The Girl From Peking

by George B Mair

  The curtain rings of the shower tinkled and the light switched on. She was sleeking back her hair and a bathrobe covered her from neck to ankle. ‘Your turn,’ she smiled. But her smile was different, and as he passed her she caught his hand and laid it lightly against her heart. ‘Don’t worry, David. Just dress and then we go.’

  He rubbed himself down below the stinging jets and stepped back into the room to find her waiting with a towel. She was wearing blue black jeans and a black top. There were gypsy style golden ear rings the size of half a crown and she had wound a black head scarf round her hair. Her shoes were flat sandals, and a pair of black leather gloves lay on the bed beside a handbag.

  She pointed a finger. ‘I’ve got your visiting card in there so you’ll be hearing from me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Maybe often.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘You know some of the ropes,’ she said quietly. ‘Some, but not all. Which is why I’ve got to help. And you can help best by taking the cues from me.’

  ‘Starting when?’ Every weapon he possessed was gone. The Parker 61 pen must still be at the Hôtel la Bruyère. His gun had been left in the taxi and must now be in the department. His gas bombs were in store and his special shoes at his own flat. He felt stark naked. ‘Will I need anything?’

  She understood. ‘Just your wits. Knives and guns are out of place when one goes to meet Harry.’

  ‘No other advice?’

  She took his hand again and squeezed it tightly. ‘Just be civil to Harry and if all goes well he’ll play ball with you.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Now we go. First to the foyer. Then through to the kitchen and down to a basement. After that we open a door and take a narrowish tunnel under the street to another basement across the way. All clear?’

  He nodded. ‘And then?’

  ‘We meet a man who’ll take us to Harry.’

  ‘In the same house?’ Grant was trying to keep his sense of direction.

  ‘No. But a syndicate of friends own basement or ground floor flats in the next sixteen houses. They interconnect and two lead to strip-tease dives.’

  ‘Which can be used as emergency exits.’ Grant was begining to see the picture more clearly. ‘And Harry will be somewhere with friends.’

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But this programme now operates on a count-down so let’s go.’

  The corridor outside was empty and only the Madame remained at the desk downstairs. Grant saw her shoulders sag slightly as they passed and guessed that she had pressed a bell push with her knee. Harry seemed to be careful!

  The kitchen was dirty and stank of garlic, but steps to the basement were clean and thick with carpeting. The corridor was also carpeted and Grant knew that he was entering one room of a world which could be more dangerous than most. The same system of interconnecting buildings plus corridors might extend for acres, and tunnels would be placed only where there was minimal chance of any street digging. Nor, he was certain, would any drains, cables or pipes ever be laid in the area without one of Harry’s men doing something about it. The tunnels might be temporary, but Harry could afford to keep them comfortable . . . and noiseless . . . even on a semi-permanent basis.

  Krystelle paused at the far end and fumbled with a handle.

  There seemed to be a trick connection. And then they were through. A small man with crew cut and dark suit met them with a polite bow. His eyes were brown, but they were that particular shade of brown which was difficult to describe. It was easier, and more important, to note the dispassionately neutral impassivity with which he glanced towards the rising staircase.

  ‘Permit me to follow.’

  It was a command, and Krystelle led the way to a room where another man waited beside still another door. He opened it as she approached, and as she continued in the lead Grant knew that this was it, that carpeting muffled every footstep, and that a slick operative still covered their rear.

  Nine houses later they climed to the first floor. There was a brief exchange in Parisian argot through a sliding panel and then Krystelle was beside him introducing her brother. Grant shook hands automatically. ‘Glad to meet you, Frank.’ But he saw only Harry.

  The man was sitting on a divan playing a twelve string guitar and Grant had met his type too often to make a mistake. This was a killer, though probably only when necessary, and almost certainly intelligent. Possibly even artistically sensitive. He would be particular about how he did it. But he might also do it for fun as well as dollars. No wonder he wasn’t fond of strangers!

  Krystelle was watching him carefully and a flicker of anxiety touched her eyes as Frank ran his hands professionally over Grant’s body. ‘He’s clean, Harry.’

  The music stopped. It was the last few bars of an early Segovia study and Grant had last heard it played in Perpignan during a Festival. He stood, rigid, as Harry placed the instrument almost lovingly against the cushions of a deep armchair and he measured every word. ‘You handle that like a professional.’

  A slow glint of satisfaction lit the deeply hooded blue eyes. ‘Thanks. But Julian Breem is better.’

  It was a bizarre self-compliment. Harry liked to be tops, even with a guitar and Grant changed the subject. ‘You wanted to see me.’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice was unemotional. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  Krystelle was standing behind Harry but dead in front of Grant. Her eyes were winking and her right hand tapping against the divan. Grant fumbled for a cigarette and as Frank handed one across Harry offered a light, but Grant’s eyes never left Krystelle’s face. Her fingers had rapped out a message in Morse and her eyes were doing the rest. ‘The truth. He knows plenty.’

  His brains was racing overtime. What was the set up? Had she been laid on to nail him after his fall? Were they strictly private of was this a branch H.Q. from Peking? Had they anything to do with SATAN?[1] Did they tie up with Tania? And what had the Admiral meant by saying that the girl’s every movement could be accounted for? That she had spent her time with reliable witnesses.

  ‘Figured out a story yet?’ Harry was sarcastic, but Grant saw that his eyes had deepened into narrow slits.

  ‘Getting the facts straight.’

  ‘Then keep to facts.’ Frank was now beside him and his hands were loose by his side, but every muscle was poised for action.

  Grant knew that the SATAN story must now be familiar to a lot of people, that every major world criminologist had learned at least something from the press and guessed much more. But he also knew that Peking had once penetrated his own department and that if it could do so once it could do so again. French Guiana was a good gimmick. Almost anything could come out of South America and he remembered that Krystelle had called herself a fifty-seven variety multi-caste. Had she a streak from China as well? She had said that the cards were stacked against him. Maybe she had meant it.

  He was playing blind against a stacked deck. And the odds were too heavy unless he struck a winning run. He remembered an old gaming rule. Never hesitate with even chances. SATAN or Peking? Which?

  But there was a possible third. Private enterprise! So it was going to be two to one against. Though given luck he might still reduce the odds. ‘You’ve got a girl,’ he said at last.

  Krystelle’s eyelashes again flickered. ‘Truth.’

  The single word seemed more expressive than a sentence, and he saw her right hand mime the grasp of a knife hilt by a professional ready to throw. It was against the rules, but he guessed that she wasn’t bluffing, and his story could be made good enough to gain at least a little time.

  He recalled SATAN and that last chilling round in Switzerland when almost all the executives had been pulled in by the police and sent down for long sentences. He touched on his escape from Moscow and the tie up with Maya Koren, Europe’s favourite ballerina. He hinted at international espionage but implied that he was a lone wol
f on hire for a price. And then he mentioned the girl from Peking. How she had been photographed with the President and how her boss-men hoped to edit a tape which would help to blackmail the British Prime Minister. He ended by saying that she had agreed to talk business and explained why they were at the Hôtel la Bruyère, how they had been interrupted by gunmen and how he had escaped.

  It skimmed the surface but was convincing.

  He hoped.

  Harry lifted his guitar and strummed out the first few bars of Inquietacao. Grant had last heard it sung by Joao Queiroz, his favourite Fado singer, but now the lovely melody seemed to quiver with menace as Harry smacked out a final cord. ‘You’ve got talent. But to live you’ve got to be clever. Do you want to live?’

  Krystelle was standing rigid near one window and Grant could almost feel the tension around her. She allowed her right hand to glide over one buttock and then slip forwards towards her crutch. He tensed. So they knew that as well! Tania’s cigarette case! It had been strapped somewhere inaccessible. Yet somehow they knew.

  ‘And I almost forgot. She drugged me with a cigarette. I had frisked her, but I missed the one place which mattered.’

  Harry’s lips relaxed into the beginnings of a smile. ‘Did you forget anything else?’

  The girl was motionless, but the curtain drapes were open and he could see the entrance to a nearby cinema. She was staring at the titles and the hint was obvious. ‘We were talking about photographs and some movies that had been taken. She wanted them back.’

  ‘And you’ve got them.’ It was a statement of fact.

  Grant shook his head. ‘I sent them to my Chief.’

  ‘Who is?’ Harry again lifted the guitar and continued at exactly the note where he had left off. ‘Just go on being clever.’

  ‘NATO’s got a set-up here. I was working for it and the people who hired me will now have them on file.’

  ‘Where?’

  Krystelle lifted her arm and was fumbling with her hair, but shadow cast a V on the wall beside her.

  V! For Vaugirard.

  So they knew even that. Rue Vaugirard was headquarters of ADSAD. ‘They’ve got an office here. Rue Vaugirard. Maison Candide they call it.’

  ‘And the tapes?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘They could be anywhere.’

  Frank relaxed in his chair as Harry hummed through the rest of the song. His voice was a rich baritone and sounded as though it might even have been trained by an expert. ‘So you’ve got talent,’ he said at last. ‘And you’re clever. And you want to live. How about being wise as well? Fill in the gaps. What happens next from your end?’

  ‘I was playing it by ear and I still had to find the tapes.’

  ‘But you made a date with your Chief. We tapped the wire when you put that call through so he’ll now be wondering where the programme went wrong. Any comment?’

  Things suddenly began to make sense. An organisation like this could only be private. It was the one clue for which he had been waiting. Neither Peking nor the only survivor from SATAN would have needed to ask. And if Harry was running his own show he would be on the market for customers. A set up like this cost plenty. ‘You get the tapes,’ he said at last, ‘and I’ll fix a price with the high-ups.’

  Harry lifted his eyebrows in a gesture of supreme cynicism. ‘I’ll fix the price and you’ll see that they pay.’ He paused. ‘I don’t much like talking. But this is the way I see it. Two items were for sale and you’ve got one of them. So you now pay double for the other and I’ll be wanting one million American dollars.’

  ‘American!’

  Harry began the Battle Hymn of the Republic. ‘American.’

  Grant hesitated. Whitehall wouldn’t part. That was for certain. Nor, he was sure would France. And the department didn’t run to funds like that.

  ‘But Washington can.’ Harry’s fingers were almost caressing the strings. ‘You see,’ he added gently, ‘if some big international set decides to blackmail both France and the U.K. it must be for a very big reason. So being clever I’ve been asking myself who has an interest in making two big time politicians play ball, and I think I’ve come up with an answer. But if you’re really clever you’ll mark my target.

  ‘Russia don’t give a damn because she’s got enough pull everywhere to do anything she wants short of a nuclear war. But,’ he added gently, ‘the U.S.S.R.’s also got her problems. Maybe China wants to make Uncle Sam really choke? And choke good. Try and be clever again. Where would it hurt Washington most if two allies turned on the heat?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘I’m no politician.’

  Harry paused during one bar and Grant saw a twitch ripple across his upper lip. ‘Don’t stall, David. Just guess.’

  Krystelle yawned loudly and Grant watched her hand cup her mouth. Her thumb and forefinger were flexed into the ‘C’ of the deaf and dumb alphabet and as their eyes met Grant accepted that this time he was up against more than even he could understand. This was top flight expertise by a top flight professional and his voice was flat calm when he spoke. ‘China wants to be recognised by the United Nations. Could be that Peking fixed someone to blackmail France and Britain into persuading Washington.’

  ‘At last.’ The words were almost a sigh and Harry laid down his guitar. ‘My bet is that Uncle Sam would pay a price for the Originals plus all copies. Because,’ he added quietly, ‘there could then be a diplomatic leak, China would lose face and Washington would rate in diplomatic circles as having made rings round NATO Intelligence. France would look stupid. The President would become a joke overnight and your own Prime Minister would be broken, because no country could afford to be led by a man who was known internationally to be all that stupid. To be so stupid, in fact, as to get caught up with any woman other than his wife or mother. Because the great British Public just wouldn’t stand for it.’

  ‘So?’ Grant saw that Harry was only beginning.

  ‘So we’ll begin by getting the tapes, then we might always have a go at the pix in your own H.Q. and after that we could come to terms with everybody.’

  ‘Meaning who?’

  ‘Your civil service big-wigs would pay to save the government’s reputation and try to keep what’s left of Britain’s status overseas. France would pay to save face, save a President and stop publicity which would reduce prestige built up by de Gaulle. Washington would pay just to be able to turn on the heat. And finally,’ he ended, ‘China would pay to get the lot back without needing to return to square one.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘See what I mean? There’s a big market.’

  ‘And the million dollars?’

  Harry’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll settle for that. And for that, period. Provided I get it in gold within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Failing which?’

  ‘The tapes will be offered to China.’

  ‘And the photographs?’

  Harry smiled again. ‘People say there’s no smoke without fire. They might even bring down the U.K. government and I would use them like a sword of Damocles if your people tried a double-cross.’

  Only one thing remained to be said. ‘How do you expect to find the tapes?’

  Frank stood up and pointed towards a panel sunk flush with one wall. ‘Have a look in there.’

  Harry watched them cross the floor. ‘That’s right, David. Have a look.’

  Chapter Twelve – ‘Painted Chinese style . . . with trimmings’

  The wooden door glided open at a touch, almost as though on ball bearings, and the two men stepped into a room. Krystelle made to follow, but Grant heard Harry’s voice rap put a soft command. ‘Not for you. Just pour me a drink.’

  And then he froze.

  He had heard of this room . . . or of a room like it somewhere in Pigalle which was used for ‘exhibitions’ during the tourist season. The walls were painted Chinese style . . . but with trimmings. The eroticism of the place hit one like a kick on the stomach because only a psycho could have figured out a decor m
ore bizarre than anything Grant had seen in either the temples of Katmandu or the so called Geisha Houses of Japan. The place was done in crimson and black, with figures starkly white against background scenes in blue daubed with orange or green. The ceiling was gold, and the floorboards polished to a deep dark brown which shimmered below pink lights at ceiling level. There was a small circle of plush crimson chairs and a tiny platform below floor level. A fountain played at one corner of the stage and a metre wide stream of water flowed round the thing like a moat. The stage, in fact, was an island surrounded by water, but a foot or two below floor level and a girl was lying on a panel of ebony, her wrists tied with cord and her ankles fixed by things which reminded him of handcuffs. There was a modified strait-jacket round her middle which crushed the rich brocade, and her black pearls were spread against the floorboards.

  Grant caught her eye and flickered a warning in Morse. It was a new gimmick but there was a sporting chance that she would cotton on. And then he glanced towards Frank. ‘That’s her. Mind if I have a word?’

  The man beside him was less than five feet eight. But he had the poise of an athlete and Grant put his age down at thirty minus. His eyes were flat calm. ‘Keep it to words.’

  One part of Grant was lured towards the wall paintings. They were so grotesque that they were worth more than a glance, but he kept his eyes fixed on the girl and walked towards her, his hands behind his back, and with Frank relaxed in a chair. He later felt that he had never done anything which demanded greater concentration as one part of his consciousness flickered out a stream of Morse with his eyelids, while the other led a conversation which was in direct contradiction. His eyes flashed out a message of hope. But his spoken words were deadly. And he could only trust that she was trained enough to appraise what he was doing, trained enough to know Morse in English and sufficiently self-controlled to react in the right way at the right time. ‘You almost killed me.’ It was a statement of fact and Grant knew that both Frank and Harry liked facts. Opinions were apt to be wrong. And words could mean danger! A man was safer when he kept quiet! But right now he knew that they were hoping he would say plenty. This was one of these times when words might end by being more dangerous than guns.