1967 - Have This One on Me (7 page)

When she was dressing for the nightclub. Worthington went behind the screen and lay on the bed. He had to listen to her movements, taking a shower and dressing. He wished that she could love him as he loved her. They were two lonely people, he kept telling himself: people hovering on the brink of disaster and certain death. But she gave him no hint of encouragement. She was distant, polite and so obviously anxious to see the last of him.

Now, once again, she had gone to the club, leaving a faint smell of perfume some American admirer had given her lingering in the room and he was faced with four hours of restless sleep on his own. He was about to undress when he heard Bruckman coming up the stairs.

His heart missed a beat. Looking quickly around to make sure he had left no telltale sign that he was living in this room, he snapped off the light and tiptoed out on to the balcony, easing the french windows shut behind him. He drew his Colt automatic and got behind the flowering shrub. The gun in his hand gave him no confidence. Even in the worse kind of emergency, he couldn’t imagine himself ever pulling the trigger.

Bruckman paused outside the front door. The building was silent. He thumbed the doorbell and waited. He had his story ready if anyone came to the door. From the mailboxes downstairs, he had taken the name of the owner of the apartment above. He would apologise for his mistake and then walk up the stairs.

He waited patiently, then rang again. After a further wait, he was satisfied the apartment was empty. He took from his wallet a flexible piece of steel and expertly unlocked the door.

He moved into the dark room, groped for the light switch and turned it on.

Peering around the shrub, Worthington caught a brief glimpse of Bruckman as he moved into the room. He immediately recognised the big heavily built man. Fear, he knew was in him but up to now had never truly experienced, paralysed him.

He knew Bruckman was O’Halloran’s strong arm thug who did most of O’Halloran’s dirty work. He was an executioner for the C.I.A. used when an Agent with important information threatened to defect.

Who had betrayed him to Bruckman? Worthington wondered, his heart hammering. He thumbed back the safety catch on his gun, but he knew he could never shoot Bruckman.

There was this weak, compassionate streak in him that made it impossible for him to take human life. He knelt on the balcony, cold with fear, waiting for Bruckman to discover him.

Minutes passed: nothing happened. Terrified, Worthington again peered into the room.

Bruckman was coming out of the bathroom. He was massively menacing as he looked around the room, then he walked over to the lifesize wooden angel and stared thoughtfully at it.

Worthington watched him, puzzled. Bruckman’s broad back blocked the angel from Worthington’s view. Then Bruckman half-turned and Worthington saw he was holding the angel’s wooden head in his hands. This he placed on the floor, then he opened his briefcase and took from it a small package done up in brown paper. He forced the package down the hollow neck of the angel into the body. He worked quickly and without fuss, and in a moment the angel’s head had been replaced. He looked around the room, picked up the empty briefcase, walked to the door, turned off the light and closed the door behind him.

Worthington waited, unable to believe his luck, then he gently pushed open the french windows. He could hear Bruckman clumping down the stairs and he moved cautiously across the dark room to the front door. He eased it open.

Bruckman’s heavy tread was dying away. Then Worthington heard the entrance door slam shut.

He turned on the light and went shakily to the armchair and sat down. He had been too close to death, he thought. He was so badly frightened that he could only sit motionless, staring at the wooden angel, thankful he was still alive. His mind crawled with alarm.

He was still sitting in the chair, now half asleep, his body and mind beginning to relax when Mala returned. As soon as she saw his face, tight with fear and the sweat beads on his forehead, she knew something had happened. Quickly she closed the door and shot the bolt.

‘What is it?’

Worthington got slowly to his feet. He made a desperate effort to conceal his fear, but he could see her growing terror.

‘Bruckman’s been here. He picked the lock. I - I hid on the balcony.’

Mala stared fearfully at him.

‘Who is he? What do you mean?’

‘He’s one of Dorey’s men,’ Worthington said, trying to control his impatience. ‘When I saw him come in, I was sure someone had given me away.’ He rubbed his dry lips with the back of his hand. ‘I thought he was going to murder me.’

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 waiting 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.