A Conflict of Interests (25 page)

The Bergen rucksack had come from the same store and was an essential stage prop for an elderly American serviceman who was allegedly spending his furlough hiking through the British countryside. It was the only plan Patterson had been able to devise on the spur of the moment late yesterday afternoon when, from Heathrow, he had doubled back into London on the Underground and deposited his briefcase and traveling bag in a luggage locker at St. Pancras station. Returning to St. Pancras after making the necessary purchases, he'd collected his luggage and found a vacant cubicle in the men's washroom, where he'd changed and then packed the video cassettes into the rucksack, together with a clean change of underwear, a couple of spare shirts and his shaving tackle. That done, he'd dumped the unwanted luggage in another locker, made his way to the bus terminal at Victoria and booked himself a seat on a coach going to Newmarket. From there, he'd walked to Southwold Priory and stayed the night at The Red Lion, the only hotel in the village.

Little more than a country pub, The Red Lion had ten bedrooms, a small dining room and an even smaller lounge for the residents. The hotel didn't rate a single star in the AA handbook and its cuisine was understandably ignored by the
Michelin Guide
. It did, however, suit Patterson for two very practical reasons. In the first place, the large USAF base at Lakenheath was not too far away and the presence of American servicemen in that part of Suffolk was an everyday occurrence. And secondly, the villagers who frequented The Red Lion were the sort of people who kept themselves to themselves. The proprietor was even less inquisitive; if a senior American noncom wanted to spend his furlough visiting all the local churches to take brass rubbings, that was his business and no one else's.

Patterson flopped into a chair and lit a cigarette. Including the loose change in his pockets, he had just over thirty-eight pounds. He also had the equivalent of another four hundred in uncashed Deutschemark traveler's checks, but they were made out to Otto Prole and consequently no longer of any use to him after what had happened at Heathrow Airport yesterday. Pittis, Pearce, Prole; he had already run out of names and passports, now it seemed he was about to run out of folding money. Thirty-eight pounds would pay his bill at The Red Lion and keep him going for a day or two, but it wasn't enough to get him out of the country. Money wasn't the only problem there; with the British watching every air and seaport, he couldn't make it on his own.

The Russians or the Libyans? Patterson was certain both parties would be interested in acquiring the video cassettes for free and it was therefore merely a question of deciding who would serve his interests best. Although the KGB were easily the more efficient, the local resident officer wouldn't lift a finger until he had a green light from Moscow Center. Furthermore, he would make sure the First Chief Directorate knew all the latest facts before its members made a decision, and that meant there was a very good chance Moscow Center would give him a wide berth. But even if they did agree to extend a helping hand, Patterson could never be sure they weren't planning to double-cross him somewhere along the way. Thirty years in a British jail or the Gulag Archipelago after the KGB had sucked him dry? One was as bad as the other.

The Libyans? Well, they would be less inhibited by political considerations than the Russians, but Jalud was a treacherous little bastard and there was the added danger that he had a personal score to settle with him. As far as Jalud was concerned, though, he still believed Patterson had the incriminating video tape and that gave Patterson a certain amount of leverage.

Somebody rapped on the door, then a key turned in the lock and a buxom young woman walked into his room carrying a tray. "Your morning tea and newspaper," she told him. "It was the
Daily Mail
you ordered, wasn't it, Mr. Orville?"

Patterson stared at her blankly. Up to now he'd always chosen an alias with the same initial letters as his own and for a moment the name didn't click. "Yeah, that's right," he said finally.

The girl nodded, cleared a space on the bedside table and put the tray down. "Breakfast is served from seven-thirty onward, sir."

"Thanks."

Patterson wondered if he ought to tip her, but by the time he'd dug some loose change out of his pocket, the maid had already left the room and closed the door behind her. Still preoccupied, he got to his feet, went over to the bedside table and unfolded the newspaper.

He'd always understood the British police rarely gave the press details of a suspect they wanted to interview, lest the subsequent trial be prejudiced in some way, but that unwritten law had apparently gone by the board in this instance. There he was in the middle of the front page, a Photofit that made his bowels sink, with a caption in heavy type directly above. The Photofit was a good likeness, and he immediately began to worry that the girl who'd brought the early morning tea had seen it and made the connection. As far as he could recall, she hadn't seemed nervous or tense, nor had there been a glimmer of recognition in her eyes when she'd looked at him, though, truth to tell, he hadn't really paid much attention to her.

His every instinct was to cut and run, but somehow Patterson managed to put the thought out of his mind, knowing that he'd only draw attention to himself if he gave way to panic. Breakfast first, then check out of the hotel and make tracks; that was the sensible thing to do, provided he had the balls to see it through.

He stubbed out the cigarette, poured himself a cup of tea and started packing his kit. When that was done, he took time out to study the ordnance survey maps he'd purchased in Newmarket.

"Slima Avenue is a five-minute walk from Acton Town Underground station. Go down Gunnersbury Lane toward Uxbridge Road and then take the first turning on the left beyond the school playing fields. Monument House, where Coghill lives, is a small block of flats on the right-hand side of the road approximately one hundred yards from the junction. His apartment is on the second floor and facing the staircase."

The briefing from Surveillance had been very thorough, though Caroline Brooke could have wished otherwise. Had their directions been less precise, she would have had a good excuse to phone Vaudrey and make one final attempt at persuading him to cancel the operation. As it was, she had long since exhausted every conceivable argument, and without being able to bring some additional pressure to bear on him, there was no earthly reason why he should change his mind now. If the Photofit likeness of Patterson which had appeared in all the newspapers had failed to deter him, he certainly wouldn't pay the slightest scrap of attention to what she had to say. As she pressed the bell to his apartment, she wondered if the same would go for Coghill.

Some photographs flatter to deceive and in his case it seemed as though the camera had lied. Coghill looked much older than she'd expected, his face pale and drawn and the pouches under his eyes more in keeping with a middle-aged man whose dissipated youth had finally caught up with him. He was, she decided, suffering from the mother and father of a hangover.

"Detective Inspector Coghill?"

"Yes." A faint smile competed with and finally lost out to a puzzled frown. "Have we met somewhere before?" he asked. "Your face seems vaguely familiar."

"I don't think so. My name's Patricia Wentworth," she said, using her mother's maiden name. "I'm a civil servant."

"Really? Which department?"

"The Ministry of Defense, Intelligence and Security Co-ord."

"That's a new one on me." He glanced at the identity card she had produced from her handbag, then said, "It doesn't do you justice."

It wasn't intended as a compliment, just a plain statement of fact. The Administrative Support Section had worked overtime to process the fake ID and the flashlight had caught her unawares, so that her eyes looked as if they were popping out of their sockets.

"I don't take a good photograph," she said.

"Few of us do, Miss Wentworth."

"Still, as long as the War Department constables can recognize me." Caroline returned the ID card to her handbag and closed the fastener. "I know it's a bit of an imposition," she said politely, "but do you think you could spare me a few minutes of your time? It's rather important."

"Yes, of course." Coghill stepped to one side and opened the door wider. "The sitting room is in a bit of a mess," he said. "I haven't got around to cleaning it up yet."

She could see at a glance that he wasn't exaggerating. Although the curtains had been drawn back and both fanlight windows opened, the room was still polluted with the aroma of stale tobacco smoke. From the number of butts in the ashtray on the low coffee table, Caroline figured he must have got through almost two packs of cigarettes. The lone tumbler and the empty bottle of Chivas Regal beside it also suggested it must have been quite a wake he'd held for Detective Sergeant Mace, even if it had been a solitary one.

"Tell me something, Miss Wentworth," Coghill said thoughtfully. "How did you get hold of my address?"

"When you work for a department like Security Co-ord, there isn't a door you can't unlock. As a matter of fact, I know a great deal about you, Detective Inspector."

She started with his parents, where and when they'd been born, then moved on to his own date and place of birth, the schools he'd attended before studying law at Nottingham University and his career in the Metropolitan Police Force.

"Did they also tell you that I'm under suspension?" he said angrily.

"They did, but it's irrelevant."

"Not to me it isn't."

"It will be if you ring 888–9000 with a request for authentication."

"Of what?"

"Of me," Caroline told him. "Who I am, who I represent."

"You mean some clown is actually going to admit there is such a department as Intelligence and Security Co-ord?"

"No, but if you check the dialing codes, you won't find a treble eight exchange listed anywhere, and that should tell you something."

"I'll take your word for it, Miss Wentworth." Coghill hesitated, then with a slight shrug, he walked over to the phone and lifted the receiver. "What did you say the number was?" he asked.

"Treble eight, nine thousand."

The exchange and extension number would cease to exist the moment Coghill hung up. Although it had taken the Administrative Support Section half the night to tie the bogus number into the GPO network, the connection with the automatic switching station could be severed in a matter of minutes. No such department as Intelligence and Security Co-ord existed within the Ministry of Defense, and if he had a mind to, Coghill could spend the rest of his life looking for a Miss Patricia Wentworth and never find her.

"Blonde and quite attractive, five seven and a half, weight one twenty-six, wearing a pink skirt and flowered blouse." Coghill put the phone down and eyed her from head to toe. "Your friend's not exactly forthcoming with his compliments, is he?"

"I daresay Karen Whitfield didn't receive too many from Raschid al Jalud either, but then she was only interested in the size of his wallet."

"Now I know what happened to the address book."

"You sound as though that's a sore point."

"You're absolutely right, Miss Wentworth, it is." Coghill pointed an accusing finger at her. "Whitfield, Drobnowski and Harry Mace; one suicide and two murders and they're all down to your department. If you people hadn't interfered, they would still be alive today."

"The fact is, we didn't interfere," Caroline said in a level voice. "On the contrary, Scotland Yard sought our assistance from the moment we informed them there was reason to believe Karen Whitfield had been associating with a Libyan diplomat whom we had been keeping under surveillance because of his involvement with the IRA and other terrorist groups. At the request of your superiors, our cipher experts examined her address book and broke the code. Just what the Regional Crime Squad did with the information we provided is far from clear to me, but it's quite evident they failed to capitalize on it. Furthermore, even if your people had worked on that book from now until doomsday, they would never have found the name of Orville Patterson between the covers."

"Patterson? Who's he?"

"You know him better as Oscar Pittis."

Caroline paused. The difficult part was over, and from now on she would be on firmer ground. It was always easier to brainwash a person when fiction was replaced by facts, when the lying stopped and the truth began. Adhering to the scenario that Vaudrey had rewritten a third time yesterday evening, she started with Patterson and gave Coghill a resume of his military service and CIA background, then rapidly moved on to his subsequent involvement with Qadhafi's regime. How, when and where he'd first met Jalud was of no consequence; the fact that the Libyan had sent for Patterson when Karen Whitfield had threatened to expose him suggested they had known one another for some considerable time.

"Jalud had every reason to want her dead. Qadhafi is a distant kinsman on his wife's side and Jalud knew he would be finished if the colonel learned about his perverted sexual exploits with Karen Whitfield. In fact, this is the very point you should make to Jalud if he refuses to cooperate."

"That would make two of us then," Coghill growled. "You may be a very bright and persuasive young woman, Miss Wentworth, but you're up against someone here who's sales-resistant. I'm in enough trouble as it is, without you people adding blackmail to bribery and corruption whenever it suits your purpose."

"You want to catch the man who killed Harry Mace, don't you?"

"You know I do, but I don't see what that has to do with this Raschid al Jalud."

"The answer's very simple," Caroline told him quietly. "Every exit has been sealed off and there's no one else Patterson can turn to for help. He may think the KGB will agree to smuggle him out of the country in exchange for the video cassettes he stole from Leese, but after what happened in Linsdale Gardens yesterday, the Soviets won't touch him with a barge pole."