Black Champagne

by George B Mair

  They were now his friends. And Grant stirred uneasily as he realised that they were almost the only friends left, excepting those few with whom he worked in the department.

  His parents were dead. He seldom saw a brother who had been caught up in the rat race elsewhere. His chiefs in A.D.S.A.D., Admiral Cooper and Miss Sidders or Professor Juin were hardly friends, even if they were loyal as departmental bosses. Other women had faded from the scene, and city executives or even some of Maya’s Bohemian set were tiresome bores. But friends could also mean danger. He had learned that a long time ago. Which made it all the more peculiar that he was so much at ease with both Harry and Frank. Because they, for sure, were allergic to strangers and liked privacy. Yet for almost a year they had suffered an exception, and Grant knew that he now stood well with a set-up which could be as ruthless as his own.

  Then there was his former secretary, Jacqueline. She had lately turned up under a new name and with a new face as the Girl from Peking. She too had said that she loved him. But her political loyalty was not likely to be shaken, and a bamboo curtain would separate them for ever. Though they would meet again. Of that he was certain.

  What else?

  He revelled in the warmth which played on the skin of his face, and its taut lines crinkled into a contented mask of animal self-satisfaction. Money! The family estate had left him enough to get by, and when added to his salary this meant that he was almost loaded. Especially so long as he remained a bachelor.

  Status symbols! His Maserati Convertible was the only one which really mattered, because status symbols, as such, left him cold. And so long as he could always be sure of a warm welcome at the Meurice, at the Ritz, at Maxim’s or in London at the Savoy and Dorchester he was quite happy. Not forgetting, of course, Sachets in Vienna. He hated snobs but he loved comfort. Hiltons and Bunny Clubs left him unimpressed. They lacked tradition. It might come, of course, but not in his day.

  Expenses were high, but not too bad all things considered. Wine, food and the car. His own flat in Avenue de Villiers was cheap enough and the one in Kensington Gardens was usually sublet, kept on ice for the day when he might wish to change course in life. Apart from that, however, in these days it was a good property investment with prices rising monthly.

  He allowed himself to surface slightly and groped blindly for the cigarettes which sat on the small hinged table which was part of the bed. Anything further? Knowledge of a few languages, Arabic, Spanish and French plus a smattering of German and Italian. He liked to make love in French, quarrel in German and talk business in English, because, as King Farouk used to say, it was such a wonderful language for saying one thing and meaning another.

  His mind was clearing. He knew, vaguely, that something important had happened but fought against it, his subconscious still revelling in an orgy of self-admiration fantasy. But not all was fantasy! He had received at least one well earned recognition and was a Chevalier du Légion d’Honeur. Nor could anyone ignore his encyclopaedic memory for faces, his intimate knowledge of counter espionage or his built-in capacity to bluff out and endure danger to the end.

  He had also been told that Washington had listed him for a Congressional medal, but of course A.D.S.A.D. had refused permission to accept. Which raised the odd mystery as to why they had allowed him to take the Légion d’Honeur from le Général himself. But he did know that Washington understood and had promised him the moon ‘when he was free to use it’. Then, of course, he would get an O.B.E. or something when he retired. Perhaps even a knighthood when in the sixties. ‘For outstanding public service’ no doubt. Because he was on the conveyor belt towards being a member of an Establishment which issued gongs at regular intervals.

  His entries in Who’s Who in Europe were also a useful plug, and a sort of recognition if ever it came to fiddling money-spinning seats on boards of directors, while his knowledge of business at high level could be useful in this new racket of industrial espionage which looked like taking the place of straight traditional stuff. He sighed. Yes sir! There could still be a future for him there if ever he was axed by a politically sensitive department.

  He still refused to waken to reality and was revelling in the sensuous warmth of bed, a bed which was probably the most unusual in Europe. Fitted with every gadget human ingenuity could devise it enabled him to live, eat, sleep and love with a degree of comfort unequalled anywhere else. And he had plenty of other treasures. A decent collection of antiques for example. Rugs collected from much of Asia, and a few paintings which could raise a packet if ever they were auctioned. Maugham had given him a Gauguin which reminded him of Krystelle. Harry had celebrated one deal with an early Picasso. And he had purchased five early Donaldsons in Scotland years earlier before that talented little Scot had painted the monarch. Then of course, there was the small Rembrandt etching from Amsterdam and a Renoir from Avignon which were now part of his roots. They mattered.

  ‘You’ve been dreaming, David.’ The voice jerked him back to full consciousness and he looked up to see the enigmatic face of Professor Juin staring down upon him. Juin reminded him at times of the late Augustus John since he had grown a beard. But there the resemblance ended. The man was a machine, a sheerly brilliant scientist who could perform near miracles.

  ‘Hello.’ Grant was slightly elated, almost drunk. ‘How did you know I was dreaming?’

  Juin pointed to a tiny device strapped to Grant’s head and to the flex which led to a small apparatus which was recording a graph. ‘Our latest development of the electroencephalogram. You can see where the graph shows that you began to dream. I judge it lasted for almost fifteen minutes. And you are still drunk.’

  ‘Drunk?’ Grant sounded puzzled. And what the Hell was Juin doing in his room?

  The older man shrugged his shoulders. ‘A normal after effect of Epontol (plus). We used it to sift truth from allegation and as the quickest way to find out a few things which matter.’

  Grant felt unusually elated. The world really was interesting and exciting. Yet one part of him knew that he was out of focus, that something frightful had happened. Epontol! He forced himself to think rationally. Epontol (plus) that new truth drug! And what was this about truth from allegation?

  A nurse served strong black coffee with croissants and Grant saw Juin smile slightly as she closed the door. He began to whistle a few bars from Nabucco and Grant’s mind cleared almost instantly. Ferguson! What had happened?

  Juin beamed with genuine pleasure. ‘Some men are remarkable. I also brought in our top hypnotist to help and he arranged for you to recover slowly, returning “naturally”, as it were, to normal consciousness after your recent ordeals. But with no memory of recent events until I began to whistle that melody. He guaranteed that it would then trigger you back into sharp focus. And,’ said Juin triumphantly, ‘it worked. He’s a genius. Remember how we used him in that affair near Geneva to work a double bluff against the men who were hypnotising your own remarkable self?[5] Well David, I can assure you he’s lost nothing of his magic. You recovered as predicted. You experienced the normal elation associated with this drug. And the hypnotist’s counter-measures seem to have done all that was expected.’

  Grant stared at him incredulously and felt the bandage which covered his left shoulder. The thing had begun to sting. And then he remembered Ferguson laughing while he climbed into the helicopter. He had also some blurry memory of a blow on the chest. But the rest was darkness. ‘What happened?’ he asked, at last.

  Juin stared at him thoughtfully. ‘You feel quite well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In full possession of your faculties?’

  ‘Sure.’ Grant had begun to sound impatient.

  ‘Then what day is it?’ The Professor was suddenly professional, a doctor dealing with a situation.

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘Wrong. This is Sunday. You were shot on Friday morning and since then have been under either anaesthesia, drugs or hypnosis. We used hypnotherapy to compose the f
antastic tension which had built up in your subconscious, and we clarified the accusations made by Ferguson in jail.’

  ‘What about Maya?’ Grant had suddenly remembered, and he knew that Ferguson had lied. Maya had been told nothing about his work. Not unless he spoke in his sleep!

  ‘We brought her back from Rio. She arrived yesterday afternoon and what Ferguson said was true. She has become an addict to this new drug. But since you had the foresight to get the antidote out of him, and since our monitor apparatus was working magnificently she started treatment right away.’

  ‘Then how is she keeping?’

  ‘Responding.’ Juin hesitated. ‘A situation has arisen in which we have to move fast, so we also vetted her at an earlier stage than would normally have been the case. In fact we got busy with a quiz session immediately in order to check, if, in fact, you had really spoken out of turn. Response at first was unsatisfactory, and for a few hours the issue was in doubt. But I then called in our hypnotist, because Miss Sidders had suggested as a possibility that M’mselle Koren might herself have been hypnotised by Ferguson’s organisation and used as a small part of their total scheme to break you professionally. And,’ he again smiled slightly, ‘as has so often happened before, she proved to be correct. They had truly put ideas and stories into her mind which could be brought out on signal. So you both now emerge with clean sheets and fortunately this drug does no permanent damage.

  ‘May I see her?’ Grant already guessed the answer, but it was worth checking.

  ‘Sorry, David. But no. She will see no one but myself or two nurses until she is perfectly well, as this is an essential part of treatment. She’s been through a bad time and needs rest. But you may send her flowers, write or give me any little gift you care.’

  ‘So what is Admiral Cooper saying? He must be furious. If I had allowed the executioners to strap Ferguson as per normal procedure the man would never have escaped. Would you care to put me up to date?’

  Grant ate croissants and sipped his coffee while the professor briefed him in detail, ‘And,’ he ended, ‘since an order for Dorothy Perkins roses was received through Interflora this morning one may say that our respected chief is now organised together with Miss Sidders in a hotel near Nathan Road, Kowloon. The Admiral has always preferred the mainland to Hong Kong island and I know his haunts. But at least they’ve made it. Miss Sidders is now, according to Bob Saunders, a flirtatious mid middle-aged American with blue rinsed hair and a most fashionable wardrobe, some gold in the front teeth and long heavy ear rings which somehow have changed the apparent shape of her skull.’

  ‘And the Admiral?’ Grant was amused. At this game one took laughs as they came. Though at times that wasn’t too often.

  ‘He is aggressively Texan, even to a modified ten gallon hat. He is also completely bald but wearing an obvious wig which makes him look a deal younger. His taste in clothes is shocking and he has undergone a personality metamorphosis. He is now the life and soul of any party and they are travelling with a daughter.’

  Grant was surprised.

  ‘Sure. At the last moment Miss Sidders decided that a daughter might be a good idea, so Bob Saunders flew his own girl across to Geneva and then went en famille. Peggy Saunders is rather an egg head, a plain Jane you say in English. Her spectacles are not agreeable and she is obviously ashamed of parents who are fighting age in their determination to remain young.’

  Grant laughed aloud. He could just imagine the set up. He knew each member of the caste, and Peggy Saunders would be revelling in her role. She was normally a dynamic Nancy Sinatra type, but the change would appeal to her sense of humour. The fact that she had been vetted years earlier and shared her father’s political views also went without saying. ‘And is Bob here? I take it he’s going to get busy with me.’

  Juin nodded. ‘You will be given a short crew cut. You are doomed to grow a toothbrush moustache, and until it has established you will wear a few artificial hairs on your upper lip. Several teeth are also due to be stained with nicotine because you are an obsessive cigar smoker. Your nails will be slightly enamelled and you will wear a wardrobe with pronounced Latin cut. Evening wear will be modish with lace cuffs and rather special shirts . . . things not in your normal line of country. You will speak only Spanish, or English with a heavy accent and you will be deeply tanned. Indeed we have already applied several applications of a proprietary tan and given some exposures to ultraviolet. So you should emerge as a rather distinguished figure. Luggage is crocodile leather but obviously expensive. All your linen has a laundry mark from either Cordoba or Madrid and all clothes have been tabbed with the firm which serves el Cordobes, than whom there is no Spaniard more fastidious. You have passed a good deal of time in Morocco so you will be able to air your Arabic, and, since Tangiers has often been your second home, you will wear some jewellery, two extra rings on your right hand and one on your left. They will be a shade vulgar and not to your taste, but suited to the personality Bob has devised for you.’

  ‘Name?’ Grant was peculiar about names and curious to hear the worst.

  ‘Largo Juan Fabregas. Neat and convincing. Passport has been arranged.’

  ‘Married?’

  Juin shook his head. ‘No.’

  Grant hesitated and then had an inspiration. ‘If anyone is after me they’ll be looking for a single man. So let me take Krystelle. You know who I mean, Christine de Courcelle. And there’s still time to alter papers. She would be ideal. And might be invaluable if it came to a showdown.

  Juin had extensive powers of discretion and was unofficial second to the Admiral himself. ‘You can vouch for her?’

  Grant grinned contentedly. The idea of facing Ferguson’s people with Krystelle’s organisation behind him appealed enormously. ‘Completely.’ He scribbled a note. ‘Give her this. Take it yourself if you wish. She’ll play ball.’

  The professor glanced at the letter which was brief and to the point.

  Krystelle Dear,

  I need you.

  Please do as this gentleman asks.

  And arrange a code with both Frank and Harry.

  Sunshine lies ahead.

  Also dividends, danger and possible death.

  Most of my love,

  David.

  Juin raised an eyebrow. ‘Most of your love?’

  Grant nodded. ‘We don’t have any hypocrisy. Krystelle knows all about Maya, just as Maya understands about Krystelle. They tick differently from most women and feel so secure in themselves that they don’t have any need to try and monopolise someone else to make themselves feel good. Indeed,’ he added dryly, ‘they are quite good friends. Almost a mutual admiration society.’

  The professor stared at him curiously. ‘You propose to use this girl’s people instead of our own?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘Why?’ The professor was simply asking a question but Grant knew that he was also being coldly judicial.

  ‘Because Ferguson’s people may well have dossiers on everyone who matters. Because there’s a limit to Bob Saunders’ ability to disguise one large team. And because Krystelle’s contacts are almost as comprehensive as our own. Finally,’ he added, ‘both Frank, her brother, and his friend Harry are experts in this sort of warfare. They are also exceedingly well disciplined and in some respects even better trained than most of our own people. So on balance I would be happier working with them in reserve.’

  Juin pursed his lips. ‘Would they do it for friendship only? You use the word “dividends” in your letter. What had you in mind?’

  Grant raised his hands expressively. His position had become delicate. He had used both Frank and Harry for over a year with tacit permission from the Admiral. But they had come to expect a quid pro quo. And where was the line drawn between licence to talk and departmental obligation to clam up? At best it was fine, but it would begin to stick out like a sore thumb if he became too deeply obligated to men who were straight gangsters.

  ‘There should
be opportunities for getting information which might help Harry’s illegal operations. But we have to eliminate a top world politician, and that alone entitles him to a fee even if there were nothing else. Though Harry’s real dividends will be abstract, the fact that he can chalk up another bull for our side of the law would be extremely useful if he were ever caught by the police from any state within N.A.T.O. In short it would be worth his while to earn the chance of a free pardon should need arise. Harry would rate this a worth while insurance policy.’

  The professor made up his mind. He knew that Grant would abuse no privileges. But the number of outsiders must be restricted. He would accept the two men and the girl, but no one else.

  Grant nodded agreement. ‘So when do we leave? I would like to be quit of this bandage and the others will have to do some fast re-planning.’

  Juin thought for a brief moment. ‘We’ll make it three days. And of course your friends don’t know of this address.’

  ‘Naturally not. They know nothing which matters.’ Grant guessed that the question had been half loaded, that Juin was not one hundred per cent certain how much Harry knew after one year of intermittent contact with Grant.

  ‘Then you’ll pick up the girl en route to the airport. The two men will fly out by another flight but you should be together in Bluebeard’s Castle by Thursday night. Though I take it that you will appear to be two separate parties and at least start off apparently as strangers.’

  ‘More than that,’ said Grant thoughtfully. ‘I think we’ll stay strangers. Which is why I’ve asked Krystelle to arrange a code. And speaking of codes is Admiral Cooper likely to send any more messages, or do we take things over ourselves as from now?’