Mala shivered.
‘But why should he - he murder you?’
‘Dorey knows that if I am caught I will give you and Cain away,’ Worthington said, his voice desperate. ‘But he wasn’t here to kill me.’ He pointed to the wooden angel. ‘He put a package in there. Is that where they leave things for you to pass on?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Mala stared at the angel.
‘He left something in there?’
‘Yes. He lifted off the head and put a package in the body. I thought it was something you were expecting ... after all, you are still working for Dorey.’ Seeing how bewildered she looked, he went on, ‘If you don’t know anything about it, we’d better see what it is.’
‘No! Leave it alone! If he left something in there, I don’t want to know about it!’ Mala exclaimed wildly.
Worthington looked at her in exasperation.
‘Are you telling me the truth? Are you sure they don’t use that as a hiding place?’
‘Of course they don’t! Leave it alone! I don’t want to know about it!’
‘You are behaving like a child. You are an agent. You have already passed a lot of information back to C.I.A. through Cain and me, and you have been paid for doing it. That makes you a professional. Pull yourself together! Sooner or later, they will find a replacement for me. When they do, he will contact you, and you will have to work for him as you have worked for me.’
‘I’m not working for them anymore!’ Mala cried, facing him. ‘I’ve had enough! Will you please go! No one can force me to do what I don’t want to do!’
Worthington looked pityingly at her. He could well understand her terror. When he had heard Malik had arrived in Prague, he too had become terrified.
‘Please listen to me and don’t get so upset,’ he said gently.
‘You have accepted their money. If they don’t want you, they will drop you, but you can never drop them. If you try to drop them they will silence you. The only chance you have of dropping them is to disappear as I am going to disappear. Unless you have a way to get out of this country and hide yourself, they will kill you.’
She looked desperately at him.
‘I don’t believe it! They couldn’t do that!’
‘Why do you imagine I’m leaving Prague? I knew this would happen and I have been preparing for just this emergency.’ Worthington paused, hesitated, then went on. ‘This is the wrong time to tell you, but I have to.’ His weak face was glistening with sweat’ and his eyes were desperately earnest.
‘Mala, I love you. I have been in love with you from the moment we first met. I wish there were less banal words to tell you what you mean to me ...’ He broke off in despair when he saw her shocked expression. ‘I shouldn’t have told you ... I am sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ Her frightened contempt made him shrivel. ‘You say you love me? Then why did you come here? Why have you made use of me to save yourself? Love me . . . you mean you love yourself!’
Worthington sat motionless, then finally he said, ‘I had nowhere else to go. I hoped and prayed you would have a little feeling for me.’
‘I don’t want you here!’ Mala cried. ‘How many more times do I have to tell you? You mean nothing to me! Don’t you understand ... nothing!’
She turned away from him. Worthington studied her long, slim back, thinking how lovely she was, longing to take her in his arms.
‘We could go away together,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come with me to Switzerland? Vlast would fake a passport for you. We could travel as man and wife. When we reach Geneva, you can make up your mind if you would like to stay with me. I have money in Geneva.’
She spun around.
‘I’m remaining here! I’m not working for them anymore! If only you would go, I’ll be safe!’
‘No agent is ever safe. If we leave Prague together, you will be safer with me in Geneva.’
‘Oh, stop it! Why don’t you go!’ Her voice shot up a note and Worthington flinched, wondering if the people above or below could hear her.
‘We had better see what Bruckman has left here,’ he said.
‘No! Leave it alone!’
‘He could have planted something on you. I don’t trust Dorey. He might be betraying you. We must see what it is.’
Mala watched in tense silence as he crossed over to the wooden angel and lifted off the head.
* * *
Harry Moss was waiting when Girland got out of the Air Terminal bus at the Departure Centre at Orly Airport. He walked over to Girland as Girland collected his shabby suitcase from the luggage compartment of the bus.
‘Hi.’ Moss said. ‘Here’s your ticket. Let’s get rid of your bag and then we’ll talk.’
Having checked in and got rid of his suitcase, Girland walked with Moss over to an empty bench and sat down.
From his cowboy shirt pocket. Moss took a folded piece of paper.
‘Here’s the address. The money is in the body of a wooden angel.’ He had received this information from Dorey the previous evening who had, in turn, received it from Bruckman in a coded telegram from Prague. ‘It’s dead easy. The head lifts off. You’re booked to return in three days. Saturday I’ll be right here, waiting for you.’
‘That is one thing I’ll bet on,’ Girland said dryly. He read the address which meant nothing to him. ‘A wooden angel?’
‘Yeah. It stands in the left hand corner of the room. You can’t miss it.’
‘Is anyone living in the apartment?’ Girland asked, putting the address in his wallet.
‘I wouldn’t know ... could be. Accommodation in Prague is tight, but that’s up to you.’ Moss gave him a sly look. ‘You can’t expect to pick up all that dough without earning it, can you?’
‘What else can you tell me about the place?’
‘There’s no concierge. It’s a walk-up ... fourth floor. The lock on the door is nothing.’ Moss was quoting from the information Dorey had given him. ‘All you have to watch out for is that no one is in the apartment when you break in.’
Girland rubbed the back of his neck while he thought. Then he shrugged. This job worried him a little. It seemed too glib, but he kept telling himself he had nothing to lose.
‘I have the address ... Where’s the spending money?’
Reluctantly, Moss produced a small roll of notes.
‘Here you are ... a thousand francs. This will just about skin me ... don’t waste it.’
Girland put the notes in his wallet as a voice, over the public address system, announced that passengers on Flight 714 to Prague should now proceed to Gate No. 8.
‘Well, here I go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Don’t have a hemorrhage if you don’t see me Saturday. This could be trickier than you think.’
‘There’s nothing to it.’ Moss walked with Girland to the escalator that would take him to Gate 8. ‘I’ll be right here ... Saturday.’
Girland had his boarding card punched, then with a wave of his hand, he ran up the moving staircase.
Fifteen minutes later, he was climbing the tourist class stairway into the Caravelle. The airhostess fluttered her eyelids at him and Girland gave her his charming smile. As long as he could remember, he had always been the darling of air hostesses.
It came as no surprise, after the plane had taken off, that the air hostess came down the aisle and whispered to him that there was plenty of room in the first class compartment.
Girland regarded her. She was a pretty little thing with sparkling dark eyes and a saucy smile.
‘Well, that’s nice,’ he said and leaving his cramped seat; followed by disapproving eyes, he made his way to the first class compartment.
He refused champagne and chose a double Scotch on the rocks. He flirted for a while with the airhostess, then when she had gone, and now slightly mellowed by his drink, he relaxed back in his seat and did some thinking.
Bruckman’s mysterious visit to his apartment still bothered him. During the two days he had been waitin
g for the Prague visa, he had gone over his apartment with skill and care. He had wondered if Dorey had wanted to bug the apartment, but he found no bug. Had Dorey planted something on him? Again he found nothing suspicious. Why should Dorey want to plant something on him anyway? He finally decided that Dorey was still hoping to get some of the money back Girland had taken off him, but although this seemed unlikely. Girland couldn’t think of any other explanation for Bruckman’s visit.
Harry Moss worried him too. Although Girland had checked Moss’s story, it still seemed a little farfetched and Moss seemed to Girland too much like a character out of a B movie.
Girland shrugged impatiently. Well, he would see what happened when he reached Prague. At this moment the air hostess was bringing him caviar on toast. As there were only two other passengers in the first class compartment, she sat by his side. They flirted, chatted and ate while the plane earned them over the Iron Curtain and to the Prague airport.
As soon as Harry Moss saw the Caravelle airborne, he hurried to a telephone booth and called Dorey.
54
‘He’s off,’ he said. ‘Hook, line and sinker. Is there anything else you want me to do?’
‘No, there’s nothing else,’ Dorey said. ‘Good work, Alan. I’m sending you a small contribution. Thank you very much.’
‘Don’t mention it. It was a pleasure.’ There was a pause, then Moss said, ‘Don’t make that contribution too small. Uncle.’
Dorey grimaced, then hung up. He scribbled a telegram to Bruckman, alerting him of the time of Girland’s arrival. He added this warning: ‘Girland knows you. Keep well out of sight and don’t underestimate him. This operation must work.’
He gave the telegram to his secretary. Mavis Paul. When she had gone, he sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He felt pleased with himself.
* * *
Three men sat around a table in a large airless room of the Ministry of the Interior. In this vast building, built like a fortress, the Prague Secret Police had their headquarters.
Suk, second in charge of the Secret Police, was staring at a large-scale street map of the City, spread out on the table.
There was a strip of plaster on his baldhead, covering the cut and the bruise from Worthington’s attack. A throbbing headache still tormented him.
Opposite him, Malik sat like a massive Sphinx, his cold green eyes moving from Suk to the map and then back to Suk. The third man was Boris Smernoff, thickset with a dark, cruel face and a bald patch which he tried vainly to hide by combing long thin strands of black hair over the ever expanding baldness.
He was Malik’s right hand man, an expert shot and G.R.U.’s most persistent and successful hunter of men.
‘He can’t escape,’ Suk said. ‘He must be somewhere here,’ and he tapped the street map. ‘It is only a matter of time.’
‘You don’t think time is important?’ Malik said in his clipped English, the common language between these two men. ‘It is only a matter of time? You have been negligent. Comrade. I warned you about this man. Now, he has disappeared. You say it is only a matter of time. I hope so. What steps are you taking to find him?’
Suk wiped the sweat off his forehead. Without looking at Malik, he said. ‘He can’t get out of the country. I’m sure of that. We are now making inquiries. Someone must be hiding him. We have already checked all the hotels. The airport and the frontier posts have been alerted We ...’
Malik silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand.
‘When you find him I want to talk to him . . . understand?’
‘Yes. Comrade Malik.’
‘What is more important is his replacement. They are certain to replace him. I want details of everyone coming by air, train and road. I don’t think Dorey will send in anyone just yet, but he may. Anyone slightly suspect must be doubly screened. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Comrade Malik.’
‘Well, get on with it and find Worthington.’
Suk got to his feet and left the office, closing the door softly behind him
Malik looked at Smernoff who was lighting a cigarette.
‘Well? What is it?’
Smernoff smiled, showing his tobacco-stained teeth.
‘This man Jonathan Cain.’ he said. ‘He is possibly of interest: a buyer of glass. He comes to Prague twice a month. He had lunch with Dorey four days ago. The report came through as routine from one of the waiters at Chez Joseph, a luxury Paris restaurant with private rooms. Dorey and Cain met. . . that’s for certain. Malinkov merely mentioned it in his weekly report. He said it might mean nothing. Dorey often lunches with various friends.’
‘Malinkov is a fool,’ Malik said. ‘What do you know about Cain?’
‘Very little ... he is a typical American business man. When he comes here, he frequently visits the Alhambra nightclub. There is nothing against him in any way . . . except he lunched with Dorey.’
Malik leaned back in his chair, frowning.
‘The Alhambra night club? Do you know it?’
‘I’ve been there.’ Smernoff flicked ash on the floor. ‘You can eat reasonably well there. They have small booths where you can be alone. The acts are noisy and not much, but there is a girl singer whose parents were American and Czech. The father was against the regime ... he was executed. The girl calls herself Mala Reid … she’s taken her mother’s name.’
Malik examined his blunt fingernails, then glanced up.
‘Has Cain had anything to do with her?’
‘He seems to be an admirer of hers. Several times he has given her flowers. He has never gone with her to her apartment.’
‘Flowers ...’ Malik thought, then stretched his long, massive arms. ‘Yes . . . perhaps we might take a look at this girl, Boris. Have her watched. This could be a waste of time, but at the moment, we seem to have nothing else to use except time.’ He looked up, his green eyes glittering. ‘I want to know everything about this girl ... understand?’
Smernoff got to his feet.
‘So do I,’ he said and left the room.
Malik stood up and walked over to the window. There were two pigeons on the lower balcony. The male was going through his elaborate dance of love. The female was ignoring him. Malik watched them for some moments. He felt contempt for the male pigeon. What a fool the male was when he became infatuated with the female, he thought and turned away.
He began to think about Cain ... then his mind switched to Worthington and his possible replacement. Perhaps, after all, Suk was right. In this country, it could only be a matter of time, and, of course, patience.
* * *
Worthington fingered the brown paper packet he had taken from the angel’s body.
‘You see? This is a plant,’ he said. ‘I never trusted Dorey.’
Mala made no attempt to hide her terror.
‘But why? What have I done?’
Worthington shrugged.
‘How can we tell? We must see what he has planted on you,’ and he took from his pocket a penknife.
‘We’d better not ...’
‘Of course we must, then we are prepared.’ Sitting at the table Worthington began to slide the blade of the knife carefully under the Sellotape that secured the parcel. It took him some minutes to open it. Mala stood over him, watching, her heart beating wildly.
Worthington unwrapped the paper and drew out the thick packet of one hundred dollar bills. They both stared unbelievingly at the money, then with shaking fingers, Worthington began to count the bills.
After a long tense silence, he said. ‘For God’s sake! This is a fortune! Thirty thousand dollars!’
Mala turned cold. She sat down abruptly by his side.
‘What does it mean?’
Worthington stared at the money on the table for some time, then he suddenly nodded. ‘There can only be one explanation. This isn’t a plant. Mala. This is funds for my replacement.’ His thin face darkened. ‘They never gave me money like this. I warned you ... when this man r
eplaces me, he will contact you This is why Bruckman hid the money here. The money is to buy information.’ He sat back. ‘They have already written me off my replacement will come here and collect the money. They are using your place to finance him. They don’t give a damn about the risk to you.’
Mala drew in a shuddering breath.
‘All that money!’
‘They have no right to do this!’ Worthington went on. The sight of the hundred dollar bills fascinated him. ‘If they had consulted you . . . you could have refused or agreed, but that’s not the way they work. They do it like this ... not caring what happens to you.’ He leaned forward, tapping the dollar bills.
‘Malik might come here and find these ... then you would be done for.’
Mala also was hypnotised by the sight of so much money.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘With this money, ‘Worthington said quietly and emphatically, ‘you will have no trouble leaving Prague. You will be independent. You could come with me to Geneva. You could buy a passport ... it’s a fortune!’
Mala shifted her eyes from the money to him.
‘But it doesn’t belong to me! I couldn’t use it for myself!’
‘They haven’t thought of you ... why should you think of them? Money means nothing to them. If we take this, they will replace it. This money can buy your freedom.’
Mala hesitated, then shook her head.
‘No! Put it back ... I’m not touching it.’
Worthington regarded her, then seeing the determined expression in her eyes, he shrugged wearily.
‘All right ... you are being stupid, but if you really feel like that I can’t help you.’
She pressed her hands to her face,
‘Yes, I feel like that.’ She got to her feet. ‘Please put it back where you found it.’ She again looked at the money, then she walked slowly over to the screen. ‘I’m going to bed.’ She paused and looked directly at him. ‘All right, I know I am stupid, but I’m not a thief!’
‘When one’s life is in balance,’ Worthington said quietly, ‘I suppose it could be said it is better to be a thief than to be stupid.’
1967 - Have This One on Me Page 6