The Python Project

by Victor Canning

  *

  It was half past four. I kicked off my shoes and flopped on the bed with Saraband Two’s letter in my hand. I stared at the ceiling, knowing that I didn’t want to open the letter, knowing that I wished now that I had never got myself and Wilkins involved in this, knowing that this time I had really gone too far—and couldn’t now avoid going further, right out of the daylight into the jungle gloom and menace of Sutcliffe’s world. Frankly, Sutcliffe frightened me. Manston I could take. But Sutcliffe, no.

  The plaster that had fallen off the ceiling had left a lath-striped patch the shape of Australia. That’s where I should be, I thought. Somewhere in the outback, safe. But not even that would be far enough away.

  I stacked the pillows up, propped myself against them, lit a cigarette and opened the letter. It was typed on foolscap sheets of paper, watermarked Abermill Bond. Made in Gt. Britain. And it read:

  For the attention of Robert Cledwyn Sutcliffe, O.B.E., M.C.

  (Well, that was something. I’d never known his second name. The bastard was Welsh. Not that all Welsh are bastards. And he was an O.B.E. I could think of lots of other orders he merited, none of them likely to appeal to his vanity because, of course, he was vain. It was the odd quality that supported his ruthlessness, efficiency and labyrinthian thinking. Military Cross too. Well, he could bring that out for an airing on St David’s day and parade it around Whitehall with a leek stuck in his hat. Shut up, I told myself. You’re only going on at him because you’re scared stiff of him.)

  I read on:

  1. The bearer of this communication is well known to you. He will explain his participation in this matter, and that he is acting under duress.

  2. It is requested that you bring the following information and suggestions to the attention of the Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury, The Rt. Hon. James Freemantle Dawson, O.B.E., M.P.

  3. The Prime Minister already knows that his son, William Freemantle Dawson, has been kidnapped. This was done, purely for monetary gain, by two private individuals. These individuals have now sold out their interest in this operation to another party, who now wishes to open negotiations for the return of William Dawson, subject to suitable exchange arrangements being concluded. These will not, of course, involve any financial payments.

  4. At the moment the Prime Minister’s son is in good health, being well cared for and allowed reasonable facilities for exercise and recreation. It is hoped that no cause will be given for this state of affairs to be changed.

  5. At the moment the following individuals, of special interest to the party who has now taken over the care and custody of William Dawson, are held in one or other of Her Majesty’s prisons.

  a) Henry Houghton, Admiralty clerk. 15-year sentence. 1961.

  b) William Vassall, Admiralty clerk. 18-year sentence. 1962.

  c) Frank Bossard, Guided missile researcher. 21-year sentence. 1965.

  d) Peter Kroger, Bookseller. 20-year sentence. 1961.

  e) Helen Kroger, Wife of above. 20-year sentence. 1961.

  6. The safe return of William Dawson is proposed on the basis of the following conditions:

  a) Any exchange would include the automatic return of Gerald Brooke, British subject, now held in the labour camp at Mordva since his removal from the Lubyanka prison, Moscow.

  b) Any exchange must, from your side, include two of the persons listed under para. 5 above, one of whom must be one of the Krogers.

  7. In order to maintain security, and avoid damaging publicity for either side, it is essential that the Prime Minister’s personal interest in this matter be kept strictly secret and that no leakage should ever be allowed of the fact that his son was kidnapped.

  Further, to avoid public agitation over the exchange of one of the Krogers, it is suggested that a well-authenticated cover be arranged to show that the Kroger chosen had died in prison. A guarantee is given that this cover will be strictly honoured by the party of this side. In this manner the only public announcement necessary, and an acceptable one to the world press, will be a straightforward exchange of Gerald Brooke and whichever individual is chosen from para. 5 above in addition to the Kroger selected. This open and public exchange can be arranged along similar lines to that of the Greville Wynn-Gordon Lonsdale affair of 1964.

  8. A reply to this proposition can be made through the bearer of this communication. Or, if it is considered politic that he should have no further part in this proceeding, then an advertisement should be inserted in the Personal Column of The Times to read: ‘Saraband Two: Come Home’—followed by a telephone number. The party of this side will establish bona fides when answering by announcing himself as Mr Wakefield.

  (That gave me a dry laugh. Wakefield was the prison in which Peter Kroger was being held.)

  9. In the event of these exchange proposals being rejected out of hand, the party of this side—on receipt of such positive refusal—will allow a grace period of ten days before the regrettable elimination of William Freemantle Dawson. On the other hand, in the event of agreement being reached for an exchange, it is stipulated that all arrangements shall be completed for the necessary hand-overs within thirty days of final agreement of details.

  And that was it. And I was sweating. Lots of side-issues had occurred to me as I read it through—and they were all unpleasant so far as Wilkins and myself were concerned. And Sutcliffe! He’d go up in smoke. The party of this side had him on toast . . . unless the Prime Minister was prepared to sacrifice his son. Well, he might be a tough cookie as a politician—how else can you be one unless you are?—but, as a father, he would feel the same as any other father. Why, just to get Wilkins back I would have handed over the whole of M.I.6 and the C.I.A. if I could.

  I rolled off the bed and stuffed the letter into my pocket. It was still early but a drink was essential.

  Before I could get to a drink the telephone rang. It was a telegram for me from Letta. She was going to be in Paris the next week and looking forward to a happy reunion. The telegram gave the address of the apartment where she would be staying, and finished ‘Love from Lilith too’.

  I went gloomily to the decanter. I couldn’t see happy reunions being part of my lot for a while.

  I was putting soda in the whisky when there was a knock at the flat door. I finished the soda job, took a deep swig, and then went to the door and jerked it open with a touch of bad temper, the kind that comes from having that little-boy-lost feeling and knowing that all the world is against you.

  Standing outside was Jane Judd, looking full of the joys of spring, dark-haired, dark-eyed, wearing a black tailor-made and a daffodil-yellow blouse.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘To see you—even if you are going to be damned bad-tempered about it.’

  She moved past me into the room. She moved nicely and dispensed a passing whiff of perfume, but neither did anything for me.

  ‘How did you know I was back?’

  ‘I rang your office.’

  ‘All right—let’s have it.’

  ‘I want to know what your cable about belly scars was all about.’ I picked up the whisky glass and gave her a pugnacious, Churchillian scowl over the top.

  ‘Has anybody been asking you questions about Freeman?’

  ‘No. Like who? What are you so bad-tempered about?’

  ‘I’ve just been elected patsy of the year.’

  ‘Good. You shouldn’t have any difficultly holding the title for quite a while. Why the cable?’

  ‘Because your precious Martin Freeman—whatever he was or is up to—tried to fake his death. As usual it was a pretty poor effort. So no need for tears. You’re not a widow—yet. When did you hear from him?’

  ‘How do you know I’ve heard from him?’

  ‘Inspired guess. Also, you’ve got an enquiring mind. You’re trying to figure him out. You want to know what he’s up to. You want to know what you might be getting into. You’re uncertain. You don’t want trouble. You just want ma
rriage and security. You’ve got my sympathy and—come to think of it—I’ll add a little good advice. Get unmarried and forget him.’

  As I finished speaking I reached out and took the long slim, black patent handbag from under her arm. She made a move but I waved her back.

  I opened the bag. Inside was a coloured picture postcard. There was other stuff as well, but I didn’t bother with that. It was dated the day I had left the Villa La Sunata. It had a Bizerta postmark, and showed a nice view of a mountain called the Jebel Something-or-Other. It was addressed to her at the Mountjoy Hotel and an unsigned message read: ‘From July 1, book one week Dore Hotel, Barcelona. Will contact you there.’

  ‘How do you know it’s from Freeman?’ I asked.

  ‘I know his handwriting.’

  ‘My advice to you is to. ignore it. It’s a pretty ordinary hotel, anyway. No bridal suite. Not even a restaurant of its own.’

  ‘God, you are in a mood.’

  ‘I am. You sure no one’s been asking you questions about him?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I handed her back the bag but kept the postcard.

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’

  ‘Burn it,’ I said, and got out my lighter.

  ‘But it’s mine!’

  ‘You can remember it. July i, one week, Dore Hotel, Barcelona. Take my advice, don’t go.’

  I lit the edge of the card and carried it to the fireplace. I dropped it in and watched it flame away. One thing I was pretty certain about was that Saraband Two and company were never going to let Freeman reach Barcelona. Or Pelegrina reach wherever he wanted to reach.

  They might be jollied along for a while: but in the end they would be eliminated. No publicity, no leaks . . . these were the essentials of the exchange deal. The professionals involved had to be trusted, but outsiders were unnecessary risks. That’s why I was scared stiff for Wilkins—and myself.

  Jane’s eyes came back from the fireplace to me. From the look on her face there was no doubt now that she knew she was in something big.

  ‘It’s as serious as all that?’ she asked.

  ‘More than that. I suggest you forget all about Freeman.’

  She began to move to the door, then paused and looked back at me. ‘You’re involved, too?’

  ‘A little—but on the right side. By the way, if he does get in touch with you again, let me know. But come here. Don’t use the phone.’

  She nodded and went out, no longer full of the joys of spring. I was sorry for her, but I couldn’t waste much time on it. The best I could do for her was not to tell her the truth.

  I went to the phone and dialled a Govent Garden number. It wasn’t listed in the directory, but it was a number I was never likely to forget.

  A voice at the other end said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Carver here.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve got to see him. Urgently, importantly and vitally.’

  ‘Tell me where you can be reached in the next six hours.’

  I gave my phone number and the number of Gloriana Stankowski’s flat.

  I had a bath and changed, drank two more whiskies and then walked down to the corner of the street to the Embankment and got a taxi. Any other time going to have dinner with Gloriana would have been a pleasure that would have driven all gloom from my mind. Tonight gloom was four lengths ahead of pleasure and going well on its second wind.

  Gloriana opened the door to me herself, gave me a neat little kiss on the side of the cheek which surprised me, explained that the Scots maid was out—her evening at the cinema—ushered me through the narrow hall and settled me under one of the porcelain lemon trees in the sitting room, and quickly had a large drink in my hand, all with the charming expertise of a hostess anxious to please a favourite guest. I wondered what favour she was going to ask me. It wasn’t a big one, and it came almost at once.

  She settled on the monster divan across the way from me, wearing a crushed-raspberry silk blouse and dark, Victoria-plum-coloured trousers, stuck an elegant finger in a large glass of gin and campari and twiddled the ice cubes around so that they chinked musically against the fine crystal. Three block-busting drinks like that, I thought, and she would be flat on her back—and I too gloomy to take advantage of it. Her hair was spun red-gold and her lips were as pretty and knowing as a Cupid’s. There was a little dimple on her chin. I took a good pull at the whisky. It was strong and it hit me, as drink always does when the mind is unsettled. Maybe, I thought, she’d been playing cards with some Cupid for kisses and won the coral of his lips, the rose of his cheek and the crystal of his brow. ‘O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?’ Maudlin, too—that’s how drink takes the enfeebled spirit.

  She said, ‘You look scared to death.’

  I said, ‘I am.’

  She said, ‘Tell me, what is all this secret service crap?’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘what anyone has said to you.’

  ‘The man I know in the Treasury has told me that any communication I get from Martin must be passed on to him, and that I am to inform him of anyone who comes asking questions about him. Including you. What the hell has that bloody brother of mine been up to?’

  ‘That’s no way to speak of the dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ She laughed, a silvery sound that rivalled the ice music against her crystal glass. ‘Martin’s kind don’t die. They go on into their nineties, still making a nuisance of themselves.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Dead men don’t repay a ten-thousand-pound theft in notes, delivered anonymously in a brown-paper parcel.’

  ‘You told the Treasury boy this?’

  ‘Yes. But he won’t tell me anything, except to forget Martin for quite a while. That’s why I asked you here—surely you can tell me something? If you don’t you don’t get any damned dinner; oysters and a beautiful salmon trout and a bottle of Montrachet between us. Come on, give. One thing I can’t stand is mysteries. Certainly not the kind you stupid men cook up between you. What’s that bastard Martin up to?’

  ‘I don’t know. He tried to fake his own death in Tripoli. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, he’s paid you back the money he took and, as I said, if you get in touch with this dusky number—’ I got up, went and sat by her and took out one of La Piroletta’s business cards—‘you can buy the python bracelet back. She bought it off Martin for two thousand quid. You’ll have to make your own price with her.’ I wrote the Paris address of Letta on the card and handed it to her. ‘She’s going to be in Paris next week.’

  ‘Why should I have to pay anything?’

  ‘Because La Piroletta is that kind.’

  ‘Was she kind to you too?’

  ‘I’m giving a strictly professional report.’

  ‘Then tell me what all the mystery about my brother is.’

  ‘If I knew—’

  ‘You know—’

  ‘I still wouldn’t tell.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘I’m halfway there. Any messages?’

  ‘Yes. When you meet my old man tell him he didn’t beat Martin hard or often enough.’

  ‘Does this mean I don’t get dinner?’

  ‘It depends on whether I can manage three dozen oysters by myself.’

  ‘I’ll have another drink while you’re making up your mind.’

  I leant over and kissed her gently on the coral pink lips, briefly, and wondered if they were soft with promise or disinterest. Then I went over to the bar.

  My back to her, I said, ‘Has your only contact with the authorities been this guy in the Treasury?’

  There was a little pause, and she said, ‘Yes.’

  I said, ‘I’ll send my account in to you tomorrow—if I live that long.’

  She said, ‘You’ll live. You’ve got the same survival factor that Martin has. What have you told this Jane Judd?’

  I turned, fat drink in hand. ‘To forget him. Approve?’

  She nodded.
r />   At that moment the telephone rang. I reached out for it, looked at her and said, ‘Permesso?’ She nodded.

  I picked up the receiver.

  A voice at the other end said, ‘Mr Carver?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Rex Carver?’

  ‘You don’t have to be so formal, you know it bloody is.’

  ‘Report here immediately.’

  ‘Can’t I finish my drink?’

  There was a click at the other end.

  I looked at Gloriana and she looked at me.

  ‘The dark clouds might,’ I said, ‘have rolled away and it could have turned out to be a wonderful evening. As it is, you’re stuck with three dozen oysters and a bottle of Montrachet.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the Inquisitors. To the dark shrine of Security. To the devildom of men without hearts. Into the crêpe-festooned shadows of the underworld, where all is cold and bleak and there is a human sacrifice every hour on the hour.’

  ‘You’re tight, love.’ She sounded genuinely sympathetic.

  ‘I know. But the moment their door closes on me, the cold inside will shrive every particle of alcoholic warmth from my blood, every soft and comforting whisky fume from my brain.’

  She giggled, stood up and came and took the glass from me. ‘Don’t have that. You don’t need it. Certainly not for yourself. You’re not even worried about yourself. I know you well enough by now. Who is it? Who is it you’re really worried about?’

  ‘Certainly not your bloody brother.’

  ‘That’s good, because he wouldn’t be damned well worth it.’

  I took the glass from her and drained it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It could be my last.’

  She took the empty glass from me, put it down, and then reached her arms around me and gave me a hug.

  ‘You’re nice,’ she said, and kissed me, good and hard and lovingly. Then, releasing me, she added, ‘But too damned dramatic.’

  ‘We can only be what we are, only do what we have to do, only end as it is foreordained.’