Waiting for them was a burly man in a dinner jacket. Bodyguard number one, Anna thought. He bowed as he opened the door for her, then stood back to allow Khouri to escort her up the short flight of steps to the open front door. Somewhere in the background she could hear dogs barking, but they were not to be seen.
She entered a sumptuous high-ceilinged hallway, where a butler was waiting to take her coat, stroking the fur reverently as he did so. She watched him hang it in a wardrobe beside the door; as it was near freezing outside, she would need it when she left. She also noted that, unlike the bodyguard or Khouri, the butler was definitely English in appearance.
Khouri gestured at the stairs climbing the right-hand wall. The other doors in the hall were closed, which was a nuisance; she was trying to gain a picture of the exact layout. She climbed the richly carpeted steps, Khouri beside her. At the top there was a deep gallery, the floor again covered in deep-pile carpeting. This was excellent, as the sound of her heels was deadened and almost inaudible, while – to add to her growing sense of certainty that this assignment was actually going to be easy – apart from the butler, who had disappeared, she had seen only the one heavy. He had remained in the hall, staring at her, certainly, but she knew that most men found watching the Countess von Widerstand a fascinating business, especially from beneath when she was climbing a flight of stairs. But nothing that she had as yet seen gave any sign of the elaborate defences that this house was supposed to contain. Was it possible that Joe’s information was incorrect? She certainly had no desire or intention to execute an innocent man. Or even one who was not quite as guilty as the CIA supposed.
The gallery contained another row of closed doors. Khouri gestured her towards one of these, then stepped in front of her and gave a brief knock. Then he opened the door and ushered her in. ‘Miss Anna Kelly, sir. Miss Kelly, Sheikh Kola el Fahri.’
*
Anna gazed at the man standing in front of her. He suggested a perfect picture of a Hollywood Arab villain: short and fat, although impeccably dressed in a dinner jacket, and wearing a fez and matching red carpet slippers. But the operative word was fat. There were rolls of flesh sagging beneath his chin, and his stomach was clearly straining both his shirt and his pants. This made him look much older than he could possibly be; if he had fought behind the Axis lines in the War, which was only a dozen years ago, she did not see how he could be even forty yet, but he looked closer to sixty. Certainly the thought of having sex with him was utterly nauseating, which made her task the more acceptable: she disliked fat men in any event. All that needed to be established for certain was that he was the man who had blown up two civilian airliners and killed more than two hundred people.
For his part, Fahri was clearly delighted. ‘Miss Kelly,’ he said, advancing with outstretched hands to take hers. ‘This is an honour. Alois, you have excelled yourself.’ Like Khouri, his English was perfect.
‘Thank you, Excellency.’
‘And,’ added Anna, ‘it’s an honour for me.’
Fahri’s eyes narrowed for just a moment, then he beamed again. ‘It is my business to make it so. Come.’ He held her hand and led her towards a settee, beside which were two armchairs, while in front of it there was a coffee table. The room was large, and there were three other sitting areas, while the floor was, again, thickly carpeted. But there was not a picture to be seen, although the walls were richly panelled.
Fahri indicated the settee, and then sat beside her. He was at least heavily perfumed. ‘Alois,’ he said. ‘Champagne.’
There was a sideboard against the far wall, and Khouri hurried to this to return with two glasses; but he did not take one for himself. Anna was forming the impression that he might prove a far more dangerous antagonist than his master, although even her practised eye could not discern any tell-tale bulge in his clothing that might indicate a concealed weapon. But the most important thing about the evening, so far at least, was that no attempt had been made to search her, as had been the case on so many previous occasions when she had inserted herself into a target’s household. Either these people were absurdly innocent, and accepted without reservation her appearance and self-established background, or . . . Her initial sense of well-being was starting to dissipate.
‘Your very good health,’ Fahri said, sipping, and regarded her almost totally exposed breasts and the crucifix that nestled between them. ‘It is not often that I have the pleasure of entertaining a truly beautiful woman.’
‘You flatter me, Excellency.’ Anna sipped in turn.
‘That would be impossible. Tell me about yourself. Khouri says you are Irish – but of course the accent is unmistakable. And that life is not going well for you.’
‘It has gone better,’ Anna conceded.
She was considering her options. The moment almost seemed propitious, in that neither Fahri nor Khouri seemed to have the slightest concept that she might be anything other than the picture she presented, a handsome and rather helpless young woman who was ripe for the picking, a picture she had used with almost unbroken success for fifteen years; only that bastard of a police chief in Argentina, three years ago, had formed a more accurate opinion, and he had been assisted by outside factors.
On the other hand, she had not yet ascertained for certain whether either of the two men was armed, and they were at that moment widely separated, Khouri being indeed almost behind her. Supposing he was carrying a gun, while she did not doubt that she was faster and more accurate than either of them, if she killed Fahri and then turned to deal with Khouri, although he would certainly die, he would have a clear second in which to shoot; and even after thirteen years, the memory of Hannah Gehrig’s bullet smashing into her ribs was not one she wished to have repeated.
Nor did she yet have any idea of what problems there might be in getting out of the house. But most important of all, she had no intention of killing Fahri, or anyone else, until she had made absolutely sure that he was the guilty man she was after; the only fear she had ever known was that of being considered, even by herself, as a murderess rather than an executioner.
And if she was right in her estimate that Fahri had invited her here to take her to bed, that would surely be a better, and safer, time for completion. So, as always, patience.
‘Sadly,’ he said, ‘that is the course of most lives, I know. But it is often possible to alleviate, if not actually eliminate, the downs.’
‘You are an optimist, Mr Fahri. But then that is the prerogative of a wealthy man.’
‘You are intelligent. I like that.’ He put down his glass and again held her glove, stroking it. ‘I would very much like to help you, if I can.’
Anna gazed into his eyes. They were soft eyes. ‘Mr Khouri did say that you might be able to find me a . . . position.’
‘Oh, I am certain I shall be able to do that. But for you, it must be a special position.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘Shall we eat?’
*
Predictably, the dining room, which was on the next floor, was another huge area – the walls lined with various sideboards, and in the centre a mahogany table designed to seat at least twenty. Fahri sat at the head of the table, with Anna next to him on his right. Now, at last, Khouri left them, but there were two butlers constantly in attendance, and through the swinging inner doors she could hear the murmur of voices, without being able to determine how many people were out there.
‘I serve simple food,’ Fahri explained, as dishes of scallops were set in front of them. ‘These are fresh. I have them flown in from the south of France.’ One of the butlers had filled their glasses. Fahri raised his. ‘I hope you like Pouilly Fuissé.’
Anna had always found it a little dry for her palate, but dutifully she said, ‘It’s delicious.’
Certainly the shellfish was cooked to perfection; the napkins were damask, the plates Dresden, the cutlery Danish silver, the glasses Swedish crystal, and the waiters wore shell jackets and white gloves. The splendour of the appointments was leading her just
where she wanted to go. ‘This is a magnificent house you have here,’ she remarked.
‘I am pleased with it, yes.’
‘I should love to see it.’
‘You are seeing it, are you not?’
‘Well, these rooms, yes. I meant the whole thing. The grounds.’
‘Then I will show them to you. When you are here in daylight.’
Anna decided not to follow that up for the moment, and she had no intention of being there in daylight. ‘But I imagine you have always lived in surroundings like this?’
‘My dear lady, I grew up in abject poverty.’
‘Oh! Then . . . you have travelled a long way.’
‘A long way,’ he agreed, reflectively.
‘. . . And Mr Khouri said you saw service in the War.’
‘I was able to play my part. But then we all had to play our part, did we not?’
‘Not me, Mr Fahri. I grew up in Ireland. Eire, not Ulster.’
‘Ah, Ireland. A beautiful country. So I have heard. I have never been there.’
Anna gave a quick, internal, sigh of relief. Neither had she. ‘I hope you will. It is, as you say, a beautiful country. But Mr Khouri said you don’t go out much, nowadays?’
‘I have no reason to go out, nowadays; I have everything I desire right here. And from time to time, as this evening, I am privileged to have the company of a beautiful woman.’
Anna decided to look suitably embarrassed, as their plates were removed. There followed a rack of lamb, oozing blood, and the wine was replaced by a decanted red.
‘It is rather a superior Chambertin,’ Fahri commented.
Anna preferred claret to burgundy and, as she had told Hamilton, it was not her habit either to eat meat or to drink red wine at night, but she again dutifully sipped, and said, ‘Delicious. And of course you have your dogs. I adore dogs. What sort do you have?’
‘They are Rottweilers. But they are not pets, they are strictly guard dogs. They are fed only on red meat.’
‘Guard dogs? Gosh! Do you need guard dogs? The property is walled.’
‘Walls do not always keep intruders out,’ he demurred.
Or in, Anna reflected, considering her options.
‘All wealthy men need guards,’ Fahri explained. ‘I also have bodyguards.’
‘Good lord! You don’t mean . . . that man who opened my car door. Was he a bodyguard?’
‘Of course.’
‘Was he armed?’
‘Of course.’
‘Wow! I’m glad I didn’t know that.’
‘Would it have upset you?’
‘I would probably have fainted. I’ve never met a man carrying a gun.’ She stared at him, eyes enormous. ‘Don’t tell me you are carrying one, Mr Fahri.’
He smiled. ‘There is no need for me to do so inside my own house. There are weapons readily available if I need them. But you see, in addition to my guards, the house is burglar proof. It can be sealed at the touch of a button.’
‘Which is also readily available?’
‘Well, there is of course more than one control panel.’
‘Wow!’ Anna said again. There remained only the final question. ‘Will you tell me something about the War? Your experiences. What unit did you serve with?’
Fahri carved the lamb and served her. ‘I was with a guerrilla unit in North Africa. You understand what I mean?’
‘Oh, yes. You lurked behind the enemy lines and sniped at German and Italian soldiers.’
‘Actually, I blew them up.’
‘Ah!’ Anna said. ‘But wasn’t that terribly dangerous?’
‘Well, to fight in a war at all is dangerous.’
‘I meant, handling explosives. Suppose you pressed the wrong button?’
‘Actually, buttons didn’t come into it. And yes, it was dangerous. But I became an expert.’ His tone was proud.
‘Of course,’ Anna agreed. ‘Or you wouldn’t be here now.’
‘That is a very good point.’
‘You must find life nowadays positively boring.’
‘Oh, I manage to keep amused. Now you must tell me about yourself.’
For the rest of the meal Anna regaled him with the spurious story of her life, how she had been married twice but ill-treated by both her husbands – which at least was half true. He listened with apparent interest, but spent most of the time staring at her décolletage. The meal was completed by sorbets and coffee, and a Chateau d’Yquem. This she enjoyed. Sauterne was her favourite dessert wine, and there was nothing better than Yquem.
‘That was an absolutely delicious meal,’ she said, and decided it was time to move things along. She looked at her watch. ‘Oh! Ten to ten. I should be going.’
‘But the night has not yet begun. Tell me, that is a most interesting watch.’
‘It is German. A Jung something or other.’
‘May I ask how you came by it?’
‘My second husband gave it to me. I think he picked it up when he was in Germany after the War.’
‘How interesting. It almost looks solid gold.’
‘It is.’ She sighed, heavily. ‘But I’m afraid it will have to go.’
‘Ah! Like your ruby ring? Or has that already gone?’
She had taken off her gloves to eat, and he had duly observed her naked fingers.
‘No. That is in the hotel safe. Do forgive me, Mr Fahri, but I never know what I am going to encounter when I go out in the evening to visit people I do not know very well.’
‘Of course. You are a very sensible girl.’ He got up. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Go where?’
‘Well, we have your future to discuss. And you said you wished to see the house. We can talk as we go.’ He opened an inner door to reveal another staircase, this one leading up.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘We start at the top?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘We start in my bedroom.’
*
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the maître d’, ‘but it is a house rule that gentlemen must wear a black tie.’
‘Where did you get the idea that I was a gentleman?’ Clive asked, pleasantly. ‘And I am not here for the evening.’ He showed him his wallet.
The maître d’ gulped.
Clive now showed him the photograph of Anna which he always carried in his wallet. ‘I would like you to tell me if you have ever seen this lady.’
‘I am sorry, sir. But it is not the policy of this club to reveal the identity of its members.’
As the Coca Club did not open its doors until nine o’clock, Clive had spent a frustrating four hours since his meeting with Billy. Coming on top of the disturbing news that Anna was risking her position, not to mention her neck, by being in England at all, this had not left him in a good humour. So he said, tensely, ‘Now, you listen to me, you slimy toad. I don’t give a fuck for your house rules. If you refuse to cooperate with us, I am going to have you closed down, tomorrow.’
The maître d’ licked his lips. ‘May I have another look at the photo?’
Clive obligingly showed it to him.
‘No sir, I’m afraid I cannot help you. The lady has never been in this club.’
‘But you will agree that she is a most striking woman?’
‘Oh, indeed, sir. A most striking woman.’
‘You could say once seen, never forgotten.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘I’m glad you agree with me,’ Clive said, ‘Because she was at this club last night.’
Again the maître d’ gulped. ‘Well, sir . . .’
‘I believe someone sent a glass of champagne over to her table.’
‘Ah . . . yes, sir.’
‘You’re doing very well,’ Clive said, encouragingly. ‘Now tell me, the man who sent over the champagne and then joined her at her table was, shall we say, rather obviously of foreign extraction. I would like to know who he is.’
‘As I’ve already told you, it is against club rules to release the names
of our clientele.’
‘Your decision. I am going to leave now, but there are two squad cars parked outside your front door. At my signal they are going to move in here and close you down. I’m very sorry, but there may be some damage.’
‘You can’t do that,’ the maître d’ protested. ‘You have to have a warrant, and a court order. And I have . . .’ He bit his lip.
‘A friend, were you going to say? I may wish to talk to you about him, later. But you obviously did not study the card I showed you. I am not a police officer. I’m in Military Intelligence, and this is a matter involving national security. I don’t need a warrant or a court order to do anything in pursuance of my duty.’
This was of course quite untrue, but Clive’s instinct was this man would not know that. Nor had he studied the card closely enough to gather that his interrogator was from MI6, not MI5, even supposing he was aware that the foreign branch of the Intelligence Service had no legal right to operate inside England.
The maître d’ sighed. ‘The man was a Mr Khouri.’
‘Khouri. Thank you. And is this Khouri a regular visitor to your club?’
‘Yes, sir. He is.’
‘Then perhaps you know what he does for a living, when he is not nightclubbing?’
Another sigh. ‘He is private secretary to Mr Fahri.’
Clive stared at him. ‘Would you mind saying that again? The name?’
‘Fahri, sir. Kola el Fahri, the Libyan millionaire.’
‘Holy Jesus Christ!’
‘Sir?’
‘I need the use of a telephone.’
‘There are two call boxes in the lobby, sir.’
‘I want your private line.’
‘Ah . . . yes sir.’ He showed Clive into the office.
‘Thank you. Now clear off and close the door. And if anyone attempts to listen in or open that door until I’m finished, he or she is going straight down to the cells on a charge of treason. I’m sure you know that that can carry the death penalty.’
‘Ah . . . yes, sir.’ The door was closed.
INCIDENT IN SURREY
Clive dialled, and after a few rings the phone was answered by a woman, who repeated the number. ‘Mildred?’ he said.
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