“Oh, your bit is easy. We need you to sell it to Major Jamal, and arrange for delivery. That’s all.”
The Virgin laughed. “That’s the easy bit? I can see you’ve never been in sales. The selling’s the difficult bit. The rest of it’s easy. If I’ve got to sell it, how much are you going to charge me?”
“Karelia says the substitute chemical will cost £1.45 per litre.”
“£1.45; that’s around $2.10 per litre. I suppose you’re talking FAS a southern port. Five thousand litres, $10,500. OK. And how much for the container? It’s all one-way trips into Tabriz so we’d have to buy the container.”
“They say the basic container cost is only £850 if we take a second-hand one. And then there’s the modifications, of course.”
“You’re not going to make us pay for the modifications! Are you trying to make a profit out of this? Come on! It’s going to cost us a bunch of money to come into Southampton and pick it up. Look; $10,500 for the product, say $1300 for the container, I’d better say $10,000 for the pick up and shipping, that’s $12,000 plus… $22,000 altogether. We’ll have to sell that for around $80,000.”
The other men looked shocked. “How much is $80,000?” asked Stanford.
“Around £55,000.”
Crossman whistled. “I had no idea. Are they going to buy that? Why’s it so expensive?”
“Tabriz is a very expensive place to do business. We have to pay all sorts of taxes and rip-offs just to be there. And it’s all paid in dinars at the official funny-money exchange rate.”
Crossman thought for a while. “I suppose we could ask Karelia to reduce their price a little. And perhaps I could give you the container free. Would that help? And you could ask your manager to help, what was his name, the American?”
The Virgin laughed. “You can forget that. Ron might be very patriotic and stand up for the flag and all that, but he’s not going to let it stand between him and a dollar. You do what you can, and I’ll do my best. If the Tabrizis let it fall through, it means they’re not really interested anyway. They’ve got the money, especially for military purposes.”
They were clearly troubled. They did not want to see their project collapse before its birth just because of a lack of funding, but then again, they did not have much of a budget of their own. “I just hope Karelia can help us,” muttered Crossman. “Now, what else do we have to discuss?”
“I have something,” said The Virgin. “It’s just occurred to me. How do we know they’re not just blowing smoke up our backsides? I mean, they might string us along and then leak it to the Sunday Times.”
“Ah, we thought about that,” said Stanford. “There’s no problem. Firstly, they’re not ordering mustard gas. It’s going to be referred to as Karelia SV 6 which is the catalogue reference of the real chemical but not a definition. So if there’s a leak, they ordered a fairly harmless solvent, nothing more. It’s all quite deniable. The press makes a fuss, the Minister orders an investigation, no problem is found, everyone’s happy.”
“Except for Major Jamal.”
“Oh, yes. I see what you mean. Major Jamal would be a little upset. He’d probably be after your blood. Well, there’s two ways to look at that. Firstly, no-one in their right minds is going to open the container and take a sniff. If they do, they’ll choke anyway because there will be a good dose of tear gas in it. Secondly, the evidence is going to be destroyed by fire before they can use it anyway. Does that set your mind at rest?”
“Is there any way Major Jamal’s going to suspect I’ve met you?”
Crossman dived in. “I don’t want to hear this. I don’t need to know. Stanford will take you away and sort all those things out between you. I just have to organise the shipment. What else do you need?”
The Virgin thought for a moment. “Nothing, I think. So Karelia will be faxing me with all the details?”
“That’s right. You can sort it all out with them. We’ll see everything you fax them.”
“You’d better watch the telexes too; sometimes the telephones don’t work at all.”
He noted that in his file. “Right. That just about finishes my bit. It’s been nice meeting you. We’ll see you when you get back.” He stood up and shook hands. “You’re Stanford’s baby from now on. Good luck.”
Stanford had a list of things to cover, but The Virgin had his own priorities. “I’ve got to go shopping. I’ve got a pile of stuff to buy and I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry so much, Cartwright. It’s the Christmas season so the shops will stay open late. And we’re expecting Miss Anthony any time now. She’s got your wallet and passport, and she’ll take you shopping, and to dinner, and stay in the hotel with you.”
His last words fell into silence as The Virgin’s stomach turned a somersault. Stanford continued, “Of course, Mostyn will be there with her, so I suppose you can play three-handed bridge if you can’t sleep.
“Right. Business. Major Jamal is not likely to know you were here. But we know him fairly well - we trained him, you know, in military intelligence - and I’m almost certain he’ll check on what you’ve been up to. After he left us, the revolution came along and the Russians stepped in. They are really responsible for the way the Tabrizi security services have developed. I’m sure they’ll have trained him in advanced paranoia, so let’s assume he’ll check on you.”
“Jesus!” whistled The Virgin.
“Oh, don’t worry too much. We talked this through and the way we see it, in no circumstances can he confront you. Let’s assume he really is serious about this order; in that case he won’t want you to know it’s anything other than a harmless solvent. And if he’s not serious he’s trying to catch us out, not you. So he still wants your co-operation. Either way, he can’t really interrogate you or you’d smell a rat and drop the whole deal.
“I expect he’ll try and check you out by talking to you, try and find out how you spent your time, who you met. So what we are intending to do is make up an interesting couple of nights with Miss Anthony. You know, theatres, candle-lit dinners, all that sort of thing.”
“Sounds nice. I wish it had happened.”
Stanford smiled to himself. “Don’t we all? Never mind; we’re giving you an illusory girl-friend, so you’ll just have to imagine what happened. She’ll have all the details and will go over them with you this evening. She might even manage the candle-lit dinner if you ask her nicely.
“Do pay attention to her. She’s going to be your contact with us. She’ll give you her home telephone number and you can communicate using word code if you have to. But it shouldn’t be necessary. We’ll get all we need from Karelia. Just treat it like a normal shipment and you won’t hear any more about it.”
“Normal shipment! I just hope the bloody thing’s safe.”
“Oh, some things we can manage pretty well, even in these post-Communist days. You won’t even notice. All you’ll have to do is pick up your money, and you seem to have got that sorted out in advance. Let me just check if Miss Anthony’s here.”
He came back with Elena in tow. She was wearing a chunky sweater and jeans, and smiling happily. “Ready to go? Let’s hit Oxford Street.”
“I don’t know what else Stanford has to cover.”
Stanford thought for a moment. “Nothing else, I think.”
“Is that all? I mean, what happens if something goes wrong, if I have to get in touch with you?”
“Miss Anthony has all you’ll need about that. It’s really not necessary because we’ll be following you closely through Karelia, but you never know.” He held out his hand. “Good luck. We’ll have lunch next time you’re in town.”
“Goodbye. Or is it au revoir?”
- 9 -
The Virgin flew to Crete with butterflies in his stomach. Elena had been good company. She had rushed him up and down Oxford Street, accumulating nearly everything on his shopping list in a shorter time than any woman The Virgin had known. She was a creature of both taste an
d decision. Choosing the right warm shirts was just a matter of letting her look through the racks and handing over his credit card. She seemed to know her way around the CD megastore as well and he bought half of his discs unheard on her recommendation.
Back at the hotel he took a quick shower and she led him down to the coffee shop for his briefing. It had been disappointing. He expected a lecture on secret inks and silent killers, but she kept it much simpler. He was to call her at least once a fortnight, just to pass the time. If anything came up, he would just have to figure out a way to pass the message by word-code, as she called it. She was going to send him a package to arrive about the same time as the chemical or a little later. If he spoke on the telephone to her about a parcel, he was talking about the chemical; if it was a package, it would be the present she had sent. Apart from that, just two code words; if he mentioned blue cheese he was asking for a meeting; ‘wheelbarrow’ was the signal to panic.
She passed over documentary proofs of a non-existent affair between them. Theatre stubs for Cats; two pairs of used bus tickets; an opened packet of condoms. The condoms were called ‘Sultan’ and featured an enticing slave girl on the front of the gold packet. He sighed when he saw them and told her he would keep them for next time. The last item, a stuffed envelope, she produced a little reluctantly. She told him to keep it unopened until he was on the plane. She wrote her telephone numbers on the inside of a hotel match folder and handed them over. “This one’s Executive Travel where I work - normal office hours - and the other’s my flat. Call anytime; I always let the answer phone run before I pick up.”
“And that’s it? Nothing else?”
“What did you expect? Your job is to arrange for the shipment to get into Tabriz, and be our ear to the wall so we know what’s happening. Don’t even think about anything more. It could be very damaging to the mission, and to your health if anything goes wrong.”
“What could go wrong?”
Elena played with her coffee spoon. “Nothing. In theory nothing could go wrong that would involve you. But you can imagine how it is in real life. Anything could go wrong. Anything you can imagine and then at least as much again that you can’t. What you’ve got to do is forget about it all. All the people in our office, all the things you’ve discussed, all the things that might happen and probably won’t. Just forget about it all and get on with your normal life.”
“Do I forget about you too?”
She was human enough to laugh. “Well, maybe not about me. You’ve got to call me anyway. That’ll be nice; I can just imagine how it is in Tabriz when it’s January here. If we’re lucky, we might have to meet in Crete later on for business. Would you like that?”
“Are you going to bring Hobson?”
“Don’t be silly! No. If they send me on jobs like that I’m normally alone, so we’ll have fun. When is spring in Crete?”
“I don’t know. Late March I should guess. Do you travel much?”
“Oh yes. They’re always sending me off to pick up little bits of information or to meet people. Nothing quite like this, though. This could be quite exciting.” Before The Virgin could ask what ‘exciting’ meant for him, she was standing up and waving for the bill.
She took him to a Hungarian restaurant that night. Goulash and Bull’s Blood, with little old men playing gypsy violins at their table. Elena’s eyes were flashing in the candle-light, it was ridiculously romantic, and they enjoyed every minute. Mostyn was waiting for them back at the hotel. He sat watching television in the next room, and The Virgin’s hopes of a romantic night rose. He had been cuddling Elena in the lift and was feeling very good. She left him to talk with Mostyn and then came back leaving the connecting door ajar. The Virgin took her into his arms and squeezed her.
“I’m sorry, Greg. I can’t do it with him in there,” she whispered. She held a long finger over his protesting lips. “I’d do it if it was for work, but... I’m sorry. Next time, I promise.” With a long and passionate kiss, she left him. The imprint of her firm body remained pressed against him and now, flying away high over France, he could imagine it yet. He wriggled his brief-case out from under the seat in front, and looked for the envelope she had given him in the coffee shop. A pair of tiny black lace panties fell out. There was a card, a childish thing with two furry mice sharing an orchard swing. Inside she had written ‘Hurry up and bring them back to me - Love, Elena’. Below her signature was a big lip-stick kiss.
Next day, Heraklion Airport felt deadly. This was the inward traveller’s first contact with Tabrizis in mass and it always made The Virgin’s heart sink at the feeling of being back home again. The oil-men with their doleful workmen’s faces sat alone on the plastic chairs and drank steadily from cans of beer, the last real beer they would see for weeks or months. They were still travelling into Tabriz and could not even start ticking off the days on their calendars to when they would be back with their families. Tabrizi children ran everywhere while their parents sat surrounded by mountains of European shopping. The fat women with their head-scarves made a depressing contrast with the sexy Greek girls outside. At last the flight was called and the Tabrizis formed a scrum at the doorway. Oh well, thought The Virgin, Sabah here we come. A deadness settled on him and he made his way to the plane like a robot.
It was a windy evening in Sabah and the plane lurched down onto the run-way like a tired goose. The passengers wrapped their coats around them as they were herded into the broken-down airport bus with no windows. It was dirty and only half of the door next to The Virgin could be closed. It creaked its way to the low airport buildings. They waited in a bare terrazzo room for the two Immigration officials to start stamping passports. The foreigners lacked the enthusiasm to push and stood quietly in line while the locals fussed and called out, brown hands thrusting bunches of passports at the lethargic officials behind their glass plates. It was a slow business, even for the Tabrizis.
The Virgin’s turn came eventually. Immigration was represented by a juvenile with an uncertain moustache. He was dressed in a scruffy combat jacket and jeans. Every passport that was put into his hands seemed to confuse him and he turned the pages slowly as if trying to buy time. When he came to The Virgin’s picture he held it up and compared the image with the reality in silence. Without speaking he left his desk and disappeared through a door behind. Now it starts, thought The Virgin.
He came back quickly with his finger closed inside the passport. Rapidly he opened it and slapped a stamp and a signature over the re-entry visa. Still mute he pushed it back at The Virgin. Hamdullah, he thought, it’s going to be easy. Through the open door to the apron he could see three men slowly pushing the baggage trolley towards the terminal. The tow truck must have broken down again. The passengers moved back onto the apron ready to pounce.
The line for Customs seemed to be moving quite quickly. Through the crowd The Virgin could see that the customs men were in place behind their low tables, but they were not interested in the baggage passing them. Aside from hauling in each Tabrizi and making him open all his carefully tied bundles, they were waving most foreigners through. Strange, he thought, that’s something new.
Some of the oil-men were being pulled up but released after a passport check and a cursory bag search. The Virgin’s turn came quickly. His passport caught some-one’s eye again and was carried off for a second opinion. It came back in the hands of a well turned out officer. “You come inside. And your bags.” The Virgin picked up his bags and followed him. The office inside was bare. A dilapidated desk filled one side, and cheap chrome chairs lined the wall. “Bags here,” ordered the officer, pointing at the desk. The Virgin swung his hold-all up onto the desk and set his brief-case beside it. “Empty your pockets also.” The Virgin was stunned. He had never had that happen, or heard of it with any of his friends. The officer was pointing at the desk and silently commanding. There was no choice. The Virgin’s hands went slowly to his pockets. There was not much. Car keys, wallet, passport. “Also your watch.�
�� He unclipped his heavy diver’s watch and laid it beside the rest. “Now you come with me.”
The Virgin followed him down a dark corridor to what appeared to be the chief’s office. It had carpet on the floor and a low table in front of the desk. There were two comfortable chairs for visitors and behind the desk an enormous modern manager’s throne. The walls were empty except for the obligatory portrait of the Great Man looking over the shoulder of the manager. The Virgin sat and waited.
He must have waited alone there for half an hour. The room was completely silent and he was left to uncomfortable speculation about what was happening outside. Lurking behind him was the god of panic. He felt that at any invitation, any half open door, the god would burst through and overwhelm him. By instinct he refused to look at what he had been doing. He buried Hobson and Mostyn, Crossman and Stanford. Buried the Eminent Person from the India Rooms. Instead he thought of Tom Forbes and his plans for Eastern Europe. He tried to remember heading by heading the position paper he had flipped through carelessly on the flight over. He remembered Elena. He remembered taking her to the theatre, the address of the Hungarian restaurant with its little old violinists. Holding hands with her and walking down Oxford Street. Elena’s black eyes as she raised her glass in the candle-light. Making love to her on their arrival at the hotel as soon as the porter left and the door closed. Elena’s figure as she undressed; her lacy black panties, the ones in his brief-case, hiding very little. The shape of Elena draped naked over his hotel bed; making love half asleep two mornings later. Sharing the three-quarter sized bath tub, her perfect breasts hiding behind her knees. Plans for a holiday in the Greek islands when they would lie nude in the sun, like immortals.
Once he heard foot-steps outside, but they passed by. He returned to his remembering.
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