The Assassin (13 page)

‘Pete, I know you've got things to do. Miss Cameron and I can have our little talk and I'll send down for you when she's ready.'

‘Okay, sir. 'Bye, Liz.'

Elizabeth watched him go out. He had never called anyone sir, not even her uncle. He had changed a lot in the four years; the easy-going grin was like the laughing mask on the Roman god with two faces. Mathews at his work, calling Leary ‘sir', was the Janus side she had never suspected.

‘You must think this is an odd request, Miss Cameron.' Leary leaned forward and smiled at her. He wanted her to feel at ease, and like all his race he had abundant charm. He wanted her perfectly relaxed and off guard before he showed her what was in the wooden box.

‘How much did Peter explain to you?'

‘Not much,' she said. ‘He mentioned something to do with my father's estate and some tax problem you wanted to discuss. I must warn you that I'm not very good at this sort of thing. My lawyers deal with everything for me.'

‘I see.' Leary leaned backwards, tipping his chair. Income tax. Trust Mathews to think of something like that. Of course she was disarmed. ‘Miss Cameron, I don't know how annoyed you're going to be, but I'm afraid I don't know anything about income tax either.'

‘In that case,' Elizabeth stared at him, ‘in that case, Mr. Leary, what am I doing here? I'm afraid I don't understand …'

‘This office has nothing to do with anybody's tax,' Leary said. ‘I told Mathews to bring you here, I didn't tell him what to say to you. This is the New York office of the Central Intelligence Agency. I'm one of its senior officials. If Peter Mathews told you he was with the Internal Revenue then he's a lying s.o.b. But I guess you know that already.' He looked across at her and smiled his engaging smile.

‘Actually, he's one of my best men. Will you help us? He was sure you would.'

‘He's a little too sure of himself, I think,' Elizabeth said. ‘In what way can I possibly help you?'

‘You can listen to me for a while and answer a few questions, if you wouldn't mind,' Leary said. ‘I'd be very grateful to you. You know the publisher Eddi King, I believe?'

‘Yes, I know him. He's a friend of my uncle, Huntley Cameron.'

‘He's friends with a lot of influential people,' Leary said. ‘Politicians, industrialists, well-known figures in the literary world. Pretty far over to the right, isn't he?'

‘I don't know,' Elizabeth answered. ‘I've never discussed politics with him. I don't think he approves of my uncle supporting the Democrats. But what is all this about, Mr Leary? Why are you asking about Eddi King?'

‘Before I answer that question,' Leary said, ‘I have something to tell you. You lost both your parents in a plane crash last year, didn't you? B.707 blew up coming into Mexico City. Everyone on board was killed.'

‘Yes,' she said. She shrank back a little, away from him. She didn't want to talk about it, or let him. But he went on without mercy.

‘I've heard about your mother from Peter,' he said. ‘She was a wonderful woman. You were devoted to each other, weren't you?'

‘Please,' Elizabeth made a movement as if she were going to leave. ‘Please, I find this most upsetting …'

‘I apologise,' Leary said. ‘I know how you must feel. Believe me I hate to do this. Your mother didn't die in any accident. That plane was sabotaged. She and your father were murdered as surely as if they had been shot.'

There was the sound of Elizabeth's bag falling. She went so white that Leary got out of his chair; he thought for a moment that she might collapse. He bent down and gave her back her handbag, found the cigarette which had fallen to the floor and ground it out in an ashtray. He put one hand on her shoulder.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I know how you must feel.'

‘It isn't true,' she said. ‘It just isn't true. I don't believe it!'

‘I've got the proof right here—in this box.' He opened it and held out the jagged piece of metal. It was about six inches long and four inches wide, with a seared and blackened mark right through it. He put it into her hands, making her take it. The steel was cold and the edges were so rough they could have cut her skin.

‘That's part of the tailplane,' Leary said. ‘We dredged up a few bits of the wreckage here and there; some of it was in shallow water. We had a reason for suspecting something. Miss Cameron, and the way that plane blew up was just too damned convenient to be accidental. That piece of fuselage is one of several pieces from the same part of the plane—the rear, where the baggage was stowed. That mark is the result of an explosion; there are definite traces of tetrachlorine; one of the most powerful explosives we know. There was a bomb in the baggage. Miss Cameron. It was put there to destroy a certain person who was travelling on that plane. The Vice-President of the Republic of Panama was their target, and they got him. There's been a communist revolution in Panama which has caused an awful lot of trouble for this country, and if Miguel Mantonarez had been alive it wouldn't have happened. So they murdered him, and your parents and all the other people on that plane.'

‘They?' Elizabeth whispered. She turned the ugly lump of shattered steel over and over; her hands were trembling. ‘Who is “they”?'

‘The communists,' Leary said. He went back and sat down again. ‘They don't mind killing people; to them that old calumny against the Jesuits is really true. The end does justify the means. They killed your mother and father; they killed all the other passengers and the crew. There were children on that plane. Would you like some coffee?'

‘No,' she whispered. ‘No, I wouldn't. You mean—they could have been alive now except for this bomb put there to murder someone else? My mother could be alive now?'

‘Surely,' Leary said.

‘Why have you told me this?' She moved forward and laid the evidence of death down on his desk. She couldn't stop staring at it, at the mark left by the explosion. They must have been sitting back, relaxed in their seats, preparing to land. Her mother loved Mexico; She had bought a house at Cuernevaca. Elizabeth had helped her mother furnish it. The room began to move, as if it were on castors, and she closed her eyes, shutting out the evil, blackened splinter. The plane must have been ripped like a paper bag. One moment they were alive, perhaps leaning sideways to catch the first sight of the city, the next they were destroyed, their bodies blown to fragments, their last thoughts, the instinctive cry before death, lost in eternity, in a single convulsive flash.

‘Oh my God.' She sank forward, and the blinding tears came with a rush. Leary didn't move. He waited, letting her cry. If she hadn't she would have fainted. He buzzed and his secretary answered.

‘Get me two cups of coffee and a brandy, Nancy. And no calls. I don't want to be disturbed.'

Elizabeth didn't hear anyone come into the room. She felt somebody touch her and it was a light hand, not the heavy hand of Leary which had rested on her shoulder after he had explained how her mother and father died. A girl was beside her, holding a glass in one hand. She had a pleasant face, with curly brown hair, and a calm voice.

‘Drink this,' the voice suggested. ‘You'll feel better.' She did what she was told, and they left her in peace for a while. Leary began to look through some papers, his secretary poured the coffee and then went out.

‘I'd like to go home,' Elizabeth said.

‘I understand how you feel,' Leary said. ‘Could you hang on for a while longer? I didn't just ask you here to break your heart. I need your help. What would you say if I told you Eddi King was working with the people who put that bomb in the plane?'

‘I wouldn't believe you. I couldn't believe anyone—I couldn't …' She stopped, the words falling away. Eddi King. Eddi King working with political assassins, communist agents—it was like a nightmare from which she couldn't wake up. It was impossible, horrible; the man sitting there a couple of feet away from her, leaning his hands together like a schoolmaster addressing a class, he couldn't be real either.

‘Eddi King is not what he seems,' Leary said. ‘My department have reason to suspect that he's a communist, that he's working with an international communist organisation.'

‘Why do you think this?' She sounded calmer now; the brandy was anaesthetising her shaken nerves. The man sounded so cool, so factual.

‘I shouldn't tell you this, but I'm going to. I need your help that badly. King went to Paris a couple of weeks ago. He met a top communist while he was there, in very secret circumstances. The man responsible for half the industrial and political upheavals in Western Europe. He started off as a bully agent; beating up strike-breakers, intimidating opponents of the party. Then he graduated to big-scale operations. There's quite a few murders to his credit. Now he's one of their best men. Can you tell me what King was doing, meeting him in secret?'

‘No,' Elizabeth said. She shivered, trying to pull her coat closer. She felt very cold, as if all the windows in the room were open.

‘It looks bad,' Leary said. ‘It looks so bad I can't afford to keep a watch on the guy from a distance. I need help from inside. I need you to help me, Miss Cameron. What's why I told you about your parents. So you know exactly what we're dealing with in men like Eddi King.'

He paused then, letting her take his words and examine them; he made no more attempt to press her or convince her. If she said no, that was it. She wouldn't be any use to them even if she did change her mind because they couldn't be sure why she'd changed it. From his assessment Leary felt there was a good chance.

When she answered him, she looked directly at him; her eyes were swollen, her make-up smudged. She looked white and ill.

‘Just tell me what you want me to do.'

‘I want you to tell me everything you know about him,' Leary said. ‘Who his friends are—where he travels to—and everything you can remember about Beirut.'

She wouldn't let Peter Mathews drive her home. He put her in a cab and before closing the door he hesitated. ‘You're sure you won't let me ride back with you? You're sure you're okay, Liz?'

She looked very pale, and her eyes were red. Mathews knew Leary; he could be kind and charming if he felt that was the way to get what he wanted. If that method didn't work he could be the biggest bastard unhung. Mathews felt uncomfortable; he would have liked to go back with her; he knew Leary was going to take the lid off that plane sabotage and use it as an argument. And by the look on her face it must have worked. She even tried to smile at him.

‘No, thanks, Pete. I just want to be alone for a while. I promise you, I'm fine.'

He watched the cab move out of sight and then went back into the building. As soon as he reached his office there was a buzz from Leary.

The room was thick with cigarette smoke when he went in; Leary was behind his desk, making untidy notes and drinking coffee. He looked up and gave Mathews his brief, professional smile.

‘Sit down, Pete. You did a good job getting her here. How did she seem when she left?'

‘Shaken,' Mathews said. ‘She looked as if she'd had a hard time.'

‘I tried to go easy,' Leary said. ‘She's an attractive girl. I kept wondering what the hell she ever saw in you.'

‘I wonder that myself,' Mathews said. ‘Will she work with us?'

‘She said she would,' Leary answered. He pushed his papers into an untidy heap and began playing with his pen, turning it over and round between his fingers. ‘She's clean, as far as Eddi King's concerned. You were right about that.'

‘But what?' Mathews prompted. He knew his chief; he wasn't completely satisfied.

‘I think she's holding out on something,' Leary said slowly. ‘She told me a lot about King and everything about Beirut, except the real reason they went there together. She said it was a holiday; I don't believe her. There's something she's hiding.'

‘What are you going to do?' Mathews said. He didn't argue with Leary, there wasn't any point. He had an instinct which never failed.

‘Put a tail on her,' Leary said. The first thing is to keep a watch on her apartment. And you're going to pick up your romance right where you left off. I've cleared it with her, you're her contact from now on. Everything she finds out about Eddi King she passes on to you.'

‘You mean she agreed to this?' Mathews couldn't believe it. ‘She looks on me like a bad smell.'

‘Sure she does; don't we all?' Leary grinned at him. ‘But she saw the logic in it. You won't be suspected; you've called before, so to speak. Besides, she's got a score to pay off against the people who sabotaged that plane. Apart from keeping her little secret—whatever it is.'

‘What could it be—the secret?'

‘I don't know,' Leary admitted. ‘My guess is there's a man mixed up in it, and sure as hell it isn't Eddi King. From now on she's your assignment, Pete. You get her apartment under twenty-four-hour watch, and start reintroducing yourself. I have another hunch. I believe we're on to something more than just a big-time fellow traveller. I think we're getting close to something really big.'

Keller had followed instructions exactly. He left Elizabeth's apartment within half an hour of the telephone call, took the subway to Times Square and began to walk to the address he had written down on the piece of paper in his pocket. It was the first time he had been out on the street alone; several times he stopped to check that he was going the right way. He had never imagined that New York could be a dirty city; driving within the perimeter of Elizabeth's golden circle had given him no indication of the littered streets and sleazy houses, peopled by sullen drifters in the district he now entered. 9th Avenue was very wide; it reminded him in some ways of the strong-smelling markets of the East, with its stalls packed with fruit and vegetables and the strench of the fish markets. Traffic roared and lumbered up the centre, shoppers hung around or jostled irritably, their arms full of packages. There were Negroes and hybrid Puerto Ricans accompanied by hordes of screaming children running races through the crowds, shouting cheerfully to each other in Spanish; down-at-heel women arguing over the food prices, a single drunk slumped against a shop front, his feet sticking out, his face turned upward to a sun that wasn't shining, his eyes tight shut in a blissful alcoholic dream. It was different in detail but essentially the same as most of Keller's other stopping places. Dirt and smells and mean humanity. This was where he belonged, with all the other members of that universal brotherhood the poor. Who so far had shown no sign of inheriting the earth. He looked at the piece of paper again and tried to stop someone to ask, but no one waited; they just shouldered past him and one man turned and swore. Morries Hotel. He crossed, avoiding a large truck on its way to the Port Authority building. The ground floor of the hotel was a bookstore. As soon as Keller walked in he recognised it for what it was. Naked girls in coy erotic poses cavorted from racks of magazines; cheap paperbacks with pornographic titles were on display, and these were only the façade on what the store was really selling. The collections of perverted photographs and really filthy publications were kept out of sight. There was a narrow stair which smelt as stale as the inside of the store itself, as if the customers had impregnated the air with their furtive scent. On the second floor there was a desk or a table that did duty for it, with a man in his shirt-sleeves leaning over it, picking his teeth with a splintered match. He didn't even bother to look up at first. He was thin and round-shouldered, with greasy hair stuck down in streaks over his scalp, and glasses wedged on the nobbly bridge of his nose. When he did look up the lenses were so thick that the little eyes behind them almost disappeared.