talk like a Yank now you know that?"
"It rubs off. I've been to New York five times in the last three months." He grinned sheepishly, fidgeting in his chair, as if the talk was making him uncomfortable. I could almost see his mind search for a new topic of conversation. Then he stretched his smile another inch and said, "Hell, Sam, let's go to lunch. I've already booked the table. It'll be just like old times. We can.be there in ten minutes and-"
"Save the expense. I told you - I'm impressed enough for one day. All I want is an accounting - then I'll be on my way."
"On your way? On your way where for Christ's sake? You got a train to catch or something? Do me a favour will you? Just relax for five minutes."
He would have gone on like that for another half hour, but for the look on my face. So he shrugged, "Well, at least let me send out for something. Smoked salmon from Mario's-"
"Just an accounting, Lewis."
His face performed the predictable repertoire of expressions — surprise, doubt, disappointment - then he said, "Well, if you're sure. Personally I think you're rushing things. A man needs time to adjust, time to think-"
"I've done time. Now I want to catch up on two years of living."
He avoid
ed my look and set his drink down before reaching for a buff folder. The practised smile faded to a memory and his face aged ten years in the process. He licked his lips. "Catching up might be difficult. At least to start with. Like I said, things change -"
"That bad, eh?"
"Nothing's that bad," he mimicked. "It's not cancer, Sam." He underlined the bad joke with a laugh, but it was a shaky, insubstantial sound in the quiet of the room. "You've suffered a setback. A hell of a setback. That's all I'm saying. Of course you'll find your feet again - bound to - a man like you - but it's going to take time."
"So tell me."
"What's the hurry?" He flicked the corner of the folder with his thumbnail. "Let's do the figure work next week. Give you a chance to-"
"Now Lewis - I want to know how I stand."
He sighed deeply and opened the folder. "Well, to start with, the old Sam Harris bank account is like the old grey mare - it ain't what it used to be. I guess you know already but we spent a bundle on the case. Even a guilty plea costs more in legal fees these days than a full-scale musical at Drury Lane. And afterwards we had the investigations to pay for-"
"I paid. You advised — I paid - and I went to prison."
He pretended not to hear. "Private investigations cost money, Sam. It's not cheap hiring detectives in London these days - and our money hired the best available-"
"My money."
"Okay, okay - your money! Stop needling, will you? What did they teach you in Brixton - acupuncture?"
He flushed and we swapped angry stares until he turned back to the folder. "Then there was that settlement with Kay. Christ, Sam, she screwed us. I said at the time to offer her less. We should have gone to court. No judge would have stood for the settlement she bled out of you-"
"Lewis. You said no judge would send me to prison - but one did."
"Davidson! Judge Davidson. We had to get him, didn't we? Everyone knows he's senile. Should have retired years ago. Why only last week-"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 35