Table of Contents
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
Have This One on Me
James Hadley Chase
1967
chapter one
The Caravelle from Prague touched down on schedule at Orly airport, Paris. Among the passengers to leave the aircraft was a short; thickset man in his middle forties. His round, fleshy face was nondescript, his steel grey eyes restless. He wore a drab brown and black check sports jacket, grey flannel slacks and a brown straw hat that rested on the back of his head. He carried a black, well-worn briefcase which he had nursed on his knees during the hundred-minute flight.
This man’s name was Jonathan Cain. He held an American passport and had a two-room office on Rue Paul Cezanne off Rue du Faubourg St. Honore. His business was exporting fine glass to various important galleries in New York and Washington.
Every other week, he flew to Prague where his orders for glass were received with respect and attention. The Czechs needed foreign currency and Jonathan Cain represented a steady and important source of foreign currency revenue.
Leaving the bus that had taken him to the Arrival Centre, Cain walked briskly into the building, passed through the police control and the Douane with a brief nod of recognition from the coloured official, and then out into the hot sunshine where he hailed a waiting taxi, telling the driver to take him to Rue Royale.
As the taxi pulled away, Cain looked back through the rear window, his eyes alert and searching. No other taxi had moved from the rank, but he was not satisfied. He continued to look behind him as his taxi began to race along the autoroute that would eventually lead to the traffic choked streets of central Paris.
Cain had every reason to be cautious, for apart from being a glass exporter, he was also one of the most reliable couriers working for the Central Intelligence Agency in Paris. His job was to keep contact with various agents behind the Iron Curtain, to pass on information, to take messages back to Paris and to keep tabs on the work of the agents, making sure they were earning their money and making doubly sure none of them had become blown
He was returning from Prague with disturbing news. He seldom contacted John Dorey, the Divisional Head of C.I.A. branch in Paris. It would be fatal to him if he was seen with Dorey, but the situation was such that he now had to see Dorey. He had to be certain that he wasn’t being followed.
But seeing the mass of traffic now behind him, Cain shrugged and settled back in his seat. The time to lose anyone following him would be when he reached Rue Royale.
Thirty minutes later, the taxi swirled around the Arc de Triomphe, stormed down Avenue des Champs Elysees, forced its way round Place de la Concorde and finally reached Rue Royale. Cain got out, paid the driver, then walked towards Place de la Madeleine. At the corner of Rue Royale and Boulevard de la Madeleine was a luxury glassware shop. Cain entered He walked down the long aisle, flanked on either side by tiers of cut glass, nodded to the blonde saleswoman who gave him an automatic smile of recognition, and entered a small office where Jacques Foy was talking on the telephone.
Foy, young, effeminate and blond with a sunlamp complexion, glanced up, nodded and went on talking in a shrill, petulant tone.
Shutting the door, Cain took off his sports jacket and his hat, opened a closet, hung the jacket and hat on a peg, took out a blue blazer and shrugged himself into it. From a shelf, he took a green and cream straw hat which he put on. Then waggling three fingers in Foy’s direction, he opened a door at the rear of the office and carrying his black briefcase, walked quickly down a narrow alley that led into Rue Duphot. Here he picked up a taxi and told the driver to take him to Chez Joseph, Rue Cambon.
Joseph Fevret, the owner of the restaurant, greeted him as he entered the small bar. The two men shook hands, then Fevret, portly, balding with a close clipped moustache and beard, led Cain up the narrow stairs and into a small, private dining room. The table set for two stood by the window. White lace curtains obscured the diners from inquisitive passersby in the street below.
‘I hope you had a good trip. Monsieur Cain,’ Fevret said. ‘Is there anything special you would care to have for lunch?’
Cain dropped his hat on a chair, wiped his face with his handkerchief and shook his head.
‘I’ll leave it to you, Joseph. Something special.’
‘I suggest Moules farcies en cocotte. A half a bottle of my special Chablis. Then Tournedos Massena with a half a bottle of Ausone 1945,’ Joseph Fevret said, knowing that Cain always wanted the best and expected the best. He had given some thought to the suggested meal during the morning.
‘Sounds fine,’ Cain said. He glanced impatiently at his wristwatch. The time was twelve forty-five. ‘When my friend arrives, bring him right up.’
‘Of course. Monsieur Cain.’ Fevret bowed and left the room.
Cain sat down away from the table and lit a cigarette. His heavy face was thoughtful. A few moments later, a waiter came in with a double Vodka martini which he placed on the table.
He bowed to Cain as he left the room.
Cain ate the olive, flicked the cocktail stick into the fireplace and then sipped his drink. He again glanced at his watch. He was shooting his cuff back into place when the door opened and John Dorey came in.
Dorey, with thirty-nine years of service at the Paris American Embassy behind him, now held the exalted rank of Divisional Director of the C.I.A. Aged sixty-six, he was a small, bird-like man, wearing rimless spectacles. He looked more like a successful banker than the shrewd, ruthless head of an extremely efficient organisation that was in continual battle with the Russian espionage network.
‘Hello, Jon.’ Dorey said as he closed the door. ‘You’re looking pretty good.’
‘Think so?’ Cain shook hands. ‘I wish I felt it.’
There came a discreet tap on the door and the waiter came in with a Cinzano Bitter, soda and ice which he offered Dorey.
Cain knew this was Dorey’s drink, and Dorey, taking the glass, nodded, pleased.
When the waiter had gone, Dorey drew up a chair and sat down.
‘Has something happened?’ he asked with deceptive mildness.
‘An understatement,’ Cain said. ‘Worthington’s blown.’
Dorey stroked his beaky nose. He sipped his drink, then shook his glass slightly, making the ice cubes clink.
‘Your man in Prague?’
Cain took out a packet of Marigny cigarettes. He was used to Dorey by now. Dorey always liked to have the set-up explained to him from an outside angle as if he wasn’t aware of all the facts.
‘Alec Worthington,’ Cain said patiently. ‘English. Married to a Czech. Lived in Prague for ten years. Teaches English to various political leaders. We bought him three years ago. He has a bug about acquiring capital — who hasn’t? We pay his earnings into Credit Suisse Banque. Bern. He has saved around sixty thousand dollars. Up to now his information has been useful and he has earned his keep. Somewhere along the line, he must have made a false move. Probably he was overconfident. Now, he is suspect. He could bluff it out as I am sure there is no proof against him, but he’s lost his nerve. The money he has saved haunts him. He wants to get out and spend it. Can’t say I blame him, but that’s not much use to us. He’s a mess now. We will have to replace him. He plans to bolt.’
Dorey finished his drink as the door opened and the waiter wheeled in a trolley. The two men moved to the table, Dorey’s eyes were blank behind the glittering lenses of his glasses, but when a plate was set before him, he became alert,
regarding the Moules farcies with approval.
‘Joseph’s is probably still the best unknown restaurant in Paris’ he said. ‘These look very good.’
‘Yeah.’ Cain began to eat. He was sure Dorey wouldn’t attempt to solve his problem until after the meal.
Later, when the Tournedos Massena arrived with the Chateau Ausone in a cut glass decanter, Dorey said, ‘You are spoiling me.’
‘Okay, if that’s the way you feel,’ Cain said and poured the wine. ‘I’m spoiling myself too.’
The two men finished their meal. There was little conversation. Dorey asked after Cain’s business. Knowing he wasn’t interested, Cain didn’t elaborate on the subject. He said business was pretty good and left it at that.
It was only after the coffee had been served and the waiter had finally left them that Dorey said. ‘I never did think much of Worthington. Well, all right ... I’ll find a replacement.’
‘I don’t envy your replacement,’ Cain said seriously. ‘The red light’s up. It’s tough out there now. They have a Russian security man tightening up their system ... a man called Malik.’
‘Malik?’ Dorey looked up, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh ... yes. He’s probably one of the best and the most dangerous of them. So Malik is out there, is he?’
‘He’s the reason why Worthington has panicked and wants to get out.’
‘Do you think Worthington will get out?’
Cain shrugged.
‘I don’t fancy his chances. Anyway, I am sure he will try. The last time I saw him he was falling to pieces badly.’
‘When do you think he will try?’
‘I don’t know. Right now he is screwing up his courage. It’s my bet, once he makes a move to get out, they will grab him.’
‘Haven’t we got a woman out there?’
‘Mala Reid.’
‘Yes, I thought so. She’s good, isn’t she?’
‘She has been useful.’
‘Under pressure, Worthington will talk.’
‘Yes, he’ll talk all right.’
‘That could be awkward for you and Mala?’
‘Damned awkward.’
Dorey sipped his coffee. His mind was busy, but his expressionless face didn’t reveal the intensity of his thoughts.
Cain watched him.
‘I don’t want to lose Mala, and I certainly don’t want you to lose your contacts in Prague,’ Dorey said eventually. ‘Perhaps we could do something about Worthington.’
There was a long pause, then Cain said quietly, ‘The only thing we could do of any use would be to kill him. Once Malik gets hold of him there’s nothing we can do. Mala and I will automatically be blown.’
‘That’s something we must avoid.’ Dorey finished his coffee. ‘It’s not as if we owe him anything. He’s been useful, but he has been well paid. It would have to be done quickly, wouldn’t it?’
‘Not later than tomorrow night.’ Cain stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Even tomorrow night might be too late.’
‘I think I have his address. It’s the same?’
‘Yes.’
‘He lives there with his wife?’
Dorey thought, then put down his coffee cup. He looked cold and remote.
‘I will arrange it.’ He stared at Cain. ‘In the meantime you had better keep clear of Prague. Have you any reason to think Malik suspects you?’
‘No one suspects me.’ Cain said with quiet confidence. ‘I’m the white-headed boy who brings in the dollars.’
‘Don’t be too sure. Malik is dangerous.’
‘So long as you shut Worthington’s mouth, I’ll be all right.’
Dorey nodded.
‘His mouth will be shut. Now about a replacement. . .’ He thought for a long moment. ‘There’s Jack Latimer. He speaks the language. He’s been working for International Calculators now for the past two years. I could get him transferred to Prague with no trouble. What do you think?’
Cain poured more coffee into his cup.
‘If Malik wasn’t there, I’d say yes. Latimer is a good man but I have an idea Malik will smell him out before he can get set. The red light is up. They know you will be replacing Worthington. Any newcomer will come under a microscope.’
‘Never mind about that. Could you work with Latimer?’
‘Of course.’
‘All right. I’ll arrange it.’ Dorey got to his feet. ‘Thank you for a beautiful lunch. Jon. You do nothing now until I give you the green light. In a couple of weeks - with any luck – you will be able to return to Prague and contact Latimer. I am sure he will be much more useful to us both than Worthington’
Cain shook his hands. He knew Dorey well enough not to ask further questions. If Dorey said he would fix something, he did it.
He watched Dorey leave, then finished his coffee and rang for the bill.
* * *
Alec Worthington closed the lid of his suitcase and snapped down the catches. He looked at his wristwatch, then walked over to the window. He peered through the net curtains down into the narrow street. The squat man in a short black raincoat and slouch hat was still leaning against the wall, his hands hidden in his coat pockets. He had been there now for the past four hours.
Worthington stepped back and dabbed at his sweating temples with his handkerchief. Again he looked at his watch.
The time was five minutes to ten. In five minutes Suk would be arriving for his English lesson When Suk arrived, the watcher would go. Suk was the second in charge of the Czech Secret Police. So long as he was with Worthington, there was no need for the watcher to remain. When Suk had finished his lesson the watcher would return. All this Worthington knew. The terrifying routine had been going on now for the past four days.
Now, this day, Worthington had decided he must go. Time was running out. He felt the pressure. Even now, he might have left it too late. He felt instinctively that they might arrest him at any moment.
But he wasn’t ready. If there had been more time, he could have followed his original plan, but he knew they were almost ready to take him. He had to run to cover.
He pushed the suitcase under the bed, then he walked into the small living room. He was tall, slightly built; a man in his late forties. His grey-black hair was thinning. He was unmistakably English with his hooked nose and his closely clipped military moustache.
Emilie, his wife, had gone out shopping. She wouldn’t be back for at least two hours. Every shop had its queues, and shopping for food was long, serious business in Prague. He felt no pang about leaving her. When he had first met her, some fifteen years ago, he had thought her the most exciting woman in the world. During the passing years, she had grown fat and had become dull minded. Love had left them and he couldn’t remember when they had intercourse together. The thought of that made him wince. All she could think of was food and where to find it. As far as he knew she had no idea that he worked for the C.I.A. and that he had accumulated a reasonable fortune in Switzerland. Nor, as far as he knew, did she know that there was another woman ... nor did the other woman know that Worthington had fallen in love with her.
He crossed to his desk: a poor piece of furniture, rickety, scratched, with numerous cigarette burns on its unpolished surface. He opened a drawer and took from it a cosh he had made from a piece of sacking. It contained sand and pieces of lead he had picked off the sloping roof while Emilie slept. He balanced the weapon in his hand, his heart beating uncomfortably. He wasn’t a man of violence. He hated violence, but now his life was threatened. He had no alternative but to resort to violence.
He slid the cosh into his hip pocket, then he sat down at his desk. He was surprised that he was so calm: it was a calm of fatality. The lesson today, he remembered, was a reading from Galsworthy’s The Forsyte Saga.
Although he hated and feared Suk, Worthington had to admit the Czech was showing promising progress. His accent was now acceptable. It was surprising that a man of his brutal reputation should find such obvious pleasure from the very Englis
h Forsytes.
Worthington opened the well-worn book and found the place where Suk had left off the previous d a y He was thankful to see his hands were steady. As he placed the book on the desk, he heard footsteps on the bare wooden stairs that led to his fourth floor apartment. Wiping his hands on his handkerchief, he went to the window and looked again into the narrow street.
The watcher had gone.
The front door bell rang. Putting away his handkerchief, he went to the door and opened it.
Suk nodded to him and walked past him into the living room ... a fat bulky man with thin lips, stony, suspicious little eyes.
‘It is a fine morning,’ Worthington said automatically. ‘The sun makes it pleasant to walk. Please be seated. Mr. Suk.’
‘It is a fine morning and it is pleasant to walk.’ Suk said, putting his black, greasy hat under the chair. He stared at Worthington as Worthington moved around his desk and picked up the Galsworthy novel. ‘I hope your wife is well.’
‘She is very well, thank you,’ Worthington said, knowing this was an exercise in English and that Suk had no interest in his wife.
‘I hope your wife is well too.’ He handed the book to Suk.
‘Yes, she is well,’ Suk said. He crossed one fat leg over the other. ‘Thank you,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘Well, let us commence,’ Worthington said, trying to steady his voice. ‘Shall we continue to read? You did very well yesterday. I have marked where you should begin.’
Suk again stared at him, settled his bulk into the chair and holding the book away from him, began to read.
Worthington, his hands behind him, moved slowly around the room. He wondered if Suk could hear how violently his heart was pounding. The muscles in his legs were twitching. He wanted badly to sit down, but this had to be done quickly. It could be his last and only chance of freedom.
‘One moment,’ he said, pausing. His teacher’s instinct for perfection overrode the urgent need for action. ‘Do you understand what he means by that sentence? Will you read it again?’
In his heavy voice, Suk read, ‘Dry up! Don’t I tell you he’s taken the knock?’ He stared at the printed pages, then he scowled, shaking his baldhead. ‘No, I don’t know what it means.’
1967 - Have This One on Me Page 1