Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  I sat down heavily in the nearest chair - trembling myself and feeling sick and bewildered - and hating Negib. It was his fault. He contaminated everything he came into contact with. If only he had stayed away from her. If only he had remained away, had never come to Paris in the first place. If only Suzy had been left alone, to grow up with Farida. If, if, if.

  "You've had your answer, Harry," he said in that deadly quiet voice of his. "I think you'd better go."

  "You're destroying her. You're evil, Negib, and somehow I'll fight you. I'll expose this racket in the French press—"

  "Don't make me laugh. We've got protection now. Why do you think the guards have been pulled off? How do you think we operate? Half the French Cabinet know we exist and they turn a blind eye to it. Know why Harry?" He was laughing, "Because most of their kids are customers of ours."

  "I'll still expose you," I said defiantly.

  "Not in France, you won't." He was so damn certain. That's what made me so mad. He stood up to show me to the door. "Goodbye Harry Brand."

  Then I had an idea. "I'll turn your new identity over to Mossad."

  The flash of fear in his eyes filled me with a surge of sadistic pleasure. I had got back at him and it showed. We stood facing each other, both trembling - me shaking with hate and him with sudden fear. I tried to brush past him to the door, but he stopped me. "You try that, Harry, and I'll kill you."

  I laughed. I was just so damn pleased with myself. I had found a way of hurting him for a change. "You'd better be quick about it, Negib, that's all I can say - because Mossad will have your name and description in the morning."

  I was still jeering at him and turning away to the door when I heard the click of the switch-blade. I jumped to one side as he lunged with the knife. It was sheer instinct and good luck that I avoided it. So was bringing my knee up. If I tried to do it that quickly again I would fail every time. But I think my knee caught his thigh muscle and the force of his rush jarred him off balance. And he fell on the knife. It all happened in less than a second. He was writhing on the floor, gurgling blood, the knife deeply embedded in his throat and his hands clutching air. A moment before I had hated him, yet all I could think of then was that I was killing Nadi's son. Then the door opened and Nadi's grandchild stared at me with eyes full of horror. Negib was making awful noises. The knife had slashed an artery I think, because blood was shooting up like a fountain. I had to help him. Get a doctor, an ambulance, anything. But Suzy had a man with her. I was in too much of a state then to realise, but he must have been there when I arrived, perhaps hiding in a bedroom and waiting for me to go. He was past me in a flash and bending over Negib while I searched the room for a telephone. I heard the sound of someone vomiting followed by a sigh like air escaping from a tire. Then, as my hand closed over the telephone, the man behind me said, "He's dead, Mr. Brand."

  I spun around in horrified amazement. Negib was dead! I had killed Nadi's only surviving son. And I was grappling with the terrible significance of that when Suzy sprang at me.

  "Murderer! Fucking British murderer!"

  She tore at me like a wild animal and spat in my face as I tried to hold her at arm's length. Her nails raked my face, trying to gouge my eyes, and I was ducking away from her when the man pulled her off. He smacked her twice across the face, very hard, so that the imprint of his hand stood out on her skin. Her face was wet more with her own spit than with tears. She moaned, then turned and stumbled from the room.

  "The police," I said. "A doctor. We'd better call them—"

  "You'll be charged with murder," the man said. He was so cool, whereas I was trembling and on the verge of being sick. Then he added: "Which wouldn't suit my plans. Just go Mr. Brand and keep quiet about this. I'll attend to everything."

  "Go?" I said stupidly.

  "Yes go." He began to get angry. "Get out of here." He was alongside me then, his hand on my arm, propelling me toward the door. "And, Mr. Brand - you'd better keep very quiet - understand?"

  I wasn't thinking straight. Fear I suppose, fear and horror at having killed a man. But a moment later I was outside the apartment and looking at the closed door. I can't remember the journey back to the hotel. Once in my room I swallowed a tumbler of whiskey and then was as sick as a dog. Of course, I should have called the police. But would they have believed it was an accident? Especially with Suzy screaming "murderer" at the top of her voice. And how did I explain running away to begin with? In the end I did nothing - at least not until the morning.

  I went back to Suzy's place at eight o'clock, but no one answered the doorbell. I returned to my hotel and tried again later on, just before noon and again in the evening, but all to no avail. I was as jumpy as a tick all day long, expecting to hear the wail of sirens as a squad of policemen arrived to arrest me. But nothing happened, until that night.

  My contact on L'Express had shaken free of his Lyons assignment and had arrived in Paris to have dinner with me. Afterward we had a drink together, but I was nervy and irritable and very poor company, so he shoved off before eleven and I went to my room, seeking the solace of sleep after the nightmares of the night before.

  A note had been pushed under my door.

  "Palestine has lost one of her bravest sons," she had written in the green ink she always uses, "but soon the day will dawn when his name will be honoured everywhere. Please make no effort to contact me ever again. Suzy Katoul."

  The golden voice purred from the golden body which lay in the crook of my arm. "And did you ever see Suzy again?" I muttered "no" and kissed her breasts. She stretched one long leg over mine in a graceful feline movement, and her hands busied themselves wiping my sweat away. Above us, the giant fan revolved slowly and beneath us the soft white bed cushioned our naked bodies.

  The green eyes stared into mine. "Was she such a great loss, Harry?"

  Nadi was answering for me. I could see his face and hear his voice.

  "They are still my children - even if they treat me like - like a United Nations." Oh Nadi, the promise I made you - to cherish your daughter and look after your son. And I killed him. I killed Nadi's youngest son.

  Her golden body was wet with my sweat and still her hands wiped my brow.

  "You killed a murderer, Harry - in self-defence - an accident - don't be so hard on yourself."

  Would Nadi understand that? Would you, Nadi? Do you? Does Haleem understand the daughter we made on the bed in your house the night you were killed? Suzy is our child, I'm sure of it, ours, mine and Haleem's. We saved her once Farida and I - and then we lost her again.

  "Tell me about the man," said the golden brown voice. "The man who hid in the bedroom."

  "Tall - as tall as me, maybe slightly taller - dark, another cat, like you."

  "How?" purred the voice. "How like me?"

  "The eyes I think - something about the eyes."

  "Green?"

  "No, not green. Black, but as still as yours can be. Dark eyes with a slight almond shape to them - shaped like a cat's - a Siamese cat - a Chinese cat."

  "Was he the man in the pale grey suit?"

  "I don't know - not for sure."

  "But you think so?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you tell me before?"

  "All this? Confess you mean? Confess to murder. Tell you my only child was mixed up in a drug racket. Tell you she hates me. Confess to being ashamed."

  "We're all ashamed at times, Harry, about some of the things we do."

  "But the ends justify the means?" "Sometimes.

  0900 Saturday

  From the shed which served as his office, Mick Malone watched the men load the lorries in the yard outside. The excise officer stood in the doorway, drinking tea while his mate sheltered in the lee side of the big truck and counted the batteries on board.

  "Not much of a day for travelling," the excise man sniffed as he emptied the dregs of his tin mug over the asphalt.

  Mick joined him in the doorway, twisting his neck upward and scr
ewing his eyes into slits against the drizzle of rain. "Sure now, and the farmers will be pleased to see it - and like as not it'll stop by dinner time."

  "That when you take off?"

  Mick grinned. "I'll be long gone by then. A man likes time on his side. Especially when he's dealing with officials." His grin widened. "Now aren't they a blight on humanity? Forever holding a man up and making easy things difficult."

  "We'll not take much longer," the excise man grumbled. "And after us there's not a customs man who’ll bother you this side of Cologne."

  Mick clapped an arm around his shoulder. "And isn't that the freedom of the road for you?" He chuckled and walked away, into the main building and up to the office to collect his traveling money and passage documents. When he returned, the TTR plates were already in place, the doors at the back of the lorry were locked and bolted, the padlocks were being sealed over with the lead imprint of the excise seal. Mick went into his office for the very last time in his life. From now on he would do so many things -for the very last time in his life. His face twisted into a wry smile at the thought of it. Was that such a bad thing? Was life so good that he wanted to hang on to every last minute of it? He had answered that already - two days ago.

  It took him half an hour to check the other lorries out of the yard, shouting back to the drivers and promising to bring a buxom fraulein back for each of them, or a bottle of schnapps for old Tim Corrigan who claimed the pleasures of the bottle outlasted those of the body any night of the week. Tim was taking over from him, just until he returned of course, so another half hour was spent in explaining company procedures for the fourth time. And then, quite suddenly it seemed, Mick was free! He had never felt so free. Hugely triumphant - as if he had achieved something, won something, like a medal or scored the winning goal in the cup final. It was as much as he could do not to run to the cab. He left the shed for the wagon, catching his breath as excitement brought a stab of pain to his chest, talking to himself like a man to a horse - steady Mick, steady - you've a way to go yet. He sat behind the wheel, getting his breath back, calming himself, using the time to check his instruments like a pilot before takeoff. Then he was turning the ignition key and the huge diesel engine was roaring into life beneath him, vibrating the cab as he left the factory yard - for the very last time in his life.

  He had time enough, he knew that, but there were things still to do. And the next two would be the hardest. The next two would hurt more than the pain in his guts and the ache in his back put together. And as he turned into the narrow street of terraced houses he found himself wishing it was all over - once and for all.

  The kitchen had never looked cleaner. The plates shone on the dresser and the saucepans gleamed on their shelf like a display at the corner shop. A fresh tablecloth graced the old deal table, and above the spluttering fire even the mantelpiece had been dusted and tidied for the first time in years.

  "The kettle's on," Molly called from upstairs. "Tea won't be a minute. Sit yourself down and let the fire warm your bones for a while."

  She was wearing her best dress and when she smiled twenty years fell away. He remembered courting her, taking her to Bantry fair, him tall and proud and her hanging on his arm and looking up to him with laughing eyes. He had wanted to fight the world then, fight it and beat it and change it all for a better place. Sweet Jesus Christ - where had all the time gone?

  "I've packed your bag." She poured hot water over the leaves in the pot. "And the paper's by your elbow. So rest a while, Mick Malone - it's a long journey you've got - bonus or no bonus."

  He rested. He even closed his eyes. Not to sleep but to save himself from her conversation, from things he didn't trust himself to say. An incautious word now and she would guess everything - and if she ever did that she'd never touch a penny of the money afterward.

  At the door he kissed her, clumsily, like the very first time, so that she looked up at him with startled eyes. "Mick, you're not to be worrying about us now. We'll be all right." She kissed him again quickly and smiled. "It's not like the old days, when I never knew where you were or what you were doing." She squeezed his arm. "At least this time I'll not need to be worrying about that now, will I?"

  He kissed her one last time and swung the canvas grip over his shoulder, then he left. He never looked back - there was no point - not even when he drove down the mean little street for the very last time in his life.

  He took the top road out of Cork, away toward Mallow and Tipperary beyond. Even were it not part of his route he would have gone that way, to look at the school from the top of the hill. The ground fell away on his left-hand side, dipping down across the new housing estate while the road continued upward, curving past the houses with gardens like pocket handkerchiefs. Men in shirtsleeves cultivating vegetables, bonfires spiralling smoke into the grey sky. Then the school itself, a new two-story building of yellow brick, flanked by an asphalt playground and a patch of green where the boys played football. They were playing now and he stopped the truck to watch them, twenty-two lads of all shapes and sizes chasing a ball like dogs at a rabbit, pushing and shoving and shouting for the sheer fun of it.

  He switched the engine off and clambered down from the cab, lighting a cigarette as he sheltered from the wind. Below, a mighty shout signalled a goal and the two sides reformed into patterns on either side of the halfway line. One boy peered up toward the road, cupping his hands like binoculars as he walked to the edge of the pitch to get a better view. Then he was waving wildly, and Mick recognised him for his very own son. He waved in return and cocked his head to catch the boy's shout, but the wind caught the unbroken voice and carried it away.

  The man climbed back into the cab and started the engine. The boy waved again and the man answered before turning his eyes to the road ahead. He never looked back - there was no point - not even when he knew he'd seen his own son for the very last time in his life.

  Up through Mallow, down through Killmallock, familiar buildings, churches and houses, pubs and shops, passing the lot of them for the very last time in his life. But no longer with sadness. Instead he felt a huge sense of triumph which grew with every passing mile. He no longer cared that his back ached. He swore at it, sang at it, gloated and sneered at it. Ache you bastard - ache! His back was the whole rotten system and he was beating it to hell. Molly would have her little shop and the boy his university. Molly would have a life worth living and the boy a future worth having. And all because Mick had beaten the system. And he drove into Tipperary and out again - for the very last time in his life.

  1000 Saturday

  Ross followed the Brigadier into the conference room. Formerly the billiards room, it was well proportioned and of a good size, but was now sparsely furnished with a number of chairs grouped around a big table. Eight tall windows overlooked the front drive and another door led off to a small room in which Twomey's secretary worked. Ross counted the chairs; eighteen, arranged in two ranks which meant nine participants, each with an adviser seated behind to guard his back and prompt when necessary. Some were there already - separate knots of three or four people, all men, talking in low voices like guests at a funeral. Ross hoped it wouldn't be his. The department had its enemies and some would gather here this morning - ready to pounce on his lack of progress, concealing their triumph behind snide remarks and worried expressions. Twomey would have the thankless task of papering over the cracks, of course - though Christ knows how he would explain Hayes skipping like that. And now Hayes was dead!

  "Davies has arrived," Twomey said at his elbow. They looked down to the gravel drive and watched the black Humber roll to a halt. The chauffeur opened the door before the marine corporal reached it and Davies bounded up the steps and in the front doors. Years ago Davies had played prop forward for Wales and it still showed in his broad shoulders, even when they were covered with a black melton coat worth at least three hundred pounds in Savile Row. Guineas, Ross corrected himself, three hundred guineas. Wasn't that how upper-class
English shopkeepers made enough to buy racehorses? Davies was followed by two assistants and Ross heard the scrape of furniture as somebody hastily rearranged the chairs behind him. He stayed at the window for a moment longer, making a game of counting the soldiers hidden in the shrubbery before glancing up at the same Hercules as it circled its tight pattern against a grey sky.

  There were no introductions. Those who knew each other exchanged sly smiles of recognition, but mostly people nodded or said "Good morning" in a manner which suggested it was anything but. Ross knew the CIA boy and Thompson from SIS, but nobody else - except Davies of course, and everybody knew Davies. Just as they all knew that Davies had opposed the formation of the department from the start. "Job for the police," he had argued. "And Scotland Yard already has an anti-terrorist squad." But Davies had been overruled and had crept back to the Home Office like a whipped dog, whereas Twomey had gone on to raid every security organisation in the Western world to recruit the members of his team. But even whipped dogs have their day - and Davies had chosen this as his.

  "I am led to understand, Brigadier," he said after opening the meeting in that soft Welsh lilt he could adopt or abandon as the mood took him, "that the United Kingdom is under nuclear attack."

  Ross winced. The department's role would come to an end if Davies made it a national issue. The department's field of operation was international. If Twomey lost the argument Ross would be compelled to hand everything over to British security and take a back seat.

  "Whereas the facts are," Twomey answered mildly, smoke billowing from the bowl of his pipe, "that an international terrorist group with bases in Tripoli and Paris has exploded a small nuclear device—"

  "On our bloody beaches!" Davies roared.

  "In point of fact twelve and a half miles outside British territorial waters," said the Brigadier gently.

  "After attacking a British merchant ship," Davies snapped back.