He fired twice.
She went to the ground, flat. Almost simultaneously she squeezed off her first shot. It seemed to have missed. It was incredible that she could miss so large and close a target. Hickey loomed there, in position to fire again, his gun aimed at her, but he didn’t pull the trigger. There was a spreading splotch of red on his shirtfront covering his stomach.
Maren’s second shot was more accurate. Above and slightly to the right of her first, going for the heart.
Hickey’s legs crumpled as though they were paper. He toppled over backward in a contorted position.
Maren lay there. She was bleeding. Chesser rushed to her, kneeled beside her.
She moaned, sat up, and examined her legs and arms. “Goddamn brambles.”
They couldn’t linger there. Toland might return any moment. They went directly to the shore of the channel and saw three yachts were anchored midway across. Reluctantly, but so as not to appear threatening, they discarded their guns, dropped them in the shallows as they waded out. The salt water wasn’t at all kind to Maren’s bramble wounds. She grimaced and dove in to swim ahead.
When she approached the yacht, a handsome blond man dressed in casual white for sailing looked down at her. She floated on her back, treading. He smiled appreciatively, the water having made her dress almost completely tranparent. She asked if by any chance he was ever going into Cannes. He told her he would take her anywhere. He was obviously American, a West Coast type. He noticed Chesser, but that didn’t seem to affect his hospitality.
Maren started for the yacht’s boarding platform; however, at that moment a Riva speedboat came full speed down the channel. It cut between Maren and Chesser and abruptly reversed its engine to idle there.
Chesser recognized Lady Bolding at the wheel of the Riva. Lady Bolding alone. She regarded Chesser in the water with a brief, passive glance and turned her attention to Maren, who now disregarded the sanctuary offered by the yacht and climbed up into the Riva’s front seat.
Immediately the Riva’s engine roared in neutral, and the fear that it would pull away, take Maren away, made Chesser swim hard around its stern, close to the boiling suck of its propellers, to the other side where a rope ladder was hung. He grabbed it and got it just as the Riva went into gear and nosed up with the suddenness of full power.
Chesser was being dragged and the water was slashing at him, trying to rip him from his hold. He had to hang on. The thought of Maren being torn from him gave him the extra strength to pull himself up the slick varnished side of the Riva and tumble down into the rear seat. Then he stood up and the air the boat was cutting through hit him. At the same moment his face was also slapped by the long trailing ends of the orange silk scarf Lady Bolding was wearing to confine her hair.
“Massey’s in Cap Ferrat,” she shouted.
They were now clearing the channel. Cap Ferrat was down the coast, east of there. Lady Bolding swung the Riva in the opposite direction, west, around the seaward tip of St. Honorat and steady upon a diagonal course to the mainland.
Maren turned to Chesser and smiled almost smugly.
Chesser sat to avoid the silky orange slaps.
Lady Bolding got them safely to the village of Le Tayas.
Chesser knew the extreme risk that Lady Bolding was taking. He also knew her reason, made amply clear by the long, deep look she gave Maren before she left them on the public landing.
CHAPTER 25
THE WATTS family had been and still were under constant surveillance.
Security Section agents were ready to move at the first sign of elevation in the family’s life style. However, the widow Watts and her daughter continued to be very frugal, choosing cheaper cuts at the local butcher’s and only the less costly essentials in small quantities at the greengrocer’s. They never went beyond their neighborhood, remained home nights to watch the telly. The assigned agents were suffering from acute ennui.
The break in this direction finally came from an informant in Lichtenstein.
Watts had deposited a certified check for one million dollars in the Fritzmeiten Private Bank one week prior to the robbery. The deposit had been made via registered mail along with a letter of instructions from Watts stipulating that precisely one year from the date of deposit the bank was to notify Mrs. Edwina Watts, or her surviving heirs, that the money was available to them.
The informant in Lichtenstein had obtained a facsimile of the check and the letter, and Coglin considered this evidence so important that he ordered it brought to him by hand rather than trust the intercontinental mail.
Coglin expected the signature that he saw on the check. M. J. Mathew. And once again his expertise told him it had been made by the same hand. More pertinent was the fact that the check was drawn on the Upland Bank of London, which, Coglin reasoned, would certainly be able to help identify such a large depositor.
Coglin and two of his best men arrived at the Upland Bank a few minutes before closing. The bank’s senior vice-president, a Mr. Franklin, heard Coglin’s request and instinctively refused it on the grounds that such information was confidential. However, he obviously recited that code with excessive conviction, and, when Coglin threatened to obtain a subpoena, that was all the pressure needed to obtain Mr. Franklin’s cooperation.
Coglin was shown to the bank’s records department. A reel of microfilm was brought from the files and projected for his benefit. Coglin watched as the reel whirred and the microfilm blurred on the screen, speeding to the section where M. J. Mathew would be revealed.
The reel stopped.
It showed the details of a Morris J. Mathew of Chelsea, whose balance had never exceeded seventy-two pounds, seventeen shillings and who was now overdrawn one pound six.
The microfilm was run forward and back several times.
Mr. Franklin looked on and Coglin made impatient fists behind his back.
There was nothing on the reel pertaining to the M. J. Mathew.
“Maybe you’ve got the wrong reel,” Coglin said.
The bank’s man in charge of records double checked and insisted on his efficiency. He also took time to examine the microfilm with a 20X magnifier and was perplexed by what he discovered. He showed it first to Mr. Franklin, who remarked, “That’s quite irregular,” before showing it to Coglin.
The microfilm had been spliced. The section containing a record of the M. J. Mathew account had been removed. As far as the bank was concerned, they had no proof whatsoever that there’d ever been such an account.
Coglin cursed modern banking methods and went back to headquarters on Harrowhouse. On his desk he found the fact sheet he’d asked for regarding the Upland Bank. He noted some of England’s most influential men were listed as directors.
Coglin wasn’t looking for the name Clyde Massey. And it wasn’t there.
That same afternoon Meecham had two very unwelcome visitors.
Victor Keeling and Rupert Leander.
They came without appointment, without even phoning in advance, merely showed up at number 11 and arrogantly demanded to see Meecham.
Keeling and Leander were known Communists, but in no apparent way were they the stereotype. From the expensive cut of their correct city suits, shirts from Turnbull and Asser, the deft way they handled their bowlers and gloves, Keeling and Leander appeared to be true English gentlemen rather than Party members, self-confessed since 1953 when they’d both finished at Cambridge,
Actually, as the London intermediaries for the Soviet Committee of Natural Resources, Keeling and Leander enjoyed the best of both possible convictions. They received a fractional commission for acting as a link between the Soviets and The System. A legitimate yet hypocritical arrangement, which allowed the Russians to market their diamonds to best advantage without dealing directly with those they publicly designated as capitalist exploiters. Keeling and Leander for their part were guaranteed one-tenth of one per cent on all the stones they handled, seemingly a modest enough commission but actually a rat
e that had made both millionaires.
Meecham received them in the private conference room, a relatively small room, impressively paneled and decorated with conservative elegance. They sat in deep brown-tufted leather chairs and were served fine port and Havanas.
Keeling began: “We received an urgent communique from the minister this morning.”
“How is Minister Konofsky?” inquired Meecham.
“Skeptical,” answered Leander.
Meecham sensed a crisis but kept level to ask, “Why?”
“Certain recent actions by The System have been quite unorthodox,” said Keeling.
“You called up the reserve from Johannesburg,” Leander pointed out.
“Routine,” said Meecham, passing it off, although he was surprised that the Soviets knew about that. He wondered how much more they knew.
“You increased production,” said Keeling.
“You ordered additional output from your underwater fields,” said Leander.
“You’ve been buying up all the illicit stones you can get,” said Keeling.
Meecham was in a cross-fire. He decided to let them use up their ammunition.
“You,” accused Leander, “requested extensive consignments from all your affiliates.”
“Except us,” said Leander.
Keeling gulped port. Leander puffed a cloud. Their eyes remained on Meecham, whose expression admitted nothing while inwardly he resented the accuracy of their knowledge and realized what a grave misjudgment he’d made in excluding the Soviets from his emergency negotiations for more stones. He could invent excuses for everything but that. With what he hoped seemed cold indignation he told them, “The System is hardly obliged to explain its activities to the Kremlin.”
Keeling and Leander looked at one another.
“What we do is our business,” Meecham continued on the offensive.
“Surely, however, you can understand the minister’s concern,” inserted Keeling, somewhat milder.
That encouraged Meecham. “As for Johannesburg, as I said, it was routine. Merely a transfer of inventory, which is something we do from time to time. The rest were merely actions intended to stimulate the industry.”
“You’re stimulating the sale of illicit gems?” asked Leander.
“We’re attempting new tactics in that area,” said Meecham, “to temporarily divert the flow of illicit stones via Beirut and Tel Aviv. Affording us the opportunity to cut it down altogether. Although I doubt very much your Soviet friends will appreciate that. As you well know, most of those illicit stones end up behind your curtain—and then on to us.”
Meecham was sharp, with an edge of outrage.
“Despite your formidable sources of information,” he continued, “you must concede that The System knows the intricacies of the world diamond market rather better than either of you or your somewhat excitable minister.”
Keeling glanced down at the expensive black antelope business case Leander had placed by his chair. Leander brought the case up, snapped it open, and removed a single sheet of pink-colored paper.
“Perhaps,” suggested Meecham, “I should call Minister Konofsky and personally assure him.”
That was disregarded.
Leander consulted the pink paper. “According to our figures, you’re presently holding three million, one hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred fifty carats on consignment from the Soviet.”
“That would be correct,” said Meecham.
Keeling asked, “The Russian stones have been kept in separate inventory as stipulated?”
“They have,” said Meecham.
“You’re familiar, of course, with the terms of the agreement made between The System and the Committee in Moscow in 1968?” said Leander.
Meecham had negotiated that agreement, knew it well.
“The Soviet may withdraw its diamonds from The System at any time without giving prior notice,” reminded Keeling.
“That was the purpose of the separate inventory,” said Leander.
“Get to the point!” snapped Meecham.
“The minister now wishes to exercise that option,” said Keeling. “The entire Soviet inventory is to be returned to Moscow. You are to ship in individual lots of three hundred fifty thousand carats every third day. Via Aeroflot, of course. We’ll make those arrangements. In all it should take not more than a month.”
“Very well,” agreed Meecham, retaining external composure, while crumbling inside miserably, knowing there was no possible way to do what the Soviets were now rightfully requesting. Exposure was inevitable now. The System was ruined. He was ruined. There would be repercussions on a high level, possibly a diplomatic crisis between the governments. He told them, “We’ll prepare to commence shipments immediately.”
Keeling drained his glass.
Leander crushed out his Havana.
“I do hope the minister finds a more expedient and profitable means of marketing the Soviet diamonds,” remarked Meecham.
“I’m sorry,” smiled Keeling, “we didn’t make that point quite clear. Returning the diamonds to Moscow is only a temporary measure, for the sake of reassuring the minister. I’m sure he has no intention of permanently severing the arrangement between the Committee and The System.”
Meecham uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way.
Leander explained: “If, after a month or two all is well the Soviet inventory will be returned to The System and we’ll be doing business as usual.”
“Is that satisfactory?” asked Keeling, confident that it was.
“No,” was Meecham’s reply. “In keeping with the terms of our agreement, when you withdraw your consignment you relieve The System of any further obligation.”
“But—”
“A completely new agreement will have to be negotiated,” said Meecham.
“But …”
“The board will have to take it under consideration. And, out of fairness, I must warn you there are certain directors with conservative sensibilities who from the start were much against our having any dealings at all with the Soviet. Anyway, by no means should you take for granted that you’ll be able automatically to resume marketing through The System.”
Keeling fussed with his shirtcuffs.
Leander stared thoughtfully into the depth of his shallow business case.
Meecham stood abruptly and without a good-bye left them sitting there.
He returned to his office, where, in privacy, he didn’t have to suppress his trembling. He removed his suit jacket and realized he was soaked under the arms. He sat at his desk and placed his hands on its tooled leather-inlaid surface, palms down. To stop his hands. He lifted them after a moment and, detesting the moist imprints they’d made, swiveled around to look out and find the distant dome of St. Paul’s. He silently petitioned for some miraculous, merciful intervention.
A half hour later he received a phone call.
It was Keeling.
Saying: He’d just heard from Moscow. Unfortunately not in time to prevent his and Leander’s visit with Meecham that afternoon. Unfortunate because by that time Minister Konofsky had already convinced the Committee not to recall the Soviet diamonds. The minister’s faith in The System had, of course, never for one minute been anything but positive.
Meaning: Keeling and Leander had called Moscow and told the minister the outcome of that afternoon’s meeting with Meecham. To preserve their own profitable arrangement, they had supported and validated Meecham’s explanations regarding The System’s recent activities. What had really persuaded the minister not to withdraw the Soviet diamonds was the prospect of having to renegotiate and possibly lose the substantial benefit of The System’s marketing power.
Meecham’s bluff had worked. It was the most crucial sleight-of-hand business he’d ever attempted. And, although he was greatly pleased, he couldn’t manage a smile.
He was too drained.
CHAPTER 26
GSTAAD IN midsummer is a pretty
, and unlikely place.
For those two reasons Maren and Chesser chose it for their next sanctuary. Though they’d dealt once with Massey, he was far from out of the way, and they believed they also had yet to contend with The System, a most complex, resourceful, and proficient enemy.
They thought it better to avoid airports. So Maren used her name to purchase a new Aston Martin DBS and drove them furiously over the Alps. The snaking, high-ledged roads had a neutralizing effect, reassuring them that they weren’t, at least for the moment, being closely pursued. Now, for some reason, no matter how recklessly fast Maren’s driving was, Chesser didn’t hang on. Actually, he napped most of the way, she noticed.
They had, of course, been together in Gstaad several times before, but always during high season. Now, on the opposite side of the year, everything looked unfamiliar, particularly the houses and other buildings that they’d always seen humped down, half hidden in deep snow. Now all those structures seemed strangely taller and too angularly defined.
Maren’s chalet, built in Jean Marc’s final year, was located in the desirable section called Oberport near the Palace Hotel. It had a grand duchess for a left neighbor, a baron on the right, and an earl just across. Unlike the other private chalets of the area, which were relatively traditional in design, Maren’s was outstandingly contemporary, linear in the style of Mies van der Rohe, composed of expanses of thermal glass firmly supported and narrowly framed by brushed steel. Its interior motif was in perfect accord: whites and clears and chromes luxuriously splotched warm with bright colors. Although the chalet wasn’t of imposing size, ten rooms only, plus servants’ quarters, it gave the impression of spaciousness. One of its features was an arboretum, where, under glass and controlled temperature-humidity, roses and violets and huge-faced pansies were grown to supply the house with delightful fresh touches during wintertime.
As soon as Maren and Chesser arrived, they took a long sleep and woke up refreshed and hungry. No permanent help served the chalet, and Maren hadn’t arranged for any to be there. For discretion, but more to please her whim.
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