Morgan sat a long moment on the bed, then heaved himself up. Before he collapsed asleep. Tomorrow he had to perfect Max’s signatures – but he could not bear to think about it tonight. And he could not bear to think about the deception he was going to commit on Anna. He picked up the bottle of wine, and walked to the bathroom.
He opened the door, onto billowing steam and the fragrance of soap. Anna lay in the swirling suds of a whirlpool bath, her head back, hair sodden. She opened her eyes, and smiled.
29
They had not even made love. He had wanted to, desperately: to cling to her, maybe for the last time. Too tense, too exhausted, they had both just fallen asleep.
He was suddenly awake at six o’clock that Sunday morning, his nerves cringing for more sleep. Today was the day he was leaving her, tricking her. And tomorrow he was going to perpetrate a deception that she would probably find unforgivable. He lay beside her in the pitch blackness, and with all his heart he longed to take her in his arms, feel her softness and smoothness, to calm himself, to claim her. He lay there a minute, trying to clear his mind, get the tension out of his body. Then he swung out of bed.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He let the cold water beat down on his head for a full minute. Then he rubbed himself dry. He looked at his hands. They were trembly. He went back into the dungeon and got dressed. He picked up their bag. He unlocked the dungeon door, and climbed the steps.
He emerged into the ornate, silent hall. The concealed lights were burning amongst the ferns, setting the Thai statue aglow. He found the kitchen door, behind the reception desk. He was not hungry but he made himself eat some cold chicken. Then he went into the bar.
He sat down on a stool, under a light. He opened the bag. He took out all Max’s keys and put them in his pocket. He took out all Max’s passports. The photographs of himself he had had taken in New York, the bottle of glue, the notebook. Then he saw something in the bag he had not noticed before. It was a paper packet.
Printed on the paper was Farmacia Lopez, Garrucha. He opened the packet, and pulled out the contents. He was looking at a little box of condoms.
He was astonished. Anna had bought condoms in Garrucha when she bought clothes and hairdye? …
He smiled briefly. Well, well, well. He returned the box and the packet to the bag.
He opened his penknife. He carefully, very carefully prised the photographs off all three of Max’s passports.
Then he carefully pasted glue on the back of three of his own photographs. He carefully pasted one into each of Max’s passports.
He looked at them.
His photographs lacked the official embossment on the corner, but they would pass brisk scrutiny. Jack Morgan was now both Max Hapsburg and Maxwell Constantine.
But which was he to be on the fateful day? Tomorrow.
In which name was the deposit box?
That question made his stomach turn over. He thought he knew, but the doubt made him feel feverish. He could telephone the bank with some ruse, to try to find out – but it was very risky. And he would only have one chance. He had to be able to do both signatures in case he got a last-minute clue as to which name the box was in, but once he had started the impersonation he could not switch. And if he used the wrong name, if there was no box in that name, suspicion would fall on him like a ton of bricks. Honest men do not walk into strange banks trying to gain access to non-existent boxes. Questions, attempted fraud, police. And it would be all over.
He dragged his hands down his face. One step at a time.
He picked up Maxwell Constantine’s passport.
It was more likely that Max had put the microfilm in a box under Maxwell Constantine’s name.
He opened his notebook.
He studied the signature. It had no flourishes: it was made by a man who was not accustomed to using the name.
He picked up his pen. He carefully; slowly, began.
That day seemed unreal. The beautiful whore-house completely silent; the Thai statue and Buddha staring at him out of the gloom; his nerves tight, the cramped frustration of torturing out the same picture of lines over and over and over again. That’s how he came to think of it – a picture, like a cartoonist’s sketch. And as a cartoonist can draw the same face over and over again, so became his forgeries. He could close his eyes and visualize each millimetre of every letter, each curl and twirl.
It was after eleven o’clock when he finally threw down the pen. His shoulders ached, his hand ached. If he pushed his tendons through the same motions once more he would scream. He heaved himself off the stool, and walked behind the bar. He got a beer out of the refrigerator, and poured it. He took three deep swallows.
He went back to his stool. He lit a cigarette and inhaled it deeply. He stared into the gloom.
This time tomorrow it would all be about to begin … This time the day after tomorrow he could be sitting in a Swiss prison. Or in a Russian safe house. Or lying on a mortuary slab.
This time tonight he would be saying goodbye to Anna. Maybe forever.
He dragged his hands down his face. Now cut that out. Cut the melodrama, and think positively …
It was going to be all right! He would sleep this afternoon, and he would sleep on the plane and tomorrow his hand would be steady. He had those two signatures off pat. Only a handwriting expert would catch him out. And he would have Makepeace and the boys riding shotgun for him as he left the bank. What were the chances of being overwhelmed with those guys looking after him? He had all the advantages – even if the Comrades somehow managed to follow him to Zurich, they would riot know which bank he was heading for, nor when.
All the advantages are on our side. And how big a fight dare they start in broad daylight outside a Swiss bank?
He squeezed his eyes with his fingertips.
The answer was, A very big fight. We saw that in New York. And the Swiss police are my problem too. If they arrive on the scene I will have a lot of explaining to do about forging a dead man’s signature – and the British won’t come forward to help me …
He took another big swallow of beer. By the time the Swiss police arrive you’ll be miles away. Airborne.
Flying to where? …
He drew deeply on his cigarette.
To England. Fuck ’em. Say what you like about the British, about the likes of Christopher Carrington and Brink-Fucking-Ford, but when it comes to the protection of the law that’s the only place I really know and trust. Say fuck ’em all and fly back to England and get the best lawyer and then walk into Carrington’s office and tell them to get the Comrades off my back or I’ll blow your whole story sky-high and sue Her Majesty to Kingdom Come … And Anna and I are going to get married and live happily ever after …
He pulled on his cigarette.
And if you screw up at the bank? … If you try the wrong name and they blow the whistle on you? … Or you screw up the signature? … And what about destroying Anna’s trust? … He stubbed his cigarette out. Think positively! And remember that what you’re doing is right!
Yes, right. He had to keep reminding himself of that, when the risks loomed huge and terrible. Yes, he was taking these risks for Anna, because he loved her and because there was no stopping her and if he didn’t take the risks she would take them alone – but yes, he Was also doing all this because he believed he was doing the right thing, the responsible thing, as one of Her Majesty’s former officers: He simply could not allow Anna Hapsburg to blunder headstrong into the world of Intelligence and destroy a body of information which was of vital importance to the Western world. Information so important that the British and Americans and the Russians were all desperately after it, the French government blackmailed by it. He simply did not trust Anna’s judgement. Anna Hapsburg was a very intelligent woman, of very high principle, politically wise beyond her years – but Anna Hapsburg also had her beautiful head in the idealist’s clouds, and she was desperately emotionally involved with this one and it som
ehow involved her beloved Holy Roman Church. ‘I’ll burn in hell first!’ And she believed in hell. No – Jack Morgan, RN Compulsorily Retired, may not be an officer and a gentleman any more, he may hate the Navy’s guts and the underhand contraventions of the Dirty Tricks Act by Her Majesty’s government, and he certainly didn’t trust the bastards not to pull the plug on Anna if they had to, but underneath all his outrage he was still a Royal Navy man who had spent the best years of his life shadowing bastard Russian submarines – and No Way could he let Anna destroy vital evidence until he had brought his own judgement to bear. Maybe he would agree with her – but it was much more likely to be something that the British government needed to thwart those slave-driving bastards in the Kremlin. He did not really know when this decision had crept up on him in the terrible hurly-burly of this last week, because he had been prepared to let her destroy it in New York: but now he knew loud and clear what he was doing was right. And that sustained his uptight nerves at twelve o’clock on a Sunday morning in an empty whore-house in Amsterdam without enough sleep, about to parachute into Switzerland and risk the wrath of the law and the trust of the love of his life … He did not know how he was going to win back that all-important trust, and if he let himself worry about that now his nerves would crack …
He took another gulp of beer. Cross the bridges as they come. Just think about your beautiful wife whom you’re doing all this for. Oh, yes, wife. Isn’t that a pretty word? My wife in the beautiful house I’m going to buy her one day, the roses climbing over the door. And she’ll come to sea with me, we’ll sail the seven oceans and we’ll trade in the islands and we’ll drink wine under the stars and every day will be a honeymoon, I’m the happiest man in the whole wide world – just thank God for my beautiful wife lying asleep down there in that ridiculous dungeon … There was a pad of feet behind him, his wife slid her arms around his neck.
‘Hullo.’
He turned and held her tight. She was still warm from the bed, clad in the Bimini sunfrock with nothing on underneath. And, oh, the beautiful feel of her.
‘What have you been doing?’ she said.
‘Planning our wonderful, life. And practising forgery.’
She looked at the notebook. She picked it up and examined the columns of signatures closely.
They’re very good,’ she said. ‘Very, very good.’
‘A dazzling career in crime wasted.’
‘I couldn’t tell these from the real thing.’ Then she turned to him. ‘Are you truly sure you’re prepared to do this?’
He felt his nerves stretched.
‘Who else can do it? It’s too late to change horses now.’
She sat down on a bar stool. Morgan sighed. This was it – he was about to start tricking her. He picked up the notebook and said:
‘But which name am I going to use? What exactly did the note say in Max’s book?’
She said: ‘Just the initials of the bank, plus the number of the box.’ She went on: ‘I’ve been thinking about how we may find out which name. With a phone call to the bank –’
‘Yes, I’ve thought of that too. But first tell me exactly what Max’s note said.’
‘I told you.’
Oh Jesus. It was a clumsy attempt and she had probably seen through it. ‘Anna, I now need to know the bank and the box number. You’ve been right to keep it from me in case something happened to me, but now I need to know.’
‘Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘Because I need to know all my facts now, to generate self-confidence!’
She put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’ She stood up, and paced across the floor. She sighed. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, please.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Anna!’
She stopped. And held up her hand. ‘All right. You need to know now.’ She turned. ‘The note read: UBS 7224 Bahnhofstrasse, Z. The Z stands for Zurich.’
He gave an inward sigh of relief. He repeated carefully: ‘Seven two two four. And UBS stands for?’
‘Union Bank of Switzerland. It’s a world-famous bank. Bahnhof strasse is its headquarters.’
Morgan sat back.
‘All right. Now, tell me about your clever phone call to the bank.’
She turned again, and paced. She said:
‘It’s more likely that Max used the name Constantine for the box. So you telephone the bank and say your name is Max Hapsburg. You want to know when your rental of your box expires. And they look up their records, and say: “Mr Hapsburg, your rental is paid up until, say, January.” You then know the box is in the name of Hapsburg. Or they say, “Mr Hapsburg, we have no record of you having a box here.” In which case you say, “Oh? – this is the Swiss Credit Bank, isn’t it?” They say, “No sir, it’s the Union Bank.” You say, “Sorry, silly me, phoned the wrong outfit.” And you then know the box is in the name of Constantine.’
Morgan got up and began to pace too.
‘Yes, I’ve got to try something like that.’ He shook his head. ‘But there are serious risks involved …’ He paced. ‘Firstly, the man on the phone may say, “What’s your box number, Mr Hapsburg?” If I say “Seven two two four” he may come back to the telephone and say, “I’m sorry, Mr Hapsburg, that box belongs to somebody else.” I then know the box is in the name of Constantine. But when I go into the bank later and say “My name is Maxwell Constantine, please give me box seven two two four,” the man will think, “That’s a coincidence, only this morning a Mr Hapsburg asked about this same box … ” And his suspicions are immediately aroused. Wouldn’t yours be? And so he looks at my signature very very carefully. And at my phoney Constantine passport – with my unembossed photograph …’ He turned to her. ‘He’d blow the whistle for the police.’
‘Oh God …’ She sat on a bar stool. She thought. ‘But you could say on the telephone, “Sorry, I can’t remember my number, I haven’t got my key on me – it’s in my wife’s handbag.”’
He shook his head. ‘I doubt whether a smart bank would discuss a client’s safety-deposit box with somebody who doesn’t even know the number – unless they knew that client’s voice. Which is another problem. I may find myself speaking to somebody who knew Max Hapsburg. Remembers him. In which case I’ll be in big difficulties.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘If the box is in the name of Hapsburg and I find myself speaking on the phone to somebody who knows Max – that’s it.’
She said: ‘Of course – I wouldn’t dream of letting you go into the bank. Mission Impossible. Back to square one.’
Morgan went behind the bar. And oh God he hoped that was what happened tomorrow – Mission Impossible. Then it would have to be Option One, the lawyer. He uncapped two bottles of beer. He poured them, and handed her a glass. She said:
‘You’re going to tell me something else. What is it?’
He sighed tensely. This was the biggest part of the trick he was playing on her. He walked back and sat down beside her. He took her hand. He said:
‘Last night, Makepeace, Danziger and I made a change of plan. Now, I don’t want you to argue about it. We’re both tired, and it cannot be changed now. And it is this: Tonight Makepeace and I and the others are flying down to Zurich, to case the joint and work out an escape route. We’re flying by seaplane.’ He paused. ‘You are not coming with us tonight. Assuming everything seems safe, the seaplane will come back and fetch you tomorrow night. And we go to the bank together the next day.’
She was astonished.
‘Why are you leaving me here in the first instance?’
‘Because it’s safest. We’ve got to see the lie of the goddam land. You’ll be in the way. And you can’t look after yourself in a fight.’
‘And if there is a fight tomorrow while you’re reconnoitring?’ she demanded.
‘Then we run for it. Run away and think again.’
She looked at him angrily. Then she slid off the stool.
‘No way!’ she said. ‘And if they kill you?’ She held up a
hand to silence him. ‘This is my responsibility, Jack! And I’m going to be there to take my share of the risk!’
His nerves were going. ‘Bullshit, Anna! This is no time for standing on quixotic principle. There is no risk tomorrow because they’re unlikely to tackle us until we come out of the bank with the goods in our possession. Tomorrow we will not be going into the bank at all. Only reconnoitring the area around it.’
‘If there’s no risk, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t come!’
He held out an angry finger. ‘Anna, you have entrusted the planning of this whole operation to me –’
‘I’ve been in on every stage! Consulted! I’m coming.’
He calmed himself. He played his trump card: ‘Do you know how to parachute?’
She stared at him. ‘No. What are you talking about?’
He demanded, ‘Would you like to start learning tonight?’
She stared angrily. ‘No.’
Morgan nodded grimly. ‘But that’s how the boys and I are entering Switzerland, Anna. To avoid being seen on radar. And you can’t parachute.’ He added, ‘And even if you could, I don’t want the woman I love leaping out into thin air over mountains in the dark.’
‘Nor do I want the man I love doing that!’
‘I’m a trained parachutist, Anna. And parachuting in is the only sure way of entering Switzerland undetected.’ He ended grimly: ‘And that’s the way it’s going to be.’
‘And so how the hell do I get into Switzerland?’
He sighed theatrically. ‘The pilot will land on the Zurich See with you, with a perfectly legitimate flight plan. Officially you’ll be co-pilot, with false papers to prove it. But the immigration people don’t check crew. You’ll come ashore without problem. We pick you up, go to the bank and do the job.’
‘So, why don’t we all go in together that way tomorrow?’
‘Because we can smuggle one person in that way, as crew, but not five of us, Anna.’
She thrust both elbows on the bar and held her head.
A Woman Involved Page 21