by Daniel Kemp
“Get away with you,” she blushed as she said it.
“Is that one of my shirts you're wearing?” I asked as I regained my balance.
“It is, as I had none of my own to wear and it wouldn't do to walk around this place naked. Now would it?” she replied in a teasing fashion.
“You wrote in that letter of yours how you could fancy me yourself if it wasn't for your lesbian tendencies. I'm thinking that they aren't as strong as you make out. You're stunning, Fianna!”
“I seem to remember telling you that last Saturday. I also said no to your advances. What makes you think I've changed my mind?” she asked.“And if I had, why would I want that conversion supervised by a cripple?” she added as an afterthought.
The Hotel Near The Airport
To Dicky's logical mind Gregory Stiles would not choose anywhere other than a prestigious hotel to take up lodgings during his sojourn in New York. He started with the very best. It took just one phone call to trace his, and his travelling companion's, whereabouts. He was staying in the Royal Suite at the Waldorf Astoria with Oscar Stannic, the twenty-eight-year-old great-grandson of Count Leopold Stannic of Prussian blue-blood ancestry. There was another person that interested Dicky also booked into that hotel, having arrived late the previous evening.
To the many great attributes that made up Sir Richard's character a least one weaknesses had to be added; his impatience. Fraser had left their hotel on Rockaway Boulevard before Dicky had risen, leaving him the tasks of trying to enjoy an insipid breakfast kept warm in soulless, warming cabinets devoid of human beings and that search for Stiles. He had listened to Barrington's confession over and over again, Beaufort's revelations held no more surprises and the files he had brought with him made poor companionship with the meticulously scrutinised lines. He composed his letter of inducement and set about the part of his plan he had devised in London and kept hidden from Fraser Ughert.
Dear Mr. Stiles,
Sir Horace Butler would be honoured if you would meet with him to discuss a matter of mutual interest at your earliest convenience. He can be contacted through: Mr Daniel Cardiff, Room no 765, St. Regis Hotel, East 55th Street.
He signed it, Daniel Cardiff, a dutiful friend.
Having placed it in an envelope, he took a cab from the rank outside the Best Western Hotel.
“I want the Waldorf Astoria, please. Once there I need you to wait for me then take me on to the St. Regis. I may be quite a while in that hotel. It will depend on whether the chap I need to see is in his room or not. This is my name.” Dicky passed the driver a slip of paper. “You can confirm that I'm staying at this place if you're worried at all.”
“I'll do that, Mac, and because you look an honest guy I'll only take a reasonable deposit from you when you get out. If you're worried about your money my name and badge number is written in plain view next to me. We okay on that, chief?”
Having already experienced some local dialect, Dicky was not concerned by the driver's reference to either Mac or Chief, making no comment other than a polite; “perfectly” in acceptance of the driver's terms.
On arrival at the St Regis Hotel, Dicky positioned himself in front of the mirrored wall and relaxed in a soft chair reading one of the daily newspapers that were scattered around on table tops. He had taken Sheila's advice and brought his favourite fishing hat with him and with that loosely on his head he settled down to wait.
“I've heard the heat in New York can melt the tarmac during the summer months. Take that horrible fishing hat of yours to save what hair you've got from being singed, Richard.”
Within a few minutes he'd spotted four definite federal agents and two possibilities; one a woman, with blonde hair in a pink linen dress wearing a lightweight, blue short-sleeved jacket, the other, a man in a grey suit with a brief case on the table before him. It was the distinctive figure of Oscar Stannic who first tried to make contact with Daniel Cardiff.
Stannic, once a first soloist with the Kirov Ballet before he defected to the West when preforming at Covent Garden, was easily recognisable. The story of his defection was covered by all the international press causing great embarrassment to the Soviet Government and thereby increasing the Joint Intelligence Committee's interest with MI6 in the vanguard. It was one of Sir Richard's departments who vetted him and the name of Gregory Stiles first crossed Dicky's path.
When Stannic asked at the reception desk Dicky spotted the concierge signal to one of those agents, who in turn signalled to his three colleagues. The pretty, colourful girl was one of them, but the grey-suited man was not. The next unrehearsed moves were all beyond Dicky's influence, he had achieved what he had set out to do and to stay would have been foolhardy, but he couldn't resist. On being informed of Cardiff's room number, Stannic used one of the lifts to the first floor and Dicky figuratively held his breath. Fortunately his concerns were unfounded. His pupil held fast.
From the lift nearest to where Dicky was sitting, Stannic emerged a few moments later. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, then, riding his luck, decided to stay and see if Cardiff followed. He did.
The tension amongst the FBI agents was almost tangible as the two shook hands as if old friends reunited. The pretty girl in the pink dress was using one of the telephones on the wall to Dicky's right. He wanted to listen to the conversation, but this time resisted the overwhelming temptation. She put the receiver down and meandered over to where Stannic and Cardiff were sitting, at a middle of the floor table.
You're doing brilliantly, son. Carry on as you're going, he said under his returning breath, feeling his heartbeat slowing to normal.
The girl bent slightly towards Stannic holding a cigarette in her right hand, which, after mouthing a few words to him, she put to her mouth lifting his hand toward herself as she accepted his offer of a light. Stannic never saw her left hand in the jacket pocket, but Dicky did. He saw the tendons in her forearm tension as her thumb pressed the camera button which was then clearly outlined. Dicky allowed himself a smile, a small one but nevertheless a self-congratulating one. The fish had taken the bait.
Play the role, Daniel, if Horace Butler's name crops up, which it will, mention your uncle Sir Maurice Curtis and your job is done. It was not only Dicky who was to have a busy time ahead, but Henry Cavendish as well.
Chapter Forty-One
Late Thursday Afternoon In New York
Saint Stephen's
“Do you remember Richard Stockford giving me a letter when we left his office the day you went to Hartford, Fianna?” She was beside me on the bed as naked as God had intended her to be.
“I do,” she murmured in reply.
“In it were details regarding those inquiries of his into meetings held in the Vienna Chancellery on the day of his family's departure to America. Although he found all the names that Jack told us, he never found any mention of Alain Aberman being Kurt Schuschnigg's secretary.”
“Did he look?” She turned around to face me.
“I don't know, but I did!”
“You've got something to tell me haven't you, Shaun?” she asked, now sitting upright.
“Not before I ask you a question.”
“If it's going to be about sex and your performance then don't. I'd hate to disappoint you,” she laughed, and playfully prodded me in the chest.
“It's about pregnancy, Fianna.”
“God, you are a forward thinker! Is it a baby I'm meant to produce for you, cos if it is I'm in no mood to be starting a family, Shaun.”
“No, Fianna! Be serious for a while. When I was with Aberman in the Israeli Embassy I mentioned Schuschnigg and he went off on one, turning nasty without any apparent reason. It made me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“About that meeting.”
“You saying that it never took place?”
“No, but I did question who did what.”
“Did, as in already done?” With a grave look on her face she knelt on both knees then pushed m
e flat to the bed.
“Listen to me carefully, Shaun. You committed a cardinal sin when you shot that IRA commander in London. You are a walking dead man if your profile ever rises outside of our little community. If you start to dig away into people like Aberman you'll be hung out on a wire with IRA Killer written all over your lacerated body. You won't find a friend with a sticking plaster anywhere. Before you kill a man you must prepare a very large hole to hide the body. That's what people like Jack and Aberman do. You couldn't. Your killing happened in public view. It won't go away, Shaun. If you have spooked Aberman he will use it to ruin your life.”
“Do you know something that could have spooked him, Fianna, and you're not telling me?”
“No, I don't. But if the name of Schuschnigg got him riled then he's on your case already. Be careful, is what I'm saying.”
“I want you to do something for me, Fianna. It does not involve Aberman nor Jack, but it has a fundamental importance with far-reaching consequences if I'm right.”
“Ah, I'm just a simple girl at heart and easy to please. Go on then. At this moment I'd do anything for you other than have your child.” At that she fell on top of me.
A few minutes later there was the faintest of knocks on the door a millisecond before it opened and Jack stood framed in the doorway. Fianna and I were not playing tiddlywinks.
“I see you two have become better acquainted. The trouble with convents, monasteries and most churches come to that is that they have few doors with locks on. Time to get dressed. Places to go, hands to shake and truths to tell.”
As he went to leave and Fianna pulled all the bed linen over herself leaving me completely exposed, he added, “Did either of you see the news headlines an hour ago?” We both shook our heads. “CNN have the best coverage. Karl Weilham's plane, with his wife on board, is missing somewhere over the South Atlantic, believed crashed into the ocean!”
“Wow! That wasn't planned was it, Jack?” I asked, hastily pulling on my trousers.
“Not by me, no! I planned to hand him over to the American authorities, Shaun. Had it all in motion. Did Aberman take you to his home address from Sally's or did you go to the embassy?”
“The embassy,” I answered
“So, you don't know where he lives in New York?”
“No, Jack, I don't,” I answered, wondering where this would end.
“Thankfully I do. I've written the address down for you. I want you two there and I want you, Fianna, to take a car. Job has left one outside.”
“I have something to do for Shaun first, Jack,” she replied, sitting up in bed still covered by the sheets.
“Do you indeed. Shaun pays you now, does he?”
“I can assure you that it's vital to this whole affair, Jack.” I intervened before any innuendo was misinterpreted.
“Vital, eh! Well, you'd better do it, but I need you at that address by six-thirty at the latest. That gives you three and a half hours. Okay?”
The Hotel Near The Airport
As a sympathetic human being Dicky regretted the demise of Karl Weilham with his wife Olivia, and as head of British overseas intelligence he took note, but the scant notice he'd given that bulletin changed dramatically on hearing Fraser's report
“Price carried on to the UN building, but I don't know where he went when inside. He's got a job in a cleaning company that has a contract with several of the floors there. He was inside for just over an hour then went to St. Stephen's Church in Brooklyn. That's where Bridget and Patrick West are. West looks as though he's been twelve rounds with Joe Frazier and he had his right foot heavily bandaged. Only able to walk with the aid of a frame.”
“Jack never saw you, Fraser?”
“No, sir! I left him under the impression that I was an imbecile. It wasn't hard to do as I believe he thinks that everyone other than himself is one!”
“Yes, he did suffer from that tendency. Mind you, he was mostly right! I guess things haven't altered much in his world.” Dicky pushed the hotel window wider. “I hate this air-conditioning contraption, not good for you, you know.”
Fraser wasn't listening, he was reading the file headed 'Daniel Cardiff'. It was one he had not seen before.
“Does it really go that far deep, sir?” he asked when he had finished.
“A vastly complicated matter, Fraser, isn't it. I wish I could have dealt with it differently, but I never knew how complex it was when Cardiff first appeared. Catherine Dullas compiled the data only after Claridge's, by which time it was too late to pull out. There's someone else who's not on our radar behind all this and it's them pulling our strings!”
“I had a thought, sir.”
“Go on, man. I'm bereft of them.”
“If Stiles was to kill Jack, Aberman and West how on earth will he get away with it and if caught, which seems highly likely, how will the whole story be kept out of the press?”
That was precisely what Dicky had been thinking of since Catherine had made her report.
“I've given things a little nudge. A little unorthodox but necessary in my view. Cardiff is with Stiles now in the same hotel as Lord Beaufort. His Lordship arrived late last night. As cover I made it easy for the FBI to swarm all over Daniel. The only trouble that I can think of is, will Stiles see them? I'm totally reliant on his once active service.” Fraser interrupted.
“He's been inactive for donkey years, sir. That's a huge gamble.”
“You may be right, however, I believe he has kept his hand in because of Aberman. Remember Trenchard's reference to Gif-sur-Yvette?”
“I do recall that, sir.”
“What if Aberman had Stiles steal a few French secrets?”
“Where's the evidence of that?” Fraser asked.
“There is none, but if I'm right it will put him on his guard and if I'm wrong I can sow seeds of doubt with the French and more to the point; with the FBI.”
“What about Cardiff?” Fraser asked.
“What about him?” Dicky replied, adding, “I'll do what I can for him, but his destiny is out of my hands.”
* * *
Henry Cavendish was at the NSA headquarters in Maryland, begging Admiral Frank Meade to be shown information garnered from their Echelon project on the British Royal family.
“This man Gregory Stiles has no fixed role within the Royals, but as far as I can ascertain he's been at the Duke of Windsor's side both before he abdicated and until his death a month ago. Lord Beaufort, who arrived at the same hotel last night, is connected to the Royals in a big way. I want to know what they're up to. Stiles has also been looking after Wallis Simpson. Now even I know that she was mentioned when Charles Bedaux was arrested for treason. I should do, as my department were holding him in custody when he committed suicide.”
Deputy Director Frank Meade was pulling faces that showed that he was far from impressed. Henry played his trump card.
“The Duke, alongside Wallis, lived in a French chateau at a place called Gif-sur-Yvette of which I'm sure you're aware of, Frank. Yes, that's right, the atomic research laboratory the French have. It's our opinion in the Agency that this Stiles has some information from there and is passing it on to the British intelligence operative my men were tracking before we discovered Stiles and Lord Beaufort.”
“You said the head of British Intelligence gave you the name of his operative, Henry. Why do you think he would do that?” Frank asked, his interest having risen a few notches.
“The only thing we came up with is that they want to avoid the embarrassment of another scandal. There was huge controversy when Stiles's lover Stannic defected. They want us to do their dirty work for them in finding out if the French were compromised.”
“Possibly, but I don't buy that,” Frank retorted.
“Look, Frank, I know how protective the NSA are over Echelon, great work you've been doing on that, I understand, but what if the French had something that the Brits knew of, that we didn't? Your surveillance program is going to come a poo
r second to good old ground work which costs a lot less when the budget is drawn up!”
Frank's early countenance of bored indifference changed instantly into something a fierce bulldog would be perfectly at home with. He almost snarled his reply.
“I'll give you six communication specialists from 70th Operational Support Group and add more if you need them. Get me what the Brits know that the French have before the rest of the world know what we don't, Henry!”
“Eyes on Echelon as well?”
“You have it!” Meade emphatically replied.
Chapter Forty-Two
Thursday Evening
Turtle Bay
Fianna parked the silver BMW outside a house being renovated, about twelve houses south of number thirty-seven, 48th Street, switched off the engine and slid along the bench seat to be closer to Shaun. She put her arm across his shoulder and gently kissed him. It was the first intimacy between the two since Jack had disturbed them and left with Job. It had taken them under the three and half hours deadline to achieve all Shaun had asked, but he had shown no joy on her discovery, only a strong sense of regret. In the time they waited Shaun did not speak a word despite several prompts by Fianna who too was sombre, but her loyalties were being stretched by differing forces than Shaun's. His problem could only be rectified by himself.
At two minutes past the hour two men mounted the steps leading to number thirty-seven and knocked on the door. It was Fianna who stated the obvious.
“That must be the man Jack spoke so highly of, Shaun.”
It was Job who opened up, waving them past as he stepped into the evening air to stand watch. Jack was waiting at the end of the wide, carpeted hallway seated beneath a painting by Piet Mondrian: The Gray Tree.
