A Woman Involved

by John Gordon Davis

  Makepeace frowned. ‘And the Comrades. What’ll you tell them?’ He shook his head. ‘I wish I knew what all this was about,’ he said.

  It was a long night. The seaplane droned along at ten thousand feet, the lights of Europe sliding slowly by. Down there, in the string of air traffic control towers, their blip showed on radar screens all the way: when they passed off one screen, they reappeared on the next. At each stage the pilot reported to the air traffic controllers, who confirmed their permitted altitude and flight path.

  Morgan slumped in the back seat, trying to rest. Trying not to think about it any more.

  The lights of France slid by below. Then, way ahead, the Alps began to loom, big and black and white. It was almost four o’clock in the morning when Ole Eriksen said over the radio: ‘Geneva Control, this is Alpha Victory Zulu three four two, heading one seven zero for Como, Italy …’

  In Geneva, the air traffic controller acknowledged the transmission and watched the little blip on his screen.

  The mountains droned by, gleaming silvery white and black, sprinklings of lights here and there, black ragged patches of lakes.

  Morgan sat with his parachute on, eyes closed, not daring to look at that terrifying beauty below. Then Makepeace shook his knee. ‘Okay, get ready, off we go …’

  Morgan shoved out of his seat before he lost his nerve. Makepeace slid open the door, and the icy night blasted in. He put one foot out on the wing. Ole Eriksen held up a hand, looking at his chart. Makepeace waited. Morgan’s heart was knocking. Ole dropped his hand, and Makepeace got out onto the wing. For an instant he clung, facing the propellers, then he jumped backwards, and he disappeared into the blackness.

  Morgan scrambled to the door, his heart pounding. Before he could funk it, he climbed out into the roaring blast. He clung a moment, eyes closed, terrified, then he launched himself.

  And there was nothing in the world but the purest terror of falling backwards through nothingness, blackness hurtling about him, the numbers stuttering blindly in his head – then he ripped the cord and there was a wrench, and suddenly he was floating.

  Floating through the freezing night sky at a rushing rate. The deafening silence of space. He prayed Thank You God, and he looked frantically for Makepeace. He was over there, below him, his canopy bulbous. Morgan gripped his strings and pulled, and his parachute veered across the sky. The landscape was easing up towards him, patches of white amongst blackness of trees. A snowy road. A car moving along with only parking lights on. Closer and closer came the black and white earth. Faster and faster. Then it was rushing up towards him. He bent his knees. The earth hurtled towards him, and he hit it with a bone-jarring crash and he rolled.

  He rolled over once in a mass of snow, half-winded. He unclasped the harness and scrambled up and ran at his parachute, stumbling, rasping. He grabbed it, hand over hand, bundled it up roughly. He turned and started for the road.

  He scrambled down onto it, and ran for the car. Makepeace was already there. Danziger grabbed the parachute from Morgan.

  ‘So, no Mrs Hapsburg?’ he demanded. ‘Now look here, sir – you can’t just spring these surprises on us –’

  ‘Tough, Dan! I’m the paymaster around here!’

  Morgan strode to the car door. Stillgoes slung the parachutes in the boot. They all got into the car. Danziger did not put on any lights. He started driving fast down the forest road. ‘Everything all right?’ Morgan demanded from the back seat.

  Danziger’s anger seemed to have gone, ‘Everything’s perfect, sir. I’ve got us rooms in a nice motel. I’ve got us a perfect escape route. What we’ll do now, sir, before the city wakes up, is drive into town and go over the general area-a familiarization tour. Then we’ll go to the motel and go over the plan in detail.’ He added: ‘You’ll have to tell us the name of the bank, now, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ Morgan said.

  Danziger said: ‘I’ve studied the surrounds of all the banks in Bahnhofstrasse, sir, and the escape route is basically the same for all of them – only a few preliminary streets are different.’

  ‘What time do you reckon we’ll start the job?’

  ‘A couple of hours for the briefing. About ten o’clock this morning. Of course, we can only start the job after the seaplane has arrived safely, in case the pilot hits a snag and doesn’t show up. We’d look silly sitting on the lake.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he’ll be in Zurich about nine o’clock.’ Danziger waited, then: ‘Well, sir? What’s the name of the bank?’

  Morgan said: ‘I’ll tell you when we get into the city for the familiarization tour. We may be ambushed by a carload of Comrades round the next corner – in which case, the less you guys know the better.’

  ‘Quite right, sir,’ Danziger said.

  VOLUME II

  Part Six

  32

  The Zurich See curves away out of sight down a valley in wooded mountains. At one end of this lake is the pretty city of Zurich, and along the shores are suburbs and parks, yacht clubs and bathing beaches. In the summer the lake is gay with sails: but in November it is grey and empty. Danziger pointed at the large-scale map he had taped to the motel-room wall.

  ‘As you saw this morning, the old, central part of Zurich is actually a triangular island. Bahnhofstrasse runs down the middle of the island, from the railway station –’ he pointed – ‘down to the lake. And your Union Bank of Switzerland is almost bang in the middle of Bahnhofstrasse.

  ‘Now, this triangular island is bounded on one side by the Limmat river, about a hundred metres wide, and on the other side by this little river, Schanzengrabe, which is really more like a canal. Shallow. Both the river and the canal flow into the Zurich See.’ He pointed. ‘There are small boats moored all along this little canal. There’re nine bridges across it. Some are one-way, one is only for pedestrians. And this canal, sir, is the escape route I have chosen.’

  Morgan watched him with increasing relief. The man was a professional. And he liked the look of Clark and Stiligoes. Danziger went on:

  ‘We have rented a powerful speedboat, and moored it under this pedestrian bridge, on the canal. Clark waits in the boat. I repeat, it is the pedestrian bridge, and it leads off a little plaza, which is also for pedestrians only. From the Union Bank to this bridge is about six hundred yards.’ He paused. ‘If we’re being chased, we drive flat out from the bank by this series of one-way streets,’ he traced his finger – ‘into the pedestrian plaza, and onto the pedestrian bridge. We abandon the car on the bridge. We jump into our boat, and away we go at top speed. Straight down the canal, and out into the Zurich See. A total distance, by canal, of about a thousand yards.’ He paused and looked at them. ‘Whoever’s following us by car will first have to cross the pedestrian bridge – and our car will be blocking that – and then go down all kinds of one-way streets. They’ll lose sight of us in seconds.’ He spread his hands. ‘And within half a mile on the See is our seaplane. With a perfectly legal flight plan. Its engines will be already turning, because we’ll have warned the pilot by radio. We board the aircraft and off we go.’

  Danziger picked up a walkie-talkie telephone-radio.

  ‘We will each have one of these. You, sir,’ he said to Morgan, ‘… when you’re ready to leave the bank, you telephone Makepeace from the bank’s telephone. He’ll be waiting here –’ he tapped a map – ‘in the Carlton Pub, sitting near the public telephone.’ He handed Morgan a slip of paper, with the number written on it. ‘Makepeace then signals to me – I’ll be outside, near the corner of Bahnhofstrasse, in the car, keeping watch. Stillgoes will be nearby, in a strategic position. Stillgoes and Makepeace walk towards the bank and I radio you to emerge. I drive to the bank’s door. You dash for it, and off we go. To the pedestrian bridge. We jump into the boat.’ He looked at them with a little smile. ‘Simple.’

  Morgan said: ‘Have you got a contingency plan? – in case the seaplane won’t start, for example.’

  Danziger held u
p a finger. ‘Good question, sir. Yes, we have rented two other cars, and parked one on each side of the lake. Here,’ he pointed at the map. ‘And here. The ignition keys are taped under the drivers’ armrests. Before we go to the bank, we’ll drive past these cars, to identify them. So, if it becomes impossible to get to the seaplane, we scream across the lake to one or other of these cars.’

  ‘And then go where, if that happens?’

  Danziger cocked his eyebrows. ‘That’s up to you, sir. Underground, if you like. I’ve made provision for that possibility, which I’ll explain in a moment. But you see, sir, you’ve sprung a change of plan on us today. We were going to fly you safe and sound to Ireland. Now you want us to return to Amsterdam and fetch Mrs Hapsburg. Okay, you’re the paymaster, but I’m not a thought reader, sir.’

  ‘Get on with the contingency plan, Dan!’

  ‘However,’ Danziger said, ‘in case we need to go underground, I have a safe house for us, and I had the forethought to bring a number of blank passports with me. If you want them, there will naturally be an extra charge, sir. But with a fake passport you could fly out of Switzerland by ordinary airline. Or by train. We could all come with you, if you like. Or you’re on your own to worry about Mrs Hapsburg.’ He shrugged. ‘But whatever you decide, I strongly recommend that you prepare yourself for the contingency plan by buying one of these passports. Have you got photographs?’

  ‘Yes. How much?’

  ‘Of course,’ Danziger said, ‘I gave Dougie an insider’s price when he brought those two blanks for you to New York. These will be a little more expensive. Five hundred pounds each.’

  Morgan said slowly, ‘Dougie told you those first two passports were for me?’

  ‘Yes! …’

  ‘I didn’t? Makepeace blurted angrily – ‘I only told you after I’d called you to Amsterdam!’

  Danziger said smoothly, ‘Oh yes, so you did.’

  ‘And what was the insider’s price?’ Morgan said slowly.

  Danziger glanced at Makepeace. Makepeace was blushing, mortified. He muttered: ‘A hundred and fifty quid each.’

  ‘But I paid you two hundred and fifty quid each, Dougie …’

  Makepeace glowered at the floor. ‘A man’s entitled to a little profit, isn’t he? It was still cheap.’

  Morgan sat back. He said to Danziger:

  ‘Done. Two passports, please. But for the second one I only pay insider’s price.’

  Danziger smiled. ‘Fair enough, sir. Between old shipmates. But shouldn’t you take two more, for emergencies?’

  ‘At insider’s price, yes.’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, sir.’

  ‘But your irrepressible generosity towards old shipmates compels you to accept.’ There was a ripple of laughter.

  Danziger smiled: ‘I assure you, sir, that my concern is only for the efficient execution of a mission. We want you in and out of this job quickly and successfully.’

  Morgan nodded. ‘Thank you all, gentlemen.’

  Danziger said, ‘Thank you, sir … There remains the question of funds. Dougie has paid us for three days. There’s at least another day’s work, plus, of course, other expenses – our air tickets, this motel, meals, the rented cars, et cetera.’

  Morgan heaved himself up. His nerves were tight.

  ‘I’ve got the cash on me. Draw up your accounts.’ He sighed tensely. ‘Meanwhile I’ve got to make a phone call now.’ And, oh God, he did not want to be going into that bank today impersonating a dead man. ‘Then we’ll go through the whole plan again, step by step.’ He added, to reassure himself as much as anybody: ‘But there’s one point I want to make.’ He looked at them. ‘We’re not going to let our guard down for a moment, but we have every reason to expect that this is going to go like clockwork … We have done an excellent job at covering our tracks getting here. Thanks to you all. Of course, we must expect the unexpected, but we have every reason to have self-confidence. High morale.’

  Danziger said, ‘Hear-hear, sir …’

  Morgan’s hands felt clammy. He unlocked his bedroom door.

  The telephone directory was still open. He checked the number again. Then he sat down on the bed, while his nerve was still up, and dialled.

  A Swiss voice said, ‘Union Bank of Switzerland.’

  Morgan said in English, ‘Safety-deposit department, please.’

  He waited, eyes closed, heart knocking. Oh God, if this didn’t work he should call the whole thing off and send the boys home. ‘Box Department, good morning.’

  Morgan swallowed. ‘Good morning. My name is Max Hapsburg. I’m a client of yours. I want to put a lot of new stuff in my box today, but I’m not sure it’s big enough. Can you tell me the dimensions of my box, please?’

  ‘What is your number, Mr Hapsburg?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got my keys on me, they’re in my wife’s handbag …’

  The man said, ‘I’m sorry, but we cannot discuss a client’s box on the telephone without proper identification. If you come in, we can change your box for any size you need.’

  Morgan closed his eyes.

  ‘Of course. Thank you. Goodbye.’

  He put down the telephone. And held his head in both hands.

  Oh God … He still did not know the name under which the box was registered.

  33

  Bahnhofstrasse is pretty, tree-lined street, with tramlines. It has good-looking shops and hotels and restaurants and banks. The Union Bank of Switzerland, one of the mightiest in the world, straddles a whole block, like a monument to Swiss banking respectability. The street on one end of the block is for pedestrians only, with a big, modern sculpture at the entrance but a car can squeeze around it. On the other side of the block is the Carlton Pub.

  It was just after twelve o’clock that morning when Danziger walked into the pub. Morgan was already there. Danziger went to the other end of the bar, and slowly scratched his face with his left hand. Using his left hand meant that he had seen nobody suspicious during his final reconnaissance.

  Morgan said to the barmaid: ‘A double cognac, please.’ His voice felt husky.

  Danziger raised his eyebrows. The barmaid poured the liquor and Morgan picked up the glass. It trembled slightly. He took a big mouthful. It almost made him retch. He controlled it, and hunched over the bar, trying to steady himself.

  Self-confidence and high morale …

  The seaplane had landed two hours ago. Morgan had spent an hour practising the signature again. Then they had left the motel, identified their two rented cars parked on either side of the lake; then driven into the city. Morgan had gone straight to the bar. The others had separated, each doing their final reconnaissance.

  Now Makepeace came into the bar. He went to an empty stool. He stroked his eyebrow with his left hand.

  Morgan took a deep breath.

  This was it, then … It was hard to grasp that he was actually about to do it: he did not even know which name to use. If he screwed that up, it wouldn’t be the Comrades or Carrington who hauled him away, it would be the Swiss police. He took another swallow of cognac. He did not taste it. He looked at his hand – he could not register whether it was trembling or not. Then he quaffed back the cognac in one big swallow. He banged down the glass, and walked out of the bar.

  It felt as if the eyes of the entire world were upon him. He hardly felt the cold. He walked briskly up the sidewalk. Unreal. Trying to look like a man with honest business on his mind. He turned the corner into Bahnhofstrasse. And there, ahead, were the bank doors, and everything was real all right. He glanced across the road and saw Stillgoes strolling past the shops. There were no parked cars. There were plenty of people, but they all seemed to be moving. He took a deep breath and turned into the big doors of the bank.

  To the left, a commissionaire sat at a desk: straight ahead, the banking hall. To his right was a waiting area with armchairs. Elevators. A marble staircase leading down. Morgan said to the commissionaire: ‘Safety-dep
osit department, please.’

  The commissionaire pointed at the stairs.

  Morgan’s ears felt blocked, as if he were descending from a high altitude. Yet his footsteps sounded loud. Down the stairs. Round a bend. To the bottom. A red carpet, a glass door. The doors slid open automatically. Beyond was more red carpet, armchairs, desks, a marble counter, vases of roses. To the right, a grille guarding the portal to the deposit boxes beyond. Morgan walked up to the counter. His throat felt thick and his legs felt shaky.

  A clerk with receding hair came up to the counter. ‘Bitte, mein Herr?’

  Morgan cleared his throat. He tried to smile. His voice sounded loud: ‘I’d like to go to my box, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The clerk produced a book of forms. ‘Your number, please?’

  ‘Seven two two four.’

  The clerk scribbled the number on the form. ‘Your name, sir?’

  His stomach contracted. The dreaded question.

  ‘Constantine … Maxwell Constantine.’

  He expected a siren to start wailing. The clerk printed the name. He murmured: ‘Your passport, sir?’

  Morgan pulled out Max Constantine’s passport. He pressed it on the counter so it would not tremble. The clerk pushed the book of forms at him. ‘Fill in the counterfoil, please, sir, and sign.’

  Morgan took out his ballpoint pen. This was really it. He pressed his arm hard on the counter.

  He bent over the form. He printed Constantine’s name on the counterfoil. The box number. He pressed the pen hard, trying to stop his hand trembling. The last item, the signature. The blank space shrieked at him. His ears blocked. What he was about to do could land him in a Swiss jail for a long, long time. He took a deep breath, and held it. Then, before he could hesitate, he scribbled the signature.

  His ears were ringing. He shoved the form over the counter.

  The clerk had the passport open. He glanced at Morgan, comparing him with the photograph. He looked at the form, then at the signature in the passport. He said: