Red Crystal (31 page)

Gabriele let out a sigh of irritation. She had spoken to him the previous night and again that morning. He’d told her everything was going to plan. So why the hell was he calling again? And
now
.

Putting the bowl carefully on the table, she took the receiver from Max and snapped, ‘Do you realize what you nearly
did
!’

‘You told me to call if there was a change of plan.’

‘But not
now
!’ She forced her anger back. ‘So what is it?’

‘The girl. I can’t do things too fast.’

‘What do you mean?’

With obvious irritation Giorgio explained. ‘She wants to take me out to dinner. She expects it. I have to go.’

Gabriele tried to think calmly. The girl had to be played along. She said harshly, ‘Okay. But make her start for England first thing in the morning.’

‘It’s arranged. And I will fly at midday. I’ll call you—’

‘Don’t call me
here
again!’

‘The number’s on the list,’ Giorgio replied angrily. ‘How was I to know?’

She put the phone down and spent several minutes sitting at the table, composing herself again. Then she went back to work.

Pouring most of the weedkiller-sugar mixture into the bottom of the empty Surf packet, she bedded first the detonator, then the Nitramite sticks well down into it, and poured more of the sugar mixture on top, until it was flowing over the sides. Leaving the two loose wires trailing out of the top of the packet – one from each side – she taped the hinged lid of the Surf packet well down.

Now the trigger. She used a spring-loaded mechanism, rather like a mousetrap. It had to be rigged so that it would be activated by the opening of the parcel.

She took some corrugated cardboard and, wrapping it round the Surf box, cut it to size and taped it very tightly around the box. Then she took the mousetrap device and, without attaching it to the wires, cocked it and slipped it under the corrugated cardboard at the side of the box. She chose the side of the box because the pressure of the outer wrapping was greater there and would keep the trigger firmly cocked, and because people generally lay parcels flat when opening them, so leaving the side unimpeded and the mechanism free to operate.

She took a careful look at the trigger. There was no way it could operate accidentally while the corrugated cardboard was in place. But as soon as it was removed …

To test it, she tore the cardboard away, as if opening the parcel, and heard the mechanism give a satisfying snap.

She took another section of corrugated cardboard and fastened it tightly round the box.

Her mouth was dry. Fear at last. She was aware of Max close by, breathing down her neck. To get rid of him she said, ‘Get me a coffee, would you?’

While he was in the kitchen, she took the red wire, removed the safety tape, and soldered the exposed end to the contact on the mousetrap mechanism. Next she pulled back the spring and pushed the mechanism between the layers of cardboard until it was held firmly in place, properly cocked, but with the base of the trigger still visible.

Now. The worst moment. The black wire had to be soldered to the terminal on the base of the fuse itself. Her heart thumped in her ears. She swallowed hard. It was one thing to know that the two contacts couldn’t meet, and quite another to be aware of them being so close, separated by only a few inches.

Shaking slightly, she put the wire on the terminal and, holding the stick of solder, put the hot iron against it. The solder dripped on to the wire and cooled.

The bomb was now live.

Gently, she pushed the trigger mechanism further down the side of the box until it was out of sight. She exhaled deeply and sat back.

Max brought the coffee. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. A workman-like job. And a good explosive chain. The electrical circuit would heat the hot wire inside the detonator which would explode the extremely volatile fulminate of mercury. This in turn would explode the sugar-sodium chlorate mixture, which would finally explode the more stable TNT and ammonium nitrate of the main charge.

For a moment she imagined the explosion, the man being blown apart and plastered over the walls and ceiling in the split second before the house collapsed around him.

When she had finished her coffee she wrapped the parcel in brown paper and string, and then addressed it in bold block lettering, using a thick black felt-tip pen. Finally she placed it carefully in the holdall.

‘What now?’ asked Max.

‘Keep the cutters and the spare wire. Put everything else into a rubbish bag and put it downstairs, in one of the communal dustbins.’ They weren’t coming back here, but she disliked the idea of leaving even the smallest amount of evidence behind.

As Max collected the empty containers, the wrapping, the offcuts of red and black wire, Gabriele wiped the table, hoovered the weedkiller and sugar from the carpet and checked the kitchen. Max had been rather messy here too, and it took her a good ten minutes to clean the work surface and the floor. But she found the cleaning therapeutic; it seemed to tidy her mind. When she’d finished she was in high spirits.

Max was waiting at the flat door with the rubbish. She said, ‘You’ve got the communiqués?’

He nodded.

‘Remember to give the cabbies plenty of money, so they don’t hesitate to take them. If you argue about it they’ll remember your face.’ She opened the door. ‘You go first. I’ll follow in a minute.’

In fact it was ten minutes before she was ready to leave. She put on a long blonde dolly-bird wig, some dark glasses, and a nondescript coat, which she normally wouldn’t have been seen dead in. She was rather amused by her disguise, and stood in front of the mirror for a couple of minutes. It was really very simple to look completely different.

Down in the street she loaded the holdall and the large parcel into the boot of her car. Then, like dozens of young office girls all over London that afternoon, she took her batch of envelopes to the nearest post office to catch the last post of the day.

There was no one to see her go. The watchers had spotted Wheatfield leaving ten minutes earlier and, pleased to have identified him safely, were tailing him westwards, back towards North Kensington.

Gabriele parked outside the mews house and went to the boot. She decided to leave the parcel in there overnight – the car wasn’t worth stealing, and there was no reason why anyone should be interested in it. However, she removed the spare detonators, to be on the safe side. There must be no accidents.

The holdall itself could stay in the boot until she found another service flat some time the following week.

She locked the boot. Letting herself into the house, she went to the kitchen and put the detonator into the fridge. Then she removed the wig and sunglasses and shook out her hair.

Now what?

Restlessly, she paced the kitchen. She was still exhilarated from the bomb-making. She wanted company. She wanted to talk. But now Giorgio wouldn’t be back until the next day. And it wouldn’t be wise to go calling on Max.

There was Nick Riley, of course. In fact if she was being honest he was the first person she’d thought of. But he hadn’t phoned since he’d left the previous morning. And she didn’t know where to find him.
Damn
.

Coffee mug in hand, she wandered into the living-room.

She stopped in her tracks.

A white blob of paper stared up at her from the staircase.

Her stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Who
?

She grabbed the paper and read fast.

Nick Riley
.

For a second she went very cold, thinking of what he might have discovered.

Then she calmed herself. There was nothing in the house, nothing to suggest she was anything but a journalist. Even if he’d been snooping around, which he probably hadn’t.

But how the hell had he got in?

She thought: How
dare
he!

But mingling with her annoyance was a tinge of grudging admiration: he certainly had a nerve. As she climbed the stairs she rehearsed what she’d say to him.

The door of the bedroom was ajar. She pushed it wide open. Clothes were littered over the floor.

He was in her bed, breathing quietly, fast asleep. His top was bare. She suspected he was naked.

She shook him by the shoulder. ‘Hey, wake up, you!’

He turned over and, opening half an eye, groaned, ‘Hello.’ He stretched and rubbed his hand mercilessly over his face. ‘What time is it?’ His voice was a thin croak.

She retreated slightly and said accusingly, ‘You’ve got a cold.’

He opened the other eye and pulled himself up on to one elbow. ‘I didn’t actually
ask
to have it …’

‘It was uninvited, was it – like
you
?’

‘Quite.’ His tone was unrepentant.

She demanded, ‘May I ask how the hell you got in?’

‘Ah.’ For a long moment he looked at her through half-closed eyes, and she thought he wasn’t going to answer. But eventually he said, ‘There was a window open.’

She thought: Ah no, you don’t get me that easily. She said firmly, ‘Oh no, there wasn’t.’

He made a face to show he’d been caught out. ‘Well, you remember the car door? I used a trick like that.’

‘Show me what you used. To get in.’

He looked at her for a few moments then slowly reached down to his jacket on the floor. From a packet he brought out what was known in the trade as a jiggler, a thin dagger-like steel spike. He said, ‘What I used for the car. Nothing to it.’

‘That wouldn’t do it.’

He stared at her, suddenly wary. ‘No?’

‘You can’t open locks like Yales with
that
.’

There was a silence. Suddenly he grinned. ‘Well, you’re absolutely right. Now how did you know that?’

She’d learnt a few basics from a former housebreaker in the Lotta. She persisted, ‘So how did you get in?’

His smile vanished. Taking out his wallet, he removed a strip of celluloid and held it in the air. ‘Takes fifteen seconds.’

‘But only when you know how.’

He slipped the plastic and the spike back into his jacket. ‘I can see that you’re thinking bad things about me.’

She decided to go on giving him a hard time. She got a curious pleasure from it; also she wanted to know more. She said, ‘Yes, I am.’

He reached out and, without a word, took the cup of coffee from her hand and began to drink from it. The bedcovers moved and she saw the side of his hip. Naked.

She said, ‘You’re a thief.’

He looked at her over the cup. ‘No.’ It was a bald statement.

‘Then you break and enter for amusement?’

‘Useful for getting into friends’ flats. It’s just a trick I learnt in my misspent youth and – I like to keep it up.’ He shrugged, draining the last of the coffee. ‘Strange though it sounds, it’s the truth.’

She didn’t believe a word of it. He was a thief, no doubt about it. But she wasn’t angry. On the contrary, she was seeing Nick Riley in a new and very interesting light.

But she decided not to pursue the subject for the moment. All in good time. Instead she said caustically, ‘So – do you usually sleep in the afternoons?’

‘Only when I’m feeling bloody awful.’

‘The cold? Or is it still the head?’

‘Both. And lack of care and attention.’

‘Well, well, that won’t do, will it?’ she replied archly. ‘Can I get you something – apart from
my
coffee, that is?’

‘Aspirin and hot lemon.’ He added a hasty ‘Please’, and gave her a big smile.

‘I’ll get some from the chemist.’ It was a long time since she’d gone on an errand for a man. But this was different.

As she moved to the door, he said, ‘Any chance of a bath?’

‘I should think so. The bathroom’s next door.’ She added facetiously, ‘You’re sure you’ll be able to manage the lock?’

He grinned appreciatively, his expression warm and unguarded. Very attractive. For a common thief.

On the way back from the chemist, she began to realize that her snap judgement was probably mistaken. If he was just an ordinary thief then he was an extremely bad one – he had nothing to show for it in the way of a car or a place to live – and she couldn’t believe that he was bad at anything he did.

No, going by his part in the demonstration and their conversation at dinner, he was undoubtedly committed politically and therefore above such things as common thieving. As such, he would keep his housebreaking and car stealing talents for special occasions:
political
occasions. The chances were he was
already
an activist.

If so, what a stroke of luck. It couldn’t have worked out better if she’d planned it.

Back at the house she made a hot lemon drink and took it up the stairs. Sounds of splashing came from the bathroom. She paused and, leaving the drink on a shelf, looked into the empty bedroom. Most of his clothes had disappeared, but his jacket was still there, hanging up on a chair.

Silently she crossed the floor and, feeling through the pockets, pulled out the wallet. Money. The piece of plastic – no,
three
pieces of plastic. A train ticket. In the pockets, a comb, the steel spike, some paper handkerchiefs.

And a full set of keys. Skeleton keys.

But nothing else.

She frowned. Strange. No bus pass or student union card. Nothing to identify him.

His voice said: ‘I hope it’s interesting enough.’

She spun round.

He was standing in the doorway, wrapped in a towel. He walked casually up to her and, feeling through the jacket, pulled out the comb. He met her gaze and said mildly, ‘If you want to know more about me you only have to ask.’

‘Just checking. After all, it’s not every day I find a housebreaker in my bed.’ She asked lightly, ‘What’s your real name?’

‘Nick Riley. Just like I said.’

She stared up into his face. Even if it wasn’t his real name, did it really matter?

This man was exactly what she wanted. In every way.

The trouble with telling a lie, Nick thought unhappily, was that it led you into deeper and deeper water. The original lie – pretending to be a student – had been harmless enough, but now he’d had to tell a dozen more to cover himself.