1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal (3 page)

Smernoff laughed.

“No, you won’t,” he said, “but if the plan meets with your approval I am glad to pass it on to you. Credit means nothing to me. Why should I care about credit?”

“You are not ambitious, Boris?” Malik asked.

“No . . . are you?”

“I wonder sometimes. No . . . I suppose I’m not.”

Smernoff started to say something, then stopped. He remembered it was unwise to talk too much about oneself.

“Who will look after this woman when we get her to Malmaison?” Malik asked. “We are not supposed to be nursemaids, are we?”

“I wouldn’t mind. She is very beautiful. It could be amusing,” Smernoff said. “No, Kovska has given the job to Merna Dorinska.”

“That bitch! What’s she doing in Paris?” Malik said, stiffening.

“She’s often here. It is said Kovska and she . . .”

“Who says that?” Malik demanded, a bark in his voice.

Smernoff was never intimidated. He shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Didn’t you know? Then you are the only one who doesn’t.”

“I know. It is better not to talk about it.”

“You know I would rather take a goat to bed with me than that woman,” Smernoff said. “Kovska wouldn’t know the difference.”

The two men burst out laughing, they were still laughing as Smernoff pulled into the courtyard of the Russian Embassy.

* * *

John Dorey arrived at the American hospital at 16.40 hours.

He was thoroughly irritated because he knew he had lost valuable time, but he had to be certain that the tattoo marks on this woman were genuine. It had first been necessary to locate Nicolas Wolfert, the U.S. Embassy’s Chinese expert. It so happened that Wolfert had taken a day off and was fishing on his small estate at Amboise. By the time he had been located, brought by helicopter to Paris, rushed in a car to the Embassy, then put in the picture four valuable hours had been wasted. With Wolfert, Dorey had brought along Joe Dodge, the Embassy’s top photographer.

Dr. Forrester, a tall, lean man with tired, dark ringed eyes received Dorey in his office while Wolfert and Dodge waited in the corridor. Forrester had already been alerted by O’Halloran of the possible importance of his patient and was more than willing to cooperate.

“This could be top secret,” Dorey said as he sat down. “I’m relying on you, doctor, to see this woman isn’t got at. There are plenty of reasons why she should be murdered. I want her food prepared only by someone you can completely trust and no nurse, unless you can guarantee her, is to attend her.”

Forrester nodded.

“Captain O’Halloran has already gone over this with me. I’m doing my best. What else do you want?”

“I want photos of the tattoo marks. I have a photographer waiting.”

Forrester frowned.

“The marks are on the woman’s buttock.” He leaned back and surveyed Dorey. “You can’t send some strange man into her room, expect her to expose herself while he takes photos. This I can’t allow.”

“So she’s conscious?”

“Of course she is conscious. She’s been conscious now for the last three days and she is in a very highly nervous state.”

“I must have those photographs,” Dorey said, a rasp in his voice. “They may even have to be sent to the President. Give her a shot of Pentathol. Then she won’t know she has been photographed. It won’t take more than a few minutes. I also want my Chinese expert to see the markings. Let’s get it done right away.”

Forrester hesitated, then shrugged.

“Well, if it’s that important,” he said, reached for the telephone, spoke quietly, then hung up. “Your men can go up in ten minutes.”

“Fine.” Dorey went to the door and spoke to Dodge, then he came back and sat down again. “Tell me about this woman.”

“On arrival she was found . . .”

“I know all that. I read your report,” Dorey said impatiently. “What I want to know is . . . is she faking? Is she really suffering from amnesia?”

“I would say so. She doesn’t respond to hypnotism. She had on arrival a small bruise at the back of her head. This could have come when she collapsed and it might have caused loss of memory. It is a little rare, but it could be possible. Yes, I think her loss of memory is genuine.”

“Any idea how long it could last?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. A week . . . a month . . . I don’t think longer than a month.”

“How about scopolamine?”

Forrester smiled.

“We considered using scopolamine, but it is dangerous. If she is faking, it would work, but if she isn’t, there’s always the risk it would drive her memory deeper into herself. If you want to try it, I won’t object, but if she is really suffering from amnesia then scopolamine could retard her memory recovery by months.”

Dorey thought for a long moment, then he got to his feet.

“I’ll see you again after I’ve talked to my Chinese expert. Thanks, doc, for your cooperation. I’ll try and get her moved as soon as I can organise a place for her.”

Thirty minutes later, Wolfert, a squat balding man whose pink and white complexion belied his forty-six years, came into the small room Forrester had put at Dorey’s disposal. With Dorey was O’Halloran.

“Well?” Dorey asked, getting to his feet.

“She’s Erica Olsen, Kung’s mistress,” Wolfert said. “I’ve seen his initials on his various possessions too often to mistake the marks on this woman. This is a very special kind of tattoo . . . a special colour, almost impossible to fake.”

Dorey looked sharply at this man who was considered to be the top expert in Chinese customs.

“Almost?”

“I suppose a very clever tattoo artist could just fake it, but I doubt it. I’m covering myself.” Wolfert’s fat face lit up with a knowing smile. “No one can ever be absolutely certain, but I am willing to bet my pension she is Kung’s mistress.”

Dorey looked at O’Halloran.

“Watch her, Tim. I’ll have to alert Washington. I can’t do anything without their say-so.” He rubbed his forehead as he thought. “More delay, but this could be something big. I’ll get back to the Embassy.”

“You don’t have to worry about her,” O’Halloran said. “She’ll f be right here, safe and sound, when you want her.”

But he was not to know that in a few hours Malik would be arriving in Paris. Even when Malik finally arrived, the Divisional Head of M.I.6 was so furious that his man had been knocked on the head and had lost Malik that he neglected to warn O’Halloran that the most dangerous of Russian agents was now roaming, unwatched around Paris. Had O’Halloran known this, he would have guarded Erica Olsen more closely. But he didn’t know. He assumed a patrolling guard, armed with an automatic rifle, was good enough.

But when dealing with Malik, nothing was good enough.

A few minutes after 6 p.m., a delicately built youth walked into Sadu Mitchell’s shop. He carried a small suitcase, shabby with metal corners, the kind of suitcase a door-to-door salesman would use. His complexion was unhealthy, the colour and texture of dead, stale fish and his small, black eyes flicked to right and left with the suspicious restlessness of a man who trusts no one. He could have been twenty-five, even thirty, but was in fact eighteen.

His coal-black hair was cropped close and lay over his small head like a skullcap. His movements were as supple and as sinuous as those of a snake.

Jo-Jo Chandy had been born in Marseilles. His father had been a waterside pimp: his mother unknown. When he was ten years old, his father had been killed in a knife fight. This hadn’t bothered Jo-Jo. He was glad to be free and he soon made a reasonable I living working as a drummer for a Negro prostitute whose sexual technique gained her Jo-Jo’s admiration and many clients. When he had saved enough money, he decided Paris would offer many more opportunities for his evil talents. But here, for a time, he found he was mistaken. The police were unsympathetic to pimps and after being arrested and beaten up several times, he gave up and took a job in a Chinese restaurant as a
plongeur.
Here he met a Chinese girl: one of Yet-Sen’s agents. She was quick to recognise in this thin, vicious boy a potential and useful weapon. Yet-Sen took charge of him. Jo-Jo received training and money. A year later, he became one of Yet-Sen’s most reliable hatchet men.

Completely amoral, with no sense of right or wrong, Jo-Jo existed only for money. There was no task, no matter how dangerous or vicious, that he hesitated to undertake providing the final reward was money. Life for him was the spin of the roulette wheel. His philosophy was what you put in you took out, and never mind the risk.

Pearl Kuo, who was completing a sale of jade to a fat American woman wearing an absurd flowered hat and an equally absurd pair of bejewelled spectacles, looked for a brief moment at Jo-Jo as he came into the shop. She knew who he was. His arrival excited her. At last, she thought, Sadu was to take an active part in the Chinese movement: something she had been waiting for with longing and impatience.

When the American woman had left the shop, Pearl smiled at the waiting Jo-Jo. Her almond shaped eyes sparkled, and looking at her, Jo-Jo felt a wave of hot lust run through him.

“He is expecting you,” she said. “Please . . . this way,” and she opened a door behind the glass counter.

Jo-Jo continued to stare at her, his little eyes moving over the flowered cheongsam she was wearing that revealed her perfectly proportioned body. Then he walked through the doorway into Sadu’s living room.

During the hours that Sadu had been waiting, he had told Pearl what Yet-Sen had said.

“He expects me to kill this woman,” Sadu had said, his pale face glistening with sweat. “This would be murder. What am I to do?”

“You are only to arrange the affair. You don’t kill her yourself,” Pearl replied soothingly. Her slim fingers touched his face. “This is for China, Sadu, and besides, now it is too late to turn back. You must obey. If you do not, then I must leave you and they will kill you. I know that. But there is no need to speak of that. If they ordered me to do it, I would do it. You should be proud to have been chosen.”

Realising his position, Sadu decided to be proud. He hated the Americans. They had harmed him. This was, when one thought about it, not murder, but revenge.

So he received Jo-Jo with arrogant disdain.

“Sit down. I understand you are to kill this woman and I am to see you do your work correctly.”

Jo-Jo sat down. He rested the small suitcase on his knees. A faint, but unmistakable smell of dirt came from him which made Sadu grimace.

Sadu went on, now very sure of himself, “First, we have to find out where in the hospital this woman is . . . on what floor. . . in what room. Once we know that, it should be easy for you. You might have to climb to her room.” Pleased with his planning, he regarded Jo-Jo with a patronising smile. “I suppose you can climb?”

Still clutching the suitcase, Jo-Jo asked, “Is this your first job?” His thin lips curved into a sneering smile of amusement. “Don’t lean on it. You drive the car . . . I’ll take care of the details. You will get the credit . . . I’ll get the money. That way, everyone will be happy.”

Sadu stiffened. A flush of fury spread over his face. He moved closer to Jo-Jo, towering over him.

“You don’t talk to me like that! I am handling this!” he exploded, his voice choked with rage. “You will do exactly what I tell you . . .”

“Sadu . . . please.” Pearl’s soft voice made Sadu jerk around. “I think he should handle it. After all, he has the experience. Please . . .”

Jo-Jo looked at her, then he opened the suitcase. From it he took a .25 automatic and a silencer. He screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the gun, then he thrust the gun down the waistband of his trousers. The sight of the gun arid Jo-Jo’s professional, deliberate movements deflated Sadu’s rage. For a long moment he stood hesitating and staring.

“We’ll now go to the hospital,” Jo-Jo said. Again his eyes moved over Pearl’s body, then he looked directly at Sadu. “First, as you have said, we have to find where this woman is to be found. It won’t be dark for another three hours so we have plenty of time.” He tossed the suitcase into a corner and walked out of the room.

Pearl touched Sadu’s arm. “Do what he says. He is a professional. You will gain experience from him.”

Sadu hesitated, then controlling his fear, suddenly aware of his utter incompetence, he followed Jo-Jo out onto the busy Rue de Rivoli.

Pearl watched the two men get into Sadu’s sports car and drive away. It was too early to close the shop, but she did light a joss stick and she did kneel for a long moment in prayer while the scented smoke swirled around her.

* * *

About the time Malik was meeting Smernoff at Le Bourget airport, Dorey received the green light from Washington to go ahead with his plan. His suggestion had been considered by the Heads of Joint Chiefs of Staff and the F.B.I. They had been cautious. In its present stage, they felt it wasn’t at Presidential level This woman could be a fake.

But they did accept the possibility that this was something to be treated as a top operation. Dorey’s Washington boss had said over the satellite telephone connection: “I’m going to leave this to you, John. Anyway, for the primary moves. You can spend what you like . . . if it lays an egg, we can always cover the expense somehow. But right at this moment, I would rather not know what you are doing. You go ahead, keep it unofficial, and if the egg produces a chicken, let me know.”

Dorey smiled mirthlessly. “You can safely leave it to me, sir,” he said and hung up.

But this was the kind of operation Dorey liked. He now had a free hand, money to spend and no one but himself responsible for success or failure. For the past hour he had been thinking and he was now ready to swing into action. The time was 8 p.m.

Malik at this time was in the aircraft bringing him from London to Paris. Sadu and Jo-Jo were sitting in Sadu’s car outside the American hospital. The woman believed to be Erica Olsen, mistress of China’s leading missile and atomic scientist, was still drowsy from the Pentathol shot. The guard, Pfc Willy Jackson, an alert, disciplined soldier without much intelligence, but very quick on the trigger, was walking up and down the hospital corridor, glancing now and then at the closed door behind which Erica Olsen was dozing.