He went into the kitchenette and Mala heard him put on the kettle. She looked desperately around the room as if for a means of escape. She wanted to run out of the apartment, but where could she run to? She now bitterly regretted listening to Dorey’s agent, with his smooth talk of patriotism, her duty and the money she would make. Up to this moment, she hadn’t realised to what she had committed herself. Now, all the ghastly stories she had heard of what happened to spies when they were caught, crowded into her mind. Suppose she called the police? Would they be lenient with her for betraying Worthington? She knew they wouldn’t be. She imagined their hot, cruel hands on her body. She thought of the outrageous things they would do to make her talk. Even if she told them everything she knew - and it wasn’t much - they would still go on and on, sure she was holding something back.
Worthington came out of the kitchenette, carrying a pot of tea.
‘When I have bleached my hair,’ he said, setting the teapot down on the table, ‘I want you to take photographs of me. I have a camera with me. I need a photo for my passport.’ He went back to the kitchenette and returned with cups and saucers. ‘Then I will ask you to go to an address I will give you.’ He began setting out the cups and saucers. ‘The man there will put the photo on my passport. He is an expert. Once all that is done, then I can go. They don’t know I still have a British passport. With my changed appearance, I should be able to get out as a tourist.’ He lifted the lid of the teapot and stared at the tea. ‘I do miss China tea,’ he said and sighed. He replaced the lid, ‘Do you take milk?’
Mala stared at him, shrinking back in her chair. She had to bite her knuckles to stop herself screaming.
* * *
Mike O’Brien arrived in Prague by car at nine o’clock p.m.
He had flown by air taxi to Bumberg, picked up a car and had driven fast to Prague.
O’Brien, young, sandy haired, flat faced with freckles and with ice-grey eyes was O’Halloran’s hatchet man. During the three years he had worked for O’Halloran, he had been called upon to execute four agents who were on the point of defecting.
These executions were now routine to him. He had no compunction about taking human life. Even his first killing had left him unmoved. To him. it was merely a job to be done: a ring on the door bell, the silenced gun, the squeeze of the trigger. He had decided from the start that a head shot was safest. With a .45 slug, a man’s brain would be immediately shattered.
He had studied a street map of the City. He had no trouble in finding Worthington’s apartment. He parked his car, slid out, slammed the door shut and walked briskly into the apartment block. As he ascended the stairs, he touched the gun hidden, in his pocket. With any luck, he told himself, he would be back in Nuremberg by midnight. He would spend the night there, then fly back to Paris.
He reached Worthington’s floor and before he rang the bell, he snicked back the safety catch on his gun. He made sure that it would slide out of his pocket, then he dug his thumb into the bell push.
There was a brief pause, then he heard footsteps and the door swung open.
A giant of a man confronted him. This man had silver-coloured hair, cut close, a square shaped face, high cheek bones and flat green eyes.
O’Brien felt a shock run through him as he recognised Malik. He hadn’t met him before, but he had seen his unmistakable photograph in the dossier the C.I.A. had of him.
O’Brien looked beyond Malik. Three men, two of them holding Sten guns, all wearing dark, shabby suits and black hats, were staring at him, motionless and menacing.
Malik said, ‘Yes?’ His voice was polite the flat green eyes expressionless.
O’Brien’s mind moved swiftly. Had the y c a u g h t Worthington? It looked as if they had. Why else should they be in the apartment?
‘Is Mr. Worthington here?’ he asked. ‘I understand he gives English lessons.’
‘Come in,’ Malik said and stood aside.
O’Brien hesitated, but the threat of the Sten guns warned him of his danger. He moved into the shabby living room. The three men, behind Malik, continued to stare at him, continued to remain motionless.
‘Mr. Worthington is not here,’ Malik said closing the door. ‘May I see your passport?’
With a slight shrug, O’Brien produced his passport and handed it to Malik.
‘How is Mr. Dorey?’ Malik asked as he tossed the passport to the man without a gun.
O’Brien grinned.
‘He’s not dead ... that I do know. How is Mr. Kovski?’ This was the name of Malik’s chief.
‘He’s not dead either,’ Malik said. There was a pause, then he went on, ‘You are a little late. Worthington left here about ten o’clock this morning. Please tell Mr. Dorey that I will take care of Worthington. Assure him that Worthington will not escape.’ He gave a stiff little bow. ‘I am sorry you have had a wasted journey. If you will please accompany this man, he will return your passport at the airport.’
The short, bulky man who had put O’Brien’s passport in his pocket, moved to the door. O’Brien accepted the inevitable.
He followed him.
‘One moment, Mr. O’Brien,’ Malik said. ‘Please don’t return. You wouldn’t be welcomed. Do you understand?’
‘Sure,’ O’Brien said. ‘So long.’ He walked past the bulky man and headed for the stairs. As he did so, he heard the muffled sound of a woman sobbing somewhere in the apartment. This would be Worthington’s wife, he thought, mentally shrugging. He wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.
Malik!
He grimaced.
chapter two
Look, Kitten,’ Girland said, ‘in five minutes I have to go out. Would you please finish your drink and then put on your skates?’
The girl sitting opposite him swished the dying ice cubes around in her glass. Girland had picked her up at the Left Bank Drug Store. She was scarcely eighteen and sensationally beautiful. Dark, sensually built, wearing scarlet stretch pants and a red and white shirt, she had caught Girland’s roving eye, but now he had her back in his apartment on Rue des Suisses, he realised too late that she was too young, too eager and too generally too.
‘Are you telling me to get the hell out of here?’ she asked looking inquiringly at him, her head on her side, a pose she copied from a movie star who impressed her.
‘Sorry, but that’s it,’ Girland said with his charming smile. ‘I have to go out.’
‘Don’t we do anything? I’m good. What’s the rush?’
Girland sighed. Why in the world, he wondered, do I get myself into these kinds of situations? The trouble with me is I never know when to say no. She looked marvellous. Damn it!
She is marvellous! Why is it when most women open their mouths, they become the biggest bores? If she had only kept her mouth shut, she could have been a sensational lay.
‘I invited you for a drink. You have had your drink. Now I have to go out.’ He got to his feet. ‘On with your skates, kitten!’
She nibbled at her drink, her full lips pouting. She looked up at his tall, broad shouldered figure, his lean hard face and the scattered white hairs in his jet black hair. What a bull of a beautiful man! she thought.
‘You’re not serious, are you?’ she asked. ‘I had the idea you and me were going into action. Back home, they call me Swivel Hips. I’ll give you an unforgettable experience, boyfriend. At this moment, there’s nothing between us but the zipper on my pants.’
Girland studied her. She made him feel middle—aged. This eager, brash sexual approach was like ice water thrown in his face.
‘Some other time perhaps,’ he said. ‘Fold your tent, kitten, and steal away.’
The telephone rang.
‘This I love,’ the girl said. ‘Every time I get close to a real man, the goddamn telephone starts up.’
‘That’s life,’ Girland said, picking up the receiver. He waved to his front door. ‘That’s the way out: down the stairs and you will find the Metro on your left. So long, kitten.’
‘I suppose so,’ Girland said and dropped back in his chair.
‘This is Harry Moss,’ the voice told him. Behind the voice Girland could hear distant swing music. ‘You wouldn’t know me. Fred gave me your number.’
The girl walked over to Girland and emptied the dregs of her drink over his head. Two dying ice cubes bounded on his shoulder and slid to the floor. Carefully, she balanced the upturned glass on top of his head and then walked to the door, swinging her small, firm hips. Sighing, Girland took the glass off his head and put it on to the side table. He waved to the girl who gave him a V sign.
‘Fred ... who?’ he said into the receiver.
‘I’ve a little job you could handle if you felt like it’ the voice went on. ‘It means money.’
Thinking of his empty wallet, Girland became attentive.
‘How much?’
‘Bullion up to your navel,’ the voice told him. ‘Want to talk about it?’
Girland looked across the big studio at the girl who had opened the front door. She smiled at him, then zipped down her stretched pants and peeled them off. She began to pull the shirt over her head.
‘Sure, but I can’t talk now,’ Girland said, hurriedly. It was just possible his concierge might be climbing the stairs. He could imagine how she would react if she saw what was going on on his landing. The girl had shed her shirt, and now in only a pair of black briefs, she was striking a pose.
‘I’ll be at La Croix d’Or until ten. You know it?’ the voice went on.
‘Who doesn’t?’ Girland said. ‘I’ll be there,’ and he hung up.
The girl struck another pose.
‘Like me?’ she said and smiled invitingly.
Girland liked her very much, but she was still too young and too brash.
‘Gorgeous.’ he said. ‘Thanks for the show. There’s a launderette at the end of the street. Wash your mind, kitten, it needs washing.’ He hurriedly slammed the door and turned the key. He stood for some moments listening to her screams of rage and the names she hurled at him through the panels of the door. He was appalled at the extent of her vocabulary. Finally, she ran out of words and breath and he heard sounds of her dressing. He wondered what his neighbours were thinking.
Finally, he heard her stamp down the stairs.
He lit a cigarette and sat down.
Who was Harry Moss? he wondered. Fred? The only Fred he knew was the barman at the Bressane bar where Girland went frequently. He telephoned the bar and asked for Fred.
‘This is Girland.’ There was the usual exchanges about their health and how life was, then Girland said, ‘Know anything about a guy who calls himself Harry Moss?’
‘That fella.’ Fred sounded disapproving. ‘Sure, he blew in a couple of hours ago. Young - around twenty-three - could be a fag, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I wouldn’t trust my wife with him: come to that, I wouldn’t trust my mother with him either. He wanted a job done ... I wouldn’t know what it is. I got the hint it was smuggling. I didn’t know how you were fixed so I gave him your name. Did I do wrong?’
‘No. Thanks, Fred. Every door is a door of opportunity. If something jells, I’ll see you get a slice off the top,’ and Girland replaced the receiver.
He sat for some minutes thinking. He needed money. When didn’t he? he thought wryly. In fact, face up to it, Girland, he said to himself, you need money damned badly. That was a mistake staying in Hong Kong for so long. He thought of Tan-Toy and sighed. What a girl! The Chinese girls certainly had technique. He had remained with her until the money he had gypped Dorey out of had been spent. He had been thankful he hadn’t cashed in his return air ticket otherwise he would have become a D.A.S., and Dorey would have loved that. Well, let’s see what Harry Moss has to offer, he thought and got to his feet. You never know. Life is still full of surprises. Bullion up to your navel. Moss had said. Girland grinned. What a way to talk!
La Croix d’Or was a sleazy night club off Rue du Bac, Girland had been there a few times. It was the haunt of ageing homosexuals, and generally, it was c r o w d e d with blond handsome boys looking for a client. There was also a Negro trumpeter who had the talent of a minor Armstrong. Very few women frequented the club, and those who did were unquestionably dykes.
As Girland walked down the dimly lit stairs that led into the cellar club, he could hear the golden notes of the Negro’s trumpet. He nodded to the doorman who gave him a blank stare, then entered the smoke-laden room. The smell of body sweat, the noise of shrill voices and the golden notes of the trumpet m a d e an impact on him. He paused, looking around the crowded room, then edging past the blond boys who were shrilling and looking like gaudy parakeets, he reached the bar.
The balding barman, fat and simpering, came quickly towards him.
‘Yes, dear?’ he said, laying his puffy white hands on the bar. ‘What can I make you happy with?’
‘Hello, Alice,’ Girland said and shook his hands. He knew the barman liked to be known by his professional name. ‘Harry Moss around?’
‘Yes, dear. He’s waiting for you.’ The barman rolled his eyes. ‘Such a lovely boy! He’s upstairs ... room 4.’
‘Is he alone?’ Girland asked.
‘Of course, dear: he’s waiting for you.’
Girland grinned.
‘Be your age, Alice. You’re getting your lines crossed.’ He shouldered his way across the room, opened the door and climbed stairs. He paused outside Room 4, knocked and walked into a tiny cubicle where a youth was sitting at a table, a bottle of Scotch, two glasses and an ice bucket before him.
Girland closed the door.
‘Moss?’
The youth looked around. His thick blond hair rested on the collar of his cowboy shirt. His small green eyes his hooked nose, his thin mouth added up to a portrait of depraved viciousness.
‘Come on in,’ he said and waved to a chair. ‘Yeah, I’m Harry Moss.’ He had a strong New Yorker accent. ‘Glad to have you here.’
Girland sat down. He flicked out a Pall Mall cigarette and set fire to it.
‘You called ... I’m here ... so let’s make it snappy,’ he said.
The green eyes roved over Garland’s face.
‘I have a job I can’t do myself. It’s strictly dishonest, but there’s no blow back. The take is thirty thousand dollars. Half to you, half to me. You interested?’
‘I could be,’ Girland said. ‘You’ll have to convince me there’s no blow back.’
‘I’ve asked around,’ Moss said, staring at his glass. ‘You sound like the guy to help me, and brother! I need help.’ He sipped his drink, then squinted at Girland over the rim of his glass. ‘I’m telling you because I have to. I can’t stop you flapping with your mouth, but they said you didn’t talk.’
‘They?’ Girland asked, amused
‘I told you ... I’ve asked around.’ Moss again stared at his glass. ‘I’ll put you in the photo. I got drafted into the goddamn army. Before I got over the shock, I was in West Berlin. Can you imagine? My divisional officer was such a dummy he could scarcely write his name. One of the jobs he had to do was to collect the payroll for the Officers. I drove the payroll truck while he sat on his fat fanny and looked important. A pal of mine, Ferdy Newman, went along as a guard. Well, to make this short, we decided to hijack the payroll. What the hell? It was asking to be hijacked. So one day, a month ago, we did the job. We had to tap my officer, but we didn’t hurt him much. His skull was solid bone. So we found ourselves with fifty thousand dollars and a lot of heat.’ He sipped his drink and looked thoughtfully at Girland. ‘Boy! Was the heat fierce! Well, keeping it short, we got to East Berlin. Ferdy had the bright idea of moving to Prague, and from there eventually to Cairo where he had friends.’ Again he paused, and this time he looked sharply at Girland. ‘You interested or am I boring you?’
‘Keep going,’ Girland said. ‘I’m never bored when anyone’s talki
ng about money.’
Moss’s thin lips curved into a smile.
‘That goes for me too. Well, we finally made it to Prague. They were right on our tails. The Czech Security Police came after us. We thought the heat was fierce before, but Boy! did it get white hot!’ Moss frowned and shook his head. ‘A girl in West Berlin had given us the name of a contact. Did he turn out to be a snake! He hid us in an apartment and took twenty thousand dollars off us. The deal was he should supply us with food, keep us hidden and get us out of Prague when the heat cooled off. He certainly put us in this apartment and he certainly took the money, but that was it. We never saw him again. We stayed in that joint for three days, starving. You ever been without food for three days?’
‘Why should you care?’ Girland said ‘Keep talking.’
‘Yeah ... well, by the fourth morning, we were ready to eat each other,’ Moss said. ‘So we tossed up and Ferdy lost. He went out to buy food He hadn’t been gone three minutes when I heard police whistles. Did I lay an egg! I imagined he would bring them right to me. I beat it up on the roof. I was in such an uproar, I forgot to take the money with me.’ He paused to pick his nose, then went on, ‘From the roof, I saw Ferdy running like hell. There were two cops after him. They were running like elephants with ingrowing toenails. Ferdy was going like a streak. Then one of the cops lifted his automatic and let Ferdy have it. I saw bits of his shirt fly off his back and blood.’ He grimaced. ‘Well, that was the end of Ferdy.’ He took another drink. ‘I panic easily. I went down the fire escape, touching one step in six. Right at that moment, I had forgotten the money. I just blew.’ He paused. ‘You want to give me a cigarette? Don’t if you don’t want to.’
Girland tossed his pack of Pall Mall on the table. His face was thoughtful. This story could be true. Then again, it could be a lie, but why tell him if it was a lie?
‘I won’t bore you with details,’ Moss went on after he had lit a cigarette. ‘There was a girl ...’ his thin lips curved into a sneering little grin. ‘What would creeps like me do without a girl? Anyway, she got me out of Prague and here I am. I’ve been here two weeks biting my nails. All I can think about is that money waiting for me in Prague.’
1967 - Have This One on Me Page 3