Murder By Umbrella: (Passion) (The Nikki Sinclair Quartet Book 1)

by Jaye Rothman

  “Don’t move. Put your hands on your head now,” I ordered as I held the Beretta against the back of his head.

  “You took your time.” Although he had left Scotland when he was 15, Fraser still retained his Glaswegian accent.

  I relaxed and flicked the safety catch back on again. “Are you mad? I could’ve shot you.”

  Fraser placed the English edition of the Al-Ahram on the side table. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re far too good. You don’t make mistakes, unlike your ‘husband.’”

  I breathed out a long sigh of relief. “What do you mean?”

  Fraser took out his pack of cigarettes, offered one to me, placed one in his own mouth and lit both with a cheap disposable lighter.

  “He’s too good at playing Jack the Lad. Did you know that he tried to grope the Dutch Deputy Ambassador’s wife last night?”

  “I had my eyes on Amisi, not my fucking husband.” I retorted angrily. “I can’t watch them both.”

  Fraser rose from the winged armchair, and poured himself a very large measure of Glenfiddich from the Waterford crystal decanter. “Do you want one?”

  I shook my head. I had to keep my head clear and the last thing I wanted was to start an all-night drinking session with Fraser. Memories of the last time we had worked together in Alexandria came back to me, and I recalled that Fraser had been exceedingly fond of the malt whiskies. I switched on one of the lamps that were dotted around the room on elegant side tables. Its welcome glow illuminated the room. I glanced out the window and saw the moon disappear behind a cloud. Turning back, I let my eyes roam around the living room, taking in the rich brocade of the furniture and curtains. The Persian rugs were artlessly scattered across the highly polished marble floor, and the reproductions of the famous Egyptian artist Gazbia Sirry hung in gilt frames on the magenta painted walls. It wasn’t a living room where the inhabitants had taken pride in choosing the décor and the objets d’art; it was a complete façade. Rather like my life, I thought grimly. The room had been carefully put together by the background planners of MI6 in London. Their brief had been to create a luxurious room in which Helen and Martin Owens would be able to entertain the movers and shakers of Cairo.

  I had begun to detest this house, which was situated in an elite suburb called Garden City. From the beginning of the mission I had been unhappy with the location of the house in Ahmed Ragheb, as the area was home to numerous embassies and residences of diplomats and foreigners. Although I was heavily disguised, I didn’t want to run the risk of being recognised by any security details from Arab countries, as I had a long-standing warrant out for my arrest issued by the Yemeni government.

  Fraser had been in Cairo since 1953 and he knew it well. He had tentacles all over the city, with informants in the government and the military. He was about 55 and whippet thin, but I noticed that he had aged since I had last seen him. His hair was greyer and sparser, and his face had a yellowish tinge under the dark suntan. He had served in the regular army and was proud of this. He hadn’t attended public school and was scornful of the number of old Etonians and Harrovians in the Service, as he believed they didn’t have the balls in tight corners – his words, not mine. Since the night I had met Amisi, I had tried a number of approaches to encourage her to continue to work for us. All came to naught. As soon as I discussed Middle Eastern affairs, she shut down and was disinclined to comment, as she said politics bored her.

  Fraser took a large swallow of his malt and licked his lips in appreciation. I knew that he hadn’t made a house call in the middle of the night to inform me of Cavendish’s reckless and stupid behaviour.

  “London have been on the line.” My heartbeat increased. I kept my voice neutral.

  “It must be urgent if they called you at this time of night.”

  Fraser nodded his head and lit another cigarette.

  “You’d best wake your ‘husband,’ Nikki.” I nodded, stood and padded up the stairs to get Cavendish. I shook him awake roughly.

  “Get up, Cavendish. Fraser’s downstairs.” Even he understood the implication of a night visit from Fraser. He stumbled into his clothes and followed me, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  “Sit down, both of you,” Fraser instructed us. “I’ve just received an important signal from London.” He paused. “The DG has changed the plan, and it’s been approved at the highest level.” This meant that the Foreign Secretary had signed the orders.

  “It’s been confirmed that our mark has been passing valuable Intel to Moscow. The KGB now has a direct link to the Sadat government and this can’t be allowed to continue. The cousins and our friends are in agreement. The mark must be neutralised.”

  The game had been racked up another notch. So who would be given the unenviable job of assassin? Cavendish had paled and his hand shook when he lit his cigarette. We glanced at each other, and our eyes slid away. Naked fear and shock showed in his eyes. I wondered, not for the first time, if he had actually killed anyone. I thought not.

  “When and where?” I automatically enquired of Fraser.

  Fraser looked at me. He didn’t speak. Then he abruptly turned his head to Cavendish.

  “Not you Sinclair. Cavendish.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief; I was off the hook this time. I thought Cavendish would faint. All the remaining colour had drained from his face, his eyes were glassy and when he stubbed his cigarette out he burnt the tip of his middle finger, but he didn’t appear to register the pain.

  “I can’t …” His voice had risen, and it had a hysterical edge. “Are you mad? Kill a woman? I didn’t sign up for this!”

  “What the hell do you think we do when a situation becomes untenable, laddie?” Fraser’s voice had become harder.

  “I don’t know what you do. But to kill a woman, I can’t do it. I simply can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

  Cavendish turned and appealed frantically to me. “You do it. Why don’t you do it?”

  Fraser took a step towards Cavendish and pointed his index face an inch from his nose. “Listen, the order’s been given. Are you refusing to obey, Cavendish?”

  Cavendish’s legs could no longer hold him and he stumbled back and sat heavily on the overstuffed couch. His voice cracked. “I can’t, Fraser. Don’t you see? I can’t kill a woman.” He started to sob.

  I looked at him with contempt. “So you expect me to.”

  The room suddenly felt stifling and oppressive. The smell of stale cigarettes hung in the air. My stomach lurched and I thought, for a few seconds, that I would vomit, but I gave no outward sign that the news had caused an immense amount of anxiety in me. This would be the first time I had had to kill a woman. I had killed men in the line of duty; I had crossed to the dark side when I was 22 and I fooled myself that I was able to criss-cross. This time would be different. Was I confident that I could find a way back?

  “Yes, you’ve done it before.” Cavendish warmed to his theme. “It’s common knowledge at Broadway that you’re sent on missions when people need to be removed. I need a bloody drink. Want one, Sinclair?”

  Cavendish rose unsteadily and made his way to the drinks tray. He poured four fingers of cognac into a cut-glass goblet and drained it in one gulp. He repeated his question. I chose to ignore him. He shrugged his shoulders, poured another and swigged it down. Fraser looked at him and then at me, slowly shaking his head. I knew what he was thinking.

  “You’d better let London know, Fraser,” I said resignedly.

  “Thank you, Sinclair, thank you. I can’t thank you enough. My father is well connected, as you know. He will be very grateful.”

  Cavendish babbled on. The relief in his voice and manner sickened me. Worse still was that he was playing on the old boys’ network, which was anathema to Fraser and me.

  My voice was cold and hard. I walked towards him and grasped his chin in my hand, exerting enough pressure that he couldn’t look away.

  “Yes, I’ll have to finish the job because, clearly, you haven’t t
he fucking guts. You’d better be watching our backs. The desert is unforgiving terrain. Do I make myself fucking clear?”

  “Yes, perfectly, Sinclair.” Cavendish licked his bone-dry lips, glancing at Fraser, hoping he would come to his rescue. There wasn’t a hope in hell. “Of course, of course.” Cavendish continued to nod and at that particular moment he would have agreed to anything.

  The rest of the night I didn’t sleep. I lay next to Cavendish in the darkness listening to his breathing. He slept as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and why shouldn’t he sleep? He had known that, because of my strong sense of duty, I would complete the mission.

  After Fraser left, I hadn’t spoken to Cavendish. What would have been the point? He had attempted to speak to me again but he had seen the look in my eyes and retreated like a dog with its tail between its legs. I comforted myself with the thought that after tomorrow I would never have to set eyes on him again.

  At 3 a.m., I could stand it no longer and headed downstairs to sit in the kitchen with a million thoughts racing through my head. I was going into uncharted territory; that I did know. I watched the dawn break over the Cairo skyline for the last time, heard the shouts of impatient drivers over the steady rumble of the traffic, and waited for the time to pass.

  My eyes felt gritty with lack of sleep and the smoke of too many cigarettes. I drank three strong cups of coffee in quick succession, as I needed some kind of stimulant to get me through the next few hours. I would have loved a drink but for this exercise I needed to be utterly focused, as my life depended on it. One mistake and I would be unmasked as a spy. Torture and – the greatest fear for women agents – rape would await me. If I were to miraculously survive that, then I’d be put to death by firing squad, if I was lucky.

  I was due to meet Amisi at the Shepheard Hotel for lunch at noon, and then we were going shopping in the medina for material for a dress. The hands of my watch crawled towards 11 a.m. This would be the final time I would be Helen Owens. I should have felt relief, but a sense of sadness prevailed and tugged at my heart. I looked in the mirror and applied my make-up. A face that I didn’t recognise stared back. It was hard and determined, but would I really be able to kill her? Could I refuse? And if I did, what would be my fate?

  I would be crossing another line: killing a woman in cold blood was something I had sworn I would never do – but that had been an easy decision to make while I was sitting snugly in my apartment in London sipping a glass of Johnnie Walker. With strangely steady hands, I fitted a needle to an insulin syringe and drew up the deadly toxin.

  Cavendish’s voice broke into my thoughts. He looked pale and uneasy, and his voice was a pitch higher than usual. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Get the car,” I ordered.

  After I left, an operative from the Cairo office would come and wipe down all the walls and surfaces, removing every trace of evidence that Helen and Martin Owens had ever inhabited the house.

  I don’t know how I managed to get through lunch. Amisi remarked that I didn’t seem my usual chatty self. I attempted a smile and muttered something about a headache and a tiff with Martin. Wisely, Amisi didn’t enquire further, and after our meal, at exactly 1.30 p.m., I suggested a visit to the restroom. She followed in my wake as we made our way through the busy restaurant, nodding at acquaintances as we passed. The restrooms would be empty: another Cairo operative had hung an “out of order” sign on the door at 1.20 p.m. and taken it off again at exactly 1.29 p.m. I held the door open for Amisi, and then excused myself. Slipping into a cubicle, I shut the door and quickly removed the filled syringe from my handbag, covering the sound with a flush of the toilet. Silently I unlatched the cubicle door again.

  My heart was beating at 100 miles per hour and I forced myself to take deep, calming breaths. It was now or never. I had to move quietly and quickly. Amisi was re-touching her lipstick when I came from behind, clamping her mouth so she couldn’t scream. She struggled against my grip, but she was no match for me. Her eyes widened with fear, betrayal and desperation when she saw the syringe. Silently, she pleaded for her life. But it was to no avail. With one movement I plunged the needle into the side of her neck, just behind her ear, and pressed the plunger. It was all over in 30 seconds.

  I laid her lifeless body down on the cold marble floor and gently closed her eyes. I reasoned she had made her choices in life, but was this how I repaid kind, generous and unconditional friendship?

  I put the needle back into my handbag and snapped it shut. In haste, I wiped my prints off the toilet door. Had I touched anything else? My mind went blank. Time was ticking away and I had to go.

  The autopsy would show that Amisi had had a heart attack, and when the police and security services asked a few more questions from her doctor, he would shake his head sadly and hand over her medical file. It was clearly documented that she had a history of atrial fibrillation. Dr Ahmed was a noted cardiac specialist in Cairo and he was also a Yemeni Jew, but the authorities did not know this. He worked for the British, our cousins and our friends. Dr Ahmed was not his real name; I don’t know what it was.

  In 1956, as a direct consequence of the Suez crisis, President Nasser stripped Jews of their Egyptian citizenship, forbade them to work in their professions and ordered them, along with British and French nationals, to leave the country. It was rumoured that former Nazis from Germany were behind this latest persecution of the Jews. The majority of the Jewish community left for Israel. However, in 1960 Dr Ahmed arrived in Cairo with a pristine set of papers, but that’s another story…

  My “husband” was seated in the back of the BMW. He looked anxiously at me, but I resolutely stared straight ahead. I could feel the pricking of tears in the back of my eyes but I wasn’t going to break down in front of him. The driver looked at me from his rear-view mirror. It was Lonnie Marks, my friend and partner. His eyes were empathetic; he would know how I was feeling, as he had been in my position several times before.

  “Did it go OK?”

  I nodded, but did not trust myself to speak. Fraser climbed into the passenger seat. The car pulled away from the kerb into the dense Cairo traffic. I took no notice of the three men in the car as I tore off my frumpy jacket and dress, pulling on cotton pants and a t-shirt. I scrubbed the heavy make-up of Helen Owens from my face and shook my hair loose. In a matter of minutes I had totally changed my appearance. I observed that all the men had averted their eyes.

  Fraser turned around and looked at me. “We need to make a detour. It won’t take more than ten minutes.”

  His eyes held mine.

  “OK.”

  The car drove on for another 15 minutes and then left the highway. Lonnie drove down a dirt road, creating clouds of dust, and then turned into a yard with parts of rusting old machines and engines scattered around.

  Fraser jumped out of his seat and called for Cavendish. “Come on, laddie, I need you to help me.”

  “What with?”

  “A heavy box. Come on. I can’t manage on my own. Hurry up. The flight leaves in ninety minutes.”

  Cavendish reluctantly followed Fraser into the garage. I watched as he turned and cast a fearful look in my direction. Did he know?

  Lonnie didn’t engage me in conversation, for which I was grateful. I felt sick to my stomach. He lit a cigarette and passed it to me. I took it with gratitude. Dear old Lonnie.

  He was the only real friend I had, and only man in my life who had never let me down. We had joined the Service at roughly the same time, and had been seconded to the German desk as we spoke it fluently. We had worked together since then.

  He was unremarkable and ordinary, roughly my height, with light brown hair and faded brown eyes. When he was at university, he had dabbled in amateur dramatics and had hoped for a career on the stage, but the intelligence services had clearly seen his potential and recruited him. He was an excellent mimic, and had the ability to blend in on the street or at a party – he was an ideal spy.

  Lonnie had alway
s been profoundly grateful for the sanctuary the British government had provided for his grandparents and parents. They had been one of the last Jewish families that had been permitted to leave Germany in the 1930s. His extended family had perished in Auschwitz. His wife was a generous hostess, and I was often invited to dinner and family events, and his children knew me as Auntie Nik. He was the closest I had to a family.

  Four minutes later, Fraser returned. “Let’s go, Lonnie.”

  Two people dead in less than an hour and a half. Amisi and Cavendish were not evil or bad people. Yes, they had made some unwise decisions, but did they deserve to die?

  Lonnie let out the clutch, completed a skilful four-point turn and in two minutes we were back on the highway en route to the airport.

  Nothing was said, nothing at all. Neither one of us acknowledged what had taken place – that we had murdered one of our own.

  As for me, for the next seven hours I was Madame Françoise Colbert, travelling on a French passport. Six months ago I had been widowed and was returning to Paris with other French tourists, after a ten-day holiday seeing the Pyramids and cruising down the Nile.

  What did I feel? As the plane ate up the miles, taking me homewards, I couldn’t erase Amisi’s face from my mind, that moment when she knew she would die. The look of terror in her eyes would never leave me. What about her husband? He loved her; she had told me that. Her children – I forgot to mention that she had two, a boy and a girl. How would they cope with the sudden death of their mother?

  I didn’t have children and probably never would. It was impossible for me to give a child a stable home in my line of work. My own mother hadn’t wanted me and for most of my childhood had been uninvolved and detached. I had been brought up by a succession of nannies as we had shifted from city to town and from country to country. After I had told my parents that I was a lesbian and had fallen in love with another woman, my mother had severed all ties with me. I knew my father had not agreed with this drastic move but he was a weak man and, to keep the peace, had reluctantly agreed not to speak to or see me again. That had been seven years ago and my mother had been true to her word.