‘Dry up means stop talking,’ Worthington explained, his fingers touching the cosh in his hip pocket. ‘Taking a knock means he has had a misfortune. Do you understand now?’
‘Yes,’ Suk said.
‘Then please go on.’ Worthington began to move around the room. He was now behind Suk. His sweating fingers drew out the cosh. He stared at the enormous baldhead. What thoughts, he wondered, were going on under that bony structure? Was Suk really planning to arrest him and hand him over to Malik?
Suk was reading a descriptive passage of Soames Forsyte in court. He suddenly stopped as if he had a premonition that something was about to happen. He began to turn his head as Worthington, his breath whistling between his teeth, struck him.
The sand-filled canvas bag smashed down on Suk’s head.
The canvas split, showering sand and bits of lead over the carpet. Suk remained motionless, his great head low on his chest, sand trickling down the top of his baldhead, around his flat ears and on to his scurfy collar. Holding the limp, empty strip of canvas, Worthington watched him in horror. Then the squat body seemed to become boneless. Suk slid off the chair and his fat body thudded to the carpet, an inert mass of flesh and shabby clothes.
Worthington dropped the strip of canvas and ran unsteadily into the bedroom. He snatched out the suitcase from under the bed, grabbed up his black mackintosh that was now a uniform in Prague and ran back into the sitting room. Suk still lay where he had fallen. Worthington wondered in terror if he had killed him, but there wasn’t a moment to lose. He left the apartment and began to walk quickly down the four flights of stairs.
As he was descending to the first floor landing, he heard someone coming up. He paused, hesitating. There was nowhere to hide. He knew if the person coming up was one of his neighbours, he or she would be immediately curious about the suitcase he was carrying. He was still hesitating, in an agony of indecision, when Emilie, his wife, came into sight.
Emilie now forty-four, was a short, enormously fat woman with blonde dyed hair that looked like a discarded bird’s nest, whose blue eyes were buried in layer of fat and whose shabby summer dress struggled desperately in its attempt to confine her bulging figure.
They stared at each other.
Emilie’s eyes went to the suitcase and then she looked at Worthington who was smiling fixedly, wondering if he would have to kill her.
‘So you are leaving?’ she said. She always spoke in Czech to him. ‘Don’t look so frightened. Do you think I care?’
He drew a long slow breath, realising in his desperation to get away, he could have killed her. ‘Yes, I’m leaving,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘Goodbye. Emilie. I hope it works out for you. Don’t go up yet ... do some more shopping.’
She moved her heavy shopping basket from one hand to the other.
‘So you are finally going to join your whore?’ she said. ‘Good riddance! I’ve been waiting for this moment. I am glad to see you go.’
Worthington flinched.
‘I’m sorry, you’ll be all right. Your father ...’
‘Don’t tell me what to do! Go to your whore,’ and turning she began to plod up the stairs to the next landing.
‘Emilie! Don’t go up!’ Worthington’s voice shot up in panic. ‘Do more shopping. I - I had to hit him ... he’s up there.’
She paused and regarded him.
‘You fool!’ Her voice was full of contempt. ‘Do you imagine you will get far?’
Worthington realised he was wasting time. He looked at her, feeling this was the last time he would see her. He looked from her to the red cabbage showing through the network of her shopping bag. She was always partial to red cabbage.
‘Goodbye, Emilie.’
The last he ever saw of her as he glanced back was a picture that fitted her so well, clutching on to the basket of food, her eyes screwed up, her face cold. As he reached the door to the street, he heard her plodding down the stairs after him. She would go back to the market and then return with more food. He didn’t blame her. Life in Prague now centred around food.
He walked quickly d own the narrow street, his eyes searching every doorway. There was no one to see him go. They had been so sure that so long as Suk was with him, reading Galsworthy, he wouldn’t attempt to escape.
At the end of the street, Worthington paused at a tram stop, falling in behind a long queue of people who waited with the passivity of cattle for the tram to arrive.
As he waited, he wondered how long it would be before Suk recovered and began a relentless and deadly hunt for him.
It depended, Worthington thought, on the thickness of Suk’s skull. He grimaced as he thought of the violence of his blow.
The tram clanged to a standstill and there was a surge forward. There was no hope of a seat and Worthington found himself wedged against an elderly man who looked at him and then away. Worthington’s obvious English appearance made the man suspicious, but this Worthington was used to. People in the streets, hotels and restaurants always looked curiously at him. They knew by his shabby clothes that he couldn’t be a tourist. Ever since he had lived in Prague, he had been the subject of suspicion.
When the tram reached the Town Hall square, Worthington got off. He walked briskly past the famous clock, constructed in the 15th century by Hanus of Rouze. Already tourists were assembling to watch the statuettes of the Apostles and of Christ appear when the hour struck. He looked up at the figure of Death the Reaper which would toll the passing of time, and slightly quickened his step, knowing that his own time was threatened.
Working his way through the crowds that thronged the sidewalk, he turned down a narrow street, flanked on either side by restyled Baroque buildings until he came to a courtyard.
Here he paused and looked back over his shoulder. An old woman, limping, her gnarled knuckles white over the handle of her stick, was coming towards him. He and she were alone in the street. He walked into the courtyard, skirting a moss covered fountain that had long ceased to function and then, with another furtive glance over his shoulder, he stepped into a dark doorway and began to mount steep wooden stairs.
On the top floor, a little breathless, he walked down a dimly lit passage and stopped outside a shabby door. Again he paused to listen, then satisfied no one was coming up the stairs, he pressed the bell push. He heard a movement behind the door, the sound of a key turning, then the door swung open.
He always experienced the same surge of excitement when he saw Mala Reid. He had been in love with her from the time they had first met, but he had never given any indication of his feelings. He knew by her attitude, by the way she received him that she regarded him merely as a man who delivered messages as she would regard the postman and now as she looked inquiringly at him, her dark eyebrows lifting, he again realised how impersonally she regarded him.
‘Why, hello ... what are you doing here?’
Worthington entered the big studio, set down his suitcase, took off his hat and shed his raincoat. While he did so, he regarded the girl who had shut the door and was leaning against it. her expression worried.
Mala Reid was twenty-eight years of age. She had been born in Prague of American and Czech parents. Her father, the Czech, had been executed during the revolution. Her mother had died some three years ago of generalised cancer. Mala now made a reasonable living as a singer at the Alhambra nightclub.
Her voice wasn’t anything very much, but with the aid of a microphone, she had managed to satisfy not-too-critical tourists.
She did have a small talent for imparting feeling and sensuality into the songs she sang, and the American tourists liked her.
This was a qualification that the Government encouraged.
Because of her, extra dollars were earned. She had been singing now every night at the club for the past two years.
She was above average height. Her hair was tinted to the colour of sable. She was attractive without being beautiful. She had high cheek bones, large violet coloured eyes, a ful
l-lipped mouth and a long, thin nose that turned up slightly to give her a cheerful, gamine look Her body was her biggest asset: full breasted with a narrow waist, solid hips and long sensual legs. Her body kept the eyes of the tourists occupied while they scarcely listened to her voice.
Two years ago one of Dorey’s agents had persuaded her to work for the C.I.A. Although she was of normal intelligence, the agent felt she didn’t realise into what danger and into what situations, his sales talk was leading her. She was strongly against regimentation, against Communism, and it seemed to her the obvious thing to agree to help. Up to now, she hadn’t done a great deal to help. She had passed messages on to other agents, she had worked with Worthington, not knowing how involved he was and how close to danger he was living. Three times, during the past two years, without understanding what was happening, she had given the C.I.A. vitally important information They had marked these achievements to her favour although she had been merely a postman Back in Paris, Dorey’s opinion of her capabilities were exaggerated. Had she known that she was now regarded as the best woman agent in Czechoslovakia, she would have been utterly dismayed Because she had lived all her life in Prague, was a good dollar earner and knew how to behave herself, she was regarded by the Security Police as a good citizen. She was completely suspicion-free and therefore a perfect tool for Dorey.
Worthington’s sudden appearance startled her. The time was eleven-ten in the morning. She had just got up and was finishing a cup of coffee. She was wearing a faded housecoat, her bare feet in pink mules. She looked from Worthington to the battered suitcase he was carrying.
‘Are you going away?’
Worthington took out his handkerchief and dabbed his temples.
‘Yes. Sit down. Mala. I want to talk to you.’
‘Is something wrong?’
Worthington thought of Suk’s crumpled body lying on the floor in his sitting room with The Forsyte Saga by his side. He looked at Mala, feeling a pang of pain and frustration. Even at forty-seven, and after eight years of celibacy. Worthington could still think regretfully of the pleasure a girl like this, with her body could give him. Comparing her to Emilie, remembering his wife’s gross fat and her meanness sickened him.
‘I have to stay here for a few days.’ Worthington said as Mala, looking bewildered, sat down. ‘I’m sorry ... I have to. There are things I have to do. There are things you must do.’ He leaned forward, his face twitching. ‘I have to stay here.’
‘Stay here?’ Mala gaped at him ‘But there’s no room! You - you can’t possibly stay here!’
‘I have to. I promise you I won’t be a nuisance. It is only for a few days, then I will be leaving Prague. Without your help, I can’t leave.’
‘But there is only one bed.’ Mala waved to the small divan standing in an alcove. ‘You can’t stay here!’
How simple it would be, Worthington thought bitterly, if she offered to share her bed with me. But why should she?
She doesn’t love me. Who am I to her?
‘I can sleep on the floor ... there’s nothing to worry about. You can trust me ... I just have to stay here.’
Mala regarded him, her eyes opening wide. Seeing how white he was, seeing the lurking fear in his eyes, she said, ‘Are they looking for you?’
Worthington nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said.
* * *
Captain Tim O’Halloran leaned back in the chair. Tall, broad shouldered with light blue eyes, a hard mouth and a red fleshy face, he was in charge of all the C.I.A. agents in Europe and was Dorey’s right hand man
Dorey, sitting behind his desk, fiddling with a paper knife, had told him of his meeting with Cain. O’Halloran had listened, his hard face expressionless, knowing that Dorey would come up with some kind of solution. He had tremendous faith in Dorey.
‘So there we have it,’ Dorey said, putting down the paper knife. ‘If Malik catches Worthington, both Cain and Mala Reid will be blown. Worthington must be liquidated. Who can do it?’
‘Mike O’Brien,’ O’Halloran said without hesitation. ‘He can fly out tonight on a diplomatic passport ... no trouble at all. By late tonight or by tomorrow morning, he will fix it.’
Dorey frowned, thought, then shrugged.
‘All right Tim, go ahead ... fix it.’ he said and waved to the telephone.
He drew a bulky file towards him as O’Halloran began to dial a number. He was still reading the file when O’Halloran put down the receiver.
‘You can consider it done,’ O’Halloran said quietly.
Dorey nodded and continued to read. O’Halloran sat back and waited. While Dorey examined the file, his thin face tight and pale, O’Halloran thought back on the years he had worked under this man. He was perhaps a little kinky to O’Halloran’s thinking, but there was no doubt that he was brilliant, shrewd and utterly ruthless when the cards went down. O’Halloran decided in the brief minutes that it took Dorey to sign his name on the clipped-in page of the file that he would rather work for Dorey than anyone else in the C.I.A.
Dorey pushed the file away and then looked up, his eyes studying O’Halloran through his bifocals.
‘We now have to replace Worthington,’ he said. ‘I think Jack Latimer would do, but Cain isn’t optimistic. They will be watching for a replacement. Cain thinks Latimer could get blown before he even started.’
‘Latimer is our man,’ O’Halloran said. ‘Suppose I talk to Cain?’
‘I’ve talked to him. Cain always makes sense.’ Dorey put his fingertips together. ‘Malik is there. Do you remember Malik?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ O’Halloran said, straightening in his chair.
‘Yes ... Malik is the Soviets’ best man. Well, at least, we know he is there. So ...’ Dorey paused to study his fingernails, his eyebrows coming down in a frown. ‘We have to fool Malik and get Latimer into Prague.’
Knowing Dorey had already solved the problem. O’Halloran said nothing. He waited.
‘We must create a smoke screen.’ Dorey went on. ‘We will put an obvious agent into Prague and while Malik is working him over, Latimer slips in.’
O’Halloran rubbed his fleshy jaw.
‘Sounds fine, but the obvious agent as you call him will have it rough.’
Dorey smiled bleakly.
‘Yes, certainly, but he will be expendable.’ He paused and regarded O’Halloran, then went on, ‘Did you know Girland is back? He arrived from Hong Kong this morning.’
‘Girland?’ O’Halloran sat forward. ‘Back here?’
‘Yes. I keep tabs on Girland. He owes me a lot of money. It is time he paid me back.’ Dorey picked up his paper knife and examined it. ‘I am going to use Girland as my smoke screen. When Malik hears Girland is in Prague, he will jump to the conclusion that Girland is our replacement. While he is working Girland over, Latimer will slip in. How do you like the idea?’
O’Halloran stared down at his freckled hands while he thought. He had considerable respect for Girland who, at one time, had been Dorey’s best agent.
‘What makes you think Girland will go to Prague?’ he asked finally. ‘Girland no longer works for us. He is no fool. I can’t see him going behind the Curtain.’
‘Girland has two weaknesses: women and money,’ Dorey said. ‘He will go. I guarantee it.’
‘If he does, you will lose him. Do you want to lose him?’
Dorey’s thin lips tightened.
‘Girland thinks only of himself. He has worked for us only because he has made a profit out of us. He has managed to swindle me out of quite a large sum of money. It is time we made use of him as he has made use of us. So we lose him ... it will be no great loss.’
O’Halloran shrugged.
‘If you’re smart enough to get him to Prague, then it is no skin off my nose what happens to him. I don’t have to remind you he’s a smart cookie. Just why should he go to Prague?’
‘If the bait is tempting enough, the fish always bites,’ Dorey said. ‘I have a beautifu
l tempting bait for Girland. He’ll go to Prague.’
* * *
Worthington came out of the tiny bathroom, dabbing his face with a towel. He had shaved off his moustache and his lean face now looked longer and weaker.
‘It makes quite a difference,’ he said. ‘I have worn a moustache for twenty-five years. I feel rather lost without it.’
He took from breast pocket a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and slipped them on. Wearing these and without my moustache, I don’t think they can possibly recognise me, do you?’
Mala stared hopelessly at him. The moustacheless upper lip and the glasses had changed his appearance. The way he had taken over her apartment, the way he had assumed that she would help him had left her stunned.
‘I thought I would bleach my hair,’ Worthington went on, peering at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘I have a bottle of peroxide in my bag. I’m not sure how to use it.’ He turned and looked inquiringly at her. ‘Could you help me?’
Mala drew in a long shuddering breath.
‘No ... I won’t help you!’ she said, trying to control her voice.
Terror was mounting inside her. She knew if they caught Worthington, he would betray her. That long weak face warned her there was no steel in him. Once they began to interrogate him, he would tell them everything. Then they would come here and take her away. The thought of being in the hands of the Security Police, what they would do to her, made her sick with fear. ‘Please go. I mean it. Please ... please go!’
Worthington looked reproachfully at her.
‘You don’t mean that,’ he said. ‘Suppose I make you a cup of tea? Tea is so much better than alcohol.’ He looked vaguely around. ‘Where do you keep your tea things?’
Mala gripped the arms of her chair.
‘Will you please go! I don’t want you here! I won’t help you! Please go!’
‘Now, don’t be silly,’ Worthington said. He removed his spectacles and carefully put them in his breast pocket. ‘If they catch me, they will catch you. Let’s have some tea.’
1967 - Have This One on Me Page 2