Angel of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  Three months, with nothing to show for it. So now the plug was being pulled. The Royal Vic was not exactly a cheap establishment. But he felt quite cheated. He had been told so much about her, thought so much about her, wondered so often if she could possibly be as beautiful or as deadly as they had described her . . .

  He watched another taxi draw up at the foot of the steps, still idly, and then slowly sat up, the hair on the nape of his neck prickling, as the back door opened and the passenger got out. He looked first of all at high-heeled sandals on exquisitely shaped bare feet, then at the longest and most perfectly formed legs he had ever seen, exposed for a moment before she completed her exit and straightened her knee-length skirt. It belonged to a pink summer frock, with a flaring hem immediately seized and fluttered by the breeze.

  The bodice was full, the décolletage modest, but it granted a tantalizing glimpse of curving white flesh. The short sleeves revealed slender arms and hands with long fingers and pink painted nails, as she pulled off her white gloves to open her somewhat large shoulder bag in order to pay the driver. Then the face. This was shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat with pink ribbon, which she was holding on her head with her left hand. As she turned away from him, her face was hidden – but the turn exposed her hair, a sheet of long golden silk, partially restrained by a tortoiseshell clasp at the nape of her neck, cascading down her back to nestle against her thighs.

  Hamilton felt quite sick. His heart pounded almost uncontrollably. After three months! And she was everything he had been told, everything he had dreamed. Here! And intending to stay, although she had only a small valise as luggage. The doorman had hurried down the steps to take it from the driver, and was greeting her as an old friend.

  They came up the steps together, and now he could see her face. Another sharp intake of breath: the slightly aquiline features were flawlessly carved. He found himself hating the huge sunglasses that had obscured her eyes, though she took them off on entering the shade. Then she disappeared into the doorway on Hamilton’s left. He found that he was panting. His every instinct was to hurry into the lobby and see her at close quarters. But that would be crazy, and could even be fatal. Find, identify, and establish location. Those were his orders.

  He finished his drink, and a waiter hurried forward. ‘Another, sir?’

  Hamilton ostentatiously looked at his watch. ‘No. I need to freshen up before lunch.’ He got up, strolled into the lobby, moving with studied carelessness, and approached the reception desk, where the maître d’ was talking with the clerk. He had come to know them quite well over the preceding three months. The woman had disappeared into the elevator, but the faint tang of her perfume lingered; something of a connoisseur in these matters, he reckoned it was ‘Adoration’.

  The maître d’ looked up as he reached the desk. ‘Good morning, Mr Hamilton. You with us for lunch?’

  ‘Could I possibly lunch anywhere else, Charles? May I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘That lady who was just here. Was she checking in?’

  ‘Mrs Bartley? Oh, indeed, sir. She is probably our most regular customer.’

  ‘Is she? How interesting. Mrs Bartley. Therefore I assume that there is a Mr Bartley?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, sir.’

  ‘But he is not here.’

  ‘No, sir. Mr and Mrs Bartley seldom travel together.’

  ‘I see. But you say that Mrs Bartley is a regular customer. As a tourist, or does she have business interests in Nassau?’

  ‘No, no, sir. I do not think she has any business interests in the Bahamas. She lives here.’

  ‘She lives in Nassau?’ He couldn’t believe his ears, that he had spent three months here and not encountered her.

  ‘No, no, sir. She lives on her island.’

  ‘An island? You said “her island”. You mean, she owns an island?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good lord! She must be very wealthy.’

  ‘I believe she is, sir, yes.’

  ‘You must forgive me asking these questions, Charles. It’s just that I have a feeling I have met her before.’

  ‘She is a most striking lady, sir,’ Charles replied.

  ‘This island . . . is it far?’

  ‘Not very, sir.’

  ‘And presumably there is a ferry, or some form of public transport. I mean, how does she come and go?’

  ‘There is no public transport, sir. Mrs Bartley is a very private person. When she has been away, she stays here until she is picked up by her boat.’

  ‘You mean she has her own boat as well as her own island?’

  ‘Well, of course, sir. You can’t live on an island without having a boat.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have never owned an island. I suppose it has a name? This island?’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  Charles looked embarrassed. ‘I think you should ask Mrs Bartley that, sir. As I said, she is a very private person. But if you are an old acquaintance of hers, I am sure she’d be happy to meet you again.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think she remembers me, as I am not the least striking.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Charles said, deprecatingly. Hamilton was in fact quite a striking man – tall, his substantial physique enhanced by the open-necked flowered sports shirt and hip-hugging white pants that went so well with his untidy but handsome features and wavy dark hair.

  ‘But you say she’s here for the night?’

  ‘Actually, sir, she’s here for two nights. I believe she’s being joined by a friend this evening.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Charles, you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Would you like me to mention to Mrs Bartley that you may be an old friend, sir?’

  ‘Ah . . . no, thank you, Charles. If I have an opportunity, I may do so myself.’

  Meeting a friend, he thought, as he went up to his room. But not her husband. It all fitted with what he had been told: that in addition to her looks and her many and lethal skills, Anna Fehrbach was also a consummate lover, of both men and women, as the mood or the necessity arose. Could it be possible that her mood might encompass him, even if only briefly? And as he had not yet found out where this island home of hers was situated, he would have to approach her, sometime over today or tomorrow. Legitimately, as far as she could possibly know. He realized that he was desperately excited.

  *

  The bellhop placed the valise on the rack. ‘Thank you, William,’ Anna said, tipping him, then closed the bedroom door behind him. She threw her hat on to a chair, dropped her shoulder bag beside it, kicked off her shoes, and took off her somewhat crumpled dress; she had been wearing it for thirty-six hours now. Her only underclothes were her knickers – she never used a brassière, with her muscular development there was no need – and these she also removed, along with the slender gun belt in which was holstered the .22 Walther PPK automatic pistol. Then she threw herself on the bed, on her stomach, her body nestling sensually on the cool sheets, her chin resting on her hands. She was nearly home!

  As always when returning from an assignment, her emotions were a jumbled kaleidoscope. Relief that it was over, certainly. Exhilaration that she should have survived yet another close brush with death. But equally, the inevitable twinge of guilt she always felt after taking life, no matter how often she had done it, and how much she knew her victims deserved it; the count was now a hundred and thirty-three (if she had not killed them all personally, she was undoubtedly responsible for their deaths). Plus anxiety – a constant going over in her mind to reassure herself that she had made no mistake, that she had both carried out the operation and covered her tracks with her invariable attention to detail. Indeed, that was the only reason she was still alive herself. She had carried out so many of these assignments successfully that her confidence on going in was always of the highest. And yet, because – despite the opinion held by a great many people – she was a human being, the conclusion of each operation
was always accompanied by this inevitable reaction.

  And today the reaction was greater than ever before – because, although she was only three hours away from the sanctuary of the cay, there was something she had to do before she got there. Tonight, perhaps. And it promised to be no less traumatic than what had gone before.

  The telephone rang. Anna raised her head, stretched out her arm and picked it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.’

  ‘Charles! Of course you didn’t bother me, Charles. Is there a problem?’ She spoke English with the faint Irish brogue she had inherited from her mother.

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Bartley. But I thought you would like to know that there is a gentleman asking after you.’

  Anna drew a long, slow breath, while the tension flooded her muscles. Joe? He really must be agitated; he wasn’t due until tonight. She had hoped to have a rest before having to face him.

  But if it wasn’t Joe . . .? Nassau, the Bahamas, the cay, had always been her ultimate refuge. The cay had only once been invaded, three years before, by a Mafia ‘family’ acting for the Russian MGB. That had cost twenty-two lives – which had very nearly included her own. But for the past three years there had been no other unwanted intruders, so she had almost come to believe that the Kremlin had at last given up their quest for the woman who had once attempted to take the life of Josef Stalin, and, perhaps even more heinously, become the only person ever to escape from the Lubianka Prison, leaving behind her a trail of blood.

  ‘This gentleman,’ she said, ‘you’re quite sure that he is a gentleman?’

  ‘Oh, yes, ma’am. He is a resident in the hotel. He’s been here for three months.’

  ‘Three months? Good lord! You mean he’s not a tourist?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so, ma’am. I think he’s in real estate. He spends a lot of time looking at property. But he doesn’t seem to have found what he wants yet.’

  ‘If he has been living in the hotel for three months, he must be fairly well heeled.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, ma’am. When he arrived he asked for his bill to be presented every week. And it is paid, every week.’

  ‘Hmm. I assume this paragon has a name?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Hamilton. Mark Hamilton.’

  ‘English or American?’

  ‘Definitely English, ma’am.’

  ‘And this is the first time he has asked after me?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, this is the first time you have been to see us since he was here.’ His tone was faintly reproachful. ‘I think he must have seen you coming in, just now, and he asked who you were.’

  ‘You said he claimed an acquaintance with me?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. That is what he said.’

  ‘And he didn’t know my name?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘But he knew my face?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t seem sure about that, either. He just said that you looked familiar, like someone he had once met, and wanted to know who you were. He thought maybe you were a visitor, like him.’

  ‘And you told him . . .?’

  ‘That you were a Bahamian resident.’

  ‘And you also told him where I lived?’

  ‘Oh, no, ma’am. I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘You are a treasure, Charles. But didn’t he ask?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.. He asked if you lived here in Nassau, and I told him no, you lived on one of the Out Islands.’

  ‘And he asked which one?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, But I told him I felt he should ask you that.’

  ‘Thank you, Charles.’

  ‘Did I do wrong, ma’am?’

  ‘Of course you did not. You were asked a question, and you answered it as discreetly as you could. Do you think this Mr Hamilton will be lunching in today?’

  ‘Oh, yes, ma’am. He lunches here every day.’

  ‘Perhaps, when I come down, you could point him out to me. His face may be familiar.’

  ‘Of course I will, ma’am.’

  ‘Discreetly, Charles.’

  ‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ll certainly be discreet!’

  *

  Anna hung up, sat up, and considered. Having been travelling for the past forty-eight hours, she felt desperately in need of a bath and had intended to have one before lunch. But there wasn’t time, if she was going to catch this character for the meal. And equally, as always in times of potential crisis, the adrenalin was flowing. The only problem was that, although MI6 had given her the right to defend herself, she still regarded it as important to keep a low profile in the Bahamas, which meant not making headlines or ever getting into trouble with the law. That business three years ago could have been disastrous, but for that fortuitous hurricane which wiped out all trace of the gun battle and conveniently removed the corpses, at least from her vicinity. That was not likely to happen again.

  But why should it have to happen again? This man had done nothing more suspicious than enquire about a possibly familiar face. Or, more likely, reveal an interest in a beautiful woman; the ‘possible acquaintance’ ploy was the oldest trick in the game. Anna had no false modesty about her looks; they had in fact, over the years, proved as valuable assets as any of her lethal skills. But he would have to be sorted out, immediately. Hopefully without a fuss.

  She got up, pulled on her knickers, and considered the gun belt. The gun could be reached by a zipped side panel in her dresses. Its one drawback was that it only had a five-shot magazine. Not that she normally needed more than one bullet to destroy any immediate enemy; but in any event, designed to fit equally snugly into her left groin, there was another holster containing a spare magazine. As she had just disposed of four opponents together with a rather vicious bystander, this was now empty.

  But, even though she was about to encounter a possible adversary, as she could not see herself ever needing the pistol in the civilized ambience of the Royal Vic, surrounded by staff who all knew her and who she counted her friends, she packed the belt away in her shoulder bag. Then she sat at the dressing table and applied make-up and some fresh perfume before putting her dress back on – she had intended to send it to the hotel laundry before wearing it again, but that also would have to wait – and her shoes. Then she brushed her hair, before adding her jewellery. She had not worn this for her recent assignment, save for the gold crucifix that never left her neck (the other pieces always travelled with her, in her shoulder bag). And now she was home, virtually. She clipped the tiny gold bar earrings in place, slipped the huge ruby solitaire on to the forefinger of her right hand, then unstrapped the cheap watch she wore for business travel and replaced it with her solid gold Junghans, before adding her platinum wedding band. Then she surveyed herself in the mirror.

  Satisfied, she went downstairs, and was shown immediately to her table by Charles, who knew she always wished to be placed at the edge of the room with her back to a blank wall (where or why she had developed this idiosyncrasy he had no idea). Then, as she seated herself and he handed her the menus and unfolded her napkin to lay it across her lap, he whispered, ‘The gentleman is exactly opposite you, ma’am. The fourth table.’

  ‘Thank you, Charles.’ Anna did not look up. ‘I will have the avocado, the fillet – medium, with carrots and beans – and a bottle of Batailley.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ His favourite diner seldom varied her luncheon choice of either food or wine.

  Anna closed the menus and surveyed the room. Mark Hamilton had been gazing at her, and now he hastily looked away. Perhaps he only wished to identify her. But she had to discover exactly what he was about. As she had started her meal a course behind him, she kept a careful eye on his table, and had just reached her coconut ice cream when he ordered coffee,

  Charles was hovering, and hurried forward as she raised her finger. ‘Charles, she said, slightly raising her voice, ‘would you invite Mr Hamilton to have coffee with me, in the lounge. Or perhaps he would like a glass of wine first.’
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  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ Charles hurried across the room, and she watched Hamilton start and turn towards her. She raised her glass to him. Even from a distance she could see that he was utterly taken aback by her unexpected advance. Then he came towards her.

  ‘Mrs Bartley.’

  ‘Mr Hamilton. I am just finishing my dessert. But sit down, please.’

  Charles provided a chair from the next table.

  ‘And a glass, please, Charles. You’ll take some wine, Mr Hamilton? It’s my favourite claret – not grand cru, but it tastes like liquid velvet.’

  ‘I . . .’

  Charles poured, and left.

  ‘Well,’ Hamilton said, eyeing her rings and watch. ‘Thank you very much.’ He sipped. ‘Exquisite. But your glass is empty.’ He reached for the bottle.

  Anna finished her ice cream. ‘My dear Mr Hamilton, one cannot possibly drink claret after eating ice cream.’

  ‘Oh. Ah. Of course.’ He replaced the bottle in embarrassment.

  ‘I am told we’re old acquaintances,’ said Anna. ‘I’m afraid I will have to beg your forgiveness, but I do not recall ever having met you.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. It was a long time ago. At a cocktail party in London.’

  Anna raised her eyebrows.

  ‘When you were the Honourable Mrs Bordman,’ he added.

  Alarm bells immediately began to jangle in Anna’s brain: this definitely needed sorting out, immediately. But her expression never changed, beyond mild interest. ‘My dear Mr Hamilton, that was all but fourteen years ago.’

  ‘As I said, it was a long time. 1939.’

  ‘And you have remembered me for fourteen years? After one meeting? We did meet? Where?’

  ‘Yes, we did. At Lady Pennworthy’s. And I . . . ah . . . well . . . you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Or have ever seen. You are still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’

  Anna considered. Unlike just about every other man she had known who had paid her such an extravagant compliment, there had been no change in his colouring, not the slightest trace of embarrassment at being so fulsome. He was either a consummate and experienced woman-chaser, or the speech had been carefully rehearsed. She smiled at him. ‘You say the sweetest things. Shall we have coffee?’