by Jon Cleary
“The High Commissioner doesn’t confide in me.”
“He’s the top boy here, the one with all the influence. If anything happened to him where would we be?”
Malone tried to sound casual. “What’s likely to happen to him?”
“Who knows?” Jamaica smiled. “I heard one of the Africans say he wasn’t on his best form this morning. He doesn’t look well, does he?”
“Is there such a thing as conference virus? If there is, he’s probably got it.”
“You don’t give much away, do you, Malone? You never hear much about Australian security. Are you all that good?”
“Isn’t that the ideal security set-up, the one you never hear about? That’s more than can be said about your C.I.A.”
Jamaica nodded sadly. “Touché. Advertising is a national disease with us.”
“Anyway, who told you I was a security man?”
It was Jamaica’s turn to grin. “Madame Cholon. I told you she seemed to know a lot about you.”
The crowd had begun to move towards the stairs, like a tide flowing uphill. Africans and Indians in their native dress mingled with the black jackets and striped trousers; Malone wondered if his light grey suit would have been so conspicuous after all. Anyone could be lost in this crowd, even an assassin.
Phrases bubbled to the surface, the educational snippets gained from the conference: “Revolutionaries, of course, can never acknowledge the honesty of counter-revolutionaries.”
“Speaking of honesty, till I came to this conference I hadn’t realised honest men could be such excellent liars.”
Two small thin Indians went by, dark Puritans, their faces showing their disgust at the cynicism of the so-called privileged races. A Chinese brushed against Malone, murmured an apology and went on up the stairs, deliberately avoiding looking at the opulence that surrounded him as if afraid of being contaminated by it. But he was followed by the huge African ambassador Malone had met last night. He stood on the landing of the stairs for a moment and gazed around with all the sensual satisfaction of a Nubian king; he smiled widely in enjoyment of what he saw, then moved on up the stairs, a man in whom the simple and the sophisticated had been perfectly blended, leaving him with no prejudices. Malone gazed after him admiringly.
Then Jamaica said, “I’d stay away from Madame Cholon if I were you.”
He turned and walked away, disappearing out the front door. Malone went to follow him, then stopped. Up on one of the balconies Quentin had stopped to talk to a man whose face was vaguely familiar. Malone stared hard, trying to remember where he had seen the swarthy Oriental-looking face before. Then he remembered: the man had been sitting in the car parked in the street off Belgrave Square last night. He started towards the stairs, feeling the sweat already breaking on him. But his way was blocked by three Indians who all turned towards him and said, “Yes?” in three different keys as he excused himself to brush past them. By the time he had got over the international courtesies and had made the first landing of the stairs, he saw that Quentin was still alive, had gone on into the conference room. The swarthy man said something to Edgar, standing beside him, then turned and walked back along the balcony.
“What’s the matter?” Coburn, suddenly alert, no longer unhappy-looking, came up on to the landing beside Malone.
“Find out who that bloke is.” Malone nodded up towards the man now about to descend the flight of stairs on the west side of the hall. “Keep an eye on him till I come down.”
Then hurrying, but trying not to attract too much attention to himself, he went up the east flight of stairs and along the balcony, just in time to intercept Edgar as the latter was about to enter the tall doorway of the conference room. Edgar looked back in surprise as his arm was grabbed.
“Who was that bloke just spoke to His Excellency?”
Edgar shrugged. “Some newspaperman, I think.”
“What did he want?”
“An interview, I suppose. He wanted to know if Quentin would be going back to Australia House at lunch-time. Look, I’ve got to go—” He nodded towards the doors, where an attendant stood waiting impatiently to close them.
Inside the big room, beneath the pale blaze of a huge chandelier, Malone could see men seated round a long oval table, all staring curiously and with polite annoyance at him. He saw Larter stand up and begin to move towards him, his glasses flashing like twin heliographs: Get out of here, you’re holding up something of real importance.
“Tell Mr. Quentin not to move out of here without Sergeant Coburn,” he said to Edgar, and went back along the balcony and down the stairs at a run.
Coburn met him at the foot of the stairs. “I’ve checked on that cove. His name’s Pallain. He’s a correspondent, works for the East Asia News Agency.”
“Is that a Communist agency?”
“I shouldn’t think so. There’s a list of all the newspapers and agencies covering the conference. The East Asia is based in Saigon, not Hanoi.”
“Where’s Pallain now?”
“He was in the Press room making a phone call. There he is now!” Coburn jerked his head across towards one of the side galleries, then he looked back at Malone. “What’s going on?”
Malone watched Pallain move towards the front entrance. “I think he was in Belgrave Square last night. If Quentin goes back to Australia House at lunch-time, make sure you ride in the car with him. Even if you have to kick out Larter to get in.” He grinned. “Kick him out, anyway.”
“Where are you going?”
Malone nodded after Pallain, now almost out the front door. “I’m going to stick with our mate for a while. I may just be heading up a blind alley, but it won’t be the first time.”
“We once caught a Russian agent in a blind alley.” Coburn’s eyes lit up for a moment, remembering some excitement; a Special Branch man could go for a year on dull routine stuff. “He couldn’t get over the wall at the end. He was obliging enough to want to fight us. It was a real pleasure.”
When Malone got out into the yard he saw Pallain just getting into a red Mini-Minor. He looked frantically about for a taxi, but there was none. As the red Mini moved out of the yard he saw Ferguson get out of the Rolls and look inquiringly towards him. Malone ran towards him.
“Get in quick!” He jumped into the front seat, slamming the door after him. “Follow that red Mini!”
Ferguson asked no questions. He swung the Rolls out of the yard into Cleveland Row. Ahead of them the Mini, a bright red moving target, was just turning up into St. James’s Street.
“I haven’t played this sort of lark in years,” said Ferguson, his voice a growling chuckle. “Not since I used to stunt-drive in the old Ealing comethes.”
“This isn’t any comedy. That bloke up ahead might be one of those who nearly blew your block off last night.”
“The bastard,” rumbled Ferguson, and the Rolls seemed to surge forward like a luxury tank. Malone sat back, appreciating the comfort in which he lolled. He’d have to tell Leeds what sort of squad car he used in London.
III
Truong Tho gingerly fitted the bomb into the black leather brief-case. He was experienced in bomb-making, but this, he knew, was a better job than anything he had ever been able to manufacture. The Englishman in Earl’s Court had beer an artist; as he had told Truong Tho, he had worked for both I.C.I. and Omega and what better apprenticeship could a man have than that for making a time-bomb? He had not bothered to ask the Englishman why he should make bombs to blow up Western ambassadors; or maybe the Englishman hadn’t known nor cared who was to be the victim. He had sounded like the sort of artist who was only interested in his creation; who bought it or what it was used for didn’t concern him. It had never been Truong Tho’s habit to query why anyone did anything. He was not a revolutionary but a gangster. He felt neither pride nor shame at being described as such by Pallain: it was his trade. He knew of no other job that would pay him, a man from the paddy-fields of the Red River, so well.
He closed the top of the brief-case and turned the key in its lock. “You have to be sure none of Quentin’s staff can open it,” Pallain said.
“They can’t open it without the key,” Truong Tho said, and put the key in his pocket. He ran his hands over the gold initials above the lock: J.Q. “But you are sure they won’t know the difference?”
“It’s exactly the same as Quentin’s case,” Pallain said. “You can buy them in any store.”
“Not any store,” said Madame Cholon. “Mr. Quentin likes only the best.”
Pallain smiled. “You’re right. I was hoping I could have got it at Marks and Spencer’s, but I had to go to Harrods. A pity to waste so much money.”
“It won’t be wasted,” said Madame Cholon. “One thing a gambler learns, one never wins high stakes with a small bet.”
“I’ve checked on the time Quentin should be back at Australia House,” Pallain said to Truong Tho. “One-fifteen at the latest. He eats lunch in his office, so he won’t be moving about the building – he has his own washroom and toilet. When you see him arrive at Australia House, give him ten minutes before you go in. Just hand it to the porter, tell him Quentin left it at Lancaster House and that it should be taken up to him at once. If the porter asks who you are, you are from the South Viet Nam delegation, a secretary.”
Truong Tho nodded, but Madame Cholon said, “I wonder if we are taking enough precautions? What if the porter doesn’t take it up at once? The fuse is set for one-thirty.”
“We’ll have to take that chance,” said Pallain. “If Tho takes it up himself, he’s likely to bump into that security man, Malone, or the Special Branch man who’s with him.”
Madame Cholon picked up some peanuts from a bowl on a marble table beneath the window and began to eat them, pushing them into her mouth peasant-fashion with the palm of her hand. “I should like shorter odds than this offers us. But what is there? What a pity Western ambassadors lead such dull, blameless lives! Blackmail would have been so much easier and cleaner.”
“Blackmail leads to too many complications,” said Pallain, who had tried several experiments in that direction.
Pham Chinh, who had been sitting quietly in one corner of the room admiring the thin arrogant women in Vogue, now looked at his watch. “Time we were going.”
“What sort of car did you hire?” Pallain asked.
“A black Hillman. Very anonymous.”
Pallain nodded. “Drop Tho in Aldwych, just as you turn out of the Strand – it will be better if he walks from there. Drive on up Aldwych, down Fleet Street, then down Bouverie Street to the Embankment. Wait for Tho just opposite the ship moored there, the Discovery. If you see a policeman coming along to move you on, you’d better drive on, swing up into Temple Place and come back down again. The important thing is, you pick up Tho at the Discovery. Have you memorised all the streets?”
Pham Chinh smiled, his smooth youthful face turning into that of a smug schoolboy. “I’ve memorised every track in the Mekong Delta. This is nothing.”
“They don’t have traffic wardens in the Mekong Delta,” said Madame Cholon. “Just watch you don’t get booked.”
“That would be funny.” Pham Chinh wagged his head, chuckling to himself. He always enjoyed a job more when there was something to laugh about: it eased his nervousness. He closed Vogue on a beautiful skeleton in black underwear and stood up. “Do we come back here?”
“No!” Madame Cholon’s voice was like the snap of a trap. “If the bomb does what we hope, I don’t want to see you again. You have your tickets. Drive straight to the airport.” She consulted a pad on the table by which she stood; everything had been planned like a military action. “You’re on the Air France flight, AF819, for Paris at three o’clock. You know where to go in Paris. I’ll phone you there this evening.”
Truong Tho picked up the brief-case. He was wearing a black jacket, striped trousers and a Homburg; he had worn many disguises, but none in which he felt so uncomfortable. “If something goes wrong, what do we do?”
All three men looked at Madame Cholon. Even Pallain, the most imaginative of the men, had not contemplated how she would react if their mission proved a failure. The thought was too terrible; he would not be surprised if she tried to kill them all in her fury. She ate the last of the nuts in her hand, chewing slowly; she’d chew a man’s bones with the same relish, Pallain thought. He had never met a woman like her, one who frightened him and excited him so much. No wonder Bay Vien had been such an admirer of her.
“We shall try again.” Pallain wondered how the little-girl voice could have so much menace. Had she ever been innocent? “Jean-Pierre will phone you at the Air France desk at the airport. If the bomb hasn’t worked, he will tell you where to go and wait for further orders. But do not come back here or try to get in touch with me. Understand?”
Truong Tho and Pham Chinh nodded, bowing their heads like servants. Madame Cholon looked at them with contempt; then abruptly she seemed to relent. She smiled and moved towards them, putting a hand on the arm of each. “Good luck. Soon you will be rich men.”
Pham Chinh grinned and wagged his head again. “It will be like a dream. Me, in a Lincoln Continental. Who will believe it?”
“Come on,” said Truong Tho, aware of the ticking bomb in his hand; only a fool dreamed when death was so close. Pham Chinh was a fool, and Truong Tho was surprised that Madame Cholon tolerated him.
They went out through the service door of the apartment. Madame Cholon never let them use the front door; they were still servants, even in this conspiracy to murder. Both men resented the distinction, especially since Pallain was allowed the privilege of the front door. But neither of them voiced their resentment, not even to each other: each of them knew what Madame Cholon was capable of. You did not insist on your democratic rights with a murderess.
They walked along a corridor, went down in the lift and out through the vestibule. Students were coming out of the college halls in Exhibition Road, all of them hurrying, as if time was too short for all that their education was fitting them for; they had to get on the bandwagon before it stopped rolling, fame and fortune no longer waited for the Englishman who took his time. You had to be with it, they said, hurrying past the two decorously walking assassins.
It was a warm cloudless day, reminiscent of days in Viet Nam, and to Tho’s stranger’s eye the English seemed to have taken on new life. A giggle of children went by headed for the park; the harassed young girl with them shone with perspiration and a new sparkle. Cars came along the road at full speed, every driver a Jim Clark, and Truong Tho and Pham Chinh had to skip nimbly to avoid them as they crossed to the black Hillman parked on the far side of the street. Tho held the brief-case carefully, remembering its maker’s warning that, once the timing mechanism was set, it could go off ahead of time if it were subjected to a severe bump.
“I don’t make crude jobs,” he had said, wrapping up the bomb in a brown paper bag as if it were a loaf of bread. “I only make masterpieces. Delicate stuff. I’m the Fabergé of the explosives game. So watch yourself, matey. Take your time about setting it, and then don’t go playing football with it.”
Rather than work in the cramped confines of the car, where he might be seen by the inquisitive passer-by, Truong Tho had set the mechanism of the bomb before leaving the apartment. Now he got into the front seat beside Pham Chinh and carefully set the brief-case on his knees. He looked at his watch and clicked his teeth: the time was twelve-fifty. Pham Chinh caught his nervousness and impatience, and without a word started up the car, swung it out from the red Mini-Minor parked in front of it, and pulled into the stream of traffic. Intent now on losing no more time neither of them had seen Malone come out of the entrance to the apartments building after them, swiftly cross the road and get into the waiting Rolls-Royce. Nor did they see the Rolls ease out from the kerb and begin to follow them.
The lunch-time traffic was thick and their progress was slow. At the entrance to Hyde Park fr
om Kensington Gore they were held up by the traffic lights. Both men stared at the red light, cursing it and willing it to turn green, and again they didn’t notice what went on behind them: Malone jumped out of the Rolls and got into an empty taxi right behind the Hillman. When the light at last turned green the Hillman and the taxi moved off together, swinging right in the park and going down past the barracks and up towards Hyde Park Corner.
“We’ll make it,” said Pham Chinh, cheerful again now that they were on the move.
“We’d better,” said Truong Tho, and looked out at the park, the great green bed of the dispossessed lovers of London. He had walked through here a few nights ago, shaking his head in wonder and disgust at what he had seen; he had always believed that the English were a cold modest people, that love-making was only something they did to propagate their Empire. He was a puritanical man, one who had never even kissed a woman in public; even with the girls in the brothels in Cholon he had always insisted that the door be locked. He looked out now and saw a couple making love beneath a tree: their lunch-time break. A young Guardsman in red tunic and purple frustration stood outside the entrance to the barracks watching the lovers: in his plumage, his tight trousers that suggested his legs bent the wrong way, and his spurs, he reminded Truong Tho of a cock about to attack a successful rival.
Suddenly the lights ahead of them turned red and a car in front pulled up sharply. Pham Chinh slammed on the brakes and Tho was flung forward. His body snapped shut over the brief-case and he felt his rib cage come down hard on the case. He held his breath, waiting to be blown to bits; then he relaxed, letting out his breath with a hiss. He looked at Pham Chinh, but the latter only shook his head.
“Not my fault. The English are terrible drivers.”
Truong Tho said nothing, remembering the reckless exhibitionists of Saigon. The light turned green again and they went on up into the vortex of Hyde Park Corner, the taxi still following them like a double image of the black Hillman. A bus driver, driving by weight, challenged them on the left and again Pham Chinh had to brake quickly; the bus went by right above them, the passengers staring down with arrogant annoyance at the foreigners who were trying to take over British roads. Truong Tho stared back up at them for the moment the vehicles rode side by side, wanting to hurl the brief-case into their smug superior faces. A woman from Maida Vale curled her lip at him, inviting murder; a small boy thumbed his nose at the funny-looking Chink in the hat that was too big for him. Then the bus and the car parted company.
