Paradise Spells Danger

by George B Mair

  He was lying, alone, under a tree in some sort of forest. Rough twigs were pressing against his skin and he was stark naked. An envelope had been anchored to a string tied around his neck and his face felt as though he hadn’t shaved in days. His hands were dirty and his mouth dry as a board. Even his lips felt swollen and he was ravenously hungry.

  He opened the envelope almost without thinking, but the letter jerked him back into full consciousness.

  Dear Doctor Grant,

  Next time don’t use ground-floor suites

  You were gassed and drugged while you slept and taken out of the hotel inside laundry baskets.

  The ladies were allowed to regain consciousness after they were airborne on my private helicopter but we decided to keep you out of harm’s way until we had arranged final disposal.

  The company divided after our first touch-down in Laos and the ladies are now in good care elsewhere.

  You, however, were crated for a long-haul flight and taken to a country where I have a certain pull and where there are no bothersome customs formalities. From there you travelled in another helicopter close to where you have wakened up and I confess that your situation is awkward. But then you must learn not to interfere in affairs of people like myself.

  Indeed you are only alive because of the very large fortunes which, as a trio, you now control.

  The ladies have already seen the wisdom of signing over their resources to myself, and even if weeks must elapse before all stocks can be realised or property sold I expect to receive mostly everything within a few days.

  Their lives, however, will depend on you transferring at least a substantial sum, as evidence of sincerity, to the address and account number listed below.

  Five millions sterling as a first payment will keep your women safe, and since there is no dispute concerning Admiral Cooper’s will you should be able to raise this as a loan almost overnight.

  The banking house to be used cannot be influenced by any authority with which you may have association. But if you are known to be making enquiries or if you attempt to track me down and are known to be planning some rescue attempt your women will be sent to work in a rather sleazy brothel which operates as one of my own fringe activities.

  If you then still continue to do anything except raise money and transfer it to myself they will be killed.

  Further instructions will reach you when you make contact with the address below, and after you have transferred the first five millions.

  As a final encouragement may I add that I shall make it possible for you to meet me after the money transfers have been completed. It is even possible that you may then collect your ladies and return to normal living. Meanwhile insure their immediate security by transferring the first five millions without delay.

  The letter was signed with a curious flowing scrawl and the bank’s address with account number printed in black by hand.

  Grant was cold, but he re-read the letter twice. It made sense and he cursed himself only for believing that the almost unknown opposition had been wiped out or discouraged from further attack. The sun was high, but the air was cool and he suspected that he was in Europe. The trees were conifers mixed with elms, oak, a few chestnut and one magnificent maple, but the place was too tidy, he felt, for it to be England and the general ‘feel’ of the forest reminded him of continental Europe.

  He lifted the envelope and took a bearing estimated from moss around the tree trunks and the sun, hoping that he was travelling south-west by south. For some reason which was difficult to understand he was convinced that it was early afternoon. After more than a mile he came upon a break in the trees and found that the ground began to slope downhill. He had a glimpse of small houses in the distance, but it was impossible to guess how they were built. On balance he still guessed that they weren’t English. His feet had become painful but he had blacked out all consideration of the future until he had made contact with someone, somewhere.

  As he picked his way downhill a bull terrier jumped from behind a cluster of bushes ahead, marked him, and stood, hairs bristling, and ready for action. Seconds later two men came into view. One was holding a double barrel shot-gun and the other a game-bag. They looked curiously at the dog and then turned towards Grant as he lifted a hand and shouted a greeting in German. ‘Can you help me? I’m not mad or something. Just in trouble.’

  They looked at him curiously as he approached and then the man with the gun smiled slightly. ‘What sort of trouble?’ he asked in German.

  Grant decided to tell as much of the truth as possible. He had been kidnapped along with two other people in south-east Asia and drugged for several days. The people concerned had their own reasons for keeping him alive and were holding the other two for ransom. He had been dumped in an unknown place, presumably to give the kidnappers time to make a complete getaway, and he wanted only clothing, perhaps a little money, and the use of a phone. He forced a cracked smile which hurt his lips. ‘And I’d like to know what country I’m in.’

  The dog had curled up on the ground but was still alert and puzzled, while its master sounded completely cynical. ‘You are in Austria. But even if I find your story difficult to believe it is certain you need attention. Your German is atrocious, but in spite of your appearance you have the manner of a gentleman, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.’ He spoke rapidly to the keeper beside him and pointed a direction. ‘We’ll go along here. My name is Axel von Schroeder and I have a small shooting lodge with facilities. Not too far.’

  Even if not ‘too far’, the walk was far enough for Grant’s bruised and scratched feet, but von Schroeder asked no personal questions until he had clothed his guest in grey-green knickerbockers and fresh underwear. Bath water had been tepid, but all in all Grant felt a new man when, an hour or so later, Eva, the house-servant, ushered him into a comfortable timbered room rich in deep leather chairs and Kalim rugs, grey-blue pottery and a few heads of stags or boar mounted round the wall. He stretched himself luxuriously and lit one of his host’s Montecristo Number One cigars. ‘Almost my own favourite,’ he said. ‘You have been most kind.’

  Von Schroeder bowed. ‘What is your favourite cigar?’

  ‘Hoyo de Monterrey. And I don’t use them so often. Cigarettes as a rule.’

  ‘Each to his taste. But now, I fancy, you may feel better after a little easily digested food.’ Von Schroeder pressed a button and a heavy trolley was wheeled into the room. The Austrian drank beer and munched sausages with salami and sauerkraut while Grant wondered what genius had hit upon exactly the right dishes to soothe his stomach without starting an ulcer.

  A plate of slightly warmed chicken broth reminded him of childhood in Scotland. The perfectly grilled river trout might have been lifted from any river between the Tweed and Findhorn. Poached eggs with spinach were more acceptable than any steak in his present condition, and stewed apples dressed with local farm cream rounded off an ideal meal. He drank only apple juice but joined his host in a final coffee. ‘I feel a new man,’ he said at last. ‘Difficult to know how to thank you.’

  Axel von Schroeder was thoughtful. Grant was too finely drawn and still haggard, but he seemed to have a strong constitution and the Austrian was anxious to talk. ‘Any idea what day it is?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Well, it is Monday. Any comment?’

  Grant whistled softly. ‘We were kidnapped early on Wednesday morning. No wonder I feel bad. Doped to the eyebrows for five days and neither food nor fluid.’

  ‘South-east Asia, you said?’ The Austrian handed over some newspapers. ‘Your German is dreadful but maybe you can translate enough to understand.’

  The headlines had splashed a story. An American had been murdered in Bangkok’s best hotel. Three other bodies had been found in his room. Two women and one man were wanted by the police for questioning but had disappeared from their hotel at another address. The man had recently inherited an enormous fortune from an American millionaire who had been
accidentally killed in Brussels a few days earlier and the authorities were also anxious to trace him in order to wind up the estate.

  A reasonable photograph of Grant was printed alongside the headlines above a question printed in red type. is this man a spy? A potted biography followed and ended with a paragraph stating that Interpol had been alerted.

  Grant forced a smile. ‘At least they haven’t yet got photographs of the others.’

  Von Schroeder lit his first cigar with unusual care. ‘Would you be inclined to fill in any details which might seem important to a man like myself who dislikes becoming involved with police or publicity?’

  ‘The papers have got it more or less right,’ said Grant at last. ‘I inherited a deal of money, and a man who had originally intended to kill us all changed his plans at the last moment. Or to be more accurate, his hatchet man used his own initiative when he found that we had become quite wealthy, and decided on a kidnapping with demand for ransom.’

  ‘And who is this enemy? Or shouldn’t I ask that question?’

  ‘The newspaper asks if I am a spy. Well, I was a spy, but I resigned my appointment when I inherited. My enemy is a man on the “other side” whom we crossed during another mission.’ Grant was a firm believer in sticking as near to truth as possible. But he also believed in attacking. ‘From my point of view it is difficult to imagine that they would have dumped me only a mile or so from a private house. And in a situation like this I can’t help wondering if even you are involved. After all, the people I’m up against are no fools and would have a pretty accurate idea of how I would be placed when I wakened up. Difficult to accept that they would leave me so near to civilisation.’

  The Austrian smiled slightly. ‘We saw a helicopter go over yesterday evening. But we were inside and the house is normally closed at this time of year. I came only because I’m convalescing from overwork and a slight heart attack. You are about thirty kilometres from the Hungarian frontier and fifty from Vienna. A chopper could very well have flown at tree top height from either Hungary or Czechoslovakia. I wouldn’t even rule out Yugoslavia, and there are several clearings where it might have touched down, though it seems they must have carried you for a few hundred metres if you wakened up deep inside the forest. But I certainly don’t operate in your sort of world, so have no anxiety on that score.’ The conversation had slipped into English and von Schroeder spoke with the accent of Kensington Palace Gardens. Or the older universities. It was difficult to place him.

  ‘Then may I rest here overnight?’ said Grant, ‘and I would appreciate a long distance phone call.’

  The Austrian became vaguely professional. ‘You are British?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were a British spy?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘I worked for a security organisation operated by the NATO powers.’

  ‘But you have now resigned?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you propose to try to negotiate the release of two ladies who have been kidnapped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But as I understand these matters from reading the news, people in your position cannot go to the police or the victims of the kidnap may be killed.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So I imagine that you are hoping to make contact with some unofficial persons who may be willing or able to help.’

  Grant paused for a second. ‘Correct. But why the questions?’

  ‘Phone calls can be traced and I do not wish to be involved.’

  ‘Well, may I have a few hundred schillings? Enough to see me through until I can return to normal living?’

  Von Schroeder laughed. ‘Doctor Grant, my dear fellow. People like you don’t ever return to “normal” living. Because you aren’t a normal person. But I’ll help you moneywise. How much do you need?’

  ‘Say one hundred sterling.’

  ‘You are modest, doctor. Let’s say two-fifty. It will be ready for you in the morning. But how do you propose to avoid the police?’

  Grant felt suddenly tired. ‘May I tell you in the morning?’ I think a long sleep would help to get rid of drug hang-over.’

  The Austrian showed him to his room. ‘Actually I’m a physician myself. May I give you a once-over? You look pretty rough.’ He pointed to the bed. ‘Get on to that and I’ll see you in a moment.’

  He returned with an electrocardiograph and sphygmomanometer, stethoscope and thermometer, while Grant watched with a wary eye. He hated medical examinations more than most men but accepted that this one might be necessary.

  Twenty minutes later the Austrian sat down to study his graphs. ‘Quite good. But you’ve had a bad time. Blood pressure a little too low and temperature still subnormal. Weight also down a bit.’ He looked vaguely embarrassed. ‘One part of me rather envies you. Maybe because I’ve had too much security. And I suppose the fact that we’re both doctors reminds me that dog doesn’t eat dog. These two girls worry me. Was that phone call really important?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then make it and you’ll sleep better. But promise that you’ll not start running amok until I give the all clear. Two days minimal in bed seems unavoidable, with some graduated exercises on the third and fourth. Do you agree?’

  Grant forced himself to think straight. And it was unanswerable that he had to be as near top form as possible if he were to stand a chance of clearing up the mess. Four days meant cutting it fine. But it was better than nothing. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Then Eva will come up with the phone and plug it in. I won’t ask questions and we have no extension.’ He opened a small bottle from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Take two of these after you are finished. Just valmidate. But it will give you a better natural sleep and tomorrow will be another day.’ He bowed almost automatically and gently closed the door.

  The phone arrived while he was planning exactly what he would say to Krystelle’s brother Frank and his dead-pan partner, Harry.

  The lines to Paris were clear and he got through in less than ten minutes. ‘Frank?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘David Grant here.’

  ‘Yup. Recognised the voice.’

  ‘Get the news coverage from Bangkok and district over the last five days. Or have you heard?’

  ‘Sure. Some guy’s got Krystelle and another dame.’

  ‘Harry and you free?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then check in at Sacher’s Thursday night and see you Friday afternoon or evening.’

  ‘Message received.’

  ‘Plus personal baggage and plenty spares.’

  ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘I mean Mr. Smith and Mr. Wess. Got it?’ Frank wasn’t too quick on the uptake. ‘Also any novelties you got lying around.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And I need cash?’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ Frank chuckled throatily. ‘Papers say you’re loaded. How come?’

  ‘Later,’ said Grant impatiently. ‘Just concentrate on raising a stack of cash. Preferably U.S. dollars.’

  ‘Harry’s asking where the Hell yo’ve bin.’

  ‘Then tell him just out of circulation.’

  ‘He says will he bring his guitar.’

  Grant knew that this was Harry’s idea of humour and he had plugged it ever since he first discovered that Grant wasn’t a guitar man and couldn’t understand why Harry could think better while he was plucking out weird chords on his twelve string. ‘Any more questions?’

  There was a pause. ‘Harry says no. See you Friday. Ciao.’

  ‘Ciao.’ Grant hung up the receiver and fell asleep with the tablets still on the side table by the bed. It was the beginning of the longest rest he had had in ten years.

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

  Grant always had sense enough to co-operate, even when it meant drastically altering a campaign. But only when he was convinced that there was no other way. Krystelle had also taught him something of how to drop
a curtain on problems and concentrate on essentials. He was a perfect patient for three days and von Schroeder gave credit where it was due. ‘I could wish that all patients were equally sensible. But you’ve been rewarded by Nature. So the rest paid good dividends. Tomorrow you can go.’ He paused and measured his words: ‘I don’t want to interfere in things I don’t understand, but both television and the press are giving you a lot of publicity. And I imagine that the police are alert. Have you any ideas about avoiding recognition?’

  Grant had thought of shaving his scalp, using cheek plugs and asking permission to continue wearing his Tyrolean rig, but his German was so poor that he might easily be caught out, even by some casual stranger asking a question. ‘Nothing very bright, I’m afraid. But if you can help with clothes I would be grateful.’

  ‘I can do more,’ said the Austrian. ‘Many of the Opera people come here for parties or so. Quite a little collection of hair pieces may interest you. And I can offer a dark suit purchased in Washington a couple of years ago. We are much of a size and I’ve got a small overnight case with labels from twenty-odd hotels in two hemispheres, so you might as well be an American business man.’

  Grant was superstitious and felt that his luck had changed.

  That evening they dined together with Grant wearing a wig of unruly blonde hair which made him feel self-conscious. The charcoal-grey suit fitted better than he had expected and von Schroeder had produced a trendy shirt with matching tie which made him look like a certain tele-inquisitor on the Columbia circuit. His envelope had been stitched into the lining of the suit. He had an idea that it might be his only convincing explanation once the police made contact.

  He was even more content when he remembered a second call to Paris and the obscure conversation which had finally registered with Frank. An acceptable passport would be waiting at Sacher’s together with an international driving licence!

  He had even begun to figure out tactics in Istanbul!