by Jon Cleary
Discretion overcame vanity: Cleo found her voice: “Not really. We’re just staff hacks.”
Rosa looked at her. “Why would they send a woman to cover military manoeuvres? You must be more than just a staff writer.”
“No,” said Cleo; so much for making a name for herself. “That’s all I am.”
“You’re a liar.” Gerd spoke for the first time since they had entered the house. “What did you say your name was?”
Cleo all at once felt the burden of her name again; but this time her father was far away, and would mean nothing to these people. “Cleo Spearfield.”
“Does that mean anything to you?” Rosa said to Gerd.
“I was in England in April. She has her own column in the Examiner. And she is on television, the programme called Scope.” They were speaking German to each other now. “We should go downstairs and talk. This one could be worth some money. Not as much as General Brisson, but some.”
Kurt looked at Cleo and Tom, said in English, “Behave yourselves and you will not be harmed. Now, give us everything in your pockets. And your handbag, Miss Spearfield.”
Cleo’s handbag and everything from Tom’s pockets were put into the hood that had covered Tom’s head. Kurt handed it to Rosa, who immediately passed it on to Gerd.
“We shall bring you some food in a little while,” said Kurt, and nodded at Rosa. “She will prepare it.”
“No,” said Rosa. “There will be no women’s role. We shall all prepare the meal.”
“Don’t let’s argue in front of them!” Gerd snapped in German and led Kurt and Rosa out of the room.
The door was shut and locked from the outside. Tom, his legs suddenly going, sat down on the side of the double bed and looked up at Cleo. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head, sat down on the one chair in the room. “No. I feel I want to cry and be sick. They’re crazy, all three of them. What were they trying to do?”
“I don’t know. Either kill or kidnap Brisson or Thorpe. They mentioned Brisson’s name when they were talking in German.”
She said nothing, but looked around the room. It was comfortable and tastefully furnished in heavy provincial furniture, but there were bare spots on the walls where pictures had been removed. There was nothing in the room to identify the owners except the furniture. She determined she would commit it all to memory, down to every detail. Then she looked back at Tom.
“We seem to get together only when we’re in trouble.”
VII
Lord Cruze got the ransom demand twenty-four hours after the story of the ambush had been front page news round the world. Generals Brisson and Thorpe, with generals’ luck, had been unhurt; but both aides, a driver and a guard, had been killed. One of the terrorists had also been killed and since been identified as the daughter of a prominent Hamburg family. The kidnapping of Cleo and Tom had been secondary paragraphs in the main story, as if the sub-editors felt that reporters should not be news in themselves. They did not merit a headline till the ransom demand was received.
“Two million Deutsche Marks! £250,000 roughly.”
“That’s just for Cleo,” said the finance manager of the Examiner, keeping his profit and loss columns separate. “They don’t mention the American, Border. I don’t think he should be debited against us.”
“They could be throwing him in free. Or perhaps they’re going to ask the Courier for a separate ransom.” Jack Cruze had never felt less in control of a situation; or of himself. He felt sick and weak, exhausted by worry and a sleepless night. “Has anyone been in touch with Cleo’s family in Australia?”
“I called her father as soon as the story came in,” said Massey-Folkes. “He said he’d get on a plane immediately.”
“Do we pay the ransom?” asked Dunlop, the finance manager. “The German police have asked us to hold off for twenty-four hours.”
“Of course we bloody well pay it!” Cruze wanted to tell the German police to mind their own business; Cleo was his responsibility, not theirs. “As soon as we get their instructions . . .”
“I think one of us should go over to Hamburg,” said Massey-Folkes. “I’ll go, if you like.”
“All right, go over this afternoon. I’ll come across as soon as Cleo’s father arrives. I’ll bring him with me. You’d better co-ordinate things with the German police. But tell them we’ll pay the ransom. I don’t care a bugger about whether the kidnappers are caught, all we want is Cleo back safe and unharmed.”
“And Tom Border, too,” said Massey-Folkes, hoping the boss was not going to go to pieces. He had never seen him like this before. But then he had not been around when Jack and his wife had broken up.
“Of course.” But Cruze had not given a thought to Tom Border, had done his best not to think about why he and Cleo should have been together. She had mentioned nothing about Border’s being in Hamburg when she had said she was going there.
He had come into the Examiner’s offices to discuss the ransom demand and to lay down the law as to how the story was to be handled. The kidnappers, if they were in a position to see copies of the Examiner, were not to be angered by what was said in either the news or editorial columns. When the conference was over he went downstairs and out into Fleet Street where Sid Cromwell drew up a moment later in the Rolls-Royce. Several photographers appeared, none of them from the Examiner, and for the first time in fifteen years Lord Cruze was photographed in his own domain. It was not as bad as being photographed with Cleo, but it still annoyed him.
He went back to the flat, where Mrs. Cromwell hovered over him like a nurse. There were countless phone calls, all intercepted by his secretary, Miss Viner, but it did not escape Jack Cruze that his closest true sympathizers were two women in his employ and Quentin Massey-Folkes; he had no family to lean on. He half expected, half hoped, for a call from Emma, but none came.
“I think you should eat something, m’Lord,” said Mrs. Cromwell. “A little onion soup.”
“French onion soup?” He tried the small joke as much for his own sake as in the hope of a smile from her.
“English onion soup.” There were limits.
“In that case I’ll try some. Just a small bowl of it. Ask Jenny to come in here.”
Miss Viner was trim, homely in face and figure, smart in her dress and manner and had been with His Lordship for eighteen years. He knew she had an opinion on his women, but she never gave a hint of what it was.
“Jenny, if nothing happens overnight, I’ll be at Heathrow in the morning to meet Senator Spearfield. Have the company plane ready to fly us straight to Hamburg. Book us two suites at the Four Seasons.” He could not pronounce German and he gave the Vier Jahreszeiten its English name. He wished he were fluent in languages; he was not going to enjoy dealing with the Germans, police or kidnappers, through an interpreter. “Better make it three. We’ll hold one for Miss Spearfield when we get her back.”
“Should I stay here overnight? Just in case . . .”
It would be the first time she ever had; he was sure she had remembered that. “Have Mrs. Cromwell get the guestroom ready for you. And tell her you’ll have dinner with me.”
She folded her notebook shut, stood up and, it seemed to him, marched out of the room. The bloody Sergeant-Major, he had once called her. But she was what he wanted right now, someone to keep his own self-discipline in line. He felt like weeping, as if he had already lost Cleo forever. Abruptly he cursed her for leaving him to go to Germany, for exposing herself to danger. From now on he would protect her, never let her out of his sight.
Miss Viner came back into the room. “There is a Miss Dorothy St. Martin on the telephone. She says she is a friend of Miss Spearfield’s.”
“St. Martin?”
“I think she is one of those women who ran that brothel in Curzon Street.” Miss Viner knew every story that had run in the Examiner; she was a walking morgue of facts.
He said nothing for a moment; the last thing he wanted was to hear voices
from the past, except for Emma’s. Then he nodded, got up and went to the phone. “Miss St. Martin? This is Lord Cruze.”
“Hello, Jack,” said the soft voice at the other end of the line. “Rosa and I have never called you before. But we were worried about Miss Spearfield.”
“That’s kind of you. But I didn’t know you knew her that well.”
“Well, perhaps not well. But once a fortnight, regularly, she’s been to have tea with us. She treats us as her lucky charms, says we got her started in Fleet Street. She’s a fine young woman, Jack.”
“Yes.” Cleo had never told him she was a friend of the St. Martin women. Christ, he thought, what secrets have they exchanged over the teacups?
“We’re having a Mass said for her safe return.”
He thought Masses were said only for the dead, but he couldn’t hear himself saying that. “Thank you. How have you and Rose been?”
“We miss the old days, Jack. But then at our age I suppose one always misses what we once had, don’t you think?” She spoke as if she included him in her age group, which he resented. He wanted to resent her calling at all, but he could not blame her for that: she had done it with the best of intentions. There had been a time when he had called her, for his own intentions.
“Give my best to Rosa,” he said and hung up.
VIII
Sylvester Spearfield arrived at Heathrow the following morning, worn out by worry and the long journey. But most of his life had been a public appearance and he had an old actor’s resilience. He tried to suggest that he had reserves of strength, that he was bearing up well, as he shook hands with Lord Cruze.
“This is good of you,” he said. “I know a lot of bosses who wouldn’t go to this trouble.”
“I have a plane waiting,” said Cruze, not yet ready to confess that he was not here in his capacity as Cleo’s boss. “Are you up to another two hours’ flight to Hamburg?”
“Maybe I can have a kip while we’re flying. Have you had any more news?”
“None. I’ve arranged for the ransom money to be waiting for me when we get there. We’ll pay it, no questions asked.”
They flew to Hamburg in the DH-l04 Dove, each of them quiet, Jack Cruze staring out of the window at the bright morning, Sylvester lying back with his eyes shut but half opening them to watch the Englishman when the latter had his head turned away. They were careful of each other: Jack because he was wondering what Cleo’s father knew of him and Cleo; Sylvester because, steeped in all his old prejudices, he was wondering why a boss was personally going to all this trouble over an employee. He had noticed that no one else but the plane’s crew, no personnel manager or PR man, was travelling with them.
When they reached the hotel in Hamburg, Quentin Massey-Folkes was waiting for them. “No news yet, Mr. Spearfield.” He wasn’t sure whether Senator was a title Australians cared about; Americans did, but they loved all titles that put them above the herd. “As an editor I can’t tell you that no news is good news. We just have to hope for the best.”
“Have the police any leads?” said Jack Cruze.
Massey-Folkes shook his head. “They’re trying to trace the personal movements of the dead girl, the kidnapper who was killed. They know her name and her family, but so far they’ve drawn a blank trying to find out whom she got around with. She left home six months ago and her parents hadn’t heard anything of her until the police got in touch with them. I gather her mother’s totally uncooperative, and refuses to believe her daughter had anything to do with the gang.”
“How did they identify her?”
“She had a St. Christopher’s medal in her purse with her name on it. Evidently even anarchists like a little spiritual help.” He explained to Sylvester: “The kidnappers, in their ransom note, call themselves Universal Anarchy.”
“It sounds like a trade organization.” But Sylvester didn’t really mean it as a joke.
“Do you want to meet the police, Jack?” This was no time for “m’Lord.” “I didn’t tell them you were coming.”
“Let it go for the time being. Senator Spearfield would like to get some rest first. I’ll come along to your suite, Senator, and make sure they’ve looked after you properly.”
“Anywhere I can stretch out will do. And forget the ‘Senator.’ Sylvester is good enough, if it’s not too much a mouthful. Some people shorten it to Sylver, with a y. And I’ll probably be silver-haired by the time this is over.”
He was not used to the sort of luxury suite he was shown into by the assistant manager, but he said nothing; in politics you took the perks as they came. But this, he knew, was no perquisite: this was something more. He turned round as Jack Cruze, having dismissed the assistant manager, closed the suite door and stood with his back to it.
“Do you know about Cleo and me?”
“What?” But he knew at once, if too late.
“We’re—well, I suppose the word is lovers. Some people might call her my mistress, but she’s more than that to me.”
Sylvester looked at the grey-haired man who, today, looked as old as himself (though he had not looked in a mirror, so he did not know how old he suddenly looked). He thought of Cleo as he had last seen her, young and ripe, a girl for a young man. What had happened that she had sold (there couldn’t be any other word for it) herself to this man?
“Jesus wept! No. No, I hadn’t a clue. How long’s it been going on?”
Going on: the phrase made him angry, but he kept himself under control. Couldn’t Spearfield see that he loved his daughter? “Over a year. Eighteen months, I suppose. It happened gradually. There was no—no starting date.”
Shock had given Sylvester revived energy; he kept looking around him as if caged. “Christ Almighty, man, you’re as old as I am!”
“I’m fifty-one.”
“Old enough to be her bloody father! Jesus, I’m only fifty-eight!” Then he slowed down, tried to concentrate on the man standing on the other side of the big room. A future son-in-law? He couldn’t grasp the idea. He took a deep breath, then sighed, shaking his head, waving a helpless, resigned hand. “I don’t know why I’m blaming you. I suppose she went into it with her eyes open.”
“I think you know your daughter well enough—”
“I don’t know that I do. Do you have any kids? Who knows what they think these days?”
“I don’t have any children.”
“Well, I suppose that helps. It’d be bloody embarrassing for you, having a girl-friend the same age as your daughter or son. Are you married or divorced or what?”
Jack Cruze hesitated only a moment; but Sylvester caught it. “I’m married, but we’re separated. Have been for twenty years.”
“But not divorced? Your wife won’t give you one?”
Again the slight hesitation: again Sylvester noticed it. He had spent too many years on the floors of the House and the Senate to miss the change of gears in a man’s mind. “No.”
“Well, that makes it promising for Cleo, doesn’t it? Aaah!” It was like a stifled cry of pain. Suddenly he sat down, the last thirty-six hours falling on him with a weight he couldn’t bear. “Leave me alone, Cruze. I’ll have a sleep. Maybe I’ll feel better when I wake up.”
“I’ll wake you if we get any news.”
He went out of the suite and Sylvester lifted himself and crossed to the bed, pulled back the coverlet and lay down without taking off his clothes. He loosened his tie and lay on his back, his eyes closed but his mind still wide open. He was both angry and sad at what Cruze had told him; then, as his mind started to close in, reason told him he was concerned about the wrong thing. Cleo was in much more danger than just being involved with the wrong man. He fell asleep, too exhausted even to dream. Which was his only relief.
IX
Claudine had rung Roger from New York. “You’re all right? You’re not hurt?”
“No, Joe Thorpe and I got out okay. I lost Rod Hill, my aide—”
“I know, it was on the wire. How’s L
ouise? I think you should go back to Heidelberg, be with her after what’s happened. She’s had a dreadful shock. We all have—”
“Claudine, Louise is an army wife—she’s been through this sort of thing before—”
“Not an attempted assassination or kidnapping or whatever those crazies had in mind! I think—”
“Claudine, let the army run its own affairs—please. Apart from having to stay on here for the manoeuvres, I can’t run back home while Tom Border and that girl Spearfield are still missing.”
“No, I suppose not. What are you doing to get them back?”
“Personally, I’m doing nothing. This isn’t an army matter. The German police are handling it. I understand Lord Cruze has agreed to pay the ransom, though that hasn’t been made public yet. If they ask for more money, I hope you’ll contribute some. I mean the company.”
“Of course, Roger—” She loved him, even though he could be a trial at times. “Take care. I’ll get in touch with Jack Cruze and tell him we’ll pay half the ransom.” Then she repeated, “Take care.”
He promised that he would, and hung up. But take care against whom? He was still suffering from the shock of what had happened, but he had managed to hide it. There might have been no shock at all if he had been expecting such an attack; but he had been totally unprepared for it. In Vietnam it had been different: there, you worked on the premise that the enemy surrounded you, could even be in your own house. But here the war had become just play-acting: the enemy was hundreds of miles to the east. Or so he thought until that blue van had come out of the side street, then the white BMW, and the bullets had come smashing into the staff car—then he had realized there was more than one enemy. Only a miracle had saved him and Joe Thorpe: perhaps he should say a prayer of thanks. Then he decided against it. God would know a hypocrite when he heard one.