The nurse came abreast of him. In the half-darkness he could see she was young and dark.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said with an exaggerated bow.
“I am representing Paris Match. Could you kindly tell me on what floor and. in what room this woman is who has lost her memory?”
The nurse stopped and looked at him.
“Pardon, monsieur?”
“It is of interest to my paper,” Sadu said, restraining his impatience with difficulty. “We would like to know on what floor and in what room this woman is . . . the woman with the tattoo marks.”
The nurse retreated a step.
“I can’t tell you that. You must ask at the Information desk,” she said. “If they want you to know, they will tell you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sadu saw Jo-Jo leave the car, moving as swiftly and as silently as an attacking snake. He came up behind the nurse as she was beginning to move away. His right hand flashed up and the nurse gave a choked cry and then fell forward. Instinctively, Sadu grabbed her, holding her against him. He looked wildly down the long dark boulevard. In the far distance he could see two men coming briskly towards them.
“Get her into the building!” Jo-Jo snapped. “Quick!”
Sadu realised it was the only thing to do. He picked up the unconscious girl and ran with her across the sidewalk and into the darkness of the building. He stumbled over the debris scattered on the ground as he reached the inner lobby. Jo-Jo joined him.
“Put her down.”
Sadu lowered the girl on a pile of cement sacks.
“You’re mad!” he gasped as soon as he could get his breath. “She’ll recognise me! What the hell do you think you are doing?”
Jo-Jo knelt beside the girl. He knocked off her white cap, then seizing her by her hair, he began brutally to shake her head. The girl moaned softly, then her eyes opened. Jo-Jo’s dirty hand closed over her mouth, his fingers cruelly pinching her cheeks.
“Make a sound and I will kill you,” he whispered viciously. “Now, listen to me. Can you hear me?”
Her eyes round with terror, she looked up at him, squirming away from his smell of dirt.
He released his grip over her mouth.
“Where is this woman? Quick! Where is she?”
The girl gulped, tried to squirm further away and Jo-Jo, with a curse, slapped her face.
“Where is she?”
“Don’t touch me! She . . . she’s on the fifth floor: room 112,” the nurse told him, her voice shaking with terror.
“Room 112. Fifth floor. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you say so before, you stupid fool?” Jo-Jo said. There was a rapid movement and a flash of steel. The nurse heaved up and then dropped back with a long, whistling sigh.
Jo-Jo stood up.
Sadu had seen the movement and had heard the sigh which sent a chill crawling up his spine. It was too dark to see clearly what had happened, but the sound of the sigh had struck terror into him.
“What have you done?” He grabbed hold of Jo-Jo. “What the hell have you done?”
Jo-Jo jerked away. He leaned forward and wiped the blade of his knife on the nurse’s cloak.
“Come on!” he said impatiently. “We now know where she is. Come on! We’re wasting time!”
With a shaking hand, Sadu took out his cigarette lighter and flicked on the flame. He leaned forward and stared down at the nurse’s dead face. He had only one brief horrifying glimpse before Jo-Jo blew the flame out.
“Come on,” Jo-Jo snarled. “They won’t find her until tomorrow and then it doesn’t matter.”
“You’ve killed her!” Sadu gasped.
“What else did you expect me to do with her? She would have put the finger on you and the flicks would have picked you up and then we would all have been down the drain. Come on . . . we’re wasting time!”
He walked cautiously out of the building, then headed for the hospital.
* * *
“Come in, Girland,” Dorey said as Girland appeared in the doorway of his office. “How have you been keeping?”
Girland moved into the big room and closed the door. With a mocking grin, he said, “Why should you care? You must be in one hell of a mess to call on me.” He crossed the room and dropped into one of the lounging chairs. “So they finally put your name up in gold. My! My! Washington must be short of talent these days.”
“You are an insolent sonofabitch,” Dorey said with a thin smile, “but I have to admit you have certain crude talents. These I am prepared to hire.” He leaned back in his executive chair and studied Girland. “I have been following your career if you can call it a career. You haven’t been doing so well recently, have you? A street photographer is getting pretty near bottom, isn’t it?”
Girland helped himself to a cigarette from the silver box on Dorey’s desk.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a matter of standards. Guys like you want money, power and ulcers. I take it as it comes. I would rather photograph a pretty woman than have an ulcer.”
Dorey shrugged.
“Well, it’s your business. Let’s find out first if you want to work for me again.”
“Work for you?” Girland laughed. “No, I don’t, but something was said about ten thousand francs. I am willing to work for anyone for that kind of money.”
“You seem to have only two things on your mind: women and money,” Dorey said. “I suppose you are built that way, but . . .”
“I live the way I like to live and it’s no business of yours. What’s the job?”
The two men regarded each other. Dorey felt a certain satisfaction as he met Girland’s steel hard eyes. After all, he told himself, this man had proved himself brilliantly astute, and also very tough. Dorey was sure he hadn’t made a mistake in picking him.
Briefly he explained about Erica Olsen.
“This woman could tell us a lot about Kung,” he concluded, “and we want to know about him. There has been a persistent rumour coming out of China that he has developed a new weapon. This may or may not be true, but we must know for certain. We also want to know what makes Kung tick. His mistress is the most likely person to know this.”
Girland sank lower in his chair.
“What makes you think she will talk?”
“That will be up to you. From the reports I have on you, you seem to have a way with women. Why else do you imagine I am giving you this job?”
Girland studied the glowing end of his cigarette, then grinned.
“I can see the apes you employ couldn’t handle this one. You know, Dorey, you are smarter than I thought you were.”
“Try not to be insolent,” Dorey snapped. “Then you will do this job?”
“I didn’t say that. Don’t let’s rush it. Exactly what am I to do?”
“Her loss of memory appears to be genuine. Her doctor thinks it will return by slow degrees. You are to live with her and to report to me everything she comes out with about Kung.”
Girland sat up.
“Live with her? What do you mean?”
“You are to play the role of her husband,” Dorey said, resting his elbows on the desk. “At the moment she has no idea who she is, what her background is . . . she knows nothing. So you arrive as her husband. She has to accept you. You will have all the necessary proof if she needs convincing. I have your marriage certificate and her passport made out as Mrs. Erica Girland. You are a rich businessman on vacation in the South of France. This woman . . . your wife . . . disappeared while you were in Paris on business. You eventually find her in the American hospital. You naturally take her back to your villa in Eze. There you will help her recover her memory. Sooner or later she will come out with some information, and this is the information I want and I am paying for.”
Girland leaned back and shook his head in wonderment.
“You certainly get ideas!” he said and his admiration was genuine, “but let’s think about this. Suppose sh
e gets her memory back suddenly and all in one piece? I’m going to look an awful dope pretending to be her husband, aren’t I?”
“That isn’t likely, and if it does happen, you are being paid to look an awful dope,” Dorey said smoothly.
Girland laughed.
“What’s this about a villa in Eze?”
“It belongs to me,” Dorey said, not without some smug satisfaction. “It is isolated, comfortable and safe. My servants will look after you both.”
“Well! Well!” Girland looked amazed. “No wonder you risk ulcers. You’re doing yourself pretty well, aren’t you?”
Dorey shrugged.
“So I take it you will do the job?”
“I’m not completely sold. From what I heard from Rossland, you have never given anything good away. How do I know this Swede isn’t fat and ugly? Even for ten thousand francs I wouldn’t want to be the husband of an unattractive woman.”
“You waste time, Girland,” Dorey said and took a glossy photograph from his desk drawer. He flicked it across his desk, knowing it was his trump card. “Here is part of her anatomy, showing the tattoo marks. Perhaps this will assure you that at least she isn’t fat.”
Girland studied the photograph, his eyes alight with interest.
He gave a long, low whistle.
“Wow! Is her top as good as her bottom?”
Dorey passed over a U.S. passport.
“The photograph doesn’t do her justice, but it will give you the general idea.”
Girland studied the photograph on the forged passport, then he sat back.
“You have yourself a deal. When do I start?”
“Right now. I have arranged a car for you. You will go to the hospital, put her in the car and drive to Eze tonight. You should be there early tomorrow morning. The sooner we get out of Paris, the safer it will be. This is now your operation. Make sure there are no mistakes.”
“What car are you giving me?” Girland asked.
“A 202 Mercedes. It’s below in the car pool. Grafton will show you the various gadgets.” Dorey passed a folder across the desk. “These are all the papers you need. There is also a marriage certificate among them in your name.”
“I’m feeling married already.”
“The story broke in France-Matin. Watch out . . . I imagine the Chinese and probably the Soviets are now interested in this woman. So when I say watch out, I mean watch out.”
“I should have known there was a snag.” Girland got to his feet. “Wasn’t there something said about money?”
Dorey pushed a packet of one hundred franc notes across his desk.
“That’s two thousand on account. You’ll get the rest when you have some information for me.”
Girland stowed the money away in his hip pocket.
“How about expense money? I’ll have to buy a complete outfit. You don’t expect me to impersonate a rich businessman without the trimmings, do you? I’ll want at least . . .”
“You won’t get it,” Dorey said firmly. “Diallo, my servant will arrange what is necessary for you to have. I have already talked to him on the telephone and I have arranged with my bank for a sum for him to draw on. You don’t draw on it, Girland. Understand?”
“Your trust in me is touching,” Girland said cheerfully.
Dorey ignored this. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a small plastic box..
“Here is a gimmick that might be useful.” He pushed the box across the desk. “It’s a radio pill . . . the size of a grape pip. Get this woman to swallow it. If you happen to be unlucky and lose her, with this pill, we can find her again.”
“That’s neat,” Girland picked up the box and opened it. He looked at the tiny black pill. “How does it work?”
“The heat of the body causes the transistor battery to become active. Anyone having a specially tuned radar receiver can pick up the bleeps within a radius of a hundred kilometres. The pill remains active for forty-eight hours. Carry it under your thumbnail and be careful you don’t lose it.”
As Girland fixed the pill under his thumbnail he said, “So you are expecting trouble?”
“I always expect trouble. Then if it doesn’t happen, I’m surprised. It’s better than the other way around. You won’t be on your own, Girland. My men will watching you. Your job is to get her to Eze. Don’t take any chances. Once you are at Eze, you should be safe.”
“Looks as if I’m going to earn my money after all,” Girland said ruefully. “Okay, I’ll get off. As soon as we arrive, I’ll call you.”
He left the office and walked to the elevator a little less enthusiastic than when he had arrived.
* * *
Pfc Willy Jackson shifted his automatic rifle from one arm to the other to look at his strap watch. The time was 10.10 p.m., and he stifled a sigh. He had more than two hours of duty before he was relieved. Still, he told himself, it could be a lot worse. Patrolling a hospital corridor was a damned sight better than standing in the rain outside SHAPE Headquarters. It was more than a darn sight better, he decided as a nurse came briskly down the corridor, giving him a friendly smile and passing on, swinging her hips and touching her hair with the practiced hand of a woman who knows she is being admired.
Pfc Willy Jackson was a well-disciplined soldier who had ambitions. All that talk about every soldier having a Marshal’s baton in his knapsack was food and drink to Jackson. He considered Eisenhower, Bradley and Patton the three greatest men who had ever lived. In another twenty years, he also could be a General.
Willy Jackson was twenty-three. He was brimful of confidence: one of the best shots in the Army, the champion light heavyweight boxer of his Battalion and the best pitcher of the SHAPE baseball team. Jackson had everything that made an excellent soldier . . . and that was to be his downfall.
While he was thinking with some pleasure what he and the nurse who had just passed could do together if ever he had the opportunity of meeting her off duty, the elevator doors opened and a man, dressed in the uniform of an American Staff Colonel, stepped into the corridor.
Willy Jackson was susceptible to rank. A Captain made him tread carefully: a Major brought him out in a sweat: a Colonel reduced him to an inarticulate idiot.
It was his greatest ambition to reach the rank of Colonel when he was thirty years of age, and when he saw this squat, powerfully built man wearing an immaculate uniform with three blazing rows of combat ribbons, his mouth turned dry and he presented arms with a slap and a stamp that shook the corridor.
Smernoff, a little awkward in his brand new uniform, his hand hovering close to the butt of the gun he had on his hip, regarded him. He had already been informed about Jackson. He hoped he would have no trouble with him.
“What are you doing here, soldier?” he barked, coming to rest in front of Jackson.
“Guarding the corridor, sir,” Jackson said, sweat breaking out on his freckled face. This was the first time in his military career that an officer of a majority rank had deigned to speak to him.
“Where’s General Wainright’s room?”
“No. 147, sir.”
“You guarding General Wainright?”
“No, sir. This woman in No. 140.”
“Oh, yeah.” Smernoff relaxed a little. He hadn’t thought it would be this easy. “I’ve read about her. At ease, soldier.”
Jackson slightly relaxed. He allowed his blue, somewhat innocent eyes to meet Smernoff’s dark cruel, beady eyes, then he abruptly looked away.
What a man! he thought. Jackson! You have got to get with it!
You’ve got to cultivate the way this guy looks!
“This woman,” Smernoff said, hooking his thumbs into his trousers pockets. “Have you seen her?”
“No, sir.”
“They say she has Chinese marks tattooed on her arse. Is that right?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“How’s the General?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Soldier, le
t me tell you something: you’re lucky to be a Pfc.”
Smernoff was beginning to enjoy himself. “You don’t have to worry about goddam Generals. What room did you say the old bull was in?”
Jackson flinched. He considered General Robert Wainright was a fine soldier. This disrespect shocked him.
“Room 147, sir.”
“Okay, carry on, soldier,” and Smernoff began to walk, heavy-footed, erect and very much the Colonel down the corridor. Then he stopped short, turned and cursed.
“You . . . soldier!”
Jackson stiffened to attention.
“Sir!”
“Go down to my Jeep. I have left my goddam briefcase!”
Automatically, Jackson turned and started for the elevator, then stopped.
“Excuse me, sir. I am on guard.” The agony in his voice nearly made Smernoff laugh.
“You’re relieved! I’m here, aren’t I? Get my briefcase!”
“Yes, sir.”
Jackson pressed the call button and when the elevator doors swished open, he entered the cage and descended to the lobby.
Parked in the drive, was a military Jeep. Jackson ran over to it.
Two Pfcs were standing, talking together. They turned as Jackson came up.
“The Colonel’s briefcase,” Jackson snapped.
“Oh, yeah,” one of the soldiers said. Then things happened so fast Jackson later had only a vague idea just what did happen.
The nearest soldier hit him on the side of his jaw, his fist incased in a brass knuckle-duster. His companion snatched the automatic rifle out of Jackson’s hand as he fell. The other soldier dragged the unconscious man into the Jeep, handed his companion a bulky briefcase, threw a tarpaulin over Jackson and drove rapidly away.
Kordak, the remaining soldier, ran back to the hospital. At the entrance, he slowed, nodded to the reception clerk who stared with boredom at him, then entered the elevator and was whisked to the fourth floor.
Smernoff was pacing up and down.
“Well?”
Kordak, a slim, dark, weasel-faced man who had worked with Smernoff for some time, nodded and grinned.
“No trouble at all.”
1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal Page 4