Red Crystal (60 page)

‘Are there
other
matters?’

‘Not at present.’

Duteil tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his mouth. ‘A man’s reputation is everything in life, wouldn’t you agree?’ he murmured. ‘Suppose I knew someone who could help you – which I’m not saying for a moment that I could – what would happen to that man’s reputation? Particularly if he was known for assisting refugees and victims of oppression. Would this man be trusted any more? I think not.’ He laughed ironically. ‘What would a man’s friends think?’

The DST man whispered, ‘Ah, but no one would ever know. This man could complete the arrangements and merely let slip a small detail. The meeting would go ahead in the normal way.’

‘And the messenger?’

‘Would be untouched. You have my guarantee.’

Duteil thought very carefully. He wondered how serious this threat to the organization really was. He didn’t believe this story about the stabbing. If it was true he would
definitely
have heard about it at the time. But he realized that the truth was irrelevant. If he did not respond to the pressure they would merely find another way of making his life difficult.

He sighed inwardly. This would teach him to break his own rules. He should never have helped the girl in the first place.

At the same time he strongly resented this pressure being exerted on him.

He commented, ‘Blackmail is not a very pleasant development.’

‘I would call it a mutually convenient arrangement.’ The DST man leant forward. ‘And be certain that this is a very important matter.’

The whole thing could be a great big bluff, Duteil realized. There was no guarantee that they would keep to their promise.

The DST man pressed home his argument. ‘The government is being pressurized by the British. They are looking to
us
for an explanation of how aid to a terrorist group could be emanating from Paris. Either we must produce culprits or we must produce information. It is one or the other. There can be no compromise. Do you follow me?’

Duteil followed all right. He had also made up his mind.

The girl had failed. She was unlikely to be of much use in the future.

Regrettable. But it was the way of the world. One had to be prepared for sacrifices in the service of the greater cause.

D
ARKNESS WAS GOING
to fall early, even for November. Yet it had been a long time coming. Gabriele had spent the afternoon freezing in a dreary place called Gunnersbury Park, a meagre patch of green in the western suburbs, half-way between the airport and central London. She detested killing time in this way, but the empty park was the safest place she could think of. For a while she had dozed on a bench, which had made her feel better: the jittery nausea left her stomach, and her hands became steadier. But then cold and lethargy crept over her and she realized she must force herself to move.

The meeting was still many hours away, hours that stretched out before her, fraught with difficulties. Somehow she had to find shelter for the night. And food. And a place to hide until noon the next day.

The meeting was set for two the next afternoon, on the bridge in the centre of St James’s Park. Thank God for Raymond. She had known he wouldn’t let her down. He was the one constant factor in the appalling run of uncertainty and bad luck.

The moment she had the papers and the money she would be as good as free. She would go to Paris first, of course; then to Milan to see Petrini; and then …

Back here. In time.

A grey cheerless twilight enveloped the monotonous rows of suburban houses; it was time to move. She went down to the main road and caught a 27 bus to Hammersmith and Notting Hill. She sat next to a window, examining fellow passengers in the reflection of the glass. For a while she was convinced the conductor was staring at her and gripped the edge of her seat, ready to run. But then he chatted to another passenger and, without a second glance, climbed up the stairs to the top deck.

She left the bus at Notting Hill Gate and went into a large chemist shop. The lighting was very bright. She kept her head down. There was a great craze for synthetic wigs and a large stand of them stood in the centre of the shop. She chose one in auburn with a deep fringe. She also bought sunglasses and make-up. She kept an eye on the shop assistant but the girl didn’t give her a second glance.

In a nearby side street Gabriele pulled the wig hastily over her dark hair and put on some lipstick. She re-emerged into the brightly lit street with more confidence.

Now food. She’d had nothing since the previous day. It had got to the point where she didn’t feel hungry any more. But it was essential to force something down. There was a Wimpy Bar further along the road on the other side of the Tube station. She set off, keeping her head down as she approached the Tube exit. It was almost five: the rush hour. People streamed out of the station.

Someone bumped into her. She veered away, stepping into the street to circle the crowd. As she stepped back on to the pavement she halted, face to face with her own picture. Duplicated dozens of times. All over a news-stand.

The headline screamed:
WANTED
!

She felt a sudden thrill, an extraordinary burst of exhilaration.

She turned away, then, changing her mind, reached into her pocket for some coins and bought an
Evening Standard
.

Tucking the newspaper under her arm she approached the Wimpy Bar and looked in through the window. It was fairly crowded but she spotted a seat in the far corner. No one took any notice of her as she walked in. She ordered a double cheeseburger and chips then, unfolding the paper, started to read.

She gave a small snort of disgust and amusement. They’d decided to call her the ‘glamorous gunwoman’. How transparent and cliché-ridden. But worse, the story bore no relation to the truth. They talked of ‘fanatical extremists’. What rubbish: the fanatical extremists were closer to home – the people who owned newspapers that printed distortions like this.

She flicked on through the story.

Then stopped.

And read the section again. Two deaths at a remote farmhouse. Both believed to be members of the terrorist gang. A girl killed in an explosion. A men found dead in an outbuilding.
A man
.

Giorgio
.

He had been there all the time. Dead.

She felt no sadness, only a chilling sense of aloneness. And a strong sense of betrayal, as if he had somehow died on purpose in order to make life more difficult for her.

God
! How could he have been so
stupid
. And
how
had he managed to get himself killed? By the
girl
?

But her mind soon veered back to the present.

She was really alone now. Everything would be harder. She would have to be doubly careful. She would have to find somewhere safe to hide.

The food arrived. As the waitress put it in front of her she noticed a man looking at her. Her heart gave an unpleasant lurch. She stared back. He dropped his eyes.

Keeping an eye on him she stuffed the food into her mouth and discovered that she was ravenously hungry after all. She picked up the newspaper again and read on: A watch was being kept on the ports … Linda Wilson believed armed and dangerous … On no account were the public to approach …

Distortion again: they made her sound like a madwoman who’d shoot anyone on sight.
Definitely
not true. She only had one target: the oppressors. These filthy lies were making her sick.

Then she almost choked. In the centre of the paper there was a double-page spread headed: Attorney-General Freed at Eleventh Hour. Brilliant detective work – it read – had led to the location of the remote farmhouse a bare two hours before the terrorists’ deadline ran out … Army disposal rushed in …

Brilliant detective work. The phrase rankled. It suggested Nick Riley and his friends had outmanoeuvred her. Well, they may think they had, for the
moment
. But the war wasn’t over, not by a long way.

The thought of Nick Riley still had the power to fill her with an uncontrollable rage. What she would give to get him face to face. The memory of his cold cynical manipulation of her was like a knife turning in a wound; it gave her no peace.

The man at the other table was looking at her again. She wrapped the second burger in a napkin and stuffed it in the holdall. She went to the cash desk, paid, and hurried out. She went down a side street and doubled back into the main road. The man did not follow her.

She headed north up Ladbroke Grove. Her route took her past a police station. She hesitated, but it was completely dark and there was no one outside. She walked on.

The holdall was getting very heavy. She felt stupidly weak but forced herself on. The rise of Notting Hill seemed endless until finally she reached the top and headed down the gentle slope towards North Kensington.

Beyond the Westway she found the road she was looking for, the street where Max’s friend Bet lived: Tulip Street. Through Bet she should be able to pick up some old contacts – someone like Wally Bishop, who’d been on the Linden House demo and was a close friend of Reardon’s. He was sure to be okay. He would have a place to go.

She approached the house cautiously, watching it for a good five minutes before climbing the steps and ringing the doorbell. A man opened the door. She asked for Bet and waited outside while the man shouted upstairs.

Eventually a girl came crossly down the stairs to the door, wrapping a towel round her dripping hair. ‘Yes?’ she demanded.

Gabriele kept back from the door, away from the pool of light. ‘I was looking for Wally Bishop. Can you tell me where to find him?’

‘Sure,’ Bet began. Then she paused and peered more closely at Gabriele. She stiffened.

There was a nasty silence. Gabriele could almost feel the other woman’s animosity. Bet looked back over her shoulder, then scanned the street.

She whispered, ‘
Go away
! They came asking about you this morning. And they’ve been to
Wally’s
. And they’re coming back, they said they were.
We
can’t help you. You
must
go away!’ The girl swallowed nervously. ‘Look, I won’t say a word about you having been here. Not a word. Honest. Just go.
Please
.’

Wordlessly, Gabriele turned and walked away into the darkness.

Back in Ladbroke Grove she headed south. After a while she hailed a taxi. ‘Where to?’ the cabby asked.

‘Earl’s Court.’

Gabriele hardly knew the Earl’s Court area. Which was the whole point of going there. No old haunts, no friends, no way of tracing her. Just the anonymity of street after street of rooming houses used by thousands of visiting Australians – the area was commonly known as Kangaroo Valley.

The cab dropped her in the Earl’s Court Road. She set off down a side street and came to the first of a long row of rooming houses and cheap hotels. She hesitated outside a place with a ‘Room to Let’ notice in the window, suddenly wary. Something about this idea was making her deeply uneasy. It was the prospect of sitting in a box-like room, with no means of escape, not knowing who might have recognized her, not knowing if the police were closing in. A rat in a trap.

But she forced her doubts aside for a moment and, going in, knocked on a door marked ‘Enquiries’.

A smiling Pakistani emerged. The terms were two pounds a week and the room was on the third floor at the back. He offered to show it to her and went back into his room to fetch a key.

Gabriele moved forward until she could see him through the open door. She watched him pick a key off a hook. He was not suspicious. It was going to be all right. She looked down. There was a low table in front of an easy chair. Evidently he had been reading the evening paper. Upside down and at a slight distance her picture seemed to fill the whole of the front page.

He was turning, the key in his hand. She pulled her eyes quickly away from the newspaper.

She tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry – I’ve decided it wouldn’t be suitable.’

The Pakistani looked surprised. ‘But you haven’t
seen
it!’

‘It’s the stairs. Too far up. Thanks anyway.’

He gave her a long hard stare. She turned hurriedly and went out into the street.

She could have kicked herself. That had been very stupid. There must be no more mistakes.

She walked rapidly away from the area, heading south. She racked her brains for somewhere to go. There
had
to be somewhere. It was just a case of thinking it through. She just wished she wasn’t feeling so tired.

She plodded on into Chelsea. A chill hung over the misty river. Battersea Bridge loomed up ahead. There was a park on the other side where it might be possible to stop for a while; but it was another cold, damp, desolate, godforsaken place. She felt a bitter resentment. She couldn’t believe it had come to this. She’d had nothing but bad luck. Then the
others
had let her down so badly – Giorgio. And Max … And then of course
him
– the spy.

Suddenly she had an idea and grabbed at it. She stopped in her tracks and gave a small exclamation of triumph. Of course. It was so perfect she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t thought of it before.