1967 - Have This One on Me (3 page)

‘Are you going away?’

Worthington took out his handkerchief and dabbed his temples.

‘Yes. Sit down. Mala. I want to talk to you.’

‘Is something wrong?’

Worthington thought of Suk’s crumpled body lying on the floor in his sitting room with
The Forsyte Saga
by his side. He looked at Mala, feeling a pang of pain and frustration. Even at forty-seven, and after eight years of celibacy. Worthington could still think regretfully of the pleasure a girl like this, with her body could give him. Comparing her to Emilie, remembering his wife’s gross fat and her meanness sickened him.

‘I have to stay here for a few days.’ Worthington said as Mala, looking bewildered, sat down. ‘I’m sorry ... I have to. There are things I have to do. There are things you must do.’ He leaned forward, his face twitching. ‘I have to stay here.’

‘Stay here?’ Mala gaped at him ‘But there’s no room! You - you can’t possibly stay here!’

‘I have to. I promise you I won’t be a nuisance. It is only for a few days, then I will be leaving Prague. Without your help, I can’t leave.’

‘But there is only one bed.’ Mala waved to the small divan standing in an alcove. ‘You can’t stay here!’

How simple it would be, Worthington thought bitterly, if she offered to share her bed with me. But why should she?

She doesn’t love me. Who am I to her?

‘I can sleep on the floor ... there’s nothing to worry about. You can trust me ... I just have to stay here.’

Mala regarded him, her eyes opening wide. Seeing how white he was, seeing the lurking fear in his eyes, she said, ‘Are they looking for you?’

Worthington nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said.

* * *

Captain Tim O’Halloran leaned back in the chair. Tall, broad shouldered with light blue eyes, a hard mouth and a red fleshy face, he was in charge of all the C.I.A. agents in Europe and was Dorey’s right hand man

Dorey, sitting behind his desk, fiddling with a paper knife, had told him of his meeting with Cain. O’Halloran had listened, his hard face expressionless, knowing that Dorey would come up with some kind of solution. He had tremendous faith in Dorey.

‘So there we have it,’ Dorey said, putting down the paper knife. ‘If Malik catches Worthington, both Cain and Mala Reid will be blown. Worthington must be liquidated. Who can do it?’

‘Mike O’Brien,’ O’Halloran said without hesitation. ‘He can fly out tonight on a diplomatic passport ... no trouble at all. By late tonight or by tomorrow morning, he will fix it.’

Dorey frowned, thought, then shrugged.

‘All right Tim, go ahead ... fix it.’ he said and waved to the telephone.

He drew a bulky file towards him as O’Halloran began to dial a number. He was still reading the file when O’Halloran put down the receiver.

‘You can consider it done,’ O’Halloran said quietly.

Dorey nodded and continued to read. O’Halloran sat back and waited. While Dorey examined the file, his thin face tight and pale, O’Halloran thought back on the years he had worked under this man. He was perhaps a little kinky to O’Halloran’s thinking, but there was no doubt that he was brilliant, shrewd and utterly ruthless when the cards went down. O’Halloran decided in the brief minutes that it took Dorey to sign his name on the clipped-in page of the file that he would rather work for Dorey than anyone else in the C.I.A.

Dorey pushed the file away and then looked up, his eyes studying O’Halloran through his bifocals.

‘We now have to replace Worthington,’ he said. ‘I think Jack Latimer would do, but Cain isn’t optimistic. They will be watching for a replacement. Cain thinks Latimer could get blown before he even started.’

‘Latimer is our man,’ O’Halloran said. ‘Suppose I talk to Cain?’

‘I’ve talked to him. Cain always makes sense.’ Dorey put his fingertips together. ‘Malik is there. Do you remember Malik?’

‘Who doesn’t?’ O’Halloran said, straightening in his chair.

‘Yes ... Malik is the Soviets’ best man. Well, at least, we know he is there. So ...’ Dorey paused to study his fingernails, his eyebrows coming down in a frown. ‘We have to fool Malik and get Latimer into Prague.’

Knowing Dorey had already solved the problem. O’Halloran said nothing. He waited.

‘We must create a smoke screen.’ Dorey went on. ‘We will put an obvious agent into Prague and while Malik is working him over, Latimer slips in.’

O’Halloran rubbed his fleshy jaw.

‘Sounds fine, but the obvious agent as you call him will have it rough.’

Dorey smiled bleakly.

‘Yes, certainly, but he will be expendable.’ He paused and regarded O’Halloran, then went on, ‘Did you know Girland is back? He arrived from Hong Kong this morning.’

‘Girland?’ O’Halloran sat forward. ‘Back here?’

‘Yes. I keep tabs on Girland. He owes me a lot of money. It is time he paid me back.’ Dorey picked up his paper knife and examined it. ‘I am going to use Girland as my smoke screen. When Malik hears Girland is in Prague, he will jump to the conclusion that Girland is our replacement. While he is working Girland over, Latimer will slip in. How do you like the idea?’

O’Halloran stared down at his freckled hands while he thought. He had considerable respect for Girland who, at one time, had been Dorey’s best agent.

‘What makes you think Girland will go to Prague?’ he asked finally. ‘Girland no longer works for us. He is no fool. I can’t see him going behind the Curtain.’

‘Girland has two weaknesses: women and money,’ Dorey said. ‘He will go. I guarantee it.’

‘If he does, you will lose him. Do you want to lose him?’

Dorey’s thin lips tightened.

‘Girland thinks only of himself. He has worked for us only because he has made a profit out of us. He has managed to swindle me out of quite a large sum of money. It is time we made use of him as he has made use of us. So we lose him ... it will be no great loss.’

O’Halloran shrugged.

‘If you’re smart enough to get him to Prague, then it is no skin off my nose what happens to him. I don’t have to remind you he’s a smart cookie. Just why should he go to Prague?’

‘If the bait is tempting enough, the fish always bites,’ Dorey said. ‘I have a beautiful tempting bait for Girland. He’ll go to Prague.’

* * *

Worthington came out of the tiny bathroom, dabbing his face with a towel. He had shaved off his moustache and his lean face now looked longer and weaker.

‘It makes quite a difference,’ he said. ‘I have worn a moustache for twenty-five years. I feel rather lost without it.’

He took from breast pocket a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and slipped them on. Wearing these and without my moustache, I don’t think they can possibly recognise me, do you?’

Mala stared hopelessly at him. The moustacheless upper lip and the glasses had changed his appearance. The way he had taken over her apartment, the way he had assumed that she would help him had left her stunned.

‘I thought I would bleach my hair,’ Worthington went on, peering at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘I have a bottle of peroxide in my bag. I’m not sure how to use it.’ He turned and looked inquiringly at her. ‘Could you help me?’

Mala drew in a long shuddering breath.

‘No ... I won’t help you!’ she said, trying to control her voice.

Terror was mounting inside her. She knew if they caught Worthington, he would betray her. That long weak face warned her there was no steel in him. Once they began to interrogate him, he would tell them everything. Then they would come here and take her away. The thought of being in the hands of the Security Police, what they would do to her, made her sick with fear. ‘Please go. I mean it. Please ... please go!’

Worthington looked reproachfully at her.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he said. ‘Suppose I make you a cup of tea? Tea is so much better than alcohol.’ He looked vaguely around. ‘Where do you keep your tea things?’

Mala gripped the arms of her chair.

‘Will you please go! I don’t want you here! I won’t help you! Please go!’

‘Now, don’t be silly,’ Worthington said. He removed his spectacles and carefully put them in his breast pocket. ‘If they catch me, they will catch you. Let’s have some tea.’

He went into the kitchenette and Mala heard him put on the kettle. She looked desperately around the room as if for a means of escape. She wanted to run out of the apartment, but where could she run to? She now bitterly regretted listening to Dorey’s agent, with his smooth talk of patriotism, her duty and the money she would make. Up to this moment, she hadn’t realised to what she had committed herself. Now, all the ghastly stories she had heard of what happened to spies when they were caught, crowded into her mind. Suppose she called the police? Would they be lenient with her for betraying Worthington? She knew they wouldn’t be. She imagined their hot, cruel hands on her body. She thought of the outrageous things they would do to make her talk. Even if she told them everything she knew - and it wasn’t much - they would still go on and on, sure she was holding something back.

Worthington came out of the kitchenette, carrying a pot of tea.

‘When I have bleached my hair,’ he said, setting the teapot down on the table, ‘I want you to take photographs of me. I have a camera with me. I need a photo for my passport.’ He went back to the kitchenette and returned with cups and saucers. ‘Then I will ask you to go to an address I will give you.’ He began setting out the cups and saucers. ‘The man there will put the photo on my passport. He is an expert. Once all that is done, then I can go. They don’t know I still have a British passport. With my changed appearance, I should be able to get out as a tourist.’ He lifted the lid of the teapot and stared at the tea. ‘I do miss China tea,’ he said and sighed. He replaced the lid, ‘Do you take milk?’

Mala stared at him, shrinking back in her chair. She had to bite her knuckles to stop herself screaming.

* * *

Mike O’Brien arrived in Prague by car at nine o’clock p.m.

He had flown by air taxi to Bumberg, picked up a car and had driven fast to Prague.

O’Brien, young, sandy haired, flat faced with freckles and with ice-grey eyes was O’Halloran’s hatchet man. During the three years he had worked for O’Halloran, he had been called upon to execute four agents who were on the point of defecting.

These executions were now routine to him. He had no compunction about taking human life. Even his first killing had left him unmoved. To him. it was merely a job to be done: a ring on the door bell, the silenced gun, the squeeze of the trigger. He had decided from the start that a head shot was safest. With a .45 slug, a man’s brain would be immediately shattered.

He had studied a street map of the City. He had no trouble in finding Worthington’s apartment. He parked his car, slid out, slammed the door shut and walked briskly into the apartment block. As he ascended the stairs, he touched the gun hidden, in his pocket. With any luck, he told himself, he would be back in Nuremberg by midnight. He would spend the night there, then fly back to Paris.

He reached Worthington’s floor and before he rang the bell, he snicked back the safety catch on his gun. He made sure that it would slide out of his pocket, then he dug his thumb into the bell push.

There was a brief pause, then he heard footsteps and the door swung open.

A giant of a man confronted him. This man had silver-coloured hair, cut close, a square shaped face, high cheek bones and flat green eyes.

O’Brien felt a shock run through him as he recognised Malik. He hadn’t met him before, but he had seen his unmistakable photograph in the dossier the C.I.A. had of him.

O’Brien looked beyond Malik. Three men, two of them holding Sten guns, all wearing dark, shabby suits and black hats, were staring at him, motionless and menacing.

Malik said, ‘Yes?’ His voice was polite the flat green eyes expressionless.

O’Brien’s mind moved swiftly. Had the y c a u g h t Worthington? It looked as if they had. Why else should they be in the apartment?

‘Is Mr. Worthington here?’ he asked. ‘I understand he gives English lessons.’

‘Come in,’ Malik said and stood aside.

O’Brien hesitated, but the threat of the Sten guns warned him of his danger. He moved into the shabby living room. The three men, behind Malik, continued to stare at him, continued to remain motionless.

‘Mr. Worthington is not here,’ Malik said closing the door. ‘May I see your passport?’

With a slight shrug, O’Brien produced his passport and handed it to Malik.

‘How is Mr. Dorey?’ Malik asked as he tossed the passport to the man without a gun.

O’Brien grinned.

‘He’s not dead ... that I do know. How is Mr. Kovski?’ This was the name of Malik’s chief.

‘He’s not dead either,’ Malik said. There was a pause, then he went on, ‘You are a little late. Worthington left here about ten o’clock this morning. Please tell Mr. Dorey that I will take care of Worthington. Assure him that Worthington will not escape.’ He gave a stiff little bow. ‘I am sorry you have had a wasted journey. If you will please accompany this man, he will return your passport at the airport.’

The short, bulky man who had put O’Brien’s passport in his pocket, moved to the door. O’Brien accepted the inevitable.

He followed him.

‘One moment, Mr. O’Brien,’ Malik said. ‘Please don’t return. You wouldn’t be welcomed. Do you understand?’

‘Sure,’ O’Brien said. ‘So long.’ He walked past the bulky man and headed for the stairs. As he did so, he heard the muffled sound of a woman sobbing somewhere in the apartment. This would be Worthington’s wife, he thought, mentally shrugging. He wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.

Malik!

He grimaced.

chapter two

L
ook, Kitten,’ Girland said, ‘in five minutes I have to go out. Would you please finish your drink and then put on your skates?’

The girl sitting opposite him swished the dying ice cubes around in her glass. Girland had picked her up at the Left Bank Drug Store. She was scarcely eighteen and sensationally beautiful. Dark, sensually built, wearing scarlet stretch pants and a red and white shirt, she had caught Girland’s roving eye, but now he had her back in his apartment on Rue des Suisses, he realised too late that she was too young, too eager and too generally too.