Wilbur Smith - C08 Golden Fox

by C08 Golden Fox(Lit)

  The soft crackle of the radio interrupted these unpleasant speculations.

  "Da? Yes?' He spoke Russian into the microphone.

  "This is Number Three. The vehicle is visual.' That was the guard at the far end of the lane on the south side of the estate.

  Ramsey crossed to the southern window in the tower. He could see the pale yellow dust of the approaching car spreading over the vineyards.

  "Very well.' He went back to his original position, and nodded to the female signals clerk from the embassy. She sat at the electronic console, with the directional microphone trained down into the courtyard. Every word or sound uttered in the courtyard would be recorded, and the meeting would be filmed on videotape.

  , There were, of course, voice-activated microphones and concealed cameras in every room of the hacienda that Red Rose might enter, including the toilets and bathroom. Ramsey had requisitioned this equipment from the embassy in Madrid. The voice-prints and up-to-date photographs would be a nice little spinoff from the main object of the operation.

  The car came into view as it turned into the gates of the estate. It was a blue Cortina with diplomatic plates, and it drew up at the front door of the hacienda.

  Isabella Courtney was the first to alight, followed by the female embassy guard who had escorted her from the airport. Isabella paused on the paved driveway and looked up at the shuttered windows of the tower, almost as though she sensed his gaze upon her. Ramsey picked up his binoculars and studied her upturned face.

  She had changed quite dramatically in the years since he had last seen her.

  There were few vestiges of the silly flighty girl remaining. She was a mature woman now. There was poise and determination in the way she carried herself. Her features seemed to have firmed. She was thin, too thin. There were dark smudges below her eyes. Even from this distance he could make out the first faint chiselling of life's hardship and care at the corners of her mouth, and a new hard line to her jaw. There was a tragic air about her, a sense of suffering that appealed to him. She was not as pretty, but considerably more attractive and interesting than he remembered her.

  Quite unexpectedly the thought that this was Nicholas's mother occurred to him, and in the next instant he felt a stab of pity for her. The treachery of his emotion made him angry, and he crushed down the sense of pity. He could not remember ever having such a soft and enervating feeling towards a subject before, not even when they were in the interrogation-cells below the Lubyanka, or on the torture-racks in the Congo jungle. His anger turned upon himself, and then upon her. She was responsible for inducing that momentary weakness. He shielded his anger, the way he might cup his hands around a match-flame on a windy night.

  Isabella thought she had gliuapsed an obscure movement beyond the shuttered window in the high tower, but it must have been her imagination.

  The woman who had escorted her touched her arm and said in only slightly accented English: 'Come. We will go in." Isabella lowered her gaze from the bell-tower to the carved teak front door just as it swung open. There was another female waiting for them. Isabella buttoned the jacket of her grey business-suit as though it might protect her like a coat of mail. She drew back her shoulders and went in through the doorway.

  The interior was gloomy and cool. There were worn sombre-coloured rugs on the flagged floor and dark heavy furniture. The doors were black oak studded with iron. The windows were shuttered and barred. The house had a brooding and forbidding atmosphere that made her pause in the entrance-hall.

  "This way! The woman led her into a small antechamber off the main hall. Her escort followed her, carrying the single suitcase and the large parcel that Isabella had brought with her. She placed the suitcase and parcel on a heavy oak table then locked the door.

  "Keys.' She held out her hand, and Isabella searched in her handbag and gave them to her.

  Methodically the two women went through the contents of the suitcase. It was obvious that they had been trained for the task. They unfolded each item of clothing and examined the seams and linings. They opened each jar of cosmetics and probed the creams and ointments they contained with a knitting-needle. They palpated every tube and removed the batteries from the electric shaver which Isabella used on her under-arm hair. They tested the heels on her spare pair of shoes and the lining of the case. Then they turned their attention to the wrapped parcel. It contained the gift that she had brought for Nicholas. One of them reached for her handbag, and Isabella handed it over. They went through it with as much care.

  "Please to remove clothes.' Isabella shrugged and began to undress. They took each item as she removed it and examined it minutely. They removed the shoulder-pads from her jacket and examined the lining of her bra.

  When she was entirely naked one of the women ordered: 'Lift the arms." She obeyed, and then to her horror one of the women slipped a surgical rubber glove on to her right hand and dipped two fingers into a pot of Vaseline.

  "Turn around,' she ordered.

  "No.' Isabella shook her head.

  "Do you want to see the boy?' the woman asked heavily, holding up her two gloved fingers glistening with Vaseline. 'Turn around." Isabella shivered and felt the goose-pimples rise on her arms.

  "Please,' she whispered. 'I give you my word. I'm not hiding anything. This isn't necessary." 'Turn around.' The woman's voice did not change. Slowly Isabella turned her back.

  "Bend over,' the woman said. 'Put your hands on the table." She leant forward and gripped the edge of the table hard.

  "Move your feet apart." Isabella realized that she was being deliberately humiliated. She knew that it was all part of the process. She tried to close her mind to it, but she gasped as she felt the woman's fingers slide into her and she started to pull away.

  "Stay still." She bit down on her lip, and closed her eyes. The examination was leisurely and thorough.

  "All right.' The woman stepped back. 'Get dressed." Isabella found tears upon her cheeks. She took a Kleenex from the pocket of her jacket and wiped them away. They were tears of fury.

  "Wait here.' The woman stripped the glove from her hand and threw it into the wastepaper-bin.

  The two of them left the room and locked the door.

  Isabella dressed quickly and sat down on the bench. Her hands were shaking.

  She clenched them into fists and thrust them into the pockets of her jacket.

  They kept her waiting for almost an hour.

  Ramsey had watched the search and the physical examination on the small screen of the remote video-camera.

  The camera had been carefully positioned to give him a full view of Isabella's face during the entire process. What he could see of her expression gave him cause for disquiet. He had hoped, but not truly expected, to cow her completely. Instead he saw that cold fury in her eyes, the stubborn reckless line of her clenched jaw. He studied her carefully, leaning closer to the screen. Was that fury murderous or suicidal? He could not be certain.

  At that moment Isabella glanced up and looked directly at the lens of the concealed camera. She recognized the camera for what it was, and he saw her take control of herself A veil fell over those glittering dark blue eyes, and her expression smoothed into blank neutrality.

  Ramsey straightened up. He sighed. As he had suspected all along, this subject could not be pushed beyond a certain point. He sensed that the poit was very close now. She was on the very edge of rebellion. It called for a change of tactics. Very well; he was prepared for that. A change was often good procedure; it confused and unsettled the subject. Ramsey was always flexible and versatile.

  He turned away from the screen and called softly: 'Bring the child." Adra came through from the next room, leading Nicholas by the hand.

  Ramsey studied him as carefully as he had the boy's mother. Adra had washed his hair for him that morning. His curls, shiny and springing, tumbled on to his forehead. She had dressed him in a plain short-sleeved shirt and short cotton trousers. His limbs were slim and smoothly tan
ned, his lips were a sensitive pink and his brows were darkly curved over his huge solemn eyes. He would break any mother's heart.

  "Do you remember what I told you, Nicholas?" 'Sf, Padre." 'You will meet a very kind lady. She likes you very much. She has a present for you. You will be nice to her and you will call her "Mamma"." 'Is she going to take me away from Adra?' 2ee 'No, Nicholas. She has come only to talk to you for a while and give you a present. Then she will go away. Will you be nice to her? If you are, Adra will let you watch a Woody Woodpecker video this evening. Would you like that?" 'Yes, Padre.' Nicholas smiled happily at the promise.

  "Off you go now." Ramsey turned back to the shuttered window and looked through the slats. In the courtyard below one of the KGB women was leading Isabella out into the sunlight. She pointed to the bench beside the swimming-pool, and her voice was amplified through the directional microphone that the signals clerk trained on her.

  "Please to wait here. The child will come to you." The woman turned away, and Isabella went to the bench. She sat down, took a pair of sunglasses from her handbag and placed them over her eyes. From behind the dark lenses she studied her surroundings covertly.

  Ramsey depressed the transmit button on his two-way radio. 'All stations, this is Number One. Full alert. The contact is in progress." Apart from the electronic surveillance equipment, Isabella now had a 7.e2-millimetre Dragunov sniper's rifle and a dart-gun aimed at her. The dart-gun was loaded with Tentanyl and would immobilize a human victim within two minutes. Ramsey had two io-milligram phials of Nalorphine on hand as an antidote. Even as a last resort, he did not want to risk losing such a potentially valuable operative as Red Rose.

  Abruptly Isabella leapt to her feet and stared across the courtyard. Ramsey glanced down. Directly below the tower Adra and Nicholas had appeared. He could see the tops of their heads.

  With a supreme effort Isabella prevented herself from rushing across the lawn and sweeping her son into her arms. She knew intuitively that such an action on her part would confuse and distress the child. He was at the age when any boy hated to be treated like a baby. Isabella had studied her copy of Dr. Spock until it was tired and dog-eared.

  Slowly she removed her sunglasses and remained still. Nicholas hung on to Adra's hand and studied his mother with great interest.

  Isabella had thought she was prepared for his physical appearance. The last photograph she had of him was only two months old, but it was nothing like the reality. It could not capture his colouring, nor the texture of his skin, nor those curls - and those eyes. Oh, those eyes!

  "Oh God,' she whispered. 'He's the loveliest child. There could never be another like this. Please, God, help him to like me." Adra tugged gently at Nicholas's hand, urging him forward, and they skirted the swimming-pool and stopped in front of her.

  "Buenos dias, Sehorita Bella,'Adra said softly in Spanish. 'Nicholas likes to swim. There is a costume for both you and Nicholas if you want to swim with him. They are in the cabafia.' She pointed to the shuttered door of the bath-house. 'You may change in there." Then she looked down at Nicholas. 'Greet the lady, your mother,' she instructed him gently, and released his hand. She turned and hurried from the courtyard leaving them alone together.

  Nicholas had not smiled or taken his eyes from Isabella's face. Now he stepped forward dutifully and held out his right hand.

  "Good day, Mamma, my name is Nicholas Machado and I am pleased to meet you." Isabella wanted to drop on her knees and hug him with all her strength. The word 'Mamma' had stabbed through her heart like a bayonet. Instead she took his hand and shook it carefully.

  -'You are a fine young man, Nicholas. I hear that you are doing very well at nursery school." 'Yes,' Nicholas agreed. 'And next year I am to join the young pioneers." 'That will be nice for you,' Isabella nodded. 'Who arc the young pioneers, Nicholas?" 'Everybody knows.' He was obviously amused by her ignorance. 'They are the sons and daughters of the revolution." 'That's wonderful,' Isabella went on hastily. 'I have brought a present for you." 'Thank you, Mamma.' Uncontrollably Nicholas's eyes slid towards the package.

  Isabella sat on the bench and handed him the gift, and Nicholas squatted in front of her and unwrapped it carefully. Then he was silent.

  "Do you like it?' Isabella asked nervously.

  "It's a soccer ball,' Nicholas pronounced.

  "Yes. Do you like it?" 'It's the best gift anybody has ever given me," he said.

  He looked up at her, and she saw in his eyes that despite his formal stilted speech he truly meant it. What a reserved self-possessed little old man he is, she thought. What terrible events and nightmares have made him like this?

  "I have never played soccer,' Isabella told him. 'Will you teach me?" "You're a girl.' Nicholas looked doubtful.

  "Still, I'd like to try." 'All right.' He stood up with the ball under one arm. 'But you'll have to take your shoes off." Within minutes all the child's reserves evaporated. He shrieked with excitement as he dribbled and darted after the ball. He was nimble as a field-mouse, and Isabella raced after him, laughing with him, obeying his instructions and allowing him to score five goals between the legs of the bench.

  When at last they both collapsed on the lawn, Nicholas informed her between gasps: 'You are quite good - for a girl., They changed into swimming-costumes, and Nicholas gave her an exhibition of his prowess. First he swam a length dogpaddle, and her praises were so fulsome that he declared: 'I can do a width underwater. Watch me.' He almost made it across, and surfaced just short of the bar, blowing and huffing and red-faced.

  Sitting waist-deep on the shallow-end steps, Isabella felt a moment of physical revulsion as she remembered the last time she had seen her son immersed, but she managed to smile and sound enthusiastic.

  "Oh, well done, Nicholas." He came to her, still puffing for breath, and without warning climbed into her lap.

  "You are pretty,' he said. 'I like you." Carefully, as though he might shatter like a precious crystal, she wrapped her arms around him and held him. Through the cool water his body was warm and slippery and she could feel her heart twist and tear within her.

  "Nicholas,' she mumbled. 'Oh, my baby. How I love you. How I miss you." The afternoon passed like a flash of sheet-lightning in a summer sky and then Adra came to fetch him. 'It is time for Nicholas's dinner. Do you wish to eat with him, sefiorita?" They ate alfresco, at a table that Adra set for them in the courtyard. They shared a baked besugo, a sea-bream from the Atlantic, and salads. There was a glass of fresh orange juice for Nicholas and a sherry for her. Isabella shredded the flesh of the brearn to remove any bones, but Nicholas fed himself As Nicholas was finishing his ice-cream, Isabella's vision began to swim.

  She heard a rushing in her ears and Nicholas's face seemed to expand and blur.

  Adra caught her before she slipped from the chair, and Ramsey stepped into the courtyard from the doorway behind her. The two KGB women followed him.

  "You have been a good boy, Nicholas,' Ramsey said. 'Now, go off to bed with Adra." 'What is wrong with the nice lady?" 'There is nothing wrong,' Ramsey told him. 'She is just very sleepy. You are sleepy, too, Nicholas."

  "Yes, Padre.' At the suggestion he yawned and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his fists. Adra led him away, and Ramsey nodded at the waiting women.

  "Take her to the room." While they lifted Isabella out of the chair, Ramsey picked up the empty sherry-glass from the dinner-table and wiped out the last traces of the drug with his handkerchief.

  Isabella woke in a strange bedroom. She felt rested and at peace. The early sun streamed in through the slats of the shuttered window. She blinked drowsily and pulled the single sheet up around her naked shoulders. She wondered without any real urgency where she was, but her memory was fuzzy.

  She was suddenly aware that she was totally nude under the sheet. She lifted her head. Her clothing was neatly folded on the chair beside the open bathroom door. Her suitcase was on the luggage-rack.

  Then out of the comer of her eye she
caught a movement and she stiffened and came fully awake. There was a man in the bedroom with her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he signalled her urgently to silence.

  "Ram-' she started to say his name, but with two rapid paces he reached the bedside and laid his open hand on her Ups to keep her from speaking.

  She stared at him, stunned and completely bemused. Ramsey! joy rose in her like a spring tide.

  He left her and crossed quickly to the nearest wall of the bedroom. On it hung a dark oil painting in the style of Goya. Ramsey swivelled the painting to one side to reveal a hidden microphone the size of a silver dollar attached to the wall.

  Once again, he made a gesture to silence her and came back. He lifted the shade off the lamp on the bedside table, and showed her the second microphone taped to the stand below the bulb.