Paradise Spells Danger

by George B Mair

  PARADISE SPELLS DANGER

  George B. Mair

  © George B. Mair 1973

  George B. Mair has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1973 by Jarrolds Publishers LTD.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One – ‘Us next’

  Chapter Two – ‘My name is Moogie’

  Chapter Three – ‘This begins to look like an orgy’

  Chapter Four – ‘Don’t let him fall in love with you’

  Chapter Five – ‘I could do with thirteen million’

  Chapter Six – ‘Therapy is cold-blooded’

  Chapter Seven – ‘Your circuit isn’t exactly cheap’

  Chapter Eight – ‘You didn’t say “friend”’

  Chapter Nine – ‘I never expected you to find it’

  Chapter Ten – ‘So you lied’

  Chapter Eleven – ‘Your last card, I think’

  Chapter Twelve – ‘A terrible kind of Hell if we couldn’t’

  To

  Ania

  who brings sunshine

  Chapter One – ‘Us next’

  Qantas flight 740 from New Delhi was within twenty minutes of touch-down at Bangkok when the senior steward paused beside David Grant and handed over a flimsy. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you can’t get away from it nowadays, can you?’

  The girl by the window seat stretched with anticipation as Grant scanned the message. ‘Someone must have problems,’ he said. ‘Qantas desk before leaving the terminal! And I thought we were on leave.’

  She lifted her glass of champagne. ‘Then to problems. Life would be kinda dull if it were all smooth.’

  ‘Not with you around.’ Grant tried to force his mind away from what might lie ahead and looked at her dispassionately. She was the most exciting woman he had ever known. Not beautiful, exactly, but striking! And one who fitted into his own eccentric life as though made to measure.

  She described herself as a fifty-seven variety multi-caste. But she was proud of her glowing cinnamon skin and knew that her mixed French with African blood had created something special. She was wearing apple green sandals with slimline hipster slacks in deep yellow, a tiny pair of gold ear-rings and a miniscule purple top which exposed her mid-riff. Jet black hair fell shoulder length to frame a forehead which was higher than usual for a woman, and her dark brown eyes were twinkling with sheer joy of living.

  ‘Poor David,’ she said, teasing, and reached across to touch his hand. ‘But relax, honey. You got that look again and it bothers me. We can cope, whatever it is.’

  Her fingers tightened against his skin. ‘What the Hell, anyhow! Office types who do nothing but make their puppets jump get into the habit of doing major productions instead of magazine spots. Forget them and let’s think of Bangkok. That name sends me. Just asking for the treatment. Have a bang in Bangkok, man! Or there’s a lotta kok in Bangkok. Or say, David, how ’bout this. The koks went bang in Bangkok. Kinda musical, don’t you think?’

  Grant stubbed out his cigarette and fastened his safety belt. Thailand simmered in the heat haze below, and a quarter hour later they were passing through immigration. Temperature was around 33 and humidity high . . . enough to make the customs more cussed than usual, and every piece of baggage was turned inside out. Neither of them liked re-packing and the holiday felt as though it might go sour before it had even started.

  ‘What a load of bull,’ said Krystelle. ‘That guy wasn’t even interested in the five bucks I had inside my passport. Let’s get the Hell out of heah and see what’s on file at the Qantas desk. I feel like a bath.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Grant. ‘Part of the new anti-corruption routines. The new government’s hot for a cleaning-up operation. Anyhow let’s see what’s got into the boss-men back home.’

  A doll-like Thai girl bowed when she heard his name and reached towards a pigeon hole. ‘Welcome to Bangkok and please sign here.’

  Grant scrawled a signature and slipped the envelope into his pocket while a boy organised transport. The girl studied him with professional interest. ‘Bangkok not so good now. Not too many G.I.s, but have a good time and happy to have been of service.’

  ‘Siam Inter-Continental,’ said Grant as he settled Krystelle into the back of a Mercedes, closed the door and thumbed the flap of his message.

  The text was in code, but a 1959 Folio Society edition of A Life of the Buddha was used as key and the book was a permanent part of his hand baggage during any visit to Asia.

  They were nearing the outskirts of the city when he finally closed the pages. ‘Nothing that won’t keep,’ he said at last. ‘Anyhow, we’re nearly there, and you’ll like it. One of the top five hotels in the world.’

  She followed his cue, conscious that the driver had been studying them through his mirror. ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘Bed till noon. We got dysrhythia and our body rhythms are shot to blazes because we’ve stepped seven hours out of line since London.’

  ‘So we can get a hang-up till we adjust?’

  ‘Sleep is first priority.’

  The Chinese chauffeur glanced over his shoulder. ‘You nice people organised?’

  ‘Maybe later.’ Grant respected the importance of fatigue due to time differences in long-haul air travel and was determined to convalesce in comfort.

  ‘Maybe later never come,’ said the driver cynically. ‘Better fix now.’ He pulled out a copy of Bangkok After Dark and handed it over to the back seat. ‘Try the Pimam for dinner and floor show around nine o’clock with the Montientong after midnight.’

  ‘Just drive,’ snapped Grant. ‘Sleep comes first.’

  ‘You don’t come to Bangkok to sleep, man. One day you’ll sleep a long time. Maybe for good. Out here we got better thing to do.’ He pulled out a card. ‘Ask for Li. Just Li.’

  Grant shook his head. He hated touts more than most travellers and was strictly a loner.

  The driver stared at him curiously. ‘Say, mister. You got dough, but I’ve a living to make. So take it easy now and let’s talk business. Maybe we could go to the river Kwai or get the lady some Chinese silk. I fix good price. Cousin of my wife. Very rich quality imported from Shanghai.’

  ‘We’ll think about it.’ Grant was vaguely ashamed of having been so curt.

  ‘Or maybe you like live shows, huh? Difficult find blue movies now but live shows easy.’ His voice trailed off as he saw Krystelle laughing at him. ‘Just an idea, ma’am. Some tourists dig it.’

  He swung the car into the hotel grounds and smiled defeat. ‘Take my card. Tomorrow maybe you feel better.’

  Grant followed Krystelle into the corridor and signed in. ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said as they walked through the gardens to their suite. ‘But right now a shower and some thinking work. That radio contact brought bad medicine. Let’s talk outside. The flowers look good.’

  There was still an hour or two of daylight left when they finally sauntered back into gardens which were blazing with colour. The pool area was unusually busy, but a gleam of crimson and gold caught Krystelle’s eye and she angled Grant towards a tiny, pagoda-like garden feature. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘A spirit house. Every home or hotel has one. The household God lives there and they feed Him daily. But we’ll get a seat in the park.’ He watched a monkey playing in the trees, lit a cigarette and gave it to the girl. ‘Bad news! The Admiral and Miss Sidders were killed yesterday afternoon in a motor accident. A side street on the outskirts of Brussels. The Admiral died immediately but Miss Sidders lived long enough to dictate a stor
y into her tape and had it sent to Professor Juin along with our flight number and address. He forwarded it to Signals and Communications before pushing off in a hurry to Paris. Hence the “urgent” routine.’

  Krystelle knew that the news would have hit him hard.

  Admiral John Silas Cooper had been executive director of NATO’s Administrative Department controlling Security measures relating to Attack and Defence since the middle 50s and Grant had joined ADSAD in 1963.

  Miss Sidders had been the Admiral’s personal secretary, and the bonds forged between these three very different types of people had become fantastically strong.

  Admiral Cooper had been a top-flight intelligence agent in his day, but had taken naturally to a job which stretched his imagination and initiative behind a desk. His flair for sifting fragmentary reports and then concentrating (often with little real evidence) on the few which really mattered, had made him one of the most wanted men in several countries ‘on the other side.’

  Grant, who also operated on hunches, had been his hatchet man and they made a deadly combination.

  Miss Sidders had ‘mothered’ the Admiral, and been, as often as not, a caustic critic of David Grant, yet they had learned to love one another in a sense which Krystelle had found difficult to understand. Until she too had come not only to respect, but to love, in a special way the woman who lived only for her work . . . and for her own two ‘boys’ as she sometimes called them.

  Professor Juin had never reached that inner circle, yet he was the top echelon scientist who had made much of ADSAD’s success in the field possible.

  A thought crossed the girl’s mind. What else had been said in the news flash?

  ‘Accident was maybe murder,’ said Grant. ‘The Admiral was driving when an articulated lorry swerved towards them after leaving the dual carriageway. He piled against guard rails above a basement and was killed outright. Miss Sidders says the lorry had no number plates but . . .’ he paused. ‘Remember her knack of taking in detail at a glance. Well, she saw the driver’s photo on file three years ago when he was mugged by one of our people during a squabble around the Italian frontier. The name is Mark Goodenough. English but married to a French girl and living in Cannes. Ex-public school and an honours graduate in science, speaks with a W.1 accent and said to be loaded.

  ‘Not a likely suspect in a hit and run lorry case! But he’s known to be a rally car driver. His politics are anyone’s guess, though he is in thick with broad-minded liberal intellectuals and has a weakness for the dolce vita.

  ‘Miss Sidders died trying to give a run down on the co-driver who is the Mick Jagger type, but with “cold blue eyes”.’

  Krystelle laughed aloud. ‘Where do you get that stuff, man? An old lady is dying but she remembers a guy with “cold blue eyes”. All after a couple of split seconds!’

  Grant kissed her hand. ‘No snide remarks. I once showed her a chess board half way through a game. She looked at it for three seconds on my stop watch, yet next day she could set up the pieces correctly. Snap! Just like that. She was fantastic. A sort of freak.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘I’ve got a notion to contact your brother. If he would play along, his organisation could be our own first line researchers until they dig up a lead.’

  ‘While we stay here?’

  ‘Could be?’

  Grant’s idea of introducing Frank and his friend Harry into the situation had taken Krystelle off-guard. Harry was a killer with a weakness for twelve-string guitars and didn’t take kindly to strangers. Yet he had worked with Grant before and made a huge profit. He might, just might, do it again. But she didn’t like it. Brother Frank was Harry’s partner and Krystelle knew that with him Grant’s rating was high. Frank, she felt, would go in up to the neck given a chance. But she still didn’t like it. They normally worked between the French Channel ports and Algiers, but Paris was H.Q. and neither was completely at ease away from his own beat.

  ‘You’ll miss the old people,’ she said at last. ‘And how will it affect your job with NATO?’

  ‘Of course I’ll miss them. But I’m going to quit that NATO set-up. Any interest I had left in ADSAD died with the Admiral.’

  ‘Why?’ Krystelle had long suspected Grant’s increasing disenchantment with the changing scene in political Europe but his decision still surprised her.

  ‘Because I want to be free. Miss Sidders once said that I was half a crook anyhow.’

  ‘And that I was the other half?’

  ‘More or less. Anyhow as from now on I’m independent. Too many people are operating above the law. Above suspicion you might say. And it can happen that the law, which one may call the right hand, needs help from the left hand more than it ever did before. Well, I’ve got the training and between us we can cope better than most.’

  The girl smiled broadly. ‘Did you say “between us?” Is that an invitation?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘Wasn’t thinking. I just took it for granted.’

  Krystelle slowly lit a cigarette. ‘Never take me for granted, David. Never take anything you value for granted. It’s bad policy. But I’ll forgive you this time because this thing has gotten you into a tight orbit. Just remember one or two small things about your li’l Krystelle. After that Argentine affair[1] you once told me that Miss Sidders estimated my profit at a million sterling. I never told you that it actually grossed only nine hundred thousand. Still it’s a nice round figure. Especially when added to another four hundred thousand I had put together before we met. So I can contribute a million and a quarter to the new firm’s current account and still have a little left over for my old age. What will your contribution be?’

  Grant looked at her curiously. This was a new Krystelle and a new slant which he had never suspected. ‘Call it ninety thousand in cash without selling up my flat. What are you getting at?’

  ‘Just that a business can’t run without funds. When you were working for the Admiral the sky was the limit, but as a free-lance ninety thousand plus a flat in hock would be the ceiling. How much were you aiming to pay Harry or Frank? Ninety thousand is pin-money for these two boys. Expenses run high around Pigalle, and even if Harry does happen to be a music lover the sweetest sound he ever hears is hard cash collecting in his money box: tinkle tinkle! Just like that. So any ideas?’

  ‘I’ve got the message,’ said Grant. ‘I’m on my own. Right?’

  ‘You’re a lousy business man, David. Or have you a thing about just not opening bank statements?’

  He shook his head, puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Your bank managers must be frantic. Two-thirds of that nine hundred thousand was paid into your accounts between London and Paris as soon as the stuff was sold. And it came to nine because the boys charged ten per cent commission. So now you see what I mean about Harry and Frank thinking big. They got a cool quarter million American dollars . . . more or less . . . out of little me. So maybe you now got another point. They figure charity begins at home. At their home.

  ‘Anyhow,’ she paused, ‘you got more than you thought for running costs so we pay the rent for a few weeks.’

  ‘That money was yours,’ said Grant. ‘I don’t want any bit of it.’

  ‘I know how you tick,’ said the girl patiently. ‘But you’ve got it just the same. That B.A. affair was strictly your show. I only saved some things from the fire towards the end. Nothing to it. And don’t worry about questions being asked by the bank. Frank did it all very legal. Someone died in Paris and you were sole heir. Papers are in order and the solicitors who handled things don’t make mistakes. Especially when Harry’s looking over one shoulder and Frank over the other. No tax problems. You’re in the clear from start to finish.’

  Grant decided to argue later. ‘Well, can we be partners?’

  ‘Where? Socially, in bed or in business?’

  ‘All three.’

  ‘That a proposal?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘For Gawd’s sake, man, quit a
sking why,’ snapped Krystelle. ‘I once told you that you can gel up my hormones. Well, you still can. But marriage is strictly out. Surest way to kill any good relationship. And asking questions is just as bad. Why why why! For crissake, man, think. If I were yo’ wife I’d have to answer all these whys. But so long as I just stick to being yo’ lover then you can stuff the whys. Okay? And another thing. I’m in this partnership whether you bloody want it or not. So quit talking and get into bed. I’ve got things to do. Like screwing the daylights out of you for example. This is supposed to be a honeymoon, or a holiday or something. Well, the old people are dead. But we’re still alive and the world’s got to go on until some stupid bastard blows it up. Right! You want to be a kind of do-gooder and knock off a list of maladjusted psychos who rate high in the social scale but who would be better dead. I’ve heard it all before. Fact is I could set it to music. Well, we’ll do it. But all in good time. And we’ll think about it tomorrow when this seven hour time thing has gotten itself controlled. I feel as loused up as a teenage screw-ball after a weekend pop festival in the rain at Scunthorpe, England. So that’s settled. And tomorrow we can think.’

  ‘Or ask for Li.’

  ‘Li or Loo! Who cares? Now let’s get into the sack.’

  Grant had ordered a meal before leaving the suite. Passion fruit juice was one of Krystelle’s favourite starters and the Lasagne Verde which followed was her favourite soup in warm weather. The steak Asara with a bottle of 1959 Musigny came as a novelty, while the cheese board rounded matters off nicely.

  ‘I wanted to go to bed,’ she said approvingly, ‘but for once, honey, you knew better. That was all really very thoughtful. Especially after I had been so bitchy. But it wouldn’t be good for you if I always reacted the way you expected.’

  She kicked off her shoes. ‘You even remembered my flowers, and although not everyone would agree, you’re really very sweet, but I still can’t figure why you hit it off so well with Harry. That guy can still chill my blood. Even if he is a friend. Sort of.’