XPD (46 page)

Stuart hurried upstairs to where he could see a light burning, but as he got to the top of the stairs, a man’s voice said quietly, ‘Hold it pal, or I’ll blow you apart.’

Stuart turned to see someone he had not seen before. He was as big as the man he had seen at the pool but ten years older – a muscular man with high cheekbones and wavy grey hair. He was fully dressed in a single-breasted grey flannel suit. In his hand he held a .38 revolver very steady. It was Boyd Stuart’s first confrontation with Edward Parker, the USSR illegal.

‘Who are you?’ Parker said.

‘I’ll tell you who I am,’ said Stuart feigning anger. ‘I’m your bloody landlord, that’s who I am.’ It was a reckless improvisation but it seemed to work. He saw it in Parker’s face. ‘So you can put away that damned gun or I’ll have you thrown out.’ It was Stuart’s British accent that helped the deception – that and Stuart’s confidence and obvious lack of fear.

‘Landlord?’

It was absurd, thought Stuart, that he could be so calm and calculating when men were waving guns at him. It had been like this in the shoot-out in the bus depot in Turin, and when the Hungarians spotlit him climbing through their border wire, to say nothing of going through the police lines in Rostock. ‘Yes,
landlord,
’ said Stuart. ‘I haven’t signed the agreement, you know – perhaps your lawyer hasn’t told you that …’

Parker frowned and tried to remember whom he had asked to arrange for the use of this safe house and what the details had been.

Stuart gesticulated angrily, waving his hands and shaking his head. It was all a matter of timing, of course. Stuart was watching the gun out of the corner of his eye. It scarcely wavered but Stuart had moved closer. The closer a man is to such a weapon the safer he is, providing he is adroit and well trained, until, with a gun that actually touches the body, even a first-month trainee should be able to knock it aside more quickly than the trigger can be pulled.

‘Are you listening to me?’ said Stuart, keeping up the pressure and moving even closer. ‘I’m the landlord, not a burglar. Now put that damned gun away.’ That was probably as much as he would get out of that one, Stuart decided. Any moment now, Parker would stiffen, become more suspicious and he would have lost the momentary advantage.

Stuart chose his moment well. A gesture with the right hand, slightly more frenetic than the previous ones, became a hand chop that landed on Parker’s wrist, while Stuart’s left hand grasped the gun barrel and twisted hard. Parker’s fingers were trapped in the trigger guard and the wrist turned back hard enough to inflict severe pain and torn muscle. Parker screamed. By now Stuart had the pistol in his left hand. While Parker was still gulping air to fuel his screams, Stuart brought the pistol butt down upon his head. It skidded across Parker’s skull and took a small piece of flesh from his ear. This glancing blow would have felled most men, but Parker had exceptional strength. In spite of his pain, he continued to fight. His hand injured, he lowered his head and butted Stuart in the chest. It was like meeting the shovel of a bulldozer. It was Stuart’s turn to grunt with pain but he kept hold of the gun, and still held it in his hand as Parker locked his arms round him in a bear hug that squeezed the air from his lungs.

The two men blundered round the landing like some broken mechanical toy. Stuart felt his strength going and struggled to breathe. He kicked viciously. Now he had lost his cold calm, and his actions were generated by a growing panic as he swung his weight backward and forward, trying to break free from the terrible bear hug that seemed to black out his brain. His strength was almost spent when Parker’s foot missed the edge of the landing and the two of them, still locked in the embrace, crashed down the stairs, rolling over and over, arms and legs thrashing the air, elbows, knees and heads rattling upon the uprights, and bodies bumping down the carpeted steps.

It was Stuart’s good fortune that Parker’s head hit one of the carved roses with enough force to chip the wooden petals from it and render Parker unconscious. Stuart took a moment or two to recover himself and then, with leaden footsteps, he dragged himself back up to the upper landing.

‘Who is it?’ It was Stein’s voice. He had heard the commotion.

‘It’s Stuart – the Brit,’ called Stuart. ‘Stand away from the door.’ He put his foot up and, bracing his hand flat against the wall behind him, kicked at the lock. The door splintered and left the remains of the lock dangling from the frame.

Charles Stein was inside. He was in his underclothes and bound to a chair with a nylon clothesline, but he had managed to loosen the sticky tape from his face and spit out the gag. A low wattage bulb provided meagre light.

Stuart reached into his pocket for the Swiss Army knife that was a part of his normal attire. He sawed at the nylon until it parted. Stein remained in the chair and began rubbing his ankles where the bindings had constricted him.

‘Who are these bastards?’ said Stein.

‘They work for the Russians,’ said Stuart. ‘Can you walk? We’ve got to get out of here, there are more of them.’

Stein was still rubbing his wrists and ankles as the blood gradually resumed its circulation. He looked at the pistol that Stuart was holding. ‘You didn’t shoot any of them?’

‘Not yet,’ said Stuart, helping the fat man to his feet.

‘I can make it,’ said Stein.

‘You go ahead. There’s a car at the front.’ Stuart looked at his watch. ‘At least it will be there two minutes from now; a light green Cadillac. Get inside and wait for me.’

Stein hobbled down the stairs clinging to the baluster rail and flinching with the pain. When he got to the unconscious form of Parker at the foot of the stairs, he stepped over him gingerly.

‘Go ahead,’ called Stuart. One by one he looked into the rooms to check them. They were all empty, until he got to the main hall and opened the door that led to the drawing room and to the kitchen beyond it. Inside the drawing room he found his case officer and the girl, in the beachrobe. She was standing disconsolately in the middle of the room, while the case officer pointed a pistol at her.

‘All clear upstairs?’ the case officer asked Stuart.

‘Seems to be OK,’ said Stuart. ‘Stein is groggy but he’s able to walk. The big grey-haired fellow is out for the count.’

‘I heard you come down the stairs with him.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ said Stuart bitterly.

‘You were doing all right.’

Stuart rubbed his grazed and battered face. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

The girl pulled her beachrobe tighter round her body and tugged at its knotted belt. ‘Where’s the other one?’ Stuart asked.

‘One of my boys is taking care of him in the kitchen,’ said the case officer.

‘A neat job,’ said Stuart. It had been a perfect snatch-squad operation. From the twenty-four-hour watch at the airport to seeing Rocky Paz kidnapping Stein as he came out on to the street from the baggage hall, it had been exemplary. But perhaps Stuart was tempting providence to say so, for no sooner were the words out of his mouth then there was the sound of two shots and a cry of pain. As if on cue, the girl dashed for the door. The case officer fired but the bullet went high and ricocheted off the oak ceiling of the hallway beyond.

Stuart ran towards the front door to make sure Stein was in the car, but he was nowhere to be seen and Parker was no longer stretched out on the floor; two more bullets whined past Stuart’s head. He turned and, using Parker’s gun, fired at the upper landing where the gun flashes had come from.

Someone had extinguished the fluorescent lights in the kitchen. The inside of this shuttered house was dark. There were two more shots and the sound of feet coming down the stairs very fast. The big man with ringlets came past, pumping a shell into a shotgun. He kicked the inner door open so that it swung round and banged against the wall. The daylight from the doorway lit the hall like a photo flash. There, in the rectangle of the doorway, Stuart saw the whole scene. There was the unnaturally blue water of the pool, a great transparent cube against the dark greenery, and framing it a fringe of bright flowers. The case officer had gone through the kitchen and now was running along the poolside as the man raised the shotgun.

There was no time to think. Stuart aimed and fired automatically. The ringleted man in the doorway was too close to miss. The bullet shattered his shoulder blade, as Stuart intended that it should, and the shotgun went off and covered the surface of the pool with a thousand tiny splashes. The man was yelling, and kept yelling even after he too had tumbled forward into the hot bubbling water of the jacuzzi.

Stuart ran forward and on to the patio. The case officer had turned towards the sound of the shotgun. ‘Take the car,’ he yelled to Stuart, and already he was kicking open the decorative tea house at the end of the garden to be sure that Stein was not there.

From the front of the house Stuart heard the Cadillac engine as the getaway car arrived. He ran round the side of the house and jumped into it. The driver was tickling the gas pedal nervously. Stuart pushed him aside and climbed behind the wheel. ‘Jesus, what a mess,’ said the driver. ‘Of all places … Beverly Hills, where the cops are thickest. They’ll be all over us.’

Even as the car began rolling forward the double gates were closing. Stuart had studied them closely from the outside during his half-hour of gardening. They were electrically controlled, reinforced with steel cross-braces and topped with a tangle of barbed wire. ‘Hold tight!’ shouted Stuart above the noise of the engine. ‘We’re going to have to get a good run up to it.’ He put the car into reverse and touched the accelerator. The Cadillac shot backwards. Before he could apply the brake, the back of the car had crashed through the conservatory. There was a sound like heavy surf hammering on to the beach as the glass shattered and potted plants and shelving crashed down upon them. A flower pot broke upon the roof of the car, scattering earth and a dozen seedlings over the windscreen. Stuart revved the engine as the rear bumper locked into the bent ironwork. It broke free with a bang and the car sped forward faster and faster until it hit the gates with a clang like a peal of bells. It ripped the hinges and tangled up the barbed wire. With a terrible scream of tyres it broke loose and Stuart brought the steering wheel round as the car skidded across the grass and on to the road. Something caught in the car’s underside, rattled loudly, then broke free. They were free.

‘We lost your dad,’ Stuart told Billy Stein.

‘What in hell does that mean; you lost him?’

The three men were in the sitting room of the Steins’ home. The case officer was in an armchair near the window, pretending to be fully occupied by the view across the city of Los Angeles. Without turning round he said, ‘Your dad was in his underclothes – bright blue shorts and singlet – he came out of the house holding on to a towel round his neck. We thought he was jogging.’

‘You thought he was jogging!’ said Billy Stein. ‘I hear you talking about guns going off, and girls screaming. You wreck the car, ramming the gates. You thought my dad was jogging! You told me you were going to rescue him.’

‘We did rescue him,’ said the case officer. ‘But he scrambled over the fence and came out through the front lawn of the house next door.’

‘Jesus,’ said Billy Stein. ‘You’ve got to hand it to the old man. Concussed in a car accident, kidnapped by the Russians, held prisoner until you rescue him and then he takes off up the road in his underpants …’

‘We’re laying it all on the line for you,’ said Stuart, ‘because we need to know where he’s likely to go.’

Billy Stein smiled. ‘He won’t come here. He’s not so dumb that he’ll come home where you are waiting for him.’

‘Does he have an apartment anywhere?’

‘What the tabloids call a love-nest; is that what you mean? No, that’s not him at all. My dad was never that subtle, or extravagant. If he had some kind of affair going he’d have brought the girl right back here to the house. You can forget that one.’

‘Clubs?’

Billy Stein shook his head. ‘Only his regular poker game.’

‘We’re going to leave one of our people here in the house,’ said Stuart.

‘That’s OK,’ said Billy Stein. ‘There’s lots of food and stuff.’ He looked at Stuart for a moment before continuing. ‘You’re not kidding about the Russians? Did they really kidnap the old man?’

‘Your dad will tell you all about it, once we find him,’ said Stuart.

Encouraged by the friendly tone in Stuart’s voice, Billy Stein said, ‘It was a frame-up in London, wasn’t it, Mr Stuart? Your people know I didn’t kill anyone?’

The case officer turned his head to see how Stuart handled this question.

‘It was a frame-up,’ Stuart replied. ‘But they could make it stick if you don’t co-operate with us.’

‘I’ll co-operate,’ said Billy, ‘But I wanted to get it clear between you and me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is it OK for me to phone Mary Breslow?’

‘You phoned her this morning,’ the case officer said over his shoulder.

Stuart nodded his approval. ‘But Billy … nothing about your dad, or about the murder charge in London. Just sweet nothings, OK?’

‘Sure thing,’ said Billy.

‘You know Max Breslow was a Nazi?’ said the case officer.

‘You sound like my dad,’ Billy told him. ‘Are you another one of these guys who can’t stop fighting the war?’

‘Go and make your call,’ Stuart said. ‘But remember that the guy in the hall will be listening on the extension.’

‘You’re too damned soft with that kid,’ the case officer said after Billy’s departure.

‘I think he’s a good sort,’ said Stuart. ‘No grudges, no tantrums, no smart-ass remarks. Hell, even when I admit that he was framed in London he practically thanks me.’

‘Rich kids,’ said the case officer. ‘They’re all like that.’

‘Are they?’ said Stuart. ‘Then let’s hope I meet more of them.’

The case officer got up from Charles Stein’s favourite armchair, and took out his cigarettes so that he could light a fresh one from the stub in his fingers. ‘Chain-smoking,’ he said after it was alight. ‘Does that disgust you?’ Stuart didn’t reply. ‘Because it disgusts me.’ He stubbed the old cigarette out with unnecessary vigour. ‘OK, so I’m hard on the kid. You’re right; he’s OK.’