by John Denis
C.W., seated next to Sabrina, amused himself by eavesdropping on Graham’s attempts to persuade her to take a brief holiday with him in the South of France. Mike owned a hillside villa near Carcassonne, in Languedoc, and he spent a great deal of time extolling its virtues of beauty and solitude.
C.W. had observed the two of them easing naturally together on the tower. He knew a little of Graham’s background, and much of Sabrina’s, and he was not quite cynical enough not to hope that they’d make it.
‘I’ll think about it, Mike,’ Sabrina said. ‘I have a lot I want to do just at the moment, and I may take a raincheck on it … but really I would love to come.’
‘Nothing of these things you wish to do is of a criminal nature, I trust,’ Philpott teased.
‘Why of course not, sir,’ she replied, fluttering her thick eye-lashes at him. ‘How could you even suggest such a thing?’
‘How indeed?’ Philpott rejoined.
Graham coughed expertly to wean the subject away from crime. ‘There wouldn’t, of course,’ he insisted, ‘be any strings. You’d be absolutely free to do anything you liked, with anyone you liked.’
‘Of course,’ she assented.
‘Hon,’ C.W. leered, ‘if you believe that, you’d believe anything, as the Duke of Wellington said.’ Sabrina blushed, and Graham turned a look of mock fury on the sardonic black.
C.W. winked at him and said, ‘Only kidding, Mike. But it seemed to me from the way you described the place that there just wouldn’t be anyone else within a hundred or so miles of it except good ole’ Mike Graham. Huh?’
It was Philpott’s turn to cough, not as expertly as Graham, but well enough. ‘Now I have a toast,’ he announced. ‘To all of us, for an operation well done. We may not have been on top all the time, but by George we sure caught up in the end.’
They drank, and Philpott added, ‘And a special toast to you, Mike. It would have been impossible without you. You have our grateful thanks.’
Mike flushed and said, ‘Aw, shucks,’ and Philpott got in quickly. ‘If you ever consider rejoining the Intelligence community, Mike, you might contact me. I think you’d find UNACO a little less, shall we say, orthodox than the CIA.’
‘Sure thing,’ C.W. supplemented, ‘unorthodox is the word. What do you say, Mike?’
Mike hesitated, and Sabrina laid her hand over his and said, ‘We did work well together, didn’t we?’
Graham looked at each of the UNACO people in turn, his gaze resting longest on Sabrina. ‘Well,’ he replied slowly, ‘as someone once said to me when I invited her on an idyllic holiday in the South of France … I’ll think about it.’
Philpott beamed and said, ‘Any time, Mike. You’ll be welcome any time.’ He then excused himself from the coffee and liqueurs. ‘There’s something I have to do,’ he explained to Sonya. ‘It’s a kind of tidying-up. A few loose ends, you know. Just for the record — and your files. I’ll see you back at the Ritz: and don’t forget we’re painting the Moulin Rouge red tonight.’
‘Think they’d mind a little black as well?’ C.W. enquired innocently.
* * *
Lorenz van Beck had two hours to kill. But being a peaceable man, he decided to spend them more profitably.
This time he chose the Musée d’Art Moderne in the Avenue du President Wilson, and the Jeu de Paume in the Tuileries, Place de la Concorde, both for their superb modern French art. On reflection, he threw in the Centre Culturel Georges Pompidou, on the valid assumption that any construction of such an outré design would be unlikely to have provided for maximum security.
He rented a Peugeot estate car in the name of Maurice T. Randall — or so his British passport said — and drove to Rambouillet by a route so circuitous that it confounded him, let alone a possible tail.
Van Beck arrived at the church on the stroke of six o’clock, and poked his head around the door. The evening sun peeped weakly through the assembled stars and shepherds in the circular west window of sumptuously coloured stained glass. There was enough light to see that he was alone, apart from a bald and shuffling sacristan, illogically moving sacred vessels from end to end of the altar at a commendably sluggish pace. Van Beck calculated he must be on overtime.
Van Beck tramped to the confessional boxes in his Church’s shoes, that went rather well with the slim-fit Savile Row suit and Jermyn Street shirt and tie. He was well pleased with himself.
For good measure, and to make his day even more rewarding, he had visited the 14th-century Medici château at Rambouillet before keeping his ecclesiastical appointment. The château is nominally reserved for the President of the Republic, but van Beck didn’t see how that automatically excluded him. Someone with talent, he thought, like — say — Sabrina Carver, could have a splendid time there. With or without the President.
The German drew back the stiff red curtain and sat on the penitent’s seat. The figure behind the metal grille, head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer, said, ‘My son?’
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ van Beck mumbled.
‘And how,’ Philpott replied. ‘For one thing, you’ve lied to me.’
‘I never lie,’ van Beck said matter-of-factly, ‘especially to clients.’
‘Then you didn’t tell me the whole truth,’ Philpott persisted.
‘Ah,’ Lorenz van Beck conceded, ‘that is an entirely different thing, Mr Philpott. To which tactical omission are you referring?’
Philpott chuckled. ‘I like that, van Beck. Let me tell you then: when I de-briefed Michael Graham, I was dismayed to learn that you had recommended not just Sabrina and C.W. to Smith, but Graham as well. It that so?’
Van Beck admitted that it was. Philpott pondered the information. ‘Neither did you tell me,’ he went on, ‘that Graham had stolen the laser-guns and handed them over to Smith — did you?’
That too, van Beck allowed, was true. ‘Nor that Smith had the lasers at his château in the Loire Valley,’ Philpott persisted.
‘I had to leave you to find out something for yourself,’ the German complained, ‘and I had no possible doubt that with your Red priority enabling you to put a Lockheed SR 71 long-range reconnaissance ’plane into French air space, you would very quickly learn the location of Smith’s little hideout. Which, after all, you did.’
‘True,’ Philpott said, disconcerted by van Beck’s intimate knowledge of the ‘Blackbird’ spy plane.
‘I am given to understand,’ van Beck continued, ‘that this versatile aircraft can fly at a height of more than eighty thousand square feet, and survey an area of sixty thousand square miles of territory in one hour. In addition to sophisticated radar and photographic equipment, it carries infrared sensors capable of detecting the heat generated by the human body even when under cover. It that not the case?’
‘It is,’ said Philpott crossly.
‘In effect,’ van Beck pressed on, ‘it could have taken an X-ray picture of Sabrina Carver in bed, which would indeed have been a notable achievement. Nein?’
‘Ja,’ replied Philpott tersely, ‘and cut out the small talk. I want answers, and I want them now.’ The bald sacristan shuffled past the confessional boxes singing a Gregorian chant off key.
Van Beck sighed heavily. ‘Very well, Mr Philpott. I owe you that, at least. In any case, I was going to tell you.’ Philpott grunted, unconvinced.
‘The first thing I would have you understand,’ van Beck began, ‘is that business is business. I work for whom I please, at any time I please. If I am employed by you and Smith simultaneously, I would be a fool to confess everything I learn to each of you. And I am not a fool, Mr Philpott.
‘The reason why I did not inform you about Graham is deeply personal,’ he went on. ‘I must have your assurance that what I am about to reveal will go no further.’ Philpott gave it.
Van Beck pursed his lips and coughed gently. ‘Did Graham tell you he had been hunting Smith because Smith was responsible for killing his wife?’
‘Yes, he
did. It was a dreadful story. I can appreciate that he had to leave the CIA to do that, although continuing to work for them unofficially, and under cover.’
Van Beck nodded, and sighed again. ‘He didn’t tell you the name of his wife, did he?’ Philpott shook his head.
‘But you do concede that Graham had good reason to go after Smith?’
‘Of course,’ Philpott said, ‘any man would have done. He must have been half-crazed with grief.’
Van Beck said, ‘He was.’
Philpott looked sharply at him through the grille. ‘How do you know?’ he demanded.
Van Beck said, ‘His wife’s name was Sieglinde. He called her “Ziggy”. She was twenty-five when she died. Before her marriage to Michael Graham, she was Anneliese Sieglinde van Beck.
‘She was my only child, Mr Philpott, and the unborn baby that was lost in her womb when Smith blew her to pieces would have been my grandchild.’
Philpott was stunned, and kept silent. Van Beck held his head in his hands, and Philpott heard a stifled sob come from him.
‘I’m sorry, Lorenz,’ he said gently, ‘I didn’t know.’
Van Beck sniffed and replied, ‘Of course not. How could you? But you see, Mr Philpott, I had to make certain that Michael Graham — who is a fine young man — was the only weapons expert infiltrated into Smith’s organization.
‘And once I had done that, I resolved to do nothing to put his cover at risk. The CIA had hushed up the story of his wife’s death, making it seem natural causes. It isn’t even on his file. They fabricated a mental breakdown, and released him for the one purpose of taking Smith. I do not work for the CIA, Mr Philpott, but I would gladly do again what I did to revenge myself on a monster like Smith.’
Philpott replied, ‘I see that now. And of course you acted rightly.’
‘In other ways, too, Mr Philpott,’ van Beck went on. ‘Tell me, who gave you the tip-off that Smith was planning another big job?’
‘As far as I was concerned, INTERPOL.’
‘And who told INTERPOL — under a veil of secrecy, and on condition that they passed the intelligence to you?’
Philpott smiled. ‘Obviously, you did.’ Van Beck nodded. ‘I believed the CIA or INTERPOL would bungle the job,’ he whispered, ‘and I was confident that UNACO would not.’
Philpott said wryly, ‘Thanks for that, anyway. OK, van Beck, that’s cleared the air. I hope our association will be as fruitful in the future as it has been in the past.’
Van Beck grunted and rose from his chair. ‘Then I may go?’ Philpott nodded; but held up a hand as the German made to leave.
‘There’s just one thing,’ he said. ‘It’s fairly important. What happened,’ he asked carefully, ‘to the proceeds of Sabrina’s admirably executed robbery in the Amsterdam Diamond Exchange, for which I imagine you were also responsible?’
Van Beck smiled a crooked smile. ‘The diamonds were passed on to me, and I have already disposed of them. Miss Carver has been paid, and I shall consider my commission a suitable reward for information leading to the return of four extremely dangerous and secret laser-guns. No? Business, after all, as I keep telling you, Mr Philpott, is always business.’
Philpott chuckled, and said, ‘You win, then. Auf wiedersehen, Lorenz.’
‘Goodbye,’ van Beck replied. ‘Until the next time.’
Philpott heard the church door slam behind him, then got to his feet and made his own way out, pausing to bestow a blessing on the sacristan. He took off his priestly vestments and hung them on the cloakroom peg where he had found them.
He passed through the porch and out into the balmy twilight. The air was good. He filled his lungs and stretched.
Yes, he thought, the next time. With Sonya, Sabrina and C.W. on his team — and, possibly, Mike Graham too — Philpott was keenly looking forward to whatever might come UNACO’s way.
Who, though, would it be the next time? It was a comforting problem to take with him back to the Ritz.
ALISTAIR MACLEAN’S HOSTAGE TOWER
Alistair MacLean, who died on 2 February 1987, was the international bestselling author of thirty books, including world famous novels such as The Guns of Navarone and Where Eagles Dare. In 1977 he was commissioned by an American film company to write a number of story outlines that could be adapted into a series of movies; two, Hostage Tower and Air Force One is Down, were, with Alistair MacLean’s approval, published as novels by John Denis; these were followed with six by Alastair MacNeill, the highly successful Death Train, Night Watch, Red Alert, Time of the Assassins, Dead Halt and Code Breaker, and two, Borrowed Time and Prime Target by Hugh Miller.
Writing at the time, MacLean said: ‘I duly prepared eight outlines dealing with the activities of five members of a fictional group, which I named “The United Nations Anti-Crime Organization”, or for short, “UNACO”. Hostage Tower is the first of these stories to be filmed. My publisher suggested that I might like to write a novel based on the film. I declined because the timing didn’t suit me — I was in the middle of completing my novel Athabasca. Fortunately they were able to persuade John Denis to undertake the task — and you will soon discover what an excellent job he had made of it.’
FB2 document info
Document ID: 56418f5c-5bc8-4403-8154-81abcb01e89f
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 17.11.2013
Created using: calibre 1.11.0, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
Document history:
1.0 — создание файла fb2
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
