"What the devil are you implying?"
But he knew damn well what I was implying. I could see it in his face.
"Okay, Sam," Kaufman interrupted. "Back off. Rossiter's been singing the same song. I know it looks like a leak but I know the people we got working here. That cannot be the explanation. You'll just have to take my word for it-"
"I'm not taking your word for anything."
Jack gave me an alarmed look. I knew what he was thinking. He was afraid I would refuse to go to Alcamo. He was damn near right too. Anyone else, anyone but Maria and I would have refused.
Kaufman watched me carefully. "Okay, Sam, here's what we do. There are no scheduled direct flights to Sicily. Most people go to Rome and connect there. That's the obvious way and you bet the Pipeline will stake that route out. But another way is to fly to Malta and cross on the ferry to Siracuse, then drive across Sicily to Alcamo."
"Why the performance?"
"Let me finish, will you?" Kaufman said heavily. "Two people who look like you and Jack will be on today's noon flight to Rome. They will use your names and travel on your passports. Tonight they will stay in Salerno, hire an automobile and leave for Sicily first thing in the morning - all in plenty of time to reach Alcamo by eight tomorrow evening."
I glanced at Jack but his face was expressionless. Kaufman followed my look but he was concentrating on me. He went on. "We think our Rome party will be tailed. Henderson and a back-up team will be behind them anyway. Meanwhile we go to Malta on a charter flight and see Darmanin's boy."
I stared at him, thinking about it, trying to take it all in.
Perhaps he thought I was about to object because he added, "Remember what I said about Alcamo. How it really works. If this kid Darmanin knows as much as his old man claimed." "If."
"Sam - we need something to trade."
He stopped short of saying "trade instead of you", but that's what he meant.
"What do we use for passports?"
He smiled. "They're being prepared now. I work for a holiday tour business — and you and Lucia are a honeymoon couple."
"Lucia! She's coming?"
"You're going to Sicily, remember?" Kaufman pointed his finger at me, "You know any languages?"
He had a point I suppose. I did know some Italian - restaurant Italian - picked up from waiters and kitchen staff. "I used to know a little Italian."
"Yeah? What was his name - Mussolini? Listen lame brain - it could happen fast out there. You won't have time for a phrase book."
Lucia joined in. "You and I will travel together, Sam. The Pipeline will be watching for you and Jack. It's better cover this way."
I nodded. I could see the sense in that - even if I didn't like it.
"Jack comes with me," Kaufman said, then in response to my look of surprise he added, "don't worry, we'll all be on the same aircraft. I won't let him out of my sight."
I glanced at Jack but he was staring at the floor with unseeing eyes. Something awful was happening to Jack, as if he were giving up hope. It would be up to me to make the decisions. I was racked with doubt and worry, trying to think objectively while fighting my own mounting panic. "Why the decoys?" I asked eventually. "After all, Corrao wants us in Alcamo-"
"You'll be there," Kaufman nodded grimly. "But it won't hurt for them to watch the front door as we come through the back window."
I was unsure of what else to say. "I suppose it's all right," I admitted grudgingly, "but I want to be armed."
"Are you kidding? Like you're going through three sets of customs carrying a bazooka?"
"But they know surely? Who we really are I mean. The police in Malta."
"Nobody knows," Kaufman shook his head. "We can't run the risk. Besides, if this Darmanin is in the clear, that's going to be part his decision - who to trust and who to tell. But we gotta reach him first."
I squirmed, not liking it. Stubbornly I said, "I'd feel better with a gun."
"You got any experience? Hand guns, small arms?"
"No, but-" I was remembering that film - that cellar in Milan. If I could get Maria out I would take my chances after that ... but whatever courage I had was not enough to face that cellar. I would kill myself rather than face that. "I want to be armed in Sicily," I said grimly.
Kaufman slid Llewellyn a quick glance. "Okay Sam - we'll arrange that."
I stared at him, wondering how much I could take on trust and what alternative I had. "And I want that list," I added slowly. "The entire list - everything you've got on the Pipeline."
"You'll have it," Kaufman agreed. "It's being prepared now."
Jack raised his head then but I don't think he saw us. He had that blind look on his face again. I wondered how much of the conversation he had heard.
Lucia touched his arm. "Come on, Jack. There's a fresh suit for you upstairs. I'll get someone to give you a hand."
But instead of answering her Jack looked at me. "All right, Sam?"
I took a deep breath. "All right," I said.
I hoped to God it would be.
Chapter Twelve
I wish I had been at the early morning conference with Rossiter. The discussion must have ranged far and wide, but Kaufman was revealing the bare minimum to me. I knew it but there seemed damn all I could do about it - and so much happened so quickly that there was no time to go into the whys and the wherefores. But the travel arrangements went smoothly enough.
Lucia and I were taken by Watkins in his taxi to an office in Manchester Square. It was a large building and we were hurried in by a side entrance, so I had no chance to see whose name was over the door. I was separated from Lucia and photographed in a cubby hole of a place which served both as studio and darkroom. Another man was there. He was about my height and colouring, but the resemblance ended there. He gave me a curious look and smiled hello before being whisked off by somebody else. Then I was whisked away too. Wherever I went in that building I was accompanied - handed from one person to another like a parcel to be signed for - while the naked eyes of closed circuit television cameras followed me everywhere, even along the corridors.
My suitcase had been carried up from the taxi and I came across it ten minutes later in another office. The contents were taken out and examined one at a time. Then they were transferred to another case of similar size and colour. I had no chance to ask why. I was too busy answering questions and listening to endless complaints. The man behind the counter swore bitterly. "Processing requires a minimum of three hours," he grumbled. "It's quite impossible to do these things quickly."
I was saved the need to comment by answering his questions How tall was I? What weight? What was the colour of my eyes? And did I have any distinguishing marks? He explained about scars and moles in case I misunderstood.
It reminded me of that first day in prison. The experience was the same. People made decisions about me as if I weren't there. They talked around me, as if I were deaf or daft, and expressed questions in such simple language that a misunderstanding was impossible.
In another room a different man complained about my clothes.
"The whole effect is wrong, much too formal," he tut-tutted and walked behind me to look at the back view. "Thank heavens you're a stock size, that's all."
I submitted to being re-clothed in a safari suit and suede shoes. I don't think I said much. I answered when spoken to, but that was about all. Lack of sleep was taking its toll. Besides, items of clothing seemed of no importance compared to everything else. I kept worrying about Maria — wondering where she was, and what was happening to her - and when I wasn't fretting about her I tried to stop my mind wandering to a town in Sicily called Alcamo.
Lucia and I were married the previous day. At the Marylebone Registry Office. At least, that's what the marriage certificate said. Except my name was Samuel Howard and hers had been Lucia Portelli. Kaufman went through the documentation with me at ten fifteen, when I was shown into an office on the ground floor. He was dressed in a lightweight busine
ss suit, and wore a collar and tie instead of a cravat as I did.
"Passport," he said, handing me one. "Place and date of birth are the same as yours. Samuel Howard, right? No middle names. Both parents dead. Occupation, Sales Manager for F. Greenwood Limited. It's an office equipment business, okay?"
I nodded and flicked through the pages of the passport. According to that I had visited Paris the previous year, and Amsterdam the year before that. Those were the only entries. I turned back to where my photograph appeared opposite the name of Samuel Howard.
"You live in Fulham at that address," Kaufman pointed at the passport. "Here, let's go through the rest of this stuff."
The documentation was extensive. I began to understand what the man meant by it normally taking three hours. Apart from the marriage certificate, there was a UK driving licence with one endorsement, a Diner's Club card, an Access card, and membership of both the AA and RAC. A bill from a garage in Fulham said they had serviced my car, a receipt from the Savoy Hotel confirmed that Mr and Mrs Howard had begun their honeymoon there, and a letter from my tailor complained that three hundred and eighty pounds should have been settled two months ago.
Kaufman tucked them into a worn pigskin wallet and turned to the rest of the items on the desk. Two torn ticket stubs from a West End theatre, a cloakroom receipt, airline tickets, a hotel reservation for Mr and Mrs Howard at the Grand Verdala Hotel, Malta, traveller's cheques, and a little book which told me all about the trade-in values of typewriters.
"That's about it," he said. "It's not full cover, but it will do."
I was putting the stuff into my pockets when Jack came in.
Except it wasn't Jack, not when I looked at him. But in a poor light or seen from the back, he could have passed for Jack.
Kaufman jerked his head. "Next door, buddy."
"Jack's decoy?" I guessed as the man went out.
Kaufman scowled. "Don't say his hairline is different. What do you expect in a couple of hours?"
Then another door opened and Lucia entered, followed by the man who had dressed me up for a safari. Lucia looked cool and casual in a cream trouser suit. She carried a fawn handbag on a shoulder strap and wore a wisp of chiffon at her throat.
"You can kiss the bride," Kaufman grinned.
Lucia smiled and stood next to me. Then the little tailor opened a packet of confetti and threw it all over us. "It's in your luggage as well," he said happily. "It takes days to get rid of - pops up all over the place."
I brushed confetti out of my hair.
"The car's ready," the little man said to Kaufman.
Kaufman nodded and looked at Lucia. "Stay in your hotel room until eight o'clock. Then make your way to the Oyster Bar. I'll meet you there. Okay?"
"Where's Jack?" I asked.
"Around," Kaufman made a spiral with his hand. "Getting kitted out. You'll see him on the aircraft - but don't acknowledge either of us - remember that."
"I'll wait for him now-"
The little man frowned at his watch. "The car is downstairs now."
"I tell you Jack's okay," Kaufman pleaded to me. "Naturally he's upset, suffering from shock still, but-"
"I want to see him," I said, leaving no doubt about what would happen if I didn't.
Kaufman threw his hands in the air. "Whereabouts is he?" he asked the little man.
"Collier's office I think," the man glanced at his watch. "But there's no time-"
Kaufman pushed some buttons on a console set into the desk top. He nodded at a television screen in the corner. It flickered into immediate life and I saw Jack watching a man unpack a suitcase. I recognised the office I had visited earlier. Then the screen filled with a close-up of Jack's face. My stomach turned when I saw his expression, and the misery in his eyes provoked an involuntary gasp of sympathy from Lucia next to me.
Kaufman sighed. "Best leave him alone for a while. I'll look after him."
The door behind me opened and Henderson's head appeared.
"Congratulations," he smiled at me, "I'm sure you'll both be very happy." Then he turned to Kaufman. "The car is waiting-"
"For Christ's sake!" Kaufman punched a button and the screen went blank. "Sam, you gotta go - don't worry about Jack. I'll take care of him."
Lucia slipped her arm through mine. "We must leave," she whispered urgently, taking a step towards the door. "Jack will be all right, really he will be."
I threw a final glance at the blank screen and followed Henderson into the corridor. Yesterday I had betrayed Edgar. Today I was doing the same to Jack. And tomorrow it would be Maria's turn unless they found her in time.
Richardson was on the telephone to Llewellyn. "Of course I can't swear it was Maria Green. But the Gendarmerie at Chateau la Valliere will swear that someone was transported in that crate."
Llewellyn sighed. "Go through it again - slowly this time, it's been a hell of a night."
God grant me patience, Richardson pleaded under his breath. He cast his eyes heavenwards in a plea for divine intervention. Then he glanced at his watch. Ten fifty - ten fifty-five almost! Jesus - hours passed, minutes passed, seconds passed, and all the while Maria Green was being taken further away from them. His face screwed into an expression of concentration as he attempted to tell Llewellyn the story in as few words as possible.
"At eight o'clock this morning," he began, "the van stolen from the hospital at Le Mans was found abandoned in a country lane near Chateau la Valliere-"
"Where's that?"
Richardson consulted his notes. "About twenty kilometres south-east of Le Mans. Near Tours on the Loire."
"All right, go on."
"It was full of medical supplies, wrapped in Laport packaging, everything was there as per the export documentation - everything that is, apart from the goods which should have been contained in the big crate. The crate itself was still there though - and that was empty."
Richardson heard the scrape of a match at the other end and guessed that Llewellyn was lighting his pipe. "Go on," Llewellyn said, amidst a series of lip-smacking puffing noises.
"The crate was lined with foam rubber," Richardson told him, "and had holding straps inside. And air holes were drilled into two sides - about eighteen inches from one end."
"And the Gendarmerie think-"
"They are sure someone travelled in the crate. They've found human hairs, black hairs-"
"But no positive proof that it was Maria Green?"
Richardson almost groaned aloud. "Not yet they haven't but-"
"You're convinced," Llewellyn said with faint sarcasm.
"She's not in Bristol," Richardson said hotly, "I'm convinced of that. And the rest of it fits - the white van at this end was definitely used in the snatch, almost certainly it went to Flitton."
"But why France?"
Richardson bit back his frustration. France, Timbuktu - what did it matter? The scent was going cold on them - that's what mattered!
"And you want to go there," Llewellyn mused.
"I'm doing no good here. Christ, it's a lead, it's the only bloody lead we've got!"
"I'll have to see Rossiter," Llewellyn said gloomily. "Interpol will become involved."
"Well, are you getting anywhere?" Richardson demanded, his patience exhausted. "I mean is Kaufman getting anywhere with Harris?"
Llewellyn paused a long time before answering. Then he said, "Getting anywhere is difficult. They are certainly going somewhere. They're going to Malta, and then on to Sicily."
A black limousine took us to Luton airport. The driver, a different man from Watkins, drove quickly but unspectacularly. When we arrived he found a porter for the luggage, who touched the peak of his cap. "Have a pleasant journey, Mr Howard." The girl at the check-in desk said something similar, "Your flight will be called in fifteen minutes, Mr Howard."
"This Howard business will take some getting used to," I grumbled to Lucia as we turned away.
"Imagine what it's like for Mrs Howard. Come on, Sam, buy your
wife a drink. And for heaven's sake, don't look so worried. We're on honeymoon, remember?"
The flight was crowded with holidaymakers. Lucia and I were among the first to board the aircraft. I found our seats in the section reserved for smokers, then kept a sharp look out for Kaufman and Jack. Ten, fifteen minutes passed without sign of them. Passengers wandered up and down the aisle, clutching boarding cards and examining seat numbers, bumping into each other and apologising with loud good humour. The aircraft seemed full to overflowing. I grew hot and sticky and even more worried. Then I saw Kaufman. He was leading a man by the elbow, a man who wore dark glasses and carried a white stick. JACK!
A stewardess ushered them into their seats. Jack staggered slightly, as if he was drunk - or drugged.
"Stop staring," Lucia whispered, pretending to draw my attention to the in-flight magazine. "It's good cover - that's all that matters."
"Did you see him?" I hissed back. "He could hardly walk straight-"
"They've probably given him a mild sedative, that's all. You saw the state he was in. Be reasonable, Sam, it's all for the best."
All for the best! I remembered Henderson holding me down while his mate injected me, and Lucia saying "It's all for the best" over and over again like a catechism. I turned to her, angry until I caught the look in her eye. She was afraid. Perhaps afraid I would create a scene and reveal our identities? Or afraid of the journey, afraid of what might happen in Malta, or what might befall us in Sicily. Afraid for Maria, for Jack, for all of us. I kissed her lightly on the lips. "Poor Lucia, I wonder how often you've said that."
We dozed for part of the journey. A private conversation was impossible anyway, and to close my eyes was at least some sort of rest, even if the events of the past twenty-four hours rushed round and round my head.
The cabin crew served a plastic airline meal. I ate some cheese, drank the coffee, asked for a second cup and smoked a cigarette. Kay had taken this flight, or at least one like it. In January. Alone. She must have gone somewhere when she landed in Malta. Booked into an hotel? Lew Douglas's hotel? And her last words to Edgar were to stop worrying about Apex. Why? Kaufman was right, had to be right - Kay had known something. But what? January? Douglas was still alive. Had Kay gone to plead with him, threaten him, make demands? What sort of demands? Perhaps they had argued ... had a terrible row ... Kay's temper ... was that it? The argument boiled over, blows were struck, Douglas had beaten her...killed her ... murdered her?
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 69