Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Reilly sat back in his chair. "We're going fishing, just like we said." He smiled, pleased to be finished with the planning session and pleased that the job was almost over. Circumstances had forced him to work with the tall dark stranger, but nothing about the man's personality appealed to him. And every time he thought of Liam, suspicions crept out from the dark recesses of his mind.

  "You're to be at sea when we do this job," Abou nodded at the photographs.

  "That's what we agreed."

  "And you'll warn all other IRA men to have a good alibi for tonight."

  Reilly nodded. "None of our people will be within five miles of Holy Cross. That's already been taken care of." It still surprised him that the man was going to such trouble to spring Cassidy, but he was glad the Movement was to be kept out of it.

  Abou nodded his satisfaction. He had his own reasons for wanting the IRA well clear of the Holy Cross Prison tonight.

  Reilly said, "So if we could talk about the ammunition, I'll be making the rest of the arrangements."

  Abou smiled thinly and reached to an inside pocket, withdrawing the chart he had brought with him from the Aileen Maloney. "It's about five miles out from Conlaragh Creek. The spot's marked on the chart here."

  Reilly was astonished. "The ammo was aboard the Aileen Maloney all the time?" For days he had wondered how the promise would be kept.

  Still smiling Abou said, "When you get there, you'll find a yellow marker buoy. You'll need a winch - it'll be a heavy business lifting it."

  Reilly studied the chart and wondered what it was about the arrangement which troubled him. Something did. Was it a trick? Were they to be sent on a wild goose chase - hunting for something that wasn't there? Yet there seemed no point to it. The man had kept his word on everything else - the Aileen Maloney, the Kalashnikovs, the money, all had been delivered as promised. And look at the trouble he had taken to see Mick all right, and the efforts he was making for Steve Cassidy. Yet something nagged at the back of Reilly's mind.

  "You'll be gone when we get back, of course?"

  Abou smiled. "Don't worry, you'll find what you're looking for. I guarantee it."

  He had no choice but to accept it, Reilly knew that. And hadn't that been the way of things all along? He folded the chart into his pocket and stood up. "I'll be making arrangements for the motor cars then?" He looked at Suzy. "Yours will be ready inside the hour. Is that when you're leaving?"

  "Yes," Abou said in a determined voice before Suzy could answer. "An hour will be plenty."

  Suzy closed the door behind Reilly. "Abou - do I have to go?" she pleaded in a desperate rush of words. "Surely there's another way. Perhaps if we sent—"

  "Suzy." He drew her into his arms, hiding his face in her hair to conceal the contempt in his eyes. Another hour and he would be rid of her. It would be a relief. To be free of the strain of forever encouraging her, supporting her needs, feeding her ego, pretending to care for her when all he cared about was the Plan. He would miss her body, but there would be other women. Others he could train to perform those very special duties. Training them was part of the enjoyment, watching their initial revulsion become an urgent need in a matter of weeks.

  He comforted her for a few minutes and then went to the briefcase to collect the leather-covered box which contained the syringe. Her eyes widened as she watched him and her face lit up with pathetic gratitude.

  "One shot now," he said, "and the others will give you another one in Rome."

  She bared her arm hurriedly and sucked her breath in sharply as the needle found a vein. A shot now was a bonus, she knew that, a present, a parting gift. Oh Abou, you're so kind and wonderful and . . . her breathing came in huge panting gasps and all she could think about was the exquisite pleasure which engulfed her. He drew her back into his arms and could feel her wanting him. He smiled. Instant gratification, like a child or an animal. He would deny her now, but the two commandos traveling with her to Rome would give her a shot tonight and then she would take both of them. Both of them tonight and both of them tomorrow morning when they gave her the booster shot. His smile broadened. Perhaps the man with the broken hand would at least feel compensated.

  "Enough," he pushed her away. "It's time to get ready."

  It took them most of the hour. Abou applied make-up to her face like an artist putting paint on canvas. From time to time he glanced at the photograph of the other girl he had propped up next to the briefcase, working continuously to achieve a good likeness. But not until the specially made blue contact lenses were put on her eyes and the blonde wig arranged on her head was the transformation complete.

  She giggled at her reflection in the mirror. "I get to look more like Monique every time you do it," she said.

  1600 Saturday

  A gremlin was trapped in my head and was using a pickaxe to get out. Even that would have been bearable if I could see straight, but every now and then my vision distorted and the room closed in on me. One minute I was in the middle of Carnegie Hall and the next suffocating in a space no bigger than a coffin. I was on a bed in a room with whitewashed walls - my bed in my room at the Health Farm. God, had I reached that stage, so institutionalised that I thought of it as my room, possessively, like a child clinging to an old blanket. If only I could stop shivering it would help. And the sheets beneath me were wet with sweat. The room opened out again to a hundred feet long, and in the far distance a tiny door opened and Elizabeth entered like Alice coming through the looking glass.

  "You've got your clothes on," I said when she was near enough to hear me.

  She wore the same white sweater and slacks she had started out in - before we went to bed.

  "I've never taken them off." She offered me a glass of something, but my hands were shaking too much to hold it. "The doctor will be in to see you soon."

  "I'll kill that bastard if he comes in here."

  She sat me upright and held the glass so that I could drink. I was thirsty enough to empty the swimming pool. Something was wrong with her eyes - they were as green as ever, but one was twice the size of the other. "You're still hallucinating," was her excuse when I told her, but I knew she was wrong.

  "What happened in Scotland?" I asked, knowing something was supposed to happen without being sure of what.

  "They exploded the bomb."

  "Did they kill Ross?" I panicked. Ross was the only friend I had. If Ross had been killed...?

  "No, he'll be back here in the morning."

  "I want to see him. Understand that? As soon as he gets here."

  "I understand."

  God I was tired, so bloody desperately tired. I could hardly keep my eyes open.

  "Harry, I want to talk to you. Don't go to sleep. I want you to remember something for me."

  "Oh no! Not more bloody questions." I closed my eyes and clung to her.

  "Remember the blonde you met at Henley with Suzy?"

  "I'm tired, just let me sleep—"

  "You said she was French. Why did you tell me that, Harry?"

  "Oh my God! Why would I say De Gaulle was French? Why would I say Maurice Chevalier was French? Because they are - were - French."

  "Harry, we know that she wasn't French."

  I nestled my head into the soft yielding mounds of her bosom and kept my eyes tightly closed.

  "Please Elizabeth - let's talk about it tomorrow. I'm tired, just so bloody tired—"

  "Why did you say she was French?"

  "For Christ's sake! She had a French accent and was called Monique Debray! The dress she wore looked like something by Nina Ricci and she reeked of Ma Griffe. What more do you want?"

  The white sweater swelled against my mouth and her lips brushed my ear. What the hell did she mean about not taking her clothes off?

  "Did you ever know her by another name?" a grey voice asked from nowhere.

  I jerked upright. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed, and Max looked over his shoulder.

  "Get out," I said coldly and then e
rupted in a fury of temper. For two or three minutes I laid my tongue to every swear word I could muster. But it made no difference.

  "Monique Debray could be important," Elizabeth whispered in my ear. "Please, Harry - you've got to tell us everything you know about her."

  "I have - I have - I have!"

  But it was no good. The needle was going in just the same.

  1800 Saturday

  LeClerc's home was in Paris. Not that he saw much of it these days. Just every other weekend and the fourth week if he was lucky. But he had phoned Madelaine from Heathrow to let her know he would be home tonight - tonight or in the early hours of the morning - or, at the very least, in time for lunch tomorrow. He had phoned from Heathrow to avoid Ross knowing. Ross would expect him to catch the first flight back to Malta, without so much as letting Madelaine know he was in town, let alone see her. LeClerc sighed. It was all very well for Ross. He had his home comforts at the Health Farm. LeClerc disapproved, but not being able to do anything about it he rarely thought about it, and he bore Elizabeth no ill will because of it.

  Jacques Bernier sent a car to meet him at Orly, an unmarked car driven by a plainclothes detective, who merely touched LeClerc's elbow as he came through customs. LeClerc approved. He had worked with Bernier before and had been impressed by the man's thoroughness. Not a flash of inspiration man, LeClerc judged, no genius, but the ideal type to go through a man's pockets - or his house - or indeed, his factory. Bernier could turn the President's Palace over and nobody would be the wiser afterward - least of all the President himself. A good old-fashioned cop LeClerc thought, nodding with approval as he gazed out at the traffic on his way from the airport.

  The factory was situated in the sixteenth arrondissement. It was an appropriate place for it. Half the businesses in the area were into electronics. Plessey had a place there and Siemen's had covered sixteen square kilometres with an assembly plant - and the computer boys had bought up half the Rue de la Martin. The talk in the local cafes was of printed circuits and chip technology, of high rates of pay and scope for advancement. And, but only occasionally, of the women who worked there in their thousands. LeClerc knew all about it, his daughter was one of them.

  There were no outward signs that the police had taken possession of the factory. A few cars stood in the car park a blue Citroen next to a Renault with a bent nearside wing, a Mini Cooper and a Lancia - but they could have belonged to some of the company's managers sacrificing their Saturday evening to catch up on paperwork.

  The detective led the way past another plainclothes man at the front door and along a corridor to a flight of steps at the far end. Upstairs the walls were wood-panelled and the carpeted floor muffled their footfalls, otherwise the corridor was the same - running in a straight line from the front to the back of the building. Bernier must have seen them arrive because he opened a door at the far end of the corridor and stepped out to greet them.

  You can tell a lot about a man from his office. LeClerc was impressed as soon as he crossed the threshold. Louis XIV furniture and Persian rugs over oak strip floors, silk drapes at the windows and a chandelier big enough to grace the reading room at the Bibliotheque Sainte-Genevieve. Paintings adorned the panelled walls and two pieces of sculpture were skilfully displayed in alcoves on either side of an ornate secretaire.

  Bernier smiled. "The paintings alone are worth ten million francs - maybe more, I'm no expert."

  LeClerc nodded. "The office of a successful man."

  "A rich one, certainly," Bernier agreed.

  LeClerc prowled around the room, peering at a charcoal sketch by Picasso and then stepping back to admire a bronze bust of a young girl. He took his time, soaking up the atmosphere of the room, his eyes registering as his mind catalogued like a connoisseur in an auction room. It was not what he had expected. LeClerc had imagined Knolle International, cantilevered chairs and plate-glass tables, and he was disappointed not to find them. It meant that his mental image of the man was wrong and that disturbed him. To catch a man you had first to understand him. To catch a dead man was the hardest thing of all. You could not interrogate or apply pressure, or watch for a reaction as you turned the screw, nor could you listen for the give-away lie - all you could do was imagine.

  Two photographs stood on the desk, both in gilt frames. LeClerc recognised the girl immediately, he had seen enough shots of her at Bampton House. It was Monique Debray. But the other photograph was of a horse. True it was a racehorse and a handsome enough creature, but he was surprised to see it.

  "I never knew Monsieur Hayes was into racing?"

  "Not here, not in France," Bernier settled down to report on the results of fifteen hours work, "but he races in England."

  "Raced," LeClerc corrected. "Monsieur Hayes is dead. Murdered."

  Bernier's eyebrows may have risen a fraction and perhaps his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but apart from that there was little change in his expression. Nothing surprised him, it was written in the lines on his face. Even in repose his face conveyed a look of sad acceptance. Thirty-five years as a policeman had taught him the inevitability of such things. If the nature of man was to lie and cheat, then murder was no more than the ultimate theft.

  "So he raced in England?" LeClerc settled into the desk chair, stroking the wood of the desk as he looked about him, anxious to get the feel of the place and desperate to learn about the character of the man whose chair this once had been.

  "And in Ireland. His horses were trained there - at a place called Limerick."

  An Irish connection? LeClerc had doubted it before. He had been as skeptical as Ross about Dorfman's theories in that direction. But here it was again, and yet there had been no mention of it in the file he had studied during his flight. He marshalled everything he knew about Hayes. A busy man - a businessman, with interests in the Far East as well as Europe. A man with an eye for a pretty woman and with enough money to indulge his sexual fantasies at the house on the Thames. Rich, cultivated, a man whose wealth had secured contact with the power elite of England and France, and now it would seem, perhaps of Ireland too? But with no business connection which linked him to the Middle East. So why does a man like that get mixed up with a Palestinian terrorist organisation ? Why? Where's the profit for a man who set such store on money? He cleared his throat. "What about the business here? Is it all right? Pay its bills, make a profit, declare a dividend, pay tax?"

  Bernier nodded. "Yes to everything. The fraud squad have completed an initial examination of the company's books - everything's in order so far."

  "Too in order?" LeClerc cocked his head. "Even the best run businesses have discrepancies - queries - human errors. A perfect set of books screams fraud louder than anything I know."

  Bernier shrugged. "I said as much myself. There were some small queries - a few loose ends, perhaps enough to account for human fallibility." His smile made him look ten years older. "The company's accountant was embarrassed enough when we pointed them out earlier."

  "But eventually he found answers for them?"

  "Enough to satisfy the fraud squad."

  LeClerc detected a slight uncertainty. "But not you?"

  Bernier pursed his lips and was about to say something when he stopped and changed his mind. He shook his head. "I know as much about a set of accounts as I do about painting."

  "But you know men, Jacques," LeClerc persisted. "Something made your nose twitch, eh?"

  Bernier was pleased. Even his face failed to conceal his sly look of gratitude. "He knew we were coming."

  LeClerc was astonished. "He said as much?"

  "On the contrary. He was surprised, shocked, argumentative. Telling us his rights and demanding access to the company's lawyers. But he knew - he expected us."

  LeClerc stared across the desk. It would be a mistake to press Bernier. Policemen cannot explain their hunches. A hunch is a feeling not a fact, a sixth sense developed from watching people under strain. Arrest enough people at two in the morning and you lea
rn to expect a certain pattern of behaviour. You look for the pattern. When it varies, something is wrong. That it can vary in a million different ways is what makes pinpointing it so difficult. The nose can twitch as much about something not said as something said; days may pass before realisation dawns, but you never miss it.

  "What about the other managers?" he asked. "Have you interviewed them?"

  "But of course," Bernier said huffily. "There are six managers. They run the place really - Hayes only came over three or four times a month."

  "And did your nose twitch with the others?"

  "No, not in the slightest."

  LeClerc frowned. Perhaps it made sense. If anything odd was happening in a business the money man would be the first to know about it. Except, on the face of things, nothing odd was happening.

  For the next hour Bernier unfolded his report - details of the managers and employees, cross-referenced with police files, the normal detailed screening which men like Bernier excel at. But nothing dramatic was revealed. Even the business itself was straightforward to the point of being downright boring. It was little more than an assembly plant - nothing was made here - components were brought in from outside contractors; nothing was designed here - Hayes brought prototype products back from the Far East, so all the factory did was to assemble. And make money.

  "Were any profits transferred overseas?" LeClerc asked at one stage.

  "Overseas no - abroad yes. Monsieur Hayes had a partner - in Switzerland."

  Another surprise. There was no mention of a partner in the reports. LeClerc said as much.

  "I agree," Bernier nodded. "On paper the company is owned by Hayes alone. But large fees are paid to Switzerland on a regular basis. According to the accountant they are royalty payments to Hayes's partner. 'His partner in the Alps' apparently that's how Hayes referred to him."

  "Has he a name? Does he visit this place?"

  "It's a Swiss company. No more than a bank account, I'd say." Bernier shrugged. "Nobody knows much about it, but we're checking into it as far as we can." He consulted his notes. "We think the man running it must be an invalid."