A Woman Involved

by John Gordon Davis

‘You’ve met Fidel Castro?’

  ‘Sure. Nice guy. But same problem. So Fidel gets his gear direct from Russia. Nuts, isn’t it? He still gets his guns anyway, so why can’t we have the business?’

  ‘Nuts,’ Morgan agreed. ‘How is business generally?’

  ‘Booming,’ Hank said. ‘If you’ll pardon the pun. We have a saying in this business: I’m not sure what weapons will be used in World War Three, but I know what will be used in the Fourth World War – stones and clubs! Aha-ha-ha! Einstein said that.’ Morgan laughed too. ‘But you’ve got to be quick in this game. The moment a war starts, the hardware merchants are there, flogging everything from Band-Aids to A-bombs, to both sides.’ He slapped his hands together. ‘And on that note, what can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘Exocet missiles,’ Morgan said quietly. He raised his eyebrows: ‘Lunch at my hotel?’

  He locked his bedroom door. He slipped his hand into his pocket and switched on the tape-recorder. He waved Hank Wilcox to the armchair. Hank said:

  ‘Exocets, huh? They’re tricky. Who’re you buying for?’

  Morgan paced across the room. ‘I’m both buying and selling, Hank. I don’t want them for my private collection, do I? Call me the middle-man.’

  Hank watched him. ‘What about your end-user certificate?’

  ‘That’s where you come in, Hank.’ He turned to him. ‘I’m offering you a cut on the deal. A very respectable cut on the mark-up. On twenty missiles, that’s a lot of money. For jam.’

  Hank slowly got up. He began to pace too.

  ‘What makes you think I do that kind of business, Mr Blackstone?’

  Morgan said, ‘Our mutual friend, Roberto Calvi. God’s Banker.’

  Hank’s eyes widened. ‘But Robbie’s dead.’

  ‘Very. The players change but the game goes on. But I worked with Roberto on the last transaction.’

  Hank frowned at him. ‘And who’re you working with now?’

  ‘Bellatrix,’ Morgan said. ‘Still Bellatrix, Panama.’

  ‘But I thought it was defunct now!’

  ‘Oh, it exists, Hank, it exists.’

  Hank thought. ‘And the destination is?’

  Morgan took a break. ‘The same destination as last time.’

  Hank stared at him.

  ‘Now wait a minute, sir. That deal is already done! Have you been muscling in on Sanchez?’

  Morgan’s heart missed a beat. He turned, with a frown. ‘Sanchez?’

  Hank stared; then a malicious smile crossed his face.

  ‘You’re fulla shit, Mr Blackstone! Whoever you are! I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t do your kind of business, I play it by the book! Good day! I’m going!’

  He turned to the door. Morgan pulled out the Meteor Air waybill and thrust it at the man. ‘You did that bit of business!’

  Hank stared at it. ‘My name’s not on that document! Goodbye!’

  Morgan grabbed his collar, and slung him. Hank reeled across the room and sprawled on the bed. He lay there an instant, shocked. He whispered:

  ‘I’m calling the police …’

  Morgan stood over him. ‘I don’t think so, Hank. They’ll be very interested to learn that you conspired to export exocet missiles illegally to Argentina during the Falklands War!’

  ‘I deny it! You can’t prove a thing!’ He started to scramble up and Morgan shoved his hand on his chest and the man collapsed again.

  ‘You’ll lose your licence, Hank! That nice warehouse of yours can be closed down by Mr Mitterrand!’

  ‘You’re fulla shit!’ Hank started to get up again and Morgan shoved him down again.

  ‘Who’s Sanchez?’

  Hank blinked. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about!’

  ‘You said you’ve concluded a new deal for exocets with Sanchez! Who’s Sanchez?’

  ‘Go to hell! –’ He scrambled up.

  Morgan swiped him across the face and the man collapsed again. Morgan bounded at him and grabbed his arm. He wrenched it up behind his back. Hank gasped, his face pressed to the bed. Morgan whispered:

  ‘All I want to know is who Sanchez is, Hank, and you’ll live happily ever after as a happy little Death Merchant.’

  Hank’s face was contorted with pain. ‘I’ll scream …’ he warned.

  Morgan jerked the arm once, then said, ‘Get up, Hank.’

  Hank gasped and clambered up, his arm still twisted behind his back. He crouched, Morgan behind him. ‘One scream and your arm goes. Now, into the bathroom, please.’

  Hank staggered round the bed, gasping. Morgan walked behind him, gripping his arm. He walked him into the bathroom. ‘Put the plug in the wash basin, Hank.’

  ‘What? –’

  ‘Do it!’ He jerked the arm.

  Hank gasped in agony, and fumbled the plug into the basin.

  ‘Now turn on the tap.’ Morgan jerked the arm. Hank gasped and fumbled the tap open.

  The water swirled in. It crept up to the top.

  ‘Turn it off.’

  Hank turned it off, whimpering.

  Morgan put his other hand tight on Hank’s neck.

  ‘Now this can be very unpleasant, Hank. I’m going to stick your head in the water, over and over, until you tell me.’ And he jerked Hank’s arm up and he thrust his head down, into the water.

  Hank twisted and gurgled and writhed, and Morgan held him furiously. Hank tried to punch with his free arm, and Morgan held him, tooth-clenched. He held him under for thirty seconds, then he wrenched his head up. ‘Okay, Hank?’

  Hank crouched over the basin, his face contorted, his head dripping, eyes screwed up. He gasped:

  ‘Captain … Juan … Sanchez … de Bourbon.’

  Morgan rasped: ‘From Argentina?’

  Hank gasped, ‘Yes …’

  Jesus, Morgan thought. ‘Army or Navy, Hank?’

  ‘Navy …’ Hank gasped.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t … know …’

  Morgan shoved his head back in the water. Hank writhed and struggled. Morgan held him under for twenty seconds, then wrenched him up. ‘Where is he, Hank?’

  Hank’s contorted face was terrified.

  ‘Argentina … Naval Aviation … Sub-commission … in Paris … ’

  ‘Attached to the Argentinian embassy?’

  ‘Yes …’ Hank spluttered.

  Jesus! ‘So it’s official business, is it?’

  ‘Yes … All official …’

  ‘Except under-the-table? Black-market exocets?’

  Hank gasped, ‘All official …’

  ‘Bullshit, Hank! The French government refused to give an official export licence for exocets for Argentina during the Falklands War, so why would they do so now? Who’re you getting the missiles from?’

  ‘Aerospatiele … the legal manufacturers … ’

  Morgan jerked him. ‘Who have you bribed to give you a false end-user certificate?’

  ‘Nobody … ’

  Morgan rasped, ‘I’il give you a minute to think about that, Hank,’ and he rammed his head back under the water. He held him there for thirty seconds, then wrenched him up.

  ‘That was only half a minute, Hank! Want more time to think?’

  Hank spluttered: ‘Please … The Sudan … Ministry of Defence … ’

  Morgan snorted. ‘Sudan, huh? The same guy who gave the false end-user certificate last time?’

  ‘Yes … ’

  ‘And the exocets were going to leave France by air, ostensibly bound for the Sudan? But in Malta the plane has a little breakdown, so the cargo changes planes to Meteor Air, which heads for Panama? Then the pilot has a rush of blood to the head and turns for Argentina?’

  Hank gasped, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Morgan said. ‘And tell me, Hank: since that little deal fell through for want of quick funds, because God’s Banker had that nasty accident on Blackfriars Bridge, and now that the Falklands War is over, why does Captain Sanchez want
more exocet missiles?’

  ‘I truly wouldn’t know … Not my business … ’

  ‘I’ll give you another minute to think about that, Hank! …’ Morgan rammed his head under again.

  He counted to forty this time. He wrenched Hank up. ‘Well?’

  He was buckling, his spluttering head hanging, his contorted face panic-stricken. He gasped:

  ‘To invade … the Falklands … again …’

  Morgan was amazed. Jesus Christ, again!

  ‘When?’ He wrenched the arm.

  ‘As soon as … they get them … ’

  ‘And that will be?’

  Hank gasped: ‘When the money … arrives …’

  ‘And who’s supplying the money? Argentina is still broker!’

  ‘I don’t … know …’ Hank cried.

  ‘Think about it, Hank!’ Morgan shoved his head under again.

  He counted to twenty, and yanked him up. ‘Well?’

  Hank’s gasping head hung. ‘Russia …’ he gasped. ‘Indirectly …’

  Through his fury Morgan was amazed. He had not thought of this one.

  ‘Why Russia, Hank?’

  Hank’s head hung, his chest heaving. He was finished. He went into a shuddering cough. Then he gasped:

  ‘To make … Margaret Thatcher … go back to war. And she’ll lose this time … And that’ll force … an election in Britain … And the Labour Party … will get in … And they’ll dismantle … the Pershing missile bases … ’

  Morgan stared at the wall, amazed at the simplicity of it. Jesus Christ!

  He let go of Hank, and shoved him. Hank staggered across the bathroom, and collapsed onto the lavatory seat. He flung his head back, his eyes screwed up, mouth open, rasping.

  Morgan stopped at the door. He said shakily:

  ‘Surprising how soft you hardware merchants are, Hank. So you’d better have a little rest here, for three hours. If you try to leave earlier, one of my boys will stop you outside the door. And stick you back in the wash basin. You don’t want that, do you, Hank?’

  ‘No …’ Hank whispered, eyes closed.

  ‘And don’t mention this to anybody, Hank. Because I’ve got it all down on tape. And if you blow any whistles, Worldarms Limited will be looking for new premises, in the Congo. Just let the Sanchez deal die a natural death, Hank. If you’ll pardon the pun.’

  Morgan turned out of the bathroom. He picked up his bag and walked out of the room.

  He went down to the reception desk and asked about a good messenger service to Paris.

  ‘Exprès Aujourd’hui, Daylight Express, sir.’

  Morgan went out to his car. He played the tape-recording of Hank Wilcox into his other tape-recorder, making a copy. Then he flagged a taxi and told it to take him to the premises of Daylight Express. Morgan handed over the copy of the tape. The clerk sealed it in a stout envelope and gave Morgan an invoice.

  ‘This will go to Paris today?’

  ‘Tonight, sir, with our regular express delivery. It will be hand-delivered first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Morgan paid the fee. He went outside to the nearest public telephone. He telephoned the British embassy in Paris. He asked to speak to the Military Attaché. He said:

  ‘Make a note of this. The Argentinians are trying to buy exocet missiles from Aerospatiele, with a fake end-user certificate from the Sudan, in order to mount another invasion of the Falklands. I’m sending you today a tape-recording which proves it. Put a stop to it, will you? And warn Mrs Thatcher, please.’

  ‘Who’s this speaking?’ the man demanded.

  ‘Never mind.’ Morgan hung up.

  He got a taxi back to his car. He drove out of Lyons onto the road for Italy.

  52

  He spent the night in a truck-drivers’ hostel outside Florence, but he hardly slept. The decision he had been avoiding in the last four weeks was now staring him in the face. It was 8.00 am when he parked outside the Holiday Inn, in the suburbs of Rome.

  He had prayed for good golfing weather, and his prayer seemed to have been answered, and he felt sick in his guts. It would have been a tremendous relief if it had been pissing with rain, if his mission had been made impossible. It was a cold, fine day. His nerves were stretched tight.

  He was wearing the wig and moustache. He checked into the hotel. He ordered coffee to be sent up to his room, and waited feverishly for Rome to get to work. At nine o’clock he telephoned the Tourist Bureau. He asked about a good motorist guide to the beauty spots in the environs of Rome. They recommended a publication. He went down to the hotel foyer, to the newsstand. They had the guide book. He bought it, plus a good road map.

  He unfolded the map on his bed, and began to read the guide feverishly, referring to his map. He circled places which sounded appropriate. At ten o’clock he telephoned the golf club again.

  Yes, the club was still expecting Cardinal Gunter to play in the tournament this afternoon. About four o’clock they expected him to come off the links. Yes, that would be a good time to call for the book. Goodbye.

  Morgan held his face. God, it was all unreal.

  He went down to the car park. He got into the car, started the engine. He took up the road map, looking for the easiest way to get to the first beauty spot he had selected.

  He muttered: ‘Now help me, God …’

  And maybe God did help him. The first scenic spot he checked out was the best. He went to four others, but they were not nearly as easy and good as the first.

  It was eleven miles out of Rome, on the Appian Way, a picnic site in a forest of pine, overlooking a volcanic lake. To get to it, you proceed down the Appian Way for ten miles: then you encounter an intersection. There is a stop sign. Turn left. Drive five hundred metres, and a track leads off to the right. Wind up through the forest. Over a hill. A fork in the track. Down the right-hand fork, to picnic tables. The left-hand fork winds along the lake and eventually loops back to the road.

  And something else: half a mile before the intersection was a public telephone. And beyond the intersection he found a truckers’ stop called Bar-Restaurant Venezia. He went in. He ordered coffee and cognac. There was also a public telephone in the corner. He lifted the receiver. It worked. He made a note of the number.

  He drank the coffee and cognac. He told himself that all this was only a contingency plan. You’ve always got to have a contingency plan, that’s what they’d taught him.

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was a good place for murder. Nowhere is perfect for murder.

  He wanted to weep.

  He had over two hours to wait. And he did not know how he was going to stand it. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to get in his car and just drive, drive away. Then he knew what he really wanted to do.

  It was two o’clock when he got to Saint Peter’s. There was muted organ music, the smell of incense, the chanting of devotions. Way down there the lamps burned around the sunken tomb of Saint Peter, the triumphal baldachin aflicker, the afternoon light gleaming through the stained-glass window onto the throne of Saint Peter. It was magnificent, and Morgan knew all over again that he was a Catholic in his bones, and he stood in awe of the power and the glory which all this material majesty symbolized, and with all his desperate heart he wanted the right thing to happen. He dipped his fingers shakily in the holy water, and crossed himself.

  He walked down the long nave, past Saint Peter’s tomb, towards the pews below the throne at the apex of the basilica. He came to the second row, right in front of the altar. He genuflected. He sat down.

  He sat, his hands on his knees, looking up at Saint Peter’s throne, trying to let the holiness of the place seep into him, calm him. He closed his eyes, and rested his forehead in his hand.

  He realized he was trembling. He screwed his eyes up tight and tried to concentrate. It was a long moment before he could think of anything more than Please God … Then he clenched his teeth:

  ‘Keep helping me now, God! To do what is right!�
��

  And suddenly he knew that God would help him, that today would be lucky, that soon all this awful business would be over, and with that comfort the dam bust, and he wept.

  It was three o’clock when Morgan got to the Appia Antia Golf Club.

  He found a parking space. He sat there a moment, calming himself. Then he got out, and walked across the parking area, up into the club house.

  There were Christmas decorations. People in the lounge and at the bar. He turned into the office. The secretary’s door was open. The man glanced up, recognized him and smiled.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Morgan smiled. He felt shaky. ‘Have I had any luck?’

  ‘Not yet,’ the secretary said. ‘He came rushing in, but I will catch him when he comes off, in about half an hour.’

  ‘Is it all right if I sit in the lounge and wait? I’d like to thank him, if that’s possible, so would you give me a wink when he comes in, in case he goes rushing off?’

  ‘If I can,’ the secretary said, ‘but I may be rushing myself …’

  It was a long half hour.

  He went onto the terrace: every fairway had players on it. Golfers were trudging back towards the club house. Most of them made for the door beneath the terrace, into the changing rooms. Morgan tried to gauge whether he would, recognize Cardinal Gunter from that distance. He doubted it, unless the man played golf in clerical robes, which surely he would not.

  He turned back into the lounge, to the bar. He badly wanted a drink, but he did not dare. He ordered coffee, paid, and went to sit where he could see the entrance to the secretary’s department. He slowly sipped the coffee, not tasting it. People were coming and going all the time.

  If he missed him … He had a vivid image of the man, from the photograph on the back of his book, but now suddenly he was assailed by doubt. How long ago was that photograph taken? God – he was a fool not to have gone to the public library and checked through newspaper files until he found a recent photograph of the man! If the club secretary did not tip him off he might not recognize him from this distance! The bar was filling up with golfers joining each other, waving to each other, ordering drinks.

  It was a long half hour. Then suddenly the club secretary was coming towards him, holding a book, Morgan began to rise, in panic. The man had gone! … The secretary handed him the book and whispered: ‘The cardinal has autographed it. He is the man in the middle of that group.’