Pay Any Price

by Ted Allbeury

  “No. I don’t think so.” He laughed. “And that’s probably the only interesting aspect. There’s no real indication of anyone being involved. Let me give you the basics. There’s a file but it doesn’t tell you much.” He waved his hand in the general direction of his desk. “There’s no great urgency but I’d like you to read the stuff and let it wash around your mind while you’re on leave. We had a report from the Provost Marshal’s office that a psychiatrist up North had a patient with hallucinations about his time in the army. There was a lot of details involving killings ordered by army officers, but the fact is that the chap had a perfectly routine job in a depot in the UK. The killings were supposed to be in Germany but the fellow was never out of this country. Not even in civilian life. Despite all this the psychiatrist is worried. The chap isn’t complaining and he seems an honest, unimaginative fellow, who is obviously not aware of what he’s saying under hypnosis. He has nightmares but he doesn’t remember much until he’s under hypnosis. Then he seems to remember more each session. The doctor spoke to the Military Police at Northern Command, and SIB did a check or two on some of the names and drew a blank. A report went down the routine channels to the Provost Marshal and he’s passed it to us.” He smiled. “And now I’m passing it to you.”

  Boyd smiled. “Well, at least it’s the first time I’ve been asked to investigate somebody’s dreams.”

  “Nightmares, James. Not dreams. And the psychiatrist thinks they’re real.” He stood up, reaching for the file and handing it to Boyd. “Have a quick read and phone me if you want anything done before you come back. I’ll leave you in peace.”

  There were only four pages in the file and Boyd read them carefully, three times. Then he sat for a few minutes, thinking, before he put the file back on Cartwright’s desk.

  The second-hand 27-foot Seamaster had served them well. They kept it in the yacht basin at Chichester but spent most of their time at Itchenor and Bosham. It could creep around the coast in winds that were under Force 3 but it was really a boat for creeks and rivers, and the furthest they had ventured was to Portsmouth. An experience they never wanted to repeat. In the sea-lanes, with Royal Navy frigates and ocean-going liners, you needed to be a real seaman and Boyd made no such claims.

  Their two weeks had only three more days to go, but the autumn sun and the sea air had done them both good. They had dropped anchor in one of the side creeks, and the tall reeds, sedges and hair grass were so high that they could see only the blue sky as they lay on the aft deck sunbathing with their eyes closed, with only the slapping of the incoming tide against the hull to disturb them.

  “D’you know what you’ll be doing now you’re back, sweetie?”

  “More or less. I’ll be in the UK anyway.”

  “Exciting?”

  “No. Routine.”

  “I’m glad of that.”

  “Thanks, pal.”

  “Do you like what you do?”

  “Most of it.”

  “What don’t you like?”

  “Being away from you.”

  “What else?”

  “The bits I can’t talk about.”

  “Do people get hurt?”

  “Sometimes. Mainly they go in the nick.”

  “Would you hurt people?”

  “If it was necessary I would. I’d rather it was them than me.”

  “Is that how you got the scar on your shoulder?”

  “What is all this, kid?” he said, turning his head to look at her. “Are you worried about something?”

  “Not really. But I worry about you.”

  “I can look after myself, Katie. They don’t send us like lambs to the slaughter.”

  “It isn’t just that. I read things sometimes in the paper and I wonder if they’re to do with you. Or if you do such things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Men who are dragged out of rivers or found dead in back-alleys, and hints that they were spies. I can’t somehow imagine you in those scenarios.”

  “They don’t often happen.”

  “Maybe not, but you seem too honest and … something or other … to be mixed up in things like that.”

  “It’s only being a kind of policeman.”

  “Policemen don’t kill the criminals.” She paused. “Have you killed people, Jimmy?”

  He sat up rubbing his eyelids. “God, this sun-oil really stings.”

  She reached out her hand to his leg. “I’m sorry, love. I’ll shut up. I shouldn’t have gone on like that.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not like you, Katie. But I understand. I’d be the same if our roles were reversed. I’d be much worse, I’m sure. Let’s go round to Itchenor and have a drink. They’ll be open by the time we get there.”

  As they sat in the pub an hour later in the hubbub of chatter about dinghies and stabilizers, radar and gin-palaces, he smiled as he saw her normal animation return, and was vaguely annoyed that his mind went back so frequently to the ex-soldier who had nightmares.

  14

  Back in London Debbie Shaw started her own management agency in a small suite of offices in Wardour Street. She soon found that her pretty face and attractive personality combined successfully with her tough business sense to give her a virtual monopoly over supplying dancers, singers and “personality” girls for overseas tours. Her girls went all over the world, and she quickly built a reputation for obtaining good terms and good bookings for her clients. Debbie Shaw’s girls were never stranded in Teheran by absconding operators, nor did they have to hustle drinks in German nightclubs after the act. If they wanted to earn more money by obliging men it was up to them.

  She had several men-friends. None of the relationships was too serious. One was a radio announcer working for the BBC’s World Services at Bush House. One was a crime reporter on one of the London evening papers; and the other was an older man who had a show-biz act and performed in clubs and provincial variety theatres. She slept with all three of them from time to time but none of them could take the privilege for granted.

  It was seven-thirty on a summer evening as she locked her office door when she noticed the man at the far end of the corridor. He was knocking on the insurance agent’s door. The insurance agent always left promptly at five-fifteen. As the man heard her footsteps he turned and as she got to him she said, “Mr. Nugent went some time ago.”

  “Is he here every day, miss?”

  “He seems to be. Try him tomorrow.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her face.

  “Say, don’t I know you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You ever been to the States, honey?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact I have.”

  He looked over her shoulder at the gold lettering on the glass panel of her office door.

  “Debbie Shaw. My God. Where was it now?” He screwed up his eyes. “Texas. Fort Bliss, El Paso, Texas. Way, way back and you sang.” He smiled. “Yes?”

  She smiled too. “I’m afraid you’re right. You’ve got a good memory.”

  He grinned. “I have for pretty girls. Say, is that really your outfit there? Debbie Shaw Management?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, well. How’re you making out? I bet you’re real good at your job.”

  She smiled. “I get by. How about you?”

  He laughed softly. “Me? I’m still in the army. Still the same old routine. Say, how about I take you for a drink or a meal some place. You tell me what’s the real best place in this town.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got a business meeting at eight. I’m going to be late as it is.”

  “Too bad. I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  At the street door he said, “Can I contact you some other time, honey?”

  “Of course you can.”

  She waved to a cruising taxi and as she sat back in the seat she wondered if the big American remembered that he’d slept with her after she’d sung in the officer’s mess that n
ight in El Paso. At least he had remembered her face and her name. She hadn’t recognized him at first, and she still had no idea of his name.

  It was exactly a week later when he called at her office just after lunch and he’d brought her a bottle of expensive perfume.

  “Any chance of that date tonight, Debbie?”

  She shook her head. “You’ll have to give me notice. By the way, I can’t remember your name.”

  “Bill. Bill Mortensen. Full colonel US army, at your service. And rarin’ to go.”

  “Next time phone me in advance and we’ll make a proper date.”

  “I’ll sure do that, honey.” He paused, looking at her face. “Could I ask you a favour?”

  She smiled. “Try me.”

  “Can I leave a letter here to be picked up? It’s kinda special. Security stuff.”

  “OK.”

  He handed it over and she looked at the envelope. There was no name or address on it. She stood up as the light flashed on her internal telephone.

  “I’ll have to throw you out. I’ve got a client waiting outside.”

  “And I really can call you, honey?”

  “Of course you can.”

  A man called for the letter the next day and the colonel phoned her two days later to make a date.

  She had never been to the Connaught before. Show-biz people preferred somewhere more lively. She liked the food but found the place dreary. No laughing and chatting at other people’s tables.

  They were sipping coffee in the far corner of the residents’ lounge when he put the question.

  “That letter you held for me, we really appreciated your help.”

  She shrugged. “It was nothing. Who’s ‘we’ by the way?”

  “I work for the CIA, honey. We sometimes have problems about confidential material. You helped us solve one of our problems.”

  “Sounds very exciting and hush-hush.”

  “Would you help us again?”

  “It depends what you want.”

  “I’ve got a small package I want delivered personally to New York. We’d pay you, honey.”

  “I couldn’t spare the time, Bill.”

  “We’d fly you Concorde both ways. There and back in a day. Could be a Saturday or a Sunday if that’s easier.”

  She pursed her lips. “Sounds interesting. How much do I get?”

  “A hundred and fifty dollars in cash.”

  “When do you want this done?”

  “As soon as you can make it.”

  “OK. I’ll do it on Saturday and I can sleep on Sunday.”

  The colonel smiled. “I’ll fix for you to meet an old admirer of yours while you’re in New York.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Remember the doctor, the guy who played piano for you that night in the mess after your act?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’d just love to say hello again.”

  “Me too. I’ll look forward to that.”

  He offered to take her on to a nightclub but instead she took him to a pub near Piccadilly Circus where they sang old music-hall songs and then he taxied her back to her flat off Buckingham Palace Road. She didn’t invite him in but she didn’t object when his hands explored her breasts as he kissed her good-night.

  Symons was waiting for her at Kennedy, standing by the immigration desk and waving her past the immigration officer. It was then that she realized that he must be CIA too. She wondered for a moment what a doctor was doing in an intelligence agency.

  She handed over the packet and he reached for her canvas holdall, taking her arm as he led her to a side door and a waiting car. He sat in the driver’s seat looking at her face.

  “You know, you’re even prettier than you were way back, honey. You really are.”

  She smiled. “And you’re a lot smoother than you used to be.”

  He laughed and started the car. “You’ve got six hours in New York and I’m not going to tire you out. First we’re going to Saks and you’re going to buy a nice dress on the company’s account. Then we eat in a nice suite overlooking Central Park. After that we’ll see how the time has gone and maybe go down to the Village for a drink.”

  “Sounds nice … doctor?”

  He laughed. “I’m not your doctor now, so you can call me … what shall you call me? How about Joe Spellman?”

  He glanced at her face and he saw the momentary frown and then she smiled. “OK Joe. You’re the boss.”

  She chose an Italian dress, black, formal and elegant. He drove her up to the park, past the lake, and then he turned off half-way up the park to cross over the avenue and swing into the basement carpark of a residential apartment block.

  A waiter served the meal in the elegant suite. Israeli melon, smoked salmon, a T-bone steak and a trolley of tempting patisserie. The only drink she was offered was orange juice and tomato juice.

  When the waiter had cleared away, she sat back in the comfortable arm-chair. Symons leaned forward and put his hand gently on her knee, saying softly, “Nancy. Nancy Rawlins … Nancy Rawlins.” And he held his breath until her eyes closed and her mouth opened as she breathed deeply and steadily.

  “Can you hear me, Nancy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you told anyone about this trip, Nancy?”

  “No.”

  “Not even your boy-friend?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you have a steady boy-friend?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about when you were a little girl.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t like it. I hated them both … he was always touching me and she knew. She beat me. Said I was a whore …”

  “How old were you when she said that?”

  “Ten, maybe eleven. She was always saying it.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was unhappy all the time … it’s making me cry. I never think about it now.”

  “Is there anyone you really trust in your life?”

  “I trust you.”

  “Good girl. Do you like Bill Mortensen?”

  “He’s OK.”

  “Listen very carefully, Nancy. When Bill tells you to do something I want you to do it. Whatever it is I want you to drop everything and do what he asks. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Nancy Rawlins.”

  “What other girl’s name do you like?”

  “Lara.”

  “That’s a nice name. Why do you like that?”

  “Dr. Zhivago. I liked that film. Her name was Lara. There were daffodils in front of the house. But they came and took her away.”

  “I’m going to count to ten and then you’ll be Lara. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “One, two … go to sleep … three, four … deeper and deeper … that’s right … five, six … seven, eight … you’re feeling great … nine, ten. And now you’re Lara. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lara.”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Joe Spellman.”

  “Do you like me, Lara?”

  “Yes. I like you a lot.”

  “And you’ll always do what I tell you to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you kill someone if I told you to? Somebody evil.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Do you like being Lara?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I want you to be Lara I shall say a special number to you. Eight nine zero. When I say eight nine zero you’ll be Lara. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say the number to me.”

  “Eight nine zero.”

  “Now I’m going to wake you up. I’m going to count from ten to one and when you hear me say one you’ll be awake and you’ll be Nancy again.”

  He put her through the ritual, checked that she said that her name was Nancy. Put her back aga
in to Lara to check that it had held, then brought her back twice until she was Debbie Shaw again. As her eyes fluttered open she yawned and stretched. “It was a lovely meal, Joe. Really lovely.”

  He bought her a couple of magazines at Kennedy and waited until Concorde took off. He boarded the scheduled flight to Prestwick two hours later. Grabowski and Mortensen had reckoned it was worth the risk of him being in New York for a couple of days rather than let her have any idea that he was based in England.

  15

  He stood for a moment at the cottage door, his hands in the pockets of his towelling bath-robe as he looked up at the grey sky. It was the first skylark he had heard that year and it was barely the end of January. But it was mild enough to walk down to the front gate and see if the boy had delivered the Sunday papers.

  The Sunday Times was there. Three sections and the comic. But no Observer. “Britain protests to S. Africa over petrol supplies to Rhodesia” the headline said. He wondered what Alan Watkins would have had to say about that. And then he saw it. There were small droplets of dew on the spiky fur around its neck, and it had obviously been run over by a car in the night. Its guts had burst from its open belly, and as he bent slowly to lift it from the edge of the road the cat’s body was stiff, and lighter than he expected. The girls would be upset if they saw it.

  He sacrificed the Business News as a shroud and walked over to the small cedar-wood toolshed. The ground was hard and, with only slippers on his feet, the digging was uncomfortable and inexpert. At about eighteen inches deep he stopped, unwrapped the corpse and laid it in the rough grave. The hole was too short and it was when he was adjusting the position of the cat’s head that his fingers disturbed the thin filament of wire. His eyes followed it to the thick fur at the cat’s neck and as he pulled on it gently the filament loosened and then caught for a moment. With his right hand he diffidently parted the dank fur and saw the gaping wound in the cat’s skull. A jagged sliver of broken bone was holding back a small plastic ball about the size of a large marble. As he tugged at the filament the ball came free and swung gently on the end of the thin wire.

  Slowly he wiped the ball free of the blood and tissue clinging to it. It was made of a clear plastic that gave slightly to the pressure of his fingers and as he turned it to the light he saw the cluster of what looked like tiny, various coloured pin-heads embedded inside it. He stood up, turned to look at the cottage, and after a moment’s hesitation walked back to the open door. Everyone was still asleep upstairs and he spoke quietly when he asked the emergencies operator for the police.